The Illusionist

Chapter 1 : Bitter Sweet Symphony

Dean paused for a moment, wiping the sheet of sweat off his forehead. Letting out a silent sigh, he went back to digging, ignoring the chilly autumn air that was starting to seep through his clothes and into his bones.

He was trying his damnedest to ignore his protesting muscles and sore limbs and blistered fingers, but he continued on, knowing his father was standing above him, watching his every move.

This would be the third salt-and-burn they'd done this week, and with the way his father was going, they'd more than likely be on the next one by tomorrow night.

It had been four months since Sam had left for Stanford, and they'd been going non-stop since then.

Dean had literally seen thousands of miles pass by from the window of the Impala as the two remaining Winchesters zigzagged across the country. And after each Sammy-less mile they drove, he could feel the void left by his brother grow a little more, and the ache in chest expand inch by inch.

He wanted so badly to at least go and check on the teen, even bringing the idea up once to John, but the look of pure anger his father had given him quickly forced that thought to dissipate. He'd managed to text Sam a few times, but never received any sort of reply.

Probably changed his number, Dean had told himself, all the while knowing better. He wasn't apart of Sam's life anymore, a fact he couldn't face. Denial seemed to be his best friend nowadays.

Forcing away an involuntary shiver, he continued to dig until the shovel hit wood. Using what was left of his strength, the twenty-two year old broke the coffin open, sending splinters and dirt flying.

He was about to give the thumbs up to John as a go ahead for the salt pouring, but was instead met with a ghostly shove, the force sending him ten feet in the air and then back down to the not-so-soft ground below.

It took him a few minutes to stir from his temporary unconscious state, the grave already on fire by the time he came to. Before he could even make it over to his father, Dean could see the look of sheer disappointment dancing in the man's eyes, highlighted even more by the billowing flames.

Immediately, he felt his heart sink, knowing he'd managed to upset John again. He was trying so hard, but he knew that the only thing his father was thinking about was how badly he needed Sam there. Without the youngest Winchester around, Dean was useless.


The laughter faded in and out, like the volume being turned up and down on a radio. One minute it was there, the next it was gone.

Dean looked up from the gun he was cleaning to see his little brother and father attempting to take on what appeared to be a rather large fish, a smiling Sam holding on for dear life to the rod clutched tightly in his hands.

They were standing on a deck, a lake shimmering with the clearest blue water Dean had ever seen surrounding them. He was seated a good ten feet away from the other two Winchesters, nearer to the land.

"You're doing great buddy. You've almost got 'em," Dean could hear John say, the man's deep voice a faded whisper in his eldest son's ears.

Within seconds, the volume had been turned back up again, Sam laughing wildly as he reeled the large bass in, happiness dancing in his hazel eyes.

"I'm proud of you, son."

The words reverberated in the middle Winchester's brain, growing louder and louder with each echo until he couldn't stand it anymore. The gun that he was holding fell down to the wood below, his hands immediately going to cover his ears, involuntary tears forming in his tightly shut eyes.

"Thanks, Dad."

Dean wanted to scream it was so loud now, making his head feel as though it were about to explode.

And then all at once, it stopped again, and he was left with complete and total silence. When the twenty-two year old opened his eyes, the clear blue water that his family had been fishing in was now a deep sea of red, the crimson water lapping at the foot of the deck he was now standing on the edge of.

Dark green skies painted the once sunny horizon, bolts of lightning clashing through them angrily. Rain began to pour, its sound the only thing Dean could currently hear. His gaze slowly drifted from the ominous sky to the water below, and that's when he saw them, the limbs rising from the lake.

Their bony fingers curled upwards, rotting flesh hanging loosely from the corpses' bodies. Slowly but surely, they made their way over to the wooden structure, stirring a fear in Dean that he hadn't felt in too long of a time.

"What are you doing?" John's voice cut harshly through his thoughts. "Don't just stand there, get 'em!"

The younger hunter's head immediately jerked in the direction of his father's voice, he so badly wanting to say or do something, but he was frozen, super-glued to the spot he was standing in.

"Dammit, Dean, do I have to do everything? Stop acting like an idiot and get them!"

Dean continued to stare at the man with fear in his green eyes, still immobile from the waist down. He tried to scream, but his voice was gone, cast out into the darkness behind him.

"You really are pathetic, aren't you?" His father was standing right next to him now, so close the twenty-two year old could feel the man's facial hairs brush against his ear. "And useless. You should have been the one that left! Why couldn't you have been the one to walk out the door? Why Sammy?"

Dean stared in horror at the elder hunter, tears teasing his eyes once more.

The anger that was clearly written across John's face turned into a sneer, and it was at that moment Dean could feel the piercing cold barrel of the gun press against his neck.

"I hate you."

He woke up just before it went off.


He laid there for a moment with his eyes closed, his heart beating a mile a minute as he tried desperately to calm his breathing. Although he couldn't hear it, John still could, and with the way his father had been acting lately, any sign of weakness was a surefire way to set him off.

The moment he felt a hand grip him by the hair and pull him straight off the bed, he knew it was too late. His father was pissed, and when he opened his eyes to see John's staring daggers back at him, he bit his lip, trying to keep cool.

"Do you know what time it is? We were supposed to have left two hours ago!" John screamed in the younger hunter's face, Dean's short hair still magically wrapped around his calloused fingers. "Get up and get dressed. You've got some running to do." With that, he shoved a pair of sneakers into Dean's chest, hard enough to knock some air out of the twenty-two year old's lungs. With a look that could quite possibly kill, he grabbed the keys to the Impala and slammed the motel room door, leaving Dean breathless in the dark.

The younger Winchester quickly did as he was told, slipping on the shoes he was given as fast he could. Casting a glance at the standard red-numbered motel room clock that sat on the nightstand, he took note that it was only 5:30 in the morning, meaning he'd only managed to get a little less than three hours of rest.

Blinking the sleep out of his eyes, Dean slipped on one of his younger brother's hoodies that had been left behind in his departure and slung his bag of belongings over his weary shoulders.

This was going to be another long day. He just knew it.

A/N: I know it took me almost a year to upload another chap, but I'm going to try and continue with it. Forgive the rustiness and shortness as well. ;)