The Illusionist Part II

Chapter 4 : The Line Begins to Blur

As soon as he became conscious, he felt the headache. It pounded on the inside of his skull like a dead man trying to escape his coffin. Green eyes soon opened, meeting the gaze of a brown splotch-covered ceiling. He blinked a few times, trying to recall exactly where he was when he remembered the ghost tossing him out a window like he was a ragdoll instead of the human being that he was. He knew Sam had helped him back in, and after that, that was about it.

Shit.

If he was lying in the motel room and he didn't know how he'd gotten there, that could mean only one thing.

He clenched his jaw, and lifted his head up, feeling the cool sheets shift underneath of him as his gaze met his brother's. Sam was sitting at the grubby, round table, blue light from his laptop cast upon his furrowed features.

Dean opened his mouth, then closed it. Sam looked like their father at that moment, and Dean knew that if he tried to speak, nothing would probably come out.

He needed a drink; or rather, something to drink.

He clenched the sheets as he pulled himself into a sitting position, grimacing slightly at the way his skin burned and pulled apart as he did so. He glanced down at his hands and saw the cuts. There were numerous ones littering his pale flesh, crisscrossing over his knuckles and palms. He swallowed thickly and forced his legs over the side of the bed, still feeling Sam's gaze upon his shoulders.

He figured the brunette was probably trying to get his attention, but Dean was doing his best to ignore him as long as he could. The split second that he had looked into his brother's eyes spoke volumes. He could tell Sam was angry, but he wasn't sure why; although, more and more lately, it was becoming the norm. Though, truthfully, more and more lately, he was the cause of it. That much he knew.

Dean ran a hand through his short-cropped hair, wincing as his fingers ran over a rather large cut on the back of his head. It didn't feel like there was any stitches there, the skin was just raised up and scabbed over, so at least that was something.

He rubbed his eyes with the knuckles of his index fingers, and forced himself to stand. The room wobbled and tilted a bit, but he soon regained his balance and made his way over to the mini fridge, grabbing one of Sam's fancy-schmancy waters and downing it in two gulps.

He turned around to sit down at the table, but low and behold, Sam was standing there right behind him, looking like one of those gargoyles angrily perched on top of an old building. His arms were folded, and his lips were pursed, and Dean couldn't help but roll his eyes, knowing that the full force of his little brother was about to be unleashed upon the motel room.

"So, find anything out about our priest yet?" he asked, placing a smirk on his face, just because he knew it would piss his brother off.

"Really? Seriously? That's how we're going to start off this conversation?" Sam snapped, an eyebrow quirking up in reflex. At least, that's what Dean thought he had said. He was pretty sure, anyway.

"Um, yeah. We are on a case, aren't we?" the middle Winchester responded, looking up at his younger brother. He could still remember the days when even the thought of Sam being taller than him was laughable. Not so much anymore...

"Dean, what in the hell is going on with you?" the younger hunter shouted, bluish-green eyes widening in anger.

It was easy to read his little brother's lips that time; it was a phrase he'd been repeating far too much lately. Ha, what was wrong with him? Every-fucking thing, Dean thought, but he didn't dare say it. "Blood sugar low, Sammy? You're looking a little peaky." He let a smile curve up the corners of his lips when he saw Sam's brow furrow even more, if that were possible.

"Don't turn this around on me, Dean! I want you to answer me, what the hell is wrong with you?"

"How about you be a little more specific, Sammy? Wait, am I allowed to use such a big word?" he asked, feigning ignorance. He couldn't help but smile a little harder when he saw Sam's mouth scrunch up and tiny lines form around his lips.

"You've lost weight, Dean, enough to where I didn't struggle at all to haul your ass down four flights of stairs and all the way out to the car. You look like death warmed over with those damn rings underneath your eyes, and the fact that you won't tell me anything that happened while-"

"While you were at Stanford?" Dean interjected, his expression darkening slightly. "That's because there's nothing to say!" He was pretty sure he was yelling back. He could feel the cords in his throat pulling his skin tight, even though that wasn't a hard thing to do nowadays, but still, the pinched look on his little brother's face made him positive. "Will you just give it up? We've got a case to solve, and if we don't hurry our asses up, someone else might die! You want that?" He knew those words would make Sam cave for the moment, at least. Now after they were done, that was a whole other story.

He really didn't like the way his little brother was glaring at him, but after a few seconds passed, Sam turned the open PC to face them though he didn't speak. He just kept on staring.

Dean rolled his eyes and leaned over, reading the headline on the Montana Herald-Record page : DECEMBER 12, 1906 LOCAL PRIEST DEAD IN APPARENT SUICIDE. Authorities were summoned to Carroll College at approximately 7:30 PM last night after witnesses say Father O'Malley, one of the senior priests began acting strangely before leaping to his death out of a fourth story bathroom window in St. Charles Hall.

"So where's he buried, 'cause I'm so ready to salt and burn that bastard's bones," Dean stated, glancing up at Sam. He felt his jaw clench in reflex when he saw the hurt look that was now invading Sam's eyes. He didn't like lying to him, but he didn't necessarily like telling him the truth either. He tried to stay in the gray area in between, but even that was becoming trying.

He watched Sam's lips move, but much to his dismay, couldn't understand what his little brother had said. He hated when Sam decided to murmur.

"Come again," Dean stated, holding a hand up to his ear, an annoyed expression creeping upon his features.

"He's buried in Robinson Park," Sam repeated, normally this time.

"A park?" the middle Winchester asked, disbelief in his eyes.

"The park used to be a cemetery back in the mid-1800's to 1908. It closed down when they opened a new one about a mile away. They left over 1,600 bodies there, and I'm pretty sure his was one of them. I couldn't find his name listed when I checked the database for the newer cemetery."

"So that means we're just screwed?" Dean asked, mouth slightly agape at the thought of not being able to rid the world of the bastard that sent him through a wall of glass.

"Not entirely," the brunette answered. "Apparently, back in those days, when a member of the cloth or congregation committed suicide, even though they were still allowed burial in a Catholic cemetery, their graves were segregated from the others, usually in the back of the cemetery. I managed to find an old map of this particular one, and the sequestered graves were located in the northeast corner."

Dean stared at his little brother for a moment, thankful at how resourceful the Sasquatch was, but it only made the guilt in his chest increase tenfold. "How many were there?"

"Ten," Sam replied, eyes still just shy of watering.

"Guess we better get to digging, huh?" Dean asked, a forced smile turning up the corners of his lips.

"We're going to talk, Dean." Before Dean had a chance to cut him off, Sam put a hand up, not about to let it happen. "After we're done, you're going to talk to me. It's only fair, and you know it."

"Sam..." He was really hoping he was projecting that warning tone that he knew their father was oh-so-capable of, but Sam apparently wasn't having it.

"I mean it. Once this is over, we're going to have an actual conversation, Dean. There's something going on, and I'm sick and tired of you lying to me about it. I told you what was wrong with me, even though I didn't want to. You made me, and now I'm going to make you."

"Good one, Sammy, but you can't make me do anything," Dean scoffed, the grin hardening on his face. He turned to grab his jacket from one of the chairs when he felt Sam's hand clamp around his bicep. He immediately attempted to jerk it out of his grasp, but to no avail. He looked up at his brother's lips, not liking the words he appeared to be speaking.

"I'm serious, Dean. You're going to tell me what's going on. One way or another."

Shit.

S*P*N*S*P*N

Flurries were just starting to trickle from the dark sky overhead when they arrived at the park. Dean pulled the Impala up as close to the entryway as he could without looking too suspicious. He turned the car off; a blast of cold air hitting him as soon as he opened the door. The frigid gust swept through his layers and still managed to chill his already cool skin. He shivered involuntarily as he popped open the trunk, reaching in and grabbing their shovels as Sam retrieved the salt and burning supplies.

If there was one thing Dean hated, it was digging in cold ground. If there were two things Dean hated; one would be digging in cold ground, the other would be not knowing which grave was the one they needed to unearth.

He glanced over at his brother, watching him pull the map from his jacket pocket. "Lead the way," he stated, gesturing towards the disarrayed grounds.

Row after row of crumbling headstones laid at their feet, littering the dirt floor. Dean felt the hair on the back of his neck standing at attention; there was most definitely an air of creepiness surrounding them, and he wondered how a church—a Catholic one at that—could let a resting place fall to such ruin. The town was small, but it wasn't that small.

His green eyes wandered as they made their way to the back of the former cemetery, gazing at the statue of an angel that was split in two, its lifeless eyes boring right through him. He immediately looked away, deciding to focus on something else other than that. Still, it felt as though the thing were truly watching him. Curiosity got the better of him and he couldn't help but glance back at the stone piece, rolling his eyes when he realized how stupid he was being. It wasn't watching him...it wasn't.

He gripped the shovels tighter, thankful that he'd remembered to bring along two sets of gloves. The last time he'd forgotten to bring extra gloves...well, that was a time he didn't care to think about. Needless to say, he'd been the one digging barehanded for two hours and wound up with blisters the size of Texas.

At least he didn't make you drive around afterward...

He'd been so lost in thought that he hadn't realized Sam had stopped, thus causing him to slam right into his little brother. He closed his eyes for a moment, thankful that it was so dark Sam wouldn't be able to see the redness creeping across his cheeks.

"You okay?" he caught his little brother saying when he'd opened his eyes, clenching his jaw and giving a curt nod in response. When had he become so clumsy?

"Let's get this party started. We gonna leap frog it?" he asked, trying to ignore the look of concern etched in Sam's eyes.

"Sure," Sam answered, letting his gaze linger a little too long for Dean's liking.

"Well, quit staring at me and let's get to it," the middle Winchester said, tossing a shovel and a pair of gloves at his little brother and going over where the first grave was supposed to be. He didn't wait around to see the way Sam's eyes were probably glimmering in the faint glow of the flashlight. Instead, he stuck the shovel into the frozen earth and went to work.

He didn't know how much time had passed before he'd hit something other than cold, hard dirt, but it felt like hours. His back and arms were already sore, and the muscles in his legs ached as well. He switched on his flashlight and peered into the darkness of the coffin, disappointment settling in his chest when he saw that the remains were not clothed in all black with a clerical collar. He sighed and stood up, dusting off the knees of his holey jeans. He glanced over at Sam, but from the look on his brother's face, he could tell he hadn't hit pay dirt either.

Dean moved onto the next one, glancing at the watch that was hanging off his slender wrist. He knew they'd gotten there just after eleven, and it was now a quarter past one. If they didn't find the bastard soon, they'd probably be shit out of luck. For tonight anyways, but he didn't want to stay in this place longer than he honestly had to. After all, they were still trying to find their father, and that in itself was like trying to find a needle in a pile of needles.

After another couple hours of digging, he was so lost in thought that he almost didn't see the whizzing object that had flown right passed his face and landed on the ground next to him. He automatically grabbed his sawed-off before even daring to see what it was (more alert than he should be at four in the morning), only to see Sam snickering at him out of the corner of his vision. He rolled his eyes and sat the gun back down, shrugging his shoulders and mouthing, "What?"

Sam, in turn, rolled his eyes as well and pulled out the lighter fluid, tossing it over to Dean.

Oh.

Leaving his gun atop the nearest pile of dirt, he quickly made his way out of the hole he was digging and over to Sam's. He peered down in it, switching his flashlight on. "Are you sure it's him?" he asked.

The top of the coffin was broken showcasing the remains; they were clothed in all black and there was a white clerical collar adorning the skeleton's throat.

Sam was about to respond when the priest's spirit appeared between them, its furious eyes boring into Dean's. "Worthless scum!" it shouted, clasping a hand around Dean's throat more.

"Sam!" he managed to choke out as he threw the lighter fluid back to his little brother. He could feel his airway starting to close, but he didn't even have a chance to do anything about it. The ghost squeezed tighter, and Dean could feel its icy grip wringing the life right out of him. Black spots dotted his vision, and at that moment, he was hoping that Sam had popped the lid off the lighter fluid and just drowned the bitch in it.

It wasn't too long before he could see flames out of the corner of his eye, but there was one problem.

The priest hadn't disappeared.

No, instead, its glow burned brighter, and the deceased man's face lit up; a maniacal grin curving his lips upward.

Dean could feel his chest tightening, eyes widening at the fact that the body was burning but the spirit had still not vanished as it was supposed to.

And that's when he realized that Sam had been wrong.

He tried desperately to call out, to warn his little brother, but before he could force the words past his lips, the ghost threw him through the air.

The sensation of flying lasted only a few seconds and was quickly replaced by the feeling of landing on the frozen earth. As soon as he did, he felt something in his shoulder give, causing pain to immediately flare up and down his left side. He grimaced and bit his bottom lip, doing his best to push away the pain. After a few seconds, he managed to raise his head up just in time to see the ghost heading straight for Sam.

"Sonovabitch," he muttered, stumbling as he pushed himself up into a sitting position, and then finally to his feet. He automatically reached for the sawed-off and fired, the spirit disappearing in the midst of the rock salt. "You okay, Sammy?" Dean asked without a second thought, his own injury already long forgotten.

Sam looked up at him from his crouched position, nodded, and stood.

"Please tell me there's more fluid left," Dean said, glancing at the kicked over bottle that was lying on the ground. He watched the neutral expression leave his brother's face and transform into a defensive one.

"Of course there is," the brunette responded, grabbing another bottle from their duffel bag. Dean saw the way Sam's lips pursed in anger as he tossed the other container to him.

"No need to get snippy, Sammy," he teased, catching the fluid and hurriedly heading back over to the grave he'd been working on. The coffin hadn't been broken in yet, so he grabbed his shovel with his right arm, clenching his jaw as the placed away pain suddenly came shooting back. He swallowed thickly and plunged the tip of the shovel into the century old wood, it splintering into tiny pieces. He had the cap off the bottle and was just about to douse the grave when the priest appeared again, a malevolent grin stretching its lips wide.

"You'll always be empty...Always feeling worthless, because you are," it laughed, looking Dean straight in the eye. "So instead of dragging out your pathetic existence, just end it. Trust me, you'll feel better."

All at once, it felt like he was paralyzed, unable to move, unable to drench the grave and burn the damn thing. Dean was frozen in place, eyes wide at his new found immobility. His brow furrowed as he tried desperately to look away from the spirit, but couldn't. It was almost as though it was holding him in place, forcing him to adhere to its taunts and insults.

He could feel his muscles tensing and straining as he tried to move, but he stayed put, fingers gripping the plastic container of fluid so tightly he was almost sure his thumb was going to poke a hole through it.

"One bullet is all it'll take. Then, it'll all be over," the priest continued to grin, wild eyes looking more and more demented as the seconds ticked on.

Dean couldn't hear the gun go off, but he sure as hell could see the rock salt fly by and vanquish the ghost yet again. In that moment, the hold on his body eased and he hurriedly poured the fluid all over the coffin. He extracted a lighter from his jacket pocket and flung it open, his shaking hand barely able to get it to light before he tossed it in the grave, setting the resting place ablaze.

The priest appeared before them once more, only this time, his soul was on fire and he was screaming. Within a few seconds, he was gone, unable to hurt anyone anymore.

Dean wiped the sweat from his brow and glanced at his little brother. "Let's get the hell out of here."

S*P*N*S*P*N

Neither Winchester spoke a word during the ride back to the motel. The tension in the Impala was so thick, Dean was positive that even their sharpest bowie knife wouldn't be able to cut through it.

He let out a breathless sigh as the motel came into view; most of the lights out in the two story structure. He parked the car in front of their room, but didn't immediately get out. The pure whiteness of his knuckles in the darkness of the car held his attention, the fact that they were damn near spotless compared to the rest of him.

A tug on the sleeve of his jacket broke him from his reverie.

His gaze darted from his hands to Sam, a concerned look gracing his brother's features. "You okay?" Sam asked with his voice as well as his fingers.

Dean stared at him for a long moment, green eyes gleaming in the dark, for once, unsure of how to respond.

"Dean?" Sam tried again, worry burrowing deep into his gaze and refusing to leave.

Dean looked away, glancing at his knuckles once more, the thought that they were almost as white as the snowflakes that were falling on the windshield crossing his mind.

Shit.

He kept his eyes off of Sam, not wanting to see the expression of guilt that would probably be crossing his face once Dean finally opened his mouth.

"Things weren't easy while you were gone, Sam." He let the words run off his lips, hoping his voice didn't sound as worn and beaten as he felt. "Dad and I—" He cut himself off, already feeling his own guilt and insecurities creeping across his chest. "We did the best we could, but it...it wasn't the same. And we had some rough patches-" He felt Sam's hand clamp down on his wrist, and it took every last bit of strength and restraint not to jump out of his skin at the touch. He bit his bottom look and forced his brow to lower as he glanced at his brother.

"By rough patches—did he hurt you?" Sam questioned, his blue eyes flickering with guilt but more than anything anger. There was definite anger and a fury that Dean had only ever seen in his father's eyes before, and it chilled Dean to the bone.

He met Sam's anger with some of his own though, brows narrowing even lower. "No," he lied, finally attempting to jerk out of his brother's grip. "Let go," he warned, but when he dared look his brother in the eyes, he found that the younger man was doing anything but. "Sammy..."

Sam only squeezed tighter, refusing to step down.

Stubborn bastard...

"I want the truth, Dean. Just once, I just want you to be honest with me." Sam's jaw was clenched so tight that Dean thought he was going to break his teeth.

"I already told you-"

"And I don't believe you!" Sam shouted, the veins in his neck starting to bulge. "You have been acting strange ever since you came to get me. I'm not stupid, Dean! I can tell when something's wrong with you. Just because we haven't see each other for four years doesn't mean shit, and you know it! Now tell me what happened!"

Dean was almost positive that if Sam didn't let go of his wrist soon, someone was going to go to sleep with a broken bone, and it sure as hell wasn't going to be him.

"If you don't let go of me-"

"I'm not letting go-" Sam squeezed even tighter, the grip almost crushing, "until you tell me what happened between you two!"

Dean could feel his heart pounding and his body beginning to shake. He didn't know how much more he could stand it.

"What happened, Dean?" Sam grit out, hating himself for the bruises that were going to be on Dean's wrist in the next few hours, but knowing that it was the only way he was going to get his brother to talk.

"He got possessed, Sam! Dad got fucking possessed!" Dean all but screamed, immediately regretting the words after he spoke them. He felt Sam's hold disappear almost instantly, but even after, he could still feel the phantom clasp of his brother's hand upon his wrist. All he could do was stare at the reddened skin, blinking back the tears of anger and guilt that were congregating in his eyes.

Silence fell over the car, and it took less than five seconds for Dean to send a glance at his brother before he exited the car, slamming the door shut behind him and stomping towards their room. He left Sam to sit in stunned silence as he disappeared into the room.

Shit!

S*P*N*S*P*N

A/N- I am so sorry that it took me so long to get this chapter out. I won't even offer up excuses as to why, but nonetheless, I want to thank each and every one of you who've stuck with me this long. MANY, MANY THANKS to dandy44, shammy101, HPSmallCharm29, babyreaper, CrazyDreamin, kisscazador, renniespice, Lbdba, Glades of Grey, and Anon(I read all three of your reviews, and no, they didn't bother me at all. And you're not selfish at all, ok? I was touched by your words, and I'm glad the little boy is doing better now, and that you were looking out for him. ;) Any time you need to talk, I'm here.) Once again, thank you all, and I hope the chapter sufficed! ;)