! Sorry everyone, but somhow the last three or so paragraphs of this chapter didn't upload and stupid me never bothered to check, duh! Anyway, here's the rest and it should make tons more sense now :) Now back to the original author's note...
AN: This chapter has taken much, much longer to write than I ever intended. I've re-written it three times and I'm still not pleased with the outcome. The story just seemed to take a life of its own and ran off in this crazy direction that I didn't even know existed. I couldn't stop it from happening! Oh well. Please, please, please let me know what you think because I may go back and post one of my original drafts of this chap instead.
Thx, Uzi
Chapter 13: Sad but True
The clock in the upstairs hall struck four a.m. and Dean shifted restlessly beneath his covers, vainly searching for a position that didn't inflict further pain on his battered body. He opened eyes that had become very well adjusted to the darkness during the night and stared at a quirky little water stain at the ceiling's edge. He idly wondered why Missouri hadn't repainted the dark blotch. For that matter, who was to say the leak had even been repaired? Perhaps the whole damn ceiling was poised and ready to drop on their heads at this very moment…
"Sam, you awake?" he called softly, not really wanting to disturb his brother but ready to use a more forceful tone if necessary.
"Nope." came the clear, coherent, and most definitely awake reply.
Dean sighed loudly, letting his lips flap at the end of the breath, and rolled onto his side with infantile slowness. He found that by holding his breath and clutching his pillow to his chest, he was able to keep the fire in his abdomen to a dull, throbbing ache as he eased into a lounging position propped up on his right elbow.
Glistening beams from a near full moon poured through the window between the two twin beds and illuminated a wedge of Sam's foot that was dangling over the adjacent mattress. Through the bluish haze Dean could just make the long, shadowy shape of his brother and registered tiny flickers of movement.
"Why can't you sleep?" Dean asked, just barely stifling a yawn.
"Why can't you sleep?" Dean recognized the annoyance in Sam's voice, but through brotherly intuition knew that it wasn't directed at him. "How can we sleep?" Sam continued disparagingly. "How can Dad, or Missouri…or anybody sleep for that matter? Just knowing that…God it's insane!"
"Hate to break it to ya, dude, but you're full of shit," Dean chastised gently. "Nothing's changed. We'll just keep on…keepin' on, ya know?"
"Everything's changed," Sam insisted quickly, rolling to face Dean, the whites of his eyes glimmering in the darkness. "Dude, we just found out that Samuel Colt was a psychic. He had powers, Dean!"
"I know what a psychic is, dumbass," Dean griped, shifting his grip on his pillow.
"No you don't!" Sam leaned forward, his face entering the patch of moonlight and his grimace was highlighted. "Neither do I!" He shook his head and chuckled hollowly. "I mean, yeah, I've had visions, I've seen things, but I thought that was it. Then…that time with Max…Dude, I moved that shelf with my mind! I'm twenty two and all of a sudden I found out that I have telekinesis? Only, I can't control it when I really need to. I should have been able feel that Dad was possessed, I should have stopped him, but I couldn't! It's crazy…Missouri tells me I'm a psychic, and I guess I am, but I'm completely and utterly lost here, Dean."
The elder Winchester frowned, not at all liking the look on his baby brother's face. He'd seen Sam upset before, but the younger man's distress seemed to have taken on a whole new level of intensity. His deep brown orbs bored into Dean, not asking for reassurance, but begging.
"Don't you do that, Sammy!" Dean forced himself up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed, ignoring the sharp pangs that pulled at his injuries. "Don't you dare start blaming yourself for what happened at the cabin," he ordered with hushed exclamation.
"But…"
"No buts. I know you're scared, man, and I know you're going through some weird shit. But NONE of this is your fault, ya hear?" Dean leaned forward so that their faces were only about a foot apart. He could see the wetness collecting in the corners of Sam's eyes and blinked away his own. "You and me and Dad are gonna beat this thing. We're gonna re-create that last bullet and put it through that bastard's heart. I don't care what Missouri says about the goddamn war, we're gonna end it." He stopped and took a deep breath, realizing that he was on the verge of hyperventilating. His green eyes glittered a strange aqua color in the eerie half-light and Sam recoiled slightly.
"That's great," Sam chewed his lips anxiously. "But what if we miss again? What if it possesses one of us again or what if the gun jams? Hell, we don't even know if a re-forged bullet will have the same effect!"
"First off," Dean held up an index finger. "Dean Winchester never misses. Second, revolvers don't jam like automatics, third: Dean Winchester never misses, and fourth," he locked gazes with his brother for emphasis. "I dare it to try and take one of us."
Sam swallowed with notably difficulty and fiddled with the frayed edges of his blue comforter. "I can use the Colt. I can try and figure out how it was made…"
"Absolutely not," Dean cut him off and karate chopped the air threateningly. "Not after what I saw downstairs earlier."
Sam pinched the bridge of his nose and winced, recalling the vision the gun had induced. It hadn't been pleasant, but all the same it had enticed him into wanting more. There were long buried secrets revolving around the weapon's creation and its original owner. Questions that could lead to answers about their mother's death and about Sam's purpose in this so called war.
"I want to," he said at last, staring at Dean levelly. "I want to know the truth. About everything."
Dean sighed and dropped his head, letting his chin rest on the pillow he still held loosely. "You always were the stubborn one," Dean tilted his head so that he could look at his brother with one eye. "You almost failed kindergarten because you refused to color with anything but purple," he couldn't help the smirk that crept across his face and revealed perfect, white teeth. "Candy-ass."
"Whatever!" Sam's tired face split in a disbelieving grin. "I never 'almost' failed anything!"
Dean clucked his tongue inside his cheek and shook his head in mock sadness. "Oh, just keep telling yourself that, Sammy, but the fact remains that your ass is made of candy."
"Shut up!" Sam laughed and flopped back on his bed, obviously relieved for the humor. "I'm not the one who can't eat pickles."
"They're yucky," Dean pouted, puffing out his lower lip dejectedly.
He could hear Sam chuckle from across the room and the tightness in his chest melted away with relief. He had worked too hard to keep his brother safe over the years and he wasn't about to quit anytime soon. The thought of losing Sam to the tricks of his confused mind, that was uncharted territory and Dean intended for it to stay that way. His little brother wasn't going anywhere that he couldn't follow.
"I still want to know," Sam said quietly after the laughter had died.
"Yep, stubborn," Dean sighed, running a hand down his face. "I think it runs in the family."
-O-
It seemed to Dean that his eyes had just fluttered closed when he was awakened. Moaning, he swatted at the bedside table for his digital watch and squinted his eyes against the sudden harshness of its lit face. His vision was blurry, but he could discern that it was 6:18 and he frowned. It was still dark and Sam's even breathing from across the room indicated that the younger man was asleep. There was no blaring alarm; no screams of panic in the gathering dawn, and the ceiling had indeed remained intact above his head. So what the hell?
He was kicking the covers down around his feet, writing off his disturbance to being too warm, when he heard the unmistakable creak of carpeted floorboards. The sound came from just outside the bedroom door; the old house's protest to upholding the solid weight of whomever was traipsing down Missouri's hall. The sound repeated, but had moved as its creator began to descend the stairs.
In an instant Dean's hand darted beneath his pillow for the ever-present Bowie knife and deft fingers curled around the handle. Getting to his feet, however, proved to be a tad more difficult and he stumbled into the dressing table, the Jack Daniels pounding relentlessly in his skull. He clutched the dark wood, head down between his shoulder blades and willed himself not to puke all over Missouri's furniture. Funny how he hadn't been drunk off his ass just two hours ago while talking to Sam. But then again, he also hadn't been leaping up after strange bumps in the night at that time either.
"Wha's…goin' on?" Sam's slur was accompanied by a rustling of sheets.
"Dunno," Dean panted, squeezing his eyes shut and trying to focus on taking one deep breath after the next.
"Dean?" He could hear the springs of Sam's mattress squeak and the scuffing of bare feet across the carpet. His brother's presence was felt before it was seen and a hand settled on his shoulder. "You alright?"
Dean took one last breath and shook his head, willing the dizziness away. "Fine," he muttered, straightening and stepping carefully away from the dresser. "I heard something out in the hall."
Sam's shaggy head bobbed in the darkness. "You wanna check it out?" he asked, barely stifling a yawn.
Dean rolled his shoulders and quelled the remnants of his nausea. He couldn't help but notice the dark outline of the Glock protruding from his brother's waistband and nodded his approval. "Yep, let's go."
Dean decided that no matter his level of incapacitation, the eldest should always go first in this sort of situation, so he exited the room first, knife poised to strike. As he'd expected, the hall was clear; the doors to Missouri's and their father's rooms both closed. The bathroom door stood ajar, but he had definitely heard the mystery stalker go down the stairs so he dismissed it. He nodded for Sam to follow and began his descent; testing each step for squeaky spots before allowing it to support his full weight.
When they reached the foot of the stairs, Sam took the lead, trailing the Glock across the shadowy entrance to the formal living/waiting room and the hall that lead back to the kitchen and den. Carefully and methodically, they swept the entire lower level, managing to turn over not one, but four potted plants. Dean spread out the little piles of top soil with his bare foot, hoping that Missouri wouldn't notice and cursing the need to have giant ferns indoors.
They checked under and around every shadowy lump of furniture, in the pantry, and in the broom closet beneath the stairs only to end up in the plank-floored foyer, scratching their heads in puzzlement.
"Are you sure you actually heard something?" Sam sighed, idly fluffing his bangs.
"No, Sam, I enjoy creeping around other people's houses at night and getting attacked by killer jungle plants," Dean scoffed. "What the hell do you think? Of course I heard something!"
"Chill," Sam grumbled, turning to peer through the scrolled, decorative oval window in the front door. Then he visibly perked, his spine straightening to bring him to his full, towering height. "Dean, look!" he hissed, gesturing for the older man to join him.
"What?" he tried to elbow Sam out of the way to press his face to the glass. Through the fractured, overlapping patterns he managed to discern the outline of a man standing out on the sidewalk. His back was to them, but nonetheless Dean could recognize the broad shoulders that had been passed down to him and his brother.
He raised quizzical brows at Sam as he turned the knob and opened the door. Sam shrugged, folding his arms against the pre-dawn chill that came sweeping in to meet them.
Dean hesitated for only a second before stepping out onto the stoop; eyes locked on the man in front of him and oblivious to the goose bumps that raced up his bare legs. He detected the slightest hints of movement as the man's fingers curled and uncurled inside the pockets of his jacket; an old nervous habit. Both of his feet were planted squarely on the ground, but Dean couldn't help but notice that the left leg supported the majority of his weight.
Over his left shoulder, Dean could hear Sam's gathering of breath as the younger hunter prepared to speak and he raised a hand to silence him. Sam acquiesced and they waited, watching their father's silhouette soften as the first hints of light peeked up over the trees across the street.
"You boys know that I have to do it," John's voice was cracked and hesitant when he finally spoke, turning to face his sons. His eyes were rimmed with red, from fatigue or grief Dean didn't know, and for the moment, he didn't care.
"You're leaving," he dead-panned, nodding toward the duffel at his father's feet. Tears would be of no use in this situation, neither would begging. Dean had learned a long time ago that there was no changing John Winchester's mind when he set out to do something; you just had to shoulder the extra helping of undeserved heartache and soldier on like always. Apparently, however, Sam had been absent the day they'd covered that particular life lesson
"What?" the youngest of the three stepped up beside his brother, his face wrinkled up in confusion. "Dad, I thought we talked about this at the hospital…" he swallowed hard. "We don't need you to go…why do you keep doing this to us?"
"Sam…" Dean warned icily, watching as his father shrugged helplessly.
"We finally find you and all you can think about is getting away from us again?" Sam continued, his voice rising as if he didn't believe his own words. "I left school to help Dean look for you…Jess is dead because I wasn't there…" his words faltered as the tears began to build in the corners of his eyes.
"Sammy…" John tried to scrape together the hints of an apologetic smile as he took several unsteady steps forward. "You have to understand…"
"Understand?" The fronts of Sam's eyes were glazed with moisture, giving them the sheen of a deranged jackal, and his lips peeled back in something akin to a snarl. "No, I can't understand! I can't understand why you turned us into freaks, why you ruined any chance we had for a normal life only to leave us!"
"Stop, Sam," Dean stumbled back from his brother, his eyes growing as large as saucers. "Stop saying that."
"Sam, please," John was closer now, standing on the first of the three brick steps leading to the door.
"We trained for you, we lied for you, we fought and we bled for you, Dad!" Sam cried, on the verge of becoming hysterical. "But we're still not good enough, are we? I'm still just a disappointment to you!" The tears could be contained no longer and they spilled freely down the tortured boy's face, coursing across his bruised and battered cheeks.
Dean looked back and forth between his father and brother and he snatched for the rail as his knees began to buckle. It was too much to handle at once; Dad leaving, Sam breaking down like this…his head was spinning. "Stop it, Sammy," he whispered. "Don't do this."
"Sam," John took the last step and drew level with his youngest, his own face reflecting the same torment that he shared with the young hunter before him. "Come here." He extended a hand toward his son.
Dean could do nothing but watch helplessly as his brother stiffened, sucking his sobs back into the deep recesses of his heart with a loud, shuddering breath. "No," he said, voice shaky and cold at once. Sam's tall frame trembled visibly, his hands balled into fists at his sides, but he stood his ground and refused to dissolve into his father's offered embrace. "I'm done."
The glass rattled threateningly in its frame as the door slammed shut behind Sam and the echo dared the remaining Winchesters to follow.
TBC