Alright, so...the late post is definitely not my fault! I spent about an hour yesterday editing the chapter, then close to 30 minutes to get my wifi running again (because, of course, something has to stop working the minute I'm actually going to need it) and then...ff didn't let me upload the chapter.
Which is why I'm one day late, but I hope you'll forgive me, and hopefully enjoy chapter 4 now anyways!
Oh, and, still don't own them...
Crows in the wheatfield
Chapter 4
Dad had stopped talking to him.
He'd been there, on the phone, just a second ago and then suddenly he'd been gone and now Dean couldn't hear him anymore.
The pang of loneliness and desperation that washed over Dean when he realized that he was once again alone was almost overwhelming. He'd kept talking for a while, or at least had spat out a couple of words, too slurred even for himself to understand. But after a while even that effort got to be too much and Dean stopped trying.
Maybe he'd just imagined it all…maybe his head was more messed up than he'd first thought? But no…no, definitely not. Dad had been there – he'd been there.
Dad had given him hope. Almost like Sam used to, keeping him focused, his head in the game, but right now…right now it had been even more necessary than ever before to hear a familiar voice – anything to keep him alert. With that anchor gone, Dean was falling again…falling without ever hitting bottom.
The music was there again, drifting back into his subconscious – the violins and celli, a little nagging and definitely insistent, but somehow farther away than before – and it had pretty much lost all it's beauty since Dean had heard it last.
Dean remembered now, remembered the movie that had imprinted this sick melody onto his brain – Gladiator. Dad and he'd had a blast watching that some weeks ago in one of their crappy motel rooms. The reception on the ancient TV had been pretty bad, but Dean had done his best to comment the fight-scenes like a seasoned sports commentator so his dad would not miss a single thing.
John had been annoyed at first, had done that grumbling and cursing thing quite a lot, and Dean supposed that he hadn't said anything solely due to the fact that…well, dad didn't really say a lot lately. Nothing that Dean wanted to hear, that was. And as soon as he said something, it would only serve to piss Dean off. He'd just look all thoughtful and sometimes even suffering when he thought Dean didn't notice. Which he did, of course.
Dean saw a lot more things than he ever let his dad believe, had always seen a lot more than both his ignorant family members ever gave him credit for.
But in the end John had watched the whole movie with him, if to re-establish some kind of rapport with his eldest, or simply because he'd been too tired to get up and leave Dean didn't know. Didn't care to know, either, because in the end, they'd both had a blast, John at one point laughing so hard, he'd spilled his beer even, so it really had been worth the persistence.
Dean knew now the music he'd been hearing had been in his head only, the swaying grain stalks triggering that memory, and it worried him a little that his brain would come up with something like this instead of some cool rock song – even though concussed out of his wits. Still didn't explain why he didn't hear AC/DC, or Metallica or Zeppelin instead of this…classical…whatever. But, honestly, what did it matter, really? He wasn't going to get out of this one. Not this time.
Not by himself.
Not without Sam here as backup.
With Sam by his side, none of this would have happened in the first place…
If Sam had stayed Dean and dad wouldn't have gotten into their damn argument to begin with…Sam usually the one attracting all of dad's unwanted attention, made John unload his foul moods on his little brother instead…
The whining violins started mingling with the hoarse voice of the woman singing in that foreign language again and Dean almost choked on the groan of despair that washed over him as all the noises assaulted his ears, seeping into his muddled brain. A brain that, for whatever reason, wanted nothing more than to sleep, to rest – to not think anymore.
Just for once…just once, if the dreams would be kept at bay…
God…shoot me now, Dean thought, then revised his statement quickly.
Maybe he should shoot that damn woman, wailing away like some goddamn banshee. Yeah, that definitely sounded a lot better.
Dean tried to reach for his gun, the one he was sure he kept tucked away in the back of his jeans but found his body unwilling to cooperate. It made him frown, huff a little in frustration, only to try again a minute later – unfortunately with the same result.
Damn this.
His body was impossibly heavy – heavier than ever before, aching from a place so deep down, the pain almost wasn't real anymore.
There'd been this one time, when he'd been about eighteen or nineteen and he'd cracked a vertebrae in his upper back. The doctors had put him into one of those chest-casts for a whole month, insisting that, if he wasn't careful, he'd end up paralyzed permanently. They'd lived in an apartment in Phoenix at the time, Dean remembered that, up on the fifth floor, with the elevator permanently out of order and while he had been able to walk just fine, he remembered every step, every movement had been so goddamn hard because his upper body had been so fucking heavy with that cast pulling him down.
This right now was a hundred times worse still.
It wasn't just his chest – even though that felt pretty damn heavy all by itself – but his whole body. Heavy and…
A sudden shot blasted through the air, and only when Dean tore his eyes open at the sound did he realize that he'd had them closed in the first place.
Another shot sounded, than another…in rapid succession, tearing through the music, roughly cutting it off.
Thank god for small gifts…
The crows overhead croaked angrily, swearing off and away but staying close by and within sight nonetheless. Dean could still see their shadows, their sleek black bodies gliding soundlessly through the sky.
His body jerked with every shot like an electrical shock charging through him– and god, was that an awful feeling.
With the shots, things changed drastically.
His body still felt heavy, but with the violent jerks of surprise the pain started raging through him with full force again, paralyzing at first, pressing him down even more.
Then came the tremors, the white hot, angry tendrils of agony clawing their way up and down and in and out, tearing him apart and squeezing him tight.
But this time, the pain didn't knock him out, didn't give him the release of unawareness.
It was what he wanted, sure, to stay up and alert, to be able to fight this, but at the same time he wanted nothing more than to be granted peace, for just a little while, just a little…
He wanted to scream but there was no air left in his lungs, no words or sounds that would come even close to expressing the agony he was in.
He ended up lying there, on the cold, damp ground, body jerking and trembling without refrain, his mind screaming out the terror that his body wasn't able to express.
A last shot rang out and then all was silent again. For a never-ending minute, the world stopped spinning, the air too still, and it seemed like there was nothing else left on the planet but Dean – the wheat, the crows - and the pain raging through him with every beat of his heart.
Everything was deadly still.
No birds chirping, no crows croaking, no insects buzzing - no nothing.
Deadly still.
Dad.
Dad…the dog…
Dean had killed the dog, right?
He thought he remembered shooting it, remembered shooting at something, at least, but he really couldn't be sure. His head was all scrambled, his memories – his sense of time all mixed up.
He remembered dad and him, firing at a big black beast in unison…remembered being dragged across a field – the field he was lying in? – his leg a screaming mass of pain…the dog dragging him by the tortured limb…
Dean had shot it.
And then, when the dog had dropped him with a roar of rage and disbelief, turning on him with eyes that spit fire and fangs that craved blood, Dean had shot it again.
And again.
And again.
The dog had been dead, Dean was sure of it.
Like, almost pretty sure.
But what if he was wrong? His head was so messed up, so muddled… He'd thought he'd been talking to Sam just minutes ago, and then it had turned out that Sam was gone – to school like he'd always wanted and Dean had been talking with dad instead of his little brother.
Dean knew he was suffering from a concussion…maybe worse, knew that the things he thought he remembered could turn out to be nothing but a sick imagination of his fevered brain. But the thing with the dog…it felt real, the memory so vivid...
But then again - the memory of Sam had been real too, like he'd been there just hours ago, sharing a room with Dean, riding in the Impala next to him, being his annoying little self. That had felt pretty damn real, too.
What if Dean hadn't killed the dog in the first place – or if he actually had shot it, what if the dog had survived, had waited and licked his wounds, waiting for the cover of darkness to pounce on its pray again?
What if it had waited and now had found his dad…?
Dad had been looking for him, had told Dean that he was in the field, had seen the crows. What if he'd stumbled upon the injured beast, no doubt even more pissed now than before…? What if the thing had gotten him…?
Dean strained his ears, but the air stayed quiet, not a sound to be heard but the soft rustling of wind as it swept through the wheat.
Dad. He had to find dad, make sure he was alright.
"Dad…" It came out a raspy cough, painful and grating and barely above a whisper.
Too faint for even the goddamn crow to hear that Dean only now realized was still – or again – sitting close to his face, perched on his upper arm which was splayed out to the side a little, seemingly unperturbed by the commotion and staring at Dean with unfazed interest.
Great. The one animal he wanted to have near him the least at the moment – or maybe second least, considering the dog - and the stupid thing wouldn't budge. Its head was tipped slightly to the side, curious, eyeing Dean with that piercing intensity that managed to unsettle him time and time again. Its eyes once again their normal brownish-black color, but still the close inspection was disconcerting. And it was way too close for comfort.
"Dad…" Dean croaked again, squeezing his eyes shut when the word sliced a stab of pain through his chest and side.
And still, John wouldn't be able to hear if he wasn't really, really close by – if he was even still alive.
Dean pushed himself up and to the side, the crow flapping its wings and crying angrily at him as it was forced to hop off his arm.
A fierce cry of pain emanated from deep inside Dean's chest, and he forced himself to concentrate and let it roll past a swollen tongue and clenched lips to escape his mouth barely a groan anymore.
He wasn't going to give in – not here, not now.
He had to find his father, had to make sure he was alright…still alive. If he was hurt – or worse… there was no point to it anymore – no point in fighting, no point to anything. No point in even trying to stay conscious, to stay alive.
With his brother gone – if his dad left him too…Dean would be alone. And he'd never done alone well.
His head filled with the fierce drumming sound of his own heartbeat, blood boiling and rushing, drowning out all other sounds around him.
Get up and going…up and going…just a little bit, just a little farther.
He rolled himself onto his front, almost sobbing at the slicing pain tearing through his shoulder and side, his leg…had to stop for another second or two till the world stopped its vicious flip again. Then he started to drag himself forward – crying out with every move of every single muscle of his body – but dragging himself on nonetheless. Going in the rough direction of the shots, or so he hoped.
Barely a couple of shuffling inches later his right hand brushed against something cool and solid, something so familiar, Dean didn't even need to think twice about whether to reach for it or not. His gun, laying only a couple of feet from where Dean had been lying all this time.
Dad would give him hell for losing his gun.
But for dad to find out, Dean would have to find him first. And, if Dean made it out of here, if dad actually found him – or the other way around…Dean doubted that he would care about any verbal roasting or drilling lecture his dad would have ready for him. Hell, he'd welcome it with open arms, even, if it only meant that he would make it out of here.
Dean gripped the gun like a life-line, fingers feeling strangely stronger once they wrapped around the familiar hilt, drawing from some last, deeply hidden resource of strength. When he started moving again, propelling his body forward with his right leg and arm, left leg dragging impotently along behind him, he kept the muzzle angled awkwardly away from his own chest so he wouldn't accidentally shoot himself…even though Dean wasn't even sure if he had any bullets left anymore.
He might have gone a little over the top filling that ugly bastard of a black dog with silver…if he'd ever even fired the gun, that was. The easiest way to find out would have been to check his clip, see if he'd fired any bullets recently at all, but he lacked the energy to accomplished even that simple task.
Dean had no idea how long he'd dragged his screaming body onwards, had no idea how far he'd made it for the simple act of turning his head to look back towards where he'd come from proved to be too much for him to handle. It couldn't have been far, even though he felt like he'd been at it for hours.
He kept pushing himself until he felt a familiar swoop of wings, a cool breeze brushing over his neck and face and felt another wave of almost panic-like fear wash over him. When he looked up he saw the dark figure of the crow once again bear down, its body now coming to rest smack in front of him, blocking his path. It had followed him to stop him now, had waited all this time, had passed on all those opportunities to finish it now of all times?
Dean huffed, groaned, tried to go on but the bird spread its wings as if to halt him in his track, didn't make a move to get out of his way. Its claws were digging into the soft earth underneath its feet, anchoring it steadily to the spot.
Dean looked up at the animal, wanted to shoo it away, wanted to fucking shoot it even, when suddenly the eyes of the bird flashed yellow again. The sight of discoloured flames engulfing the beady black eyes made Dean jerk back in surprise, made him lose what little equilibrium he'd gotten and his arm slipped out from underneath him, chest and upper torso plummeting the short distance to the ground.
He didn't know if he'd made a sound or not, didn't know if the bird was still there, if it finally started to fucking pick on him. He did try to shield his eyes, afraid that the sharp beak would find the softest part of his body first, starting its carnage there.
The smell of earth and long past rain filled his nostrils as his face pressed into the soft ground, the soil strangely cooling and comforting against his searing hot skin.
Sam…
He wanted to see Sam again, just one last time, tell him that he was sorry that he hadn't done anything, hadn't said anything when John had basically kicked him out the door.
If you leave now, don't bother coming back…
That had been John's words, not Dean's, but he hadn't done anything to stop dad from saying them, hadn't done anything to hold Sam back, either.
If that's what makes you happy…
Those had been Dean's words, and he'd come to regret them so many times ever since.
But some part of him had meant them, too. With all his heart.
He'd only ever wanted Sam to be happy...
Dean wanted to cry out at the unfairness of it all, the unfairness of losing his brother, his father seemingly leaving right along with him. John was still there, physically speaking, but somehow he seemed farther away than Sam at times…
Life wasn't fair, that much was for sure, and it certainly wasn't fair that Dean should be brought down by a fucking bird, in the end. He'd taken down monsters and ghouls and werewolves, even, but had to succumb to the strength of a feeble bird now?
But only a second later it didn't matter anymore as the pull of his screaming body became too much to fight and he slipped almost willingly into the abyss.
OoOoOoO
He heard the faint echo of his son's tinny voice coming from the inside of his pocket, Dean talking to him, or calling out to him, John couldn't be sure.
Just another minute…another minute. Just until John was sure…
He crossed another row of stalks and was barely able to skid to a stop when he was suddenly face to face with the biggest fucking black dog he'd ever seen in his entire life.
OoOoOoO
John threw himself into reverse so fast, he actually heard his joints pop as they protested the sudden change in movement, the too sudden stop as sinews and tendons strained to keep the bones of his knees and ankles in their designated positions.
Well, he wasn't the youngest anymore…
He almost stumbled over his own feet as he backed up a step, then another, bringing his arms up in one smooth motion, gun gripped tightly, the muzzle aimed right between the beast's eyes.
The dog's head was huge, and John stupidly remembered taking his sons to the zoo, once, a million years ago. They'd been standing in awe in front of a huge grizzly bear sullenly padding up and down in its way too small enclosure. Its head had been wide and thick, flaws loose and dripping with strings of sloppy saliva as its head was swinging from side to side, its enormous body carried by giant feet, toes turned slightly inwards as if the legs were slowly bending under the animal's outrageous weight.
Sam had been stunned, mouth gaping open – and John remembered Dean making fun of his little brother for days after, but the sight of the huge animal, suspended behind bars, all feeling of danger, despite its size and reputation, washed away from the look in its sad and broken eyes.
The dog was even bigger than the bear, John thought, its head larger, longer, jaw wider. The teeth alone were almost as long as John's fingers, gleaming white at the tips, stained slightly yellow and brownish at the tops, where they protruded from bloody gums. Its fur was short, lying sleek and close to its body, tinged in the darkest, deepest shade of black John had ever seen. At night, the animal had to be close to invisible.
The only thing giving it away, no doubt, were its piercing red eyes – and the stench. It reeked so unimaginably death-like, John actually felt and tasted bile rise in his throat.
John wasn't squeamish – never had been, not after everything he had seen and done in his life, but this…this was something different entirely.
John stumbled back another step, adrenaline rushing through his body, making him tense up, quenching all shivers or shakes that would no doubt fight for control over him as soon as he could clear his head a little – had time to assess the situation in its entirety.
The dog's fangs were bared, flews pulled back over its impressive, sharp as knife teeth. Its ears were turned backwards and plastered to its head, giving it a look that nightmares were made of. Even John's, and that was telling something, considering.
John took barely a second to adjust his aim, to make sure that he wouldn't miss, then pulled the trigger.
He emptied the whole clip into the dog's head, right between its eyes, still firing when the hammer hit on an empty chamber and still he couldn't stop himself.
It took him a considerable amount of time to realize that something was not right.
Or…not the way it was supposed to be.
The animal jerked under the impact of John's bullets, its head whipping back a bit…but it wasn't reacting anyway else. It didn't charge, didn't howl in pain or anger, didn't try to dodge the bullets or retreat back into the sea of wheat surrounding it, no doubt able to hide even its huge body within seconds.
It didn't even blink.
That was when John realized another thing that was off.
While the dog's eyes were still blood red…they weren't sparkling. They were deep red and swimming underneath a thin sheen of moisture – but there was no life in them. They were dull and already slightly glazed over by death. Actually – they were completely dulled over, John realized once he actually managed to get a grip on himself and stop pulling an ineffectual trigger, stopped seeing red through his own burning eyes.
The beast was dead.
And it wasn't just dead, like, shot right back to its ancestors by John just a couple of seconds ago – no, it had to be dead for a while already.
John carefully lowered the gun an inch, taking a step to the side of the animals head, making sure that its eyes didn't follow him – didn't seize up its prey. They didn't even blink.
Its body was splayed on the ground as if it was locked in a never-ending crouch, ready to pounce – but it never would pounce, ever again.
It was dead.
John released a stuttering breath he hadn't been aware he'd been holding in. As if on cue, his hands started shaking, trembling, sweating. His head spun wildly and for a moment he thought he'd actually lose it, would actually just drop down from sheer exhaustion and sudden lack of tension and fucking relief.
The black dog was dead.
And there was only one person who could have taken it down.
"Dean…" John breathed, ripped out of his momentary paralysis as he remembered his son.
He dug trembling and uncooperative fingers into the pocket of his jacket while still keeping a death-grip on his gun, impotent as the gesture was, his eyes still on the dead and already stiffening body of the dog as he gave it as wide a berth as he could manage.
His heart was doing crazy flips inside his chest, fear and relief in turn making him dizzy and lightheaded.
Dean had killed the dog – which was good, no, it was great – goddamn awesome. John had known that his son could do this…
And then it hit him so hard, it almost drove all air from his lungs – the sudden "other" meaning dawning on him in full fledged clarity. It could also mean that the carcass of the dog was the real reason for the crows to circle this stretch of field…that Dean was not close by at all.
John had no idea how badly Dean had really been hurt, how close to collapsing he'd already been when he'd managed to off the black dog. There was no way to tell how far he'd managed to make it after killing the creature before going down. If he'd managed to make it even roughly towards the car at all or if he'd just wandered aimlessly into whatever direction his hurt body and mind had sent him. If he wasn't close by, he could be anywhere.
He could be anywhere.
Shock was a strange thing – it might have served to let Dean wander for miles even before he'd finally succumbed to his injuries – and the possibilities of him getting lost in this field that stretched to the horizon and beyond were uncountable.
"Dean!" John bellowed into the phone once he got into a firm grip, pressing it to his ear till it hurt.
The other end of the line was silent.
"Dean…Dean come on, talk to me. I'm here…I found the dog. You killed it. I found it. But now I need to find you. You need to help me find you, son…"
John's voice begged, pleaded - and he didn't care.
But the line stayed dead.
Damn.
"Dean, please…"
John checked the reception, found it alright and intact, the call still connected, only there was no one on the other end to talk to him.
Maybe the connection had broken somehow after all, maybe the phone had frozen or something. It could happen – right? John was no expert, but it could happen…
John punched the end button almost brutally, waiting for an agonizing five seconds until he was sure that Dean's phone would have ended the connection, too, before hitting Dean's speed dial again.
The dial tone sounded hollowly in his ear, but his son didn't pick up.
No. Nonononono.
"DEAN!" he yelled out in frustration, but the only response he got was the angry croaking of the crows overhead as they drew their circles wider and wider, no doubt bringing a safe distance between themselves and the slightly unstable man on the ground.
"DEAN. Answer, goddamnit."
He punched the call-button again, listening to the dull ring on the other end – another call going unanswered. John was just about to hang up and try again, when he heard the faint notes of AC/DC's Highway to hell sounding from somewhere far off to his right.
Instinctively he winced at the song that he didn't want to hear anymore, Dean playing it up and down on the drive over to this town just days ago, no doubt intending to drive his old man insane. John wasn't opposed to the song in general, but it had been the constant repetition, the ear-splitting volume that had John ejecting the tape and throwing it onto the backseat in the end.
Damnit.
He had to wait an agonizing 30 seconds, already running again, trusting his ears and sense of direction to not lead him astray, after being put through to voicemail, ending the audible melody somewhere in the field in front of him.
"Hello, this is Dean. Leave a message."
"Dean!" John hollered as he ended the call, the name an order, phone pressed to his ear again, dialling again, waiting for the dial tone to sound, waiting for the familiar guitar riffs that would lead him to his son.
There – right there. To his right. Much closer now.
Much closer.
John let it ring, following the music, cutting through the rows without caring anymore. The music grew louder and louder – in sync with his fast beating heart – his ever growing apprehension. Suddenly, the body of a large, black bird burst through the thicket of wheat a couple of feet in front of him, the bird flapping its huge wings as it tried to gain height in the narrow passage between the stalks, struggling to propel its body upwards.
The damn crow again. There was no telling if it was the same bird as before, but somehow…
The wind created by the beating of its strong wings brushed over John's damp face, chilling his skin and raising goosebumps over his cheeks and down his neck. He shrank back for a second until the bird cleared the vegetation, finally able to spread its wings fully and taking off to join its companions in the sky overhead.
Another step forward, a little more hesitant now, fearful almost, and John saw a dark brown boot and part of a leg stick out from a thick cluster of stalks on the ground in front of him.
The boot was scuffed and dirty, the jeans ripped and saturated with blood, the leg tilted slightly to the side, toe down, heel up.
And it wasn't moving.
OoOoOoO
tbc
AN:
Don't hate me - I know the end is evil. But I hope it makes you stick with me till next week...because you do want to know if and how John finds Dean, right? Right?
Again I want to thank you all for the awesome, overwhelming reviews - they leave me at a loss for words, mostly. Thank you so, so much!
I hope you'll stick with this story a little longer!
As every week - thanks for taking the time to read, and bless you if you find the couple of seconds to leave me a review on top of that. It's the best reward, ever, for putting a little piece of me out there with every chapter I post.
Hopefully till next week - take care!
