Title: Hunter's Crossing
Author: Signs of Sun
Note: Holy busy! Sorry about the gap in postings there. Been straight out workin'.
Two for one deal today! I went to edit and proof chapter 6 and realized it looked awful long. At first I just tried to edit stuff out, but eventually I decided it would just have to be two chapters instead. So you get two chapters posted at one time! Aren't you excited? LOL! Now I just have to remember to renumber all the later chapters or all I'll accomplish is confusing everyone.
Anyway, here's Chapters 6 AND 7!
Thanks for reading!
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Hunter's Crossing
Chapter 7
Dean lifted the lid of the grill and inspected it more closely. It was a gas grill, but a model that still needed a match to ignite. He'd have to search for both a book of matches and some briquettes. A small shed stood off to the corner of the backyard and made his way over to it. Finding it unlocked he investigated inside, locating both matches and charcoal. He stuffed the matchbook into his right shirt pocket and picked up the full bag of briquettes and headed out of the shed. Just a few feet from the grill he caught something, a shadow, out of the corner of his eye, moving off to his left. The corner of the house was only a few feet away and he turned his head to look just as the impact came. The force triggered his right hand to release its grip on the bag and it dropped to the ground to his right. His body flew to the left and roughly landed in the grass. The second impact came as he had begun to fight back. The weight of a body slammed down on top of him and the breath abandoned him for a few seconds. Finally he was motionless, pinned down to the earth, and was able to get a good look at his attacker.
"Lost your mind Sam or just glad to see me?" Dean spat out, attempting to cover the pain filled grunt that he had let out.
"Sorry, didn't mean to tackle you quite that hard."
"Before we get into the details of your new found upper body strength any chance you could get the hell off of me?"
"Oh yeah sorry Dean," Sam uttered apologetically and scrambled to his feet. Dean remained flat on his back in the grass for a few seconds before even attempting to sit up. The skin on his arms burned intensely. The impact with both the ground and his brother had ignited every nerve ending into a fiery panic and Dean had to clench both hands into tight fists to even gain some semblance of control over the pain. His let his eyelids slide closed and he forced a deep inhale and exhale two times over.
"Didn't hurt you, did I?" Sam's voice inquired, worry thick in his tone.
"Nope! Nope!" Dean responded, opening his eyes and instantly sitting up. The new wave of pain that struck him stalled his progress for a heartbeat and Sam offered an outstretched hand.
"Yeah you better help me up since I'm down here cuz of you," Dean stated, faking annoyance, and accepted the hand in standing up.
"Dean I…uh..it's just…sorry about that."
"First, care to tell me why you just body slammed me? And, second, you got my steaks right?"
"Yes, Dean, I got your steaks."
"Okay that takes care of number two. What about number one?"
"Well, I was just thinking that I could make the steaks."
"Did it ever occur to you to, oh I don't know, ask? Or is Dad rubbing off on you and now you're Mr. Act First, Ask Questions Later?"
"I just...I wanted to surprise you was all."
"Well I'd say you accomplished that. You freakin'…psycho."
"I thought it might be cool if I grilled the steaks and you and Dad could hang out on the porch and try some of that designer beer, yeah that was what I was thinking. Yeah that was my...well…that was the plan."
"That was your plan huh?"
"Yes. Yes. It was." Dean immediately identified his brother's response as a lie. There was a misstep, a stumbling, in the logic he presented. One that was uncharacteristic of his intelligence even if it had been made up on the spot. But the dead giveaway was the way Sam shifted his weight from one foot to the other and tilted his head to the right just faintly when he spoke. He'd done it since he was just a kid. Sam never seemed to be aware that he did it and Dean never let on he noticed the pattern.
Dean managed to reign in the frown that began to rise to the surface and spread in his expression. It morphed into a scowl by the time it was truly visible. If there was one thing he loathed it was whenever his little brother felt the need to lie to him. It signified a lack of trust and Dean despised the thought that Sam believed he couldn't trust him. Dean opened his mouth to call Sam on the lie his last words had been, but never even spoke the first syllable because their father appeared, turning the corner around of the house into the back yard. So instead of the words he wanted to speak Dean found some less private ones.
"Okay, Sammy. She's all yours!" Dean proclaimed, gesturing his left hand towards the grill. Next he pointed to the bag he'd dropped. It lay on its side in the grass, abandoned.
"There's the charcoal!" he continued. Then spent a breath digging into his shirt pocket and producing the item there.
"And here's the matches. Knock yourself out Chef Boy!" he snapped and held out the matchbook.
"Dean I didn't…."
"You said you wanted to be the chef. Here, go chef!" Dean stated, grabbing Sam's hand and slapping the matches into his palm.
"I didn't mean to piss you off. I just wanted…" Sam began but Dean turned and started walking towards the back door of the house. If Sam was going to lie to his face then he wasn't sticking around for the lame excuses.
"But Dean!" Sam called out after him.
"Let him go son," John interjected, arriving at his youngest's side. Dean continued straight into the house without offering anything additional. He was exhausted and sweaty and thirsty and annoyed. The only two things he was up for were a ice cold shower and a quick nap in the hammock he'd seen strung up in the shade out back. That was if he could stay awake to make it to the hammock, otherwise he'd settle for the incredibly comfortable queen size bed. By that time Sam, master chef he thought he was, would have finished making lunch.
Dean passed through his bedroom and entered the private bath on the other side, shutting the door at his back. The room was fair sized but had no windows so he flipped on the light and the overhead fan. He grabbed a large towel from the cabinet and set it on the edge of the bathtub. Standing in front of the mirror he removed the button down shirt, peeling it from his sweaty skin delicately, and took a look at his reflection. The crimson hue of his arms and neck had not faded at all and he had two blisters forming, one on his right shoulder and the other slightly lower down on his arm. He wondered whether the shower was such a good idea, certainly the coolness would be a relief, but the water pelting down on those blisters and his damaged skin might not be so pleasant. In the midst of pondering whether it was worth it out not his own body tore his attention away from the decision.
Dean's breath caught in his throat as his heart suddenly added an extra beat to it sequence. Instantly nausea gripped him and he was on his knees depositing the contents of his stomach into the toilet. When he was finished he flushed it away and lowered himself to a sitting position on the cool floor, his back rested against the tub. The nausea had been expelled, but sheer exhaustion had taken its place. He'd have to rest a few minutes before pursuing the shower idea any further. Dean slouched further down against the side of the tub and his head found the towel he had placed there.
He closed his eyes and rested.
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The air around him pressed heavily down on every fiber of his being and Dean pushed against its weight to open his eyes. The sensation of sleep clung to him both mentally and physically. He'd only intended to rest for a moment, but somehow he knew a moment had turned into many. Straightening up evidenced this further. His upper back ached and his neck was stiff and reluctant to move pain free. Sluggishly though he made his way to his feet. Lightheadness lurked on the fringes of physical sensation and he tried to cure it with deep breaths, but the heavy stuffy air in the windowless room made it difficult. He grasped onto the doorknob and steadied himself, letting his eyes close for a few quick heartbeat. He pulled open the door in the hope it would replenish the air in the bathroom then turned towards the sink. Bracing one hand on each side of the its countertop Dean opened his eyes. His gaze landed on the faucet and he reached over with his right hand to turn on the cold water. Then used both hands to splash a handful on his face and waited for it to soak in.
Only an instant later though the refreshing moisture had evaporated and the brief relief it had provided had vanished along with it. Suddenly his breath was departing him too. Even a single deep inhale was a struggle. Trying not to panic Dean shifted his gaze and was met with his own reflection in the mirror. In the background the bathroom door stood open and the mirror provided a partial view of the bedroom beyond. For the next shallow inhale Dean stared at the image there then spun around to confirm that what he'd seen was real and not just a distortion that existed only in the mirror.
The view that met his eyes was the same one though.
A room on fire.
The bedroom was rapidly being devoured by hungry flames. Dean started to glance back over his shoulder before his memory kicked in reminded him that the bathroom was windowless. His only chance at escape was a running one, a mad dash through the burning room. Moving quickly he grabbed the large towel he used as a pillow earlier and turned on the water in the tub. After thoroughly soaking the entire towel in cold water he cut the stream off and draped the towel over the top of his head so it hung down over his upper back, shoulders, and the top of his arms. He inhaled as deeply as the thick air would allow, held his breath, and flew out of the bathroom, ran dead center through the bedroom, and into the living room. He stopped abruptly at the end of the couch, halted by what he found there. His brother and father had just entered the room from the kitchen. Both were carrying utensils and plates, acting perfectly routine.
"Food's just about rea…," Sam began to say, but let it trail off and stared at Dean. Dean stared back for a few seconds, shock cementing him in place and temporarily rendering him silent.
"Um, Dean, why do you have a towel on your head?" his father inquired. There was an unspoken comment inside his tone that suggested his father thought that what Dean was doing was extremely odd. This tore Dean from his stunned state and his voice returned full force.
"We gotta get out! Sam! Dad! What they hell are you just standing there for?"
"Dean, what are you talking about?"
"What are you blind? The building is on fire Sam. We gotta go!"
"The building's not on fire."
"How could you not notice those big ass flames!" Dean yelled back, gesturing to the bedroom. When neither of the two reacted Dean went to them. He clapped his left hand on to the sleeve of his father's shirt and the right gathered a piece of the front of his brother's shirt and he began to literally tow them towards the door.
"Dean! There's no fire!" Sam called out to Dean, trying to pry Dean's fist from his shirt. The attempt became a wrestling match between both of Sam's hands and Dean's determination. Battling the sheer force of his brother's will was futile and Sam had to nearly jog to keep pace as he was dragged to the door. Dean released his hold on the fabric of John's shirt long enough to open the door. John took the opportunity and latched both hand's onto Dean's left upper arm, spinning his son around to face him.
"Dean, there's no fire here. Whatever you're seeing it's not real," he pleaded with his eldest son. It distracted Dean long enough for Sam to free himself from the vice grip his brother's had on his t-shirt.
"Dad, there's no time to argue about this. We have to get out here. This place is burning to the ground."
"It's not Dean. Like Dad said, whatever it is you're seeing it's not real. It's not really here," Sam offered, but Dean couldn't believe they couldn't see the flames consuming the room and feel the heat eating away the air around them. Sam's words had no effect on him and Dean's only response was to recapture Sam's shirt inside his fist.
"We're going!" he yelled out roughly and went to clamp back on to his father seeing that John hadn't moved forward towards the doorway. John dodged the attempt and surrendered in words instead.
"Alright. Alright. We'll go with you Dean. Right Sam?"
"Sure. Let's all go outside," Sam responded, tossing a half dazed half concerned look his father's way. John threw one back that stated this was an unexpected development, a concerning one, but they would work it out.
Dean stepped out onto the porch hurriedly and stepped aside, stopping there until both Sam and his father were clear of the doorway and on their way down the stairs. Only then did he trail after them at a jog until they were all standing at the passenger side of the Impala.
"Okay, what the hell was all that about?" John spat out.
"You're telling me you really can't see that?" Dean asked, disbelief saturating his tone of voice, and gestured a hand back towards the house they had just exited. The flames had raced through the bedroom and were now steadily working their way though the living room.
"There's no fire." His father's words injured Dean. He'd protected both him and Sam and there was no gratefulness, no agreement even on the existence of the danger.
"There's not, Dean. It's not real. What you're seeing. It's not really there. But we'll figure it out, okay?" John offered in a gentler voice.
"Dean? Dean?"
Dean's mind faintly registered his father's voice calling his name, but a lump had settled in his throat. The stubborn barrier prevented him from uttering a response.
"What's going on Dean? What's wrong?" Sam's voice seeped through so quietly that Dean could just barely capture the words. Then in the next excruciatingly loud heartbeat he could only grasp that Sam's voice was still present in a distance. It trickled to him as foggy mumbles and only familiarity identified that it was his brother speaking.
The fire consuming the building before him was abruptly dimmer in its intensity. Sam's voice disappeared completely and Dean shifted his gaze from the flames to his brother. Sam was there stationed in front of him, his lips moving in speech, but the sound was absent. Sam eyes were frantic with a rapidly expanding fear. Dean's heart plummeted and he wanted intensely to connect with him and squelch away the concern he witnessed. But a thick film clouded the space between Dean's mind and his muscles. The words he wanted to speak went uncreated and Dean realized not only was he disconnected from his brother and father verbally but that his entire body was numb of any sensation whatsoever.
Then everything began to slip away from him, pushed back far off onto a distant horizon. Far from his reach and nearly out of sight, his brother and father stared at him silently and all he could manage was to stare back. Strangely Dean found himself without panic although a sliver of his mind thought there should be some. He simply remained still as his eyelids fluttered a handful of times. Then the scene of his brother, father, and the burning house dimmed further and further away, impossibly out of his grasp, and darkness filled in where they once stood. Once the blackness sealed around him he knew he was in motion downward, somehow sensing he was falling but unable to feel it or fight it.
To Be Continued…