The Illusionist II
Chapter 10 : Watch the Moon Disappear
In all his years, Dean honestly thought that he'd never felt as horrible as he did now. He'd been stabbed, possessed, beaten, broken numerous bones; but nothing compared to the way he felt right at the current moment. Absolutely nothing.
His chest still felt like it was on fire, each new breath slow and labored (breath in, breathe ou—damn that hurts); and it felt like he just couldn't take in enough air. He could still feel his heart beating in his chest, and he wondered just how much longer it would continue to do so. The doctors had come and gone, all with solemn looks on their faces, saying how sorry they all were. And because this little town apparently didn't have any deaf people or translators in it (especially when all he wanted to do was just pass out from exhaustion), he'd had to attempt to read all of their lips. His eyelids had drooped the majority of the time, and one doctor even claimed that he would have wrote what he was saying down, except he didn't want to seem insensitive towards Dean's illness. Dean had, in turn, scoffed, and finally let himself drift off.
He woke up, unsure of the time (he could see faint sunlight peaking through the windows indicating morning had beaten him to the punch), and found Sam, passed out in the chair beside his bed. The kid looked utterly worn and Dean knew if Sam looked that terrible, that he must've really looked like shit. He was suddenly very glad that there weren't any mirrors around.
Sam's spidey-senses must have been tingling, Dean figured, because it wasn't more than two minutes later when the sleep-deprived brunette opened his eyes, gaze falling on Dean. The older hunter waved in response, eyes more weary than he ever could've known.
"Morning," Sam said, running a hand through his sleep-mussed hair as he sat up.
"You should go back to the motel," Dean signed, barely having the energy to raise his hands up, index and middle fingers on each hand pointed in the opposite direction as he crossed them, one hand in front of the other.
"I didn't want to leave you," Sam admitted, voice wavering as he spoke.
"I'm not going anywhere," he stated, with hands that felt like lead weights. He couldn't help it though; he just didn't feel like talking. It almost seemed...pointless now, and he had no idea why.
"Dean-"
"Sammy," he mouthed, but signed the words for 'little brother' instead. "Just go," he said, bringing his right hand up and drawing his fingers together as he moved his hand away from his head.
The whole situation was all wrong and Dean knew it. He hated it. Hated the horribly sad expression that was plastered across every line and crease on his brother's worn face; hated the fact that every time he breathed, it felt like a chore; but what he hated more than anything was the fact that he'd be leaving Sam behind.
He'd known for awhile that he'd probably be the first to go. It was a secret that he carried deep down within himself, only for him to know, only for him to believe. He'd buried that thought as far as it could go, but there were times, where it would surface, and he would be reminded that it was only logical.
Sam wasn't meant for this life; never had been. And God, if he didn't feel the biggest and most selfish ass for dragging him along for the ride. Sam didn't want to hunt. Hell, he'd hated hunting ever since Dean could remember. Always bitching and complaining about having to do research, or how often they moved, or the fact that Dean was always getting hurt—
Better me than him...
Dean could hardly stand to look at his little brother now, because all he saw when he looked into Sam's eyes was complete and unadulterated devastation. And, of course, he had been the one to cause it.
Again.
"You need to shower anyway. You stink," he joked, grimacing as he pinched his nose. He was trying desperately to lighten Sam's mood. He could see the tears glimmering in his baby brother's eyes already, and it just made him feel even worse.
"I'll be back," Sam said, speaking with both his voice and hands.
Dean forced a tight smile on his face that they both knew was fake. "And I'll be here. Don't worry, Sammy, I'm not dead yet."
Sam nodded in response and walked out the door, hesitance ever present in his step.
Dean shook his head and sighed, and immediately regretted the action. It made the pain in his chest flare up.
So, after all these years, this is how it happens. Good one, Dean.
He closed his eyes, and swallowed thickly, hating the tears that were springing to his eyes. One managed to break free of its tightly-lidded prison, and he wiped it away as fast as he could, the action making him feel all the more tired.
It wasn't long before he drifted off, falling into a dreamless sleep that was interrupted a few hours later by a nurse wanting to check his signs and force some medication down his throat. He watched her with wary eyes, the irritated look on her face making him want to spit the pills right back out and onto the floor.
When she forgot to hand him a cup of water to wash the white tablets down, he really wanted to spit the pills back out. Even though he'd dry-swallowed many an aspirin or pain pill in his life, he really needed the water right now. His throat felt drier than a desert on a hot summer day, and when she continued to ignore him, he pressed the alert button on his bedside remote.
The woman who looked to be in her late forties with graying hair and a stout build immediately looked up at him from the chart she was busy scribbling something down on. "What?" she asked, and he could see the annoyance that was etched into her lowered brow.
He held his right hand up in the shape of a 'W' with his thumb and pinkie finger touching, and tapped his index finger to his lips twice.
"Excuse me?" she asked, and he couldn't help but imagine what her voice sounded like. Probably low and throaty—she looked like a longtime smoker.
He repeated the action and even mouthed the word water, but it was apparent that she still didn't understand. He finally resorted to forming his hand in the shape of a cup and brought it towards his mouth, as though he were drinking something.
"You want water?" she asked, and he could see the yellowish tint of her teeth behind her thin lips. Definitely a smoker. He nodded in response. "Why didn't you just say something?" she muttered with a roll of the eyes, and all he could do was stare, confusion marked on his quirked brow. "Don't choke on it now," she said as she handed him the cup, and as he went to take a drink, he saw that the liquid in the cup wasn't clear.
It was red.
Blood.
His head jerked up and the nurse was staring at him, black, dead eyes wide and menacing; she was laughing as well, her entire body shaking with the gesture.
Dean's eyes immediately popped open and he was met with an empty hospital room. There was no nurse there, just the smell of ammonia and other disinfectants burning his lungs.
He had to get out of here—had to get back to Sam.
Sammy.
He was wide awake now, even though his entire body still felt like he'd just run three marathons consecutively. Clenching his jaw, he slowly pushed the covers off of his legs and slid them over the side of the bed. He shivered as soon as his toes hit the cold linoleum floor and immediately longed for the warmth of the blankets that he'd left behind. Rolling his eyes at his own weakness, he pushed himself up off the mattress and forced his legs to start moving, not before almost ripping the IV that was in his hand out first though. He grimaced as the needle pulled and tugged at his skin, and without hesitance, he grasped the line and yanked it out. Blood instantly poured from the opening and he hurriedly clamped the bandage that had been keeping the line in securely firmly across it.
The few steps to the dresser where his clothes were tucked away in were harder to make than he thought. There was sweat already beginning to bead on his brow, but his hands were shaking as he reached into the drawer and grabbed his belongings. The hairs on his arms were standing on end, goosebumps dotting his skin, and his teeth were chattering too.
Painstakingly, he began the slow process of pulling on his clothes, something that would have normally only taken a minute or two taking him ten instead. He'd managed to get on his boxers, jeans, socks, boots, and a t-shirt when his gaze landed on the hoodie Sam had left behind earlier. He stared at the familiar material and realized that it was Sam's old hoodie, the one he'd left behind so long ago.
As if that weren't left there on purpose...brat.
He pulled on the soft material as quickly as he could and slid his jacket on over it. The cotton was soft and warm on his skin that he almost considered laying back down.
Almost.
No—he had to get out of there—now.
He did a once over of the room, making sure he didn't leave anything behind. Once he was satisfied, he began the trek of getting out of there and as far away from the hospital as he could. He put on his best there's-nothing-wrong-with-me-I'm-fine face and made his way slowly but surely down the hallway, past the nurses station, and to the elevators. He hadn't even bothered to check the time, but judging from the lack of personnel and people in general, he figured it must have been late, late enough that visiting hours were probably coming to a close or already over.
Pulling his jacket tighter around his too-thin frame, he stepped through the doors as soon as they opened, relieved that the first part of his mission was completed. He slumped against the elevator wall, hating the fact that he was already exhausted so soon. He felt the mechanism dip lower and lower until finally the pull of gravity stopped and the floor stayed still. He looked up as the elevator's doors opened, and was grateful to see that no one was waiting to get on.
Less people to have to fool...
He took a deep breath—slow and steady— and exited the elevator, making his way out and into the lobby. The cold, fresh air burned as it entered his lungs when he stepped outside and into the evening air. The sky was littered with clouds, blocking out the moonlight that was trying to shine through them. He looked around, gaze falling on the bus stop. Realizing that it was probably the only way he was going to get back the to the motel (because there wasn't a taxi in sight, and hell, if he didn't have the money for one anyway), he forced his legs to move. It took too long (in his opinion) to get there, but finally, he reached his destination, inwardly hoping that the bus would show up sooner rather than later.
He folded his arms across his chest and leaned against the metro sign, unable to keep his eyes from closing. His body just felt so heavy...
You won't be able to see it coming if your eyes are shut, dumbass.
Dean's eyes quickly opened wide. He hated when that happened. He would be doing just fine (well, as fine as Dean Winchester could be), and then his father's voice would run through his head, and there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it. Even after all these years, John's voice never changed. Low, gruff, and gravelly; he'd never forget it.
He let out a breath as the bus he'd been waiting on finally pulled up, the doors opening, awaiting his entrance. He pulled out his wallet and retrieved two, one dollar bills and slid them into the fare slot. Not chancing a walk to the back, he decided to just sit up front, sliding into the nearest seat and jamming his hands into his pockets (they were freezing, dammit).
Dean let his gaze fall to outside the window, watching as businesses and homes passed by, the streets growing emptier as they trekked along. He let his eyes close; he'd be at the motel soon enough.
At least he wasn't going to die in that hospital after all.
S*P*N*S*P*N
"This is John Winchester. I can't be reached. If this is an emergency, text my son, Dean. 866-907-3235. He can help..."
"Hey, John, this is your other son, Sam, and I just wanted to let you know that Dean isn't doing too well right now. In fact, the doctors are saying that he doesn't have much time left. Not really sure if you care or not, since technically, it is your fault, since you're the one that sent us on that hunt; but I figured that you should know. Although, somehow, I think you already do." Sam cleared his throat, and did his best to stop it from shaking. "And if you're wondering how I found this number, well, let's just say some of your associates are more than willing to give it up. Oh, and Dad? I can't wait til we do find you, because when we do—"
A knock at the door stopped Sam from what he was about to say. "You know what, never mind," he mumbled and hung up, tossing the phone onto the bed and getting up. He glanced at the clock on the nightstand before he reached for the knob, trying to figure out who would be banging on his door in this town at nine o'clock at night. Hesitantly, he pulled the door open, his eyes widening when he saw Dean standing there on the other side.
"Dean?" his brother's name automatically tumbled out of his mouth. "What are you doing here?"
"Checked myself out," he signed, barely raising his hands as he did so. God, he was tired.
"Are you crazy?" Sam asked, using only one hand instead of two to sign the word for 'crazy'. He brought his left hand up, index finger pointed out, and rotated it a few times next to his head.
Dean smirked and shook his head, slowly dragging his body across the threshold and into the room.
Sam immediately shut the door, and reached out to help his brother. As much as he knew Dean hated it, he grabbed a hold of his arm, inwardly cringing when he felt the muscles under his hand tensing. It didn't help that Dean had made a soft noise of protest, one Sam had never heard pass between his brother's lips before. It sounded so wounded, so scare, so...weak.
He helped him over to a nearby chair, and sat down across from him, taking in his brother's appearance. Sam didn't think Dean could look any worse than he had a few weeks ago, but somehow, this time he'd managed to top it. The skin under his eyes was bruised, rings of deep purple taking up occupance there. There were shadows on his cheeks were flesh was supposed to be, the skin pulled too tightly over the bones there. The hoodie that Sam had left for him swallowed his thin frame, and from Sam's vantage point, it looked as though even breathing was now a strenuous activity for his brother.
"I've been calling people these last few days, and I think I might've found someone who can help you," Sam stated, eager hands moving so fast he had to slow himself down. Whether or not Dean wanted to admit it, the younger hunter could tell that he was beyond exhausted and could barely keep up.
"Help me what?" Dean asked, holding one hand out while he rested the other on top in a 'thumb's up' position, then shrugged.
Sam rolled his eyes at his brother's obliviousness, and replied, "Help you stay alive." He paused, swallowing back the lump that was lodged in his throat. "For longer than a month."
He watched as Dean took in a breath, grimacing all the while and looked down, gaze landing somewhere on the carpet.
"Sammy," Dean finger spelled his name. The movements were slow and sluggish, and Sam could see the bluish tint that Dean's fingers held. "Just...let it go."
Sam shook his head, sending his hair askew as hot, angry tears filled his eyes. "No," he said, even though Dean wasn't even looking at him. He couldn't stop himself as he got up from the chair and went over to his brother, and the movement immediately drew Dean's attention.
"I'm not just going to let this go," Sam stated, hurt filling his eyes and overflowing out into his voice. It was trembling badly, and something told him that Dean didn't have to be able to hear it to know. "You can't just give up, Dean."
You can't just leave me alone like that!
"Besides, like I said, I've found someone. He lives in Nebraska, and we're leaving first thing in the morning." Sam cleared his throat, and ran a hand through his hair.
"You're not going to let me die in peace, are you?" Dean asked, barely able to keep his eyes open.
"Not in a million years," Sam answered, unable to keep himself from leaning over and throwing his arms around his brother. He could feel Dean flinch, but he wouldn't let go. After a few moments, he felt a hand slowly come to rest on his side.
"Whatever, Sammy." Dean's voice was faint, scarcely audible, but Sam had no trouble hearing it.
S*P*N*S*P*N*
The sky always seems to be gray nowadays...
Dean stared out the window of the Impala, clouds blanketing the sun once again, not letting any light filter through their cover. His head was resting on the seat, and he'd been sleeping on and off ever since they left Oklahoma. Miles and miles of roads had passed, and he barely had the energy to even glance at Sam whom he knew had been staring at him the good majority of their trip.
He'd been awake as they'd crossed over into Kansas, and memories had instantly flooded over him. Of Lawrence, of days past, of their father—he forced himself to sleep then—that way, he wouldn't have to deal with them.
He woke up right before they rode into Lincoln, and Sam had told him they were close, less than an hour away now. The kid had looked so hopeful, but all Dean could do was nod and flash a hint of a tight-lipped smile—nothing more.
His limbs still felt as though they were made of lead, and it hurt when he had to take a deep breath, but he always made sure his head was turned away from Sam. He didn't want his little brother to see how truly weak he was; didn't want him to see how pathetic and fragile he'd become. Hell, he really didn't want to know what it was going to be like in the next two weeks. He thought it was bad now, and things were only supposed to grow worse.
He suddenly felt Sam's hand on his arm, and he couldn't help but jump at the unexpected touch. The movement made his heart race, and pain immediately flooded through his body. He tried to hide the grimace, but it was too late, Sam had already seen it.
"We're here," he saw his brother say, brow fixed in worry.
His gaze immediately darted out the window and to the tent that stood some fifty yards in front of them. He rolled his eyes, already not liking where this was going. He'd managed to just get the door open, not even one foot out of it yet, and Sam was already there, waiting for him. Irritation crept through his veins and he felt himself pushing his little brother away, hating himself for his actions, but unable to stop them.
He knew Sam was just trying to help—and he couldn't even count the numerous times he'd always been there, being the shoulder to lean on for his little brother—but it was different when he was on the receiving end of it. It just didn't feel right, so he just chose not accept it (and didn't look into Sam's eyes either—he didn't want to see the hurt he was causing).
Dean took in a breath and stood up, carefully closing the car door behind him. He kept his gaze on the ground for a moment, Sam's shadow hovering ever close.
"Thought you said we were going to see a doctor," Dean said, his voice raspy from no use. He looked up to find Sam already speaking, and could tell by the way his brother's eyes were squinted and the slight smirk on his face that whatever he was saying was being spoken in a smartass and sarcastic manner.
He couldn't help but roll his eyes and shake his head. "I can't believe you took me to someone that heals people out of a tent, Sammy." Letting out a breath, he stuffed his hands into his pockets and started to walk, Sam right there by his side, hands skirting along his arms, just in case. "If I fall, I promise I'm not going to break into pieces," he muttered, and glanced up just in time to see his brother's brow furrow.
"You know, you don't have to be so resistant."
"He's a faith healer, Sammy," Dean replied, keeping his gaze steady on his brother's face and lips, all the while trying to concentrate on breathing and keeping his heart rate down. It just felt like he couldn't get enough air, and Goddammit, he hated it.
"And? Maybe you need to have a little faith, Dean. Believing in something's better than nothing," Sam said, sincerity written across his visage.
"Yeah, and maybe you should have just let me-"
Sam held his hand up in front of Dean's face to cut him off.
"Do not say it, Dean. Just don't," he ordered pleadingly, and Dean clenched his jaw, hating the sadness that was gleaming in Sam's eyes.
"Just don't expect a miracle to happen, Sammy. You and I both know they aren't real," Dean murmured, and let out a gasp as Sam grabbed a hold of his arm, though his grip was loose and gentle.
"One day, Dean, I hope you'll change your mind," and with that, he stepped into the tent. Dean followed unsurely, wondering if he'd just read his brother's lips correctly. Shaking his head, he took in the scene before him, his eyes not missing a beat.
The tent was large, large enough to hold at least a hundred people or so. His gaze traveled to the corner, and his eyes narrowed when he spotted a camera placed there. He nudged his brother and nodded towards the device. Sam glanced at it, but said nothing. "You don't find that strange?" he asked, but all he got in response was Sam's arms around him, guiding him towards the front of the venue. "Why don't we just sit there?" he asked, fingers and hands flying. Sammy was really starting to piss him off. The kid knew Dean didn't take orders from anyone. Well, with one exception, of course.
"Come on," Sam instructed, hands still grasping Dean's arms.
"Sam," and the name was spoken through gritted teeth. He could feel his heart racing even faster. This whole place was just wrong—all fuckin' wrong—and he hated it. He just wanted to get the hell out of there and die somewhere in peace, forgotten by everyone but his little brother. And he could live with that, he honestly could.
Sam didn't stop until they were a few rows away from the front. "Right here's perfect," he said, though Dean didn't hear him. The older hunter scowled as Sam sat down first, leaving the aisle seat to him. Dean stared at him for a moment, jaw clenching visibly through his skin before he finally gave in and sat down, folding his arms across his chest. "I'm so going to come back and haunt your ass," he said, smirking as he glanced at his brother, and trying not to let the pain in Sam's eyes burrow into his chest and take up residence there.
It did anyway.
Rolling his eyes, he looked up to the front, an older man appearing, clad in a white, short-sleeved dress t-shirt, dark-colored slacks, and dark-tinted glasses. Dean could feel the corners of his lips turning upwards. Of course Sam would take him to a blind faith healer of all people.
Ha! Awesome, I'm deaf and he's blind. We'd make the perfect pair.
The man began to speak, and Dean watched his lips move, attempting to take in all that he was saying. He listened with his eyes as the man named Roy LeGrange started to talk about how horrible things were in the world today, and how God punishes the evil but takes care of the good.
Wonder what world he's living in...It's not God that punishes the evil; it's us.
"Now, friends, it is the Lord who does the healing here, and he allows me to see into people's hearts," the older gentleman continued.
"Yeah, and into their wallets," Dean thought, cheeks reddening when he realized he'd actually spoken those words aloud.
"You think so, young man?" Roy asked, and Dean glanced at Sam only to see his younger brother mouth, "He's talking to you." And damned if the kid didn't appear more hopeful.
Shit.
"Sorry," Dean mumbled, swallowing down the saliva that was gathering on his tongue. He really needed to get the fuck out of there—like now.
"No, it's alright," Roy replied, a smile catching at his teeth. "Just watch what you say around a blind man. We tend to have real sharp ears."
All Dean could do was stare, embarrassment and anger warring over his features.
"What's your name, son?" the older man asked, face now pointed in Dean's direction.
Dean glanced at Sam, feeling even more mortified because he was having such a hard time understanding exactly what the man was saying.
"He's asking for your name," Sam explained, bringing his right index and middle fingers across his left ones and tapping them four times.
"Dean—It's Dean," the older hunter replied, feeling his heart begin to race in his chest.
"Dean, huh? Dean, I want—I want you to come up here with me," the man stated, and once again, Dean turned to Sam. The hope in his brother's eyes answered any questions he had. That and the fact that Sam was waving him toward the stage, telling him to, "Get up there. Now."
The sick hunter looked back and forth between the older man and his brother, then, shook his head. "No—no, it's okay. You should pick someone else." He was avoiding the man's lips now, not wanting to know what he was saying, but before he could cast his gaze too far away, he felt Sam's hand on his chest.
"Go, Dean. Please."
And at that moment, all Dean could see was a five-year old Sammy, puppy dog eyes filled with hope and prayers to a God Dean knew didn't exist, but didn't have the heart to say. Finally, he sighed, letting out the breath he'd been holding. Reluctantly, he stood, ducking his head slightly as he walked towards the front, people applauding all around him as he did so.
Each step caused the pain in his chest to intensify, but he kept going, moving the body that felt like it weighed a ton. He took the three steps up to the stage carefully, and was met by who he assumed was the man's wife. Gently, she guided him to the older man's side, bright and hopeful grin lighting up her aging face. He couldn't help note the way she smelled, her scent reminding him of sandalwood and lavender. He shot her one last glance before he hesitantly directed his attention to Roy.
"Are you ready?" the man asked, and Dean could understand him this time.
"I'm—I'm not exactly a believer," he answered, focusing all of his concentration on Roy's response.
"You will be, son. You will be," and with those words, he slowly raised his right hand to Dean's forehead. The feeling of energy seeping through the man's hand was almost instantaneous, and it wasn't long before Dean's knees gaze out. His heart began to pound in his chest, and suddenly it felt as though he couldn't draw in any air. He could feel himself gasping and gasping, and then, just like that, darkness tinted his vision and he fell to the floor with a dull thump.
It wasn't long before he felt Sam's hands on him, gripping his shirt and yanking him half way off the floor, calling out to him.
Wait...
"Dean! Dean!"
He opened his eyes, and couldn't figure out what scared him more. The fact that he was pretty damned sure there was a ghost currently standing over Roy LeGrange's shoulder, or the fact that he could hear Sam calling out his name.
He could hear Sam calling out his name.
Well, I'll be damned...
A/N : Once again, my apologies for the wait. MANY THANKS goes to HPSmallCharm, Glades of Grey, heather03nmg, babyreaper, MysteryMadchen (shhhhh...you weren't supposed to tell anyone! Lol j/k), Zuzu chan, kissacazador, dandy44, renniespice, Guest, and all of you who have faved or are following this story. Your continued support truly means the world to me, and I seriously can't thank you all enough :) Hope it sufficed for now...