Finally! I've been trying to post this chapter since Satuday, at least, and kept getting errors. If you reviewed the last chapter, you should have recieved a responce from me, as well as a link to this chapter posted on my livejournal. I'm going to try to post another chapter sooner, as things are winding down here and I have a little more time.
If you'd prefer to read this story on livejournal, please, feel free to follow the link in my profile. I've posted a preview for my next fic there, as well...perhaps I'll give a little more; just a little gift for those who review. :)
Chapter Seven
Angelo Procci finishes checking the kitchen, making sure the inn has enough food to last if the power goes out or the roads flood during the storm, and heads back to the front desk. A few people straggle in, weaving here and there, and give him sheepish smiles while they giggle under their breath and climb the stairs to their room.
He shakes his head and sighs, going over the night's numbers. He's too old to be up this late, but giving most of his employees the night off means all the work comes down to him.
The books don't need much balancing, just a notation and the addition of the day's new lodgers. Angelo finishes quickly and shuts the book with a note of finality hanging in the air. Outside, the wind's already picking up, and it rattles against the inn's old windows, making them vibrate in their wooden frames.
"Hey, Angelo!"
Angelo jumps at the shouted greeting, his senses so focused on the windows trying to break free that he never heard anyone walk in.
It takes Angelo a moment to recognize the visitor; Alex Browning, husband of his friend from the historical society and female counter-namesake Angela. He walks with a purpose, strong, measured strides vibrating with annoyance and worry.
"Things all ready here?" he asks conversationally.
"Pretty much. Not like I've never seen a storm before."
"Not like this one. I've been watching the Weather Channel all day -- "
Angelo interrupts good-naturedly. "Shouldn't you have been working?"
"You think we could do anything in this weather?" Alex remarks. "Hell, we've got tarps covering half the frames and I know I'll be tearing out warped wood all month."
Angelo sighs. Numerous conversations with Angela over a shared lunch come back to him; Alex's never been subtle or soft -- he's all rough edges and harsh drop-offs. There must be something more to him, but Angelo can't seem to ever find it.
"Sorry 'bout that." Angelo says. "So, the Weather Channel?"
Alex leans up against the counter, spying a look over it to see what's behind. "Yeah, the Weather Channel's reporting gail-force winds, possible flooding."
"Flooding?" Angelo echoes. He doesn't like the idea of flooding; as an island-dweller, he knows low elevations can spell catastrophe for houses and buildings, and while he's sure his inn's on a hill, he can't help but worry about its future.
"Don't worry. Waters never come up this high." Alex looks around the inn, eyes lingering on the rattling windows, then the staircase. "Everyone accounted for?"
"Think so," Angelo replies. The group that just walked in makes for twenty four. "Haven't seen 3B or 6A, but..." He trails off, shrugging as if to say what can I do?
"There happen to be a pair of boys here, in their twenties?" Alex asks.
It takes a moment for Angelo to remember, and when he has a hard time, he consults the ledger he just finished updating. "Only pair we have is 6A."
There's something that flashes through Alex's eyes that gives Angelo that glimpse beneath the surface he's been searching for all these years. Ever since meeting Angela, he's become overprotective of her happiness, and three months after seeing her on a weekly basis confronted her about her marriage.
Angela told him he didn't know the whole story, and left it at that.
"You know them?" Angelo tries.
Alex swallows and nods. "Angela's nephews. She's worried about them; they didn't leave on the best of terms."
"Ah. I'm sorry, Alex. Haven't seen them all day. One asked about the light out at Sconset before, but that's all I've heard from them. Very quiet. Keep to themselves."
"That's them." Alex takes a breath, deep and introspective, and pushes off the counter. "Never thought I'd get worried over them, but damn if I'm not regretting some of the things I said."
3B wanders through the door, a little windblown, but in one piece; a lonely guy off on a solitary vacation after being dumped the week before. He gives Angelo a weak wave and shrugs in his jacket, the thin material plastered to his skin. It dislodges, and he trudges out of sight down the little hallway to the rooms on the first floor.
"Looks like its getting worse out there," Alex comments. He pulls his jacket tighter around his frame. "Better get home."
Alex leaves Angelo alone in his lobby. The innkeeper gives the clock one last glance before turning off the desk lamp and overhead lights. While he walks through the back door to his small apartment, he worries a bit about Alex. There's uncertainty there, at learning something new about someone you had pegged differently.
Something tells him no one in their right mind would be out this late, with this weather looming. He feels a sense of obligation towards his still-missing guests, but his tired, old body is no match for such late hours, and he disappears into his own quarters without a second thought.
--
The world is spinning.
It takes a moment to calm down, but when it does, the spinning is replaced by a whirlwind of high-pitched whistling and gusts that catch on everything. Color whips around and clouds what little can be seen, a dull tawny green that seems so familiar.
Sam Winchester's mind comes into full consciousness with a painful jolt, literally. His head bangs against the railing, waking up a bruise already into forming on the back of his skull, and he winces as pain radiates through his brain.
When it passes, and it does, leaving a ghost of pain that feels like nothing more than a normal headache, he's finally able to take stock of his surroundings. At the sight of the modern, bright light, he sighs with content -- back to the present. The connotations of being happy over that can wait until later, when he's not being tossed around by the wind at the top of a lighthouse.
Instead of standing near the eastern face of the lighthouse, Sam's on the ground, long legs bent in front of him, back flat against the safety railing. When he gathers himself and stands, the world starts spinning around him again like he's had one too many of some cheap beer Dean's handed him at some hole in the wall.
Dean.
He can't look too far without burning his vision out again, so Sam walks around the glass house in the center, glad his legs are working. After two revolutions, he knows his brother's no longer at the top with him, and, with his eyes closed, he gropes around the light room to find the entrance to the tower.
The staircase spirals down into a dark well absent of light despite the spillover running over the highest steps. Sam uses this to guide his feet for a little bit, then pulls his flashlight out of his pocket and flicks it on.
"Hey, Dean!" he shouts. His voice echoes and bounces back to him, and he can't help but notice how angry it sounds.
Then again, why shouldn't he be angry? One minute, he's looking over at something near the swing set, his brother still checking heights and the basics on a person's center of gravity, the next, he's gone and Sam's on the ground.
But not on the ground.
The vision -- that's what he's calling it to keep panic from swelling in his chest -- was so real; he could have sworn he was standing there, in the past.
"That's impossible," he mutters to himself.
How could he be there, really be there? It had to be a vision, a very real, very frightening vision that, for once, didn't involve someone's death.
Or maybe I just woke up before that part.
The timing was unmistakable. The light was old, something he assumed from Dean's re-telling of his interesting albeit creepy visit to the museum. His details on the museum's holdings that might become important was precise, a habit both brothers picked up after years of probing questions from their father; remember the details, or your recon's worthless. They were enough for Sam to take one look, to see the oil lamps flicker and die in that terrible storm, to know -- know -- he was standing on the lighthouse the night of the boat accident.
And perhaps the death of a woman. The report referenced the possibility of a woman's death at the tower, but the occurrence of a large fire engulfing the town only days before made it next to impossible to discern exactly where and when she died.
If she died at all. All that was filed was an informal missing person's report put forth by a concerned friend.
Sam clamors down more steps, the hollow echo reinforcing what he feels in his heart -- they walked into this one not only blind but deaf, resorting to half-assed theories and groping around in the dark.
The dark, which is becoming more familiar than the light.
Then there were the visions, the dreams, the sad, tear-streaked face of lost Thomas Chillins staring back at him the night they left their family and retreated through a graveyard.
The beam of his flashlight arcs wide despite his strict control on where it shines; no one wants to fall down a flight of 150 year old brick steps. He's halfway down, the point where he can still see a faint light up above and the shadows it casts on the ground below.
After his last experience, Sam's a bit apprehensive about giving something seen out of the corner of his eye his full attention, but more information would be welcome at this moment. Hand on the curved wall of the tower for balance, Sam peeks his head over the edge of the stairs and shines his flashlight at the bottom. The light reflects off the marred metal of the generator, then passes the door to the bottom of the stairs.
At first, he thinks he's seeing another ghost. But after a moment, when the tingle on the back of his neck isn't one of fright or surprise, but fear, he lets out a strangled cry and takes the rest of the steps as fast as he can without falling over. Sam's legs are long; they safely cross two steps and allow him to leap the last four.
The blood pounding in his ears makes his headache grow into something fierce, but he ignores it as best he can.
Because the thing at the bottom of the stairs isn't a ghost.
It's his brother.
He shouts 'Dean' before he even reaches him; it comes out muted and muddled because his breath's coming out in spastic gasps he can see puff out in the chilly air. A light drizzle being thrown against the glass house up top mingles with his pulse beating through his ears making it impossible for him to hear anything else, even his own thoughts.
So he doesn't think, just shakes his brother's shoulder and smiles inwardly when the shoulder he's shaking pushes back reflexively.
"What the hell are you doing down here?" is the first thing out of Sam's mouth. Not for lack of emotion -- hell, his brother's at the bottom of a staircase looking the loser of a nasty bar fight.
"Man," Dean slurs, trying to sit up. Sam moves to help him, but the always independent Dean recoils from the help and uses the wall for assistance instead. "What the hell is going on?"
"Why don't you start with why you left me up there on the ground by myself."
Dean's confused. His forehead rises and his eyes try to squish together. "Huh? You were looking at something and I noticed -- "
There's a flurry of activity as Dean tries to get up, his eyes wide and worried and a bit angry at the edges where hazel gives way to dark green. He pushes off the wall and sways a bit before taking a step forward. His face twists, eyes close for a second, and returns his hand to the wall.
"What?" Sam asks, on his feet. Dean uses the wall much like an inexperienced ice skater at an ice rink; his hand stays firmly on the wall and he moves slowly enough to catch unwanted attention.
"The car!"
Now it's Sam's turn to be confused. "The car?"
"I was looking around. One second, it's there, the next, gone. Shit clued me into something weird starting. I swear to God, if someone took it, I will pound their ass into the ground."
Before Dean can reach the doorknob, Sam's got the door open. Wind pounds against it, stronger than before, but the door opens to the left and gives them a bit of shelter. He looks around himself -- the car should be parked a few feet from the fence on the other side -- and scoots out farther to see if it, and he doesn't want to think about how, has moved.
When he moves back inside the shelter of the door, he can feel Dean standing just over his shoulder and pictures his brother on his tip-toes to see over Sam's shoulder. He smiles -- his height is something Dean's never forgiven him for -- but the momentary elation he feels is cut short when he glances over his shoulder and sees that Dean's not standing on his tip-toes. Instead, he's half leaning against the wall, half against Sam's shoulder.
Dean gives him a sheepish, pinched smirk. "I'm not feeling too well. Might want to move out of the way."
Not wanting to get anything on his shoes, Sam scoots to the left side of the doorway just enough to give Dean a good amount of space. Dean leans over and starts to throw up -- the sound alone makes Sam wince, and he focuses on the wind instead --- but his hand slips from the wall and he starts to tumble forward.
Sam hooks and arm around Dean's waist, pinching his eyes closed as hard as he can. His viewpoint isn't the best, now, and he can barely focus on something else as Dean's stomach heaves under his arm.
He finishes and not a moment too soon. "Man, that's gross."
"Thanks, Sam," Dean mumbles. He's still leaning forward, almost all his weight resting on Sam's arm; he doesn't make a move to stand on his own, just hangs there, drizzle falling into his hair, flattening it against his skull.
It's obvious Dean's not pulling himself back into the tower, so Sam wraps his other arm around his waist and pulls him back inside. Wind howls over the opening of the door like a kid blowing over the top of a bottle, and it echoes up through the brick tower before the wind takes over and slams the door shut.
The bang swirls through the tower with a note of closterphobia. With the car apparently missing and a storm growing outside, there's nowhere to go. Even with the drizzle outside, Dean doesn't seem well enough to try the two mile walk to the village below.
Dean comes out of whatever stupor he was in as soon as the door slams, and he pushes off his brother's help. "I took a header down a flight of stairs, Sam. I'm not a baby."
"Fine," Sam grumbles. He lets go, arms retracting from around Dean's waist. Dean pits forward, catching himself on the generator, and falls down the length of the quiet machine with a groan. "Sure, Dean, you're fine."
"Yeah." But it's one of those unmistakable situations where Dean's trying to not let on exactly what he's feeling for the sake of those around him; his teeth are clenched, muscles tight, face pale in Sam's flashlight beam.
Sam sits down next to Dean and starts probing his body with his flashlight, wincing himself when the beam reflects off the generator and reminds him of his headache. It sits just behind his eyes, threatening to send all kinds of odd shapes into his vision unless he calms down and gives himself a moment to collect himself.
"Sure you're okay?" Dean asks. Sam looks up to find his brother's eyes almost boring through him and wonders why he's just noticing now. Wasn't the point in having psychic abilities being able to know about things without directly seeing them?
"Yeah. Just a headache."
"What happened after I left?" Dean continues. There's something in his tone that causes Sam to stop what he's doing and sit back on his heels.
"I had a vision," Sam replies. "It was so real, Dean. I could have sworn I was really standing there."
"Where?" his brother probes, sounding so much like their father.
"Up there," Sam says, motioning to the top of the tower with his flashlight, "the night the ship crashed."
"And that woman died."
"We're not even sure she died here -- "
"It makes sense," Dean sighs. His eyes slip half-closed, and what Sam can see of them are unfocused. "Ruth dies 'cause she thinks its out, two people before that. Why is it so hard to believe," -- Dean yawns -- "it all started that night?"
Despite the pain pushing against his eyes, Sam hastens his search. The most obvious injury his brother could have from his fall -- and he's pretty sure that's what happened, though the why puzzles Sam -- is a concussion. But the stairs are unforgiving, just like the railing he fell against, and he's seen Dean with concussions before.
"Are you going to stop trying to be a tough guy and tell me where you hurt?" he hisses in frustration.
"Too bad you weren't pre-med," Dean mutters.
"Yeah, well, if I knew you'd be so difficult, I might have changed my major." He resorts to poking and prodding like a doctor, checking Dean's arms and torso as best he can in what light he has. If there weren't so many stairs, he might have dragged Dean up a few feet for better lighting,
Then he pokes somewhere that makes Dean groan. "God damnit, Sammy!"
Sam shines the flashlight on Dean's left leg and feels that swell of pain in his head when his pulse quickens. Through the darkening material of Dean's worn jeans Sam can see blood spreading over a sliver of white skin. He grimaces and looks up at Dean with those worried, dark eyes he gets when he has to do something he'd rather not.
"I'm going to have to rip your jeans," he says. "This might hurt." Because he has no idea how long Dean had been at the bottom of those stairs, no idea how long he'd had that vision of the past. So he grits his teeth, balances his flashlight under his arm, and rips the jeans open where the blood's pooled.
Dean lets out a sharp yell that sounds a hundred times worse in the enclosed space; it had to be at least a half-hour, from the way the material had stuck to the skin. Sam's face pinches at the sight of the raw skin around a slight -- Sam closes his eyes and swears at whoever's listening above -- protruding bone.
"Fuck, Dean," Sam remarks in a rare usage of swearing. But when he glances up at his brother's face, he finds nothing but pain written across sleeping features.
Medical training only extended so far in the Winchester family. Despite their best efforts, broken bones and deep cuts couldn't be treated with materials from their shaving kit filled with supplies. But the side-effects could; pain-killers and gauze could alleviate pain and slow the bleeding. With the car missing -- and how that happened was beyond Sam -- he didn't have anything. Nothing to make Dean feel better, nothing to treat his broken bone.
First things first. His headache is pounding harder with each passing second, the wind swirling around the tower not helping. What he needs is peace and quiet and maybe four years of sleep, not a hard cement floor, a storm growing outside, and an unresponsive older brother.
The way his head hurts, how it's making everything swim around him, clues him in that he might have a slight concussion -- nothing too bad, but enough to make his movements sluggish.
He leaves his brother for only a minute, wandering off outside with his flashlight at hand, searching as far as the beam will reach for the car or anything that might help him patch Dean up enough to get them to safety. Above, the light of the lighthouse illuminates the island, giving a bit of assistance. But the rain's falling at a slant a little harder than before, and Sam has to wipe his eyes every couple of seconds in order to see.
The only tire tracks he sees are those they made when coming in; Dean always likes to give a little flare to his driving, and the curve at the end in unmistakably his. One set, none in reverse. Just gone.
Another sweep around the lighthouse, then Sam jumps back over the fence. Each time the light swings to the northeast, it glances the swing set. Dark, light. No color, just the presence of something metal standing out in the distance. Even Sam has to admit it's somewhat creepy. It's still repelling him for some reason, and for that reason he shines his flashlight directly on it and marches forward.
With each step, his headache grows. One foot after another until he's walking across the open field with robotic steps, knees straight, head bowed, brow furrowed. The flashlight in his hand wavers, a few inches at first, then shakes violently. His head's threatening to rip itself apart.
Air explodes from his lungs with a strangled cry, and he falls to one knee fifty feet from the swing set. The flashlight tumbles from his hand, rolls across the grass, and disappears over the edge of the cliff.
Sam half-stands, half-crouches in the field. The light swings around, sweeps the cliff, and continues on its way.