A/N: Thank you for all the lovely reviews for chapter two! I apologize for not responding individually to them; it's been hectic couple of days and I figured another chapter was more important to you guys anyways. Hope you enjoy this newest addition.
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Faults by Starliteyes17
Chapter Three
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Dean was the first one out of the helicopter when it landed. He didn't look out the window again after his first attempt earlier, but upon exiting the sliding hatch and getting his first glimpse of Stanford, he wished he had, if only to be prepared for the carnage that he'd face when they touched ground.
All around him people were running around, frantic but with determination. Some were wearing white coats, most looked to be wearing pajamas of some sort, and still others walked around so wrapped up in blue recovery blankets that Dean couldn't even tell if they were wearing shoes or not.
What scared Dean the most, however, was that no matter what type of outerwear everybody was wearing, they were all dressed alike in other ways: all were clothed in fear, panic, and blood.
Dean felt a hand settle on his shoulder and shivered from the contact.
"Come on, let's go find out where we can learn about your brother," Amelia said, guiding him. With a deep breath, Dean tried to ignore all the chaos and followed Amelia forward, leaving behind the rest of the EMTs who were unpacking supplies.
Dean didn't know how Amelia knew where she was going, but he didn't really care either; he followed her all the way to a giant white tent about fifty yards away. The place was filled with hurt people lying on cots and blankets, and Dean barely had to glance to tell that only the most grievously injured were being treated here.
As Amelia sauntered up to what looked to be the makeshift information desk, Dean couldn't help but look at every face he could see. He didn't see Sam though, and he didn't know whether he should be relieved or concerned about that.
"Dean," Amelia called to him, beckoning him to come up to the table. Glad to have a distraction, Dean stumbled over.
"Yeah?" he asked hopefully. Amelia didn't answer verbally, just held out a large, stapled stack of pink paper. Dean took it in his hands, and glanced over it. "A list of names?"
"The student list," Amelia explained. "Does your brother live on-campus?"
"I don't know," Dean admitted. "I know he did last year, but he's a sophomore now..."
"Well, let's check," Amelia said, and Dean began to flip through, looking for the W's. "If he does, this will tell us his address."
Dean scrolled through the list, searching until he found Winchester, Samuel. Next to his name there was an e-mail address and a phone number, but no address.
"There's no address," Dean lamented, handing the list back to Amelia. Stepping back, he took a moment to rub his face with his hand. Damn, but he was tired. "I didn't even think about not having his address."
Amelia handed the stack of names back to the person at the desk, before turning back to Dean. "Is there anyone you can call, who might know? A family friend, maybe? Someone Sam would have kept in contact with?"
Dean shook his head, though his mind was still wandering through the small mental list of the Winchester "family friends". That was not exactly what he would call any of them, but...
"Just a second. I gotta make a phone call," Dean said without looking at Amelia, and shot out of the tent, already dialing.
Dean put the phone up to his ear, listening to it ring. "Come on, pick up, please..."
"Hello?"
"Caleb, it's Dean Winchester," Dean said, his voice stern. He hadn't talked to Caleb in nearly as long as he hadn't talked to Sam; they hadn't exactly parted on the best of terms, either.
There was a pause, then, "Dean. What can I do for you?"
"I'm in Palo Alto. I need Sam's address," Dean said. "Do you have it?"
"I've been waiting for you to call, actually," Caleb said, and Dean could hear him rummaging through papers. "I didn't think you'd know his address."
The last sentence was said with a tone of bitterness, and Dean's patience died. "I don't give a fuck what you thought, Caleb, not now or back then. You can think all you want that I betrayed Sam and his dreams and what's best for him, but Sam's my brother, he's my family, not yours. So shove whatever your shit is where the sun don't shine, for all I give a damn about it."
There was a lingering silence on both ends. Finally Dean gave in and continued as calmly as he could, "And if you're going to hang up, go ahead, but tell me Sam's address before you do it, for his sake if not for mine."
Dean heard an audible sigh on the other end, which followed with a chuckle that broke into a laugh. "What's so goddamn funny?"
Caleb's laughter died down a little, but not much. "Hot damn, but I knew you still cared about that boy. I can't count the number of times Sam's called me, wanting to hear news about you and your dad. He thought you didn't give a shit about him anymore, and I always told him he was dead wrong about it, that Dean Winchester cared more about his brother Sammy then anything else in the world, always had, always would."
Dean sputtered, at a loss.
"It's a damn good feeling when you find out you're right on the mark, you know?" Caleb said, and Dean could hear the grin in his voice.
Dean couldn't help it; he smiled, the first real smile he'd allowed in this whole mess. "Yeah, something sort of unusual for you, eh, Caleb?"
"Hey now," Caleb's gruff voice barked. "Don't sass me anymore then you already have, or I might not give you that address you're so desperate for."
Dean's smirk vanished. "Please Caleb, I need it, Sam's life might depend on it – "
"Jesus Christ, kid, I was kidding. Of course I'll give it to you. You got a paper or something?"
"Just tell me what it is," Dean said sternly.
"Ah, okay. Sammy Winchester, apartment number seventeen, Grove Corner Complex, 197 Salvatierra Street, Palo Alto, Californ-i-a."
Dean recited it three times in his head, sure he had it memorized, before saying, "Thanks, Caleb."
"No problem, Dean. You just find your brother and get him safe, okay? And give me a damn call once in a while."
"Will do, Caleb. Bye." Dean clicked his phone shut, plucking it into his jeans pocket He had no time to lose now. Quickly, he pulled his duffel from around his shoulders, and unzipped the front pocket, the map of Stanford curling around his fingers.
With haste he unfolded it, scanning. "Salvatierra, Salvatierra, where is it, come on..."
Finally, kitty corner on the map from where Dean currently was, he spotted the small street. It was still on Stanford property, thank God, but it was also on the exact opposite side of the campus.
"Dean? Did you get his address?"
Dean turned to face Amelia. "Yeah, I got it. Thanks for everything, Amelia. I gotta get going."
"Wait a moment, Dean. Can I see your map for a moment?"
Reluctantly, Dean handed over his map. Amelia took it and promptly sat down on the grass, spreading it out, marker in hand. Dean sprawled out next to her, watching her fingers uncap the marker, his gaze questioning.
"Where does your brother live?" Amelia asked him. Dean gestured to the street on the map.
"Okay, this," Amelia circled a building called Vaden Health Center, a couple blocks from Sammy's place, "is another check-in spot, just like the one we have going on here, only smaller. There, you'll find medical help if you find Sam needs it. Now, along each road you'll see spray-painted areas on the ground in front of the buildings. I talked to one of the personnel who has been here for a while, she said that they've already gone through nearly every residential area on campus. If your brother's apartment has been checked, you'll see a giant number in green spray-paint in front of it that will tell you the number of people recovered from the building."
Dean nodded along as Amelia also circled two more spots on campus. When she didn't explain what they were right away, Dean turned to face her. Amelia glanced at him, as though wary of what she was about to tell him, before looking determinedly back at the map.
"These," she said, pointing to the two spots she'd circled, "are the makeshift morgues. Next to the green number in front of Sam's building, if it's been searched, you'll find another red number. That's the number of bodies recovered." Amelia paused, her tone switching from matter-of-fact to sympathetic. "Do you understand why I need to tell you these things, Dean?"
Dean's face was cloudy, his body taught with tension. Finally he gave a small nod. He didn't really understand, though, not really; the idea that Sam was dead wasn't an option, not when Dean had finally arrived, had gotten so far to save him. Injured, yes, Dean could deal with that. But Sammy dead...
No. It wasn't acceptable. Dean wouldn't allow it.
Dean gathered up the map, folding it over again and sticking it in his pocket with the cell phone. His eyes hard, he looked back at Amelia.
Amelia still looked apprehensive, but she was tough, Dean could tell. She took his hand in hers, looked into his unforgivingly cold eyes, and merely said, "You'll find him, Dean. I know it."
Dean said nothing, just squeezed her hand briefly in silent thanks before letting go and setting off.
He only had a little farther to go, but somehow these last few steps felt like the longest part of his entire journey.
---
Sam was trembling, he realized. Holding his hand inches from his face, he marveled at its ability to shake on its own. Wasn't that the aftershock's job?
"No aftershocks right now," he mumbled, before setting his hand down against his chest, next to his phone. Exhausted, he closed his eyes, letting his mind wander from this place, the dank and doom of it, his prison.
A shiver racketed up his spine, and Sam let out a surprised cry at the intensity of it. "Ah, that's why I was t-t-tremblin'," he muttered, his voice hardly above a croak. "I'm cold, 's'all."
He smiled, thinking of how warm it would be when he finally got out. He didn't really know for sure if death made you warm, but he wouldn't be surprised if it did.
"W-won't be unw-welcome, either way," he said to himself, before suddenly yelping again. Something really cold was touching the back of his neck. "Fuck..."
Sam grimaced, turning his head to the side. "Oh, 's'just you," he said to the water as it soaked up into his floppy brown curls. He'd nearly forgotten about it, and in the meantime it had edged all the way from the middle of the tunnel to where he lay prone on the cement floor. "Don't creep up on me like that."
The harsh reality of the chilly water, however, brought Sam to a new level or awareness he'd vacated a couple hours ago.
"'s right," he stated, "I gotta get out of here. Come on, w-w-Winchester – think."
He fumbled for his phone again, ready to make a new attempt at contact. So far, nothing he'd tried had worked.
Twisting it in his numb fingers once again as its image blinked in and out of focus, Sam realized it was just as broken as the last time he'd done the same thing. Dean had been the handyman of the family, the one who could fix anything. Sam had never had that talent, and that was when he was in the best of health.
Pressing the cell back down against his chest, Sam wondered where Dean was right now. Was he down south, looking for a voodoo priestess? In Montana, trying to trap a black dog? Perhaps he was out on the east coast, where haunts were a dime a dozen.
"Maybe he's here, look-k-king f-for you," Sam murmured. If he closed sat completely still, he almost imagined he could hear Dean calling out for him in the wreckage, his low, gravelly voice tense and worried. Dean had the best poker face of anyone Sam knew, and Sam had learned long ago that nothing gave away Dean's worry more then his voice could.
"Man, wish I coulda called him. w-w-Woulda been nice to talk to him once more," Sam whispered, his eyes drifting shut.
The water was over two inches high now. Sam could feel it brushing against the tips of his ears. "Earplugs would be n-nice," he lamented. "I hate getting water in my ears."
It was now taking more and more effort to keep thinking, and Sam really couldn't remember why he was trying to in the first place. He was so tired. Sleeping sounded so much better.
"'n-n-Night, Jess," Sam mumbled, a slight smile on his face as the underground tunnel slowly faded away. "Love you."
---
Dean had always had a deep appreciation for California. When he had been twelve and Sam eight, John had brought the boys to live in San Diego for three months while he and Joshua had tracked a pack of werewolves. Looking back on it, Dean was pretty sure it was Sam's vague yet fond memories of those three months that had greatly factored in his decision to attend Stanford. They'd had a run-down apartment at the time, but thinking back on it Dean could hardly remember the interior or layout of the place. He and Sammy had spent all their time outside, playing chase, practicing their hunting skills, generally causing mayhem, but mostly just reveling in the hot sun and ocean breeze. The atmosphere and thrumming excitement of San Diego had created in both boys a sense of ease and calm that seemed to come so easy to all Californians. Dean didn't know of another time in his life when he'd ever felt so comfortable and relaxed.
It was those memories that made Dean's current situation so surreal now, he thought, as he navigated his way around the large pile of debris that had once been a building. Had it been someone's home, Dean wondered? Catching sight of a giant red spray-painted number twenty-seven, Dean knew it had to have been.
Right next to the number, hardly a foot away, lay the small, forlorn figure of a teddy-bear. One eye was missing and the fur was dusty, but otherwise the forgotten toy looked unharmed.
Sam had a bear like that once, Dean thought as he picked it up, poking at the small scar where the eye should have been. Linus, Sam had deemed it, after his favorite Charlie Brown comic character. He'd carried the bear everywhere with him for months after Dean had picked it out for his third birthday. Eventually it'd been lost, as often happened to their toys when Dean and Sam were growing up.
But this, this bear Dean was looking at now, this had belonged to someone. A little boy, maybe one who had dark blonde hair, cute little dimples and large hazel eyes. A little boy who may very well be just a countless number on a broken street now.
Ever since Dean had heard about the earthquake, his mind had been focused on one thing: finding Sammy. Even seeing the refugees, meeting Jess, hearing about the devastation of the roads – none of that had deterred Dean from his ultimate goal. Sure, he'd thought the situation altogether was sad, the stuff of terrifying nightmares and solemn memorials both.
But staring at the twenty-seven at his feet and the bear cradled in his palms, it all became horrifically, stunningly real. Yes, this was about Sam for Dean, but whatever about everybody else who had died? What about the countless children, mothers, cousins, dads, and friends who would never again enjoy the California sun again?
There was nothing Dean could do for them, but God, how he wished he could. Half his job was hunting things, but the other half – and despite all his love for the hunt, Dean's favorite half – that was saving people. And Dean could protect the innocent against many things. But earthquakes were not one of them. Disasters like this, he could do nothing for. There was no evil to exorcise, unless you counted the scorn of the earth. And that was something Dean had never been trained to fight.
Dean couldn't have protected himself against this, much less his brother. And really, had Dean ever been able to truly protect Sam? After all his worry, all his vigilance, and this was what it would come to?
"No. No," Dean adamantly reminded himself, as he held the bear between his hands. "You're not Linus," he said to the bear, staring it down with a glare. "And this," he motioned to the twenty-seven, "will not be Sammy."
The rest of the way to Sam's apartment was set a running pace. Dean was hardly aware of time passing as he went on, jumping over and going around the endless pillars. He didn't remember taking out the map and checking it, but he was sure he must have, for suddenly he found himself on Salvatierra Street, another seemingly insignificant pile of debris before him. However, this was not just any pile of rocks to Dean.
Out of breath as he came to a stop, the teddy-bear still clutched tightly in one hand, Dean fell to his knees in exhaustion as he stared sightlessly at the dilapidated sign before him. 197 Grove Corner Complex it proclaimed in blue, flowing font, though Dean had to twist his head to read it properly, as it was half-covered by what had once been a brick wall.
He'd finally arrived. After twenty-four hours of non-stop stress and worry, Dean had reached his destination.
He didn't have to look far for the numbers. Directly to his left he saw a green sixteen, and like something out of a bad blockbuster drama Dean slowly came to realize that he was sitting on the red numbers.
Terrified of what he would find yet desperate beyond comparison, Dean jumped up and looked.
"No, no, no, no, no, no, no!"
Right next to the green sixteen, more sloppy yet just as legible, was a red sixteen. Sixteen people recovered, sixteen bodies recovered. But that meant... no, it wasn't possible. It couldn't be true.
"No, no, Sammy, God, Sammy..."
The teddy-bear dropped to the ground, forever forgotten, as Dean stumbled into the rubble of what had been Sam's home. Frantically he began to dig, throwing pieces of debris to his sides, heedless of the damage he was inflicting on his dry, cracked hands.
"They just missed you Sammy, 's all," he comforted his brother as he dug. "You big jerk, you're huge and yet they missed you. Used to scare me all the time when you were little, do you remember? Disappearing on me, hiding, always took forever to find you, you little brat... but I'll find you now Sam, I promise you I will. They couldn't find you, nobody else could ever find you, but you'd always be found when I was the one looking. Please, Sammy, please, SAM!"
Dean didn't know how long he dug, but the sun was high in the sky by the time he stopped, his heart throbbing in his chest, his body begging for reprieve. Looking around himself for the first time in hours, Dean had to take a moment to remember what had happened.
Once he did, he wished he hadn't.
A hopelessness like none Dean had known before was overtaking him. For a wild second, Dean wondered if this was what being truly evil was like – not only not caring if you were alive or dead, but also not caring if anybody else was either. Because for Dean, it didn't matter right now what happened to anyone else – if Sam was gone, then the rest of the world could go to shit, for all he cared. Hell, without Dean's little brother, who was everything good and bright and beautiful, it already had.
Yet, it was still here, the world was still goddamn here, and Dean was bleeding along with it in mourning.
Looking down at his weeping hands, Dean instinctively wiped them on his jeans as he lifted himself from the ground. And felt the fingers on his right hand graze a small, rectangular object in his pocket.
"My cell," Dean said noncommittally. Right now all his thoughts lay with another object; one made of iron grit and steel decisiveness, one that was far more dangerous, one Dean had wielded with all his might against all things evil, and would finally, one last time, wield against himself. Because like he had thought before, without Sam, the rest of the world could go to shit. And Dean was volunteering to be first in line.
But as Dean stumbled across the debris, back to his duffel where the lone gun he'd brought along was waiting for him, a thought unbidden formed in his mind. He couldn't leave yet, not without a last goodbye. He'd never given up on Sam before, and even though he already had now, he felt it was only right to leave him some sort of message, even if it was just "sorry I let you down" and "see you soon." And nothing, Dean chuckled heartlessly to himself, said 'appropriately tragic' like calling Sam to say bye – doing the exact thing hardly a year ago Dean had forbidden Sam to do himself.
His mind numb, his fingers bleeding, Dean pulled out his phone and pressed the right buttons that would lead him to Sam. After this, he could pull the trigger. He would do this one last thing, and then he would be at peace.
---
Sam didn't realize what the ringing sound echoing in his ears was when he first heard it. It was so out of place, and Sam's mind was so fuzzy, that he nearly ignored it in favor of letting himself be pulled down into the endless black of unconsciousness again.
But something in his mind screamed at him that this was important, that he needed to be awake. Even more important, he needed to be alert. So, reluctantly, Sam pulled himself out of the unthinking abyss, and tried to register what was going on.
What was that ringing sound? Wait... he knew that, didn't he? It sounded so familiar...
Sam's eyes widened in surprise, and suddenly he was more alive and coherent then he'd been in hours.
"My cell," he croaked out against dry lips and an even drier throat. Sam hand shook as he grasped the plastic object in his hands, and he had a hard time hanging on to it. But this was big, this was important, and though Sam didn't know exactly why, he was insanely glad.
He clicked the phone on still reveling in his joy, and it was a moment before he whispered, "Hello?"
Nobody answered. Sam, not wanting to be impolite, tried again. "Hello?"
When still nobody answered him, Sam rolled his eyes and was just about to close the phone when something in his brain clicked. Squinting in the dark, Sam peered closer at his cell. Recognition of a fuzzy memory flared, and Sam slowly pulled the phone back to his ear.
"Are you still there? I, I can't hear you. It's broken."
Only silence met him, but this time Sam wasn't surprised. He didn't know who it was, but he knew he should trust them. He couldn't remember exactly why anymore, but he remembered enough to know he was in trouble.
"Listen, whoever you are. I need help. Something... happened. Something bad. I need help. Please."
Huh, he wasn't even stuttering from the cold anymore. Funny, he felt quite warm now.
Just then another aftershock hit, and Sam's weak fingers dropped his cell. With great effort, Sam maneuvered his hand to retrieve it, but the movement jarred his ribs and left arm and he screamed in pain. He hadn't felt anything but numb for a while, and the sudden reminder that he was injured did nothing but make him more disoriented and unfocused.
Still, his muscles didn't forget their command, and he held the cell up to his mouth before he remembered what it was for.
"Please, help me. Please, Dean, help me."
The aftershock ended with one last large jolt, and Sam's attention jumped from the phone to his legs as a sudden heat flared in them. Something had shifted and oh God it hurt, Sam was screaming again, he was screaming and he couldn't stop and he just wanted to pass out and go away once more where the cold and dark and deep couldn't find him, ever again.
"Dean," he cried out with one last pitiful whimper as everything began to fade.
With one last sigh, Sam succumbed and descended into the nothingness, uncaring of where it led him, even to his death.
