Author's note: Since I have been out of action, I am giving you two updates in one. At least the clues and ends are going to go faster now. Hope you enjoy.
Now… Singer's Salvage
"I love the smell of toilet water in the morning," Dean said, whipping up from the swirling bowl. "Hoo-ray!"
Head swimming, he wiped he forehead as he silent begged to hurl and get it over with. He didn't care which end got rid of his gnawing gut as long as it happened soon. Even the acrid smell of the bleach did little except to hammer cresting waves in his hateful stomach. The stinging pain trembled the world around him until he sprawled one of his bristle rough cheeks on the side of the lid.
"Nice 100%," Sam remarked without an inch of malice touching his words.
"Told ya a few more days in county general was the safe bet," Bobby said with the same flavor. "If he thinks that is his top form—"
"Always did suck at math," Dean interrupted with apprehension ripe on his features as he feigned ignorance.
Glaring up, Dean witnessed his overly protective pseudo-parents, Bobby and Sam, hovering and crowding. The awareness of their presence nagged at him, and he shifted uncomfortably, putting a hand under his head to steady his prop over the bowl.
"Only so much mothering you can take before you go bonkers," Dean said, jabbing the words at his watchers. "Besides, I memorized every imaginable soap opera diseases in that time. If either of you get traumatic amnesia brain rot tumors and need a transplant, I got your back."
"You're okay." Sam begged in little more than a murmur and far from sounding convinced.
The pleas sounded so final, that Dean swallowed back a bit of his sarcasm with a stifle of nausea. The pale freckles on his cheeks danced and contorted in sickness. When Dean slipped a few inches and appeared as if he might slip form the porcelain perch, Bobby nudged the sickly man in support.
"Dude. Oh, don't do that. No moving. I'm in charge of moving."
"I'd say he's just about up to speed for sparring at the level of a wet paper bag," Bobby said.
"You just jealous you're aren't this fabu!" Dean offered in a weak cadence like a mewling kitten. Instantly, he hated the sound of his own betraying voice.
"More like fubar," Sam said.
With a bland laugh, Dean snarled his lip to load another round of snark until, unluckily, the quip strangled in a cough. The words rattled around in his gullet unformed and drained into little more than a gurgle.
"Since he's on the 'I'm okay' line, let's get down to business," Bobby interrupted "Before he has another episode."
After a few seconds, Dean beamed a courteous smile. When he attempted to speak, the hoarse weakness overtook his words, but slowly he forced his voice to smooth. "I keep waiting for a little alien bastard to pop out of my belly, looking like Sigourney Weaver."
"Good one," Bobby said. "Didn't think of morning sickness, but now that you mention it—"
"Bite me."
"Witness if you will, classic Dean deflection," Sam said with an urge to shake the crap out his brother.
"Living the dream are ya?"
"Hey, no offense, as dreams go, I'd prefer a hot chick that make me go 'awe sooky sooky', not chatty lumps that make want to toss my cookies."
Dean carefully balanced his hand on the toilet seat to push in a stand. The first hesitant steps rattled his bones until they felt brittle under his full weight. When Sam rushed to help, Dean threw a hand to block the interference, which only served to delay the much-needed assistance, even if Dean wouldn't admit it. As he swung his arm to shove his little brother off, he noticed angry scratches on branding Sam's neck.
"What happened to you? Did you try to go to second base with a girl again?"
"No. This would be all on you."
The revelation sprouted a surprised twinge of guilt, which ceased Dean's protest of support from Sam or Bobby when he joined in. Under the guise of ribbing Dean about the experience, Bobby maneuvered the sick man to flop in a chair without Dean noticing.
Narrowing his focus on the healing grooves, Dean wondered for the first time how animalistic his fit had to have been for Sam's point of view.
"Why didn't you say anything?"
"Seriously? Scratches? You want me to be concerned with scratches when you had a Looney tunes moment?"
Knowing better than to argue, Dean complained with a little sputter, which protested exhaustion more than anything. The discomfort camped in him under the family inquisition as if they were ready to dissect every thought Dean had when all he wanted to do was forget it ever happened. Forget how hell haunted him, the indignity of getting a whipped by something Sam blew away so easily stabbed his hunter pride. Ass handed too him was not on his to do list—ever!
"So you guys have any divine inspiration about what whammed me?"
"No more than the fuzzy stuff you gave us, Mr. Up Close and Personal," Bobby said.
"Hummpph. Well I channeled Elvis and we met up with that Leather face, which so better have not left a stain on my sweet girl. Oh, and, get this now, we threw an awesome kegger with little blue goblins from Uranus." A laugh caught deep in his throat and he coughed until his chest felt cleaved.
"Well, that's not the strangest thing you ever pulled from your ass," Sam said flatly.
Just as Bobby opened his mouth with further questions, Dean drained of color, looking distant. When Sam waived a frantic, expectant hand before him without getting a reaction, both mean prepared for Dean's worst.
"Don't go zombie on me again," Sam begged.
"All good." Dean mumbled, swaying dizzily as he moved his head to pile into the chair back. "I know what you're trying to do and I appreciate it. I do. That freak slammed me with some bad juju. The rest was a freaky dream. I'm not going to go off and kill you in my sleep cause I have PMS or something."
The tone wasn't pleasing, but Sam would take any reaction from Dean as long as it was a reaction.
"PTSD ain't a joke, kiddo. They looked at your scan and matched up everything. Ain't a crime."
"I'm not like that!" Dean bellowed.
"Okay. Fine. Hmm," Sam said. "Let's see death, violence, assault, kidnapping, torture, and prisoner. Stop us when something' doesn't add up for you and your sucky math! You tell me why your scan—"
"Mushrooms. Magic, magic mushrooms."
Lowering his trucker cap, Bobby squinted harshly and perched on a crate to level with his prey, Dean. Under the seasoned hunter's microscope, Dean squirmed. In a matter of seconds, the intent grew white hot as if a spotlight fell upon the information Bobby wanted to yank to the surface.
"Nice LSD defense," Bobby offered. "We aren't saying you're dangerous, boy. You aren't nuts."
"We understand."
"Do you think I want you to understand?" Dean begged.
"No. That's painfully obvious." Sam huffed "You've been through some crap."
"And both of you are crap free?"
"No, the 'who flung poo' policy covers us all," Bobby agreed.
"We'll I'm glad we could have this Walton moment, but I'm not in the mood to talk about it. Let's say I pencil this discussion in on the 12th of never after my lunch with Jimmy Hoffa. I don't have answers. Man, this has to be what it feels like when you go crackers. There's something I—feel I should know, and I—Look, I got this dread of déjà screw. But, you think something that looks like Texas Chainsaw and the California raisins had children wouldn't seem so--- God, I don't know. Feels like the same dance, same song, different messed up monster!"
His hands traced at the pattern on the chair arm, which swirled as much as Dean's mind. He wondered if sinking into the fibers and fading would be enough to save him from the inquisition. His attention focused hard until he fixated on the weaving crossed pattern of the covering until he realized he perched in the "sacred seat" No one ever dared sit in this chair, except Bobby. For this to happen, Bobby had to be at the top of worry, which skewered Dean as the world-class schmuck category.
"You're a sneaky bastard, you know that." Dean exclaimed as he narrowed his eyes to slits, glaring at his friend.
"Been known to be."
He didn't intend to be difficult; he just couldn't open the gate to the things waiting to haunt him from the pit. The seepage, the bare minimum that escaped in dreams, clawed at his mind. To open the door would drive him crazy. The superficial images he had shared were horrendous enough. He couldn't bear for Sam to look at him with those eyes, disappointed and understanding. Hell gripped a hold on his heart, so being touchy about it, came naturally. Sighing and regaining calm over his myriad of emotions, he habitually dug a finger at his hairline.
"Thought maybe you had a visit from the special Hell friend network. Might have triggered--"
"Lots of those to pick from. Gotta say the reunion special with Alastair was already more than plenty. So if another if another Citizen Brimstone made a prison break— "Dean replied dumbly, completely belying his intelligence or his pain.
"Think it was one of the faceless?"
"I don't know what that means? "
"You said it."
"I won't forget the faces of hell," Dean said with a shiver that made him appear frozen. "I would know, right?"
"From the nightmare soup we have in past, it's a wonder we are sure of anything," Sam reasoned. "You got to know, I won't let—"
"Maybe it had a right to come after me. I don't know. Had a claim on my head. Not like I don't deserve—"
Sam clenched fury inside his fist so it trapped before it splattered at Dean. Even with the effort, his mouth clenched.
"There's a reason why you're not allowed to stay dead," Sam snapped.
This time, Dean turned at the voice, staring at his brother as if just learned to speak.
"And it ain't--," Bobby continued the thought calmly. "-- all on the account of Lucifer. "
"Much easier to blame the devil," Without missing an opportunity, Dean said. "What do you think? California Raisins as tools of Satan?"
He added the last part so lamely, a proud grin blazing across his face to enforce the horrid joke he peace offered to Sam.
"You're a tool," Sam insisted, "Do you have anything about the creature, what it said, or what you said? Do you know for certain where the dark place—"
"Uh, Hell." Dean paused and sneered at his own ignorance. "Possibly McDonalds. I wish I knew what to tell you. I don't remember much beyond the door. Just dead batteries in my empty flashlight
"As long as you aren't holding back any cared on rhymes, skeletons—
"The Shadow men part gives me the creeps," Sam said.
"Wait, I said shadow man?
"Yeah. Couple of times."
"Huh. That's kinda odd. Sammy, I use to scare you with that."
Sam puzzled, rolling his eyes about the room as if search some deep file in his brain. When he drew a blank, he perched his lips tightly together until they disappeared.
"You know the shadow in the curtain. Ogga- booga."
"Wait, I do sort of remember that. Dude, you told me if I stepped on my shadow, it would eat me! You're a--"
Sam seriously thought of punching Dean, but thought better for now. Later on, he might have to remember to whack him a good one.
"Now, that's a puzzle."
"I got the idea from some pansy Dad knew and just used it on Sam when he got to be a pain in the ass until that one time he cried like a little girl."
"So, you got the name?" Bobby asked.
"No. Some wannabe goober that Dad brought in. He hung a couple of times. Did squat."
"Dad collected some strange ones," Sam reminded, "Won't be easy to narrow down."
"This one wanted to be like Dad's sith or something—"
"Don't recall John training anyone."
"Guy's a total putz. Dad ditched him."
"How far back?"
"Uh, crap. Pretty far. I think."
"Has to be before I broke my arm," Sam said. "I fell out of that tree when my shadow touched the branch."
"That be before you had a clue about our circus. I could come up with a list and match up who hung around before Sam joined the ranks. Think you can describe--."
"Not even if you showed me his family photo album. Guy just – poof- gone. Something about him made me crazy pissed. Don't really remember what."
"There has to be a reason he popped out of your mouth."
"He ain't connected with hell?"
"Could be. Man was shaky if you ask me."
"You had a reason for bringing those memories out of your noggin. Could be a mess of nothing, leading nowhere. But, if it takes knocking a few stones out of the wall of yours, then you're going to do it. "
Dean seemed to cower and swallow apprehension at the suggestion. Even Sam, raising an eyebrow, sympathized. Over the years, Bobby's junkyard had become a halfway house to the brothers, and somehow, just being here made things seem better. However, neither of the boys wanted to be on the receiving end when Bobby demanded something .
Dean peered beyond Bobby, glance out of the curtains as a defensive response. When he dared to open his mouth with a frivolous brush off at the ready, he met the two glowering faces as sobering as the frozen determination of gargoyles.
"I'm going to hate this?"
"Oh yeah." Both replied simultaneously.
"Got anything to say for yourself?" Bobby asked.
"Ding dong. The bad guys dead?" Dean chuckled uneasily.
Then…. Rush, Oklahoma. June 1990
With a frustrated hand sweep, Dean drew back the flophouse's curtains and fixated on the dark outside the window. The only welcome home came when a street lamp guttered a deadly pale, orange light. In desperation for a better view, he whipped the fabric covering to one side, opened the window, and leaned out like a dog slathering out a car window. His action didn't make his father arrive faster and only garnered little more than a slight mist swathing the neglected panes.
On autopilot, Dean's fingers rolled along the fog covering in juvenile artistic representations; however, what he wrote and drew was less than fitting for a boy his age. The worldliness of his knowledge briefly inflated his ego. Then, just like the life span of his self-compliment, the temperature evened, leaving murky streaks of fingerprints on the glass. Until that point, he hadn't noticed the sticky film that transferred from the cigarette-tarnished curtains.
Dean carefully slapped his hands to his jeans, scrubbing greasy streaks on his knees until his hands felt sandpaper stripped. Just another ache, he figured. One more added to a pile of others with the leader of that pack being a longing to see his father.
"Brave face. Stone face," he mumbled in a reminder.
He knew the right rituals and expectations thrust upon him: the rules that were his alone. Over the years, a slew of army movies, along with John's training, presented enough material to react like a five star general, so he found it particularly annoying to be so eager each time his father came home. After all, he wasn't a child but a hunter. He brought forth images of the legends to quell the solitude.
Once fortified with greats- John Wayne, Clint Eastwood, Bruce Lee-, Dean screwed on his game face, scooped one leg over the windowsill, straggled on the perch, and peered out into the dusk. He squinted, allowing his eyes to adjust to the lightless world until the shapes morphed into the familiar and obvious. Finally, he completed the tough guy act by stretching out a leg and showing the light switch who made the rules around here. He could just stand his ground and turn it off without getting up. That would show the world how powerful Dean Winchester was.
When the inflated falsehoods popped, everything stilled. In that flash, Dean almost tricked into a belief the world contained the good his mother used to promise. And, maybe there was a bright happiness waiting for him or watching over him. Out of fairness, whoever they were, they should make themselves known soon. Having someone on his side that would never fail him would be nice. From the distant room, only Sam answered with a loud, mule-kicking snore.
"Figures," he bemoaned.
The universe certainly didn't have a clue about him, if that was his answer. Sam's good qualities included bubble popping, toy hoarding, and covering stealing- a short list of Sam's maddening quirks to fray nerves. Better yet, the little bunion had perfected the uncomfortable art of snuggle. Tonight he escaped the vile clutches of the cuddler, but he would trap Dean again soon. Sam had this way of innate cling, unwanted like rash, when they shared a bed. Dean gritted his teeth, mentally carving a mattress with a dividing line. If only his little brother understood battle lines of personal space. The habitual bed struggle officially made the "this bites" list.
Following his silent tirade of little brother woes, Dean beamed at his cleverness until Sam left loose a disturbed grumble.
Dean's posture stiffened as he listened intently, waiting to pounce to Sam's defense. That little guy was his "drive you made, cling-on, know nothing" little brother and everyone best not forget it. He waited until a gentle snore returned before he let his guard drop, not even fathoming how contradictory his thoughts spouted in regards to Sam. He didn't know what to do if he lost the small fry, and he planned to make sure he would never figure that one out.
In that one groan, worry and isolation returned to keep Dean's company. Absently, he dragged a finger in the filmy window sill, scrapping at the stains until "Zeppelin Rules" showed proudly, Pleased, he deemed the promotion of Rock as the best time waster for any occasion.
Tomorrow, the only time he would have would be spent up with plenty of chores- new salt supply, ammo, cleaning guns, holy water- piled on with John's arrival. He even heard a great joke to tell his dad about making holy water by boiling the hell out of it. His father would love that one, if he came home soon enough for Dean to remember to tell it.
Faithfully, he searched for his father's unmistakable frame to cross the dark horizon. Tonight was as good a night as any. From experience, Dean understood his father never followed a planned arrival- maybe today, tomorrow, or next week. Of course, John's coming home. He was sure. He hoped.
Dean drew knees up and rested his chin on them, bending upon his empty belly. A steady groan stabbed inside his gut, begging for a late night munchies raid. Potato chips cravings danced around inside his stomach. As he made a move to leap from his roost to obey his starvation cries, a figure tottered in the distance.
The momentary expectation and hope deflated when the form took on an unfamiliar shape. Whatever came was not his father-- too short and wrong walk. Plus, his Dad never let himself be so open without casing his surroundings.
On alert, he flailed the window shut, zipped the curtain to a slender opening, and crouched under the frame. From a secret space, he fumbled in the dark. His hand knew the way to the gun without a tread of light. In a second, the weapon secured inside his palm and snapped a straight aim upon the window. Pretend time was over. Now, he's badder than all the Hollywood pretenders could ever be and had no problem killing.
The shadow blocked the splatter of the street lamp as Dean cocked the weapon to fire. Then, just as quickly as it appeared, it moved beyond the windows. A quick gust of air expelled Dean's nerves for a blink until the shadow returned and gapped into the curtain slit and the room painted pitch. Even in the complete black, Dean steadied his arm, flexed a finger on the trigger, and locked dead on the figure.
"Wait!" John barked from beyond the door.
The shock of the voice nearly caused Dean to fully depress and fire.
"Don't approach my digs like that unless you want to get dead."
"You got this conspiracy stuff locked up too tightly wound." The shadow responded as something yanked it violent away from the window as if some outside force overtook it. .
"You'll keep your head this way." John said as he knocked a familiar pattern, pushed the darkling through the door and flicked on the lights.
"Whoa! Now that's a gun!" The shadow man offered.
Still kneeling and still holding the gun, Dean peered up at the two figures that had entered the room and lowered the gun.
"He's a friend," John offered his son with a smile and a kicking the door shut. "Good job, tiger. "
"I think I've just met your best kept secret weapon. Quite a boy you have there."
"You can't have him." John chuckled. "He's a hunter, not a boy. Already has 25 kills under his belt."
With pride, John took the weapon, noticing the aim and working order of the gun. In reward, he scuffed Dean's head.
"Don't look at me. More youngins might be the death of me. And, I ain't never stepping in your mess. Got enough trouble with the two head hydra, Ella-Jo. You think two boys are bad, try a woman and girl combo at four in the morning. Now, that gets ugly."
Inspecting the man, Dean realized the stranger as the man who had interrupted that putrid camping trip, and he found he disliked and distrusted the man just as instantly and intently.
"Would have been nice to have you when we cleared out those creepers," the man said as he mocked the tussle on Dean's noggin. "Wouldn't that have been fun?"
Tilting his head away, Dean drew back, eyeing the intruder suspiciously. His brows knitted, sharpening the narrow gaze of his glare.
The man chuckled nervously before he offered, "I see he's got your evil eye."
"Been known to bite too, but mainly when provoked. Dean, beers!"
Obediently, the boy dragged the bottles from the fridge, offering them unhappily, especially to the shadowy one.
"Hey, you should bring him up to this next gig I got on the radar- an icing kill of wraiths. Bet he's better back up than you.
"Nah!" Can't do it, Harv. He'd show you up and make you cry. Got a lot to learn before you're ready—"
"Instruct me, oh wise one!"
"Bullshit! I call bullshit."
Dean stared in disbelief. His father trained another hunter instead of him. All this time away had been devoted to some pupil in the dark side. When his nostrils flared, Dean pinched his lips tight to keep his mouth shut. This had better be a con on a sucker to get cash.
"Come on, what it hurt to pop a few before we get down to the nitty business "
"Uh, Gotta hook up with the usual. Don't have to remind you about the itch to see Missouri. "
"Plenty of time for that. Me and you with a busload of wraith under our belt. What a way to work up an appetite for bigger game."
"Maybe." John relented.
With a mock bow, the man laughed at John.
"Got a lot to do before I hit the road--
"You're leaving again?" Dean asked.
"Just for a while."
With his mouth gaping open and posture slumping, Dean trembled and fumed. This was his time and not some dark man who crept around in shadows to get his head nearly blown off. He did everything right and now he had no chance of being with his father.
"Don't worry I got a list of things for you to do while I'm gone. "
"Yes, sir."
The response sounded gritty, like Dean spitted out with a mouth full of sand, but he really wanted to shoot a breath of fire as the intruder taking his Dad so soon.
Ain't he a crackerjack. Bet your boys never painted a pink pony on your gear?"
"Life's just hard all over for you." John teased.
"And how can I pop a ghost with a glitter on my gun? Disgraced by a--"
"Then you shouldn't be a hunter," Dean grumbled. He didn't like the man when he saw him in the woods and he didn't like him better now. The man should have just stayed out there in the dark shadows where he belonged. Everyone else was always more important.
"Kiddo, you apologize now." John demanded softly with a frozen gaze.
"It's okay. I'm in his space. I get it. Don't worry, son."
"Get bent."
"Dean!" John barked. "Get your can in bed now. And I expect a better attitude when you-"
Dean narrowed on the creeper taking his father away with more venom than a thousand snakes.
"And you and I will have a little talk later on about this." John said in his special code for major trouble.
Gluing to the spot, Dean bore a dagger stare, but unwillingly obeyed the order. Both men ogled him as he defiantly turned and marched with a great stomp to the bedroom. He tucked safely behind the door and if children made vows, he made one at that second to pay back the man someday.
When the boy had gone, John fumed and glared into the distance. The planes on his face sharpened into rigid planes.
"Oh, cut him some slack!"
"Don't know what got into him."
"Try that he's still a kid that wants to hang with his old man. You can't be too hard on that."
"Damn, when did you get so wise Harvelle?"
"Think it was the rolling pin Ellen took to my head. Surprised I'm not brain dead from it," William Harvelle said. "Mark me- when that kids a teen, he won't give two shits to miss you and that sharp tongue of his will cut you god then. Live it up while you can."
"I've taught him better. We respect our own. Pay our debts."
"Hell, Jo's on pigtails going on 30. This life hardens them fast, but we got a chance to soften it for 'em. We both want that, especially when we are this close."
"The timing and signs make sense."
"I can't face this demon alone and we both know what this thing did to our families. "
"We're both in too deep to back out. Hard to think in a coupla weeks Next month that yellow-eye bastard will show for one hellva weenie roast. "
"About time. Until then we pop as many things as we can train a gun on. Whatta say about those wraiths?"
"Waiting ain't my strong suit."
"Nah, you just like the adrenalin rush."
"Got to do what good I can. Maybe the kids can look up to that one day."
"I think you're already a hero in that boy's eyes. But you can screw up a wet dream."
"Best I keep my hands busy on a gun then.
"Good thing. You'd be downright scary with idle hands."
"Might do the kid good to be on a hunt. I'd say this is a perfect job for a kiddo," Will said. "It's one we can't do without him."
