"How did that happen? When did we become the monsters, Dean?"
The Happy Camper Motel, Centralia Illinois, 3:20 a.m.:
Dean Winchester rolled over in the dark, cheap motel springs squeaking loudly. The dull glow of his wristwatch showed it was 3:20 a.m., and he had been in bed less than an hour. His brother Sam sprawled in the bed to his left, oblivious to the world, snoring just a little.
Great, Dean thought. Now he's gonna saw logs all night. No wonder I can't sleep. Immediately, Dean felt guilty, knowing that Sammy had taken a pretty hard crack to the face a couple of hours earlier. Dean was afraid his brother had broken his nose, but Sammy shrugged it off. Just wiped away the blood like nothing had happened. Tough kid, Dean thought, smiling sadly in the dark It's too bad. He shouldn't have to be.
Dean shifted in the coarse sheets, trying to find a comfortable previous few hours replayed in his mind like a bad B- film. Hunts go wrong all the time, Dean tried to rationalize. We tried, they fought back, we fucked up. Game over. Move on.
Earlier that night:
Parked outside a white frame farm house on the outskirts of Centralia, Illinois, Dean and his younger brother argued. Dusk was falling and time was running out.
"Dean, I'm just not sure... there's a pattern here, sure, but..." Sam held up a sheaf of papers. " I mean, I'm just not sure that it's tonight. The vision or dream or whatever it was, it was clear, but... man.." Sam looked through the rain-spattered car window and sighed in exasperation. "I'm not sure if this is the right place." He looked back at his brother, the strain of the past few days etched in the tiny lines around his eyes. "What if I'm wrong? What if, I dunno, this is a colossal waste of time and somewhere across town, in a white house identical to this one, some poor family is getting slaughtered while I'm leading you off on some demonic wild goose chase?" He threw the papers behind him into the Impala's back seat and crossed his arms.
Dean leaned back and ran a hand over the stubble on his chin. Two nights before, Sam had a vision of a house, this very house that they were sitting across the road from, bursting into flames, the family inside perishing. Save one.
"It's a demon, Dean..." Sammy had winced in pain, grabbing onto his brother's arm for support as the vision wracked his body. "He's got a little girl... and there's fire..."
Bit by bit, Dean had deciphered the information that Sam had seen, forced the pieces to form a picture. A few hours later, they had loaded up the Impala and were speeding towards southern Illinois. A day of research and hasty phone calls to Bobby Singer had directed them towards this moment, parked in the rain across from a brass mailbox, the name "McCoy" lettered in fancy script across the front. Waiting for any sign of unnatural activity.
"Dude," Dean said firmly, leaning toward Sam for emphasis." If you even have an inkling that there might be some sort of demonic son of a bitch lurking behind the rosebushes here, you gotta tell me now." Sam flinched, then looked out the window into the falling darkness.
A moment passed, then Sam finally whispered "I got nothin', man."
For the tenth time, Dean fished his battle-scarred EMF out of the floorboards and pushed the button. The machine blipped once as it powered up, then read a steady level two milligauss. No flicker, no surge, no indication of any type of magnetic field pop. He dropped the gauge back in the floor and checked his watch.
"Let's give it a bit, huh?" He gave Sam a nudge in the ribs. "Nothing ventured, nothing gained right?" No answer. Dean rubbed a hand across his weary eyes and wished for coffee.
Nothing. At midnight, the Winchester boys called it a night, both relieved and apprehensive that they had missed something. They drove in silence down the dark road for a few moments. The rain had intensified, the gentle shower giving way to a steady downpour. The few highway lights reflecting off the wet asphalt made a hypnotic pattern, and as Sam watched, he felt as if he was floating on air, maybe hovering a few inches above the car seat.. just sort of... drifting. Then the pain slammed him. Hard. Sam clutched at his temple, grabbed Dean's sleeve with his free hand.
"Dean.. ahh..stop the car... now!" Sam doubled over in pain as Dean screeched the Chevy to a halt.
"Wha... okay, okay.. hang on." He tried to grab onto Sam but Sam had fumbled the car door open, stumbled out into the now-heavy rain, kneeling in the thick mud by the roadside.
"Dean... Dean... it's here..." Sam gasped, and would have pitched headfirst into the muck had Dean not fallen to his knees beside him.
"What, Sammy.. where is it?" Dean clutched at his brother's rain-soaked shirt. He tried to lift Sam's chin, make eye contact, pull him out of the vision, but Sam was fighting back, trying to get away, crawling through the mud toward a stand of trees.
"No! No!" Sam screamed over and over, desperate to reach.. what?
Dean looked through the trees. There was a house set far back from the road. A white farm house. Goddamn it. He grabbed on to his baby brother and half carried, half dragged him to the car, shoved him inside and roared down the dirt road to the farm house. Right past the rusted metal rural mailbox with the name "McCreary" painted on the side.
Dean stopped the the Chevy at the edge of the front yard. Another white farm house, one of hundreds, maybe thousands scattered across southern Illinois. Despite the late hour, lamps glowed in the front windows, casting an image of homey security. You can almost smell the freakin' apple pie, Dean thought. He turned to look at his brother. Sam had calmed down considerably, and was wiping his eyes with his wet shirt-sleeve. He turned to Dean, eyes pleading.
"It's in there, Dean. It's inside." He chewed at his lip, tasting a mixture of mud and blood and rain.
Dean glanced at the warm, inviting house, then clapped a hand on his little brother's shoulder.
"You with me, Sammy? You okay?" Dean fought to keep his voice from going up an octave as he spoke. He didn't want to baby his brother; that would piss him off to no end. But at that moment, Sam seemed so young and vulnerable... Damn it, he ain't little enough for you to carry around anymore!
Sam nodded, water dripping off his hair. His brown eyes were wide with fear. Dean felt a shimmer of panic rising in his chest, then took a deep breath.
"Okay Sammy, listen to me," he held his grip on Sam's shoulder, hoping the contact would keep his brother focused, keep any more visions from clouding his head. They had work to do.
Highway 161, Centralia Illinois, 1:00 a.m.
"The wrong house?" Bobby Singer's voice shouted from Dean's phone. "How the hell did you get the wrong house?"
Dean held the phone away from his ear slightly until Bobby stopped yelling. He turned to look at Sam, crouched wet and miserable in the front seat of the Impala, a dirty mechanic's towel clutched to his bleeding nose. He started to remove the towel and Dean stage-whispered "Dude, you bleed in my car and I'll..." but Sammy looked so .. damaged... Dean stopped himself and spoke into the phone again.
"Some stuff was wrong, Bobby.. it was off or we weren't thorough enough or what the hell ever, but Sammy... he had another vision, and.. we were too late. It was inside the house already. Went up in flames about two minutes after we pulled up."
Silence on the other end, then Bobby spoke.
"God-dang it, boys, I'm so sorry... you okay?" An almost paternal tone crept into his voice; he had somewhat reluctantly become the boys' surrogate father, mother, nurse, teacher, and priest years earlier. Not much went on that Bobby didn't know about.
Dean surveyed the damage done; Outside not so bad, but inside.. we're really screwed up.
"Yeah, we're okay Bobby, just ... you know... kinda whipped. Gonna head to the motel and figure it out tomorrow. Thanks." Dean flipped the phone shut. He sneaked a look at Sam, who had lowered the bloody towel and was watching the darkness streak past outside the car window. He thought about telling him that it would be okay, they'd regroup and go after it again, but it was the same lie Sammy would tell him.
A few moments passed in silence, then Sam spoke, so quietly it was almost a whisper.
"She knew, Dean.. Mrs. McCreary, she knew something was wrong... but... but she thought it was us. She thought we were the bad guys." Sam sounded incredulous.
Dean glanced at his little brother, so ready to fight for truth and justice and so confused when not everyone was willing to jump on board. How could a kid who had seen the things Sam had seen still come across as so naïve and trusting?
"She didn't know, Sam," Dean adjusted the rear-view mirror slightly, just to have something to do. "Think about it; two weird strangers appear out of the rain and tell her she's got a demon in her house..it ain't like breaking the news that she's got termites, you know." Dean paused for a moment and the scene flashed before his eyes again:
Raining... running up to the porch and banging on the door... Sammy sayin' "it's here it's here now Dean"... lady rips open the door, starts screamin', "You monsters!" Sam starts shoutin', husband runs up with a .22, wallops Sammy across the face, Sammy falls down, bleedin'... then the husband grabs his wife, snaps her neck and turns, yellow eyes blazing. "You lose, Winchester. Game over." And the house goes up, literally explodes... me and Sammy fall backward into the mud and rain and the screaming starts inside the house...
"How did that happen? When did we become the monsters, Dean?"
The sleek black Chevy sped down rain-slicked Highway 161.
The Happy Camper Motel, Centralia Illinois, 1:45 a.m.
Dean sighed heavily. He was exhausted. He started peeling off his wet, muddy clothes, dropping them on top of Sam's discarded jeans and shirt.
"Sam, let it go. Forget it." He tossed his damp wallet, car keys and Zippo lighter on the scratched maple dresser top.
Sam, freshly showered, propped up on his bed with his computer, the glowing screen casting an eerie light across his bruised face. He fixed Dean with a stern glare.
"People died tonight, Dean... because we didn't save them." He snapped the laptop shut and stood up, wavering slightly. Visions always left him a little woozy, that and a lack of food. They hadn't eaten since the night before, a quick greasy cheeseburger grabbed on the run while Dean fueled the Impala. Neither brother had been willing to admit they were starving after witnessing the night's events. But then, going to bed hungry wasn't exactly a rare occurrence for a Winchester.
Dean stood at the bathroom door, clad only in his wet boxers. Mud streaked his face and hair, and suddenly he felt dangerously nauseous. He swallowed hard, willing the lump in his throat to disappear.
"You have to understand something, Sam.. we can't save everybody. Sometimes.. things go wrong and people die. But sometimes we can help. Sometimes we do save them. Doesn't mean that when we don't, all the good stuff doesn't matter anymore, you know?"
Sam sank back onto the bed and nodded slowly. He looked at the floor for a moment, then looked up at his big brother, wet hair falling over his face, made him look about twelve years old. Dean felt a twinge in his chest. Damn it, don't start cryin'.
"Dean.." Sam hesitated then asked softly, "How do you go on? How do you put it behind you?"
Dean leaned back against the bathroom door frame and crossed his arms, trying to look as casual as possible when standing wet and half naked in front of his little brother.
"Dad told me once that the worst monster you'll ever have to face is your own conscience." Dean looked up at the ceiling, for just a moment avoiding eye contact with Sam. "And I think that's true. Keep moving, Sammy, keep going forward." He grabbed a towel off the chrome rack by the door. "Left some Tylenol by your bed." Dean closed the bathroom door and the shower started up.
Sam put his laptop on the side table and popped the Tylenol, washing them down with a swig of warm Diet Cherry 7-up. He eased down onto the scratchy sheets and was asleep by the time his head hit the pillow.
The shower was running but Dean was still crouched by the toilet. He had wedged his body in the space between the toilet and tub. He didn't like to have his back to the door. Ever. You never knew... It'll be okay in a minute, just give me a minute. Then he vomited again, silent tears streaming down his face.
Goddamn it, Dean, get a grip! Grow up! But no matter how hard he tried to move on and forget, he never could. He was not a warrior like Dad wanted him to be. He understood the job, what Dad did, what Dad wanted them to carry on doing. He understood that it was for a great common good, and it was a war, and in war, bad things happened. People died, people got hurt. You can't save everyone. Stop being such a damned baby! Do you want me to drive off and leave you here right now? Because I will, if you don't shut the hell up, Dean...He started to shake and nausea wracked him once more.
Damn it Dean, do as you're told or else... he wasn't a fearless hunter, because it scared the holy crap out of him. I'm sorry Dad... Sorry is no excuse, Dean.. Dad didn't get it; hitting him or punishing him for being afraid didn't make him braver, it only added to his fears. Monsters and Dad, gotta watch out for 'em both. Two things I gotta protect Sammy from.
He sank back against the cold tile of the bathroom wall, knees to chest, and took a deep, shaky breath. The tightness in his chest began to ease slightly. A dull ache set into his back and hip, physical reminders of the evening's battle. He flexed each arm, the muscles already beginning to tighten and protest. The shower still ran, steam drifting from between cracks in the ill-fitting curtain. Dean slowly pushed himself up from the floor, stripped off his boxers and stepped into the shower, letting the water play over his face and chest, rinsing off the dried sweat and mud. He placed his hands flat against the blue-tiled wall and leaned his head down, rivulets of water washing across the old scars and new bruises on his body, watching the muddy mixture of grime and blood swirl down the drain. Let it go, Dean.
The Happy Camper Motel, Centralia Illinois, 3:39 a.m. :
Dean lay on his back now, staring at the ceiling. A neon "Vacancy" sign flickered just outside the window. In the next bed, his brother rolled over and muttered. Dean sat bolt upright, instantly alert. He waited. Another mutter.
"Sam?" he whispered. No reply. "Sammy?"
There was a snuffling, then a cough. Then a familiar "Huh?"
Dean breathed a sigh of relief.
"You okay?"
A pause. Then finally a mumbled reply.
"Yeah, Dean... m'okay...g'night.." Then the soft snoring started up again.
Dean sank back onto the pillow carefully, rearranging the hunting knife underneath. Sammy's okay. Guess I'll let him sleep in a little, then I'll grab us some breakfast in a couple of hours. Maybe pancakes... Sam likes pancakes... and scrambled eggs. Not too runny... and coffee... plenty of coffee.. and finally, blissfully, Dean drifted off to sleep.
A few minutes later, Sam woke up, groggy and a little disoriented. He could hear Dean's deep breathing, figured he was asleep. It was nice, knowing that Dean was there, always right there, looking out for him. Despite his weird, screwed-up life, Sam felt very lucky that he had Dean.
Sam raised up off the bed slightly.
"Dean? Hey Dean, you asleep?" No response. "Hey... it's all gonna be okay, all right? Don' worry about anything..." Sam sank back into his pillows, eyes closing. Pancakes... pancakes would be really good...