o()o
Author's Note: I hope everyone out there in PCLand had a good weekend. I spent most of mine on the back of a motocycle. :)
Nifty Fact of the Day: The very last scene of this chapter has got to be the most rewritten scene in history. I can't believe how many times I scrapped it only to decide I hated the new one even more.
o(4)o
He was four years old, trying to make himself as small as possible in the brightly lit room.
His mommy was in the bed; her hair messed up and a big smile on her face. In her arms, she held a pale blue bundle. His daddy stood next to her, his smile just as big.
He was hiding under a shelf with wheels, scraped knees drawn up to his chin, trying hard not to cry. Smiling or not, he didn't like the way his mommy looked in that bed and he didn't like the thing taped to her hand. It looked like it hurt.
His daddy tilted his head to one side, eyes sparkling, and he knew he'd been spotted. Mommy looked his way too, brushing her hair behind her ear.
"Come meet your brother, honey."
He shook his head. He didn't want a brother; he just wanted things to be the way they had always been: him and Mommy and Daddy.
"Can't we just leave him here and go home?"
His daddy chuckled; gently taking the bundle Mommy had been holding and cradling it in his arms. Kneeling in front of him, Daddy moved the blanket to reveal a wrinkled pink thing in a little blue hat.
"Dean, this is Sammy."
Previous fears forgotten, he wrinkled his nose as he looked down at the tiny thing bundled in blue. "He's pretty ugly."
Daddy laughed, pressing a kiss against the top of his head. "He looks a lot like you did."
"Does not," he protested. "Mommy said I was a cute baby."
Reaching down to poke at the ugly thing, he was stunned when a miniature hand reached out of the blanket, curling around his finger and squeezing.
"You're his big brother, Dean," Daddy said. "It's your job to look out for him."
Looking down at his new baby brother, he had to fight against the smile tugging at his lips.
"Hi Sammy."
He was going to be the best big brother ever.
o()o
He was six years old, outside in the grass, the summer sun warm on his shoulders.
He and Sammy had spent the entire morning exploring the field outside of Uncle Bobby's and playing with the older man's new puppy while Daddy had shot cans and bottles off of a nearby fence, the sound echoing through the still afternoon.
After a while, Sammy had curled up in the shade of a large oak tree and fallen asleep. Now, Dean was content to sit beside him, drawing pictures with his finger in the dirt.
A warm hand settled on his shoulder and he looked up from his picture, into his father's careworn face. "Hi Daddy!"
His dad smiled down at him, the gun he had been using slung casually over one broad shoulder. "Hey, dude. Is Sammy sleeping?"
He nodded, beaming. "I didn't wake him up this time I remembered what you said."
"Good job, buddy," his dad said, chuckling quietly. "Did you guys have a good time today?"
"We caught nine grasshoppers, Daddy. One even spit on me and then Rumsfield ate it!" Dean mimed the puppy crunching on a hapless grasshopper with his hands, grinning at his father's louder laugh.
"Sounds like you three are pretty good hunters."
Dean puffed out his small chest with pride. "The best."
For a moment his daddy had looked sad, like when he had said that Mommy couldn't come home anymore, but then he smiled again, ruffling Dean's hair.
"Come on, buddy, I have something I want you to try."
o()o
He was ten years old, sitting at a wobbly table in another motel room, nicer than the last, but not as nice as the one before that, with a greasy rag in his hands and a gun in pieces before him.
Across the room, Sammy was sprawled in bed, head buried under his pillow as he slept. There was some ancient monster movie on the T.V. but Dean only gave it half of his attention, focusing instead on the weapon he was cleaning.
It was their third night in alone; living on Spaghetti-O's and ham sandwiches and waiting for their dad to come back, wherever he may be.
He was supposed to be back tonight, and Dean was starting to worry.
The backup plan had been drilled into his head, call Pastor Jim, pack his and Sammy's things and wait. He had picked up the phone a dozen times over the course of the night, dialing half of the preacher's number before hanging up again.
Calling Pastor Jim felt too much like giving up.
The motel door opened and his dad came in, shaking the rain from his hair.
Dean got to his feet, a heavy weight lifting from his chest. He wanted to run across the room, throw himself into his father's arms and bury his face in his dad's stubbly neck like Sammy did, but he was too old for that now.
"Hi dad," he said quietly instead.
"Hey dude." Dad said, sinking into the chair beside him, scrubbing a hand over his face. "It's late. You should be in bed."
Dean tilted his head toward the dismantled gun that he'd been in the middle of cleaning. "Got to finish this first."
A ghost of a smile touched his dad's lips as he looked down at his folded hands. "I'll finish it up, you go brush your teeth and get ready for bed."
Dean followed his dad's gaze looking at the older man's bloodied knuckles and noting the slight tremble in his fingers.
"Yes sir."
"Get to it then."
He took two steps away before turning and walking back to the table. He still wanted a hug more than anything else in the world, but settled for placing a hand on his dad's shoulder. The smile on his lips felt cold, but he left it there anyway.
"It'll be okay, Dad."
o()o
He was thirteen years old, a gun clutched in his hand to tightly his knuckles were white, staying as close to his father as humanly possible without actually crawling into the other man's back pocket.
The house they crept through was dark and decrepit, full of unseen eyes in the shadows, full of evil things that killed kids, some even younger than Sammy.
It was his first hunt.
The night had been warm and humid, but in this place, Dean's too-quick breaths came out in white plumes.
"Stay close to me Dean, just like we practiced at the barn. Understand?" His father's voice was low and firm, helping to quiet Dean's ragged nerves.
"Yes--" he heard the tremor in his voice and swallowed hard against it. "Yes sir."
His dad glanced back at him, a small smile curving his mouth. "After this, what do you say we pick up Sammy and go out for pizza? Maybe hit the arcade?"
Despite the fear gnawing at his guts, Dean managed to return his father's smile. Pizza and video games were a rare treat, saved for special occasions only. "Yeah! I mean, yes sir."
"Let's get to work, then," his dad said sobering. "Clear the doorways, quick and low."
Dean nodded, cocking the shotgun, calmed by his father's steadying presence.
Halfway up the rotted stairs, the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end, gooseflesh sweeping across his skin. He whirled around just as the ghost shimmered into existence before him, eyes wide, mouth gaping as it shrieked.
Dean fell back a step, clumsy in the sudden onslaught of adrenaline that had flooded his veins.
"Shoot it, Dean!" his father yelled from the bottom of the stairwell.
His first shot missed by a mile, blowing a chunk of ancient plaster out of the wall, and ghost the lunged, barely missing him as Dean leapt out of the way.
"Aim where it's going, not where it's been!" his father's advice was almost lost in the spirit's angry wails.
Raising the shotgun again, he pulled the trigger. The recoil from the gun sent him stumbling backward, crashing into the already cracked wall, and he watched, amazed, as the spirit vanished in a spray of rock salt.
Its final screech echoed off of the crumbling walls and Dean's legs turned to jelly. He sank down on the ancient stairwell, trembling as much from fear as from exhilaration.
He heard his father's praise from the bottom of the stairs and sucked in a deep breath, the corners of his mouth turning up.
This was the coolest job ever.
o()o
He had just turned nineteen and sat in another crappy motel room, listening as his brother and father shouted at each other, blaming the other for everything but the kitchen sink.
He had known it was coming; it had been brewing in the emergency room like some poisoned concoction. The tightness of his father's jaw, the hard shine in Sam's eyes, they had barely made it back to the Impala before the yelling had begun.
And they hadn't stopped since.
His arm was driving him crazy and he flexed his fingers around the newly-applied plaster cast, hoping the ache the movement caused would distract him from the itch. The ER doctor had given him pain pills, but Dean knew that he wouldn't be taking them. They would get added to the first-aid kit, saved for those 'just in case' scenarios that Dean prayed he would never encounter.
"You should have been watching your brother's back!" his dad roared, jamming a finger into Sam's chest. "You could have gotten him killed."
"Me?" Sam shot back, slapping the offending finger away. "Where the hell were you? Dean needed you and you were nowhere to be found!"
He wanted to tell them both to stop, that he was fine, that it was no big deal, but he knew from experience that it would do just about as much good a screen door in a submarine. So he remained silent, torn in two as he watched them fight.
"If you actually gave a damn about your brother you would have been looking out for him instead of trying to pump me for information you didn't need."
"If I had known what we were up against, Dean never would have gotten hurt in the first place!"
The beer he had been sipping on suddenly tasted like crap and the motel room seemed a lot smaller than it had been just a moment ago. Everything was too close and too loud. A sick pit in his gut opened up and for a moment, Dean thought he was going to puke.
Why did they always have to do this? And why did they always use him as leverage?
"Look at him," John bellowed. "Look at what your selfish recklessness did to your brother."
Dean's bottle of beer exploded against the wall in a shower of glass before he was even aware of it leaving his hand. The sudden silence that filled the motel room was thick enough to choke on and two sets of startled eyes turned his way.
"Dean?"
The words clogged in his throat and he pushed by them both, bursting out of the motel and into the cold night air.
He was four blocks away before he realized that he was running.
o()o
He was twenty two years old and Sam had just walked out of the motel room, taking all of his meager belongings, and slamming the door firmly behind him.
His dad was still as a statue, but Dean could sense the anger thrumming through the older man like a live wire.
All he could do was stare at the empty bed where his brother would no longer be. Sammy was gone; his brother had packed up and left him behind without a second thought. He hadn't even looked back
The thought was like a brick in the chest, crashing through and leaving a giant hole in its wake.
He was alone.
o()o
He was twenty six years old, sprawled on the floor, looking up at his younger brother with begrudging pride.
Even after four years of being gone, Sammy still had his edge. That was good, that meant he could handle himself if the need ever arose.
Not that Dean would ever let that happen. Even if Sam didn't know it, his big brother was still looking out for him. He wasn't about to abandon his family even though it seemed that they were hell-bent on abandoning him. The thought was bitter as bile and he choked it back, replacing it with a cocky grin.
"Get off me."
His brother got to his feet, hauling Dean up as well. "Dean, what the hell are you doing here?"
He wanted to tell his brother the truth, that he had come back from New Orleans to find the motel room where he was supposed to meet their father empty. Dad had left, not even bothering with a note. His departure had left Dean suffocating in the silence and loneliness that had become his world for the past three weeks.
"Well, I was looking for a beer."
o()o
He was twenty seven years old, surrounded by the most beautiful, brilliant light he had ever seen.
He could feel it burning away the fear and hurt that had been a part him for so long, putting him at peace, trying to make him rest. And he was strangely comfortable with it.
In the distance, he could hear the gentle rush of the ocean, the ebb and flow in perfect time with his heartbeat. Barefoot, he walked toward the sound, feeling the ground under him turn into warm sand.
Reaching the shore he stared out at water, digging his toes into the damp grit there and turning his face into the flawless blue sky. Eyes closed, he savored the warmth on his skin, golden and tranquil.
The tang of saltwater was strong, but not unpleasant, stinging his eyes and nose. Beyond that there was the smell of something else. Complex and subtle, the scent teased his memory, but he couldn't place it. After a moment he gave up trying, going back to enjoying the sun on his face.
Had the world always been this perfect? How could he not have known?
A flicker of darkness made him open his eyes, frowning up into the previously pristine sky. The peculiar smell had intensified, no longer subtle, and the hunter in Dean identified it effortlessly.
Sulfur.
Something wasn't right.
As if his thought had given form to deed, storm clouds crowded the sky, dark and heavy with rain, and in their depths Dean could see decomposing faces and the tumbled, tangled silhouettes of the brutally murdered
The ocean had turned the color of pewter, whitecaps forming, churning with the sudden cold wind that blew. Instead of the soothing rush of the tide; he heard the whispers of the dead, beckoning him to join them in their rotted respite.
A tiny drop of black dripped from the sky onto his hand like tar and another drop landed in the sand by his feet. Dean jumped backward, away from the ooze, but it was raining down around him now. The heavy liquid pattered as it landed on the sand.
He watched, heart racing against his ribs, as the drops on the ground began to spread out, soaking into the sand like thick blood, edging toward him. Backing away from the growing blackness, he swore and tried to run in the opposite direction, only to find himself facing the same scene he had just turned away from.
He couldn't get away.
And he couldn't feel his fingers.
Fear, cold and greasy shot through him and he looked at his hand, seeing the same oily blackness that was in the sand leaching along his skin, oozing its way up his arm. More drops landed on him, spattering and reaching toward the next drop, consuming him.
He wanted to call out, but he couldn't force the breath he was holding out of his lungs. The blackness was everywhere, filling his nose and mouth, gagging and blinding him.
Gasping in desperate breaths, he wheezed as he tried to exhale.
Can't breathe . . . Can't breathe . . .
The sky blazed with lightening red as blood and the clap of thunder that followed sounded like a tortured scream.
In the instant before the darkness swallowed him whole, Dean felt an icy hand clutch at his fingers.
Then there was nothing but pain.
o()o