This is a companion/sequel to Under the Spider Tree, which can be found in my profile. Reading that is not necessary, but I'm sure the story will have more impact and meaning if you read that first; it's a short connected drabbles piece.
Please read and review. Make me a better writer who gives you more to read. ;)
Fearful of the Night
We have loved the stars too fondly
to be fearful of the night.
- Inscription on a
New England Tombstone
1.
The trouble starts the night after they pass Toledo.
Dean's taken to listening to his tape collection at the highest possible volume, extended guitar solos echoing through the Impala's frame threatening to break it apart, bolt by bolt, through vibrations alone. The first thirty miles are tolerable; Sam picks up a pair of ear plugs outside Pittsburg and takes to shoving them in his ears when that foggy confusion before sleep rattles his brain. But he can only take being jolted from sleep by his brother's excited steering wheel rendition of John Bonham's drumming so many times, and three miles from Toledo, Sam yanks the Zeppelin tape from the deck and throws it out the window.
"What the hell was that for?" snaps Dean.
"You know I love Zeppelin like the rest of America," Sam replies with just a little too much sarcasm, "but you've been playing that tape since we entered Ohio, Dean."
They pass through Ohio in silence, Dean's drumming growing more and more intense until Sam gives up on the idea of sleep and takes to reading maps stowed in the glove box.
Several are out of date, but roads don't change much and neither do landmarks. He traces a finger along I-80, reading the towns they'll pass through, and begins wondering which they'll end up in for the night. He closes his eyes and randomly jabs at the map; the drumming next to him stops, and Sam looks up.
The side mirror catches his eye on the way to checking on his brother. The lights of Toledo sparkle in the distance, white dots blending with the night sky above. Since Chicago, neither desire a stay in a larger city, where anonymity may work for them, but too many potential witnesses makes them uneasy. So Toledo fades into the night sky and Dean resumes his drumming on the wheel. Tip tap, over and over again, until Sam thinks his head's going to explode from all the damn noise.
Then they find a motel, check into a room under fake names, and it all goes to hell.
2.
The first clue Sam missed came two weeks after the discovery Dean could see his nightmares; acceptance doesn't necessarily bring comfort, and neither brother discusses shared dreams out loud. They speak in details, zooming into the picture to keep from seeing the larger image, avoiding missed connections and what can only be called peeping tom incidents.
After two weeks, it's become habit, waking and speaking instead of letting the nightmares overwhelm them. So much so that when Sam jolts awake in those early hours of morning shrouded in shadows and dark memories, he's surprised to find Dean isn't sitting up ready for him.
His panic subsides when he spots Dean across the room, sitting with his knees drawn up in one of the room's generic chairs, eyes following the headlights of passing cars.
"Dean?" Sam calls.
Dean's head swivels to look at him in acknowledgment. "Go back to sleep, Sam. It was just a bad dream."
He doesn't question it.
In retrospect, Sam figures he should have.
3.
Dean flicks on the television set before dropping his bag. White noise fills the room as static dances across the screen, flecks of black and white mixing together until it becomes impossible to distinguish between them. Sam feels it's like their life; good and evil with no shades of gray. The ambient noise fizzles, water boiled for too long, and Sam's had enough.
He drops his own bag on the floor with a loud and threatening thud before turning off the television.
"Hey, what the hell, dude?" Dean asks.
Sam shakes his head, unruly hair shifting with the movement, falling into his eyes. "What is up with you lately?"
"Up with me? I'm not the one throwing tapes out windows, Sam."
His bag is dropped on one of the beds, and instead of leaving it be and shooting another response back at Sam, he begins unpacking it. Sam knows this mood, knows it well, and grabs one of Dean's arms to spin him around.
Hand wrapped around wrist, Dean spins, thumps into Sam, eyes wide with surprise and maybe something more, something less, something not himself. Sam doesn't know, doesn't discover the answer, because Dean shouts and recoils onto the bed, skittering backward like a crab across sand, until he bangs into the headboard, hands clasped firmly over his ears, eyes clenched shut, breath ragged and forced.
Sam stands rigid, body controlled by shock, at the foot of the bed.
4.
A month after Sam stumbled upon Dean's secret voyeurism into his nightmares and head, Dean shows him the journal entries.
Scrawled words jumble in the margins around larger entries modeled after their father's. Smiley faces, like those drawn on Sam's brown bag lunches, bring memories of his name in block capital letters, written by a hand too small to have such responsibility. Different moods, different days. Emotion unheard but intuitively understood stands out on those pages. Dean's soul bleeds for Sam's discomfort with each letter written by lamplight after nightmares are quelled.
"There's a pattern," Sam deadpans as best he can. Words he'll never say get snarled in his throat, blocked by a need to keep his brother close; emotion and oh, Dean, why can't you just tell me you feel this way will only increase the distance between them.
"Yeah," Dean replies, scratching the back of his head. Nervous. Innards spread on the table under Sam's hands, fingers tracing the raw details of his life. "Whoever's up there's having fun with us, huh?"
At least Dean says us. Sam shakes his head. Why does it have to be us instead of him? Hasn't Dean sacrificed enough for him?
5.
The scream jars Sam into action.
He flicks on the television, white noise comforting against this shrieking form on the bed wearing his brother's skin. Turns on all the lights. Locks the door. Hands shake; he rounds the bed and sits next to Dean, clamps a hand over his mouth.
"God damnit, Dean, shut up!" It comes out softer than the words give meaning for, whispered into an ear around a hand pressed so hard, knuckles have turned white. Someone bangs on the door, fist pounding against the wood, and Sam slowly, hesitantly, removes his hand.
"Sorry!" Sam shouts. Doesn't move. "He just stubbed his toe."
Footsteps retreat. Angry, pounding steps.
Or maybe that's Sam's heart.
"Dean," Sam says, wishing he could pry one of those hands away to make sure his brother's really listening and not just screaming in his head. "What the hell?"
It's all he can ask because he's afraid he already knows the answer.
6.
They're running, running through trees and leaping over park benches, two blurs in the night, all breath and long strides as they try and out run the Black Dog chasing after them. Sam twists his head over his shoulder to see just how close those snapping teeth are to taking off a limb. A barreled black form gains speed behind him, and fuck, that plan didn't work, did it?
Like you had a better idea, snaps in his head, all Dean despite the lack of air and vocal cords. Sam keeps running – he did have a better idea, but his idiot of a brother –
Not helping, Sam.
Right. Fuck. Sam clears his head of thought, not liking the intrusion of privacy when he's running and a Black Dog's snapping at his heels. He jumps another bench, thankful for his long legs and three months of varsity track back in Oklahoma; he clears it easily, rushes forward, and bursts through trees –
– into a crowded square. Dancing and strung lights; a festival of some sort, and he's stumbled right into it. He feels Dean crash through next to him and come to a screeching halt.
There's enough people that their entrance goes unnoticed, but there's still the matter of the Black Dog and – hell, all these people. All these innocent people dancing under Christmas lights.
Sam turns to Dean, turns to tell him they have to go back and try his plan now.
But Dean's on the ground, sitting on the curb, hands over his ears. Too many people Sam gets. And he knows what that means. Too many people, too many dreams and thoughts and emotions and Dean's a receiver without an off switch.
7.
"Hey, I turned on the TV," Sam tries lamely. "And the lights. Nothing here but us, okay? So why don't you let me in on what's going on up there," – he tries on a smile for size - "if anything."
An eye pops open. Rolls. C'mon, Sam, that's the best you've got? filters through his head, buzzing around before the words form. He takes it as a good sign, his brother teasing him, but worries that he didn't just say it outright. At first, Sam attributed Dean's jabs and comments that prickled through his mind to laziness, but enjoys the feeling of Dean brushing his mind once and awhile; close, familiar, the only form of affection he's going to get from the 'chick-flick' phobic brother of his.
"Ready to stop impersonating a sorority girl who just saw a mouse?"
"If only," Dean groans. Hands release his ears, arms fall to his sides as limp limbs. His voice is scratchy, damaged, but out loud. "Damn. Have you seen those girls when they jump onto the bed?" His grin is lopsided, suggestive. "Man. I'd go to college just to see that."
"Did I ever tell you Jess was a sorority girl when I met her?"
"Fuck, no," Dean almost-laughs. "But yeah, I can see it. Guess you've got some good taste after all."
Sam grins and falls into the comfort of the conversation. "All those years of you trying to hook me up."
"Charity work. And people say I'm not a giver."
"No, you're a receiver," Sam says, both meanings of the word clear. "What the fuck was that?"
Dean pushes himself up and off the bed, returning to his half-unpacked bag. He starts pulling out weapons, holy water – protection instead of clothing – and places it softly on the bed. Sam shakes his head – every time he asks, and every time Dean brushes him off. He gets up off the bed, angry at himself for being such a coward that he can't push harder, for living through these moments because he doesn't want to lose what ground he's gained, and grabs his own bag.
The TV still leaks its strong signal through the silence between brothers.
"Don't turn it off," Dean says softly. "Damn thing's the only noise keeping me sane."
8.
Runny eggs slip around on the scarred, chipped plate, colliding with the rest of his breakfast, but Sam's used to that after all these months. Sighs and passes it off as slightly better than the last roadside diner they ate in the morning before. For a life lived battling monsters, pattern seems to creep up and take hold without anyone noticing; drive, sleep, eat runny eggs, investigate, fight. Wash, rinse, repeat. Except now, between jobs, it's shorter. Drive. Sleep. Eat. Repeat.
Sam thought leaving school would absolve him of schedules, of conformity and grids. But roads are only waves of an equation wavering within larger grids he cannot see, motels laid out in blocks, diners all the same. Repetition.
"Think we'll ever find a diner that makes good eggs?" Sam asks, fork held mid-air. He watches the eggs run off it and plop onto his plate with a bemused expression.
Dean doesn't answer. Looks off at nothing, his gaze glazed by thought. Sam reaches out and pokes him in the shoulder.
"Huh?" Dean says, rubbing at his eyes.
"You haven't touched your food," Sam observes. "Which, considering, is a good thing."
"Yeah, whatever," Dean replies. Moves his food around, fixes that gaze on the tabletop, and zones out again.
And here, Sam thought that was his territory.
9.
Unpacked. The TV still plays its snow static from atop the dresser, the lights remain on. Sam steps out of the shower and hears Dean moving around outside the bathroom. Takes a moment to lean against the sink and breathe. Two months, and this has become his life. He feels like the warden in a mental ward feeding a patient pills and waiting for those episodes. If they weren't so God damn frightening, he might take up study, but this is Dean. Normal, cussing, pool-sharking Dean.
Part of Sam blames himself. Too many nights awake, resentful of Dean and his peaceful slumber, his normality. That after trying so, so hard to be normal, he's the freak with psychic visions and nightmares that come true. He thinks after meditating so hard on such dark thoughts, they must have come true. He cursed Dean because of his own insecurities.
Logically, though, he knows he didn't have a thing to do with it.
Sam towel dries his hair and dresses, walking out into the room while still shrugging on a t-shirt. "Hey, did you get anything to eat while I was in there?"
He frowns and pulls the shirt down when Dean doesn't crack back.
Dean's sitting in front of that static-playing TV, eyes closed, head leaned back against the dresser.
"Dean? We've got to stop meeting like this," Sam says, voice calmer than he feels. This is it. This is that other shoe dropping, and it doesn't make a sound when it hits the floor.
10.
When he finds out Dean can see his nightmares, Sam tries to distance himself. Prays that getting far enough way from him will spare his brother the horror he himself watches each night.
He walks in a random direction away from the motel, from his brother and the new development in their seriously fucked-up lives. Cars fly by on the highway beside him, headlights blurring into streaks of light, alternating red and white lines. He couldn't deal with his own abilities, and now has to deal with Dean's, though his brother wouldn't see it that way. He'd say the responsibility was all his, that Sam is his charge, his to watch and protect.
So Sam walks. Gives Dean some time to sort his own things out without Sam's thoughts getting lost in the mix.
He doesn't know who to talk to because the one he usually goes to, always goes to, is back in the motel room wondering what the hell's going on. His cell phone's a steady weight in his pocket, and maybe, just maybe, reaching out to someone else is okay.
She answers on the first ring. "Oh, Sam, my boy," Missouri Mosley drawls. "Things are only gonna get worse unless your brother figures this all out. You've gotta watch out for him, it'll seem like everything's okay, like the eye before a storm."
Sam decides to try the best he can.
Addendum.
Falling, falling, and all he can hold onto is the static snow coming from the TV, that annoying sound he hates more than whiny alternative music or over-mixed covers of classic songs – why do people always feel the need to mess with something good?
It works like a radio, coming in and out with the towns and cities they skirt while crossing the country. Sometimes, he can't hear a thing at all, and those days are good. He marks them down in his journal next to Sam's smiley faces. There's a pattern. A pattern they both see, and if they can only figure out how to break it.
So many thoughts, he can't find his own. They come in waves of sound – some shout, some whisper. Anger. Fear. Sadness. All at once and so loud in his head he can't think or hear or speak – just loudness in his head he can't block out, can't get rid off. Usually, it goes away, fades or tapers off. But this; this is continuous, unending, and tearing his brain apart –
"Hey, Dean," Sam's voice breaks through the montage of sound. He can feel Sam's hand on his arm, slide around his shoulders, pull him close. "We're gonna figure this out, okay? Might take a bit, but you don't like doing things the easy way."
Dean smirks at that. Yeah. Going to keep hunting because no little mind problem is going to win over Dean Winchester.
"Just stop freaking out on me or I might have to start calling you Dana. You're such a girl."
Dean leans just a bit. The voices and dreams and images aren't any softer, but it's getting there.