First, a huge thank you to everyone who reviewed the last chapter, I know it was a crazy one, but thank you for sticking with it. Now, just for you guys, we shall get a few answers, and a nice dose of angst.
On a different note, a huge, sloppy thank you to Daniel, who has to be the world's greatest ex, and possibly the only parapsychology graduate who is willing to spend several hours explaining the complexes of the human mind to a dizzy historian. He made everything sound rather flashy and cool, and will actually come at me with an axe for some of the liberties I take in this chapter and the few following. Hehe, isn't that what friends are for?
Little by little the night turns around.
Counting the leaves which tremble at dawn.
Lotuses lean on each other in yearning.
Under the eaves the swallow is resting.
Set the controls for the heart of the sun.
Over the mountain watching the watcher.
Breaking the darkness
Waking the grapevine.
One inch of love is one inch of shadow
Love is the shadow that ripens the wine.
Set the controls for the heart of the sun.
The heart of the sun, the heart of the sun.
Witness the man who raves at the wall
Making the shape of his questions to Heaven.
Whether the sun will fall in the evening
Will he remember the lesson of giving?
Set the controls for the heart of the sun.
The heart of the sun, the heart of the sun.
- Pink Floyd (1968)
Russell Crow, and the hot chick in the flimsy toga, yeah, Dean remembered that movie. Remembered watching it in the film house, catching about twenty minutes of story, and spending the rest of it with his hand up Katie/Katherine/Louise's top. We who are about to die, salute you. He remembered that line, and thinks it is bullshit, because when he steps that close to death, the only salute that crosses his mind is the two-fingered kind, and even then he is more likely to reach for the shotgun first.
Which, incidentally, was an amenity he was itching for. Hot chick with a stupid name was soon to be dead chick, because hotness did not excuse anyone from wanting to kill his little brother. Didn't even come close.
Skinny library dude smirked, and Dean decided he liked him more than before.
"You won't touch the kid."
"I don't have to. Someone is taking care of it."
Oh fuck, fuck, fuck!
Dean didn't hang around to hear more. He spun on his heel and raced back the way he came, stumbling in the sand as he went.
It was morning again by the time Sam was able to crack his eyes open. John, Jim, Bobby and Joshua's faces twisted in a circle above him, and it would have been funny if his skull hadn't been about to explode.
He half-expected John to look close to a nervous breakdown, but the oldest Winchester had his battle face on, and the sight of it was strangely comforting. "Jesus, Sammy." His voice was gruff like it sometimes was when he and Dean had been too noisy getting ready for school, and John had only had twenty minutes sleep.
"You even think about moving, and I'm drugging you." Sam hadn't seen Joshua since his pre-Stanford hunting days. Back then, the man had been all solid muscle and gentle hands. The only thing that had changed was the colour of the medic's hair, and the hand that checked Sam's pulse was as good for snapping necks as it was for stitching wounds.
"Dad?" Despite the warning, Sam tried to sit up. Four pairs of hands pushed him gently back down. He was out numbered by men he had grown up obeying. His situation sucked ass, as Dean would say.
Dean.
Oh, fuck, Dean.
The hands didn't stand a chance, Sam had rolled off the bed, knocking Bobby out of the way before the other hunters had realised what had happened. John caught him before the dizziness knocked him off his feet.
"Where the fuck did I put that tranquiliser?" Joshua growled. "Fucking Winchesters, all the damn same." Sam was hauled back onto the bed, but Jim moved aside enough for him to glance across the room to the second bed, the bed closest to the door that Dean had always occupied.
Sam had lost count of the number of times he had woken to see Dean sprawled out across the floral comforter. He half expected a similar vision, so the sight of Dean so still had his heart trying to claw its way up his throat.
"They were necessary, Sam." Missouri reassured the young man gently, her psychic ability hearing Sam's 'What the fuck have you done to him?' before the words even left his brain. The only woman in the small group of hunters was sat against the headboard, stroking Dean's hair in a motherly fashion Sam would never have suspected her capable of.
Dean lay under the sheets. His wrists were wrapped in bandages several inches thick, and two sturdy belts kept them pinned to the mattress. It was only then that Sam noticed the spectacular black eye his father sported, and the three parallel scratches down Bobby's cheek.
"We had to give him a shot of haloperidol after he nearly took you old man's eye out." Joshua explained.
Sam moaned miserably. "Dean…"
"This isn't Dean." Missouri stated firmly, prompting Sam to dispel the desire to reach for the holy water. If Dean was possessed by anything, Sam wanted it out. Yesterday. No way in hell would he sit by and let his brother suffer through the same experiences he had. Not when he had already been hurt so much. "The body is Dean's," Missouri reached across the beds to take Sam's hand between her own, "but sweetie, there ain't nobody home. He's far away from us now."
Sam pulled away and wrapped his fingers around Dean's wrist. It seemed fragile beneath his hands, as if knowing he could actually hurt Dean had stripped away the invisibility his big brother wore like armour. "Bilocation? Astral projection?"
"None of the above." Missouri smiled at him the way he imagined his mother might have.
It was hard to meet her gaze squarely, but Sam managed. "So why are you stroking his hair then, if that isn't Dean." He didn't mean to sound hostile, but the words came out just the same.
She smiled as if the answer was obvious, which it was, in a convoluted way. "I've loved this boy since the day I met him. This is the only time he would let me comfort him the way I want to." It occurred to Sam then, that Dean might not be the only one in need of healing.
John coughed. "Sam, you need to tell us what happened." His father sounded as though he really didn't want to know the truth.
Sam swallowed. That was not a conversation he wanted to be having with his father, let alone a room full of people. His betrayal would hurt so many.
"Where should I start?" He asked, because he was a Winchester, and even if it would have killed him, Dean would have owned up to the truth, so how could Sam do any less?
Jim took a seat besides him on the bed, placing a glass of water in reach. Sam nodded around the grateful lump that rose in his throat. "The beginning," the pastor prompted, "is always a good place."
"Right. Okay."
The young hunter fell back on the training of his childhood, counting on the conditioning he had hoped to leave behind to help him reach back into the recesses of his mind. He forced himself to sit, waiting, until the first claws of memory sunk in, and the pain blossomed afresh.
Meg was looking about as pleased with herself as was possible. Sam's face was bloody, stinging like hell, and the bitch had wrapped a rope so tight around his wrists that they had already started numbing. He tried to move, open his mouth, call to Dean. She laughed like a little girl, her blond hair spilling over one eye.
"Oh, Sammy," She chuckled, "the games we are going to play together."
He twisted, saw Dean still unconscious, and held his breath until his brother's chest rose to take in air.
"I got you a present. You want to open it?" Meg was close enough for Sam to smell peppermint on her breath.
"Sure." Sam could play nice. Dean didn't have the patent on sweet talk. "You wanna untie me first?"
She sat on his lap, her body warm against his, and so human. "Nuh uh. How about I open it for you?" From within the fold of her yellow jacket, she withdrew a small box. A snuffbox, like the one old Mrs Hillary kept in her purse. "Take a look, Sammy, this present is just for you."
The black smoke rose faster than Sam could keep check of it. It burned, stung, clogged in his throat and felt as if someone was force-feeding him liquid tar.
"Chicago?" John interrupted his face whiter than ever. "Then you, it…fuck." Sam tried to summon the sympathy needed to comfort his father, who had buried his face in his hands. Obviously, knowing that the bastard had been playing with them the whole time in the apartment- that John had Let. It. Walk. Away. Left his boys with a monster… he forced back the urge to let loose a hundred words of blame that he aimed at himself, but that would find a willing target in John Winchester.
The fact that it was Sam' hands, and Sam's teeth, and just Sam, who had been too weak to fight the damn thing off…
Jim, Bobby, Joshua and Missouri didn't say anything. They didn't have to. John's face said it all, every line of pain etched around his eyes mirrored in the deadly stillness of Dean's body. "I'm so fucking sorry, Sammy. I could have stopped this, I should have…"
"You gonna blame Dean for what happened?" Sam asked wearily. His head still pounded, and he was so damn tired.
"What, god no!" John's horror was so abrupt it was almost humorous.
"Then shut up." The words were said without heat. John blinked all the same, looked as if he had been sucker punched. "You didn't know. You couldn't have known. Hell, it fooled Dean; he played a fricking practical joke on the damned thing."
Sam didn't want to think of the reasons it was able to fool Dean so easily, but he remembered a lot from those early days. Sitting half an arm's reach away from his brother, with Pink Floyd blaring out of the speakers. They had barely said a word to each other the whole drive, and Sam knew it was because Dean was used to his moodiness by then.
If Sam's prison had had visible walls, he would have had beaten his fists bloody against them. Dean's eyes had been flickering for the past half hour; he was coming to after three days of drugged stupor. Meg had been waiting for them in the small, two up, two down detached house. She bounced on the balls of her feet like a child on Christmas morning, following the demon into the house, sniggering at Dean's limp form across its shoulders. The cellar had been her idea.
Dean's wrists had been bound by 5mm climbing rope. They had removed his jacket, boots, and socks. Emptied his pockets. Checked for hidden blades, and taken his flannel shirt just in case.
All three of them watched Dean wake.
He blinked owlishly, his eyes adjusting to the darkness that would hold him for months. "Sammy?"
"Hello Dean." Quiet. Soft. Sam.
They watched him shift his arms, realise he was bound. Watched the suspicion flood his eyes. "If this is about the spoon thing, then I give, I'm sorry. I know the prank stuff escalates, but don't you think this is overkill?" The usual Dean Winchester M.O. The demon loved it.
"Yeah, Dean. This is about the prank stuff. Let me show you just how much I hate that…"
"We got to Texas, I think." The fine details were hazy. "It," It was impossible to fight back the anger that swarmed in his belly. "It wanted me to watch, kept telling me what it was going to do."
The young hunter felt his own eyes fill in sympathy with John's, a father and son locked in an anguished revelation that neither really understood. "Dean, he…you know…he was just Dean. Even when I…it…no matter what. He should have got out. Could have…but he wouldn't leave me. The Daevas kept dragging him back."
What followed as a bitter, confused outpouring of the sketchy memories that tried to fit themselves together like a jigsaw puzzle missing half its pieces. The more Sam talked, the more he thought he could remember, until he couldn't stop. He had to know. He had to see. He had to suffer. It didn't matter to him that Jim looked ill, that Missouri looked close to tears, or that John had drawn blood in his attempt to keep his emotions in check.
"He won't leave me!" He whispered finally. The poison had been drawn from inside of him, leaving an empty shell behind. He felt as hollow as Dean looked.
Half way through his report, a small boy had circled out from behind Dean's bed, his green eyes glassy, and his bottom lip trembling.
"Of course he won't leave you, sweetheart, you won't let him." Missouri looked at the small boy, saw him, and Sam could have kissed her for it.
"You can see him?" Sam stuttered. The other hunters all looked around the room, suddenly on the alert. John was once again armed, needing to shoot something almost as much as Sam did.
"Of course I can see him!" she scoffed. "Wouldn't be much of a psychic if I couldn't now, would I?" She scowled at John and waved a threatening finger in the direction of Bobby and his shotgun. "Put those away right now. There's a child in the room."
Sam wouldn't have thought it was possible to take such a seasoned group by surprise, but there it was, clear as day. Dumbstruck, the lot of them. Little Dean opened his mouth and sobbed, the sound cutting straight through Sam's heart.
"I hate you." He whispered.
This time it was the internal pain that drove him to his knees, John catching him even as his hands clutched at his skull and stars exploded behind his eyes.
"Fuck!"
John caught his son, his fingers finding the throbbing cut above his eye that Sam had failed to compute.
The pain was even stronger the third time. Small Dean stood by his wounded counterpart and watched, impassive, as Sam crumpled into his father's hold, the pain in his head finally matching that in his heart.
From between the folds of John's thick shirt, Sam looked out on the room, and on Dean, Joshua talking in the background, and Missouri scolding a figment of Sam's tormented mind. Tears burned his cheeks as they fell, and all Sam could do was whisper Dean's final words to him.
"I hate you. I hate you. I hate you."
"That bad, huh?" John had shooed everyone from the bedroom only minutes after Sam had collapsed, and the hunters would have been lying if they said they weren't all secretly glad for the excuse to leave. They weren't an emotionally demonstrative bunch, and the Winchester held gold, silver, and bronze in the Suck It Up Olympics. To see them driven to such depths- one broken beyond repair, the other two shattering in his wake…Joshua wanted to shoot something.
Bobby already had.
Nobody said a word about the shots that had gone off, knowing that some poor car had just been demoted from potential refit, to target practice.
Missouri and Jim fixed them all hot coffee, and it felt almost normal to crowd around Bobby's kitchen table in stunned silence.
That was how Caleb found them, each silently contemplating Sam's broken revelations…and what they meant. As much as they loved John, Mary's death had not been a matter the hunters took as a personal vendetta. She had been a civilian, a reason to fight, yes, but not a reason to die. They had differed from John in that respect.
No longer. Dean, Sam, they were two of their own. Hunters. Friends. Soldiers. They had come after Jim, they had shredded Sam's mind asunder. No one wanted to think about what they had done to Dean. If things weren't personal before, they sure as hell were going to get that way.
"Yeah." Joshua grunted, chewing on a fingernail and staring over Missouri's head to the kitchen clock beyond. "That bad."
Caleb's face vanished behind a shaky hand. "Fuck."
"Fuck." Jim echoed, and the curse coming from the pastor's lips summed their situation up with its harsh lack of eloquence.
Nobody jumped when Caleb threw his bag down by the table. "Fuck." The foreign hunter hissed. He raced for the stairs, taking them two at a time.
Sam and Dean were alone, unprotected. John paced the hallway beyond, armed, but distant. Bobby's place was safe, after all.
Sam had removed Dean's bindings, unable to stomach them a second longer. Dean was out for the count. He wasn't a danger to anyone, and if he was, well, Sam figured he deserved a little pain.
The young psychic was sleeping fitfully in the bed opposite to Dean's. His arms tucked close to his chest, he looked about twelve.
Nothing could stop Caleb's hand from shaking as he took the safety off his gun. He tried two hands. No, still shook too badly to fire off a killing shot from the distance he was. No way would he risk a shot that wouldn't mean instant death.
Inching forwards, until his shins hit the end of the bed, Caleb tried to ignore the tears that made Sam double and swim before his eyes. He couldn't do that, either.
He tried again, third time was a charm.
He shook so badly he could hear his teeth rattle.
He was almost relieved when the barrel of a gun pressed against his skull, even if the voice owning it almost gave him a heart attack.
"Shoot my brother, and I'll kill you. Friend or not."
TBC
Happy now? No? Didn't think so. Still, I can't answer everything at one now, can i? Hehehe. Once again, thank you for sticking with this, despite the last odd chapter, and this melodramatic outpouring. (hugs everyone and points to the review button of joy)