Lies I Never Told

Chapter 7

S s S s S

For a moment, he thought he was floating, that is was the harsh sting of icy water biting into his skin, but he realized the surface beneath his back was solid. He tried to move his deadened limbs and as he did, his body sank lower, an unseen force sucking him deeper into the bitter gloom that surrounded him. He opened his eyes, black dots danced before him, he blinked. Not dots, fallen leaves. Fragile, skeletal patterns of brown and gold lace, they brushed against his face, jumped and skittered over him. He felt as if he were slowly spinning, rising and falling, a speck of dust carried on the wind and each time tumbling a little further back into the grasping maw of the cold earth. His shoulders and head tipped back. The dirt rose up over his face, smothering his nose and mouth, weighing down his eyelids, pushing at him until he was buried under the forest floor.

S s S s S

"Sam, Sam." The voice came from somewhere above, and someone lightly tapped his face. His sluggish senses grudgingly began to filter information through to him. He was lying on a hard floor and a firm hand was cradling the back of his head. He felt hot and cold and nauseous. Maybe it was time to open his eyes or move or somehow indicate his return to consciousness, Sam wasn't convinced there would be any benefit from such impulsive behavior, so he stayed as he was.

"I'm so sorry, Mr. Winchester. Poor Samuel. Alan can be rather abrasive at times. Should I call for an ambulance?" Mrs. Hawksworth was upset, which was all very well, but what kind of pathetic shrinking violet did she think he was? Did she think really think he passed out because some arrogant tool of a lawyer was mean to him? Sam thought he probably should crack open an eye and let her know he was made of sterner stuff than that.

Warm fingertips pressed gently against his throat, holding steady. Sam counted down ten beats.

"No, no. I think he's okay. His pulse is good. He was feeling a bit out of it yesterday. And he hasn't eaten much. If at all. Damn." Dean's voice dropped and the hand supporting Sam's head flexed and lifted him slightly.

Oh please, low blood sugar? Dean obviously had him confused with a hysterical teenage girl. Sam tried to marshal his muscles into moving. There was a totally logical explanation for taking a header onto Mrs. Hawksworth handcrafted Mexican tiles, Sam just wasn't sure what it was, yet.

"We could call Dr. Browne, Millie. He was very understanding and discreet before." This voice was soft and hesitant. It was Agatha.

That was it. Dr. Browne had stitched him up last time, getting up close and personal with parts of Sam's anatomy that he generally preferred to keep under wraps. The prospect of the good doctor being called upon to attend to Sam as if he were some overwrought heroine in a cheesy romance novel, who keeled over at the slightest hint of peril, was all the motivation he needed. Sam heaved his eyelids open. Four worried faces peered down at him. Dean was kneeling next to him on the kitchen floor, while Mrs. Hawksworth, Rudy, and Agatha stood around him.

"Thank goodness. How are you feeling, Samuel?" Mrs. Hawksworth bent down, wringing her hands as she spoke.

"Fine," he rasped. The word was out of his mouth before his stop it. Dean tightened his grip in his hair and then slid his arm around Sam's back to pull him into a sitting position

"You think so, Sam. Fine. It's not a word I'd normally associate with falling flat on my face, but whatever. Do you think you can get up?" Dean was decidedly unimpressed.

Sam wiggled his toes, flexing his leg muscles. Everything appeared to be in working order.

"Give me a hand." He hung onto Dean and together they stood up, Sam swayed briefly, before relaxing his grip on his brother's arm.

"It lives," Dean muttered dryly and instead of stepping back and giving Sam some breathing room, he reached up and put a hand to Sam's forehead and then to Sam's increasing embarrassment gripped his chin, pulling it down so he could scrutinize his face.

"Do you think he should lie down? Dear me, where are my manners? Let me show you to one of the guest rooms." Mrs. Hawksworth spoke to Dean.

Sam opened his mouth to respond with a resounding 'no' but Dean's fingers were still pinching his chin.

"Thanks. Good idea. I'll get him settled and after, as we are here to do a job, you can fill me in on what's been happening." Dean relinquished his hold on Sam's face, grabbed him by the elbow, and pushed him onto a chair. Something cold was pressed into his hand and Sam looked up to find Rudy sliding a large glass of orange juice across the table. Rudy gave him a rueful smile.

Lie down, get him settled, Jesus, he wasn't some wayward toddler. Sam took a large swig of juice and tugged at Dean's sleeve.

"Look, man, I'm okay. Let's just leave it. I've probably just got a touch of the 'flu." Not so much a lie, Sam reasoned, as wishful thinking. "We've both been way worse and managed."

Dean eyed him with open disbelief and turned back to their host. "Lead the way Mrs. Hawksworth, Sam gets cranky when he hasn't had his nap."

Rudy and Agatha gazed at him solemnly as Dean herded him from the room, following Mrs. Hawksworth up the wide oak staircase.

Sam had not had many chances in his life to live or stay anywhere that wasn't budget priced, subsidized, someone's couch, or on one or two memorable occasions derelict and if this was how the other half treated their guests, he wasn't sure he wanted to.

The guest room, with feather-soft twin beds and a large picture window overlooking the back lawn and woodland, was a ruthless assault in pink toned chintz. It was everywhere, from the drapes, to the lampshades, to the coverlets and cushions on the beds and to the wallpaper that mercifully only covered one wall.

Out of the corner of his eye, Sam caught his brother flinching. Dean gave a small aborted gargle of alarm, which he quickly covered with a halfhearted cough.

Mrs. Hawksworth had preceded them into the room and was standing by the window, she pointed to the end of the garden.

"It's very odd, you know, Samuel, but can you see the spot where you so bravely dispatched that strange being?" Sam ignored Dean's exaggerated eye roll and went to the window.

It was hard to distinguish anything in the wild tangle of tall grass and low bushes that grew beyond the garden fence. It looked more overgrown than he remembered, but he squinted obligingly through the glass.

"There a small tree there now, a red alder, or so the gardener tells me. It seemed to spring up almost overnight. I noticed it not long after you were here. Not that we venture into the woods much anymore." Mrs. Hawksworth turned from the window. "You still look pale my dear, why don't you lie down and I'll get Lotte to rustle up something.

"Lotte?" Sam remembered a dour faced woman by the name of Carmen bustling about in the kitchen.

Mrs. Hawksworth looked unhappy. "You may recall our previous housekeeper, Carmen. Such a wonderful cook. She left us only about three weeks ago. She told me she refused to work here when the Devil was living next door." She glanced back at the window. "Rudy was quite distraught. Lotte came highly recommended, but there's only so much sauerkraut a person can take. She does however, make a passable coffee cake. I'll be in the kitchen, Mr. Winchester." She smiled at Dean and patting Sam on the arm, Mrs. Hawksworth left them and went downstairs.

"The Devil doesn't only live in the woods; it looks like he's been trying his hand at interior design." Dean shuddered. "Here." He pushed Sam towards the nearest bed. "You are going have a nice little rest, and I'm going to eat cake and see what kind of mess you bravely left behind four years ago."

Sam kicked of his shoes and flopped down onto the bed, a waft of lavender rose into the air, the room's decor might be a threat to his masculinity, but God, the bed was ridiculously comfortable.

"Yeah. Sure. Don't choke." Sam closed his eyes. "You know that alder trees were believed to ward of evil spirits and help increase second sight." The bed dipped, Dean was perching on the edge.

"Really. Could be relevant, I guess. So, how do you feel, Sammy? And for God's sake and mine cut the freakin' bullshit. I don't need you fainting on my ass if the herbaceous border decides to get a little frisky."

Sam peered up through his eyelashes; Dean was grimacing at the wallpaper.

"Okay, okay, don't get your panties in a wad. I admit it, I feel like crap. I don't why I went down like that; maybe it's because of whatever made, you know, those old scratches reopen." Sam replied, surprised at his own honesty and although he wanted to, the words he needed to tell Dean about the ambiguous sense of 'wrongness' he had experienced when they arrived, remained stubbornly lodged in his throat.

Dean looked down at him thoughtfully. "Well, that is why we're here. Hey, remember the first time you took a nosedive on the job? You were twelve, thirteen. We were hunting that psycho Wampus cat in Tennessee. Man, your face when you saw what that thing did to that deer. White as a sheet and bam! Face plant into the mud." He chuckled quietly and Sam closed his eyes again. It was unlikely that he would ever forget that particular hunt, its memory scorched into his impressionable young mind.

S s S s S

It had been one of Sam's first real hunts; John Winchester had finally decided he could participate in more than just the research. His father and Dean had been ahead of him, tracking the vicious creature through the thin trees of the wetlands. It had been hot, humid, and hard going over the soggy ground. He had heard his father shouting to Dean and before the words had died away, an unearthly wail had cut through the trees, followed by an agonized scream that was silenced abruptly and then several gunshots, in rapid succession. Sam's heart had stalled in his chest and desperately pulling his feet from the sticky ground; he had launched himself into a dense thicket of bushes.

Blood was everywhere, dripping from overhanging branches, coating the leaves and swirling into the muddy surface water. Shiny loops of intestines snaked across the ground, ripped sheaths of muscles still twitched amid the flattened grass, and ragged gobbets of flesh were strewn throughout the undergrowth. Across from the carnage stood his father, splattered with gore, his rifle lowered to the ground and at his feet the large twisted corpse of the cat. Unable to breathe, Sam had met his eyes and then the world had dissolved into nothingness.

He had come to back at the car, propped up in the back seat. He could hear voices. His father's low tones saying, "No choice, Dean. It's part of the job, he's just going to have to get used to it."

His father had handed him a soda, ruffled his hair and like always, they had moved on. Dean had foregone riding shotgun, and sat with him in the back seat, at every sharp turn or bump in the road, throwing a hand to his forehead and squeaking 'Oh, my' before theatrically slumping sideways. It had been a long ride home.

Looking back, Sam realized it had been the beginning of the end. An initiation into his father's obsession that had instilled in him the determination to make his own choices in life and neither John nor Dean Winchester had even noticed.

S s S s S

Dean slapped Sam's knee. "I guess I shouldn't mock a man while he's down." The bed shifted as he stood. "This shouldn't take long and then we'll hit the nearest Super 8 and get at it again tomorrow.

Sam opened his eyes and watched his brother step toward the door.

"Dean." His voice rose a notch.

Dean stopped in the doorway. "Hmm, what?"

"You want to know why I fainted that day?" Sam was trying for nonchalant but the nervous pounding in his ears was making his voice shake.

"Uh, you were a squeamish kid on his first hunt?" Dean shrugged.

Sam took a deep breath; he'd never been able to tell anyone before, through circumstance, and by choice.

"I fainted because I thought it was you." No longer able to look at his brother, Sam stared at the window. "I thought that fucking thing had ripped you to shreds and that I was standing in your guts. You and Dad, you never got it." His throat closed up, his voice trailing away. Telling the truth sucked. Big time. Sam dropped his head back into the overstuffed pillow, running a hand over his suddenly queasy stomach. Silence. Sam risked a glance across the room; Dean was stock still, staring at him, his mouth twisted and his brows pulled down.

"What do you want me to say, Sam? I'm sorry. Is that why you hate it, hunting I mean." Dean sighed and scrubbed a hand over his face, he took a step towards Sam and then hesitated, rocking back on his heels. "Look, I'm here now. Shit, that's not what I mean. Fuck, Sammy. Let's not do this right now, okay. I can't do this here." Dean waved a hand around, "not in a place like this. Later, please."

Sam squeezed his eyes shut. He was right; people just didn't like hearing the truth. Honesty came with too high a price, one he could ill afford.

"Okay. Go. Check it out." He rolled over onto his side, his back to Dean

"Sammy?" Dean asked tentatively.

Sam wriggled down into the soft comforter and did not reply; a few seconds later, he heard the door being gently closed.

He dozed fitfully and dreamlessly, his mind slowly churning over the events of the previous couple of days. At one point, he was almost certain that someone had come into the room, and was standing over the bed, looking down at him. Mostly asleep, he could feel a sense warmth and concern wash over him. He fell more deeply into sleep.

He was awoken by a soft click. Sam rolled over to find Dean turning on a bedside lamp. Outside the window it was dark; Sam massaged his eyelids and yawned. Dean pulled off his boots and slung a bag onto the unused bed.

"What time is it, what are you doing?" Sam sat up.

Dean came and sat by his side. "Well, you look better. It's late, you've slept all afternoon and most of the evening and we're staying the night."

"What? You're kidding, staying here. I thought you hated being in places like this." Sam ran a hand through his mussed hair. "I'm confused."

"Nothing new there then. You needed the rest, and Millie insisted and that Lotte may look like a dude, but I gotta tell you, she makes a mean schnitzel. You hungry? I brought a tray up." Dean smiled at him uncertainly.

Sam looked over at the dresser and saw a plate piled high, accompanied by a large glass of milk, Dean's version of a peace offering.

"I could eat," Sam admitted. "And seriously. Millie?"

Dean straightened his shoulders and stuck out his chest. "What can I say? Young or old, no woman is immune to my rugged charm and she's a smart old broad." He leaned forward. "What's that?" he asked pointing to small bundle on the bedside table.

Sam reached over and picked it up. He studied it briefly and held in his open palm for Dean's inspection. It was a small collection of herbs and twigs, some dried, some fresh, all wrapped tightly with a thin red ribbon.

Dean took it from him, gave it a brief sniff, and held it up to the light. "Protection charm?"

Sam nodded. "Looks like it. Myrtle, lavender, some I don't recognize, and rue, not used much anymore. And the red ribbon to ward of the Devil." He was struck by a sudden thought. "Did you come in earlier, when I was asleep and stand here by the bed?"

Dean shook his head. "No, I stuck my head round the door. A couple of times. Why, did you see who it was?"

Sam took the bundle of herbs back from Dean, and placed it back by the bed. "I slept through; I didn't see or hear anybody. I just had a feeling of someone in the room. It wasn't a bad feeling. I thought it was you."

"It should have been." Dean was watching him carefully, "there's obviously more going on here. I would never have left you alone if I had known people were going to be sneaking around like this."

"Dean, it's okay. I'm okay." Sam wasn't sure whom it was he was trying to reassure. He got off the bed and went to retrieve the tray. "So fill me on what Mrs. Hawksworth, oh sorry, Millie told you."

Dean nodded and looked hopefully at the tray now balanced on Sam's knee. "You going to eat all that?"