8. The Eye of the Storm
What was left when that fire was gone
I thought it felt right but that right was wrong
All caught up in the eye of the storm
And trying to figure out what it's like moving on
"Okay, so here's the low-down on what Bobby got," Dean said as soon as he hung up, feeling a hell of a lot more energized now that things seemed to be looking up and they had something to work with.
Sam crossed the room in a few steps and seated himself in the chair Dean had been previously occupying. His attention was transfixed on his brother, who noted with relief that whatever dizziness or weakness that the younger Winchester had initially felt when he'd appeared – reappeared – had worn off. Probably thanks due to his amulet, he thought, pleased.
Dean perched on the edge of his own bed, facing his brother; elbows resting on his knees, hands loosely clasped out front, he looked at Sam with a serious expression. "Alright, I gave Bobby all the details I had after you did your little magic trick and disappeared – told him about the other victims and the nightmares-" here he paused to shoot a sheepish Sam a withering glare, before continuing, "And he said he might have a lead. But he wants us to interview the others' families first, see what we can get on them and their, uh, deaths. Situations leading up to them, at least. Anything odd that could have happened to affect them." Here he frowned thoughtfully.
Sam thought he knew why, as he pointed out, "But we've only been here a few days and we haven't exactly had the time to encounter anything odd. Well, except for the-"
"Then that's it!" Dean cut in, sitting up and staring at Sam. The younger brother broke off, a startled "What?" enticing Dean to continue with renewed energy. "You're pretty much our only clue, Sam. Hell, you're the biggest clue we'll get." When Sam still looked like he didn't completely comprehend what Dean was getting at, he shook his head and added, "The nightmares, Sammy. I mean, they were obviously linked to this thing, whatever it is. So – we get whatever details we can from what you dreamed about…"
"Well, yeah," Sam conceded slowly, although not as excitedly as his brother. "That would be a great idea, if I could actually remember what I was dreaming about." He grimaced, feeling a little bad for the way Dean seemed to deflate slightly at the news. He shrugged helplessly. "It's not like I can replay them in full colour and HD, Dean," he said reasonably. "All I know is that they were dark and there was… this sense of… I don't know, morbid urgency, I guess. Other than that…" He shook his head slightly to indicate that was all he had.
Dean chewed on his lip, staring at the floor in silent contemplation. Then he nodded and got up, clasping his brother on the shoulder. "Alright, no worries. We'll work with what we've got – or what we can get," he amended, making his way to the door. He paused and glanced back, eyebrow raised when he saw that Sam had stood but hadn't followed yet. "Sam? You comin'?"
Sam glanced up from the wreckage, the table and glass in shambles – and his laptop – all on the floor. That wasn't what troubled him, though; more the thought and mental image of his brother being so pissed and frustrated to launch his anger at whatever was in sight. It sent his mind back to the horrible weeks after their dad's death – deal; how a broken Dean had unleashed everything boiling under his skin onto the hood of his beloved car, the dents he had left in the tough metal corresponding with the unhealed scars on the older Winchester's heart and soul.
Because Dean could handle injuries and fights, could face his own reapers and make jokes at the expense of his own death – but as soon as those things shifted over to his family, he couldn't. And every time someone close to him died, a part of Dean went with them. He'd lost so much that night Mary had gone up in flames, a mere four year old at the time. But he'd shouldered it and used the knowledge of the world's dangers to help his father and protect his brother. Then John had left him, too, and it broke Dean in more ways than one. Now orphaned, with a whole new set of responsibilities on his shoulders; and despite his efforts at hiding it from him, Sam saw, knew what a staggering weight it was. And he thought that was a loss Dean might not recover from – might not let those new wounds and gashes heal.
And then Sam had been killed, in front of his eyes.
And Sam knew that for all the losses in their lives, all the hard hits that just kept on coming, there was nothing that would hit either brother harder than the pain of losing each other. Especially now. It was why he couldn't stay mad at Dean for doing what he did – for getting Sam back, for signing his own death contract, for wanting his brother alive – because, in his place… he couldn't exactly claim he wouldn't have done the same.
Which was why they needed to find the bugger who was behind this and gank him. Sam was pretty damn sure that his dying again was not on Dean's bucket list. And it would kinda put a downer on the rest of the year.
"Right behind ya," Sam muttered and led the way out; Dean's eyes following him all the way.
They started with Catherine Saurens's family – though Dean was starting to wish they hadn't. Maybe it was the fact that her death was still so recent, or that she was an only child, but talking to her grieving parents was even harder than their usual victim interviews.
It might also have had to do with the fact that Dean was pretty much alone here. They'd realised soon after leaving the motel room that no-one could see Sam except his brother, and wasn't that just freaking brilliant? So now Dean had to get whatever info about the kid's death that he could while simultaneously playing Sam's part of sympathetic CDC official. All while Sam was right there, but effectively useless.
Dean shifted uncomfortably on the couch – sure, he'd done his fair share of solo hunts and interviews in the past, but this was relatively different. Mrs. Saurens was currently going through her second box of tissues. Her husband sat solemnly beside her, silent in his grief. Dean shot a brief and awkward glance at Sam, who grimaced empathetically. He cleared his throat briefly.
"I'm really sorry about your daughter," he told them, tone low and serious. Starting over seemed appropriate, seeing as Mrs. Saurens had burst into tears as soon as he'd sat and mentioned Catherine. Dean had waited until the worst of it seemed to be over, before continuing. "And I know this is a bad time, it's just we need all the information we can get to prevent… further… situations from occurring." He hesitated, not wanting to elicit more pain for the parents by saying 'deaths'.
The older man nodded in acknowledgement of his sincere words. His face was etched in lines of shocked despair – sudden deaths like Catherine's always had the hardest impact on families. He sighed deeply. "We really don't have much to tell you, son," he said after a moment, rubbing his wife's back comfortingly. "It was just… It was- sudden. She had no illness, the coroner told us her heart was perfectly fine, until…" He broke off, swallowed, and tilted his head slightly. Dean could finish his sentence fine on his own – until it stopped beating.
He nodded, head bowed as he pretended to record the information in his notepad – though what he wrote was more something along the lines of needing to gank this mother ASAP. With a tad more vulgar eloquence that can only come from a certain Dean Winchester. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Sam wandering around the house, observing what he could. He glanced up again at the older couple.
"I understand that Catherine was having, ah, disturbed sleep prior to… her death?" he asked, watching their faces closely.
Mr. Saurens nodded but it was his wife who answered, after sniffling once more into a tissue. Her voice was soft, no doubt tender from the emotional onslaught. "She was. She hadn't… slept properly for nights, said they were nightmares." Her expression crumpled for a second before she continued, "We expected them, after what happened to her last month, b-but, not…" Here, she stopped completely, retreating to her husband's side with a wail.
Normally, Dean would have taken that as his cue to go, leave them to mourn in peace. But not now – no… now, he may have just found something. He leaned forward earnestly, his expression open. "Why? What happened last month?"
"There was… a car accident," the father told him, the pain clear in his eyes. "Kate was driving home from work, and she, she got hit. A young driver. DUI, the police told us. It was… a close call. She was in hospital for a while… almost didn't make it…"
"But she did," Mrs. Saurens put in, voice wavering. "By some miracle, we got our daughter back. Only, only… to have her… taken now-" She broke off with a sob.
It was fine, though, because Dean was done there. He'd gotten what he needed and it was high-time he got out of this house. So, with a sincere thank you and condolences – plus a quick check to make sure Sam was back with him – he left.
The brothers sat in the car outside for a few silent moments; Dean appreciating the cool air and reprieve from the stiflingly emotional confines of the house of yet another victim of one of the many fuglies they had to hunt down in their lives; Sam half mulling over what they found out and half (mostly) concerned for the toll this was all taking on his brother. He eyed Dean worriedly, but didn't address it – neither of them could do anything until they had more answers and could fix this.
Dean broke the silence with a sigh as he revved the engine, easing out the parking. He shot a glance at Sam. "Did you find anything in there?" They had agreed before entering that Sam would search the house for anything suspicious or out of the ordinary. Any clues at all.
Sam shook his head regretfully. "House was clear, as far as I could tell. Got into her room but there's nothing there."
"Great," Dean grunted, speeding out.
Old Mr. Phillips had, as the coroner told them – well, told Dean – before, lived alone. He had no-one in town, but the brothers did their research. Or Sam did, anyway. And by gaining medical records that were most likely classified, they found out that he'd been in a coma recently. And had, against all odds, woken up from it and gone on to continue running his local business repairing and replacing worn car tires. That is, until the sudden death had hit him too.
So with that new-found knowledge and grim expectance of what they'd find out about the last victim, Sam and Dean headed towards their next destination.
Nick Munroe had no family either in the city. But he had been bunking with his friend as they attended the local college together. Dean grimaced to himself as they made their way to the front door of their apartment – interviewing parents of victims was one thing, but close friends was a whole different matter. They weren't always as open about their buddy's life and predicaments.
So it was with a resigned sigh that Dean rang the doorbell, straightening his tie along with his expression into something more professional. Just not the douchebag kind of professional. Dean did not do douche, whatever he was pretending to be.
The door opened after about half a minute and Dean found himself facing a tall young man who was undoubtedly Jason Royce – the dark hair in a crew cut and small scar on his left cheek clearly identifying him from the ID photo from the college's student database. His blue eyes narrowed sharply at Dean, muscles arms crossed almost hostilely over his chest. "If you're another freakin' reporter-" he started angrily, but Dean cut him off with a smooth and calm, "Not a reporter."
"Then who are you?" the kid demanded, still not budging.
Dean didn't even bother offering up a fake smile, knowing it wouldn't get him anywhere. Instead, he just flashed his faux-official card with a practiced, "Dean Kaplan, CDC official. Look, I'm not gunna be long, I just need some answers and then I'll get out of your way," he added imploringly.
Jason's jaw ticked but he stepped aside, leading the way in and nodding tersely at the table, indicating for Dean to sit. He did, making a cursory sweep of the room as Sam roamed in further – undoubtedly looking for Nick's bedroom.
"Jason, right?" he asked even though he already knew, attention returning to the younger man. Jason nodded and seated himself opposite Dean, one hand tapping a rhythmic beat on the table in front of him, the other dangling down beside him. Now that he wasn't trying to tower over Dean in an intimidating way, the Winchester noticed that he seemed kinda lost – his eyes jumped from him to the door to scan the room. He waited for Jason to say something, knowing from past experience that a twitchy interviewee was bursting with things to confess.
"They haven't found out what caused it, have they?" he finally asked, sharp eyes snapping back to a relaxed Dean and staying there. Making sure he told the truth, the latter realised.
He shook his head. "Not yet, no." Dean paused deliberately, eyeing the other man curiously. "Know anything that might help?" A beat of silent staring passed, and this time Dean pushed, quietly. "He was having nightmares, right?"
Jason released a deep breath, dropping his gaze to the table. The stony mask that had initially been in place was all but gone now, leaving nothing but a lonely guy who'd unexpectedly lost a friend. It made him look younger, despite the impressive height and bulk, and Dean sympathised with the guy, hating that they couldn't always give proper answers for the shit that happened to people.
"Nick doesn't have nightmares," Jason muttered to the table. He gave a short bitter laugh. "Idiot never freaked out about anything, and then suddenly he can't freaking sleep at night 'cause of some stupid dreams." He did look up then, glaring at Dean almost daringly. "You try to tell me that's some shit-faced symptom for a chronic disease…" he trailed off, half-threateningly. But the bigger half was because whatever anger had spurred that on seemed to die out, and Dean was left dealing with a tired 21-year-old dealing with something he didn't want to. Shouldn't have to, Dean silently added, pissed as hell at the thing behind this.
"I'm not gunna lie to you," he said after a moment, meeting Jason's gaze unflinchingly. "I don't really know what we're dealing with here, or what the nightmares have got to do with anything, but we will find answers." He hesitated then, but Jason's expression was going back to that cold one as he prepared to throw some snarky comment at Dean made him add on with a small regretful, dark smile, "Yeah, I know – it's not gunna bring him back, it's not gunna change anything. And I'm sorry for that. But… we're going to make sure this doesn't happen to anyone else."
Jason seemed to muse over that and he nodded wearily, slumping back in his seat. "Alright. Yeah, okay. What do you need to know?"
Dean rubbed a hand across his jaw thoughtfully. "Was Nick in a… life-threatening situation recently? Close call, almost didn't make it?" he queried, repeating the Saurens' words and forcefully shutting his mind when it uninvitedly started replaying Sam's death to him. Not now, dammit.
This time, a brief flash of remembered fear flickered across the college-boy's features before he switched his gaze away again, staring almost blankly at the silent TV across the room. Dean's own eyes followed it to the picture beside the television – a framed photo of a group of four laughing guys, a beach behind them. Dean could make out Jason and Nick in the middle, the other two obviously their friends. His lips twitched, suddenly bittersweet – it reminded him of the few pictures he'd seen of Sam's time at Stanford. Most had gone up in flames, but there were a couple left over.
Jason's voice snapped his eyes and almost undivided attention back to him. The other part of said attention was transfixed, as always, on Sam – who was leaning against the doorway. His expression told Dean he'd found about as much here as he had at the Saurens'. In other words, nada.
"Nick got… hit by a truck, couple months back," Jason said. His tone was almost casual, but the nearly glazed-over look that darkened his eyes told Dean that he was as much in that undeniably horrible moment as he was sitting right there. "Guy didn't see him crossing the street. He was a mess, he-" He swallowed hard, clenching his jaw and hands. "It was all touch and go for a while. He'd been about to go visit his folks up in New York the day after the accident." He lapsed into silence, slowly uncurling his fingers from the tight clench.
Dean winced slightly. "Must've been tough," he said, tone low. Truck accidents were something else he could relate to, another death that was his fault. He mentally growled at his mind to shut the hell up.
Jason didn't seem to pay him any attention, lost in his own thoughts. And Dean took that as his cue to leave.
He'd definitely gathered some helpful information. And he'll be damned if he let another person here to lose someone who they'd already almost lost once.
A/N: *waves tiredly* Hi. So. This killed me. You're reading a dead author's notes now. Cuz I'm all dead. And drained and all.
Uberly sorry for the long wait. :/ I, uh, my laptop may have died. Badly. And I totally had nothing to do with it. *glares at the stupid thing sulkily* Seriously. Idiot laptop. Which meant I couldn't type whenever I wanted to, which also meant I had to use ze family computer which has the world's most annoying keyboard. Plus I hardly use this comp for anything other than movies cuz of the big screen, so that was a distraction. (Effectively got all Avengers movies down, though. xD Was worth it.)
Anyway. I hope the super longness made up for that! Oh, and all thanks for this chapter even getting done goes to dodo.123, mah trusty twin-mate across the world for tantalizingly waving teasers for her own stories in the air until I did this. *grudgingly hands her gummy worms* So yeah. Kudos.
Not sure when the next chapter will be up, but now that this bit's outta the way, it might be easier to get the rest down. x) Thanks so far for the reviews, guys! :D
'kay. Izzy off. :P
