The stench of death encircled the crappy motel. It invaded your nostrils, forcing itself inside your lungs, suffocating you. However, the parking lot remained relatively full. Which doesn't make a lot of sense; when the boys really think about it. A motel in the middle of nowhere, with at least seven cars stationed in front of rooms. The location should be enough on its own, but the smell, God that rotting corpse stench, is enough to deter anyone from staying. The boys would be more than happy to leave, but another motel is miles away, and the call for sleep is somehow more welcoming than the smell is unpleasant.
Dean sat on top of his- well, the motel bed, in his grey sweatpants and blue undershirt. His eyes bounced up and down, his body begging for him to give in to exhaustion. Sam is out on a walk, trying to escape the smell. It's an old motel, so they chalk the stench up to being a mixture of dead rodents stuck inside the walls and mold. They debated switching rooms but ultimately decided to stay; since the whole outside of the motel smelled just as bad, if not worse. Leaving is the only way to escape the foul odor. Briefly, Dean thought it smelled like corpses but decided it was a stretch. Sometimes Dean finds it hard to let himself relax without his mind wandering off trying to make a case out of nothing. Exhaustion begs for sleep, but Dean ignores its call opting instead of searching for a hunt.
Uninterestingly, he swipes his brother's laptop off the bedside table, laying it in his lap. For a short moment, he falters, staring at the horrendous blue and green floral comforter. Who would ever spend money on something so ugly? His gaze moves towards the laptop sitting unopen on his lap. His eyes fall upon a dark, round, little stain settled right on one of the puke green flower petals. The spot appears glossy and wet. He struggles to keep his eyes from closing despite the small adrenaline rush he feels caused by his discovery.
What the hell? I'm not bleeding. Cautiously he sets the laptop on the floor before inspecting himself and his clothing. He finds a speck of dried blood on his skin, but no wound. Laying back into the pillows, he loses the battle, his eyes remaining shut.
Suddenly, all at once, the smell grows unbearable as drops of blood begin raining down from a red-stained ceiling tile. The way the blood showers down is akin to how the cut on his mother's stomach spilled out onto the floor as vicious flames engulfed her body. A sight Dean could and would never be able to forget.
He shuts his eyes, begging his mind to let the image of his mother's death go. Dean's eyes remain closed for a long while before he manages to make himself pry them back open. His eyes widen to full capacity once his eyes adjust. The whole room is different now. Yellow stained wallpaper no longer covers the walls, instead now being replaced by a dark hue greeny-blue color; a color Dean feels almost comforted by without explanation. A color he somehow can recall seeing in some faded or forgotten memory. The beds have disappeared, and he finds himself standing in front of a crib. Dean runs his fingertips over the wooden frame. The crib sits in front of a large window covered by baseball themed curtains. A crib mobile device hangs suspended above the crib with baseball-themed plushies hanging down. Sam's nursery, he thought.
He couldn't help but smile at the thought. For six months of his brother's life, he was completely normal. He was just a mindless baby without a care in the world. All he had to do was sleep, eat, and look cute, and everyone fell in love. The baseball theme was Dean's idea. As a child, Dean was more than interested in sports such as tee-ball and baseball, so when he found out; he was going to have a little brother, it only made sense.
The pleasantness of the memory didn't last long before the whole room burst into flames. Dean's attention grew upwards as he heard the shrill screams of his mother. A sound Dean swears he can still hear sometimes, despite the length of time passed. Really, Dean didn't have to look up to know his mother was meeting her end; the sound was enough. Dean choked on the smoke but found it too hard to take his eyes off his mother's burning figure. He'd seen her burning in nightmares for months after her death, his brain refusing to let him forget the horrendous sight. The image never faded. Her long, blonde hair burning into nothing as her white nightgown soaked the blood from her slit stomach.
He could feel the heat on his skin. Dean looked down at his arms, expecting to see his tanned, monstrous scarred arms. Instead, he's met with a small pair of arms wrapped in a thin layer of a two-toned blue and red checker pattern. Running his arm down his sleeve, he feels the soft fabric. Pajamas? I'm wearing a matching pajama set.
Her screams have stooped; Dean only hears the crackling of the burning room and a shout coming from in front of him.
"Take your brother outside as fast as you can and don't look back! Now, Dean, go!" Dean is confused for a second but obeys. Snatching his brother from his father's, hands he begins running for the door. Worry fills his heart. Save Sammy. Wait for Dad; Dad will come out shortly. He's not going to burn like mom. Mom! Oh no. She's not going to be walking out. She's never going to get out. There wasn't anything left of her.
Dean's bare feet hit the grass, and relief rushed over him. I got Sammy out. Sammy's safe. Protect Sammy. Wait for dad.
The weight of his brother is no longer there. Startled, Dean looks down at his arms. Empty. Viciously he whips his head around in search of his brother.
"Sammy," His adolescent voice cries out. Dean begins to run back towards the house, his hair flying backward as his feet carry him along. He can hear the police, firefighters, and probably his neighbors demanding he stops.
Just as Dean is at the halfway point from where he was and where the front door is, his father appears. He's running faster than Dean ever could at that age and catches up to him quickly. He lifts him off the ground and runs a safe distance from the burning house.
Setting Dean down, he looks at him in confusion.
"Where's your brother Dean," John asks, his throat full of gravel.
He wipes the small tear running down his son's cheek.
"Dad...I don't understand," Dean explains, looking down at his arms where his brother had been.
"Dean," John booms, shaking his son's shoulder.
"I don't know," He yells, trying to match his father's intensity but failing due to his size.
"Dad, what's going on!"
John kneels to his son's eye level. "Son, the house is beyond repair, your mom is-" He stopped himself, not having the nerve to say the words. "And you've killed your brother, Dean. You failed Sammy, you failed your mom, and you failed me."
It was the feeling of a drop of some liquid falling on his temple that awoke him. Dean's bloodshot eyes opened forcefully. Tears streamed down his face; as the pressure in his head rose. I was a dream, you idiot. Dean had no memory of falling asleep. He uses his forearm to rub off the drop of moisture that fell onto his head as he closes his eyes once more.
He uses his arm to help roll himself off his side and onto his back. He keeps his eyes closed as his face sits positioned towards the ceiling, his right arm forearm strewed lazily across his eyes. The distinct sound of swarming bugs faintly fills his ears.
"What the fuck," Dean asks into the empty room.
It takes Dean a minute to catch his breath. I would never be so negligent, He tells himself. Not feeling convinced, he lets the hurt of his father's words sink in, stabbing him like dull knives trust inside his guts.
It was the sensation of a small but notable slash of liquid smacking down on to of his arm that pulled him back from his dwelling. Dean jerks the arm away from his face with a start, gasping at the disturbance. Opening his eyes, he is met with a blood-soaked ceiling tile, with a small opening, allowing blood to leak through, slowly collecting at the base of the hole before releasing the viscous liquid.
Quickly, he rolls himself feet first onto the floor, nearly stepping on the discarded computer. Using his feet, he slides the computer further away from him.
Dean spent the next ten minutes watching the tile; steadily drip the crimson liquid onto his bed.
Sam could only make himself stay in the motel room for twenty minutes before he left for a walk. He has no destination; nothing was around except a long stretch a road, seemingly endless. Dean called him a pussy, but Sam didn't care; the smell was choking him. He's not even sure if he can sleep with the stench trying to kill him in his sleep.
He checks his watch, finding it later than he had initially thought. It shows 10:48 P.M. Shit better get back before Dean thinks I left.
Sam has only been walking for about ten minutes before turning around, starting back towards the motel.
At exactly 11:00, Sam gently knocks on the motel room sevens door; the room his brother and himself are staying.
"Dean, it's Sam," He states, sounding a little breathy, the smell already starting to creep up.
Not even ten seconds later, he heard the lock click, signally that the door is ready to open. Sam reaches out to turn the knob, readying to let himself in, but Dean beats him to it.
"Dude, come look at this," Dean says.
Chapter two has already been written and will be up once chapter three; is completed. If you like this story and would like to see it to the end, please follow and favorite. Thank you.