A/N: I cannot believe it's being nearly five days since I've been near a computer! Needless to say, within five minutes of getting home, I was online, thus confirming that I am a complete addict. So, after trying to sort through my e-mail and beginning to read all the fic I missed, I'm posting the next chapter. I love that you guys are sticking with this and I love that I have a beta who makes me so much better at this whole writing thing than I actually am :)
Chapter Fourteen
A motel room had never seemed so empty. Dean tried sleeping, but it wouldn't come. It was as if he could feel the absence of his brother in the next bed.
He tried to watch TV, but his eyes kept drifting to Sam's bed, to Sam's bag.
He sighed. I should be with him.
He had always been the one to take care of Sam. From the night their mother was killed, Sam was his responsibility and no one else's. For all the times he'd nearly lost Sam in the past year, he hated that he had left Sam alone in a hospital against his kid brother's will. He hated to think that this was something he couldn't save Sam from, that maybe they both needed outside help to make it better. He hated that he hadn't been enough of a big brother to stop Sam from needing this at all.
Dean fiddled with his phone, nearly calling his father. But this wasn't a phone message he could bring himself to leave. What would he tell his dad--that Sam had had a nervous breakdown? That Dean had let Sam get out of control? That Sam hadn't been strong enough to keep it together?
No, that wasn't it. This wasn't about Sam being strong. This was about Dean doing his job.
Dean cursed, throwing the phone to the side. He leaned back heavily and closed his eyes.
Suddenly, there was a noise at the door.
Dean tensed, his hand instinctively grasping the pistol on the bedside table.
Stealthily, he stood, moving toward the scraping at the door.
Poised, he watched as the latch gave way and the knob turned. He cocked the gun, grabbing the figure roughly as it entered the room and pinning it against the wall. He jabbed the tip of the gun roughly into the intruder's head.
It only took a split second to recognize his brother. "Sam?" he asked incredulously, letting the gun drop. "What are you doing out of the hospital?"
Sam was panting, his eyes still wide from Dean's assault. "I couldn't stay there."
"What are you talking about? You need to stay there. We're taking you back there right now."
Sam shook his head wildly. "No, please, Dean. I can't go back. I need to—I can't—don't leave me alone."
"Sam--"
"Dean, something's—happening. I don't know. I can't explain it. But something's after me. It's everywhere."
Dean suppressed his frustration. "Sam..."
"It was there, in the hospital. It's been in the streets, in the woods, in this room. No one else can see it—but it's there."
Dean watched his brother uncertainly. Sam was trembling and he could see the dried blood on the back of Sam's hand from where he had pulled out the IV.
"It's a demon, Dean, it has to be. It moves in and out of people, in and out of things, possesses them just for moments. But it doesn't need them—it can be anywhere, be anything."
"Do you have anything to back this up? Any proof?"
"Proof? Dean? What else could be going on?"
"Well, why are you the only one who sees it? Why is it not attacking anyone? What's its purpose?"
The questions made Sam stop. "I…I don't know."
Dean sighed. "What makes you so sure it's a demon?"
His mouth hung open and tears sprang to his eyes as he shook his head. "It can get in my mind. We have to stop it."
Sam was breaking down in front of him and his open vulnerability terrified Dean into anger. "What, Sam? What am I supposed to do? You don't sleep, you don't eat, and you're claiming something that no one but you can see and hear is after you. You check yourself out of the hospital and show up expecting me to have answers. I don't even know what's going on, Sam, but you're scaring me. You're falling apart and I don't know what to do."
Sam watched his older brother move in angry paces across the room. "You don't believe me."
Dean rolled his eyes. "What am I supposed to believe, Sammy? You've been on the edge ever since we left Stanford—hell, you nearly lost it when we were hunting the Wendigo. With everything that's happened, Sam, the visions, the demon, Dad—I can't blame you—"
Breathing hard, Sam felt a tear slip down his cheek. "I'm not crazy, Dean. Not like that."
Dean bit back a curse and looked gently down at his brother. "You've got all the symptoms of a nervous breakdown—classic post-traumatic stress. I should have—I should have caught it sooner. I should have let you have more time off after Jessica—"
Sam was shaking his head in disbelief. "This isn't about that. Dean, I swear, this isn't about any of that."
"The doctor thinks—"
"You're going to believe a doctor?" Sam was incredulous. "They don't know what we know. Dean…"
Dean shook his head sadly. "I should have caught this sooner, Sam. I should have made you deal with all this crap a long time ago. But we can't run from this anymore."
Tears in his eyes, Sam plunged to desperation. "That's what it's trying to do. It's trying to make me crazy."
"Sam, stop!" Dean yelled. "The visions are one thing. The nightmares are another. You haven't even grieved since Jess. You haven't been facing up to the fact that all your dreams went up in flames around you. You're not superman, Sammy, and with the lack of sleep, lack of food—no one's blaming you."
Sam had no words left to say, no pleas left to offer. He breathed brokenly, tears running down his cheeks.
Dean moved gently to his brother, kneeling in front of him, looking steadily up into his eyes. "We'll beat this. I promise. Nothing bad is going to happen to you."
Sam met his brother's gaze, but his eyes were distant. Dean's stomach twisted. His platitudes had always quenched his brother's doubt before. He had always been able to ease Sam worries with a promise of protection. But looking up in his kid brother's wide eyes, for the first time, he saw that Sam didn't believe him.
"I'll let you crash here tonight," Dean finally said. "We'll deal with this in the morning."
Sam didn't acknowledge him. Dean waited a minute longer before pulling Sam up and steering him toward the bed.
"Why don't you believe me?"
Dean looked away. "Sam…"
"Why don't you believe me? Why—after everything we've seen—do you question me now?"
"Because none of it was real, Sam!" Dean exploded. "None of it! The voices, the things you saw, the people you imagined doing things, even the places you went, Sam. None of it is real. The people you thought were possessed—they're not. None of them have been. There's been no sign of EMF activity whatsoever. Sam, the guy at the café? Doesn't exist. People have seen you sitting in the café talking to yourself for hours. The pawn shop? Not there. It's never been there. These are just figments of your imagination, Sam, nothing more."
Sam flinched at each one of Dean's points, shrinking into himself. His eyes were wide. "No…" he whispered. "It can't be that way. The possessions—it's got to be some other kind of demon, something we've never seen before to move in and out like that. That could be the voices, too."
"Your psychic vibe guy? The pawn shop?"
"They're real. You just couldn't find them," Sam insisted. "I've got Dominic's card," he said suddenly, reaching for his wallet. He fumbled, muttering before pulling out the card. "See?" he said, holding it out. "This proves it. Dominic's real."
Dean took it and glanced at it, his heart sinking as he did.
"What?"
Dean held the card up for Sam, exposing the blank piece of card stock.
Confused, Sam snatched it back, examining it himself, flipping it over and over. "That's impossible," he murmured. "It was here. It has to be here." He picked up his wallet and tore through it. "It's in here somewhere."
"Sam," Dean said. "It's not there. It's never been there."
"Yes, it is," he said, frenetically emptying out the fake IDs and credit cards.
"Sam--God, Sam, stop," he said, grabbing his brother's hands.
Tears in his eyes, Sam looked up at him, an uncertain clarity gleaming in them. "It was here, Dean. I'm not crazy, Dean."
"I know you're not crazy."
"Just suffering from a nervous breakdown, right, so much better," Sam said, shrugging away from him.
"This stuff happens. We've got to deal with it."
"This stuff doesn't happen. I'm not losing my mind, Dean. This stuff is real. I can't explain how or why it's happening the way it is, but I know the difference between imaginary and reality."
"Sam, we'll deal with this in the morning. You need to get some sleep. I need to get some sleep."
Sam had his mouth open to protest but Dean cut him off. "Sleep!"
The force behind Dean's voice was unusually strong. Reluctantly, Sam lay on his bed, not even getting under the covers.
Dean pulled a chair closer to the door and eyed his brother with a mix of emotions that Sam didn't want to analyze. Instead he let his eyes drift to the ceiling. At least he was out of the hospital. He wasn't truly safe, even here, but he was much less vulnerable. And somehow he would find a way to make Dean believe him.
Dean flicked off the overhead light, plunging the room into darkness. Minutes gave way to hours and night dissipated into early morning, but neither Winchester slept.
OOOOOOO
Dean could sense Sam's increasing restlessness as the dawn approached. He sat up when the slivers of light filled the room, silently going to the bathroom. Dean heard the water run and got up himself with a steadying breath. It was going to be a long day.
Pulling on a clean shirt, Dean mentally prepared himself. He had to get Sam back to the hospital, back to where people could help him, but it was clear his brother wasn't going without a fight. There had to be a way to get Sam to go back. Dean didn't want to physically subdue his brother, though he knew that Sam would hardly be a formidable opponent in his current state.
Still, he did not relish taking advantage of Sam's weakness, especially since he had no idea what physical submission would do to Sam's mental state.
No, he had to convince his brother to go back to the hospital, a task that seemed increasingly difficult. But Sam was clinging to one last hope, one last truth--the pawn shop. Dean was confident that once Sam saw that it wasn't there, that it was just as fake as the voices, as Dominic Neville, and the demon, that Sam would give in and let Dean get him help.
But as Sam came out of the bathroom, his T-shirt hanging off his too-thin frame, his eyes darting nervously about, Dean wondered if Sam would handle the psychological submission any better than physical.
OOOOOOO
The night had stretched interminably, but Sam's mind ran too much to sleep. He traced back the events of the last few days, going over them again and again. It all made sense. It all had to make sense. The dreams. The possessions. The voices--the voices everywhere he went--there had to be a reason. It was a demon; Sam didn't know what kind, hadn't heard of anything like this before, but nothing was impossible, not in their line of work. Dean would see. If he could just show Dean the pawn shop, then he'd see, then he'd believe him. Then they could fight this thing, fight it together.
The shower had been a sharp wake up, jerking his groggy senses into full awareness, preparing him for the day. They had a lot of work to do, and the trip to the pawn shop was just the first step of many. Maybe afterwards he'd take Dean to the diner, meet up with Dominic, and then they could hash out what to do next.
He could feel Dean's eyes upon him the minute he exited the bathroom, drilling into him, watching him as though he was going to fall apart at any second.
Dean shadowed Sam's movements, all too aware of his kid brother's shaking hands and over-bright eyes. He looked worse today than even after the seizure, and Dean wanted to be ready in case the collapse that appeared imminent actually occurred.
Sam set the pace, heedless of his brother's concerns. They walked briskly toward the shop. Sam didn't even glance at Dean. "It's just a few more blocks, around the corner from the barber's."
Dean didn't answer, knowing what Sam was going to find but not knowing how he would react when he found it.
They turned the corner and were suddenly faced with an unused lot, its many cracks filled with weeds of varying sizes. There was a "For Sale or Lease" sign dug into the concrete, just past the sidewalk.
Sam stumbled. Dean put an arm out to catch him, but Sam pulled away, pacing off the lot with slow steps. He looked up and around, confirming to himself that he was in the right place, but unable to reconcile what he was seeing with what he had expected to find.
"It has to be here…" Sam said slowly, his eyes roving the vacant lot. "It was here."
Dean tried to be patient, hoping that Sam would be able to put the pieces together. "No, Sam. It's never been here."
Sam shook his head, his breathing ragged. "No. It was here. I went in. I spoke to the man. I—"
"No, Sam." Dean's voice was sorrowful, firm.
Sam stumbled farther into the lot, running a hand through his hair. "It—it has to be here…I know it was…how could it just disappear?"
"It wasn't real."
"No." Sam was in the center of it now, desperately searching for some hint of what he knew had been there.
"Sam…"
"No…."
Dean moved after his brother, a few paces behind. "I'm sorry."
The lot emptiness of the lot reverberated, and Sam spun frantically around, with a flailing passion. "It's a trick. It has to be. A spell, a curse—"
Dean couldn't look at his brother. "Sam…"
"We have to find to out what's doing this," he said with new determination, moving past his brother.
Dean stopped him with a gentle but strong hand, turning him toward him again. As he held Sam's gaze, he felt the tears burning, unshed, in his eyes. "I'm so sorry, Sammy."
Sam shook his head again, his own tears spilling unchecked down his cheeks. "Dean, please…" It was his last hope, his last effort.
"We need to help you, little brother."
With Dean's certainty, the tears and fear in his eyes, the fight left Sam completely. "I saw it," he whispered, his words pathetic, broken, his body shaking.
Dean did not waver. "I know you did."
Neither spoke. The dust filtered hazily about them in the morning sun. The elder's will was inflexible, the younger's nonexistent, but they were both broken.
