Barely making the deadline on this one. Oops.
It's too dark. I can't see anything. But I can hear. There is a deep, rumbling growl directly in front of me, and I take an automatic step back, searching my pockets blindly for a weapon. All I have is my flashlight. I pull it out and click it on, the thin beam illuminating the space directly in front of me. There's nothing there. But I can still hear the growling and I can sense the slow advance of whatever it is moving closer.
Hellhound. It has to be.
Panicked, I take another step back, and then another, but it keeps coming. The beam of my flashlight is searching the empty air in front of me, so at first I don't see what I trip over. I go down hard onto my back and feel a sharp, painful tug as a few of my stitches break open, my blood almost immediately soaking through to my shirt. I slide the rest of the way over whatever it is that's tripped me up and get to my knees, my flashlight still in hand. I whip the beam around again, though I'm fairly certain I won't be able to see anything. A second later, I wish that were true.
The light skitters over the spot where I tripped for a fraction of a second, so quickly that at first it doesn't register. Because of course it can't be…
My hand is shaking, but I force it to move back until the beam of light allows me to see what's directly in front of me, the thing I've tripped over.
It's my brother.
His eyes are wide open, a naked fear pooling out from their depths that I've never seen before, wish I never had to see. There's blood everywhere. Some of it is spilling out from his silent lips, but most of it originates from the deep slash marks that riddle his chest and stomach, dug deep enough that I can see the thick white wall of his ribcage peeking out from underneath.
He's long past breathing.
No.
NoNoNoNoNoNoNo.
Dean.
I fall backwards, all of my air gone, yet somehow I still manage to start screaming. The low, even growl that has been present the entire time stops abruptly.
"Sam?"
"Sammy?"
The voice sounds like it's been submerged underwater, but I latch onto it anyway because I know it. I know it, and it sounds like…
Dean.
He's hovering over me, one hand pressed against my cheek, the other shaking my shoulder gently, trying to avoid aggravating my injuries.
"Hey. Hey, you with me?" he asks. And suddenly I am. I nod slowly, coming back to the here and now. I'm sprawled out in the passenger seat of the Impala, one arm wrapped tight around my torso, the other dangling uselessly at my side. I bring it up, hand finding my brother's forearm, just to make sure he's here. To make sure this is real. It is. Dean exhales roughly and leans back against the driver's seat.
"Jeez, Sam," he grumbles, "thought we were over the whole nightmare thing, huh? You alright?"
"I'm fine," I reply automatically, a habit I picked up from my big brother. I shudder at the tangibility of the dream and the overwhelming clarity of Dean's vacant expression that follows every blink. I turn to face the real Dean, waiting for my brain to replace that gory image with the one in front of me. He lets out another soft sigh and shakes his head at me. I doubt he's slept more than eight hours in the past week.
"Want me to drive?" I ask. I don't expect the sharp bark of laughter that sputters out from Dean's chest, nor the genuine smile that crosses his features.
"Dude, you're still so gooped up on gop, I doubt you could walk a straight line," he smirks. "I got it man, we're almost to Bobby's anyway. Maybe another hour."
"Dean, come on," I urge, "I took those pain pills ages ago. Lemme drive for a bit."
Dean just smiles again and shakes his head. "Sammy, I gave you more just a little while ago. And the fact that you can't remember that means you probably shouldn't be operating heavy machinery at the moment, alright? Especially not my Baby. Just get some rest." He pats my shoulder and turns the keys to the Impala. It rumbles back to life, mirroring the low growl I'd heard in my nightmare. Frowning, I try to add up all the time I've lost in this half-awake state. I don't feel drugged. There's a dull fogginess to my senses, sure, and I guess my legs haven't really moved this whole time. They're just sitting there, knees bent and curled towards the driver's side. They look weird. Legs are just weird. And maybe my body feels a little wobbly or wibbly or whatever the word is…those are funny words. Who came up with those? Wobble. Wibble. Wibble-wobble.
Okay yeah, I'm probably a little out of it.
Dean's laughing again, so I turn to look at him.
"What?" I demand, crossing my arms over my chest, trying not to screw up any of the bandages. We've pulled back onto the road now, the trees blurring past us on either side.
"Nothing," Dean says, trying to keep a straight face. "I just think your wibbly-wobbly body needs to rest a little more."
Well shit. Guess I said all that out loud.
"Yes. Yes, you did," Dean chuckles.
Dammit.
oooooooooooooooooooooooo000000O0000000ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
Bobby's happy to see us, but if you didn't know him, you wouldn't be able to tell.
"What the hell took you boys so long?" he growls as soon as we've made our way inside. Dean had to help me a little bit, an arm wrapped around my waist with mine draped over his shoulder.
"And what the hell happened to you, Sam?" Bobby sputters as he gets a good look at me; scrutinizing. "You look like someone stuck you in a blender and hit 'puree'. Be nice if you boys could keep yourselves in one piece for longer than one goddamn day."
"Sorry Bobby, got caught up," Dean answers first, not letting go of me yet. He drops our weapons bag on the table in Bobby's kitchen and heads for the living room, lowering me onto one of the couches. Bobby follows. I resist at first, worried I'll fall asleep again if I sit down, but Dean shoots me an irritated look and pushes me the rest of the way down onto the cushions.
"Guess I can't complain too much, seeing as both of ya are still breathing," Bobby grunts, arms folded. Dean snorts and disappears from view, coming back a moment later with a beer in his hand.
"Jeez, Dean," I grumble from my place on the couch, "it's like noon!"
"Five o'clock somewhere," Dean shrugs, flicking the cap in my direction and taking a long swig. "So, any leads to look into on the dick who owns my soul, Bobby?" he asks.
"Actually, yeah," Bobby answers. "Bela Talbot."
Dean snorts. "Okay, I know she's got all the personality traits associated with demons, but even if she is one, I don't think she's got the prestige to own a soul like mine. I mean, come on."
"Bela's not the answer ya idjit," Bobby growls, rolling his eyes. "But she's a good place to start."
"Because she has the Colt?" I ask. I'm drifting a little bit, the meds still taking their toll, but so far I've managed to follow the conversation pretty well.
"Aw come on," Dean cuts in, "there's no way she's still got it. Would've sold it to the highest bidder ages ago."
"The Colt would certainly help our situation," Bobby agrees, "but that's not the only reason. Apparently Bela's been in contact with some demons recently. And I'm talkin' real upper-level mooks."
"Why?" I ask.
"Sellin' merchandise? Buying real estate? The hell if I know," Bobby says. "Doesn't matter. All that matters is, she's been talking to 'em. And they probably know who holds your contract Dean. So: we find Bela, we might just find our demon."
"And you know where she is?" Dean inquires.
Bobby shakes his head. "Nah, but I know someone who does. Older hunter by the name of Rufus Turner. Real paranoid son of a bitch, so he won't tell ya over the phone- you gotta go see him. He'll let you know what's what, send you in the right direction."
"Great, let's go," I say, making a move to stand up. I get upright just fine, but once I'm on my feet, the floor…no, the world…decides it wants to start tilting. I throw my hands out, searching for something to grab onto, and a moment later my fingers find the sleeve of my brother's jacket. I'm not sure how he got here so fast, but he manages to wrap an arm around my waist and keep me from falling, still avoiding the bandages taped across my chest.
"Easy there," he says, hauling me over until the backs of my knees hit the couch and I collapse back onto it. "How bout you recover here for a bit longer, okay? I can handle Bela."
"No. No," I insist, trying to keep track of the blurry form of my brother as he begins rearranging the pillows around me, giving my shoulder a light push until I'm suddenly lying down vertical. I didn't give my body permission, but it gave way easily under Dean's touch. And Bobby's couch has never been the most luxurious, but for some reason this is the most comfortable I've been in the past week or so. I know I can't relax though. There's too much…
"I want to go with you," I say. It sounds like a whine, even to my own ears, but I keep talking. "I need to be doing something, Dean. I can't just sit here…"
"You don't have to," Dean reassures me. "Just get a little bit more rest and then you can dig into the books with Bobby; start looking for answers there in case this lead doesn't pan out, okay? I promise, I'll be fine. And I'll be back before you know it."
"Dean, please." Dean freezes halfway past the couch, and I know he hears everything I've been trying to hide from him these past few months. Hell, for this entire year. The foggy aftertaste of the medicine that I can feel finally, finally wearing off has stripped my voice of all the control it usually has. I hadn't meant for it to come out that way, but those two words hold every fear that I've kept buried beneath layers of new leads and endless research and countless miles eating up empty stretches of road. I watch my brother's face, the way his mouth opens and then closes over the words he was going to say. I wonder what those words are. But I don't think I'll ever know, because he opens his mouth again and all that comes out is:
"I'll be back soon, Sam."
He slams the door a little harder than he needs to.
Thanks for reading!
