~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ CHAPTER 6 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Something's after him.
He was supposed to be sleeping, but there's no sleeping here, and something's coming. He can't hear it yet, but he can feel it, and he's learned to trust that feeling. It's the reason he's still alive after all this time.
There's something else that's wrong. Something else besides the everything that's always wrong here, but he can't quite put his finger on what this new wrong is. He just knows something's different.
A moment later, he realizes what it is.
He's alone.
Someone should be here with him.
"Sam?" he dares to whisper, risking it because he still hasn't heard the telltale signs of an approaching monster. But wait. That's not right, is it? That's not right.
"Benny?" he tries next. He thinks he's crouched behind a tree, same as usual, but there is a soft edge to the bark that's unfamiliar to him. Still, that's the least of his worries right now. Only a matter of time before whatever's after him catches up. He's got one more name to try, but for some reason he doesn't think anyone's coming. That scares him more than the monster.
"Cas?" he calls anyway, because he has to.
Something moves, and it isn't Cas or Benny or Sam. Dean barely has time to scream before it's tearing out his throat.
He comes awake choking, searching desperately for air, and it takes him a too-long moment of confused panic to remember where he is. Dean curls his fingers around the back of Lisa's couch, grounding himself until everything comes back into focus. But that feeling, the feeling of something coming, doesn't fade the way it usually does after a nightmare. It sits in his stomach, churning and acidic, and Dean can't make himself relax.
There is a noise from outside the house, then, and Dean knows it's not in his head. He's fully alert now, fingers itching for a long, ugly blade that isn't next to him like it used to be not so long ago. He gets up from the couch and snags the Impala's keys from the table where he'd left them, cutting a path to the front door, sliding into his boots as he goes.
He remembers the alarm at the last minute, turning to type in the code that somehow hasn't bled out of his memory the way he wishes other things would. Once it's disabled, he pauses only for a moment before throwing open the door, letting the cool night air wash over him, eyes already searching for the source of the noise. There is nothing he can see, but the feeling is there, so Dean closes the door behind him, moves for the car and pops the trunk, letting out a low sigh of relief only when his hand is curled around the blade he'd brought back from Purgatory.
Then he searches the yard.
In the back of his mind, Dean knows he's probably insane. Purgatory didn't do him any favors in the paranoia department, and he'd had enough of that already. But there had been a noise from outside, and it had been real. And it might've been a squirrel or a branch moving in the breeze, but Dean is pretty sure it wasn't.
He becomes more than pretty sure when he watches whatever it was dart out from behind a tree in the neighbor's yard before disappearing into the night. It moves like a human, but Dean knows that might mean absolutely nothing. He's running after it before he even gives his legs the instruction, tearing across the grass like a lion chasing a gazelle. It feels good to let his muscles move this way, almost like he's home. The thought scares him a little, so he pushes his attention back to searching out the shape he can no longer see. Eventually, he loses the trail completely, pauses to lean against a stone fountain in a stranger's backyard while he gets his breath back. He straightens and moves away when he notices the details of the fountain: a man with his head bent low, a pair of long, feathered wings sprouting from his back.
It takes a long time to walk back to Lisa's and Dean realizes he must've run farther than he thought. The Purgatory blade swings deftly at his side, car keys jingling in his pocket. He takes the keys out and curls them into his hand when he reaches Lisa's porch, not wanting to make any noise. He slides quietly back into the house, resetting the alarm behind him. Exhaustion finds him then, but Dean refuses to succumb to it. Because something was out there, and it wasn't in his head.
Something was out there, and it might come back.
In the morning, Lisa finds Dean curled in front of the entryway like a guard dog. He's lying on his side facing the front door, boots laced, knees pulled up to his chest, and an ugly looking weapon draped over his left arm. Lisa pauses halfway down the stairs. Dean is close enough to the edge of the banister that she'd more than likely wake him if she came the rest of the way down, and she's not sure how well that would go for her. She eyes the weapon warily, thinking.
Sam comes into the hallway then, rubbing a hand blearily over his eye. He stops to take in the situation in front of him, offering Lisa an apologetic smile. He motions for her to stay where she is, and then thinks about how best to wake his brother. It hadn't gone so well for him the last time, and this time Dean's got a real weapon on him.
"Dean?" Sam tries, inching a little closer but still keeping some space between them. "Dean, wake up."
Dean shifts a little, grip tightening around the blade in his hand. Sam knows his brother would be embarrassed by the small noise of distress that comes out of his mouth, especially in Lisa's company. It's why he kneels down beside his brother, closer than he'd like, to place a hand on Dean's shoulder and shake him out of it. Dean comes awake fast, just like Sam knew he would. The blade is at Sam's throat on his next blink, and distantly he hears Lisa's frightened intake of breath, but he can't focus on that now. He finds Dean's manic eyes, staring him down as calmly as he can.
"It's me," Sam says. "Dean. It's me."
The blade slides away swiftly, landing with a thump on the carpet in the entryway. Dean's animalistic expression morphs into one of recognition, coupled with fear. His body doesn't relax, shoulders pulled taut beneath Sam's touch.
"Shit. Shit," Dean mumbles, mostly to himself. "Sorry. I'm sorry." He reaches a hand out to touch Sam's shoulder for a moment, as if solidifying his reality. And then he twists gracefully to his feet, blade somehow back in his hand, eyes tracking every surrounding. He catches sight of Lisa, frozen on the stairs.
"S'okay Dean," Sam says, still kneeling, watching his brother's expression carefully. Dean swallows, focuses back on Sam. "Maybe wash up a bit and we'll meet you in the kitchen, yeah?"
Dean nods, head dropping to his chest in what Sam recognizes as shame. "Mhm," he grunts, shuffling off in the direction of the bathroom. Sam waits until he's gone before he finds his feet, daring to cast a look in Lisa's direction. She's still standing in the middle of the stairs, expression giving nothing away.
"Where's Ben?" he asks, just for something to say.
"Sleeping, I think," Lisa says. "Or...recharging? I'm not sure what to call it."
"Oh," is all Sam can think to say.
"I'll get him in a little while." A pause, and then: "I think I have eggs."
And with that, Lisa makes her way down the remaining stairs, pausing only to glance at the couch where Dean spent the night. Her eyes linger on the pile of pillows and blankets, stacked exactly as she'd left them. As if Dean feared it would be too big of an inconvenience to use them.
"Come help me set up," Lisa says, motioning for Sam to follow her.
"Oh. Uh, sure," Sam nods, unfreezing himself and letting her lead him into the kitchen.
"Plates are in that cabinet," she gestures. "Cups are there." Another wave of her hand. She goes for the fridge, pulling out a carton of eggs and a bag of shredded cheddar. "Do you like cheese in yours?"
"Sure," Sam says again, suddenly transfixed. Because he can picture it now, the way he never could before. He sees his brother instead of him, grabbing plates and orange juice and maybe even doing the cooking on some mornings. He sees Ben poring over a study guide; watches Dean give Lisa a secretive smile before flicking a stray piece of egg in his direction. It's a scene from a movie that could never be their lives, and yet somehow, Sam knows it happened. Or something like it, at least.
"Sam?" Lisa coaxes as she sets the pan down on the stove and turns on the burner. "Four...three plates, please."
"Right, sorry," Sam recovers, clearing his throat and grabbing plates and glasses. He finds the orange juice in the fridge, pours out the last of it and feels guilty. They'd brought her the ghost of her son and probably a world of problems. She shouldn't be hosting them, letting them eat her food and sit at her table.
"Toast?" Lisa asks, cracking the last of the eggs into a bowl. Sam shrugs noncommittally and watches Lisa grab two pieces for him. He feels that same, odd tightening in his chest from before.
"So. What happened?" Lisa asks. She's finishing whisking the eggs and pouring them into the simmering pan and most definitely not looking at him when she says it.
"What do you mean?" Sam counters, even though he's pretty sure he knows exactly what she means. He can practically feel her roll her eyes, though she's still not facing him.
Lisa sighs. "With Dean. Something big's happened since I knew him. I have most of my memory back now, I think, and he wasn't like this. Granted, he was grieving you, so I know he wasn't himself. But there wasn't this...I don't know. There's something in his eyes now."
"You're right," Sam acquiesces, nodding. "Something happened. He uh...went somewhere. Guess you could call it a warzone. He was there for a year without me."
"Where'd he go?" The voice is neither Lisa's nor Sam's, and they both turn to see Ben in the entryway to the kitchen, looking more pale and drawn than he had the day before, if possible. He takes a seat at the counter, looking at Sam expectantly.
Sam clears his throat and thinks of how to answer, but before he can, Dean moves silently into the kitchen.
"Sam?" Dean says, eyes locking onto his brother immediately. "Can I talk to you for a second?"
"Sure." Sam slides off his chair, following Dean back out into the foyer. There is a mark on the carpet where dirt from Dean's boots has been rubbed deep into the fibers. Sam tries his best not to look at it.
"What's up?" Sam asks.
Dean shifts from one foot to the other, looking uncertain. "Something was here last night," he whispers. "Outside the house."
"What do you mean something? Like our kind of something?" Sam presses, immediately alert.
Dean nods.
Sam's nose scrunches thoughtfully. "Are you sure?"
The words are out of his mouth before he can stop them, and he fully expects to watch his older brother's lip curl at both the tone and the insinuation. But Dean just nods again, eyes not quite catching on anything.
"Look I know I've been...fidgety lately and I maybe I'm still a little wacked out from...whatever," he says, letting Sam fill in the obvious blank, "but I know I'm right about this. Something was here."
Sam's eyes widen a little at the admission about being off-kilter, but he doesn't get a chance to answer.
"Something like a monster?" comes Ben's voice, and damn but the kid moves quick and quiet. Kind of like Dean does now. Except Ben also happens to have the advantage (if one could call it that) of being dead. He's standing with his arms crossed just a few feet away, and Sam wonders how long he's been listening.
Dean rubs a hand over the back of his neck and grimaces. "Ben, go back into the kitchen, please."
"Hell no," Ben growls, and the chandelier above their heads shakes just the slightest amount. Sam knows Dean notices, watches his jaw clench, but Dean keeps his eyes on the ghost of the kid he used to know. "If there's something coming, I wanna know about it," Ben continues, anger still evident in his tone. Sam shivers a little at the sudden chill in the air. "And mom should know about it too. God, don't you learn anything Dean?
Dean clears his throat, and Sam observes the tension in his stance that always seems to be there now, that constant readiness that has kicked up a few infinitesimal notches at Ben's small almost-outburst. "Ben. Calm down."
Ben's lip twitches angrily. The lights flicker once. "Don't tell me to calm down. If there's something coming, I deserve to know about it. It's the least you can do, having gotten me killed and all."
Dean recoils like he's been slapped, mouth opening in a silent 'O'.
"Ben, easy," Sam urges, shooting the kid a warning glance. Ben narrows his eyes, but Sam can see a little bit of remorse in them, a little bit of the fear that most likely prompted the cutting words.
"No," Dean says, recovering. "Ben's right. He deserves to have all the information this time. So does Lis."
"She's making eggs," Ben says, tone soft now, and Sam recognizes it as one of Dean's signature non-apology apologies. Seems the kid picked up more than a few things from his big brother. The realization makes Sam ache. Makes him think about how good of a dad Dean could've been- how good of a dad he already was, even when he was just a kid himself. Dean smiles with half his mouth, waving the white flag of peace and forgiveness with a single look.
"Cheese?" he asks playfully, but there is still a heaviness there in the words that Ben doesn't seem to fully pick up on. The kid nods.
"Okay," says Dean, lip still twitching in that stupid, sad smile that Sam can barely stand to look at for too long. "We'll talk over breakfast then, alright? We'll figure all this out."
Sam thinks of a hundred rally speeches performed by the infallible Dean Winchester. Thinks of so many strong pats on the shoulder, gentle ruffles of the hair, countless encouraging words and ill-timed jokes that somehow still managed to make Sam laugh. Looking at Dean now, seeing the weight behind his crinkled gaze and the pain beneath every rippling muscle, Sam wonders how he ever let himself fall for the ruse of invincibility. Dean leads Ben back into the kitchen, pausing briefly to shoot a worried glance at the now unmoving chandelier, and Sam wonders how many of those hidden glances he missed when it was him Dean was placating.
Ben and Dean disappear back into the kitchen. Sam hears Dean mumble something that sounds like 'smells good,' and it takes him a long, long moment before he can follow after them. He has this ugly feeling that something is about to go very wrong. That their presence here is causing some vital piece of foundation to crack and crumble apart. There are chips in the paint and it's only a matter of time before the roof starts leaking or the floorboards begin to warp beneath the invisible pressure that has always been their existence. Normal people can't handle the kind of disaster they tend to bring with them. Sam had begun to feel it with Amelia, too. Had bailed before he could take her life apart completely.
And he's afraid for his brother now.
He's afraid Dean won't be able to walk away before the two of them do what they always do: wreak destruction.
Wreak death.
It's possible I'll be posting a day later next week, but I'm hoping that won't be the case! Thanks for reading!
