Disclaimer/Spoilers: See chapter 1
WARNING: This story carries a bit of a darker theme than I've written before; wanted to give you a heads up. I caution for bad words and the like in the chapters to come.
a/n: Thank you so much for reading! Those of you who have gifted me with your reviews, I am sincerely grateful. Those who are just reading, I really appreciate your time. *smile* I'm working to update as quickly as possible. There are five chapters and I don't want too much lag time between any two chapters, so I'm working to be at least one ahead. But your awesome comments encouraged me to rethink that plan, so I thought I'd post this now...and be encouraged to finish chapter 3 that much sooner.
I hope you continue to enjoy.
Quick shout-out to my good friend, ThruTerrysEyes. Her sanity reads give me the shove over the ledge I tend to need on a regular basis. And she has made some very pretty art for this story (and others) that I'll be putting up on my LiveJournal at some point.
We're all sentenced to solitary confinement inside our own skins, for life.
~Tennessee Williams
www
Sam could hear something ticking. Slowly, like a stove trying to light.
He couldn't tell what direction it was coming from at first; his whole focus was on his brother, boneless in his arms, sprawled across his lap. Rainwater dripped from the ends of Sam's hair and splashed on Dean's bare shoulder, running in a hesitant river along the slope of his collar bone to the purpling bruise forming quickly around an angry, red puncture wound at the base of his neck.
Someone took a breath. It wasn't Sam. He hadn't so much as exhaled since Dean went limp against him. His chest ached with the pressure of keeping the world at bay until he could register what had happened.
A glint of light caught his eye and Sam looked up to see a large syringe on the wood floor near the chair where Dean had been bound. It rocked slowly with latent motion, the sides of the plunger clicking rhythmically against the wood floor.
There is a virus—created by a demon…they intend to inject it into Dean.
Sam couldn't move.
There had been times in his youth when too many choices yielded no action; he simply didn't know which way to go first. But that had faded somewhat with Stanford, and then further when he'd found his dad dead on the hospital floor. When Dean had been torn apart in front of him, indecision evaporated and left direction in its wake.
But then addiction came into his life. And angels. And one fucked up destiny.
Sam let his breath out slowly when Dean flinched. He'd been out for less than a minute, and Sam resisted the urge to shake his brother to consciousness. The bodies of the two demons he'd killed lay on the floor behind them, blood from the neck wounds spilling freely on the floor.
He could smell it.
He could practically taste it. The salty, metallic tang…the slick slide to his belly…the rush as it surged through him. It was a hit that nothing else had ever matched.
Sam swallowed, carefully adjusting his grip on Dean's shoulder, keeping his back to the blood.
"We need to leave this place." Castiel's gruff, nearly-monotone voice grated across Sam's ears.
"Gimme just a damn minute, Cas, okay?" Sam snapped.
The woman who'd been the unwilling host to a demon lay to Sam's left, motionless, her face turned away. He knew from experience that she was going to have a helluva headache when she woke up. And that the feeling of filth coating her from the inside out would take a long, long time to wash away.
If it ever did.
Dean seemed to sigh a bit, his head rolling loosely, his forehead coming to rest on Sam's belly. Sam moved to lift Dean's face, thinking to try to rouse him, when with no more warning than a strangled groan, Dean suddenly pushed against Sam's body, thrusting himself one direction, Sam another. Dean crashed into the chair that had held him bound just minutes before, sending the furniture flying backwards into a darkened room.
Sam heard it clatter and bounce against the floor as he stared at Dean, trying to catch his breath.
"Stay 'way!" Dean all-but roared, his voice sounding like he'd been on a three-day bender. He held up a hand, not in warning, but in resistance, trying to keep the demons at bay. "Stay the fuck away from me!"
"Dean," Sam said softly, pulling his feet under him and balancing on his toes. "Hey, easy, man, it's me, okay?"
Dean was coiled tight; Sam knew that if he so much as touched his brother, he'd suffer the consequences. He'd seen Dean like this after some particularly horrific nightmares; his throat had carried bruises for several days.
Grappling for balance, Dean's arm stuttered and shifted along the wood floor until Sam saw his fingers touch a pile of clothes. His belly turned to ice when he saw that lying on top of the clothes was Dean's Beretta. If he hadn't seen the clip separated from the weapon, he might've damned the consequences and dove for his brother in that moment.
Sam felt movement nearby and resisted the urge to check where Castiel was. He didn't need the angel's well-intentioned, but often poorly-phrased, encouragement sending Dean over the edge.
Right now, it needed to be them.
"Dean," Sam repeated, watching as Dean's hand stayed up, stretched out, not even a tremor to betray the pain he had to be in judging from the marks on his face, neck, and wrists. "Look at me, okay?"
He kept his voice low, soft, even; talking a trapped animal out of taking his arm off at the shoulder.
Slowly, as if coming back to himself in increments, Dean lifted his face. Sam watched his eyes sweep over Raya's prone figure, then hit Sam. He winced as he saw the swollen skin framing Dean's left eye, the broken blood vessels surrounding the green iris with a painful-looking red stain.
"Sam?" Dean's voice cracked at the edge of his name, making Sam's gut tighten. His name had always been safe in Dean's mouth; it was the trigger that told him how close to the edge Dean really was—the way his brother said his name.
It only sounded like this when Dean had nothing left.
"Hey," Sam lifted his chin, still not reaching out to touch Dean, waiting for that arm to come down and give him access.
Dean swallowed, eyes moving to take in Castiel. Sam breathed out slowly as recognition smoothed the lines on Dean's face and his arm lowered. Sam scooted closer, putting Raya's prone figure and Castiel behind him with the other bodies, and closing the gap between himself and his brother.
With a helpless groan, Dean dropped to his rear, his knees tented, bloody arms draped across them.
"What the fuck, Sam?" His question leveled the tremor in his voice.
Sam felt his shoulders sag a bit. "So, turns out Kansas City was a bad idea."
Dean reached up and rubbed tentatively at the bruised puncture wound. "She stabbed me with something."
"She injected you with a virus," Castiel spoke up.
Sam looked over his shoulder. "Cas, maybe let's just—"
"Virus?" Dean pulled Sam's attention back. He already knew, Sam realized, glancing at the puncture wound. They told him. "How…how long?"
"Until what?" Sam asked.
"Until l go…28 Days Later?"
"It's not like that," Sam shook his head, shoving the clothes toward Dean. "Put your shirt on; I'll explain in a minute."
It bothered Sam that Dean did as he was told. His face held a stunned expression, his eyes landing on nothing. Sam pushed to his feet, turning to face Castiel.
"Can you go into the bedroom and get the rest of his stuff?" He glanced at Dean. "His boots, I guess?"
"What about the woman?" Castiel turned toward the bedroom.
Dean, now mostly clothed, stood and shoved the clip into his weapon, his face shifting into something more recognizable as Dean when he tucked the gun into his back waistband.
"I got her." He moved toward Raya as if his legs were made of glass.
Sam ran a hand through his hair, ready to help Dean lift the woman to the couch. He was totally unprepared for her to launch upwards, grabbing a small .38 from the couch as she gained her feet, and point the barrel at his brother.
"Stay the hell away from me!"
In unison, Dean and Sam drew back, hands up.
"Easy, honey," Dean crooned, his voice level.
Sam darted his eyes between Dean and Raya, watching as Dean slid slowly forward, his bare feet soundless on the wood floor. Raya's hands were steady, the gun never leaving its target of Dean's chest.
"You don't want to do this," Dean told her.
"Hell I don't," she growled.
"Raya, you don't understand—"
"I don't have to understand." She cocked the gun.
Sam went cold at that sound. "Hey," he chimed in, hoping to draw attention to himself and away from Dean. Raya didn't waver. "Listen, I know what you're feeling right now."
Dean slid forward a bit more. Raya didn't move. Sam had lost track of Castiel, but at the moment the angel's whereabouts were a minor concern; he needed to get that gun off his brother.
"You lost time," Sam continued, "and…and you feel like someone scooped something out of you."
Raya's eyes shifted from Dean to Sam and back, but she didn't lower the gun.
"You feel like you walked out of a twisted dream and everything feels…," Sam swallowed, "…dirty."
Raya's breath stuttered and Sam saw her index finger flex slightly on the trigger. He opened his mouth to try something else when Dean reached forward, lightning quick, and grabbed the gun, shoving his thumb behind the hammer so that it clicked on his flesh and bone.
"Ow!" He cried out, pulling the gun from Raya's hands.
Sam exhaled, but didn't lower his hands. "Why do we always cut these things so damn close?"
Castiel suddenly seemed to materialize behind Raya, a hand raised. Sam knew instantly what the angel intended to do.
"No!" He and Dean cried out together.
Castiel paused, looking confused.
"Cas, just wait," Dean pleaded as Raya buried her face in her hands.
Dean released the hammer on the gun and handed it to Sam, who set it on top of the TV. Putting his hands gently on Raya's arms, Dean guided her to sit on the couch, and then crouched in front of her, his hands on her knees.
"Raya."
"Just…please leave." Raya's voice was muffled inside her hands.
Dean closed his eyes for a moment, then steadied himself with a breath. "I need to know what you remember."
Two days, Winchester.
Sam felt his breath rush out.
"Nothing." Raya dropped her hands from her face. "And I don't want to remember anything, either."
Sam saw tears had smudged her eye makeup and were cutting a track of reflected light down her cheeks. His heart panged. They had seen so much death—had both died themselves, in fact—and destruction that he sometimes forgot what it was like to really be afraid.
Fear was normal. Fear was human.
Raya's eyes tracked across Dean's face and Sam watched her chin tremble.
"Dammit," she sniffed, swiping at the tears with the back of her hands. She looked down, seeing Dean's bloody wrists and cursed again. "I used the zip ties on you?"
"Not you," Dean shook his head. "It was…a demon."
"A demon," she repeated dully.
"They were after something and…." A shudder moved through Dean's shoulders. "Do you remember anything about…the Eye of God?"
"They want the Eye of God?" Castiel spoke up, surprise evident in his voice.
Raya looked up at him, then past Dean to Sam. "Who are you? And what the hell are you doing in my house?"
"I'm an ang—"
"He's a friend," Dean interrupted Castiel. "And that's my brother, remember? They came to get me."
Raya took a breath, rubbing her face. "We need to bandage your wrists," she said. "And I gotta call this in…. I've got two dead bodies in my house and—"
"I will dispose of them," Castiel informed her.
"What?" Raya gaped at him. "You're not…disposing of anything. I'm gonna be looking into this. No way people just break into my house and—"
Castiel reached past Dean and touched Raya lightly on the forehead. Without a sound, she melted into the couch.
"What the hell!" Dean surged to his feet in protest.
With startling speed, the blood drained from his face and he swayed. Sam stepped forward and gripped his brother's arm, holding him up.
"She will be fine," Castiel explained. "I will take care of her—and these two." He nodded toward the dead demons.
With Dean still wavering in his grip, Sam said, "Really take care of her, Cas."
The angel looked slightly offended. "I have not fallen so far that I don't recognize innocence," he said, his eyes seeming to expose Sam's secrets and sins. They shifted to Dean. "Take care of him, Sam. He needs you." Castiel's voice seemed to drop an octave as he finished with, "And we all need him."
Sam glanced over at his brother and saw that Dean's eyes were trained on the empty syringe, his free hand gingerly touching the puncture wound hidden beneath his clothes.
"We'll meet you at the motel," Sam told the angel. "C'mon," he tugged lightly on Dean's arm.
"Boots." Dean reminded him.
"Oh, right," Sam nodded, reaching for the boots Castiel handed him. Once dressed, Dean seemed to have regrouped slightly and nodded his thanks to Castiel as he led the way through the door.
"Think she'll be okay?" His question was almost rhetorical in nature—seeking reassurance Sam couldn't possibly have.
"Cas'll make sure she's squared away," Sam replied as they stepped out into the rain. "But…I don't know if she'll ever be okay."
"Yeah," Dean sighed, sadly. "Yeah."
www
He let Sam drive.
Really, there wasn't much of a choice in the matter. His left eye was so swollen he could barely see out of it, his head felt like tiny men with chisels were carving intricate etchings on his brain, and every time he moved his fingers, the torn flesh on his wrists sang with resistance.
"We'll get you back to the motel, get you fixed up," Sam was saying as the wiper blades shoved bucketfuls of water from the windshield of the Impala.
Dean sat slumped in the passenger seat of his car, his head back, the heavy rhythm of the rain on the roof an echo of his sluggish heart.
I want you to think about the taste of your favorite food…think about how it felt to touch this body….
"Sam."
"Yeah?"
He couldn't see Sam's head pivot his way, but he knew his brother well enough to imagine Sam's worried eyes on him.
"Tell me about this virus."
There was a strange smell wafting up from the air vents. It didn't match the rain.
"Why don't we just get back to the motel fir—"
"You smell that?" Dean sat up straighter, frowning.
"What?"
"Smells like…grass."
"Grass? Like…like pot?" Sam glanced at his brother out of the corner of his eyes.
Dean shot him a look. "No, not pot. You friggin'…hippie. Grass. Like fresh-mown…grass."
Sam shook his head, turning into the motel parking lot. "I don't smell grass. Just…wet clothes."
"It's really strong." Dean shook his head, peering through the side window into the rain, seeking the source. "Reminds me of that time we…," he almost chuckled, but the sound choked off somewhere inside of him, "we ended up camped out in the middle of that empty field…and we drank until we both got sick. You remember that?"
Sam nodded, pulling to a stop. Dean dropped his hand on the door handle, frowning.
"Never mind, it's…it's gone now. Maybe I'm losing it."
"Let's just get inside, Dean." The weight in Sam's voice grabbed Dean by the chin and pulled his head around.
Think about how much you love listening to your precious music. Think about seeing your brother….
"I'm…not losing it, am I?"
Sam closed his eyes. Instead of answering, he opened the door, letting the weather in. Dean followed, blinking through the sheets of rain that separated the car from the motel room door. Sam paused long enough to unlock the motel room door, then led the way inside.
Dean wiped the water from his face, muffling the sound of the storm with the closed motel door. The smell of freshly-mown grass was gone but now there was something else…something sour. It turned his stomach.
"I'll get the first aid kit," Sam said, shucking his wet clothes as he moved toward the duffel bags sitting on the table. "How about you go dry off?"
Dean simply nodded. He was too distracted by the smell to argue. Besides, he was cold. He grabbed some dry jeans and boxers and went into the bathroom, dropping his wet clothes in a pile on the floor. The rain had washed most of the blood away, but the zip-ties had cut raw furrows into the skin on the back of his wrists.
As he reached for a towel, he caught a glimpse of the puncture wound, saw the dark purple of the bruise spilling from the base of his neck over his collarbone and starting to finger down one side of his chest.
"Well, that's pretty," he muttered to himself, then pulled on a dry pair of jeans, leaving the button fly open as he sniffed the towel, jerking it away from his face as the stench grew, gagging him.
"Dean?" Sam called from the outer room. "You okay?"
"Dude, what is that?"
Sam appeared in the doorway, barefoot, dressed in dry jeans and a dark T-shirt, his wet hair leaving spots on the cotton. "What's what?"
"Seriously, you don't smell that?" Dean pushed the shower curtain aside, peering into the tub, his stomach tight at what he was afraid he might find.
It was empty.
"What's going on, man?"
"It's…." Dean moved the door to the side, peering behind it, searching, he realized for something…dead. "It's like…a body. A dead body." Dean turned in a full circle, catching his own reflection in the mirror. "Smells like we just dug up a grave."
Sam's hand was on his arm, a warm, heavy pressure of assurance and familiarity. Without a word, he tugged Dean toward him, out of the bathroom. Confused, aching, and more than a little pissed, Dean followed, sitting heavily on the bed.
"Talk," he demanded.
Sam threw him a gray Henley, then sat on a chair across from him.
"While you were with Raya," Sam began, leaning forward, elbows on his knees, eyes on the floor, "Cas showed up, demanding to know where you were. Said one of his brothers told him some demons had cooked up a virus and they were going to inject it in you."
"Why me?" Dean asked, pulling the Henley over his head, then gingerly touching the swollen, bruised skin around his left eye.
Sam shrugged. "'Cause you're Michael's vessel?"
"Why bother with a virus?" Dean's face fisted in frustration. "Seems like a waste of man power. Er…y'know…demon power."
Sam took a breath. "Cas said this virus would…shut down your senses."
Now think about that all going away….
Dean rubbed the bridge of his nose with the flat of his fingers, eyes closing as Raya's voice, tainted by a demon, slipped through his memory. The stench of rotting flesh had abated and he could smell her still imprinted on the palm of his hand. With sudden clarity, their moments of passion slammed into him with vivid force and he could feel her against him, her scent wrapping around him, her sigh echoing in his ears. He blinked rapidly as her dusky curves replaced Sam's face and he felt her fingers dig into his shoulders.
"Dean?" Sam's voice was worried, insistent.
Dean took a breath; he hadn't realized he'd been holding it.
"Yeah."
"You okay? You kinda checked out on me for a minute there."
Dean shook his head slowly. "Something weird's going on, Sam."
A cold hand slipped inside him, stroking his heart with fragile fingers.
"Weird like…."
Dean stood quickly, buttoning his fly lest the intense flash of a moment ago expose more than his fear. "Weird like some demon just shoved a needle the size of your leg into my neck and injected me with some kinda freaky virus. That kind of weird."
He started to pace.
The room was too small. Sam was using too much air.
He needed to get out. Just walk away.
Drive—that was better. He could drive away. Just go somewhere else. Somewhere they wouldn't track his movements.
Where they wouldn't find him.
"Hey!"
Sam was suddenly in front of him, hands gripping his arms, halting what had apparently become very rapid movement. Dean stared at his brother in surprise, for a moment barely recognizing the set of Sam's jaw, the hardened edge around Sam's eyes.
Hell had changed both of them.
When did you stop being my kid brother?
"Just breathe, Dean." Sam's voice was low, even. "You need to breathe, okay?"
Dean nodded, his head bouncing loosely like a bobble-head. "I'm breathing."
Sam released him slowly and Dean leaned against the dresser, crossing his arms over his chest, then jerking them away from his body when the seeping wounds came in contact with the material of his shirt.
He didn't look directly at Sam. He didn't really want to look directly at anything. The lights in the room were doing funny things to his eyes, sending streaks of light across his vision.
He closed his eyes. "What else did Cas say?"
He heard Sam's sigh, a weighted, wary sound that spoke volumes more than his brother ever realized. Sam was always so earnest, so careful with his words. Where Dean just said whatever was on his mind, Sam took a moment to think about how the person he was speaking to would hear the words.
Which was why his words could cut so deep.
"He just said that he'd been told about this virus, that it would systematically shut down your senses until eventually…you suffocate."
"Well," Dean blinked his eyes open. The streaks were gone. "At least I have something to look forward to."
"We'll figure this out, Dean," Sam said, sitting on the edge of the bed.
Dean looked at him, taking in the lines on Sam's face, the bow of his shoulders. His hair had gotten longer—which was saying something as Sam had never been a high-and-tight guy—and his clothes were fitting somewhat looser than they had before. The toll of their time apart coupled with the head-spinning reveal of their apparent destinies had worn on his brother.
"What was that you asked Raya about?"
Dean frowned. He'd been trying to think up a pithy epithet to lighten the mood or draw a half-grin from Sam before he fell face-first with exhaustion on the bed and slept away one of his two days.
"Huh?" He worked his tongue along the inside surface of his teeth; a sour trace of stale beer hung at the back of his mouth. He suddenly ached all over. The kind of ache that came after he'd had his ass handed to him.
"You asked her something about an Eye of God?" Sam tilted his head quizzically.
Dean rubbed at his left shoulder. It had been dislocated more than once in the past and that same bone-deep pain suddenly had him slightly short of breath. "How the…the hell should I know? Sounds like something out of...mrrph…out of Indiana Jones."
He leaned forward, his gut on fire.
"Dean!"
Sam was up, standing close. But Dean was too busy gripping his belly and hoping the knives there made quick work of him so that he could pass the hell out already.
"What is it?"
"S-Something…stabbing me…."
Dean felt the weight of Sam's hands on his back, cupping his chin, lifting his face up. He couldn't open his eyes; the light was too bright, too much, and it was melting all over him. The taste of dirt filled his mouth, gagging him.
He heard Sam's voice, knew there were words attached, but there was suddenly too much noise in the room, filling the empty spaces with the driving beat of electric guitars, demanding drums, and rough-throated cries. The pain in his belly slipped free only to be replaced by cacophony such that he'd never heard before. Screaming, screeching, crying, begging…it was as if someone had turned the volume up on Hell.
And just as suddenly as it hit him, it was gone.
Gasping, Dean dared to slowly lift his eyes. He was on the floor, on his knees, Sam next to him, a hand across his back, fingers curling at his waist, another holding his hand in a vise-like grip.
"Dean?"
"Yeah," Dean gasped, turning to take in the fear leaping from Sam's eyes like a cliff diver. "Yeah, I'm…I'm okay."
"You're shaking."
Dean slowly released Sam's hand. "I'm okay," he repeated, trying to convince himself. He reached for the foot of the bed and pulled himself up. "That was…weird."
"The virus?"
Dean dragged the back of his hand across his upper lip as Sam stood, hands on hips, looking for an explanation.
"I thought you said…it was supposed to, uh," he glanced around the room for a bottle of water or a glass, "take away my senses?"
"That's what Cas said," Sam nodded, grabbing a plastic-wrapped glass and moving toward the bathroom faucet as if reading Dean's mind. "Systematically take them away."
"Well, I think he might've got his wires crossed." Dean worked to steady his breath, nodding his thanks as he took the glass and drank deeply. "That was like…senses on memory over-drive."
"We gotta figure out what we're dealing with." Sam ran a hand through his hair. His eyes dropped to Dean's wrists. "Need to clean those."
"Won't that be fun," Dean muttered, touching his bruised eye gently.
The room was blessedly quiet as Sam worked, efficiently cleaning the remaining blood from Dean's wrists, then wrapping the wounds with white gauze. Dean swallowed the pain pills Sam had set next to him and allowed his brother access to the places that hurt. The places Sam could see, in any case.
His body grew heavy, his eyes slipping closed for longer periods of time. The combination of alcohol, sex, and a beating was taking its toll.
Not as young as I used to be.
"There," Sam declared, sitting back.
"I look like I should be on suicide watch," Dean grumbled.
The look Sam slipped his way said volumes about that statement.
"I'm calling Bobby."
"Dude, it's like," Dean shot a look at the digital clock between the beds, "three in the morning for Bobby."
"You've only got two days, Dean," Sam reminded him.
"I know that, Sam," Dean snapped, slowly pushing himself back on the bed toward the headboard. "I just need…just a couple hours, man. That's all I'm saying."
Sam's eyes narrowed. "You think they'll pull you out of this, don't you?"
"Huh?" Dean looked up at his brother in surprise. "Who?"
"The angels," Sam said. "You think they'll save you."
Dean rolled his eyes. "Jesus, Sam."
"What? Why aren't you more freaked out about this!"
"I am!" Dean shouted back. "I'm fuckin' scared shitless! That what you want to hear?"
Sam audibly swallowed, looking down and away. "No," he said quietly.
Dean pressed two fingers to his throbbing eye. "I just…. I'm beat, man."
There was complete quiet in the room for a moment.
"You want a cold pack for your eye?"
"We got one?"
"Yeah," Sam's voice faded slightly as he turned away. "I stocked up while I was still working at the bar."
"Thanks," Dean sighed, letting his body slip sideways until the pillows cradled him. He closed his eyes, feeling the cooling pack gently set on his bruised face. "Just…coupla hours."
"Okay, Dean," Sam sighed.
It was just that easy. Sam said it was okay, consciousness departed.
For what felt like a delicious eternity, all was black, quiet, cool. The part of Dean's brain that never really shut off registered the healing peace his body needed.
But he felt it coming. Felt the darkness receding, but not truly go anywhere. It was so familiar, this pattern. It was every night, to varying degrees.
He never truly left Hell. Castiel may have pulled him free, but it waited for him. In places he couldn't escape.
He smelled it.
Rot. Filth. Stagnant water. Death. He'd expected sulfur—but that was the one thing Hell hadn't smelled like. He imagined that scent to be the culminated result of blending the sewer of Hell with the freedom of life.
At first he'd been cold.
The phrase 'bone chilling' really didn't do the feeling justice. He'd shattered his own arm simply flinching. He'd broken off his fingers, disintegrated his nose. And the pain had overwhelmed him. Fire through ice. He'd always come back from the emptiness, brought back for their entertainment, for his punishment.
He'd paid in pain and blood for Sam to live.
When they cut him, he'd been able to scream loud enough that everything else had been blocked—every memory, every hope, every wish. There was only now and pain.
Then they took away his mouth. Removed it completely, as if it never was.
It was when they stopped cutting him that it truly hurt. Because they'd leave him. Alone. For days. Bleeding out slowly, the only sounds those of other souls screaming in pain, laughing in madness, or weeping with regret.
And then there were the skins.
He'd died quickly when they began to skin him. But each time he opened his eyes, each time they brought him back, he was shown evidence of their success. Stretched on the walls around him, like trophies, were tortured, empty images of himself.
Color was leeched and then infused into his surroundings. The absence of it drained his fight; the over-abundance of it fed his frenzy. But the one thing he could always see—no matter if it was a gray day or not—was his own blood. It was everywhere, permeating everything.
He had coped, slowly going mad, welcoming the insanity, telling them to fuck off, keeping the pain close, his one companion.
Until the boy.
It was inconceivable to him that a child should be in Hell. His compass spun, his resolve crumbled. The boy—could have been Sam's twin—stood before him, eyes empty, dead, uncaring, and began to cut. But not Dean. He hadn't touched Dean.
He'd cut himself.
A voice whispered that it would stop. It would all stop if he wanted it to.
And he'd said yes.
www
"Unnnffff!"
"Hey, hey, easy!"
Sam had heard the tell-tale signs of the nightmare. He knew when Hell worked to reclaim his brother. No matter how often Dean denied it, no matter how much he drank, there were sounds he'd make when gripped in the throes of those dreams that he'd never allow to escape if he'd had any control.
Moving to the edge of his brother's bed, Sam had started to lean down, shake Dean awake, when a sound like a trapped, injured animal emitted from Dean's throat and Sam drew back, his skin puckering with horror.
He didn't want to know what had made Dean utter that sound. He didn't ever want to know.
When Dean shot upright with a strangled cry, Sam dropped down beside him.
"You're okay, Dean. Hey! Hey, you're okay."
Dean turned his wounded eyes toward him, the bruised one kicking Sam in the gut. He waited, holding his brother's gaze, breathing slowly until Dean's frenzied rhythm matched his once more.
"You with me?" Sam asked quietly.
"She was there," Dean said, his voice not really his own. It was too raw, too rough. The cocky control that gave Dean an edge over the bad guys was still waiting to be remembered.
"Who?"
"Raya," Dean replied, rubbing his forehead. "No, not Raya…the demon."
"The demon that possessed Raya?" Sam clarified, his brow bowed as he tried to follow Dean's path.
"Yeah," Dean swallowed. "She was…there."
"Where, there?" Sam asked. The light bulb of realization nearly gave him a migraine. "In Hell? You met her before?"
Dean nodded. "She was...I, uh…on the rack, I…."
Sam put a hand on Dean's shoulder, sparing him. "I got it."
"She said she killed the guy who gave it to me," Dean said, pulling his knees up and resting his head in the palms of his hands.
"Gave what to you?"
Dean shot him a try to keep up look. "The Eye of God."
"Somebody gave it to you?"
"According to this demon." Dean's voice was muffled as he hung his head, talking toward the mattress.
"Well," Sam sighed, standing up. "That would be something, seeing as how it doesn't really exist."
Dean looked up at him, his expression coupled with the sleep-mussed hair making him look all of twelve. "What do you mean?"
Sam darted his eyes to the side. "The storm knocked out the wireless, so I, uh…called Bobby. We think we might've figured out what they're talking about."
Groaning, Dean moved to the edge of the bed and rested his elbows on his knees. "I'm out of it for a little while and everybody gets delusions of grandeur."
Sam couldn't help but huff an abbreviated laugh. Leave it to his brother to quote a movie in the middle of mayhem.
"Bobby wasn't pissed that you called him at three in the morning?"
Sam shrugged. "I didn't ask."
"Nice." Dean rolled his neck. "Okay, so…how does this thing not exist?"
"Well," Sam hedged, pulling out a pad of yellow, lined paper he'd taken notes on as he talked to Bobby. "There is such a thing as the Eye of God—it's a religious symbol. It's also what some people called the Helix Nebula which really isn't anything more than a dying star and a trillion-mile long tunnel of glowing gasses."
Dean turned his head sideways, resting it on his upturned hand, his bruised face puffy from nightmares. "How 'bout you dial it down for those of us who didn't watch every episode of Star Trek?"
"Okay, so," Sam bounced his head slightly, conceding the fact that it was good Dean had connected even this much, "it's early Christian. Masons use it in some of their symbols. Supposed to represent an omnipresent God, or an all-seeing God."
"So…what's a demon want with it?" Dean frowned, rubbing distractedly at his nose, then straightening his spine. Sam heard it crack all the way down.
"Turns out there's this ancient…rumor, or whatever, of an amulet-type-thing with the Eye of God on it that will protect the wearer from…well, anything."
"Amulet?" Dean said, standing, a look of confusion etched deeper on his face than his question warranted. Sam felt himself tense as he watched his brother move to their duffel bags. "What's with amulets being…meaningful all of a sudden?"
Sam watched as Dean lifted a T-shirt and sniffed it, then reached in the bag for something else.
"I don't know, but the fact is, this amulet is nothing more than a pretty piece of jewelry. The rumor is false."
"Wonder if the same is true about my God-beacon," Dean muttered, picking up his Colt 1911 and sniffing the slide, then the chamber.
"What the hell are you doing, man?" Sam finally asked.
Dean didn't answer. Instead, he turned and made his way to the bathroom, staggering slightly. As Sam watched, Dean picked up a bar of soap and pressed it close to his face, then tossed it over his shoulder. Next, he twisted off the shampoo lid, sniffed it, then dropped it onto the floor of the bathtub.
"Dean?"
Returning to the duffel, Dean dug out his flask, removed the cap and sniffed it. Before Sam could say anything, he took a long pull, then lowered it, gasping slightly.
Realization sank in. "Oh, God," Sam said softly.
"I can't smell it," Dean said. "I mean…it still tastes like…but…I can't smell it. I can't…," he cast about the room, his eyes searching, seeking, landing on nothing. "I can't smell anything. Gun oil, gun powder, sweat, soap…."
"Okay, it's okay." Sam stood up, rattled by the panic in Dean's voice.
"How is this okay?" Dean turned on him, his eyes hot. "How is this even in the remote vicinity of okay?"
"We'll figure this out, Dean! We always figure it out."
Dean threw the flask across the room where it crashed into the wall, tearing the wallpaper, and sliding to the ground with a wet-sounding slosh.
"What kind of goddamned fairy tale are you living in, man?" Dean shouted. "We're not super heroes. We don't always figure it out."
"We will this time," Sam yelled back, needing Dean to believe him so that he'd believe it himself. "We just—"
"Just what?" Dean snapped. "Just gotta find an amulet that's made up so that we can get it to a demon that I fucking took apart and hope she wasn't lying about an antidote?"
"Wait, what? Antidote?" Sam grabbed Dean's arm, stopping him from beginning his frenetic pacing maneuver again. "There's an antidote?"
"She said the only way I'd get it is if I brought her the Eye of God which I obviously can't do since the damn thing doesn't exist so I guess I just fade out slowly until—"
"Stop!" Sam shouted, hands up. "Just…just stop. Let me think a second."
"You better hurry the hell up," Dean told him.
"Why?" Sam frowned.
"'Cause I can't smell anything Sam. How fast does this thing work, anyway?"
"I don't know! Cas didn't know, either. But if she said two days—"
"Son of a bitch." Dean rubbed his face, then brought his hands away quickly, staring at them. "This is just…I can't even smell…me."
"You've had a cold before," Sam said, distractedly, his brain working to find connections in a hedge maze of possibilities. "Think of it like that."
"You think of it like that, smartass," Dean countered. "It's not like I can't breathe through my nose. It's not like having a cold. It's like…nothing…," he touched the duffel bag, the table, his chest, the edge of the bed, Sam's arm, "nothing is here. Nothing."
Sam suddenly recalled Dean's instant memory of their spontaneous campout—how the smell of grass had reminded him of that night. Sam had always thought Jessica smelled like lilies. Each time that scent caught his attention, he'd see her smile, that half-quirk of her lips, the way she'd look up at him through her lashes with eyes that held promises.
If he couldn't smell lilies…would he forget Jessica?
"Sorry," Sam said, genuinely contrite. "I'm sorry."
Dean sat heavily on a chair next to the duffel-covered table. "'S okay," he muttered. They were quiet for a minute. "Least this way…I don't have to smell you every time you eat a burrito."
Sam pulled a face at him. "Whatever."
"Dude, you're…you're lethal."
"Okay, Mr. Silver Lining," Sam muttered, flipping through the pages of notes he'd taken while Dean slept. "Let's break this down. If this amulet thing doesn't exist, then why does Raya—"
"The demon," Dean corrected. "Only reason Raya's involved is because I wanted to get laid."
"Fair enough," Sam nodded, choosing his words carefully. "Why does this demon think some guy she apparently killed gave it to you?"
Dean sighed, rubbing his forehead. "What does it look like again?"
Sam showed him his crude sketch of a triangle with a single eye in the middle, beams of light emanating from all sides. He watched as Dean's eyes seemed to practically fold inward, searching the endless database of his mind.
Dean's memory was like flypaper; Sam had learned when he was quite young that there wasn't much his brother didn't remember. He simply chose what to apply to any given situation.
"Okay, there was this one job," Dean began, sitting back, pushing the sleeves of his gray Henley up to his elbows, his eyes lost. "Dad was…who the hell knows where. With Adam, maybe," Dean flicked a glance to Sam and the flinch caught in that look was obvious only to a brother who echoed the sentiment. "You were at Stanford. My friend Richie—remember him?"
"Unfortunately," Sam replied, thinking of the man's demise at the hands of demon lovers. He chose to skim over the recollection of killing a female demon Dean had managed to find some kind of weird, cosmic connection to.
"He had this…vengeful spirit thing. House in Boston. It was a two-person job and I didn't have anything else going on." Dean's shrug was nonchalant, but there was something buried in his tone that had Sam snaking a hand over his belly and pressing back an ache. "There was this old guy…it was an easy job, really. With the two of us."
There was a quick glance before Dean continued, but in that glance Sam heard so much and felt even more. Phrases Dean had never expressed, but that Sam had understood. Guilt suddenly perched at the back of his throat, acid burning through him and threatening to choke him if he tried to speak.
He'd left his brother so many times. He'd run away at least twice in their youth, simply needing, he thought, an escape. A breath. A moment that was just his.
Stanford was the greatest escape, the one he knew Dean always looked to.
But there were others—times when he'd left Dean while his brother slept. Times when he turned to a demon for help or solace rather than face the man who'd sold his soul so that he could live. And a time just weeks ago when shame and insecurity had him retreating, tucking himself away in the false security of solitude.
"Sorry I wasn't there," Sam said suddenly.
Dean looked at him, surprised. "You were at school, man."
That's all that mattered to Dean, Sam realized. Sam had been okay, had been living his life. It didn't matter that Dean had been alone. But it should have. And it did now.
"Still." Sam lifted a shoulder.
"Anyway, this old guy," Dean continued, sniffing, pausing, then looking away, "he gave me and Richie these trinkets as payment. I'm pretty sure mine was a triangle."
"Where'd you last see it?"
Dean looked at the floor. "The Impala."
"Great! Let's just—"
"Before the accident."
The accident, Sam thought.
The semi-truck that had almost erased his family and the only home he'd ever known. Dean had practically turned himself inside out putting her back together, trying desperately to seal up a hole that their father's death had drilled into both of them.
"Oh," Sam said softly. "Think it's at Bobby's?"
Dean closed his eyes, dropping his head back. "Maybe. Somewhere. In two tons of junk."
Sam rubbed his lip. Asking Bobby to search through his junkyard for an amulet that may or may not be there—hampered by his wheelchair—didn't seem like a very viable option.
Besides…if it doesn't actually work then….
"So, let's give them a ringer," Sam shrugged.
Dean looked at him out of the corner of his eyes. "A ringer."
"There's gotta be some kind of…magic shop or store for weird antiquities here, right?" Sam opened his laptop.
"We're in Kansas, Sam," Dean reminded him. "We're more likely to find a…religious—"
"Bookstore," Sam finished, slapping the laptop and its dead Internet connection closed, then moving to the dresser, pulling open drawers. "Or some place with religious artifacts. You think?"
As if channeling in on Sam's enthusiasm, Dean stood. "Worth a shot, I guess."
"Where's the damn phonebook?" Sam groused, standing up and catching sight of Dean in the mirror.
For one moment neither of them moved. The contrast of Sam's proximity and his brother's distance from the mirror gave the illusion that Dean was fading, retreating.
"We'll figure this out," Sam told Dean's reflection.
Dean lifted his chin, his face a mask, eyes giving away nothing. "Well, if we don't," he lifted a shoulder, "guess those angels are going to have to step in…or find themselves a new vessel for their grudge match."
Sam felt his lip curl in disgust, not really liking the tight feeling he got in his chest when Dean brought up angels, then turned to the nightstand between the beds. "Ah-ha! Phonebook."
He thumbed through the book, looking under different categories until he found what he was looking for.
"Call them first," Dean instructed. "Make sure they have something like what we need."
Sam glanced at the clock. "It's eight in the morning—think they're open?"
Dean simply shrugged. His expression remained impassive, his movements minimal. Watching him with worry, Sam dialed the local number, frowning when he got a recording.
"Don't open for an hour."
"So, we've got time for breakfast." Dean lifted his chin and moved around Sam to get his boots.
"You want…I don't know…a shower or something?"
"I'm clean enough," Dean muttered, pulling the laces tight, then standing up and grabbing his blue canvas jacket.
He hadn't worn the leather jacket in weeks, Sam had noticed. Not since Sam came back.
"Still raining?" Sam asked as he mimicked his brother and slipped a weapon into his waistband, sliding the demon-killing knife into its make-shift holster.
"Yeah," Dean sighed as he opened the door, then paused, his body rigid.
"What is it?" Sam asked, stalled behind him.
Dean was completely still, his quiet unnerving. Sam was about to touch his shoulder when Dean spoke up.
"I can't smell the rain."
Sam knew there was nothing he could say. He stood still, waiting, aching. His skin felt stretched too tight. If he breathed too loud, they would shatter.
After a moment, Dean seemed to pull himself together. "Let's do this."
www
"Pie? For breakfast?" Sam questioned, the look on his face clearly disapproving.
"It's always time for pie," Dean countered, tossing a grin up at the sleepy-looking waitress. It was just the right amount of charm to drag a smile from her weary lips, though he didn't miss the way her eyes traced the path of his bruises, a pucker of worry folding her brow when she saw his bandaged wrists.
"You got it, Sugar," she nodded.
"So, assuming we get a ringer…then what?" Sam asked when the waitress left. "Any idea how we contact this demon?"
Dean quirked his eyebrows. "Dunno. Telegram?"
"I'm serious, Dean," Sam pouted as the waitress delivered his orange juice and Dean's coffee. "Giving us two days and then bailing wasn't the best plan."
"You forget what we're dealing with?" Dean pointed with the flat of his hand between Sam and the empty space next to him. "Demon, Sam. Sam, demon."
"Smart ass," Sam grumbled.
Dean sipped his coffee, wanting the flavor to settle on his tongue for a moment before swallowing. He needed this right now. More than his next breath.
"She'll probably find us. They usually do." Another sip of coffee and he saw his grimace reflected in Sam's eyes. He'd had better; it tasted like…dirt. "If not…well, it's not like we haven't summoned demons before, y'know."
"What if we can't find it?" Sam asked, digging into the eggs set in front of him. "Got a Plan B?"
"Summon her, trap her, beat the fuckin' antidote out of her." He cut the end of the pie with the side of his fork.
"That should be Plan A," Sam pointed out.
Dean took a bite of his pie, frowning. They'd definitely picked the wrong diner; rather than exploding with flavor on his tongue, the mixture of crust and fruit was flat, tasteless. He chewed it anyway.
"Wonder where Cas is," Sam asked suddenly. "I, uh…kinda expected him to be back here watching you like a hawk."
Pushing his pie away after two bites, Dean looked at his brother. "Why?"
"He was plenty freaked out about finding you," Sam shrugged. "He's invested a lot in you, y'know?"
"I guess," Dean looked down at his cup of coffee, watching the vibrations from his grip ripple through the dark liquid. He knew it would taste like dirt—if it tasted like anything. He wasn't ready to accept another loss, so he drank.
"You guess? He went to Hell and brought you out, Dean," Sam reminded him needlessly.
A raw scream tore through Dean's mind and it was all he could do to not flinch. "You actually think that's something I'm gonna forget?"
"Well, no," Sam relented, bowed by the unexpected fervor in Dean's tone.
"I know what he did then; I know what he's doing now. Practically cut off his own damn wings, the bastard," Dean grumbled, not wanting to think about Castiel's sacrifice, his willingness to back Dean's fight, his belief that God was out there, that they could win this if they found Him.
Sam was quiet for a moment, finishing his breakfast. "Does he really have wings?"
Dean rolled his eyes. "Dude. He's an angel."
"We've never seen them, though."
"I have."
Sam snapped his head up. "You have?"
"First time I met him," Dean told him, simply holding the coffee cup now. "They're like…shadows. Big mothers, too."
"Huh." Sam nodded, pushing his empty plate away. "Guess it's just…easy to forget he's not one of us sometimes."
Dean's smile was reluctant. "Well, he does lack our keen fashion sense."
"I don't know," Sam's smile echoed his, "I've been thinking about getting a trench coat. Only black—"
"Like Mulder's," Dean finished for him, his smirk covering the rising panic that sought to send him running. He glanced down at his watch. "You ready to hit this religious store?"
"I can't believe it's nine in the morning," Sam commented, looking over Dean's shoulder. "This storm makes it look like night out there."
"Nothing like a Midwest thunderstorm," Dean sighed, standing grabbing his coat, then leading the way out. "'Course…it would be nice to dry out once in awhile."
"No kidding," Sam groused as the rain quickly plastered his long hair to his scalp.
Dean's breath was rain soaked as he jogged over to the antique store, his heart in his throat, the memory of the taste of dirt in his mouth.
Here goes nothing.
www
"Plan B is still an option, y'know," Sam muttered as Dean plowed the heavy car down the rain-slicked road. "It was a long-shot that they'd have something."
"I know, Sam."
Nothing in the antique store came close to looking like the Eye of God, and the owners didn't know of any other shops nearby. After calling a half-dozen other stores they found listed in the phonebook and getting nowhere, Sam had suggested they keep looking, try anyway, but Dean's tight face and tired eyes had convinced him to just return to the motel and regroup.
Sam squirmed slightly in his seat. He was wet, cold, but the heater was up full-blast and he hadn't slept in over twenty-four hours. His eyelids grew increasingly heavy.
"We can still get that antidote, Dean."
They pulled into the motel lot and Dean shoved the gear into park, sinking back against the seat.
"What is it?" Sam asked, the air around him seeming to grow dense, almost impenetrable with dread.
"You remember back in Rivergrove…when we thought you had the Croatoan virus…and everyone wanted one of us to put a bullet in you?"
Sam swallowed, shaken by Dean's wording. "Yeah," he whispered.
"I thought…I thought that was the worse I could feel. Right there. In that moment." He lifted his eyes to peer through the windshield as the rain began to slightly abate. "But…in this really weird way…it was kinda like a weight off."
"What was?"
"Locking us in that room. The world on the other side. We'd go out together." Dean's voice was below a whisper, but Sam took in every word.
"Dean—"
"I was so stupid," Dean shook his head slowly. "I had no idea how much worse…. I thought we'd had rough times, but…Hell kinda shifts your perspective, I guess."
"And angels," Sam chimed in quietly.
Dean huffed. "Angels."
Sam looked down at his hands. For a long moment the only sound was the slowing thrum of the rain on the Impala's roof.
"Y'know what the odds are that this demon would find you? Here, now?" Sam said softly. "It's like playing…roulette. They had to have been looking for us for awhile, y'know? If we hadn't come back here…."
"They'd have figured out another way," Dean sighed. "She wants this Eye of God thing as protection from…something. She would have found me even if we'd've gone to…Amsterdam."
"You think? I mean maybe it was just dumb luck."
"I remember her, Sam."
"The demon, you mean?"
"Yeah," Dean nodded. "She wasn't…innocent. I mean…well, you know what I mean. She'd killed someone. And she'd tried to bargain her way out."
"Crossroads deal?"
Dean rubbed his eyebrow. "Maybe."
"You can tell me, Dean," Sam said quietly. "You don't…it doesn't have to stay buried."
"Yeah," Dean said in a dead voice. He opened the door. "It does."
Sam followed his brother into the motel room, then paused, watching as Dean stood at the foot of the bed, staring at the flowered comforter. Somehow they'd reached a place where the fear of death matched the fear of life.
Dean had a point: the angels might step in. But if they didn't—or until they did—Dean's life was being slowly siphoned away from him. Again.
I'm so goddamn tired of getting the short end of the stick.
"Get some rest," Dean said suddenly.
"What?"
"You're dead on your feet, man," Dean said.
Sam hadn't realized that Dean had been looking back at him, so inward was his gaze. He dragged his eyes away from Dean's face to look longingly at the bed.
"But you've only got—"
"Hey," Dean put a hand on Sam's shoulder, his eyes warm. Sam looked at his brother's hand, taking a moment to register that it had been awhile since Dean had touched him out of camaraderie.
It used to be so natural—a squeeze of reassurance, a teasing smack to the back of the head. They'd lost that rhythm along the way. Sam wanted it back.
"Plan B is gonna take both our A games. You're tired. Get some rest."
"What about you?" Sam frowned, not wanting to be the only one to concede even a temporary defeat.
"My turn to keep watch," Dean replied, eyes flicking to Sam's laptop, then back, his only concession to the fact that Sam had allowed him his couple of hours.
Sighing, Sam nodded, sinking down onto the bed. Dean pushed at his shoulder and huffed out a laugh when Sam let his body give with the motion, flopping backwards. He gave no further sign that he was ready to crawl up toward the pillows.
"You're too big for me to put you to bed," Dean commented dryly, kicking gently at Sam's leg. "Get on up there before I change my mind."
Sam yawned loudly as Dean moved to sit down on one of the chairs. "Yeah, okay."
Kicking off his boots, Sam didn't bother undressing further, knowing that they'd have to get ready to summon the demon shortly. He shifted until he could grab a pillow. Peering through sleep-narrowed eyes at his brother's bruised face, Sam called Dean's name.
"Yeah?"
"You really think we…y'know…keep each other human?" He wasn't sure where the question had come from, but it was suddenly vitally important to know Dean's answer.
Dean leaned forward, his elbows braced on his knees, staring at the palms of his hands. "I think it kinda depends on how we define being human."
Sam frowned. He hadn't expected that.
"The way I define it," Dean continued, lifting his eyes to meet Sam's, "yeah. You keep me here, Sam. You keep me in the fight. Remind me that there's more to all of this then what some angels say there is."
The way I define it... Sam lifted his head slightly, wondering at that. "What about—"
"Hey," Dean held up a hand, palm out, silencing Sam. "No talking. Sleep. I'll wake you up in a couple hours and we can kick some demon ass."
Sam nodded, letting his head sink into the pillow, blocking out the sudden influx of questions.
www
Dean waited until Sam's breathing changed, became heavy, languid, dragging air through his parted lips and across his teeth. When he was sure his brother was asleep, he stood, checking to make sure his gun was secure in his waistband, and then slipped quickly outside.
The rain had slowed to barely a sprinkle, but water ran in a virtual river down the black-topped parking lot. Dean frowned, watching it catch against the Impala's tires in little whitecaps, then glide down the lot to the churning mud of what might've been a riverbank—or just the edge of a grass lot.
"If'n yer headin' out," came voice to his left, "y'might wanta wait a bit 'till they sandbag."
Dean looked over to see a man about his age dressed in khaki coveralls, a Royals baseball cap turned backwards, with a patch of beard tucked beneath his lip. Just down from their room, he was leaning against the pop machines, safe in a protected alcove, dry from even the little rain that still fell.
Looking back over his shoulder at the curtained window that led to where Sam now slept, Dean sighed. This was his burden; the demon was after him. It had nothing to do with Sam. It wasn't related to their destinies to become angelic vessels. It wasn't about Armageddon or releasing Lucifer from his cage. It was a simple case of revenge and he didn't want Sam messed up in it any more than he already was.
But…Plan B without his brother's help at this point would be a suicide mission.
I can't do that to Sam…not now.
"What are they sandbagging?" Dean asked, making his way over to the man. A 1980's-era boom box was on the floor neat the candy vending machine, an old Lynryd Skynyrd song slipping softly from the speakers.
"Used to be a crick 'fore all this here rain," the man nodded to their right, past the end of the parking lot. "Thinkin' I might build me an Ark."
Dean chuckled appreciatively. "You work here?"
The man reached into a front pocket of his coveralls and pulled out a pack of Camels, tapping one cigarette free and slipping the butt between thin lips. "Yep. Been the maintenance man since high school. You want?"
He offered the pack to Dean. For a moment, Dean paused, his instinct to wave off the cigarettes. And then something shifted. He found himself nodding, and reaching, grabbed one and balanced it at the corner of his mouth, his lips pushed slightly out.
"Name's J.R.," the maintenance man said, his mouth tight as he held the cigarette still and flicked a Bic lighter at the end. He pulled in puff, then another, before leaning over and lighting Dean's.
"Dean."
He'd smoked several times in the past—usually when nose-deep in alcohol, or when working someone to get information he needed—but it had never taken. It was too complicated and costly a habit to have when they lived the life of a gypsy and all too often depended on fake credit cards for a bed or a meal.
Plus, it tasted like shit. He'd never enjoyed the burn in his throat, the clogging, fogged-up feeling of his lungs, the slightly off-kilter way the world looked as the nicotine hit his system.
But none of that mattered now.
Not when he was hungry to taste anything…even the tang of a filtered cigarette.
He pulled in a drag, let the smoke fill his lungs, the weight of it heavy at the back of his mouth, then breathed it out with only a rough cough. One more drag and he pulled the cigarette from his lips with the tip of his fingers and thumb, cupping the burning ember in the palm of his hand to protect it from the rain.
Darting his tongue out, he rid his lips of the paper lingering there, trying to temper the rising panic that he'd not tasted the smoke. There'd been nothing, not even the sensation of ash on his tongue.
It wasn't even numb.
It just simply…wasn't.
"So, where ya goin', Dean?"
"Nowhere," he muttered, sagging back against the wall. "I'm not going anywhere, man."
J.R. suddenly leaned over, turning the volume up on the boom box as sad chords from a lone acoustic guitar melded with the returning rain.
"'At's the stuff, right there," J.R. nodded, his eyes half-closed as he continued to smoke. "The man in black."
"Johnny Cash?" Dean guessed.
"You know it."
"I hurt myself today to see if I still feel. I focus on the pain, the only thing that's real."
Dean swallowed, narrowing his burning eyes against the twisting tendrils of smoke that curled up from his lips as he breathed out once more.
"Dude sounds like he's really lived, y'know?" J.R. commented as the age-laden voice lamented his choices in life.
"Yeah," Dean sighed out a breath of smoke, wishing suddenly for the flask he'd thrown across the room.
Would he remember the taste of whiskey? What about food? He ran his tongue along the inside of his bottom lip. Would he remember what a woman tasted like—how there was always the quick bite of whatever had last touched her lips before him and then nothing but flesh and warmth and a distinct sweetness that was unique to each woman?
"What have I become? My sweetest friend. Everyone I know goes away in the end."
If he couldn't smell anything, couldn't taste anything, how soon before everything else disappeared…before he was vacant, hollow?
How soon before he couldn't feel the grip and kick of his weapon, the rumble of his car beneath his legs?
How soon until he was nothing more than a shell of someone who had once been human?
It had been his worst fear in Hell. It had chased him as he watched his brother succumb to addiction before his eyes. It had gripped him as he'd let Sam walk away from hunting, from him. What if he lost the one thing that made him human?
"And you could have it all. My empire of dirt. I will let you down. I will make you hurt."
"…been through the shit," J.R. was saying.
"What?" Dean looked over at the other man, realizing his cigarette had almost burned down to the filter. He bounced his thumb on the end, dislodging the ash. "What was that?"
"Said ya look like y'been through the shit," J.R. indicated to Dean's bruised eye. "Tangle with the wrong woman 'er somthin'?"
Dean lifted an eyebrow at the irony and glanced away. "You might say that."
The rain began to increase, splashing up toward them in a wave of sound from behind the motel, across the roof, to the lot still flowing with water. J.R. cursed his luck just as Sam pulled the door of their motel room open, poking his head and shoulders out in a panic.
"Dean!"
"I'm right here," Dean called his brother's attention, turning his back to J.R.
"What the hell are you doing out here?" Sam demanded, straddling the doorway, rain soaking his hair and plastering his T-shirt to his chest in moments. Dean flicked his butt into the current of water bouncing around the wheels of the Impala. "Are you…smoking?"
Dean lifted his chin, challenging Sam's incredulity. "Worried it's gonna shorten my oh-so-rich-and-wonderful life, Sam?"
He watched Sam square his shoulders, weighing his reply. "No…just haven't seen you do that since we were kids."
Dean shrugged, moving into the rain from the safety of the vending machine alcove. "Guess I just…y'know, wanted to see—"
"Dean!"
This time Sam's cry was a warning. Dean caught the look of shock on Sam's face two seconds before he sensed an approach from the rear.
"What the hell—"
Turning quickly, he instinctively lifted his hands before J.R. slammed into him, grappling for dominance in an awkward, painful embrace.
"I have been looking for you," J.R. growled, his articulation strangely perfect.
Dean shoved his fist into the other man's gut twice, surprised when J.R. didn't crumble away despite how his belly gave with the impact. Dean was skidding backwards, trying to force space between himself and his attacker. J.R.'s hand reached up and closed around Dean's throat, squeezing.
Slipping, his boots losing traction against the wet cement, Dean registered a smeared image of Sam standing in the rain, his arm raised, gripping the demon-killing knife. It took until that moment for Dean to register that the man he fought was no longer a man at all. He forced a hand up, clawing at J.R.'s eyes. The demon inside howled, gripping the back of Dean's neck and pulling at him, each one fighting desperately to gain leverage.
Dean broke loose, crashing his fist against the other man's skull, cursing when J.R. caught his arm on the back-swing and twisted it roughly behind Dean's back, pushing him face-first toward the side of the building, next to their motel room window.
Rain hammered down, nearly drowning out Sam's scream of, "Dean!"
As the side of the motel rushed up to meet him, Dean used his momentum and scrambled up the wall, his boots hitting the siding in quick succession as he pressed his back against J.R.'s front. The leverage allowed him to flip up and over the other man, freeing himself.
"Don't kill him! Not yet!" Dean bellowed to his brother, rushing the now black-eyed maintenance man and body-slamming him through the large, rectangular window.
In a crash of double-paned glass and flimsy, wooden table and chairs, Dean and J.R. entered the motel room, scattering duffel bags and Sam's laptop and bringing the Midwest storm of the century in with them. Dean slammed his fist into the demon's jaw, flying backwards into the pile of glass when J.R. returned the favor.
The gun tucked into his waistband bruised his spine with the impact and Dean twisted, reaching, pulling the weapon free, aiming it, despite the fact that he knew firing it was basically a useless gesture. J.R.'s demon struck Dean's arm, sending the gun flying. Kicking out, Dean's boot hit J.R.'s crotch with enough force that the human would have been incapacitated. The demon, however, simply tumbled backwards, then surged once more to its feet.
"Hold him! Hold him off!"
In a blur of motion, Dean registered Sam scrambling past them, climbing onto the nearest bed, and reaching above his head with the razor-sharp tip of the demon-killing knife he'd been wielding outside.
Blinking water from his lashes and shaking in his head as the ringing in his ears increased, Dean hollered, "Whatever you're doing do it fast!"
J.R.'s demon roared as he dove once more for Dean, this time barely touching him as he slammed Dean against the wall with brute, demonic-force, then dragged him down and through the broken glass and furniture.
"Hang on, Dean!" Sam's voice sounded as if it were coming from miles away, the roar of the storm enough to literally drown out anything but the pressure building in Dean's chest and head as the demon slammed him once more against the glass-covered floor.
"Hurry!" Dean rasped as he swept his leg toward the demon's precarious balance and knocked it off its feet.
The demon matched Dean's speed rising to its feet.
"Now!" Sam yelled, jumping down and shoving the bed aside. "Push him back!"
With all that remained of his strength, Dean fisted his hands in J.R.'s coveralls and forced the demon toward where the bed used to be, then released it, falling backwards onto his rear, gasping for breath. The demon moved to rush Dean only to be stopped by an invisible wall. Stumbling, it looked around, confused.
"Devil's fuckin' Trap, asshole." Dean spat blood from his mouth.
Sam stood next him, equally soaked, breathing hard. All three looked up to see the crude, hastily drawn Devil's Trap Sam had scratched into the dry-walled ceiling with the tip of the knife.
"Nice job, Sammy," Dean gasped, reaching a hand for help to his feet.
"Thanks." Sam gripped his arm, leveraging him up. "I need to start carrying Sharpies on me or something."
Dean glanced once more at the scratched up ceiling. "You work with what you have."
"Why didn't you let me kill him?" Sam asked, eyeing J.R.
Dean licked his lip, only realizing he'd drawn more blood into his mouth when he followed that motion with a swipe of his hand and saw the red smear.
"Well, for one," Dean said, circling the demon, "the guy he's wearing doesn't deserve it."
The demon sneered.
"Plus, I think you might know something," Dean said to the demon.
"He knows of the reward for killing Michael's vessel."
Castiel's voice from out of nowhere had Dean and Sam jerking in surprise.
"Son of a—we need to put a freakin' bell around your neck!" Dean exclaimed.
"I don't see what purpose that would serve," Castiel replied, his brows pulled close over his placid blue eyes.
"Where have you been?" Sam demanded.
"Looking for answers," Castiel replied, stepping calmly over the broken furniture, the storm outside forcing him to raise his ever-modulated voice. "I have information that may help us."
"With him?" Dean pointed to the trapped demon glaring quietly at Castiel.
"He is of no concern to us."
"How do you know?"
"Because I followed him here," Castiel looked at Dean, tilting his head.
"Took your sweet time, didn't you?" Dean muttered. "And he is a concern—there's an innocent guy in there."
Castiel stared at him for a long moment. Dean held his eyes, forcing the angel to see the turmoil, the frustration, the overpowering need to fix this that churned just beneath the surface.
"I see," Castiel said, as if he truly had seen something.
Dean frowned, unsure what he might've inadvertently revealed to the angel.
Castiel turned to the demon. "You realize you are playing a very dangerous game."
"Maybe for you," the demon snarled.
"Hell is at war with itself," Castiel continued, moving around Dean and pulling the demon's attention with him. "The bounty on this vessel could be paid in blood if the wrong…," Castiel's eyes flicked over the demon's face, then off to the side, "…being…were to find out what you had done."
J.R.'s demon frowned.
"There are some who want to see how this plays out," Castiel said mildly over the noise of the storm.
Dean looked over at Sam, seeing his brother's eyes already on him as he hunched his back against the incoming rain.
"Let your friends know that the bounty on Michael's vessel comes at a price," Castiel said, his voice a low, threatening growl.
J.R.'s demon looked over at Dean, who lifted his chin in return, challenging it to say something. Face twisted in a pissed-off sneer, the demon screamed its way out of J.R.'s mouth, leaving the maintenance man to crumble in a boneless heap.
"Thanks, Cas," Dean said sincerely, the adrenaline high from the fight beginning to wear off, leaving him slightly light-headed and incredibly weary.
"I told you to be careful," Castiel snapped, facing Dean. "Retracing your footsteps makes you too easy to predict and find."
"Yeah, okay, we got it," Dean returned, wiping rain from his face as it clouded his vision.
Castiel was wavering in front of him, shifting slightly in perception and focus. Edges were blurring, turning almost liquid.
Oh, God, no, not yet.
He ran his wet sleeve across his eyes, willing his sight to clear, needing to keep this sense long enough get the antidote from the demon.
"We cannot stay here," Castiel informed them.
"Ya think?" Sam shouted, moving to toss the broken table and chairs aside, searching for their duffel bags and his—now ruined—laptop.
"We need to head to some place where we can work in peace," Castiel said to Sam, then looked over at Dean, "and summon a demon."
"We could head to the Bottoms," Dean said, turning to grab the belongings left in the bathroom.
His vision swayed once more, tilting crazily sideways and forcing him to reach out and brace himself on the dresser. If he didn't know better, he'd swear he was drunk. Everything seemed muted, narrowed, as if he were falling down a tunnel, then yo-yoing back upwards once more.
"What is this place?" Castiel asked.
"It's downtown," Sam explained shoving his wet hair from his face. "Basically a bunch of abandoned warehouses."
Dean moved away from the dresser, leaving Sam to answer Castiel. He wanted to retrieve his flask from where he'd thrown it earlier.
"And no one will be there?"
As Dean bent over, a twisted sensation of nausea and darkness seemed to wash over him like a wave.
"No one that will care what we're—Dean? You okay?"
He was on his knees. When had he gone to his knees?
"Dunno…." His voice was slurred, sluggish. "Something's…really off."
Sam was next to him, peering at him. It wasn't until he looked down that Dean realized his brother was gripping his arm tight enough to turn the wet skin white.
He couldn't connect why that didn't make sense. He'd always been able to recognize Sam's grip. Always.
"Oh, Jesus…," Sam breathed, his face paling, his eyes on Dean's side.
"What?" Dean pulled his brows together. "What is it?"
"Just…take it easy, Dean," Sam was saying, talking to him with that tone again. That cornered-animal tone.
Dean looked down at his side and blinked at the sight of a two-inch piece of glass protruding from the area just beneath his ribcage. His gray Henley and jeans were soaked through, dark with water. He saw now that blood had mixed in, turning much of the material black, but it was hard to say by simply looking how much blood he'd lost; the wet clothes masked too much.
The slow spin of his head and the steadily increasing feeling of falling both pointed to two things, though: his body was going into shock and he'd been bleeding for awhile.
Drunkenly, he lifted his eyes, meeting his brother's anxious hazel eyes.
"I didn't…didn't even feel it," he confessed.
He lifted his hand, looking at the appendage, slightly amazed to see it still attached to the end of his arm. Amazed the he even had an arm. The rain had soaked through the bandages on his wrists, all-but exposing the raw cuts. He wiped at his mouth with a clumsy hand, seeing the red stain of blood from a split lip.
"I don't…feel anything," he whispered, surprised that he could still feel himself falling. How could he fall if he didn't have a body?
He realized that Sam was adjusting his hold, turning to face him. But he couldn't feel the pressure of his hands, denied even the comfort of touch.
"It's okay," Sam was saying. "We'll fix this…we'll fix this, Dean."
Dean pushed back against the darkness, willing it away. It hadn't been his sight. He had to repeat the assertion to himself.
I still have my sight.
He could still see his brother, see the arms that gripped him, lifted him, sat him on the wet bed, tipping him sideways. He could see Castiel's tense face; worry a foreign visitor in eyes that had seen so much.
"If I can't…can't feel it, how come I'm…so dizzy?" Dean forced out.
"The virus blocks the sensory receptors," Castiel said calmly, pushing J.R.'s limp body slightly to the side with his foot so that he could step closer to Dean. "It doesn't affect the physical damage done to your body. You cannot feel it, but your body is still impacted by invasion and loss of blood."
"He can't feel it, but…it still hurts?" Sam barked, his voice the edge of a blade, his patience evidently washed away by the constant barrage of rain and bad news.
"Essentially, yes," Castiel nodded.
"How does that even make sense?"
"I did not manufacture the virus," Castiel reminded them. "And the human body is a complex organism. Beyond your comprehension."
"Okay," Dean shoved out, forcing his lips to obey him, demanding his voice stay steady. "Not the time for the whole mysterious ways shit, Cas. Can you help or what?"
Dean watched as Sam looked expectantly at Castiel, waiting for the angel to make this right.
"I cannot heal you," Castiel said softly. "I am sorry, but—"
"Forget it," Sam snapped. "We did just fine before angels came along."
"Can you do this, Sam?" Dean reached up to grab his brother's arm, dismayed to find that he had to command his hand to close.
There was nothing there, nothing below his fingers, nothing in his grip. Only there was. Sam was there. He held on to Sam and felt…nothing.
"You're bleeding a lot, man," Sam shoved his hair back, his eyes darting along the wound and up to Dean's face, "it's gonna be sketchy."
"Well…you can't hurt me," Dean pointed out.
"Yeah," Sam reminded him. "I can. You just won't know it."
Castiel straightened suddenly, stepping around the cockeyed bed to peer through the broken window. Watching him, Dean realized the angel was listening to something.
"Thought you weren't on the angel grapevine anymore," he called out.
Sam turned slightly to frown in Castiel's direction. "What are you—"
"Sirens," Castiel replied. "Still at a distance, but coming this way."
"Fuck me," Dean whispered. "This just gets better and better."
"We must leave this place," Castiel said needlessly. "We cannot be caught by the authorities."
"Pretty sure we got that, Cas," Sam snapped moving away from Dean.
Pushing himself upright on wooden arms, unnerved by the slow spin of the world, Dean craned his neck to see where his brother went. Sam returned carrying the spare white towels from the bathroom.
"You don't understand—she is tracking you," Cas continued.
"What?" Dean sank back against the wet mattress. "I thought you said—"
"The virus," Castiel interrupted. "She is able to track the virus."
"We gotta hurry," Sam muttered, his eyes on Dean's. "I'll get the glass out, but we'll have to wait to stitch you up."
Dean nodded. "Field dressing."
"Got it," Sam replied, wiping his face once more. "Cas—get our stuff in one pile. We're gonna have to move fast."
"There isn't much for me to…consolidate," Castiel said.
Dean caught his brother's eyes. "It's okay, Sam. You got this."
"Ready?" Sam replied, unable, it seemed, to register the fact that Dean wouldn't actually feel the pain inflicted upon his body. "One, two—"
Dean saw Sam's shoulders flinch and shift, watched as his arms were suddenly a blur of motion, sensed that his body was being pressed deeper into the sodden mattress, heard Sam's grunts of effort and whispered curses…but felt nothing.
"Gotta wrap this around you," Sam was saying. "Tie off the padding. Need to keep pressure on this—here."
Dean saw his brother grab his hand, moving it down to his side. He followed the path of motion and saw that Sam had folded one of the smaller towels into a thick square, covering the wound, then wrapped a longer towel around Dean's waist, tying off the bandage over the square. Sam placed Dean's hand over the knot.
"Can you press?"
Dean tried, ordering his arm muscles to constrict. "How's that?"
"Good," Sam nodded. "Just keep that up until we get outta here. I'm getting our bags."
Castiel moved over to Dean, helping him sit up, and then slinging Dean's free arm over his shoulders. Dean registered he was standing by the change in perception, but it was as if he were floating, disembodied and unconnected from the world around him.
"I will take us—" Castiel began.
"You're crazy if you think I'm leaving my car." Dean cut him off, unsure if he were actually walking or if Castiel was dragging him out into the rain. Everything was slipping in and out of focus, making it hard to keep his eyes on any one thing.
He saw Sam rush past them, throwing their wet bags into the trunk, then open the passenger rear door, water kicking up around his ankles.
"Get in the back," Sam ordered.
"We must hurry," Castiel said, easing Dean down and shutting the door behind him.
Dean heard a door open, then shut, closing his eyes and willing his stomach to stay put. He hadn't realized he'd started to shake until he tried to wipe water from his eyes and saw the visible tremble of his hand.
It took him a moment to realize that his head was no longer lying on the seat of the Impala, but resting on the trench coat-covered thigh of an angel of the Lord.
Awkwardly lifting his head and craning his neck, he tried to look up at Castiel.
"What—"
"I know what the antidote is," Castiel informed them as Sam turned the ignition, the faithful Chevy roaring to life despite the torrent of water rushing under and around it. "And we need to get it in the next twelve hours."
Dean tried to sit up, working to put some space between himself and Castiel, but he was met with resistance.
"What! It's not even been one full day. We should have more time!" Sam countered, slamming the gear in reverse.
Looking down the length of his body, Dean saw the make-shift bandage on his side had quickly slipped from white to red, his wet clothes soaking through the towels and turning the edges of the red to pink.
Resting on the bandage was Castiel's surprisingly strong hand, keeping Dean immobile with barely any effort. It was unnerving for Dean to see Castiel work to keep his blood from spilling free—even more so to see the angel's hand tremble with the force of Dean's shaking body.
"This demon has a price on its head," Castiel informed them, grunting as his back slammed against the seat when Sam hit the break and shifted to drive. "Tomorrow night, the stay of execution will be lifted. In twelve hours, Dean will be dead."
"Son of a bitch," Sam and Dean muttered in unison.
The sirens were loud enough now that Dean could hear them over the sound of the storm.
"We gotta lose these bastards, Sammy," Dean grunted through teeth gritted against the shakes. "Can you do that?"
"Watch me," Sam returned.
a/n: I am a bit sorry for the cliffy; don't mean to tease…just trying to pace the story out so that these long chapters aren't too cumbersome. Hope to see you back next chapter!
Playlist:
Hurt - originally by Nine Inch Nails, but I used the cover done by the original Man In Black, Johnny Cash
