Hello there. Thanks for coming back. This is a short chapter I'm afraid but I hope you will still enjoy. Thank you all, so much, for all of your continued support. I truly, truly appreciate it.
There's pressure on his hand and he tries to pull it away, the throb of pain threatening to make him regurgitate the contents of his stomach.
God, he feels like something the cat dragged in and then decided to chew on for hours.
He moans as another flare in his arm ignites and seems to awaken the nerve endings of every other part of his body, the damn thing starts to vibrate in sheer agony and pervasive waves of pain. He thinks maybe he should open his eyes but, even closed, the light that cuts through his eyeballs makes him feel like he is staring directly into the fricken sun.
It's like he's trapped in that stupid barrel thing at the funhouse. Upended and then dropped. Upended and then dropped, until every single muscle and piece of flesh sports an ugly bruise.
He's been beaten up before, sure, but for the life of him he can't remember ever feeling like this particular brand of shit.
His throat is dry. He is so damn thirsty. He tries to lick his lips but it has been freed of all moisture, like he's been left out in the freakin' desert until all his fluids have leaked out of every pore of his skin.
He flinches slightly as a palm is placed on his forehead but instantly relaxes at its touch, the familiar feel of it telling him it belongs to Sam.
"It's okay Dean. Listen, you hurt your hand and cracked your head pretty good so just relax and try not to move. You're probably confused but trust me, everything is good. So no 'I'm fine' bullshit alright? And before you ask dude, I'm okay. But you need to rest, you've had one hell of a night."
He doesn't remember cracking his head on anything. He tries to figure out through his muddled mind what their last hunt was. It frustrates him that all that seems to be between his ears is empty space. Ghost? Spirit? Did his head get up close and personal with a damn gravestone again? It hurts to think so he moves on from contemplations of his head wound to his hand. Can't figure that one out either. He huffs out a breath, his agitation at his lack of memory clearly heard through that gust of air as if he spoke his feelings out loud.
"Be careful, we don't need you to hurt yourself with all that thinking I can tell you are doing. I promise, I'll explain everything when you're coherent enough to understand it. Time to rest Dean."
As if on cue he yawns, followed closing by his brother. He wants to open his eyes, make sure Sam is okay but he doesn't think he has the energy to move one little finger let alone the overwhelming strength he'll need to expose his eyes to the outside world. No, he'll just stay here. Sam sounds okay, maybe a little tired but not suffering from some kind of fatal wound or some shit.
He feels what he figures is a bandage being wrapped around his damaged hand and hears his brother's drifting voice filter in through the ever increasing fog.
"Okay, all done. I've got ya covered dude. Go back to sleep."
Sleep. Yeah, that sounds like the best idea his brother's ever had. He hums in the back of his throat, not quite able to formulate a word. He feels his brother's hand on his forehead once more before he slowly drifts off to the drone of Sam's voice and his body's cue that it needs to rest.
"Time for your medicine big boy."
His eyes fly open and he sees her approach, syringe in hand and sinister smile on her face.
No. This is not happening, this is not happening.
He scans the room and can see Sam over at the table, from the looks of it out cold, the glow from his laptop illuminating his haggard face. He panics at the thought that this bitch got to his brother and he's gonna have to go through another round of shit to get her filthy taint out of his system. Just like he...
He hears his heartbeat thrum in his chest.
He blinks and she's right there, blood at the ready. He looks to his body and grins when he sees he is no longer bound. Okay hag, not tying him down is possibly the worst mistake you've ever made in your fricked up life.
He jumps up, taking out her legs with one of his own and she descends roughly to the carpet. Wait, carpet? Motel room? Shit doesn't make any sense.
The commotion seems to have done nothing to garner his sleeping brother's attention and a wave of dread overtakes him at the thought that Sammy is hurt.
"SAM! Wake up! Don't… you need to get out of here!"
He breathes out in relief and smirks as his brother jolts up from his position, drags a hand down his face and tracks his gaze over to where he stands. Good.
Okay, now to take care of bitch-McBitcherton.
He turns to finish her off, to slit her damn throat with the knife in his hand. He looks at the blade but can't remember picking it up. Ah hell, whatever, adrenaline can be a tricky thing.
He grips the weapon tightly only for it to drop from his grasp when he realizes the skank is gone, disappeared into thin air. That can't be good.
He looks back to Sam who is approaching quickly and shrinks back against the wall as his face looms close to his.
His eyes. No. They can't be. God Sammy, no.
His eyes. Blackened by blood and strength and power.
"S..sammy?"
"You knew this would happen son. I told you what to do. I warned you but you didn't listen. You let your brother down. You let me down."
He gulps as he turns to the owner of the other voice in the room.
"Dad?"
TBC...Thanks as always for stopping by.