And now, the thrilling conclusion -- in this and the next chapter bring this story to an end. It's been a fun and wild ride -- I hope you all have had as much fun reading this as I did writing it.
Keep an eye out for a new fic coming out within the next month -- and I promise, I'll post that one faster than this one!
Thank you to all the readers and reviewers. I love you all. This fandom's been the most kind when it comes to reviewing -- and I've been writing fanfiction for over ten years! Thank you all!
Chapter Ten
Everything happens so fast, Sam finds it hard to remember the details even years later, when him and Dean sit at a bar sharing stories of their closest encounters with their father over a couple of beers and a sea of newspaper print-outs.
The clearest part of the memory is that of Dean disappearing off the side of the cliff.
Dean feet fell first, almost into thin air, and she dangled him over the edge almost tempting him to fight back against her. He swats at her hair a few times, then reaches for his waist and the knife he habitually carried there. But when Sam changes direction and gets within ten feet, she lets go.
But instead of smiling, of launching into laughter at finding a replacement for Thomas, she screams. It's one of those deep, gut-wrenching screams that mingles with tears of agony. She isn't celebrating, isn't happy.
She is in agony.
Sam launches himself at the spot where Dean disappeared like a baseball player racing the ball coming in to home plate. He slides along the slick grass, thankful for the heavy rainfall, and almost overshoots the safe distance he'd estimated.
As he thrusts his hand down, he catches sight of the ship from the corner of his eye, and as something grasps his wet fingers, he watches as the ship tops a wave only to have another crash into it. The light atop it wavers for a moment, then disappears as the ship is overtaken by the turbulent, angry ocean.
He doesn't look down or over or at anything beside the spot where the ship once was until he hears a muttered, "What the fuck...?" below him.
When Sam turns to look at his brother, he catches sight of her dress fluttering on the way down to the ocean.
"Huh," he remarks. "She threw herself off the cliff."
"Yeah. Very interesting. Really, Sam. Think you can, I don't know, pull me up now? Or are we going to hang here for awhile? While the view's great, the death drop part's not appealing to me at the moment."
Sam smiles, so relieved, he could pull his brother into a tight, girl-moment hug and not care. He reaches down, grasps Dean's other hand, and pulls him up onto the grass.
The brothers lay there, panting for a moment, trying to figure out what the hell just happened.
"Why would she do that?" Sam asks, closing his eyes against the onslaught of rain. "I mean, she got what she wanted, didn't she?"
"It's a little insulting," Dean mutters, chest heaving. "Aren't I a catch?"
Sam rolls his eyes under closed eyelids. "I'm sure you would have loved spending eternity as her pet."
"Sometimes, it's nice to be wanted."
Sam opens his mouth, but Dean beats him to it.
"By someone who's not you."
They lay silent for a moment, taking in the sounds of the storm. Lightning flashes somewhere behind them, and a loud boom shakes the ground beneath them.
Sam finally speaks up. "I think it was the ship."
"Ship?"
At Dean's question, Sam leans up on one elbow and faces him. Dean's eyes are closed, arms thrown across his stomach, breathing shallow. His face is as white as Ruth's was, and at the thought of her, he props himself up on both elbows and looks around.
"They're gone."
"Thomas, yeah," Dean says as-matter-of-factly. At Sam's questioning look -- Dean's popped an eye open just in case -- he smirks. "He was a guest for a bit." Dean taps the side of his head.
That surprises Sam, and he shakes his head, bewildered at his brother's blasé attitude towards someone else invading his head. Because Sam's felt it before, and it isn't something you take lightly.
But Dean takes everything lightly, or so it seems, including his injuries at the moment.
Perhaps their conversation is better suited for somewhere dryer. Sam stands and holds out his hands. "C'mon," he says to Dean, "you look like shit."
"Thanks," Dean replies, grasping Sam's outstretched hands. He leans against his brother and lets Sam lead him back towards the lighthouse. "Bitch."
As they get closer, the light above them swings around and catches on something. Sam squints, and swears it's --
"Son of a bitch! I swear to God if they did anything to my baby, I will hunt down their fucking bones and burn 'em myself."
It's the last thing Sam really hears Dean say with any amount of enthusiasm for three days.
--
Dean falls asleep. Sunlight chases the car as Sam drives away from the lighthouse with a little more finesse than required, gunning the purring engine and getting the hell out of there without a single thought for speed limits or police officers. His mind chews on the last day -- no, two days, according to the time and date on Dean's phone -- as he drives down the gravel road to the main highway.
The road's empty at such an early hour, the sun rising behind them casting demented shadows on the graying pavement. Sam's thankful for such solitude, even from his brother; it allows him to think uninterrupted, to figure out the hows and whys of not only the last 36 hours, but the entire trip. Were they brought there to deal with the ghosts, or their family? Or was it all connected, somehow, a trial by fire to deem them worthy?
Of what?
There's an existential question he doesn't have the answer to. Pre-Law had been so easy compared to the everyday he lived now. Proof and president and black and white. You were guilty or innocent. Convicted or released. There were no in-betweens, no shades of grey. Nothing outside the realm of what could be seen and heard to ponder.
There are a few bumps in the road outside the entrance to the Cranberry Bog, enough to jostle the chassis a bit. Sam's hands bump on the steering wheel, jarring his wrists enough to remind him they're still bleeding a bit. He steels a glance at his brother; Dean's head's lolled in that space between the seat and the window, and each puff of breath steams the window a bit.
Eyes back on the road.
They need answers, and a lot of them. The puzzle box got knocked over somehow, and there are a few pieces they can't place without being able to see the bigger picture.
And what is the bigger picture? That a woman died on the lighthouse while trying to restore the light, and, consumed by grief, loneliness, or hell, plain old insanity, decided to stick around?
And what the hell did that have to do with the ship?
Fifteen minutes out, Sam's worry manifests in his stomach as butterflies, and he reaches out to shake Dean's shoulder. Gently, at first, then a little harder as the road pressed on and houses appeared in the distance.
A grunt is all he needs, and he feels safe enough to get out for a moment and ask for directions.
If not for the winding roads and one way streets, he would have arrived sooner, when Dean was still half-asleep but responsive each time Sam made some kind of remark about the car. The shocks were worn, the breaks needing replacement -- anything to keep Dean from falling back asleep.
But when the directions became complicated, and he needed to consult a piece of paper every few streets, the jokes stopped and so did Dean, his head falling against the window this time, puffs of air too small to resemble clouds.
After twenty-three minutes -- he timed it on the radio's clock -- he pulls up in front of a weathered grey building a few stories tall, looking more like a larger cottage than a hospital. Hands shaking more from nerves than anything else, Sam dashes from the driver's seat and opens the passenger door with a creak. Hands under his brother's shoulders, he's ready to give it his all despite being exhausted --
"Let me help you with him, son."
Sam's eyes narrow -- he's not going to let anyone touch his brother -- but a soft hand on his shoulder relaxes him just a tad. Enough to take a step back and allow his uncle -- the very one Dean laid out days before -- lean in and gather Dean up in his arms.
Confusion must be written all over his face, because Alex pauses a moment before starting up the ramp. "It was Angela. She was worried."
Huh.
--
Angela Browning glides around an empty hospital bed and around the empty chair with ethereal grace, coffee cups grasped in each hand. She places one on the cluttered nightstand next to the occupied hospital bed and lays a hand on Sam Winchester's shoulder.
"You look like you haven't slept in days," she comments, holding out cup still in her hands. "Don't worry; mocha with skim milk, just the way you like it."
Sam accepts it with a grateful smile. "Thanks. Should I ask how you knew that?"
Angela simply gives him a deep look and takes a seat next to him, her eyes lingering over Dean's sleeping form. Only once did he wake up since arriving, long enough to hit on the nurse assisting with his cast and reassure Sam that everything was perfectly fine, and not to expect him to give up the driver's seat anytime soon.
Then promptly fell back asleep, leaving Sam to sit at his bedside in silence for the past day.
"You poor thing," Angela comments. She takes Sam's left hand and holds it tenderly in her own, fingers lingering over the bandages wrapped around his wrist.
"Dean would say I looked like a failed suicide attempt," he says. "That I'm such an emo."
Angela laughs softly. "In jest, I assume."
"Oh yeah," Sam rolls his eyes, "he never means any of it." He pauses, and looks over his brother's sleeping features. "At least, I hope so."
"I'm sure he doesn't. He's had odd ways of showing his affection ever since Mary's death."
Sam likes seeing her, if only for the information on his family he craves. Don't ask, don't tell has become their family motto, though Sam's annoyed both Dean and his father on several occasions by pushing when they'd already clammed up. Angela's face sobers when speaking of Mary, and so does Sam's; they let the silence linger for a moment of remembrance before Sam's curiosity gets the best of him.
"So, um, how did you know we'd be here? I mean, when? Honestly, I didn't even, well, know how or if we'd get out of there." There's more uncertainty in his voice than he'd intended; he seriously had doubted getting away from that lighthouse and her.
"I was worried," Angela starts, looking down at her hands. "I knew something was wrong, not what, just something. I kept having dreams last night of the car driving up, of blood or," -- she pauses and shakes her head.
"Yeah, I know," Sam speaks up. "Sometimes, it's hard to describe it."
"Mary always could. Her visions were clearer, or so she said. When we were kids, she'd know small things; when dinner was done, the weather, if a boy would ask one of us out. Nothing huge."
"You say that like something changed."
Angela nods. "After Dean was born, things changed. Her visions became more intense; she'd call me in the middle of the night, frightened. When she told me she'd seen her death -- "
"Wait a second," Sam interrupts. His voice quivers. "She saw her death?"
His aunt sits quietly, a deer in headlights.
Anger swells up in Sam, anger, sadness, confusion; he shoots out of his chair and begins pacing the small area at the foot of Dean's bed. "She knew she was going to die? Knew something -- that -- was going to happen, and didn't do anything to prevent it?"
"What was she supposed to do, Sam?" Angela says. "Not have you?"
Her statement hits him like a bullet to the chest, and he stops mid-step with the impact. She knew she'd die after he was born? Knew what would happen? Sam sinks against the wall, tears shimmering in his brown eyes, and he can't help but stare at his brother.
It really was all his fault.
"Oh, God..."
"It wasn't your fault, Sam," she tells him. "She knew how important you were, what you would do, all the people you'd save. Don't you take on responsibility for her choice." Angela rises from her chair and pulls Sam into a hug. "You're so much like Mary, just as strong."
It's the first time anyone's told him he resembles his mother in any way, and Sam smiles against Angela's shoulder as he returns the embrace. She hugs him tighter than either of his family members, different than Jess, and he revels in it as long as he can before Angela pulls away and holds him out at arm's length.
"There's nothing wrong with you," she says. "You're perfect just the way you are."
--
"Please tell me you can smuggle in a cheeseburger. Anything with grease. Or flavor." Dean sits propped up with pillows, his left leg elevated in a sling attached to the ceiling. A very boring ceiling, without all the pit holes and shadows of the industrial parts most hospitals used. Instead, it's smooth and painted eggshell white with no distinguishing features; he can't tell which parts he's examined from new territory.
Sam sits hunched over his laptop next to him, a game of half-played solitary glaring off the screen in tones of bright green and white. He grabs a fry from a bag placed just outside Dean's reach and pops it in his mouth.
Dean groans. "This hospital food is awful. Just one fry?"
"Nope. Doctor's orders." Sam munches down on another and clicks around a few virtual cards.
"Put the eight back," Dean orders, motioning to the screen. "You've got one down there already."
Sam looks over the spread, raises his eyebrows, and hits undo. "Fine," he growls, placing the proper cards in their places, "you can have one." He grabs a fry from the bag and hands it -- slowly -- to Dean, who plucks it from his hand and holds it up in front of his face, examining it.
He chews it slower than Sam has ever seen his brother eat. "This," he says between chews, "is the best fry I've ever tasted." His swallow is exaggerated, and he smiles, satisfied. "Hey, what about the two?"
"Now you're just making stuff up," Sam remarks.
"Am not." He points to something on the screen, his finger bouncing into the LCD. "Right there."
"Don't touch the screen."
"Didn't mean to. Give me another fry or I'll kick your ass."
"Dean, I don't mean to shock you, but your leg's in a cast."
Dean snorts. "Like that'll stop me." He starts to wiggle a bit in the bed, and it takes Sam a moment to figure out he's trying to get at least one leg out of the tangle of blankets he's under.
"Okay, okay," Sam surrenders, pushing the bag closer so Dean can reach.
Dean pushes himself up a bit higher on the pillows and snags the bag, grinning wildly at the introduction of normal, good food. Four meals carted in by a slightly overweight candy striper who, for once, he didn't find attractive, have dulled his taste buds. The fries, picked up from the small cafeteria, taste fantastic, the most wonderful, tasty French fries he's ever tasted, and Dean considers himself a coinsure.
He munches a few down and feels his stomach flip-flop; taking a pause -- something he finds painful even if his world's been colored with pain for the past few days -- he places a hand over his mouth and hopes he doesn't throw up. Twice in front of his brother is all his ego can handle, and here, all he's got is a plastic bin.
With a heavy heart, Dean closes up the bag and places it back on the side table. When a man can't even enjoy something as simple as fries...
He sighs and puts his hands behind his head, wondering if he can find any imperfections on this pass. The passes of the paintbrush wave up and down like the ocean; Dean blinks his eyes against the onslaught of images the association dredges up. Some, he's discovered over the past few days, are his own. Others, to his surprise, aren't. He suspects they're Thomas's; he had no idea how deep the little punk had gotten, but he knows he doesn't like carting his memories around.
They're varied; some of the ocean, some of life inside the keeper's house with his mother and father and, Dean's not sure about this one, a dog of some kind. It's like looking through a photo album and getting snippets of the conversation around him.
He focuses his eyes on the ceiling and tries to call up memories from the night of Thomas's death; he's still searching for clues of some kind to explain exactly what they stopped. Or helped. He's not sure what they did, actually; most of his own memories are muddled, full of plot holes and mixed images.
"...get so good at solitary?"
Sam's voice pulls him from his forced reverie with a fragmented sentence.
"Huh?" Dean sets his eyes on Sam.
Sam shakes his head, but there's a lingering look in his brown eyes Dean can't help but notice.
And dislike.
"Where'd you go?" Sam asks.
Dean shakes his head, like Sam's just gone insane in the last three seconds. "What are you talking about? I'm right here. Just because I don't pay attention to your solitary game every second doesn't mean I'm checking out."
"Does that mean you're ready to hear what I found out?" his brother tries.
Dean grumbles and thinks for a moment, disguising it as boredom. His brother's been sitting there for hours just bubbling with excitement over what he's found out, given the new information they "stumbled upon." He's wanted some time to distance himself from the entire event; it's easier to lock emotions up that way. Part of him fears hearing the story of her might make him feel sympathetic, and he never wants to feel sorry for someone who tried to kill him.
"Alright," he declares with a wave of his hand, "fine, go ahead."
The bright green of the solitary game is quickly replaced by a news article of some kind, the white light bouncing off the blank wall behind Sam and shining back in the same way metal catches light. This is no angel dancing on the walls; a devil in disguise, it has to be.
"I never really looked into that missing persons report because her name was originally listed on the victims list for the fire," Sam says. He speaks in one rushed breath, overexcited to be sharing his research. Dean knows the tone, and folds his arms over his chest, ready for a lecture.
"But I cross-checked it with that ship we saw, you know, that crashed?"
"Yes, Sam, the one that crashed. Get on with it." Dean punctuates the interruption with a fake yawn that quickly grows into a real one.
"She was married to one of the whalers."
This catches Dean's interest. He leans up into a sitting position and starts speaking with his hands. "So her husband's on the ship. It crashed..."
"Because the light was out," Sam finishes for him.
Neither notice, or pretend not to. It's been happening a lot lately, ever since Dean woke up and started babbling. Just here and there they'll have the same thought, and while they might not express it the same, the meaning's there.
"Yeah," Dean says. "So, what? She was crazy? Suicidal? How long did those ships stay out, anyway? Months?"
"You know, Moby Dick was set here."
Dean blinks harshly at the non-sequitor. "What the hell does that have to do with anything?"
"If you'd read it..." Sam sighs. "A few months, yeah. Maybe a month if the season was coming to an end."
"So she's sitting there, all alone, goes crazy because her husband's unreachable, and, what? Notices the lighthouse's out all the way from town? What is she? Superwoman?"
Sam shrugs. "I don't know. But think about it. It fits. She knows there's a storm, goes to make sure everything's okay at the lighthouse, and sees that it's not. The ship would have made it to shore safely if the light had been on."
"Fine. Goes up, tries to fix it, dies."
"Pretty much."
Dean points a finger. "Why the hell did she hang around, then? For kicks?"
"She didn't see the ship crash. Why else would she throw herself off the cliff when she did."
"So she was waiting for her husband to return," Dean summarizes. That's something he can identify with. Waiting. Being alone, with no one to keep you company but your thoughts as you sit out on the cold cement of the front steps wondering why your mother hasn't come home with the groceries yet.
Or why this isn't your house.
And damnit, he feels a pang of sorrow for her. For her plight. The uncertainty of when or if someone you loved would return. Sitting on those steps. Head full of terrible, negative thoughts.
Hell, it almost drove him crazy.
"She felt abandoned," he says finally. "And had to find someone to replace her husband while she waited."
Sam cocks his head to the side. "Why?" Why, instead of how would you know?
"Fill the hole? Give her enough psychic power to keep waiting? What do I look like? The woman on the Psychic Network with the big hat of fruit and fake accent?"
Sam squints his eyes and Dean knows he's toying with that picture.
"I guess she just got bored of Thomas," he continues.
"Or used up all his power," Sam counters. "Needed someone new."
"So I'm a battery now?"
Sam shrugs. He's silent, mulling something over in his head. Dean can almost see the wheels turning through his pensive, downcast eyes lined with dark circles; he'd come in and out of consciousness enough to know Sam rarely left his side and barely slept.
Dean's had enough of silence. "Ruth must've been a bystander. Saw her son out there, went to save him. That kind of thing. Too bad," he smirks a bit, "she was kinda hot."
There's a snort from Sam. "What is wrong with you?"
"Huh? You're the one who got up close and personal!" Dean retorts. "With both of them."
"How do you know about that?" Sam stammers, face turning a particularly bright shade of red at the memory of kissing her.
"You know, Thomas was like, robot ghost until Ruth started singing," Dean points out.
"Yeah." Sam shutters. "Hurt like hell, too."
"C'mon, her voice wasn't that bad."
Sam flounders, motioning lamely with his hands. Is his brother that thick? "She used me as some kind of psychic amplifier."
"Well, I told you that Shining would get you into trouble."
He must have said it with more seriousness than he intended, because Sam turns those big, sympathetic eyes on him except they're more angry than anything else.
"What is it with you?" he asks. "Is it because your jealous, or are you scared? 'Cause I don't know how much longer I can take all these psychic jokes without punching you in the face."
"Whoah, Sammy, where's this coming from?"
"Seriously, Dean, I just...its hard enough dealing with it myself without you pointing it out all the time."
"Dude, I'm just playing with you. No need to get all sappy on me."
"That's the thing," Sam says, eyes flickering down to study the tiled floor. "I know you are. I know you don't mean anything by it -- "
"Yeah. So drop it."
Eyes come back to match with his, blazing. "Why, because you say so? When do I get my say, Dean?"
"I'm not going anywhere," Dean points out. "Just asked out of, you know, curtsey."
"Maybe this was a good thing, then," Sam spits out, "it'll force you to listen to people."
"Did you just say me breaking my leg was a good thing? Cause I could swear you didn't say something that stupid."
Sam leans against the plastic white footboard, arms crossed. That bubbling, excitement he held before is gone, replaced with anger and resentment so strong, Dean can almost physically feel it in the air.
It reminds him of his brother in the weeks before leaving.
And he thinks -- oh, God, is he going to leave again? -- he's pushed him too far this time.
How easy it would be to keep pushing, to know it was cold-hearted comments made for this very reason, that drove him away, and not the deep truth of Dean, kept carefully hidden?
"Yeah, man, maybe I am a little jealous," he says slowly, carefully. Measuring out the impact of each word. Because the truth is, he could care less about having whatever Sam has because it scares the shit out of him. Telling Sam that would be like telling him, well, that he's frightened of his own brother.
He presses on. "Maybe I want to know why you get all the special powers, and I'm left saving your ass. Or dad's. Why you get singled out and I'm left to be the, what did you say? The perfect little soldier. You get to be normal for awhile, then come back and even outdo me at my own game. So yeah."
"You're bringing up that again?" Sam shouts. "I thought we were over that. You know I didn't mean anything."
"And you know I don't mean anything. Kinda a double standard there, Sammy. And here all I'm doing is teasing."
"Yeah, well, stop it."
"Or what? You'll kill me with your mind?"
Sam huffs. "Yeah, maybe."
"You do that."
Since only one of them is actually able to leave the room, Sam stalks towards the door, huffing all the way with anger. Dean lays there -- he's fucking leaving -- and does the only thing he knows; he pushes more, and can already feel the pain of being alone creeping up around the edges of his soul.
Sam's almost to the door, hand extended for the latch. Last ditch efforts are something Dean's never been very good at, but he tries anyway.
"Then who'll rescue you, huh?"
Sam whirls, pivoting around to face Dean. Dean, lying pale in a hospital bed, leg in a cast and up in a sling. Helpless, angry, scared Dean.
But he's just too angry. "You're not jealous, you're fucking scared, Dean. That, I can tell. Go ahead, say its part of this, this thing I've got. But it's not. You're my brother, and I know. I'm scared too. You want it? Really want it? Think about why Thomas chose you. Think about that. But you know what you're more frightened of?"
"What?" Dean yells.
"Me leaving." Sam wrenches the door open and lets it slam closed behind him.
Dean leans back against the pillows, pain flowing just as freely as anger -- or is it regret? -- and shakes his head. "Good one, Dean. Fucking perfect."
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