A/N: I'm back from the holidays, and back on track with posting (now that the site is letting me post docs again!) A small (belated) correction from chapter one - I reffered to Gordon Walker (from Bloodlust) as "Walter Gordon", who was actually the bad guy from the season five finale of CSI, "Grave Danger". Oops. My bad. :) But you must admit, the names are quite similar. Coincidence? Maybe. Maybe not... ;) So on to the chapter...
Dean was lounging on his bed watching Ren and Stimpy when Sam returned, his hands resting on his belly and ankles crossed.
"Dude, this show is screwed up," he announced as Sam slipped into the room. "You find anything useful?"
"You could say that," Sam hedged, feeling tired and irritable. Dean glanced up at his cold tone, scowling a little.
"You gonna share, Nancy Drew? Or do we have to play a little round of twenty questions?"
Kicking off his shoes, Sam flopped into a nearby chair and sighed.
"Dean, can you lay off the sarcasm for a while? I'm really not in the mood to do this right now," he pleaded, trying to roll the kinks out of his neck. His body still ached from its impromptu meeting with the plant wall, his ribs throbbing in time to his heartbeat.
"Depends," Dean drawled with a slightly dangerous tone. "Are you gonna spill and tell me what you found so we can kill this… whatever it is… and get the hell out of here?"
Sighing in resignation, Sam leaned forward and braced his elbows on his knees.
"The new residents of Birch's old house claim to have been having an issue with a ghost. Sounds like Celia Birch from their description of the spirit," He explained wearily, trying to ignore the fidgety, restless vibe Dean was giving out. It was a clear indicator that his big brother wanted, needed, to kill something.
"So do we need to do a good ol' salt 'n burn before we tackle scaly-ceiling dude?"
"No, I don't think so," Sam assured, "Seems Gordon showed up after the local paper ran an article on their haunting. They haven't had any issues since. I think Gordon came here originally for the haunting, then got mixed up with Whitney and his attempts to bring Celia back to life."
"If he showed up at Birch's apartment, saw the same shit I did, he would have figured it out, too," Dean speculated, sitting up straighter.
"It still doesn't explain what we saw at the paper plant," Sam interjected, not liking the eagerness in Dean's eyes.
"Maybe we don't really need to explain it," Dean argued, standing and switching off the TV. "I mean, we know it's a spirit. We weren't prepared for a spirit last time, and it got the jump on us. I say we go back tonight, perform a banishment ritual, finish it."
"Hang on, Dean," Sam objected, standing as well. "Not only were we not prepared for a spirit last time, we weren't prepared for anything. You rushed us into a hunt without any information, and I got thrown into a wall for it. I'm sorry, but I don't want to repeat that experience. We're not ready. We need to know what's going on here."
"It's not my fault you let that thing get the better of you, little brother. You may not be prepared, but I'm good to go. Feel free to stay here and feel sorry for yourself. I'm going soon as it's dark."
Sam felt his face flush with anger, and he had to resist the urge to smack his brother upside his thick skull.
"The only thing you're prepared to do is get yourself killed," he shouted, frustration and fear hammering in his veins. "This isn't like you, Dean! Dad taught us better than this."
Dean's face tightened when Sam mentioned their father, and he almost felt bad for stooping to using their dad as an argument. But Dean was being uncharacteristically reckless, and Sam was increasingly afraid that his behavior would end in disaster.
"Don't talk to me about what Dad taught us, Sam. You never wanted to learn any of it anyway, right up to the end."
Dean's voice was like gunmetal, cold and hard. Sam's insides clenched in mingled grief, anger, and regret.
"Don't twist this around on me, Dean. You've got a fucking death wish, and you're not going to stop until something bigger and meaner than you takes you out. I don't know what the hell's happened to us – but you do know something, don't you? Dad told you something, before he died."
Dean's hands fisted at his sides, and Sam saw his chest hitch.
"Leave it alone, Sam," he warned, teeth gritted.
But Sam couldn't.
"What did he tell you, Dean? It was about me, wasn't it? That's why you can't even look me in the eye anymore, why you're pushing me away."
Dean took two quick steps toward him, and Sam couldn't help but flinch a little.
"I'm pushing you away, Sam, because you won't fucking leave me alone. You're worse than a woman, with all this nagging and bitching and clinging. I can't fucking take it anymore! You just can't stop picking and picking until you make me bleed, can you? Well fuck you, little brother. I don't need it. And I don't need you."
Too stunned to respond, Sam stood frozen as Dean turned on his heel, snatched up his keys and jacket, and stormed out. The door slammed forcefully behind him, rattling the tacky picture on the wall.
His heart hammered in his chest.
What the hell had just happened?
I don't need you.
Feeling as though all the air had rushed out of his lungs, Sam dropped bonelessly back into the chair, head in his hands.
He didn't know what to do anymore. Every time he tried to make things better, he made them worse. Every time he tried to reconnect with his brother, he pushed him further away.
Was Dean right about him? Was he the one creating this rift between them? God, everything was so fucked up. They were so fucked up. And now Dean had run off to do God knew what, alone.
Slumped in the chair, Sam sat unmoving for a good fifteen minutes before he really focused on the paper lying between his feet, discarded there by his brother. The front page story was Birch's murder, a grey-scale photo of the man staring up at him from under the headline.
A strange sense of deja vu came over him, and he picked up the paper to look more closely. There was something about Birch's face, something eerily familiar. The shape of his face, the curve of his mouth…
"Oh, shit," Sam gasped, realization washing over him.
Birch was the spirit he'd seen at the plant. A terribly malformed, demonically twisted version, yes, but Birch all the same. Suddenly everything fell into place with alarming clarity.
Dropping the paper hastily, he fumbled for his phone and hit the speed dial for Dean.
"Pick up, pick up…" he murmured, listening to the phone ring and ring. When Dean's voicemail picked up, he almost threw the cell in frustration.
"Dean, I know what's going on. The spirit, it's Birch. He tried to summon Teeraal, but the sigil meant to bind him to the pentagram bound him to Birch instead. Gordon tracked him there and found him like that, possessed, and killed him. But Birch's spirit is still angry, he can't move on, and his spirit is- it's twisted somehow. He died violently, while possessed... Dean… listen, please. I know you're angry, I know you hate me right now, but please… just wait for me, okay? I'm on my way. Just, don't go in alone, okay? Birch's spirit killed Gordon. He's powerful. Look -I'm sorry… just, don't do anything stupid, Okay? I'll be right there."
He ended the call, dropping the phone on the table unoticed in his haste.
You've got a fucking death wish, and you're not going to stop until something bigger and meaner than you takes you out.
"Oh, God," Sam breathed out loud, "Please don't let him kill himself."
Please…
Dean had taken the Impala, but the parking lot was full of easily hotwired vehicles, and Sam made short work of jacking a Chevy pickup.
Desperation made him reckless, and he broke every speed limit between the motel and the plant, the sinking sun mocking his panic
Dean was pretty sure he was going to leave permanent fingernail marks in the steering wheel, he was gripping it so hard.
"Fuck you, Sam," he growled to the empty passenger seat, the darkening road disappearing rapidly beneath the speeding Impala.
But it wasn't Sam he was angry with, not entirely. He was angry with himself. With their dad. With the whole fucking screwed up, unfair world. He was beginning to crumble, and Sam just wouldn't leave it alone.
His parting words rang in his ears, and already he felt a surge of regret and shame. The worst of it was, he really did need Sam. More than anyone. More than anything. But John's death had been like a catastrophic explosion, one that left an impassable rift between them. They were too raw, too wounded already. All the little things that made up a brotherhood suddenly seemed to irritate and sting, like salt in an open injury.
And somehow, Sam had figured out that their father had spoken to him before his death, had used those freaky perceptive powers of his to discern that the subject of that confession had been him. He'd taken Dean off guard, and Sam's confrontation had left him feeling terrified and unsettled.
So he was driving, running away with no real direction. Figured maybe he'd find a bar, get piss drunk. Forget all about his life for a while and deal with the demon-spirit-thing tomorrow.
Sam was right about that, at least. They weren't prepared.
A muted ringing from his pocket distracted him from his thoughts. Pulling his cell out, he glanced at the LCD screen and saw Sam's number.
"Are you fuckin' kidding me? Did he ever hear what I was saying?"
Thumbing the button on the side of the phone, he silenced the ringer and dropped the phone on the seat. A moment later the phone beeped to signal that a voicemail had been left.
He ignored it.
He'd had enough for one night.
A/N: Thank you, thank you, thank you for all the very kind reviews. You guys are totally my inspiration. :)