Author note: Hi all, sorry it's been so long. Here's the next offering in this epic. I promised you all an epilogue: instead I will be giving you two chapters and a teeny-weeny epilogue. Here's the first of the last.
Also, I recently revised the previous chapter (Chapter 18) to strengthen Sam's defeat of the entity and to fill in that missing gap between the pool and the hospital. Oh, and a tiny bit at the end. What happened, still happens, but better. Check it out if you haven't.
Before I let you dive in, my thanks go to my friend (and incredible beta) Em for her support, encouragement and for making me fall in love with writing all over again. Girl, you're the best! Now, on with the story. Enjoy!
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
ENTITY (Chapter Nineteen)
Sam came awake with a start, his heart wildly pounding and eyes wide. On alert, he strained against the darkness for a clue to what had woken him. He recognized Missouri's living room – the dark shapes of pictures on the wall and the sound of a clock ticking somewhere deeper in the house. He scanned, breathing hard, relying only on a pale strip of moonlight over Dean's bed that shaded the darkness to grey. Muted snuffling jerked Sam's head to the side.
"Dean," he said, his voice an urgent whisper. He pushed at the covers and rolled from the bed. Both feet hit the floor and Sam dropped into a crouch. The darkened room tainted his vision, made him vulnerable and blind as he scrambled to his brother.
"Dean." He grasped the older man's shoulder. Dean lay on his side, facing the door, his back to Sam. Sam's hand stilled as the sound came again – from Dean. Harsh and etched with pained regret – a broken, stilted sob. Another nightmare. Sam's heart clenched and he wilted, almost collapsing on his brother as he dropped his forehead to Dean's shoulder and sucked in a hard worn breath. He shuddered as the sound of his own name, whispered on nightmare soaked lips, invaded his senses and ripped through his heart.
"Jesus, Dean, this has to stop."
Sam straightened with an effort and roughly shook his brother. Dean muttered and shrugged but did not wake. The chest-deep sobs continued, wrenched from his brother's lips like blood from an arterial wound. Dean had been bleeding this way for close on eight weeks, ever since the entity's demise.
Sam shifted back and grimaced as a dull ache wormed through his left thigh. He absently massaged at the mostly healed injury and dejectedly considered his sibling, the insipid shaft of moonlight giving him a muted view of the older boy. Dean's muscular form had tangled in the sheets and blankets, one arm splayed out in an unconscious reach while the other hooked under his chin, the pose almost child like. The similarity gnawed through Sam. His brother was anything but a child, but these nightmares were methodically wearing the elder boy down.
At least Dean had not woken screaming this time, Sam thought wretchedly. It did not make him feel any better, in fact, potentially worse. He idly tugged on the bunched fabric that wrapped around Dean's chest and his hand shook as his fingertips registered the cool dampness of sweat.
His gut twisted as Dean began keening and rocking, far too much like a tormented child for Sam to withstand. Sam grasped his brother's shoulder and forcibly rolled him onto his back. Dean came awake and lashed out, one arm wildly swinging. Sam ducked to avoid a blow to the face.
"Dude, watch where you're swinging those Octopus arms," Sam said, his voice strained.
"Sam. What the hell?" Dean blinked owlishly. "What are you doing?"
"You had another nightmare."
"Yeah, so?"
"You were crying."
Dean stiffened, his lips pursed. He scrubbed at his eyes then rigidly stood and made his way to the door. "Go back to sleep."
Sam hastily pushed to his feet. "Where are you going?"
"Gotta take a leak."
"Dean, we have to talk about this."
"About me taking a leak?" Dean sounded genuinely incredulous.
"About the nightmares."
"Go to sleep, Sammy." Dean headed out into the hallway and Sam heard him quietly pad down the hall. Sam moved to the light switch and flicked it on. He blinked and hunted in his bag for a sweater, shivering until he found one and put it on. He returned to the bed, rapidly swaddled the blankets around himself, drew his knees up and waited for his brother's return.
Dean padded back into the room several minutes later. Sam's hands fisted as he took in the dark smudges under Dean's eyes, the wounded stoicism that pursed the older boy's lips and the brittle way that he moved. Like he could break at any moment. Sam had no doubt that he could.
"Dean, we have to talk."
"Later." Dean flicked the light off.
"That means never."
"Same difference." Dean moved to the bed and slid under the covers.
Sam hunched further into the blankets and squinted into the shadowed darkness. "What is the nightmare about?"
Dean worked on straightening the tangled sheets and blankets.
"Sam, go to sleep. The Hansen's are coming today and you've got to do that whole chef thing you've been perfecting for weeks. I don't want food poisoning because you're half asleep."
"We have to talk about this, before we leave here, before we get back into hunting. You still want to leave the day after tomorrow, right?"
"Yes, so get some sleep." Dean lay back and rolled away from Sam.
"Dean—"
"Sam, enough."
"No, I don't think so." Sam threw the blankets aside, stalked to the door and flicked on the light.
"Dude, what the hell is wrong with you?"
"What's wrong with me? Now that's rich." Sam rooted around in his bag for his phone. When he found it, he snatched it up and jabbed at the keypad.
"Sam, what are you doing?"
"Messaging Dad."
Dean sat bolt upright. "What? Why?"
"Because, maybe he can talk some sense into your thick skull." Sam bowed his head and worked on the message. "If he even gives a shit about us anymore."
"We've been over this. It's not safe."
"If it's safe enough for us to hit the road, it's safe enough for Dad to call. It's been three months since you left him a message from the hospital. Three months, Dean and no contact. At all. We might as well be freakin' dead for all he cares."
He punched the send button and flung the phone atop the clothes in his bag. "Well you know what? This corpse just sent him a message. Let's see how he takes to that."
He ignored his brother's appalled expression and stalked down the hall. The cell phone rang as Sam reached the kitchen door. He spun on his heel and ran back, heart pounding as he saw Dean retrieve the cell. The older man's face paled as he took in the display.
"It's Dad." Dean said. He clutched the phone in a white knuckled grip as a desolate, haunted look crossed his face. Sam pitched forward, fretfully reaching for the device as it rang for the third time. Dean fended Sam off with a wild wave of his arm and answered the call.
Sam moved back and clutched at the door jamb, his heart pounding as his brother conducted a monosyllabic conversation with their father. Sam could barely bring himself to watch as Dean wiped at his eyes, his voice quavering as he offered verbal reassurances about his state of health. Obfuscation webbed with platitudes and outright lies. But Sam suddenly cared less about forcing Dean to deal with his emotional meltdown than in hearing his father's voice. Until John was right there, so close, Sam had not realized he needed him. He leaned heavily in the doorframe, shivering as Dean bowed his head, hiding his eyes. Sam's fingers twitched as he waited his turn.
"Yes sir," Dean finally said and he thumbed the end call button.
Numbing cold closed around Sam as his brother dropped the phone into his lap. Sam's twitching fingers stilled and a cold blade of hurt grief sliced his insides. He tried to say something, but could only stare, his strangled thoughts disjointed, the pain so complete that it bore no words. He physically flinched when Dean stood, handed him the phone and left the room. Sam stared at the blank screen then at his brother's retreating back.
"Dean?"
Dean stopped partway down the hall, one hand braced against the wall. He kept his back to Sam and said, "He'll call you. Safer. Harder to trace."
"What… when… what did he say?"
Dean shook his head and kept moving. He disappeared into the kitchen.
The phone rang for a second time and Sam's heart jolted. He answered with trembling fingers, but could not get his tongue to form words.
"Sam? Is that you? Sammy?"
Sam struggled to respond to the raw desperation that flooded the connection. He floundered beneath the emotional onslaught, his own need both negated and intensified in a jumbled cornucopia of images, feelings and thoughts. He slid to the floor, his head bowed and tears burning. The irony hit him then. He had called his father for Dean, but it was he who had needed it the most.
"Sammy, are you there?"
"Yeah," Sam managed as his voice broke. He closed his eyes. "God, Dad…." He swallowed convulsively, his free hand gouging into the almost healed muscle of his thigh. He stopped as pain flared.
"Son, it's so good to hear your voice."
"Where were you?" It came as an accusation and Sam opened his eyes, regretting the terseness of it, the bitter edge of contempt, but he did not regret the need. "Dad?" he asked when the silence extended a beat too long.
"I couldn't come, Sam. I wanted to. God, you can't know how much." John inhaled sharply then released an unsteady chuckle, the awkward sound of long overdue relief. "You know I love you boys. This… it's been killing me."
Sam nodded. His mouth drew down and he absently plucked at lint on his sweat pants. "Where are you now?"
The line fell silent and Sam pushed the phone harder against his ear, his heart aching with a need that he could not even define.
"Dad?"
"It's not safe. I wish. God, son, I…."
"Dad, please, let us come. Let us help. It'll be different, I promise. Dean and I, we can watch your back. Nothing will get the drop on us again, I swear."
"No. You boys look after yourselves. Each other. You hear me."
"Dad."
"Sam," John's tone hardened. "I've given you an order. You and your brother stay safe and do not look for me. Do you understand?"
Sam's anger sparked. "Dad, no—"
"Sam."
Sam bowed his head, instinctively stiffening. He pressed his lips together and breathed hard through his nose. Anger and hurt warred and effectively scrambled his thoughts.
"Sammy, please."
It was a momentary weakness, a whispered plea that Sam rarely heard from his father. His head jerked up and he blinked.
"Dad?"
"You and Dean, you're all…." A long pause, then John's voice again hardened. "You stay safe, son. Both of you."
"Yes sir."
The call disconnected and Sam pulled the phone away from his ear. He stared at it, his hand shaking. His vision blurred and the phone became a shimmering shapeless mass. He wiped at his eyes and drew in a long, steadying breath. His fingers tightened around the phone, the relief and comfort warmed him while frustration and anxiousness needled just below the surface.
Sam's mouth drew down, he kept the phone in his hand, aware that when they did eventually meet up, Sam had a whole world of explaining to do. Visions, an entity that had murderously sought to use him as a host and freakishly powerful psychic abilities that he had called upon to ultimately defeat it. He fingered the phone, able to do so because those abilities had enabled his hand to be healed. As new. No pain, loss of sensation or even scarring. Those very same abilities had attracted the freakish bastard in the first place. He could hardly be thankful for them.
His stomach twisted. He abruptly pushed to his feet, tossed the phone in his bag and made his way down the hall. He found Dean seated at the dining room table, in the dark, his shoulders hunched and his head down. Sam watched him, afraid to go to him but afraid not to.
"He hacked into the hospital's database and kept tabs on us." Dean said quietly. "The ICU, general ward and even the physiotherapy. He knew we weren't dead. He knew we would call when we were ready to move on."
"Are you okay?"
"Yeah, course." Dean straightened but did not turn. "Must have been hell. Reading all that medical mumbo jumbo. God knows how he made any sense of it."
They both knew their father would have researched until he understood every single gut wrenching word. Sam moved to the table and pulled out a chair. He touched his brother's shoulder but Dean shrugged him off. Sam hugged his arms around himself and sat heavily.
"What else did he say?" Sam asked tentatively.
"Not much."
Dean looked down and in the darkness Sam could no longer see his face. It made him ache. Speaking with their father had meant to make things easier, help Dean to deal with whatever demons haunted him, but Sam saw that it had not. Maybe it had made it worse. Dean's guilt was out of context and out of proportion. Sam did not understand why and he wished to hell that it did not matter. But it did.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Dean shadowed Missouri, sliding furniture into place and lifting the heaviest of items as per her instruction. She had decided to leave Sam entirely in charge of the lunch preparation for the Hansen's visit while she redesigned her sewing room following Tara's departure. The kid had been gone for close on eight weeks, and Dean wondered why on earth this day had been the one chosen for house redecoration, but Missouri was Missouri. He left it at that.
"Well, that looks pretty," she said. She stepped back to admire the neatly straightened room.
Dean shrugged. "Pastel's really aren't my thing."
Missouri chuckled as she moved to the dresser, the only item that had not been moved, shuffled, moved and shuffled again. Dean eyed it warily. Solid oak and bound to weigh more than a small elephant, he did not look forward to hauling its ass around the room.
She pulled the top drawer open and withdrew a small timber box, her fingers folded around it with a reverence that told of great loss. Dean's gaze danced between it and Missouri's face as he sought to understand the significance. The stout black woman bowed her head and closed her eyes, her lips silently moving in a whispered entreaty. She placed the box on the table beneath the window, then turned to face him. Tears stood in her eyes. Dean's his breath caught and the cold predawn of understanding made him tense.
"He would have been proud of Sam," Missouri said. "Of you both for what you did for Tara."
"You've got to be kidding me," he said in a strangled whisper.
"He would not have blamed her. I don't blame her. You shouldn't either."
He stared at the box – at the remains of Marcus Jennings – the psychic who had ultimately saved Sam's life by giving the young hunter the psychic tools he needed to defeat the entity. He suddenly felt sick. He twisted on his heel and headed for the door .
"Honey, don't go."
He stilled, his hands fisted.
"She is a child. An innocent that was used by evil for evil. She had no way of stopping it, of protecting herself or you boys. What she did was not her fault. You have to know that."
Dean kept his back to her, his breathing harsh. The child had slit Marcus' throat with a butcher's knife. There was no innocence in that.
"Sit down, honey." Missouri touched his arm. He jerked back and her hand fell away. "Dean, I know you're hurting, so--."
"I'm fine."
"Then you won't mind sitting with me for a bit."
He glanced at her, then mechanically moved to the bed. He deliberately sat at arm's length, his gaze fixed forward and shoulders tense.
"I don't blame Tara," Missouri started softly. "It was not her fault. None of this was. The entity used her – made her a victim."
Semantics, Dean thought sourly. He tugged at a loose thread in the hole in his jeans, his fingers twitching and jerking as he fought the almost overwhelming urge to flee the room.
"I could fix that for you."
"Meant to be that way," he said tersely. He pulled in a shaky breath and flattened his palms against his thighs, his biceps burned as he straightened. He looked toward the window. To Sam. He could not see his little brother without first seeing the box containing Marcus' ashes. His stomach twisted and he tore his gaze away. "I thought he had family."
"No. He was somewhat of a loner, his beliefs and abilities set him apart. As did his clothes." She paused, took a breath then quietly continued. "He thought very highly of both you boys. Of what you do and who you are."
"This is the part where you tell me he had some terminal disease and that the kid did him a favor," Dean said churlishly.
"No. Healthy as an ox and just as stubborn. He died before his time, no doubt about that. But his death was not in vain. If he had not been here it would have been me. Then I would not have found you boys at the warehouse. We both know how that would have ended."
"That does not make his death acceptable."
"No, but sometimes things happen for a reason. Or at least it helps to make sense of them."
Dean ran his hands across his thighs, the palms cold and sweaty. He shook his head and tensed to stand.
"It wasn't Tara, Dean. It was never her. She is just a child with powers that she does not understand and an unfortunate set of circumstances that created something she could not control. Marcus would want you to understand that."
Dean doubted that Marcus would have understood it himself, let alone expect anyone else to, but he kept those thoughts to himself.
"She lost her parents. She idolizes you and your brother. The Hansen's are bringing her back across three states so she can say goodbye to you both. This is a big thing for them all." Her tone softened. "This will be the last time you see her, honey, try to give her something to hold on to. If not for yourself, or Sam, then for Marcus."
He wanted to say that Marcus was dead. His bones burned and his soul extinguished, but clearly Missouri believed otherwise so he buttoned his lip. The purring of an engine pulled Dean's attention to the window.
"They're here," Missouri said.
Dean stepped over and pulled the curtain back a little so he could see. Frank Hansen appeared first, a fatherly and bullish man with barely controlled auburn hair and a slight lilt to his step. Just as Dean remembered him from two months before. The man's wafer thin wife, Lauren, joined him a moment later, Tara in tow. She held the stuffed pink rabbit Dean had bought her.
He stiffened when he saw the child and automatically looked to his brother. The younger man fussed with the grill, clearly unaware that company had arrived. He turned when Frank had almost reached him. His eyes widened and his face split into a dimple inducing grin. Sam pumped the older man's hand, warmly greeted Lauren then looked down at Tara. Dean's breath held.
"Honey, it's over," Missouri said.
Dean ignored her, his gut twisted in fear. When Sam's smile faded, Dean moved. He had reached the door when Missouri snagged his jacket.
"Dean, don't."
Dean glanced back at the window. He could still see the group through the small panes. Sam had stooped forward, animatedly talking to Tara. He took something from her and Dean recognized the pink stuffed rabbit. His skin prickled and he broke free from the psychic and hurried toward the rear door.
Dean barreled into the yard, his dramatic entrance bringing Sam's gaze up. Their eyes locked and Sam cocked his head to the side, his blue-green eyes darkening in concern. Dean slowed his pace, adopting a feigned casual air as he joined the small group.
"Dude, you fraternizing with the company while you're meant to be cooking. He's the catering department," he said nonchalantly as he nudged in between his brother and Tara. He shot the Hansen's a mesmerizing smile. "Did he tell you that?"
"Tara tells me that Sam is a splendid cook," Lauren said. She rested a hand on Tara's shoulder, her eyes sparkling as she looked down at the child.
"Yeah, he is." Dean ignored his brother's raised eyebrows. "But he works better without distractions. So, how about you head over to the table and get comfortable. Jamie Oliver here can do his thing."
"I wanna help Sam," Tara piped up.
"Yeah, that'd be—" Sam started.
"No," Dean said. He forced the sharp edge from his voice and maintained the blinding smile. He addressed Tara directly. "You know why, because you're the special guest of honor today. You don't need to lift a finger to help. In fact, we would be offended if you tried."
"But—"
"Dean is right, honey," Missouri said as she joined them. "You go and sit with your mommy and we'll bring everything right to you."
"Well, we can't be arguing with that now can we," Lauren said with a smile. She brushed a hand across Tara's head, her eyes slightly moist. She sighed softly, the tone of contentment -- of unashamed love. Dean looked away.
"How about you two ladies go and make yourselves comfortable and I'll help Sam with this grill," Frank said. As Sam opened his mouth, the older man held up a hand. "Consider me your apprentice chef. I know a professional when I see one. And if this meal is anything like that roast you put together, well, I'm not about to interfere with the master."
Sam blushed and ducked his head. "I'm not quite sure—"
Dean lightly rubbed the back of his brother's neck. "The man knows a good thing when he tastes it, bro. Accept it."
Sam's eyes widened and his jaw dropped. The brief flash of something close to shock disturbed Dean, but it passed and Sam huffed and returned to the grill. He passed a second set of tongs to Frank and started about instructing him on how to get the perfect level of heat.
Dean glanced at the laptop that sat open beside the grill, the screen clearly displaying the secrets that Sam now shared with Frank. The younger man had learned them off the internet that very morning, and seemed entirely unfazed that everyone could see the shallowness of his professionalism. As though to highlight the fact, Sam stepped to the laptop and scanned the luminated text.
"We can put the meat on once the flames are gone." He frowned and studied slightly smoking grill. "What do you think?"
"I'm the apprentice, remember," Frank reminded. His eyes shone as he winked at Dean. "It's your call."
Sam glanced at the older man, his expression perplexed, then his gaze slid to the women at the table and his frown deepened. He returned to the laptop and re-read the screen. "We'll give it another five," he said after a few moments. He straightened. "You grab the meat from the kitchen. Dean will show you where it is."
Dean took the cue and led the older man toward the house. He hesitated at the door and observed the three women at the table. Missouri had joined Lauren and both were now engaged in entertaining Tara. The child seemed to have forgotten all about Sam, and even the rabbit had been discarded in preference for the attention of her female companions.
"She's an amazing child," Frank said softly. "After Lauren's accident we thought…." He cleared his throat. "It all took some getting used to."
Dean knew he meant his wife's psychic abilities. "Lauren would have always had them. The near death experience just uncovered them."
"I know, it wasn't that. I had always known she was special. But the accident took away…." His voice broke.
"Kids," Dean completed softly.
"Yeah. Hardly a choice really. I was not going to lose her."
"You could have always adopted."
"The ability of the adoptive mother to randomly move objects may have set some adoption agencies ill at ease."
"She's getting that under control."
"Yes."
"If things don't work out with… you know. Missouri will help out," Dean said.
"Tara is psychic, like Lauren. It will work out. We will make it work."
"I know you will, but if anything comes up that you can't handle. You call Missouri."
"We will."
Sam turned then and he frowned as he saw that his apprentice chef had shirked his duties. He did not berate the guest though, he went right for Dean. "Dude," he said. "Meat. You know. Dead animal. Now."
"Talk to Frank, not me."
"Dean."
"C'mon, let's not irritate the chef. It could get ugly," Frank said.
"Oh yeah, it could," Dean said in agreement. He showed Frank to the fridge and waited as the older man collected the meat tray. Dean grabbed a six pack of beer and followed Frank outside. He passed one of the bottles to his brother, another to Frank and took one for himself.
He stood back as Sam and Frank arranged the first batch of meat on the grill. Frank allowed Sam to direct him, even quietly accepting the younger man's clumsy instructions to reposition the meat several times until they seemed to be right back to where Frank had initially placed them.
"I think that'll work," Frank said as Sam stepped back. "You've got a real keen eye for this."
Sam huffed, his eyes narrowed as he scanned Frank's face and then Dean's. Neither man allowed a hint of scorn or derision to show and Sam seemed to relax. "Team effort," he said. He reclaimed his seat. Dean watched him but did not say anything. Instead, he fingered the unopened beer in his hand. His attention drifted back to the women at the table and eventually rested on Tara.
"You boys are heading off soon, so Missouri tells me."
"Yeah, day after tomorrow," Dean said. "We've outstayed our welcome here. It's Sam's fault really, he keeps taking over her kitchen and outshining her."
"Domesticated, is he?" Frank said around a grin.
Dean shrugged and took a drink of his beer as the conversation settled into an easy rhythm. From little brother ridicule it shifted to cars, music, sport, onto girls and then back to sport. Somewhere along the way, the meat grilled to perfection and their conversation moved to the table.
They ate and talked and ate some more. Sam beamed with every compliment and Dean worried about the size of his head. He whacked it once, just lightly, to be sure that it didn't explode. That earned some laughter and a grumpy retort from his brother.
The casual lunch came close to normalcy, even apple pie normalcy, and Dean surprised himself by enjoying it. Then came to an end and Sam stood and began to tidy up.
"Sam, leave them," Missouri said.
"It's no trouble."
"There will be trouble if you try to help," she said sternly. "The person who cooks does not clean up. That's the rule and you know it."
Sam huffed, his attention drawn to Lauren as she seconded Missouri's statement.
"Let this be a measure of our appreciation for a wonderful meal," she said as she stacked the plates into neat piles. "Anyway, Tara has something she wants to give you."
All eyes drew to the eight year old and the girl blushed. "I made you something," she said shyly. "It's in the car."
Dean's skin prickled as Sam smiled and extended a hand toward the girl.
"Then I guess I'd better go see then."
Dean drew in a breath in preparation to intervene.
"Dean," Missouri said. "Would you mind helping Frank with the grill. It needs to be cleaned down."
Dean glanced at Missouri, his pulse quickening. She smiled warmly, but her eyes held a cautioning intensity. He ignored her and flicked his gaze back to Sam. The younger boy had not noticed the interplay and had taken Tara's hand in his own. He leaned down and whispered something into Tara's ear. The child giggled and moved closer. They started toward the gate.
Dean stepped forward, stilled by Missouri's hand on his arm. The contact had a persuasive firmness to it.
Sam and Tara had reached the midpoint of the yard. The child laughed again and Sam's throaty chuckle echoed across the space. The rattle of plates, glasses tinkling together and Frank's deep voice as he murmured to his wife sought to distract him. Dean growled and pulled away. He strode across the lawn and reached the gate at the same time as Sam and Tara had. They turned toward him and Sam's face brightened.
"Hey, thought she had you on grill duty."
"No. I mean, yeah." He flashed a false smile at the child. "So, whatcha got for Sam?"
He felt Sam stiffen and deliberately avoided eye contact. He focused on Tara, his breath catching a little as she smiled shyly and curled warm fingers around one of his hands.
"I hope you don't think it's stupid," she said. Her tone grew apologetic and Dean suddenly felt uncomfortable, irrational even.
He worked hard to keep the smile in place, his steps wooden as she tugged them both to the car. She let go and pulled the rear door open. She retrieved something and pushed it behind her back.
"Mommy got it covered in plastic for me. She thought you might want to keep it, so…." she blushed and tugged on her lower lip. She looked up at them hopefully, then brought the laminated paper forward and dubiously considered it. Her shoulders sagged. "It doesn't really look like…."
"I'm sure it's beautiful."
She looked up at Sam, then back at the paper. "I made your hair too short."
"He needs a haircut anyway," Dean said weakly. He ignored Sam's searching look and stepped forward. He crouched beside the girl but deliberately avoided taking an angle that would enable him to see the picture. He struggled against his conflicting emotions as he considered this small person, the clear need in her eyes for acceptance, for love, for some way forward from the horror she had endured. He fought the memories, the sounds that haunted him, the connections that all came back to this one child. Wide eyed and innocent, scarred enough to never again be lost in naivety, yet powerful enough that she had been used to almost destroy his little brother.
His hand shook as he touched the top of the laminated paper. "Can I see?"
She regarded him with wide blue eyes. "If it's really bad, you'd tell me, wouldn't you?"
"It won't be bad."
"But if it is?"
"It won't be. You made it. It won't be bad."
Her lower lip quivered and she stared deep into his eyes. Dean held the gaze, his heart beating fast. It was over, he reminded himself. All over.
She broke the contact and pushed the picture at him. She hung her head and waited for his assessment. He took in the image and his breath snagged as pain caught across his chest. "It's beautiful," he said tremulously.
In fact it was not. But the innocence of the eight year old's pencil drawing of herself, Sam and Dean hammered home to him that the evil in this child had died weeks before. No shred of it lingered.
"You're an artist," Dean said thickly. He passed it back. "Sam will like it. You need to show him."
"I want him to remember me. I don't want him to forget."
"He will never forget."
"I know. He will remember the bad stuff. The bad things that I did."
Dean swallowed convulsively and his chest tightened. "It wasn't you. Something bad made you do it, but now it's dead and it won't ever come back."
The words rang in his ears, pounded hard through his veins. Until he had uttered them, he had not truly believed. Now he did, and he felt like an ass for having considered this child to be a threat. He straightened and felt his brother's eyes on him, the warm questioning concern. Pity even, he averted his gaze, unable to see that particular emotion in his brother's eyes.
"I'd better do the grill," he said, his voice a little too weak – unhinged. He corrected the tone and continued. "Might need it later if the Hansen's want to stay over."
"I thought you didn't—"
"You've got to stop thinking, Sammy. It's not good for you."
Sam huffed and scuffed at the dirt, a half smile on his lips. "Jerk," he said softly.
"Yeah, whatever. Don't stay out here all afternoon, the neighbors will get the wrong idea about you two."
It sounded lame, inappropriate, and Sam raised an eyebrow. Dean ignored it. He returned to the yard, the dirty grill, the casual conversation and the pretense of normalcy.
Later that night, long after the house had cooled with post-midnight silence and the moon rose and traveled the night sky, Dean lay awake. On his back, his hands clenched and eyes wide, he stared into the darkness and defied the thoughts and fears that shimmied just below the surface of his consciousness.
Moonlight sharpened the shadows, made the ornate carving of the ceiling rose above him stand out as bulbous misshapen orbs. Malevolent supernatural beasts, his overwrought mind interpreted. He rolled to his side and exhaled a shaky, spent breath. He eyed his brother's back. Sam faced away from him, the blankets and sheets pulled up tight. The younger boy seemed to feel the cold more than he used to – or was it just that Dean now paid more attention.
He pondered that, his fingers clenching and releasing the blankets in his grasp. He noticed a lot of things about his kid brother. Like the way Sam tried to cover his pain and rarely succeeded. Dean had always known when the younger boy was hurting, but now Dean seemed instinctively attuned to his sibling – always wary for anything that could bring Sam pain – and determined to circumvent it before it did.
He had been Sam's protector from the moment the boy had been born. Something about big brothers and little brothers, he had always thought – or the way his father had thrust the too quiet infant into his arms the night their mother had been killed. He had been strong then and strong since. But now Dean had to be stronger than ever before. The entity had shown him how he could lose Sam. Nightmares tortured him with a myriad of other ways that evil could destroy his little brother, and Sam's abilities put him in the path of evil in a way neither of them had ever imagined.
Sam shifted in his sleep and Dean pushed himself up in preparation to go to his brother, but Sam simply rolled onto his back then stilled. Soon he began snoring and Dean lay back, his heart beating too fast, his over tired mind growing foggy. He fought off the exhaustion and whispered an assurance that only he could hear.
"Nothing will ever get you, Sammy," Dean said, his voice a low pain-etched whisper. "I swear I will keep you safe."
The darkened silence devoured his words, consumed them with an indifference that left only the truth as a distant echo through his mind. The desolate resonance bladed the young hunter – left him hurt and gasping. One day Dean would drop his guard, be too slow or too tired to maintain his vigilance and Sam would be on his own: alone and defenseless. Easy pickings. On that day Sam would die.
End Chapter Nineteen.