Chapter 7: Appetizers
Bobby's nerves twanged like a blues grass band as he parked at the far end of the hospital parking lot. His steps were hurried, rushed, anxious as he made his way through the parked cars. The thought he should have parked closer for a fast getaway flashed through his mind, but he figured he was too damned old to run with two overgrown, obnoxious Winchesters in tow. If he had to, he'd take 'em out at gunpoint. Speaking of which...
Bobby paused to pat himself down. Damn it. He left his gun in the car and the shotgun was kind of obvious. Most likely he'd be arrested before he even found out any information. Nah, he was better off going in unarmed. Inside the most haunted hospital in the county. Yeah, Singer, brilliant. Bobby returned to the car to load up his pockets with salt, herbs and some silver wards and charms. Feeling more secure, Bobby rushed through the cars again to approach the front door. His experienced eye picked out flashes just at the edge of vision, where spirits became visible, sometimes even in daylight. Even in daylight, which showed just how bad of a place this was. This place might be worse than his contact said. Friggin' perfect.
At the front desk he demanded information on his nephews, having no idea what names they might be listed under here. Instead of giving the poor lady, probably a volunteer, a last name he shouted louder and louder until someone rushed out of the administrative offices to take him someplace less public. Good. Maybe he could get some damn answers now. Again he repeated, loud, that his nephews Dean and Sam were here someplace and Dean had been hit by car a few weeks back. Now Sam wasn't answering his cell and he feared the worst.
The administrator's eyes widened. "Did you say they were brothers?"
Bobby nodded, slow and deliberate.
"Do these brothers suffer from hallucinations?" the man asked slowly.
"I didn't catch your name," Bobby said in a low growl, not liking the sound of the way this conversation had turned.
"Sorry Mister Singer. I'm James Johnson," he said hurriedly. "We've been attempting to identify two young men in our psych ward. They had no proper identification on them and claim to be brothers. Might be your nephews."
Bobby leaned on the man's desk, towering over Johnson's smaller frame with a scowl on his face. "Did you say 'psych ward', Jimmy?"
Johnson leaned back in his chair. "My name is James," he said slowly, his irritation clear in his voice and the expression on his face. "Or Mister Johnson. Does mental illness run in the family, Mister Singer?"
Bobby felt a growl crawl up his throat. "No," he replied slowly. "But violence does, and I got a short temper, son. Where the hell are my nephews?" It wasn't a question. Not really. More of an order or a command. And if this moron knew what was good for 'im, he'd jump to.
Sam looked around with glazed eyes, half expecting to find himself in the Impala. Instead sterile whiteness greeted him. What was this? What was happening to him? And where the hell was Dean?
He had a strong feeling something was terribly, horribly wrong and it was because of him. Sam peered through the room feverishly, as though a clue to his brother's whereabouts might be lurking against the wall or hiding in a corner.
"He's not here, Sam." That voice. It was so sweet and innocent and...sexy.
Wide brownish-hazel eyes snapped to the source. Jess stood by his bed in her naughty nurse outfit. Sam couldn't help his grin, he really loved that costume. Hated Halloween, but the costume was awesome. They'd had some fun with it too, as he recalled.
"You bad boy," Jess chided through her smile. She used her soft, slender hands to smooth her skirt over her perfect hips. Sam's mouth was starting to water. Hell of a time for a wet dream, though.
His eyes flicked around his surroundings again. Padded white walls. Bed. Restraining straps. Aching ankles and forearms.
Sam's eyes narrowed on this vision of Jess. "What are you?" he demanded. "Because you're not Jess."
Her gorgeous blue eyes rolled. "Now, Sammy, is that any way to talk to me?"
"Sammy?" He snorted in disbelief. Whatever this thing was, it really didn't know who it was impersonating. "Jess never tried calling me Sammy. Not once. And as of right now, there's only one person alive who's allowed to call me that."
"Ah, yes." The smile he saw wasn't Jess'. When Jess smiled the sunshine was warmer and the light a little brighter. This smile caused a chill to permeate the room and goosebumps to race up his arms. "You mean Dean. Your wonderful, self-sacrificing big brother." A cold chuckle followed. "I think he'd do anything for you. Lucky for me."
All the air in his chest froze as Sam stared at the beautiful and terrifying vision standing next to him. He wanted to ask what and why and where was Dean, but he couldn't. All he could do was stare in his horror. What was this thing doing to Dean? The past three weeks had been a living nightmare of worry and searching and hunting for his brother. Sam was not about to just give up. Not when he had had his brother back, in the same frigging room, so recently.
At least, he hoped that had been recently. With all the drugs the moron doctor had been injecting into his I.V., Sam couldn't be sure.
He forced the air in his lungs to move, the muscles in his chest to allow speech. "What are you?" he asked again, but this time his voice was strained and breathless.
Jess leaned over him to trail a brightly painted fingernail down the center of his chest. "You shouldn't be worried about what I am, Sammy. You should be worried about what's happening with your brother. He was being a bad boy, but he's behaving much better now."
Sam forced his dry mouth to swallow. "H-how?"
She smiled the same cold grin as her hand spread across his chest and rested there. "I only came for this nice little snack," she told him, rubbing against his chest briefly as her eyes closed.
"Mmmmm...tasty."
When her deep-sea blue eyes opened a reddish tint slipped down, like a visor. Even the whites of her eyes had a red glow. "I can see having both of you around will be so much fun. Well, I suppose I should check to be sure Dean's heart is still beating." She frowned and it was familiar, as though he had seen the frown before. "He can be stubborn."
Jess dissolved into a whirl of darkness which circled tightly, faster and tighter, until it disappeared.
"I guess it's too much to ask that it killed itself," Sam mumbled, allowing his head to fall back. He stared unblinking up at the ceiling. "We are so screwed."
Despair. Utter desolation. Dad was dead. Sam gone. Jim dead. Caleb dead. One by one he crossed the names of people who were family and like family off his mental list. Bobby chased him and Dad off with a shotgun. Gone.
Bobby?
Through watery eyes, Dean could see an image, maybe a memory, of Bobby bringing him a cup of coffee in the salvage yard. The old man had a concerned look on his face, though he never asked if Dean was all right. It seemed as if Bobby knew he'd never be all right again.
Be a good boy, Dean, the dark voice hissed. Think about how they've all left you. You're all alone.
Alone. They were all gone. Sooner or later, everyone left him. Cassie. She thought he was crazy. Even after she called for help, she said there was no way they could ever be serious again. That was assuming they ever were. The longest, most serious relationship he'd ever had lasted a whole two weeks.
Pathetic.
He was too pathetic to live. Dean curled in on himself, hugging his knees to his chest. A steady beat sounded in his head. Slowly Dean lifted his head to drop it on the mattress in time to the beat in his skull. It was hard, too much effort. He rolled off the bed to sit on the floor and lean against the wall. This was much better. Now he could bang his head all he wanted without much effort.
The walls in here should be white, Dean thought. It would look better in white. The wall would feel better if it were padded. Not that he wanted it to feel better. No. He'd prefer a nice spike to slam his head against.
Dean, the voice was back, don't make me pay Sammy another visit.
Pressing his forehead against his knees, Dean finally allowed the horrid, dreaded tears to flow. Worthless. If he died right here, right now, a perfect stranger might notice when he hadn't checked out or started to smell, whichever came first.
"Dean?"
It wasn't the dreaded, cold, sinister voice. This one was warm and familiar, the tones washing away the cold self-pity.
"C'mon, boy. Open your damn eyes. Don't you go tryin' to die on me now."
Dean lifted his head to look around, see if it was real or his imagination playing a nasty trick on him.
Dad sat on the edge of the bed. "Dean. One last order. Just one." He motioned to the closed door. "Sam's a sitting duck now, you know that. The demon's been waiting for him to be alone, so he can work on Sam, turn him."
Unbidden tears flooded his cheeks again. "I can follow him," he said and his voice cracked with uncertainty. "I can still try."
Dad glared. "Without Sam knowing? He's better at this game than you are, boy. You know that. If Sam doesn't want to be found, he won't be. You couldn't find him the last time he ditched you, could you?"
Dean shook his head before turning to knocking it in a steady beat against the wall. The nice solid wall. Maybe if he hit it hard enough the piece he was missing to be a real human being, one someone could give a damn about, might fall into place.
"And you know Sam doesn't care, otherwise he wouldn't have left you here," Dad told him, like he didn't already know that.
"Damn it." There was a heavy sigh. Once again Dean paused to seek out the source of the good voice, the one he wanted to hear. "All right, boy. I guess I'll wait. The longer you keep me waitin', though, the longer it'll take for me to check on that brother of yours."
"Dean." His eyes snapped back to Dad whose eyes had an odd reddish tint, making him appear angrier and more severe than usual. But, well, Dad was dead. And most likely in Hell. So Dean couldn't really blame him for being pissed. "You stay right here. That's an order."
A warm sensation enveloped his right hand. Dean looked down at it, curious. What could cause this? The warmth squeezed, an invisible force holding tight to him. Dean curled his right hand, shocked to find he could not make a fist because there was resistance.
"That's it boy," the warm voice told him. "Come on."
His right hand was squeezed tighter. Dean held on, unable to let go despite the nasty look coming from dead-Dad.
"I'll visit Sam!" dead-Dad threatened, eyes flaring a deep blood red. Definitely not Dad.
Dean took a deep breath as he leveled a glare on notDad. "Not if Bobby beats you there."
He pressed his eyes closed and breathed deep and long. When he tried to force his eyes open, it was more difficult this time. Hundred pound weights clung to his lashes, keeping them closed.
"Come on, Dean," Bobby's voice was warm and rough and so freaking strong, perfect. Perfect for helping even him. "Wake up."
Sam. He had to warn Bobby about the danger to Sam. It took every ounce of strength he had left, but Dean managed to pry his eyes partially open. Just enough to see a blurry version of Bobby hovering close enough to smell coffee and exhaust fumes. He must've driven the Chevelle. It needed a new exhaust. Bobby knew better! Sam first, chew Bobby out later.
"Sam," Dean tried to say, but he wasn't sure if he made a noise.
"Easy, Dean," Bobby said. Now there was pressure on both his shoulders. "I peeked in on him before coming to see you. He's tied down like a distressed damsel on a railroad track, but he's fine."
Dean shook his head, though he felt nothing but exhaustion permeating his entire body. "It's coming for him. Hurry." He tried to push Bobby away.
"Now?" Bobby whispered, the muscles in his face drawing tight.
"Hurry," Dean urged.
Bobby hesitated and Dean feared he might not go after all. "I'll be back," he promised. He turned to face Dean as he left the area, pointing a meaty hand at him. "Don't you dare fall asleep, you hear?"
Dean had no idea if this was an order he could follow, but he was damn sure going to try.
Sam glared at the ceiling as if it were the enemy. If he could just get his hands on the moron doctor who stuffed him in here...
It wasn't really that he didn't understand why he was strapped down to this table, because he understood perfectly. The doctor had some idea of what he and Dean were capable of, no doubt from Dean's behavior before Sam finally received the phone call. He wished the doctor had allowed Dean to call, Sam might have been able to prepare for this place. How many spirits were here? They must have been driving Dean crazy.
"Oh, Sammy..." The frigging nasty voice was back! Sam's body tensed as he wondered what it had done to his brother. "Your turn."
The voice came from the corner of the room. Sam twisted as far as his bonds would allow for a better view. There was a slight shadow in the corner, but nothing else. He waited, staring at the spot. The shadow grew darker and the room cold. A shiver ran through him as a dark form stepped out of the corner. Dad glared at him, disappointed and disapproving.
Sam's mouth went dry. Oh, crap. A tiny voice in the back of his head, the one which sounded like Dean, yelled and screamed at him that this was a trick. It didn't help the way his heart was racing in his chest or the guilt twisting in his gut.
There was a sharp scraping noise as Dad dragged a chair out of the shadow to sit on, right next to Sam's bed. He leaned back, arms crossed over his chest with a cold glare. "Let's talk about your brother."
"How is he?" Sam demanded. "Is Dean all right?"
Dad snorted as his face drew down into a frown. "What do you care? You're the one who wanted out of this family. Oh, wait, that's right..." One eyebrow raised in Dad's cold, calculating expression. "You need him, don't you? To get your little revenge?"
Sam glared hotly, the truth of the statement hitting uncomfortably close. "He's my family!" he protested. Then, in a smaller voice, "Dean's all I have left."
Dad's eyes rolled. "Oh, and you really know how to show it too, don't you? You abandoned the family for what? College?" His cold voice dripped with sarcasm. "Did you call big brother even once? To let him know you made it alive?"
Wracked with guilt and thoughts he had not allowed himself to dwell on in years, Sam slowly shook his head.
"Well," Dad said slowly, "that explains a lot. And recently, when you sneaked off in the middle of the night. Did you really think it wouldn't bother him at all? I guess Dean isn't supposed to have feelings, huh?"
"Open this god-damned door!" a voice raged from the edge of his hearing. Confused, Sam rolled his head toward the door.
"Sam!" Dad snapped. "I asked you a question! Answer it!"
There was movement through the little window. Sam caught a glimpse of a stained and beat-up trucker's cap. No. It couldn't be.
"Then find the right key, before I go fetch my shotgun!"
Bobby? Could it really be Bobby? What was he doing here?
A broad strong hand, cold as ice, turned his face away from the door to stare up into dark soulless eyes with a faint red glow. "I said answer me, Sammy."
Sam grit his teeth as he mustered a glare. "And I told you before, there's only one person alive allowed to call me that. You're not even alive."
The sneer wasn't Dad's, it twisted the trusted face until it was barely recognizable. "And you don't treat him any better than your father did, do you? As a matter of fact, I'm pretty sure dear ol' dad did a better job. At least he threw Dean a bone occasionally, telling him he wasn't completely worthless. But you? Any time you can't make Dean do exactly what you want, you just take off. I guess because you're just so much better than he is."
The words stabbed, deeper than any knife. Wet heat streaked from his eyes down the sides of his face, some pooling in his ear while the rest soaked his hair. Sam wasn't better than Dean. He knew how true it was, how far he needed to improve just to attempt to measure up to his family's standards. Honestly, Sam had wondered why Dean stuck with him, why he hadn't been abandoned in the middle of the night. There was a reason he took on as much of the research as he could, trying to make himself indispensable to his brother.
"Dean volunteered to play with me, just to keep little brother safe," notDad drawled slowly. "Maybe I should tell him how you don't deserve it, huh? How you're just using him to get what you want?"
Sam clenched his jaw, unable to stop the flow of tears. He couldn't even tell this frigging thing to shut the hell up.
"And then what?" it continued. "You'll leave him again, won't you?"
It kicked back, looking so much like Dad with its arms crossed over its chest and one foot propped up on the bed. It waved a hand towards the door. Sam could hear cussing in Bobby's worried voice from just a few feet away.
"Just go on back to school and find a new blond chick," it said. "After all, Dean has to let you go once you've killed the demon, right? Wasn't that the agreement?"
Yes, he'd said it, he had. Sam couldn't deny it. But that was...before.
"I won't," Sam whispered, his conviction growing.
"Sure you will." notDad stood with this irritating annoying grin. "Because if you don't, you'll destroy everything good about him, everything you admire." It gave Sam one of Dad's conspiratorial winks. "I'll be back, Sammy."
The door burst open, Bobby rushing into the room. "Sam!" He was at Sam's side in two broad steps. "You all right, boy?"
"I-it's after Dean," Sam told him.
Bobby produced a knife from his pocket. "I know it," he grunted. "But I can't be in two places at once, so you're comin' with me."
"This patient can not be removed from the room," a man in a white lab coat insisted from behind Bobby.
"And I done told you," Bobby said as he worked swiftly on Sam's bonds, "I got a shotgun in the car."
"Hurry," Sam urged. "Dean's in danger." He couldn't lose Dean too. He couldn't.
