A/N: First off, a big thank you to not just my reviewers, but all those who took the time to read the story period. I realize that I have only been thanking the reviewers, and so to any I may have neglected, I'm sorry ;( But thanks for your continued support as I write, especially to deanstheman, mandancie and madinalakesavedmylife (I really hope I got that right!) who have taken the time to read, review, and/or PM me. It really helps a lot! Thank you again, it is so very much appreciated! DISCLAIMER: I do not own Supernatural or any of its characters/stories. For entertainment purposes only.
Chapter 7
Walt watched, a twisted smile forming on his lips, as Dean carefully maneuvered through the basement, aiming his beam in every nook and cranny of the space (though not every one, Walt had thought gleefully, as the small patch of light swung past his body and failing to reveal his presence. Beside him, Roy was looking as uncomfortable as always. Damn, that man was a pussy. Walt flashed another of his trademark glares at his companion, but Roy had failed to notice, staring blankly ahead, as if oblivious to what was transpiring before him.
Sure enough, Roy was engaging in a battle of vast proportions with his conscience at the moment. Part of him very much wanted to appease Walt; after all, if the man was willing to snuff Dean Winchester's life, to arrange a sadistic plan for the sole purpose of petty revenge, then what would stop him from killing him? But that nagging feeling just wouldn't leave, torturing his very mind and soul. To not only kill a man in cold blood, but to make another believe his brother was dead? Closing his eyes, Roy recalled that horrible night when his own brother's life had been taken…
Xxx
Richardson, Texas, off the North Central Expressway
August, 2002
Roy stands in the torrential rain, his brother's body limp in his arms. He can smell the burning fuel, the heavy smoke, the metallic scent of Jason's blood, somehow co-existing with the sweet smells of a late summer rain…the scent of the Texas Prickly Poppy growing along the roadside. It was odd, how such pleasing smells could somehow mingle with the bitter scent of death…
Roy blinked, snapping out of his reverie, as he felt his brother's body tremble faintly in his arms, the grime and blood on his face washing away in the late summer rain. Nearby, Roy could hear the crickets singing, and the young man wondered how it was possible that something as perfectly normal as the sounds of nature could possibly be happening right now, with his brother dying in his arms…
"Jason." Roy pressed his torn t-shirt against a massive wound in his brother's side, oblivious to the discomfort of the rain as it pounded on his bare back, causing the lacerations on his skin to sting. Jason was conscious, but unresponsive, grey eyes staring unseeing at his brother. His breath was shallow, chest slowly and painfully rising with each strained breath, mouth opening and closing, as if he were trying desperately to communicate, unspoken words of comfort.
Roy felt his brother's body slacken as the young man finally drew his last breath. He closed his eyes, his tears mingling with the warm, summer rain as he held his brother one last time…
xxx
Present Day
Sam's eyes slid open, wincing in pain as bright light infiltrated his tiny prison. The searing pounding of the migraine, along with the weakness of dehydration, lack of sleep (other than the odd time when sheer exhaustion and weakness would cause him to pass out) had left the hunter weak in the knees. Fighting the urge to vomit, Sam steadied himself, leaning against the wall for support, patiently waiting for the nausea to pass. When finally he felt that he could walk without dry heaving, the young man slowly adjusted to his surroundings. And immediately almost collapsed to the floor beneath him.
There, securely tied to a wooden chair, head limp to his side, was his brother.
At first, no words would come. A sea of emotions swept over Sam, like a flash flood. His brother was there, before his very eyes. Walt and Roy had been lying; or at least, had been earlier. Dean had tried to rescue him, and had been abducted in the process; not exactly a shocking revelation in the Book of Winchester. And then, a horrific thought occurred to him, enough to make the young man nearly vomit again. What if this wasn't real? What if this was another of Lucifer's mind fucks, messing with little Sammy?
"No." Sam squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for Lucifer to make yet another of his grand entrances. He stood that way for several moments, finally daring to open his eyes and dreading that the sight of his brother would only be an illusion. But when he finally dared to open his eyes, there he was, still out cold, just as before. Stunned, Sam stood for a moment, before finally stumbling to his brother's side, praying that he was still alive.
"Dean," he murmured, searching madly for a pulse, and praying that he was lucid enough to be able to detect one, despite his physical and psychological state. Luck held, however, and Sam was able to detect the strong and steady beat of his brother's heart. "Oh, thank God," relief rushing over him, and finally, emotionally exhausted, Sam collapsed at his brother's side, tears of relief gently trickling from his cheek. Dean was alive. How could he have even doubted that his brother wouldn't be? He was John Winchester's boy, after all.
It was like that, with his brother throwing the penultimate of chick flick moments that Dean came to, his own skull pounding as if it had been pummelled continuously with a jack hammer. Slowly Dean adjusted to his surroundings, breathed a sigh of relief to find his brother at his side, and gently called his brother's name: "Sammy. Thank God." Then, looking down at his still tightly secure wrists, managed to let out a little spark of his typical Dean Winchester humour: "you wanna untie me sometime this decade, Sasquatch?"
Sam looked up, saw his brother awake, and quickly blinked away his tears, fumbling with unsteady hands at the dingy ropes. It took longer than usual, and Dean swallowed the fear that was beginning to rise in his throat like bile. Geez, Sammy, you look like Hell warmed over. After what seemed like an eternity, Sam had finally managed to free Dean's right wrist, and had begun to work on the left when heavy door swung open, revealing their captors, guns drawn. "Don't move."
Undeterred (and no doubt half mad from sleep deprivation), Sam ignored the order, continuing to loosen Dean's bonds. Terrified for his brother's life, Dean tried desperately to get his stubborn brother to stop: "Come on, Sammy, do what he said. I'll be fine." But what had frightened the elder Winchester the most was not Sam's refusal to do as ordered, but the glazed look in the young man's eyes, the way his fingers were fumbling with a task as simple as untying a knot, the look of sickening pallor on his face. And then, the sickening sound of gunfire as Walt discharged his weapon.
"SAMMY!" Dean's heart stopped in his chest as he saw his brother collapse in a heap at his feet, a pool of blood staining the cold cement. Dean struggled to rip at the other rope, tearing at his cuticles until he drew blood, calling his brother's name to no one in particular. Nearby, he could hear Walt groaning inwardly, still holding the proverbial smoking gun. "Fuck. He was supposed to be the one to watch you die." Beside him, Roy looked pale, as if he had just seen a ghost, his own gun still drawn on the remaining brother. And at that moment, a horrific case of deja-vu flashed before Dean's very eyes, of his brother's unresponsive body lying on the bed beside him, the cold steel of a gun barrel aimed at his own chest. And further still, the look of uncertainty across Roy's harried face. And a white hot fury rushed through Dean at the sight of his brother, bleeding to death at his feet, at the sight of the sonsofbitches who had pulled the trigger. Hatred filled his green eyes as he stared coldly at the men before him. He spoke up, voice venomous as he felt the anger erupting through his already weakened body.
"Two years ago, I made a promise. I told my brother, fuck, I told myself that if I would come back after you assholes shot me. And that when I did, I'd be pissed. You wanna know the biggest mistake of my life? Not following through on that promise when I should have." Praying it wasn't too late, Dean deftly lowered his body from the chair, reaching for the Glock that Walt and Roy had been hopefully too stupid to remove from his pants…
No such luck.
Another shot fired, missing Dean's head by inches. Deftly, the skilled hunter twisted his body to the side, butting his head against Roy's lower body and knocking the hunter to the ground, the shotgun crashing to the floor. Another bang, and another bullet whizzed by, so close that Dean could feel the hairs on his cheek stand on end. But Dean didn't care. Quickly, he reached for the shotgun swung it against Walt's legs, satisfied to hear the snap of broken bones as the weapon made contact. Walt yelped in pain, and Dean quickly cocked the weapon, firing a round into first the hunter's wrist, and then in both kneecaps; Walt collapsed to the ground, hissing in pain and cursing Dean's name under his breath.
"You'd better be cursing me, you sonofabitch," Dean snarled, and immediately turned his attention on Roy, who had regained his footing, and was reaching for Walt's weapon. Anticipating Roy's attack, Dean pressed his boot on Roy's wrist, causing the other hunter to scream out in agony. Undeterred, Dean continued the assault. "Bet you're wishing you pulled the trigger now, Roy. Nobody messes with my little brother." He aimed his shotgun, ready to put a bullet between the man's eyes. But then, he hesitated. Not because of any fear in the other man's eyes, but the look of peace. The look of a wounded animal waiting to be put out of its misery. And, as if to confirm his suspicions, the young man looked up with gritted teeth, eyes moist with tears. "Do it." Dean hesitated again, suddenly unwilling to pull the trigger. He couldn't for the life of him understand why, but there was something in the way that he had always been reluctant to actually kill the boys; how it had always been Walt to initiate any plans, to do the deed.
"Please. Just kill me."
For a moment, Dean almost humoured the man; after all, he had intended to kill Sam. But instead, he quickly turned the weapon to his right and fired three rounds into Walt's chest, the sound of the gunshots echoing in the confined space. He turned, satisfied, as Walt lay in a pool of blood, eyes staring unseeing at the ceiling.
"Dean Winchester never breaks his promises."
For a moment the room was silent, the tiny room filling up with smoke. Then, Dean felt his weapon drop as he rushed to his brother's side, feeling for a pulse. Nothing. Sam's face was ashen, the skin cold, lips turning a horrific shade of blue. "Goddammit, Sammy," Dean moaned, and another horrific memory almost caused him to freeze in terror.
Sammy, on his knees, bleeding from Jake's lethal stab wound, head rolling limply on its side like a rag doll. Dean, fumbling for a pulse, muttering broken promises that everything would be ok, it was his job to look out for his pain in the ass little brother.
No. Not this time. Not if he could help it. Swallowing his fear, Dean continued his frantic search for a pulse, and finally allowing himself to breathe when he found one, albeit faint. "It's ok, Sam, I'm here, I've got ya. It's ok… I won't leave you. I promise…"
xxx
Roy watched the scene before him, the air rushing from his lungs. It was happening again; only this time, he was cradling his brother's body in this shithole, running grimy fingers through his spikey hair and murmuring comforting lies. He was trying desperately to keep from sobbing, anything to keep Jason calm, cradling his lifeless body in his arms.
He had begged Winchester to put him out of his misery. And it had, to be honest, surprised Roy when the hunter had refused. Walt, hell, Dean had taken him out without so much as a second thought, as he was doing something as mundane as taking out the trash. But he had hesitated in killing him, had actually lowered his weapon. Had Dean recognized that look of pain? After all, if the rumours he had heard were true, the man had witnessed his brother die on more than one occasion. Had Dean somehow…?
No. He had tried to kill his brother. Dean had said so himself, if anyone messed with Sammy, there would be hell to play. Roy felt a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. It didn't matter if Sam Winchester had pulled the ON switch on the apocalypse; he was a little brother, and Roy could very much relate to the pain of losing a brother.
Xxx
Dean had almost missed the gunshot.
He had managed to stabilize his brother enough for him to move him to the Impala when he heard the sound of gunfire. Instinct told him to duck down, and he knelt to the ground, sheltering his brother's battered body with his own. When, a few minutes later, Dean realized he was still breathing, Dean looked up. There, not three feet away, lay Roy, dead from a self-inflicted wound to the temple. The young man didn't hesitate. Grabbing his brother in his arms, Dean limped his way over the bodies, up the stairs, and out of the house, as dawn broke from beneath the foliage. Praying that his knees would not give way beneath him, Dean carried his brother to the backseat of the Impala, gently laying him down, before racing to the driver's side. Ignoring every speed limit in the country, Dean backed away from the farmhouse, racing towards the nearest hospital.
