ENTITY (Chapter Fifteen)
From Chapter Fourteen:
At the dining table, a spread of home-cooked food before him, his brother at his side and a woman who was as close to a mother as he had ever had before him, Sam realized that Dean was right. This was the apple pie life that he had longed for. Right here. But it no longer meant jack-shit. He could no longer hunt side by side with his brother as an equal, and to be anything less was unacceptable. Anything less would lead to Dean sacrificing more than he could give. He overtly watched his brother, the shortened stubble of new growth at the back of his head, the heavy bandaging on his right arm, the darkened shadows under his eyes.
Sam looked down, overcome by the bitter cruelty of the situation. The entity had given he and his brother a taste of the apple-pie life they had never had, and at the same time it had left them both without a means by which to hold on to it.
Chapter Fifteen
Steam rose from the newly brewed cup of tea on the table before Missouri. She touched the handle then drew back as she heard soft footsteps pad down the hall to the kitchen door. The eldest Winchester boy appeared a moment later. He blinked against the light and scrubbed a hand across his face, rubbing at his eyes as though to erase the dark charcoal smudges that lay beneath them. He moved to his hair next, self-consciously teasing the flattened strands before he let his hand fall away.
"You're up early," he commented around a barely suppressed yawn.
"So are you."
"Yeah, well, Sam snores. Loud. Non stop. Like a freakin' freight train. If I stay in there a minute longer I'll throttle him." He moved into the room, retrieved a glass from the cabinet and half filled it with water before quickly downing some pills. He joined her at the table and slumped heavily into a chair.
"What's your excuse for sitting out here?" he asked as he slid his arms across the table and pillowed his head on his uninjured forearm. He held that pose for only a moment before he straightened and stretched, wincing as he moved.
"I couldn't sleep," she admitted, "and your brother's snoring is nothing new. So I'm assuming that you're here for the same reason as I."
"I'm not worried about Sam."
"I didn't say that you were."
"Oh. Well, he's fine. Snoring."
"So you've said."
He eyed the steaming pot beside Missouri's cup. "That water or tea?"
"Water."
"Can I—"
"Boy, you know you don't need to ask for permission. I've told you a dozen times, this is your home for as long as you and Sam want it to be, and then some. Go, make yourself a coffee. You know where everything is."
Dean ducked his head, grumbled then pushed up from the table. She deliberately studied her own cup of tea until he returned and then waited until he had taken a sip.
"Dean, I know you're encouraging Sam to regain function in his hand."
"That's what you told me to do," he replied edgily.
"Yes, it was. And I feel it was the right thing to do. It got him through the worst part, but now that he's getting stronger he needs a different approach. I'd like to spend some time alone with him today."
He watched her intently, his hazel-green eyes scouring hers. He finally looked away and released a tense breath. "Should I even bother asking what you'll be doing with him?"
"No."
Dean nodded, his shoulders weighted and features drawn. He averted his gaze from hers and stared down at the coffee cup. His long fingers wrapped around it, seeking warmth, comfort. "He wants to go back to school. Can you talk some sense into him or something?"
"I can't make his decisions for him."
"His hand won't stop him from hunting."
"No, it wouldn't."
"He's safer with me than at school."
She had no doubt about but did not comment, ultimately it was Sam's decision and she would not influence it. She did, however, need an answer of her own.
"Dean, last night you told me that Sam had deliberately cut himself." She saw the young man flinch, and she took a breath before continuing. "You've told me why he did it, but I need more." She paused again, disliking the hunch to his shoulders, the lines of pain on his face. She had to remind herself that Sam was not the only one who had almost died, who was suffering. She softened her tone. "Dean, I trust you to tell me if there's something wrong. You said that he was making a point, but it's a disturbing way for him to have made it. Are you sure that is all it was?"
"Yes." He raised his head, his expression determined. "I know him, Missouri. I can read him better than you can, even with that whole psychic thing you've got going on. He's hurting and confused, that's it. Nothing more."
She scanned his eyes, lightly reading him despite the assuredness of his words. She searched for any hint of doubt, denial or fear. She found none. "Okay," she relented. "Let me spend some time with him and we'll go from there." She touched his hand. "It will be alright, honey. You'll see."
Four hours later, Dean stood at the front door, keys in hand, his already suspicious brother hindering his neat exit from the house.
"Toy shopping," Dean said with a wide grin. "Tara needs a new Boris and I'm the man for the job."
"Toy shopping," Sam said as he rested on his crutches. He huffed and cocked his head to the side. "Dude, are you feeling okay?" His eyes widened suddenly and he leaned forward. "Tell me you're not packing, Dean. You can't take a gun into Toys-R-Us."
"Give me some credit, Sammy. I've just got the knife."
"Dean."
The elder boy laughed, winked at Missouri then swung the door closed. Sam stood there a moment, before he turned and forced an apprehensive smile. "You want to talk to me," he said, "and you've sent Dean out so we can be alone."
"Yes."
His shoulders stooped as he nodded. "You know he hates toy stores. All those wind up mechanical monkeys, dead-eyed dolls, psycho battery operated robot dogs. He thinks they're all possessed. If he decapitates Barbie—"
"He's not going to decapitate Barbie," Missouri said, though she did cast a wary glance at the now closed door. "Dean left you some breakfast. How about we have something to eat and then we'll talk."
"You know, I'm not so hungry."
"Honey, if you don't eat we won't talk."
"That could be a good thing."
"Sam, you have nothing to worry about. Now let's eat, then we'll sit outside and enjoy this beautiful day." She gently nudged him forward, staying just behind as he slowly moved down the hall.
"Chucky was a toy," he said as they reached the kitchen. "I bet Dean takes the EMF. It could get really ugly, I think—"
"Stop fretting about your brother, boy. What harm can he do in a toy store?"
"Oh man, you do not want to know."
Missouri shook her head in feigned consternation and gestured to the dining table. "Sit, and forget about Dean."
He exhaled heavily. "He had better not have skulled the last of the apple juice."
Missouri smiled, fully aware that the older boy had drained all of the juice, both the apple and the orange, which left Sam with milk, water or beer. And the boy was not going to be getting any alcohol any time soon, so she retrieved the container of milk and waited for the grizzling to begin.
An hour later, Sam followed her outside, his head down and lips tightly pursed. He moved with a deliberate unease, as though being marched to his execution. He kept his head down, the dark locks almost hiding his eyes and his actions stiff and resistant. He chose the wicker chair closest to the outer railing, easing himself onto the plush cushions with a grimace. He placed the crutches beside him then warily looked around. His sharp gaze scanned the dappled light, searched deep into the shadows, the crisp air seeming to unsettle him, exacerbate the unease.
She settled into the chair closest to him. He glanced at her then looked away, his eyes once again scanning. The morning air that lightened Missouri's heavy spirit, seemed to add weight to his. Gentle tinkling beside him caused him to start. His head whipped to the right, a soft exhalation escaping his parted lips as he took in the aluminium wind-chime suspended from the veranda beam beside him.
"You're safe here, Sam," she said softly. "Protection spells bind the whole property, Angelica and Fennel grow in the garden at all four corners and along each boundary, and there's a continual line of salt around the perimeter, secure and weather proof. I check it daily. Nothing can get in here."
"Yeah, I know," he breathed.
She waited a moment then asked, "How are you feeling?"
"Fine."
"Your leg is okay?"
"It's good."
"Still sore though?"
"It'll get better."
"Yes, it will." She looked down at his left hand. He rested it in his lap with the fingers loosely curled inwards, a thin bandage around the palm. The self-inflicted slices through his two middle fingers were obvious though evidently superficial and already healing. She swallowed hard, disturbed that he had done that but trusting Dean's judgement about the underlying motivation. "Can I see your hand?"
He frowned, seemed to consider denying her request then held it forward. She gently unwound the bandages from his palm. The wounds inflicted by the entity had closed, leaving an ugly slash through the flesh and several smaller lines that ran the length of his middle two fingers. His thumb, forefinger and little finger had mostly escaped injury.
"Can you form a fist?"
He drew in a sharp breath, briefly glanced at her then looked down. She waited as he struggled to move his hand, the fingers moved a little, curled inward before they stilled. He released his breath and pained frustration marred his features.
She lightly traced the scar across his palm. "Can you feel this?"
"Hmm."
"What's it feel like?"
"Raw and burning."
She nodded, encouraged. "And your fingers, can you feel them?"
"Not the middle two."
"They're numb?"
Sam nodded and he again looked away, his eyes hooded. She patted his forearm and released him. He did not immediately reapply the bandage instead he stared down at the injury. "I never wanted this," he quietly admitted. "I wanted a way out of hunting, but not like this. And not now. I don't want to live like this forever, but… it's not over, Missouri. Mom, Jess, Max, now this. It's like something is happening that is bigger than all of us. Bigger than Dean and I. I don't think I can just walk away."
"Then why have you told Dean that you're going back to school?"
"Because I can't stay with him." His expression twisted and Missouri saw the hint of tears. He sniffed and coached them back. "I won't let Dean be hurt because I can't protect him. Or worse, because I can't protect myself."
She understood the lengths Sam had gone to in an effort to keep his brother safe, the very injury that now threatened to tear the brother's apart had been sustained while Sam had been trying to protect Dean. It was obvious that the younger boy would see that injury as a reminder of his failure and the potential for future failures. But she did not know if it went deeper than that.
"If you had been able to recover fully, no permanent impairment, would you still want to go back to school?" she asked.
He looked at her, his lips parted. He cocked his head to the side, his expression quizzically pained.
"You suffered an incredible trauma, Sam. Physically and psychologically. Even without the hand—"
"No. All of this… I can't even… but it's not over. It's not done."
"Then how can you walk away? How can you when you know that it's not over."
"Because if he's not with me, he has a chance."
"And you? Without him, do you have a chance?"
He looked away, sniffed and drew his arms around himself. Missouri suddenly felt physically ill, sickened at the burden that the young man before her carried and the choices he now made. She had already twice witnessed what the supernatural could do to Sam. Both times Dean had given his brother a chance. But on his own….
"Sam, I can heal your hand." It came out rushed, awkward, not at all how she had planned.
He turned to her, his eyes narrowed. "What?"
"I can heal you. But it's a little… complicated."
"How? What do you mean?"
"I have a poultice that I can apply to your hand. You would need to keep it on for twenty-four hours during which time the nerve fibres and tendons would regenerate. It would be a further few weeks before the process would be complete." She smiled but won only a slight tilt of his head as he stared at her, his jaw slack. She swallowed and continued. "You would regain full function. It will be as though you were never hurt."
He closed his mouth and narrowed his gaze. He watched her closely. "What's the catch?"
"There isn't one."
"Yes there is. There always is."
"Not this time, sweetie. This one is guilt free."
His blue-green eyes suddenly sparkled with anger. "No, there is no such thing as guilt free." Rage simmered and shifted, darkening his expression with a sudden intensity that she did not recognise. He pushed up, crying out as he momentarily took his weight on his injured leg. She reached for him, but he caught himself, snagged the crutches and shied away from her. He clenched his jaw and poised to move.
"There is no catch, Sam. I promise."
"No. You just don't know what it is but you will and then it will be too late. You won't be able to change it and you will carry that burden forever. You don't want that, Missouri. I promise you, you don't want that."
She glanced toward the rear of the house, regretting having sent Dean away. The older boy had an ability to manage his brother, handle the younger hunter's volatile emotions. John's youngest son wore his heart on his sleeve, his emotions bared… but the intensity and shifts had caught her off guard. She wet her lips. "Sam, sit down."
His pained gaze searched then the barest thread of blind terror sparked in his eyes. "Oh God, you know. You know why this would work. What deal have you made?" He shuddered then and his features twisted with a pain she could barely stomach to witness. "What have you traded for me, Missouri? What have you done?"
"Sam, I haven't."
He began moving, agitatedly raking his crutches along the timbered veranda. He had made it two steps before a loose board snagged one rubber tip, causing him to almost fall. He righted himself with a grunt and a sharp curse, then stilled, panting, his eyes closed and head down.
"Sam, please. You're hurting yourself."
He raised his head and she flinched at the undisguised pain in his eyes. "Tell me what you have traded for me."
She wrung her hands and quickly said, "Nothing Sam, you will do it yourself. Your abilities will make the poultice work. That's all. There are no catches. No trades."
"What?"
"I will explain, but you need to sit down."
"No." He leaned forward, awkwardly balanced, his jaw fixed so tight that it seemed his teeth would break.
She drew in a sharp breath. "You have a gift. An inner source of power stronger than anything I have ever witnessed. Separate to your physical life-force but unable to self-sustain. It can, however, be manipulated to facilitate healing, when the circumstances are just right.
She paused, unnerved by the effect her words were having on him. It was as though every utterance sliced some part of him, leaving him raw and vulnerable. She had no choice, he had to know, so swallowed hard and continued, "Your heart stopped in that warehouse, Sam. I read you, probed to see if you were still there. In case something had crossed over. It hadn't. What I sensed was you. Within you and a part of you. An energy, a psychic pulse. Pure and powerful."
"You sensed something in me," Sam rasped, his expression one of abject horror.
"No. Not something. You. I sensed you, Sam."
"My pulse."
"No. It was not your pulse. Your heart had stopped."
Sam shook his head, his eyes darting, seeking an escape. But he had nowhere to go. It still did not stop him from trying. He reached the veranda steps then stopped, staring down, his chest heaving. She quickly crossed to him but did not touch. He was wound so tight, ready to crack, ready to fall apart. It seemed that even the slightest contact could break him.
"I cannot tell you what this means," she said. "I don't know why you have these abilities, but I can tell you that the power within you is pure and good. You do not need to be afraid of it, Sam. It will bring you no harm."
He trembled, his gaze fixed on the lawn beyond the veranda steps. "Am I." He wet his lips and drew in a shuddering breath. "Can I… heal? Can I touch people and… and fix them. Lay my hands on them and…." He bit off, his voice tremulous.
"You are not a healer, Sam."
"How can you know?"
"Healers vibrate with a certain energy, a frequency if you like. I don't sense that energy in you."
"Then what am I?"
"You are Sam Winchester," she said gently. "John Winchester's son, Dean Winchester's brother. You are not super-human or infallible. You have a connection to a higher plane – the ethereal web that binds all living and non-living things. Your connection pulses brighter than most, but that's it. That is all. Come back and sit down. Please."
He did not move for several moments and she held her breath. Finally, he shifted, turned back toward the chairs. Once seated, he stared down at his hand then lifted his gaze to the garden. "Can you really fix my hand?" he asked.
"Yes."
"And the poultice, it would work because of my abilities?"
"In part, yes. The entity scoured the wounds by seeking to infiltrate you. That assault leaves residue, dark ash if you like. The poultice will transform the residue at the molecular level to enable cellular regeneration. The power plant for the transformation is your psychic centre. Left alone, the ash will be absorbed, transformed, but not in a healing way. It won't hurt you. But it won't heal you either."
"Can the poultice heal my leg?"
"Your leg will be fine, Sam. If you would stop pushing yourself so hard."
"No, I mean can the poultice only heal the wounds directly inflicted by the entity?"
"Yes." She focussed on the fading scar on his cheekbone. "It would have been effective for that slice to your cheek if the surgeons had not been so skilled. The poultice requires the presence of residue remaining from an attempted external infiltration, like dirt pushed deep into a wound. Any other injury would not respond."
"So this won't help Dean's arm?"
"No. Or any other injury, yours or his. This is a one off, Sam."
"If I didn't have the shining, would the poultice still work, even with the residue of the entity?"
"No it would not." She gently touched his arm. "You don't need to decide yet," she said softly, offering him the only comfort that she could. "The residue will remain until those wounds are fully healed and then some. You have time. Think about it. Let me know what you decide."
"No, I don't need time. I will do it."
"Are you sure?"
"I need my hand, Missouri."
She watched him carefully then nodded. "Then there's something else you need to know."
"It's cute," Sam drawled sarcastically. He lay on his side in bed, the blankets pulled up to his chest. Ready to fess up about what had happened during Dean's absence, or at least that had been the plan. However, first it seemed that Sam needed to get his kicks by ridiculing Dean's toy shopping efforts. The younger man presently held the soft bunny upside down, intently studying the tag. "It's a toddler toy," he announced. "Tara is eight, or did you forget that?"
"It's not just for toddlers."
"Uh Dean, yes it is."
Dean yanked the toy from his brother, ignoring the faintly knowing smile on Sam's face. He scowled, flipped the soft bunny upside down and read the tag. "This just means it's safe for toddlers, doesn't mean it is exclusively for toddlers."
"It looks nothing like Boris."
"That's the point."
"It's pink."
"Tara's a girl."
"You really have no idea."
"Missouri thinks it's fine," Dean defended. It had taken him hours to choose the damned thing, so long in fact that security personnel had challenged him twice about his loitering around the soft toy section. As if he looked like a freakin' pervert. That had irritated him beyond belief, but Sam now topped it. "You couldn't do any better," he snapped. He stuffed the toy into the bag and plonked it on the floor between their beds.
Sam grinned tiredly, entirely unfazed by Dean's sour mood. He fluffed the pillow then elbowed it to prop his head up. Dean sat on the edge of his bed, took off his shoes and waved them past his brother's nose. Sam predictably screwed up his face, and swatted at him. Dean chuckled as he moved the runners out of reach. "So, what'd you get up to today?"
Sam's eyes dropped immediately and the goofy smile faded. He shifted in the bed, using the knuckles of his left hand to hitch the blankets higher. "Missouri and I talked."
"And?"
"She can heal my hand?"
Dean froze, his heart skipped a beat as he stared at his brother. "Huh, could you come again?"
"She has a poultice that she can put on it and it'll regenerate the nerves and tendons."
"Oh."
"Yeah."
Dean's focus shifted, unwillingly drawn to Sam's crippled left hand. "Can she fly too?"
"I'm serious."
"So am I."
"She can heal my hand, Dean. Completely. Like new. Regeneration."
"Is this some kind of untested mad scientist Frankenstein thing?" Dean asked. His voice had taken on a slightly higher pitch and he inhaled sharply, trying to still the anxiety that edged through him. "Sam, this hand thing sucks out loud, but it's not the end. We will work around it. It's not going to be a problem."
"It's not some Frankenstein thing, Dean. It's a poultice. She'll put it on my hand and it will fix it. It uses a residue that the entity left behind to enable the cells to regrow. I know it's a bit out there, but it's no worse than that thing that did this to me."
Dean only heard part of what his brother said. His blood ran cold. "The entity left something behind in you."
"It's not like that. She calls it ash, like dirt in a wound. She can use that residue to heal me."
Dean scrubbed at his face, his hand shaking. "Sam, I don't like this. Missouri has been great to us, but maybe it's time we hit the road."
Sam pushed himself up higher, wincing before he got himself settled. "It's not like Roy LeGrande, and there's no demon deals, magic spells, sacrificial chickens."
Dean leaned back. He shook his head, anxiety rippling through him. "Then what exactly is it?"
"Herbs, I guess. I don't know. I didn't ask."
"Then what's the catch? I mean, where's all this regeneration coming from?"
Sam shrugged. He looked away, shifting on the bed as he did so. He momentarily closed his eyes. "There is no catch. It's poultice plus entity residue. That's it."
"So, this magic paste stuff, what else can it heal?"
"Nothing. Only a wound that has been created by the entity."
"Fantastic. Okay then." Dean stood. He paced to the door, then turned back. The muscles across his shoulders burned with tension and for a moment he longed for Missouri's stinky skunk goop. He quickly shook that off. "What if it makes you worse, Sam. Did you think of that?"
"At this point, there is nothing worse." He smiled sadly. "I trust her, Dean. You should too."
"I do, but isn't this a bit far fetched." He again found himself staring at his little brother's hand, the long fingers stiff, unnatural. He swallowed hard and looked into Sam's eyes. "Promise me that there's not more to this, because fixing that isn't worth giving something else up"
"It's not like that."
"It's always like that, Sam. You know that."
"Yes, I do. But not this time. I promise."
Almost a full day later, Dean found out that Sam had lied. Not a straight up, in your face, kind of lie, but the withheld information type. Dean had never asked, so Sam had never told. And Missouri had never realized that Dean did not know. So, ten minutes after Missouri had applied the stinky smelly stuff to Sam's hand, wrapped it tightly from fingertips to halfway up his forearm, Dean had no clue of what was about to happen. But the tightness to Sam's jaw, the way his entire body went rigid were the first clues. His little brother's eyes then gave it away.
It slammed into Dean like a lump of wood to the back of the head. Nerve regeneration. That was going to hurt like a bitch, and Sam would endure it for a full day. Twenty-four hours his hand would need to be swaddled up with that poultice searing his nerve endings and tendons with a cellular arc welder. A whole new dimension of suffering, as if Sam hadn't already endured enough.
"It's not so bad," Sam said, but the tears in his eyes gave him away.
Somewhere in there was a sorry, I should have told you. Dean looked away, drew in a deep breath then forced his eyes to Missouri. "What can I do to help him?"
She looked as anguished as he felt. She stood beside Sam, one hand on the younger man's shoulder. "Distraction," she said simply. She brushed at Sam's long bangs, sighing as Sam momentarily closed his eyes, his mouth drawn into a tight, pained line. "I cannot give him anything, his system has to be free of all chemicals. He stopped the pain meds last night."
"That's why he was so freakin' grumpy today," Dean mused, his eyes locked with Sam's.
"Not grumpy," Sam rasped. He smiled thinly, though it was twisted and looked more like a grimace. "Monopoly."
"You want to play a board game?"
"Hmm."
"Now?"
"Yeah."
Dean shrugged, stood and ran a shaky hand through his hair. "Fine. But you won't be getting any pity points out of me."
"I'll nail your ass. Always do."
"Dream on, little brother."
An hour later, the Monopoly board lay spread before them, Dean had two properties, Sam none. His little brother had landed in jail on the second throw, and had not moved out ever since. For all Sam's brave attempts to concentrate on the game, his throbbing hand would not allow him. Pins and needles… on steroids, Sam had admitted. For the past twenty minutes his right foot had been banging out a steady tap-tap against the timber floor. It was driving Dean mad, but refused to allow his frustration to show.
"We could play Scrabble instead," Dean suggested.
Sam glanced at him. "Whatever, man. I don't care." He raised his hand, set it on the table top and stared miserably at it. The staccato tapping got louder as Sam twisted in his seat, bent forward and hugged both arms around his stomach. He breathed raggedly, then straightened, his eyes budded with tears. "Let's go to a bar," he suggested suddenly.
"Uh," Dean managed. He looked across at Missouri. "That's not a very good idea."
"It's actually not a bad idea, Dean. The distraction would help to take his mind off the pain."
"But—"
Sam cut in again. "Biker dudes, half-naked women. Noise. People. Anything. Please." He was already standing and reaching for his crutches. He kept his left arm tight against his chest, hesitating as it dawned on him that he would need to drop it to manage the crutches.
"What about Checkers?" Dean looked at Missouri for help.
She shrugged. "If he wants to go out, take him out. It can't hurt."
The younger boy had finally figured out how to control his crutches and he now stood waiting, his nostrils flared and jaw tight. "C'mon, man. Now."
"Dude, you hate bars."
"I hate this more." He raised his bandaged paw.
"Okay, but don't come crying to me if some fat Dolly Parton chick picks you up. You are the poster-boy for pathetic."
Sam ignored him, already clomping down the hall on his crutches. Dean stayed back a moment. "Missouri, are you sure this is a good idea. I mean, he's not exactly thinking straight."
"Keep an eye on him, if he gets tired bring him back. Otherwise, go and have some fun."
"How?" Dean griped, he could hardly pick up chicks with his injured sibling hanging off his arm. He caught up to Sam and steadied him as the younger man tried to get the door open. "A bar? Dude, are you serious? What about a movie, pool hall, pizza joint."
"I'll drive myself."
"No way, man. You're not getting behind the wheel of the Impala looking like that."
"Then shut your trap and drive me."
"Okay. Okay, but I swear, you're Dolly Parton fodder. Those eyes, that bandage, those crutches. You're going to regret it."
Sam cocked his head to the side. "Now, Dean. Can we go now?"
He raised his eyebrows and opened the door, he glanced back at Missouri before he followed his brother. She watched them both, a small smile on her face. He grumbled, closed the door behind him and followed Sam to the car. He helped the younger man in, tossed the crutches in the back seat and slid behind the wheel.
"You know, we could just—"
"Bar."
"You're sounding like a freakin' broken record, bro."
Sam started tapping on the floorboards with his right foot. "I need a distraction, Dean. This… hurts, okay. I can't sit in there for the next twenty-three hours. I just can't."
Dean swallowed hard as Sam turned pleading eyes on him. "Fine, we'll go to a bar, but if you get picked up or abducted, I'm leaving your ass. I won't come looking."
"Drive, Dean."
"Yeah, yeah, hold onto your panties."
Finding a bar was not hard, finding one that met Sam's criteria was harder. He eventually chose the busiest bar in town, selected because it had the most motorbikes lined up out front. Why that was important, Dean would never know. It was a three storey brick building with a pool hall at the side and accommodation above. It looked far less threatening than some of the others Sam had shown an interest in. Dean nosed the Impala into the parking lot and cut the engine. "You sure you're up for this?"
Sam already had his door open.
"Okay, I guess that's my answer then." Dean met his brother at the other side of the car, retrieved Sam's crutches and steadied him until he got himself organised.
He stayed by his side across the parking lot, then held the door of the bar open so Sam could sidle himself in. The blast of music, stale cigarette smoke and humanity in all shapes and sizes assaulted him. Dean moved closer to his brother, unnerved to see the almost blissful look on Sam's face. The cacophony of sensations clearly had some kind of tranquilising effect on the younger man. The very same effect it normally had on Dean, but instead, the atmosphere jangled his frayed nerves and set him on edge.
"Where do you want to go?" Dean asked, he had to almost shout above the deafening music. Some rap shit, he surmised, which probably accounted for the blissful look on Sam's face.
"Bar."
"We're at the bar."
"Bar."
"God, this is worse than baby-sitting Tara."
"I heard that."
Dean laughed softly, then guided his brother toward the bar. He needled his way through the crowd, making a path for his sibling and ignoring a few protests along the way. Once there, he found no seats empty, but a booth in the corner had yet to be taken. He gestured toward it. Sam took a moment to figure it out, the tranquilizing effect clearly a touch too effective. Dean snagged the sleeve of his hoodie and nudged him in the right direction. By the time they got there, Dean found himself face to face with a beefy, black haired man and his equally tubby girlfriend.
"We got here first," the guy slurred. Dean smelt the alcohol on his breath.
"Actually, we both arrived at the same time," Dean corrected as he took a slight side step in front of his brother.
"No. We were here first."
"Technically, it was a draw. But, my brother here—"
The girl smirked then slid into the booth. "No draw, we were here first."
"You know what, b—"
"Dean," Sam warned. "Leave it."
"Sam."
"No, Dean," he whispered. The younger man then addressed the bulldog and his bitch girlfriend with far more courteousness than either deserved. "We don't want any trouble. Have the booth, we'll sit somewhere else."
"Where exactly?" Dean bit out as they made their way back across the crowded bar.
"Dean, I don't care. But no fights, no hustling, no picking up chicks. Can you manage that?"
"Yeah, course."
Sam huffed softly, then pointed. "There, move Dean, now."
Dean scanned then spotted the table in the opposite corner to where they now stood. He quickly strode across to it, then waited as Sam joined him. The younger man gingerly sat down. Dean took his crutches and stood them by the table. He glanced around, at least the music was not quite so loud here, more like a dull roar. At least he could speak without shouting. "So, now what?"
"Beer."
Dean grinned then shook his head. "Sorry, no alcohol for you."
"Dean."
"It's a chemical, Sam. You can't have anything in your system."
"Food is a chemical, are you telling me I can't eat either?"
"Depends on what you're planning on shoving in your gob."
Sam scowled, folded his arms over his chest and scanned the crowded bar. "One beer, Dean."
"No can do. You said you needed a distraction, not an opportunity to get plastered."
"Fine, then get me a Coke."
"Ah…"
"No way, man. You are kidding me."
"It can clean coins. Imagine what it would do to your insides while all that regeneration stuff is going on. You could grow extra fingers, hair on your palm." He shuddered. "What about water with a bit of lemon on the side?"
"How about I go tell that biker dude back there that you think his girlfriend is a whore."
Dean laughed, then frowned as Sam's scowl darkened. "You are kidding me, right?"
Sam shrugged. He started tapping again, right foot against the floorboards. Dean felt the vibration above the music and the clamour of competing conversations.
"Great. Water then," Sam eventually said.
"Knew you'd see it my way."
"I hate you."
"Yeah, well the feeling's mutual." Dean stood, tucked his chair under the table. "Stay here, no wandering off and no talking to strangers."
Sam rolled his eyes and slouched back in his seat. He cradled his hand, then idly prodded at the bandages. Dean watched him a moment longer then scanned the crowd. No one seemed to be paying them much attention, and the couple in the corner booth were engaged in further enhancing their already alcoholic stupors. He cast another appraising glance at his brother, satisfied that Sam was not in any danger.
At the bar he ordered a beer and a water, then changed the order to two glasses of water. He ended up with bottles of Evian which he had to pay for. He grumbled and griped his way back to their table and then stopped, his heart pounding as he took in the hunting knife in the younger man's hand. Sam had his head down, his features determinedly set as he carved lines into the table's smooth surface.
"Dammit, Sam." Dean growled as he dumped the bottles and wrenched the blade away from his brother. He tucked it into the waistband of his jeans and eyed the patrons seated at the tables closest to him. No one seemed to have noticed the weapon or the dull eyed, mop haired, bandaged young man who had so blatantly displayed it. Dean pulled out his seat and slid into it. He leaned across the table and heatedly whispered, "No weapons in public, dude. Nerve regeneration or not, rules are rules for a reason."
"Why didn't Dad come?"
Dean froze. His heart jerked in his chest. Sam looked up, tears in his eyes. God, he had not seen that coming. Another solid whack to the head. He swallowed hard and said, "I… how do you know I called him?"
"If you had died, I would have called him." Sam looked down, sniffed then rubbed at his eyes with his good hand. He started to trace the gouged lines in the table with one finger, his bandaged left hand lumped on the table beside the heavy scratches.
"You didn't die, Sam," Dean said flatly, but he had a horrible sick feeling that he was wrong.
"I did die," Sam corrected, his words hollow. "In that warehouse, Missouri said my heart stopped for long enough for her to sense…." He caught himself, then laughed, a humorless, pained sound that made Dean flinch. "So much for corridors with white lights, flashing memories and all that shit. I remember nothing."
"What did Missouri sense?" He moved closer, almost touching his brother's wrist but not quite. If Sam noticed, he did not pull away.
"There's some pulsating thing inside me, Dean. These visions, moving that cabinet at Max's place, the nightmares… this," he lifted his left hand, his lips twisting in what Dean could only assume was disgust, "it's all from that. Some psychic powerhouse, Missouri says. She felt it when I was dead. My heart had stopped but this thing continued to pulse away."
Dean suddenly found it hard to breathe. Sam moved to one of the bottles and fingered the label, his intense gaze fixed on the fine print on the side. Dean doubted he could see it through the blur of tears.
The younger boy inhaled sharply, blinked and seemed to find some kind of inner resolve. "I can't blame Dad, you know. I wouldn't come either if I had a kid like—"
"No, Sammy." Dean cut his brother off, grasped his wrist tight enough to stop him if he tried to pull away, but not tight enough to hurt. "It's the pain talking. That's all it is. You're hurting and it's screwing with your mind. Dad loves you. You know that, don't go making this harder than it needs to be."
"Then why didn't he come?"
Dean had worked this over in his own mind so many times, tried to understand why he had not even received a call, a message… anything. He had made no sense of it and had repeatedly failed. But now, staring at his brother's miserably pained features, he finally understood. "To protect us. To protect you."
"What?"
"I left a voicemail message the day I woke up in hospital. I told him that you were in ICU, what had happened, how bad it had been… how bad it was. I never called him again."
"So he thinks we're dead?"
"No. He knows Missouri would have called him if that had happened."
"Did she call him?"
"No. I only made the one call and she made none."
Sam tensed and tried to pull away. Dean tightened his grip and leaned in closer. "Sam, think about it. The thing that he's hunting is one evil son of a bitch, if it even got an inkling that his sons were vulnerable, it would hunt us down, and as much as I hate to say it, we would have been sitting ducks. Do you think he would risk that? Any form of contact could be traced, Sam. He had to stay away to keep us safe."
"Couldn't he have called?"
"Yes, he could have, and that call could have brought something to us. Look what happened with that Meg bitch. He's not going to let that happen again."
Sam stared at him, his expression hopeful. Dean hammered his point home. "This shining stuff of yours is out there, Sam, I admit that, but it will never change who you are. My freakin' annoying little brother and Dad's pain in the ass youngest son. You aggravate the hell out of him, but he loves you, just like I love you. Nothing will ever change that, Sam. Nothing."
Sam looked shocked, teary and suddenly all too emotional for Dean's liking. "Ah shit, Sammy. Don't start bawling on me. People will think we're gay."
"I don't bawl," Sam retorted indignantly.
"Sook then."
"I don't sook."
"Whatever. Here, take this." He grabbed a napkin and thrust it at his brother. "Dolly Parton over there is starting to hyperventilate on those soggy puppy-dog eyes of yours. Clean yourself up, I'm not sure I can keep those bumpers off you if she decides to make a move."
Sam huffed, then scrubbed at his eyes. He glanced to the left, his eyes widening as he took in the plump thirty something year old blonde that wantonly stared at him. "Oh man, I thought you were kidding."
"I wish." He straightened and watched Sam carefully. The younger man still seemed a little too unbalanced for his liking, and Dean suspected it was not just the pain from his hand. He leaned forward. "Sam, don't doubt yourself. And do not doubt Dad. He's got us through this far, he's not going to bail out on us now."
Sam ducked his head, blushing. "Yeah, I know, it's just. This, everything. It's—"
"Fucked."
Sam huffed, a small smile on his lips. "Yeah, truly fucked."
Dean shrugged. "So this pulsing thing of yours, what does Missouri think it is?"
Sam sniffed and returned to picking at the label on the bottle of water. "She doesn't know, but she thinks it's all good. Pure. Powerful."
"That sounds about right. You are a freakin' do-gooder. Feeding stray dogs and all, I'd say pure pretty much sums you up."
"I think I'm a freak, Dean."
Dean's heart clenched at the sadness in his brother's voice, but he covered his reaction with a smooth retort. "Yeah you are, but so is Missouri, Marcus, Beth, Tara." He deliberately left Max out, because… well, Max had been a freak. "And you know what, that biker dude with the fat as hell girlfriend, he's a freak too. Did you see the ears on that dude?"
"One was bigger than the other."
"Way bigger. At least yours match." He frowned then and made a show of checking Sam's ears. "Oh wait, there's a problem here."
"You're jerking me around," Sam said quietly.
"Yes, Sam, I am. Because you're in pain and you're not thinking clearly. Everything seems dark right now, but it's not. There's a reason for everything. Trust me. Big brother knows best."
"Not always."
"Fine, not always, but on this he does."
Sam smiled thinly. "Can we go now?"
"We only just got here."
"It's noisy and it stinks and that woman is giving me the creeps." Sam pushed himself up, waiting as Dean passed him the crutches. "Thanks," he said softly. "For not freaking out and all."
Dean shrugged, snagged the two bottles of water and started a path to the door. "You need a pitstop?"
"Not here."
Once back in the car, Sam's crutches in the back, Dean hesitated with his hand on the ignition. "You know, I've been thinking."
"Don't sprain anything."
"Old and unoriginal."
Sam laughed softly. "Yeah, what?"
"I'm thinking that we need to catch a strip show. Bobbing breasts, g-strings, shockingly loud music."
"No strip joint, Dean."
"It'd distract you."
"It'd distract you, it'd gross me out."
"I wonder sometimes whether you were adopted."
"You were, you freak."
"At least my ears match."
"Can we leave now?"
"I don't know where we are going, Miss Daisy."
"Back to Missouri's, I have to whip your ass at poker."
"Oh, now that's funny."
"Really? You think I can't take you on and thrash you?"
"I'm the hustler of this family, little brother. Don't you be forgetting that."
Sam laughed. "You need a lesson in humility and I'm going to give it to you."
Dean arched an eyebrow. "Really now? And how do you think you are going to do that, mitten boy, you can't even hold the cards."
"I'd still thrash you," Sam shot back. He gestured to Dean's head. "And you shouldn't even be driving. You had brain surgery, Dean. Your head might explode."
"Oh, not you too," Dean groaned. "Missouri has been talking to you, hasn't she?"
"Maybe."
He started the engine. "Word of advice. Shut your cake-hole or you're walking back to Missouri's."
"You wouldn't make me walk."
Dean pursed his lips and considered his brother, waiting until Sam's eyes widened and a shadow of doubt marred the younger man's features. He grinned cheekily. "How's your head?"
"Fine."
"No headache?"
"No."
"Good." He hit the stereo, turned up the volume and leered at his sibling. "You thrashing me at poker. Now that's hilarious."
End Chapter Fifteen
Note to readers: Sam's hand is now healed, but the boys still have to deal with the origin of the entity and it's not entirely going to be straight forward "wink". However, that won't be happening for another 2-3 weeks as I have a couple of real life matters that have come up that I must address before I can concentrate on finishing this story. As always, I welcome your comments.
So, until mid-late August, thank you for reading and remember, every day brings us closer to September 28. Be good. Be safe. ;-)