Chapter Six - Meltdown
Dean saw Stacy safely into her house, turned the truck around and headed back into town. It was not good news if vampires were in the area. He was hoping Sam and June were safely inside the diner. He told himself not to worry; Sam had training, he knew not to let in strangers. Then he remembered the diner was a public place and June would invite anyone in. A knot formed in his gut as his hands clenched around the steering wheel and he stepped on the gas.
The street was deserted like expected for the late hour so he parked right in front of the diner's door and got out. The lights were still on even though the sign said closed and there was no evidence of anyone inside. He figured they were probably in the back cursing him for being late; at least that's what his frantic heart hoped for. Everything looked normal, until he knocked on the door and it swung open. He told himself he was just being paranoid and to relax, but deep in his gut he knew Sam was in danger. He'd had that feeling before, when Sam fell and broke his arm at five. Somehow Dean knew his brother was hurt then. He was the one who found him and carried him inside. He had that same feeling now.
His heart was pounding as he ran to the back kitchen. As he pushed the door open, his hopes were crushed. Tony, the cook, was lying face down in a pool of blood and June was beside him, propped up against the cold tile wall. Two deep wounds in her neck were still bleeding, as her vacant, dead eyes stared out into space. He quickly glanced about the room but he couldn't see Sam. He stumbled back, his chest heaving as he tried to think. He felt torn in all directions; he stooped over, gasping for breath, trying to focus his thoughts. As he slowly rose, oxygen finally finding his lungs, his gaze was transfixed by the bloody mess smeared above June on the blue tile wall.
Scrawled in blood were the words: "Eye for an eye Winchester"
Terror seized his body. Was this payback for the vampire he'd killed? How could they know his name?
He cursed himself for leaving Sam alone and unprotected. His weakness foremost in his mind as he grappled with his failure and how he wished his dad was here to fix this mess.
Dean was consumed by guilt and panic was beginning to set in. He knew he had to act fast. He just didn't know what to do. Dammit, he needed his dad.
John had been driving for ten hours straight. He never wanted to leave his sons alone on Halloween, but the job had gotten out of control and he couldn't leave it half done. He pulled into town just past midnight and was shocked to see Dean's truck parked outside the diner. What was Dean thinking? He'd told him to be home by dark. He parked the Impala next to the truck and got out to check it out.
Dean left the diner and was startled to see his dad standing by his truck. His relief was immediately tempered by a foreboding dread. His emotions were raging out of control: guilt, panic, shame, sheer terror. How could he tell Dad how badly he had screwed up? How he knew that he shouldn't go to the carnival and leave Sam with June. How he'd been weak and let what he wanted dictate his actions. He knew better. Damn it! A soldier follows orders. How could he be such a selfish bastard?
His brother was gone, probably hurt or maybe even dead, and it was all his fault. His guilt was assaulting him with the bitter undeniable truth. How could he abandon everything he ever believed in for a night of foolish teenage fun?
As soon as John saw Dean, he knew something horrible had happened. His body language conveying his pain, withered and small, folding in on himself like he was in danger of disappearing, like he wished he could just melt away to escape the torment he was in. His son's face registering every terror imaginable, and when he locked eyes with his dad the haunted eyes and trembling lips battled against the set of his jaw as he desperately tried to hold himself together.
John had never before witnessed such terror in his son's eyes.
Dean had seen some frightening things in his young life, but he'd always shown amazing fortitude in the face of danger. John had been in awe of his older son's courage and resolve since the start. Whatever they had come across in their hunts, Dean had never wavered, demonstrating a bold fearlessness way beyond his years. John had given him extensive training and prepared him the best he could, but the fact was Dean seemed destined to be a hunter, and a damn good one. When the situation became most dire, Dean seemed to draw on some inner strength and calm, instinctively knowing how to persevere and triumph over anything they came across. This was so obviously different. He had never seen his son so distraught.
"What happened, Dean? Where's Sammy?"
"Dad, I'm sorry. I'm sorry… It's all my fault."
Dean's voice cracked and his eyes were glistening with tears, tears that his strong son would never allow to fall, John was sure of that.
John's voice automatically took on his drill sergeant tone, commanding as he demanded his son speak, "Dean, tell me what happened."
With that, the flood gates opened and Dean held back none of his guilt. He told his father everything that had happened up to that horrible, gut-wrenching moment when he realized his beloved brother was gone.
John's mind and gut both seemed to implode at once. Fury guided him as all reason left his body. With one lightning move his hand whipped out across Dean's face. The sound was deafening as his open palm connected with his son's cheek.
"HOW COULD YOU BE SO RECKLESS? I DEPENDED ON YOU. YOUR BROTHER DEPENDED ON YOU!" he shouted.
The cruel words spewed from his mouth before reason had a chance to seep back into his consciousness.
John froze. What just happened? Did he just strike his own son? Immediately his guilt surged and he tried to take back his anger, attempting in vain to set it right. The total devastation on his son's face shattering both their worlds.
"Dean, I'm sorry. I didn't mean it. It's okay. Sammy will be okay. We'll find him."
There were now two times in John's life he wished he could live over: the night Mary died and this night. How he wished he had not just struck his son. How he wished he'd come home before Dean left for the carnival. This wasn't Dean's fault, it was his. Why did he leave his sons to fight evil elsewhere? Why hadn't he seen that tonight evil was so close to home?
The blow was a total shock to Dean. His father had never before struck him. Dean had always been the perfect son, eager to please and totally obedient; there had never been any reason to discipline him. He was always so demanding on himself that his dad had never felt the need. The handprint on his face stung, but the real pain was deep within his heart. His trembling hand lingered over the red warming his cheek as he melted to the ground and couldn't hold back his tears, his body starting to convulse as he gasped for breath.
He'd thought he could not possibly ever feel worse than he did in that horrific moment when he realized Sam was gone, but he was wrong. The pain had escalated ten-fold when he saw his father's contempt for him.
His world was collapsing in on him and he was suffocating from the weight of this overwhelming pain, all the guilt and disgust he knew he deserved, the disappointment in his dad's eyes that he'd brought down on himself. He felt himself spiraling downward: his heart racing like a freight train thundering out of control and careening off the track, while the throbbing sounds bombarding his brain were threatening to drive him insane.
"Dean, it's okay. I'm sorry. We'll find Sammy. You and me, the Winchesters. It'll be okay. Dean look at me."
John's heart was breaking. His family was falling apart again. They had to pull themselves together if they were going to save Sam. He needed Dean's help to do that. Dean had been teetering on the edge and John with his unbridled anger had pushed him off the cliff. Somehow he needed to rebuild his son. John put his arms around him and held on. Dean was shaking uncontrollably, spasms racking his body, foreign tears soaking his pale face.
John kept whispering in his ear as he gripped him tight to his chest, "It's okay. I'm sorry. I need your help. Pull yourself together, son."
What seemed like an eternity was only a few minutes as John held his son. Dean's spasms began to ease and were replaced by controlled breathing. Dean was consciously thinking breathe: inhale, exhale, calm yourself down. The noises converging on his brain were turning back into words and he could finally comprehend what his dad was saying. He knew he had a job to do, and he would do it, he always did. His brother needed him, and he would be there for him. It was what his dad expected. What he expected.
He drew upon every ounce of courage he had ever possessed. He had once thought he understood fear. This feeling was more intense than anything he could have imagined. After his mom died, he'd been determined to be strong, focusing all his energy on being brave for her. He'd thought about it every single day since. This moment was the hardest test of his life. He had to pull himself together. He had to save his brother. That was his only option. Lock your pain away and do your job. His training was coming back into focus, a solid foundation to stand upon. He drew one last, deep breath and slowly exhaled.
"I'm all right, Dad. What's the plan?"