Chapter 3:
Outside Jefferson City, Missouri, Six months ago:
Despite being in the middle of July in the midst of a dehydrating and devastating heat wave, there was a humbling coldness settling in Sam's bones, keeping him taut and miserable.
Flickering orange and red flames rose high, pitching for the heavens. He stared long and hard into them. Scores of ashes and smoking bits of wood popped up and out showering over his hair, his face, and body, but he took no care in it. The searing heat alone singed and ate at his skin, and he wanted to cringe away from the pain, to seek shelter from it, but didn't.
The fire was infinitesimal compared to the fire burning in his heart. It held no power over the pain he felt in staring dead at the Hellish flames, or the black smoke swirling up from the swathed figure lying upon the fiery pyre. There was no comfort. No place to hide from the pain, or the guilt. There was nothing left to do but stand and watch as the wooden structure became engulfed in a torrent of red, yellow, and black, taking away one of the few good things in his life—his father.
Hot angry tears freely fell from Sam's sore eyes. His body sang with aches, his arms shaking. With the adrenaline over the last few days wearing off, it brought full awareness of all the twinges and soreness from the recent disastrous car wreck. Though it wasn't solely responsible for his trembling. He shook with guilt, and fear, and worry; still suffering from the debilitating blow from finding his father so still and unresponsive.
Dead.
Confusion was an ever-present hedge-like wall buttressing the maze of nonsensicality that he found himself lost in, and there was no way of escaping it –unless he had some dynamite and a string. It still was hard to hear, to believe, or to even face the reality his Dad was gone. It was so sudden, happening so fast, he felt like he was still on the wild malfunctioning merry-go-round of the last seventy-two hours, pleading desperately for the spinning to stop.
John was alive. He was fine (busted a little), but nevertheless wholesome and healthy. He was walking and talking (albeit arguing). So the sudden drop in body temperature didn't make sense.
How could he have passed like that?
So quick, hardly anyone took notice.
The doctors had claimed no known cause of death. The thought that the demon may have something to do with John's sudden demise was far too unsettling to even consider. If the Yellow Eyed Demon had killed him off, much was certain that he'd soon be back to take care of the rest of the Winchester clan.
It was a miracle they all had survived at all. Several days earlier Sam and his family had at last tracked down and found Jess's killer, their mother's killer. It was the confrontation of their lifetime, only with the YED gaining a hand up on them by possessing their father. With John's body harboring the cold-blooded methodical monster, he had no control over his actions and psychologically tortured and nearly killed Dean. With Sam and Dean incapacitated by the demon's mojo, they were fair game, ripe for the pickings.
However, Sam, either by accident or by some higher power, was able to overcome the force pinning him to their cabin's wall, grab the Colt (their magical demon killing gun), and hinder the demon by shooting John in the leg. Though John was able to control the demon within him temporarily, demanding Sam that he shoot him in the heart right there and now to end this entire struggle, Sam failed to pull the trigger not at all willing to kill his father. Thus the YED escaped from John's body and fled.
It wasn't clear if the demon would show again. But as Dean was gravely injured and was in dire need of a hospital, there wasn't any other choice but to move on. It was in route to a hospital when a Semi Truck had plowed into the passenger side of the Impala. A demon had crashed into the car. Sam woke up a mere second when the demon came ripping off the door, and he frightened it away with the Colt.
The glass shattering and the angry squeal of scraping metal still grated upon Sam's ears. The horrible stench of burning fuel and sulfur plagued his nose, and he wondered if ever he'd be free from the nauseating feel to the flashbacks. Even as he watched and listened to the flames flicker and crack, the chopping action of the medic's helicopter could be heard loud and clear, triggering the memory.
The sun was hot, baking him like a slab of roast beef on a hot plate. The wind glided roughly through his blood-caked dark locks as the gurney he lied on was moving fast. He shifted uncomfortably, assessing the entire personal running alongside.
"Tell me if they're okay," he called out loud to no one in particular, trying hard to sit up and see his brother and father, squinting hard against the blinding ball of light.
"You have to stay still," a female paramedic ordered.
"Are they even ALIVE?" he screamed in desperation. His question went unanswered.
The loud calls for his family and the agonizing silence that ensued echoed fiercely, replaying in his head like a busted radio-loop, toying with his sanity. After so long, his mouth fell silent having no more energy left to utter a word, and he remained that way, quiet and restless for the duration of the trip. Loud directive voices clamored and vibrated all around making it difficult to discern, and he felt sick in attempting to focus on them. All he managed to comprehend was various orders of medical jargon about his own condition, and nothing as to the condition of his family.
Throughout cleanup and the little amounts of patchwork, Sam was a twitching mess, shaking, and nervous after the hours or so of the standard checkup and recovery procedures, but otherwise felt functional. The blame for the wiry state of his nerves and jitteriness solely was placed on anticipation of seeing his family. Sam was adamant in seeing his brother—as Dean was not in too good of a shape before the wreck happened. However, the doctor was far more adamant that he was properly checked, and it left Sam a bit temperamental.
The doctor, a young dark-haired guy having somewhat of an iconic similarity to Dr. Sexy with the chiseled chin, broad muscular shoulders, and model-envy hair, had completed the standard procedure in evaluating his eyes, hearing, motor reflexes, and whatever else that was included. He unwrapped the pressure cuff after checking his blood pressure muttering aloud "a little low" before jotting down the number on the chart. Sam rolled his eyes in impatience, sighing in discontent when Dr. Sexy pulled off the black stethoscope and placed the cool device on his back, instructing him to inhale and exhale deeply.
Sam did as he was told and grudgingly allowed the young doctor to finish, fidgeting some more when the guy pulled open his front shirt and began listening to his heartbeat. Long seconds went by turning into a grand minute and still the cool device was pressed against his chest. The guy sure had liked to take his time. The doc flinched twice lifting the round metal off before placing it again, donning once again that squinty look of confusion.
"Hmyph," he huffed. "Perhaps I need to do another test."
Sam had to admit the comment had caught his attention, but it wasn't what he wanted to hear. Immediately he stood up and began to leave when the man pulled away and began to scribble down more numbers.
"Whoa! Where are you going?" the guy asked, eyeing him inquisitively behind square-rimmed spectacles.
Sam hesitated. "Sorry, but I have to go. I gotta see if my brother's okay," he protested.
"Not just yet Sam. We're not finished," Dr. Sexy informed him, "I really do think—"
"Doc, I'm fine. I feel fine. See"—he raised his split knuckles and wiggled his fingers—"Nothing's broken. I'm sure I'll be a bit sore, but right now I really need to check on my brother. Again, I feel fine."
Dr. Sexy stood to his full height. Though he was tall, he still fell a head shorter than Sam. "But Sam, I seem to be hearing something differently—"
He never got a chance to finish that statement.
"No," Sam said. "We're done." And he walked out leaving no room for a protest, mentally thanking whomever when the young doc's name was called over the intercom. Rushing to the service desk and signing AMA, Sam didn't stop moving until he were several more floors up and in Dean's designated room.
The shit literally hit the fan after that. Dean's condition had worsened far more than they expected and he was lying in a coma with no hope of waking up. Soon somewhere along the line Sam found that Dean's spirit was walking—probably flaunting—in the hospital, tracking down a reaper. Later his father disappeared and returned when Dean miraculously woke up contusion and edema free, with no recollection of anything that happened.
It was mere minutes later when Sam found his Dad's body lying on the floor of his hospital room.
And all that he could think about was one of the last things he said to him… "You're not thinking about anybody but yourself. It's the same selfish obsession…Go to Hell."
Still angry, hurt, confused, and scared, Sam knew he never meant any of those things…but his father might have, and now just the thought that his Dad would never know he still loved him made him shrivel with heartache. The fire in his chest grew larger, bringing with it a heavy ache that tripled the tightness already wading there. He couldn't quite understand what it was, although guilt was a downright good candidate.
Still it hurt. Hell, everything hurt. It was too much for him to bear, and he was too sore, too ill with grief, and too overloaded with his own personal guilt to even consider moving on from this point.
His brother hadn't said a word since they set the funeral pyre alight. He just stared absently into the fire next to him, numb, and heart-broken. Dean hadn't spoken much since the doctor proclaimed those heart-wrenching words: Okay, that's it everybody. I'll call it. Time of death 10:41 a.m.
All lingering thoughts in believing he and his brother could get through this sudden time of grief together was gone in a flash, like freaking superman on deep-fried crack.
Though he wasn't expecting it to be any different. Grief was never something Dean took with a quiet and tranquil phase in shelling off from the world temporarily like some people do. Quiet and near solicitude was always the first sign, and then it would be the constant quips and sarcastic snips before the irritable snapping would begin…and then before anyone could bat an eye, all hell fury would come raining down like he was his own Yellowstone Supervolcano.
And with how he immediately shut up and kept his lid tight…boy, was it going to be a shit storm?
Sam shifted nervously from foot to foot still staring into the fire, watching his father's remains burn away. The nausea increased ten-fold while standing and he blinked feeling the tightness in his chest expand. If anything, his chest felt like a rubber band stretched out to its breaking point, and now the edges were beginning to tear. Idly he wondered if he should tell his brother about how he was feeling, but decided to stay quiet. He had something more pressing to say.
"Before…before," he stuttered, sniffling loudly. "Did he say anything to you? About anything?"
He wasn't expecting an answer, but was deeply surprised when he heard the barely audible "No, nothing."
Dean didn't turn his way and said nothing else. Sam took that as the cue to not speak anymore. Whatever other feelings and comments he may have had could wait. All that was left to do for the rest of the night was mourn their father's passing, trying desperately to cherish his memory before it was lost forever.
…
A bar-side grill outside Sioux County, South Dakota, two weeks later:
For what it was worth, Sam tried his best to eat. However, the stainless steel fork in hand lazily wove in and out of his Caesar salad, flipping over the flaky lettuce leaves and croutons. He eyed each piece with a look of disgust, searching for a decent portion to stomach, fighting hard to cramp the nausea that unsurprisingly returned.
It wasn't that the salad looked like something the dog had puked up; it was more that he just wasn't hungry for it. He hadn't had much of an appetite over the past couple of weeks. Though he was half expecting it to be that he still felt guilty over his father, but something else seemed to be going on. Each time food was served or even mentioned, that God-awful nausea constantly would make its grand appearance. And he found himself each time picking uninterested at anything set in front of him.
Dean hadn't noticed, of course. His brother was oblivious to most things lately. So much, it had Sam wonder if he would even have noticed if a meteor the size of Texas crashed into the Earth, destroying everything in a suffocating dust blanket, and spurred on a nuclear winter.
Otherwise all Sam would be hearing about his eating pattern, or lack thereof, is the usual nasty line "suck it up, and eat before I pound you into a pulp," like he had heard so many times before when he was a kid. But this time, as they were still so fresh from burying their father there was hardly any room for conversation.
Dean continued to eat hastily and determined at his own meal, his eyes never straying from his plate. Sam noticed the gusto his brother was eating, as though he were a starving ravenous fiend let loose on a poor cow. And it only upped his concern for his brother's mental state, thinking back to how much time and devotion he spent into fixing up the car.
Sam didn't blame him. Working on the car was the only thing that kept Dean grounded and not blowing up like he expected. In a way, he cherished it!
Finished with playing with his food, deciding it wasn't worth attempting to stomach, Sam looked up, noting the rest of the cozy restaurant atmosphere. He took a long deep breath, closing his eyes away from the dim hazy lighting, still fighting off the nausea. A thought then occurred to him that maybe he was coming down with something. Several times over the past month or so, fast and somewhat crippling vertigo attacks would strike, leaving him breathless and numb. Already he felt one coming on the longer he sat at the table.
Sam sat taller in his seat, now starting to feel a stinging ache beginning in his back. Pushing the plate away, that's when he began to feel his hands go numb and take on an uncontrollable shake, the rest of his body giving way to a surge of weakness. Several horrifying thoughts slammed into him, worried about how quick this attack sprouted. Perhaps it was he consumed too much alcohol in a short amount of time. He glanced at his cup. It was barely sipped.
He looked to his brother. "You almost done?" he asked in a rush.
"Does it look like I'm done?" Dean responded, still not looking up from his plate.
"No," Sam sighed. "I just…was…wondering."
"Ya got a hot date or something?" Dean replied snidely with the overused sarcastic retort.
"No, I just…just want to get out of here," Sam answered, hoping that Dean was ready.
"No, I'm not done. If you're that impatient, go wait in the truck. I'll be there when I'm good and ready."
Sam really wanted to throw a punch at his brother. Since he was feeling faint, he decided not to press the issue. Shaking his head in sheer disappointment, Sam shakily stood up and began making his way towards the exit, accidentally bumping into several tables along the way, receiving many angry scowls and comments. He made short pants, struggling to draw in long deep breaths as his vision began to waver and black dots begun a little dance.
Stumbling out the exit door, he greedily gulped at the brisk air as though his head was held under water for too long. Still the dizziness and pants for air had yet to subside. Clawing at the sidewall, his hand sliding against the rough brick wall to keep him stable, he staggered on through the back alley towards the back parking lot.
Halfway through the trash-cluttered way, his foot snagged on a cardboard box and he tripped, falling onto his hands and knees. At that point, he probably would have preferred the awkward dizziness, as fire-like stings and heart-thudding pains erupted all over him. His hands. His arms. His back. His chest. The blazing fury was back with a vengeance and he wanted to cry, scream out in agony, in confusion because he had no idea what was happening.
Instead, he sat up, crawled backwards, and rested his back against the hardened wall, curling his knees up to his chest, waiting on the current ordeal to pass. He panted hard, clenching his eyes tight, waiting, praying his brother wouldn't find him like this. God only knows how Dean would react then. The cacophonous thud sounded in his ear…thump thump…thump thump thump…and it grew louder the longer he sat.
Thump. Thump.
Thump. Thump Thump.
The pounding then was everywhere, his head, arms, feet. His ankles stung terribly. He felt around them, learning that they were indeed hot to the touch and swollen.
Thump. Th-thump. Thump.
He didn't like this one bit. Every instinct yelled and stomped their feet, wanting him to find his brother, at the very least pull out his cell and call him. But he didn't. Some other part of him didn't want to call Dean, not wanting to place any other burden on his shoulders. These weren't good times, he reminded himself. Favor for keeping Dean ignorant won out over all other instincts. He hated it, but his brother didn't deserve this, didn't need to worry about him when he had other more urgent things on his mind.
So Sam just sat there, breathing, concentrating on the sickening wave to pass, praying it will before his brother came looking.
Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump.
Footfalls sounded, coming close. Sluggishly, he looked up to see three young men all dressed in holey jean and faux leather jackets. Two of them with long raven hair tied up in a knot in the back of their heads, while the third's head was shaved.
Instantly his instincts now sang a different tune, a flux of bad vibes coming in one after the other. These men were strangely grinning, but Sam could sense a nefarious underlining to their crooked teeth. Sam said nothing as the three gangster looking men surrounded him. One knelt down by his side. His perfectly straight eyebrows knitted together.
"You all right there pal?"
Sam nodded. "Yeah. I'm fine."
"Oh," the guy looked him up and down, squaring his shoulders. Clearly he had another initiative. "You drunk?"
Something had to be messing with his mind, because suddenly Sam couldn't stop himself. "I…ah…yeah, yeah I am."
"Nice," the man commented, flashing that crooked smile. "Then this will go a lot smoother then," he nodded to his two compadres, who came forward and pulled Sam abruptly to his feet, slamming his back against the wall.
Before it finally registered that the cronies were patting down his jacket and jeans in what was an obvious mugging, Sam reacted instinctually. He threw out a heavy punch, plowing the balled fist straight into the bald one's face, knocking him back a few feet. The other Sam thrust in the bony edge of his knee into the thug's midriff, also pushing him away.
Thump. Thump. Th-thump. Th-thump. Th-th-thump. Thump.
The third, and apparently the leader of their little gangster clan, came forward raising a fist. Sam blocked it, ducking under, throwing another hammering punch straight up into the guy's jaw. The hit alone sent the leader up off his feet, rolling on the ground with a dazed and confused expression.
Thump. Thump. Thump. Th-th-thump. Thump.
Sam gasped for air feeling more sick and dizzy at the physical exertion. He blinked several times in an attempt to control his swirling vision. Rustling to the side brought his attention to the other two twerps now lunging at him with dangerous looks to kill.
Stifling a grimace, Sam went on the defensive. As the taller of the two reached him first, he spun forcing the guy's head into the wall, whirling around in time to block the bald one's swinging fist. Throwing out two quick boxer-like punches into the pudgy nose, the guy was down on the ground once more.
Still gasping, Sam stepped back and admired his handiwork for a split second. All three thugs were on the ground exemplifying what happened when you messed with one of John Winchester's sons, and for some odd reason he couldn't have been happier.
That was until the tight rubber band across his chest broke and the throbbing ache now morphed into a fiery knife-like searing, stealing his breath away. Sam stumbled back, clutching at the wall to keep his balance, grasping a hold of his chest. He gritted his teeth. If anything it felt like that scary Psycho lady was stabbing him in the heart with that kitchen knife. Actually he'd much rather have the Psycho lady stab him, because then he would know what he was dealing with.
The searing throb grew in size and longevity and then he found himself on his knees, grimacing, mewling slightly. He tried to breathe through it, to concentrate on other things while the pain subsided, but it was no use. The fire spread, the trembling and the vulnerability increased, and he was at a loss of what to do.
Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump.
Moans and several curses alerted his attention back to the thugs.
Of course, now when he's at his worst, the freaktards wake up, and no doubt would have the time of their lives in beating the shit out of him.
And unfortunately for Sam, he wasn't wrong.
Once back on their feet, the men found him not two feet away and their mouths once again donned on that crooked grin. The blood seeping from their teeth making them appear wickedly sadistic.
Sam closed his eyes, praying that he'll be knocked out before the worst of it. And that was the last thought that swam through his muddled mind as the dark pointy edge of a leather boot came hurling at his head.