Part 9
Outside Lander, Wyoming, 2006
"Pictures," Dean muttered to himself, digging bare toes into the plush carpet flooring, feeling cold and relishing it.
He was slouched against the guest bedroom's north wall in his oldest grey t-shirt and not-so-old black sweatpants, reading by the cracked yellow light from the open bathroom door, flipping yet again through an increasingly useless pile of research—double checking names and stories against the detailed but checkered list Sam had made of the missing and the dead.
"We need pictures…" …or someone to come out of the woodwork and explain in detail exactly what had happened to them that night. And since that wouldn't happen…
Dejectedly, Dean dropped the stack of papers next to his knee, then lifted his empty hands to rub dry and burning eyes. Hands that felt heavy—he'd been awake too long. Way too long. But he couldn't sleep. Something in his body or mind just wouldn't let him click over—even though he'd feigned it for Sam until the obsessively observant kid's own breathing had finally become slow and even.
Dean had known—by the end of their evening conversation—that Sam suspected him of withholding something. And though Dean was withholding—it was only because it was safer that way. For both of them. Safer for a lot of reasons he would never convince Sam of, even with proven after-the-fact results, because—no matter what—Sam would never condone what he saw as Dean's double standard. Which really wasn't a double standard because it's not like Sam hadn't ever withheld things from Dean.
What was it his brother had said during the I-have-a-secret Bloody Mary fiasco? You're my brother, and I'd die for you, but there are some things I need to keep to myself? Yeah, that was it. He was fully prepared to throw the words back in Sam's face if it came to it.
Dean blinked into the shadowed room, looking up and over at the large bed. He couldn't see Sam from his position on the floor but every now and again he could hear him breathe. Deep and even. His brother's sleep seemed peaceful—and calm. It settled something in Dean's chest. Sleep might've so easily evaded Sam also.
"Are you sure no one else felt the… pain?" Sam had asked, when both of them had still been lying awake after turning out the light. The way Sam had hesitated on the word pain convincing Dean that the level of Sam's pain had been every bit as immense as his own. Pain Dean could still remember with clarity. Pain that had sapped him. Pain that, though gone, had left him feeling weak and trembly.
Pain that had stopped the very moment Sam's hand had come off his collar.
"No," Dean had answered, feeling absolutely no guilt for the lie. "If anyone felt something like that, they would've said something." Anyone but me—let Sam be content in believing he'd been the only one. That was important.
Down in the canyon that night, Sam had been the target. After the fog covered everyone, the ghost might have yanked and thumped and pulled at the others but, in the end, went straight for Sam. Whether the attraction was Sam's ESP or something else, Dean didn't know and didn't care. If it happened once, it could happen again. And it had spoken to Sam—tried to convince him Dean couldn't help him, tried to isolate him, separate them.
If Sam knew Dean had been in pain too—if he knew Dean's pain had stopped the second Sam's grip had dislodged…
Dean shook his head, digging the heels of his palms against his eyes. He couldn't have Sam hesitating to reach for him if in trouble. He couldn't leave Sam thinking his touch might hurt him.
If needed, he would take that secret to the grave.
Flattening his hands on the wall behind to give himself leverage, Dean pushed upright on shaky legs, toeing close to his brother with the same careful movements he'd been using all night. Sam had changed positions—rolled to his side—but his face in the dim moonlight looked peaceful. As long as Dean ignored the shadowing bruise across his cheekbone and the three tiny twig-induced scratches on his chin, he looked normal.
Not unconscious. Not in pain. Not motionless and unresponsive to calls. When Sam had passed out, he'd feared it—feared waiting days for a Sam-in-quiet-pain to consciously come back to him.
Dean curled his fists. He wanted to curse Sam for suggesting these events had anything to do with the cabin back in '96.
It was stupid. There was no way they could be dealing with the same ghost—ghosts?
Dean shook his head. He moved away from Sam, walked over to the window, and tried to keep his thoughts from returning to the man vs. woman conundrum. He'd racked his brain enough over that one already. It's why they needed pictures. If he or Sam could match what they'd seen with photos of the missing or the dead on Sam's research list, they'd be able to figure out who their ghosts were. Maybe figure out if and how the ghosts were connected. Maybe even figure out what the ghosts were after—why they'd gone for Sam.
They. It. Him. Her. Maybe it would help them figure out the dual apparition or at least prove whether or not one of them was crazy.
With a soft groan he shifted to the couch blindly, pulling out his dad's journal. He'd already checked it—twice. If there was something in it to support the idea of a two-in-one ghost special, he hadn't found it. He fingered the book, biting his lip, ready to move back into the glow of the bathroom light.
The foldout bed loomed invitingly in front of him. Still—Dean couldn't convince himself to lie down on it.
He needed to sleep. He really couldn't go all night like this. Come morning, he'd end up looking worse than ever, and Sam would be impossible to shrug away once he saw the results.
Like he really needed to give Sam another reason to hover.
Making a choice, he dropped the journal back on top of his duffle, crept to the room's double doors, glanced back at Sam, and quietly slipped free—planning to grab a soda or something—walk, move, settle his mind.
He'd try sleeping then.
The room's exit led Dean straight out onto the circling indoor balcony overlooking the dim main room below. He touched his hand to the dark wood railing, his eyes gradually adjusting as he followed it around to the top of the nearest spiral staircase. As he got there Dean could just barely make out a shadowy figure standing below—female, swaying.
He stopped his bare feet from moving, adrenaline spiking through his limbs.
Son of a… Why did he keep finding himself so damn unprepared these days? He was thinking of his knife, and guns, his EMF meter and his canistered rock salt, all sitting uselessly in a bag back in a room too far to do him any good.
And while he watched, the figure below rocked, and turned, angling toward him, leading him to mutter a thousand and one apologies to his absent father because, damn it, he really should have known better.
Lost in sleep, Sam was dreaming—a dream more memory than not.
And because it was a memory, it wasn't quite a nightmare—even though the replay of it in his mind always left him feeling cold and afraid and haunted. Even though it kept coming to him over and over and over again and left him feeling worse each time—even though the details somehow stayed the same.
It was the memory of the moment when fear for his brother had struck him deepest—during Dean's heart-thing. It was the moment reality had seeped into Sam's determined mind. The moment he realized his brother's heart was really damaged and Dean… Dean could actually slip away from him and never return.
It was the same night Dean had freed himself from the hospital.
Inadvertently, Sam had taken to shadowing his brother around the motel room whenever he moved—which wasn't much and wasn't far—hands resting at Dean's ribs, supporting, ready to catch or hold if needed. Dean didn't say much about it, but he also kept his movements minimal—kept the need for Sam's help at bay.
He was being sarcastic but compliantly unmoving when Sam went out to pack their things in the car. Getting them ready to drive hell bent for Nebraska where he was sure Dean would be cured and live because he could imagine it no other way.
When he came back inside, Dean was no longer sitting in the chair where he'd left him. Sam's eyes quickly swept the room, fearing his brother would be collapsed somewhere behind a bed—and that's when he heard the running tap in the bathroom.
He moved to the closed door, listening to the steady spray—hearing nothing else.
After a moment, he knocked. "Dean? You okay?"
When no answer came, Sam didn't wait. He tensed, muscles tightening in his arms and neck as he readied himself to break the door down and found the moment anticlimactic when he discovered Dean hadn't locked it.
Inside, Dean was standing, leaning into the counter with his hips—hands spread knuckle-white and flat on either side of the sink, holding himself up—staring in a worrisome way into the mirror image of his own ghostly face. He was trembling and the shadows under his eyes—already horrific—had grown deeper.
"Dean?" Sam said, his own voice shaking slightly, not even sure what he was asking. There was something on Dean's face he didn't recognize, and didn't like.
Carefully—cautiously—he moved behind his older brother, placing tentative hands at his ribs to hold him up, steady him—and could immediately feel Dean's tremors cut into him—transferring from the cloth of Dean's zip-up sweatshirt straight into Sam's palms. But it wasn't that that surprised him. It was the way Dean abruptly tilted backward, slumping into Sam the moment his hands were in place—Dean's head dropping backward onto Sam's shoulder, rolling, shocking Sam when his brother's icy-cold forehead rested against the base of his jaw.
Sam hadn't been prepared to take quite so much of Dean's weight. He stumbled a little but compensated, wrapping his arms under Dean's, gripping across his brother's chest but irrationally afraid to allow his hands near Dean's heart—afraid he could do damage—afraid if he constricted it in some way…
Sam shuddered on an indrawn breath and looked out into the mirror at his own worried gaze. He blinked. His eyes were watery but he didn't want to cry. That would be like—acceptance. The moment stilled and he felt for a moment as if he were looking across a divide—like he was seeing a stranger in his own face.
His eyes moved from his reflection to Dean's, wishing they hadn't because the first thing he noticed was the stark white pallor his brother's skin never was, brought out more by the way his head was tilted onto Sam's shoulder—white throat drawn out—elongated. Sam could see Dean swallow—could see the jump of his pulse below his stretched jaw line, and was becoming progressively conscious of the too-slow echo of Dean's heart—thudding weakly against Sam's chest in appallingly contrast to the strong beat of his own.
Dean's eyes were closed.
Sam didn't like them closed.
Still cautious of constriction, he held his brother tighter, tilted his own head sideways to feel more of Dean's cool skin against his neck and jaw—watching them both in the mirror—trying to ignore the tiny voice in his head that told him he'd better take a good long look at his brother, that he'd better savor the moment… because it might… it might…
Dean was breathing slowly. "Just dizzy," he sighed into Sam's ear, letting Sam take even more of him. "Just dizzy."
Sam felt his throat constrict. "Dean?" he said—wavering—and he didn't care that his voice came out terrified.
Dean opened his eyes.
Haunted—dreamlike—they're gazes locked across the mirror, looking into the parts of each other that weren't real, or even really there. It was as though they weren't really standing together—as though something already held them separate across that divide and the weight of Dean in his arms was just an illusion. The look between them lingered—silent, long and staring.
"It'll pass," Dean whispered, still seeing him—still staring at Sam through his reflection.
It was fleeting, but Sam caught the brief sardonic expression on Dean's face just after saying it.
It was the moment his hope faltered.
"It'll pass."
For just that moment, Sam knew, neither one of them believed it.
Outside Lander, Wyoming, 1996
Between the ages of eight and twelve Dean used to get migraines. And when they hit—nothing helped. Lights, sounds—even people talking to him in whispers would amplify the pain. Ultimately he'd shun people—Sam, his dad—shut himself alone in the bathroom, block all the lights, roll himself into a ball, and try to blank his mind of everything he could.
Sometimes he found himself rocking his foot or body to a benign rhythm that somehow kept the pain at bay. And to keep the rhythm, he'd count, repetitively—one, two, three, four—one, two, three, four—one, two, three, four.
Or sometimes he'd repeat the words of a song. And usually it was just one song—the song he remembered his mother singing to him and to Baby Sammy at bedtime. The words were simple—the rhythm more so. Though, Dean wouldn't so much sing it to himself as he would repeat the words in cadence. Little-bird, little-bird, in the cinn-a-mon tree, little-bird, little-bird, do you sing for me?
He was doing that now—keeping the pain controlled with words—only mildly aggravated he couldn't tick his foot to the rhyme. Aggravated more when his father and brother's voices drifted too close to block out, though he kept trying—
Do you bring me word-of one I know? Little-bird, little-bird, I love her so. Little-bird, little-bird, I have to know. Little-bird, little-bird.
"But when we're in a motel I always share with Dean!" Sammy's voice invaded.
Beneath this tree—
"I know, Sammy. Just not tonight, okay kiddo? You'll get your own bed. You need a good sleep and I want Dean close to me in case he needs something."
This cinnamon tree—
"I can tell you if he needs something."
We learned to love—
"Not tonight, Sammy," John's voice came out harder.
We learned to cry—
Dean wondered how long they'd been arguing, wondered if he might have actually phased himself out for some of it. He knew he hadn't been sleeping—didn't think he could sleep—but the sharpness in his father's voice told him Sammy had already been told once or twice why he couldn't sleep with Dean.
For here we met—
"But, Dad—"
And here we kissed—
"Sammy—bed!"
And here one cold and moonless night we said goodbye—
"Yes sir." Sammy's voice was barely a mumble—but harsh—so Dean caught it.
He might have felt bad for Sammy—might have been touched that Sammy didn't want to sleep without him—but the pain was building and he suddenly couldn't get his mind past it. Worse—he was stuck with the song. He couldn't remember the second verse. Little-bird, little-bird? It started the same as the first— didn't it?
Dean heard a rustle of sheets, heard his father tuck them around his little brother even though Sam was twelve and their Dad hadn't done that for him in a long time.
There were more sounds he didn't understand and couldn't place.
He tried to ignore them. Tried to get back to the song. He was trying to recall his mother's voice—couldn't—and it frustrated him. What was the stupid second verse?
Unexpectedly, touch returned to him—a heavy hand on one shoulder—another on his chest. The absence of pain was so differential and sudden he gasped—heard himself gasp—and knew his brain would spend half the night trying to do it again.
The hands on him stilled. "Dean?" his father whispered, voice drifting down to him from somewhere above.
Dad, Dean thought. Dad.
His father dragged a knuckle down his breastbone—hard—like a medic checking for a victim's pain response. For the zillionth time, Dean wished he could.
His father sighed—loud, defeated.
The hands on him shifted, and this time Dean truly prepared himself to panic. It was silly, but he couldn't go back to the pain—couldn't deal with it—not without the second verse. But the hands didn't leave him. To Dean's wonder they slid around and under him, shifting him upright. The bed sunk, shifted, and Dean was pulled back, settled—safe—against his father's chest.
No pain, Dean reveled. No pain.
A strong arm wrapped around him, hand locked over his heart while another hand rubbed at his head, smoothing through his hair. His father hugged him all the time—he did—when he came back from hunts, birthdays, a quick arm across his shoulders here or there—casually affectionate, but... Dean hadn't received this type of physical affection from John Winchester in a long long time.
And, to further his astonishment, John Winchester started to hum, hum in the same steady rhythm his hand was using to stroke over Dean's head.
After a moment the hums became the mutterings of words.
A moment after that, Dean realized his dad was on the second verse.
Little bird, little bird,
Oh have pity on me
Bring her back to me now
'Neath the cinnamon tree,
I have waited too long
Without a song.
Little bird, little bird,
Please fly, please go
little bird, little bird,
And tell her so.
Little bird, little bird.
tbc
The song is not mine and is from The Man of La Mancha - the musical version of the story of Don Quixote, which I felt was fitting in context.
