Chapter 9
Sam wandered up and down the long aisles of the small drug-store, scratching away the remains of the caked blood adorning his forehead. He hadn't even noticed the cut until he was halfway to the store and had been shocked to find it when he peered at the rearview mirror.
It wasn't anything major, of that he was sure. There was no headache, no throbbing, just a scabbing remnant of whatever had occurred in the bathroom. It wasn't a comforting thought because seeing as he couldn't remember a damn thing meant that in all argumentative sense he could very well have a concussion. A possibility that his older, hawk-eyed brother hadn't even mentioned, much less seemed to notice.
Sam wasn't sure if it was the series of events that had unfolded or the betrayal that had jarred the elder more. If it was the event itself, it must've been horrific if Dean was obviously reeling, and it had managed to scare him enough that a head wound just gets shoved to the wayside. Sam really wanted to believe that was the case. That Dean was just getting worked up because of what he'd seen. Although, if he was forced to bet money on it, he would go with the latter.
But what would Dean have done or better yet what could he actually do now that Sam's little secret was out? He had been researching like a mad man for the past day and a half and all he had to show for it was zilch. And what small amount Sam had managed to find ended up conflicting with what Dean had uncovered.
Sam grit his teeth in frustration. If anyone on the face of the planet had a God-complex, it was his older brother. Bottom line, Dean was sick. Ever since they were small, Sam couldn't remember one instance where his brother was only a little sick either. Dean always got hammered hard with whatever disease decided to take him on.
If Dean hadn't looked so traumatized, there was no doubt in Sam's mind the elder would've just slumped down and slept. But no. He screwed up, pissed him off, didn't tell Dean something in order to protect him, which was never supposed to be in his little brother job description, and now instead of rest, Dean was getting sicker.
Sam shook his head at his own stupidity. He knew better than to hide things from Dean. Hell, he hadn't been able to do it their entire childhood so he had no idea what possessed him to try it now. Dean had this way of just sensing, knowing something was off, but never calling him on it until he could catch him red-handed. And it pissed Sam off to no end, mainly because he always got caught.
If Dean was entitled to secrets, why wasn't he? He had managed to keep a few under wraps for a while when they first started their little journey together only because Dean was out of practice, four years can do that. But he'd be damned if he could now. Regardless, he wasn't going to let his brother suffer anymore on his account. There was no way Sam was letting his brother stare at the computer screen for hours on end in his current condition and waste away in front of him. What Dean needed was proper rest and fluids, not to mention something to knock the bug out of him. And he was going to get it, whether or not he wanted it.
Deep in his own thoughts, Sam almost missed the row of brightly colored boxes and bottles that claimed to cure a multitude of symptoms. For a fleeting second, Sam contemplated buying a liquid for Dean just for shock value alone. However, a pissed off Dean was a dangerous Dean, and Sam figured after the stunt he'd pulled in silence, his older brother was more than likely to actually attempt murder if he so much as asked him to drink the thick, badly-flavored syrup.
Methodically, Sam picked up box after box, turning them over, and intently reading through the lists of proper dosage procedures and advantages between the pills in this box to the prior medication he had just put down.
Sam
Sam snapped his head up, his eyes, formerly intrigued by the massive list of warnings and uses, now darting frantically around. He was sure he heard his name, but the aisle was empty and no one, save Sarah and Kasey's parents, even knew who he was.
He shook his head at his jumpiness, and carefully set the box back down on the shelf. Sam studied the rest of the display for another minute before giving into the thought of standing on his tiptoes to see over the rack, just in case.
All that met his eyes was a clearly bored employee stocking Ace bandages. Sam eased back down onto his heels, a smirk on his face. He must've hit his head harder than he thought.
Sam
He whipped around this time, rubbing at the dull ache that had reappeared in his chest as he charged down the aisle, and peered out at the open entrance area. The teenage employee behind the counter gave him a questioning glance and he offered tight smile in return.
Scratching his head, Sam meandered back to his former position in front of the medicine, trying his best to focus at the task at hand and not on whatever the hell was going on in his twisted mind.
Sam
This time his name was called sharply, and the sound brought Sam to his knees. He clenched his jaw as the pain flared viciously in his chest, and fought hard against the muted scream threatening to escape. Through gritted teeth, Sam strained to respond to the calling. "What do you want?"
You
It was a simple answer to a simple question, and as it was spoken the searing fled, leaving Sam sprawled out on the floor, trying to maintain what little bit of composure and sanity he had. He bit his lip in anger. What was it with freaky supernatural crap and their infatuation with his brain in the first place?
"Are you alright?" Sam shot a hard glance in the direction of the question, softening his expression when he saw a young dark haired girl wearing the drug-store's orange vest.
"Uh, Yeah. I tripped." Sam stated, letting a small laugh out as he picked himself off from the floor.
"Oh. Okay. Well, uh, can I help you with something 'cause I saw you earlier and you just keep staring at the shelf." The girl voice had a meek quality to it as she eyed Sam curiously.
"Well, my brother is sick, and I need something that will help his cold and fever, but also knock him out, you know?"
"Yeah." The girl laughed, "Is he bad when he's sick? Cause my brother is bad when he is."
"Bad? Dean? More like terrible." Sam joked, grateful for the light discussion instead of the interrogation that could've occurred.
"I've never taken any of these ones." The girl replied quietly, a slight blush forming in her cheeks, "But my mom takes that one, and she sleeps good, I think."
"This one?" Sam followed where she was pointing and scanned the box quickly before agreeing it was a good choice, "Is the name on the pills?"
"What?"
"The pills. Are they just blank or is the name on them?" Sam knew it was a weird question, but Dean wouldn't take them if he really knew what they were.
"No. I think they're red though. Is that ok?" Sam smiled at her confusion and just nodded.
"More than okay. Thanks." Sam quickly nodded a goodbye, and darted off to the counter to make his purchase to ensure he wouldn't have to tell Dean about the voice anytime soon.
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Dean shakily drew out the symbol he'd seen far more than he would've liked. His vision blurred, but that was fine with him as long as his eyes remained open. The pills he had taken had sufficed in the awake category, but he had sensed his body's shift into autopilot. He let the pen drop from his limp fingers and slumped back into the chair, staring down at the blue stain marring the blank page.
It was another entry into the journal. His journal. Yet another one of the traits he had picked up from his time with his father. It was one that Dean never thought he would ever adhere to because for one, his dad seemed to just have it all, and two, what the hell would he write about.
But as time wore on, and the hunts came quickly beginning to all but mesh together, Dean found himself needing to document any information lest he forget it entirely, and by doing so put himself and his family in danger. And that wasn't an option.
Dean pulled the book towards him and casually flipped through the pages. Some entry held slight additions to what his Dad had already seen and experienced but weren't touched on. He always remembered to reference where he'd taken the bulk of the information from though, down to the page number and name of the contact Dad had used.
Other pages contained a mess of symbols, another tribute to his father's sense of organization that he had so easily adopted. Some held his own tracings patterns of supernatural occurrences that were yet to be completed or where not far enough into motion to be filed as one.
Four of the filled pages held nothing more than series of run on sentences. His thoughts. They were the evidence of the confusion, fears, and moments of pain he had experienced and had no outlet for. There were multitudes of evil things that haunted him, but these were the glimpses of his life that defined his existence. One for the day Sam left, a page of nothing but anger, pride, and hope. Another for morning he awoke to find his father gone, missing, and realized he really had no one. The third a torrent of curses toward a demon he had yet to find who had taken his younger brother's love and the pain that had clenched his heart upon remembering his mother. Nebraska occupied the fourth, his toying with how Death must be and whether he really wanted it or not. He'd felt his heart struggling to beat, the blood slowly pumping in his veins, and yet the dreaded sensations offered him a way to get back what had been stolen long ago.
It was for these pages alone that Sam was never allowed access to the book. Just rereading the scribbled phrases, his thoughts on paper, irked Dean, and if Sam were to see what was really going in that wiseass head of his, well, all that hard work of forging those masks was for nothing. So, is Sam wanted to keep secrets, Dean would oblige. There was no doubt in Dean's mind that Sam knew the book existed, he'd whipped it out when they were in Wisconsin, but the younger never pried, a fact that eased Dean's struggle with maintaining the damn thing in the first place.
Out of all the scribbled entries, the ones that bothered him the most were the ones that bore the marking of the still unexplained--the riddles that appeared to hold no answer, no probable cause. He had six pages full with such incidents, ones he vowed to solve before his demise if not for the fact that most of them concerned the massive missing or killing of children. Dean cursed under his breath as he turned to the seventh and began scrawling down the case that was trying to claim his brother.
With the words "St. Anthony's Cross" "Immortality" and "Incarnation" jotted down, Dean scratched his brow in thought, grimacing at the wetness that met him there before letting out a small round of coughs.
The pieces were there, they just didn't fit. He was sure the connection lie within the church but it was constantly eluding him. The symbol tied the two occurrences but no one could really give a straight definition for it and while Father Andrew creeped him out, he really had no reason to suspect of being a supernatural entity. Even if he was possessed, there was no way he could wander around the halls with people muttering in Latin all day and no one getting suspicious when he flipped every time they hit "Christo." But then again, what did they really know about the man?
Pulling at his damp Tee, Dean shifted his attention to Sam's laptop, clicking on the history menu. A series of links to alternative religion sites and symbol galleries greeted him, but nothing in regards to church history. Dean squinted in concentration, and rubbed at his glazed eyes. Sam wouldn't have missed something that important. He didn't think, but they had been stressing so hard over the symbol and if his little brother knew he was marked and thought the symbol was the key, it was possible.
Dean swallowed visibly, trying to quell the slow burn in his throat as he hit search and typed in the words "St. Pius X" "Father Andrew".
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"Father Andrew, I need to speak with you. The matter is urgent." Father Andrew tore his gaze from the old text, and raised his bowed head to meet the man who had interrupted his session.
"Yes, Father Michael. What is it?" Father Andrew's irritation at the man's imposing was evident, but quickly morphed into worry when Father Michael stepped out from the door, motioning for a cloaked figure to enter. Father Andrew stared questionably at Father Michael who merely touched the figure's shoulder and closed the door behind them. A gesture to roll back the wide hood that covered the man's head entirely.
"Father Thomas." Father Michael stated sullenly, his eyes glassy as he stared at the nearly uncovered skeletal form in front of them. Patches of skin hung by mere threads of tissue off the bony face, exposing the inner black-red of rotting muscle and the grey matter that lay behind the deteriorating skull.
"Why did you bring him here?" Father Andrew demanded, "Those reporters are in town"
"I know that, Brother. But we don't have much time." Father Michael retaliated, clearly angered by his brethren's reaction to the situation.
"I can see that, but we must be patient. The chosen isn't ready." The reply was hard, firm, and final.
"Why not? You said you marked him a day ago." Father Michael pressed, his dark eyes ablaze.
"Well, considering I get interrupted when I am trying to prepare him brings a certain delay now doesn't it?" Father Andrew asked pointedly, meeting his Brother's glare.
"Yes. It does. I'm sorry I questioned you." Father Michael apologized, dropping his head in submission to his leader.
"Don't trouble, and have faith, Brothers." Father Andrew encouraged, placing his hands on Father Thomas' shoulders "By tomorrow you will have your youth again."
The creaking and snapping of worn bones ravaged the room as Father Thomas rolled his head upward bringing his white eyes to his elder. A popping of sinew followed by garbled words exiting the loose mouth, jaw unhinged, were released unto the air as the man retreated from the room.
"Thank you, my lord."
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alright lemme know what you think!
