A/N: Sorry for the lateness again! RL is seriously attacking me, and this little story here is in cahoots with it, methinks...Anyway, Thanks to everyone who reviewed, read, added this to their faves/subscriptions and have stuck with me this long!! You guys are all AWESOME. I give you loads and loads of cookies. :-D Also to my beta, LLS, and now named PsychicWonderKitty!!
I don't own Supernatural, but OMG did you see the premiere?? Yeah, Kripke owns ME. :D
Reminder: POVs switch in this, so be ready for double the story (sorta)! lol Enjoy!!!
Chapter Two-- Of Spirits and Demons
SAM
Sam woke early the next morning to the sound of a gun cocking.
He wants to kill you. What was going on? Flipping over and sitting up quickly, pushing the blankets off his legs to avoid being tangled, Sam searched the room with frantic eyes. They stopped on the surprised figure sitting cross-legged on the bed next to him.
"What are you doing?" Sam asked hastily, shifting minutely farther away from the edge of the bed and eyeing the gun warily. Has a gun. Shoot you. Different.
"Uh…cleaning?" answered Dean slowly, putting the shotgun on the bed with the rest of the weapons. "Sam?"
Sam stared at his brother for a moment, gathering his thoughts and catching his breath. Upon closer inspection, the scene before him was nothing out of the ordinary for a Winchester in the days before a hunt. Various weapons laid out on an old towel that had been in the Impala's trunk since before Sam could remember, cleaning rags and tools lined up for use in Dean's skilled hands. The shotgun Sam had heard wasn't even loaded. 'Was I imagining it?' thought Sam, trying to recall the event that had passed only moments ago, finding he couldn't differentiate between dream and reality.
"Hello? Earth to Geek Boy." prodded Dean, the shadow of concern behind his green eyes.
"Oh…uh…yeah. Sorry. I thought—you—I had a weird dream." stuttered Sam, standing up and moving toward the bathroom for a cup of water. Throat's so dry…Upon his return, Dean had started packing up the cleaning supplies and was throwing Sam the patented 'big brother look'. He knows.
Not wanting to go down the inevitable path of endless questioning, Sam gave a small throat-clearing cough and changed the subject. "What are you doing up so early? I thought you had a date last night."
"Nope. Canceled. Said she had ta' go to the doctor or somethin'." responded Dean, eyes not quite meeting Sam's. Lying to you. So Dean had stayed in last night after all, even after Sam had told him he was fine with him going out. 'Probably thinks I'm sick or something.' thought Sam, the image of Dean keeping a vigil next to his still form floating across his slightly muddled mind.
"Right," said Sam with another shake of his head, then he added, smiling, "The doctor? Probably a good thing you didn't see her last night then. Don't wanna go through what we did back at that free clinic in Seattle."
"Hey!" cried Dean with mock offense, "That was for supplies and you know it."
"Uh-huh. And it took you three hours, a shot to the ass, and a complimentary pamphlet on safe sex practices to steal some bandages?" quipped Sam with a smirk all his own. The art of distraction was one mastered early in the Winchester house.
"How the hell would you know if I had a shot to the ass?" asked Dean indignantly.
"Oh, I don't know. Maybe 'cause you spent the whole trip to Utah sitting on an ice pack?" answered Sam, now starting to laugh openly at the memory of a very uncomfortable Dean in the driver's seat.
"I was—Shut up." said Dean lamely, turning away from his brother with an embarrassed huff. "You find out who our mystery spirit is yet?"
"Which one?" asked Sam, allowing the subject change but finding great amusement in the redness that had creeped into Dean's cheeks.
"Any of them. Gotta start somewhere, dude."
"Uh…Michael Sturges. Local gardener and part-time groundskeeper for the county Court House. Fits the MO, what with the lawn shears being used as shish kabobs. Died in a fire in '93."
"Anything else? Where he's buried or how the fire started?" asked Dean as he piled the last of the now clean weapons into the duffel on the bed.
"Not yet." replied Sam, running his hands through the hair on the back of his head. Truth was, he hadn't even thought about the case since his lunchtime obit-scanning yesterday. Sam vaguely recalled sitting on the end of his bed for hours before Dean came back to the room…
"Well, why not? You usually have the thing half figured out by the time we get to the next motel." said Dean, then with a smirk, "How about you do a little less standing around and a little more research, there, Sparky."
"How about you do a little less lying around and do it yourself, Man-Whore?" retorted Sam with slightly more force than he'd intended. Thankfully, Dean didn't seem to notice, or at least he didn't show it.
"Hehe…Funny." said Dean with waggling eyebrows for effect. "Bitch."
"Thanks, Jerk."
"Alright. Well, I need coffee and you need some quality time with the laptop, so I'll be back in about an hour or two. M'kay?" asked Dean, already half out the door anyway.
"Yeah, whatever." Sam waved him off as the door closed and he was left in silence. Again that strange feeling of relief washed over him. It was really quite disturbing. Sam decided against contemplating this fact as he walked to the laptop and started it up.
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Ah, research. A different kind of hunt, the pursuit of knowledge, answers to all the world's burning questions. And Sam's only pastime. Sure, he could go out to bars with Dean and pick up some chick half the town's already had the 'pleasure' of knowing instead of sitting here on the motel floor searching ceaselessly for every personal detail of some dead guy's life. But really now, where's the fun in that? Besides, it's not like Dean would do it…
Why Sam was sitting on this most likely disease-ridden floor of the motel room was another story though. He hadn't planned on sitting there. Hadn't woken up this morning with an undeniable desire to get friendly with the cockroaches. But nonetheless, there he was. Laptop in hand and in all his glory, the six-foot-four form crumpled up against the wall nearest the door. How did this happen? Well…Sam wasn't quite sure.
He couldn't remember falling. For that matter, he could hardly remember what he had been doing at all before the loss of altitude. Flashes of weapons and fragments of conversations ran through his mind in a jumbled mess. All he knew was that his head pounded fiercely every time he attempted to stand and the only thing he could reach was the laptop. He'd thought about calling Dean -- Yeah. 'Hey Dean. Could you come back now? I've fallen and I can't get up!' Perfect…-- more than once in the last hour ('How long have I been like this?'), but decided against it. It would be bad enough when he came in and saw what had become of his poor little brother this time without the added humiliation of asking for help.
"Just have to stop the room from spinning," Sam said aloud, abandoning his valiant attempt at being productive and returning once again to the task of becoming vertical. "We don't really need any more on the guy. Died horrible death. Out for revenge. Simple."
"And now you sound like Dean."
Another push on his legs sent his head reeling, the pressure in his skull building too fast until his legs gave way and he crashed back to the ground, nearly crushing the laptop in the process.
"What the hell?!" Sam exclaimed, pressing his head between his hands in an attempt to soothe the powerful ache that seemed to worsen with every heartbeat. "Let's not try that again…"
"No talking either." he added as the sound of the air conditioner whirring in the corner suddenly became loud enough to make Sam's ears bleed. Turn that freakin' thing off!
TURN IT OFF TURN IT OFF TURN IT OFF—his thoughts echoed around the room, gaining volume with every repetition, rebounding on his head, slamming it against the wall. An endless ringing. They pressed in on him. Smothering. He couldn't breathe. Couldn't see. The sound was deafening, his words solidifying, gathering to make a club, a mallet, a spear. Piercing his temple and forcing his throat closed in unison.
The sound, the silence. The light, the darkness.
Sam.
DEAN
Dean had slept all of four hours last night.
After his much needed shower, he was surprised to find Sam already sound asleep, fully dressed and hardly moving. Something about the way he had spoken to him, the distant look in his eyes, haunted Dean and bothered him to no end. Sleep wasn't really working out for him, as every time he closed his eyes he got the feeling Sam wouldn't be there when he opened them. So he had flipped around the channels on the muted TV and spent a good amount of time simply watching his brother breathe.
At 5:00 A.M., Dean decided the guns needed cleaning.
He was halfway through the barrel of the shotgun when a sudden movement from the bed opposite him stopped him in mid-wipe. Sam had woken up abruptly, shot into a sitting position and was now frenetically searching the room as if he'd just been attacked.
What the f—"What are you doing?" came Sam's accusatory voice, hazel eyes not moving from the weapon in Dean's hands, fear etched plainly all over his young face.
"Uh…cleaning?" Dean answered dumbly, cautiously placing the gun back on the bed. What the hell was wrong with Sam? And was he imagining it, or was the familiar glint of recognition missing from his little brother's nervous gaze? Noticing the slight retreat toward the other side of his bed, Dean added slowly, "Sam?"
Sam didn't answer. At least he stopped looking at me like that, thought Dean, relieved that he had also stopped backing away and that the fear was rapidly being replaced with a look of troubled confusion. Well, not relieved, but he felt better about it anyway. The thought of Sam not knowing who he was was one that scared the crap outta him. It also hurt like hell.
Still receiving no response, Dean added, "Hello? Earth to Geek Boy."
"Oh...uh…yeah. Sorry. I thought—you—I had a weird dream." stammered Sam as he got up and headed for the bathroom. He came back with a glass of water and a groggy yet puzzled look on his face. Dean's big brother senses heightened as he looked his sibling over. He looked like shit on a dead dog.
Sam, noticing Dean's watchful gaze, cleared his throat and asked conversationally, "What are you doing up so early? I thought you had a date last night."
"Nope. Canceled. Said she had ta' go to the doctor or somethin'." He was lying, of course. The brunette had no doctor's appointment, at least none he knew of. The fact of the matter was, there was no way Dean was going to leave Sam alone like that. It's not like he was sick…or maybe he was. But it didn't matter; something was wrong with him and Dean felt like he should be there. He wouldn't leave Sam alone again until he got out of his funk.
Dean was about to bring up said problem when Sam shook his head and said, "Right." An unbelieving smile dared to spread across his face, dimples almost making an appearance as he added, "The doctor? Probably a good thing you didn't see her last night then. Don't wanna go through what we did back at that free clinic in Seattle."
"Hey!" exclaimed Dean, surprised and a little peeved at his brother's sudden change of subject. "That was for supplies and you know it."
"Uh-huh. And it took you three hours, a shot to the ass, and a complimentary pamphlet on safe sex practices to steal some bandages?" shot back Sam with a smirk that would have made Dean proud. Would have, if he hadn't just brought up one of the most humiliating experiences in Dean's life.
"How the hell would you know if I had a shot to the ass?" asked Dean, conveniently ignoring the other parts of Sam's accusation. Knew I shoulda' thrown the pamphlet out before I got back in the car.
Sam actually started to laugh, dimples in full effect, for the first time in weeks. He couldn't keep a straight face as he answered, "Oh, I don't know. Maybe 'cause you spent the whole trip to Utah sitting on an ice pack?"
Dean remembered that trip. He remembered the shot too. Damn, that hurt. Way too much for a simple prick in the ass. Stupid doctor, probably never even seen a case of—nothing. He had nothing. He was going for supplies. And why the hell did Sam even remember that? It was years ago…friggin' elephant.
"I was—Shut up." came Dean's brilliant retort. He'd never admit defeat in a verbal sparring match, especially one so embarrassingly won by the little brother, so he settled for a subject change instead. "You find out who our mystery spirit is yet?"
"Not yet."
"Well, why not? You usually have the thing half figured out by the time we get to the next motel." said Dean, taking note of this odd occurrence but not wanting to break the conversation just yet. "How about you do a little less standing around and a little more research, there, Sparky." he added in jest.
"How about you do a little less lying around and do it yourself, Man-Whore?" rejoined Sam, that edge back in his voice and seeming strikingly out of place to Dean. But instead of dwelling on the strange behavior of his little brother, Dean focused on what was actually said. Man-Whore?
"Hehe…Funny." allowed Dean. The kid was creative, he'd give him that. "Bitch."
"Thanks, Jerk." came Sam's predictable reply.
The banter drawing to a satisfactory close, Dean picked up the refilled weapons duffel and headed for the door. "Alright. Well, I need coffee and you need some quality time with the laptop, so I'll be back in about an hour or two. M'kay?"
Dean moved out of the room and closed the door as a slightly muffled "Yeah, whatever." was heard from within. Smiling to himself, Dean threw the bag into the Impala's trunk and started up the engine.
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Ah, coffee. The world's greatest invention, right after cars and women that is. Oh yeah, and cheeseburgers. In any case, Dean loved it. It had the perfect combination of bitter and satisfying, the flawless teamwork of ground and water. Two components strongest when left with nothing but each other. Sam might say it was better with cream and/or sugar, which added their own respective 'strengths' to the flavor, but they both agreed that it didn't really need anything else to get the job done.
As Dean sat in the corner diner contemplating the wonder of the beverage before him, he found himself unable to move. Or, to put it more plainly, he was afraid of going back to the motel. See, he and Sam had been having problems lately. Not the kind of problems that explode in a burst of prank wars and loud arguments, but the ones that fester in silence until someone snaps and irrevocable damage occurs. Or nobody does and the problem simply never goes away, is never resolved.
What made it difficult was that Dean wasn't even sure what the problem was. Instead of everything going back to normal after the deal was broken and both brothers emerged unscathed, things seemed to have gotten worse. Well, neither of them was set to go to Hell any time soon, but at least before they could speak to each other. Now it was all awkward silences and paranoid suspicions.
Yes, he was afraid to go back to the motel. That exchange he'd just had with Sam was a rarity nowadays, and Dean didn't want to go back to a silent room and an absent brother. So here he sat in his booth, drinking the once-magnificent coffee that by now was just as cold as their relationship as of late.
"Can I get you anything else, Sugar?" asked a generously proportioned waitress, notepad out and ballpoint pen at the ready.
"Uh…" answered Dean, having been slightly startled out of his thoughts by the sudden appearance of the waitress. "No thanks, I'm good."
"Really? Is that why you're sitting here all alone, staring into your coffee like it's your long-lost brother?" she replied with a knowing look.
"What?" said Dean incredulously, looking into the waitress's eyes with something akin to surprise.
"Well…what's her name?" came her response, voice taking on a motherly tone.
Dean let out a breath of air in the form of a light chuckle. "He. My brother."
"Oh, so it is a family thing. I was right." she said with a smile. Then, "What? You two havin' a fight or somethin'?"
"Something like that." answered Dean, abruptly feeling that he should be back in that motel room. Now.
"Well, call him then, Sweetie. If he looks half as worn out as you do he'll be needin' ya right about now."
"Yeah. Thanks." said Dean hastily, tossing a couple bills on the table and heading for the Impala. The sound of "You and your brother stop by again soon now, ya hear?" was partially drowned out by the bell ringing on the door as Dean practically ran out of the diner.
Simultaneously dialing Sam's number and starting up the Impala, Dean's newfound fear of confrontation vanished. Something was up; he didn't know how he knew, and he didn't really care. He just had to get to Sam. With the fourth unanswered ring of Sam's cell phone, Dean's foot pushed harder on the gas, willing his baby onward.
TBC