A/N – Holy crap, this chapter wraps up Dead in the Water! As I said last chapter, this story will work through a few more cases, to better show off the characters. Lots and lots of hurt Sam right now. Don't worry, it will ease up a little so as to be as realistic as a SPN fic can be, but what can I say, Sam's just kinda unlucky. Please please review!
Also, for any of you following my other AU, All The Pretty Monsters, please check out my profile. I've put a poll up that will let you vote for what characters you would like to see in the story. It's going to be a long one, with room for lots of characters, so I though I'd see which ones excited everyone the most!
As Always,
EverReader
Prisoner Of War – Chapter 8
"Fractures of Light"
Sam sat tiredly against the pine tree, his brain a confused slurry of thoughts and emotions and memories that weren't quite all his. Dean had insisted that Sam sit this excavation out, and exhausted, Sam had reluctantly acquiesced.
John and Dean were digging, furiously silent, lacking the banter that often accompanied a midnight salt and burn.
Sam wasn't sure just how unhappy John was with their disobedience. He hadn't said a word, but disapproval practically radiated off of him. He could tell that Dean was not unaware of it, the tension in Dean's shoulders reminded Sam of a dog waiting to get kicked, and he wished he had the energy to feel mad on Dean's behalf. Sam had been right, and Dean had been right to trust him, but all John saw was the disobedience.
All he saw was Sam needing to be rescued, once again.
Even though Peter was obviously not done wrecking havoc.
Sam wasn't sure, not one hundred percent, but he thought Lucas might have found Peter's bike. It wasn't likely, but it was possible that the bike was partially what Lucas's spirit was clinging to. At the very least, trying a salt and burn on it might weaken Peter.
Or possibly make him much, much angrier.
Sam glanced down at his hands, at the scrapes that hadn't been present earlier that day, the scrapes that looked just like the ones he'd gotten in his dream when he'd tripped over the red bike at the dock. They throbbed in time with Dean and John's shovels, an angry red against the pallor of Sam's skin.
Sam was trying very hard not to think about that, about ghost wounds, and ghost memories and...visions.
He pretended not to see the measuring looks his father kept throwing his way, whenever John knew Dean's attention was elsewhere.
Sam wasn't sure if he'd ever been so tired in his whole damn life. Every breath burned a little, and he felt like no matter how deep a breath he took in, the exhale was always somehow bigger, leaving him in a permanent state of oxygen deficit. His head ached, and not just where his stitches were. He'd been unconscious in the water, even before he'd nearly drowned, so he figured he could add a concussion to the list.
And he could dodge Dean's quick hands as many times as he liked, but that wouldn't change to fact that he was almost certainly running a fever. His muscles hurt, and even his bones seemed to ache.
At least that was a good explanation for his shaking.
He looked up, startled as Dean draped his leather jacket over him. Sam inhaled the familiar scents of leather and gun oil and Dean.
Dean's eyes were concerned and he worried his bottom lip unconsciously, a habit he'd had for as long as Sam could remember.
"You okay, Sammy?" He said softly, mindful of Andrea sitting pale and quiet beside him, a sleeping Lucas laying across her lap. She was running her hands absently through Lucas's hair, though he'd been asleep for quite a while now.
Sam wondered if their Mom had done that with him, or more likely, Dean, since Sam had been so young when she died.
Sam could see John over Dean's shoulder, see the look in his eyes, the silent judgment.
He shook his head to clear it, forcing himself to his feet, ignoring Dean's hands trying to force him back down.
"Sit down before you fall down, Sam!" Concern disguised as irritation flavored Dean's words, and Sam added them to the list of things he was currently ignoring.
Monster's didn't care how worried your big brother was, either.
"I can take my turn, Dean." Sam said doggedly, determined that this stupid ghost wasn't going to put him out of commission like some B-movie sidekick.
"Well, now that we have verified you are, in fact, hallucinating, why don't you sit your ass back down, before I make you!" Dean's voice was more than irritated now, it was pissed, and Sam really, really wished he could find it in himself to care.
But he was so damned tired.
"Stop your bickering, both of you!" John scolded, as if they were two quarreling children who needed to be put in separate corners, and at least Sam's exhaustion helped dull his fury at being treated like a "difficult child" once again.
Sam pressed his lips together, as much to silence his retort as his sudden need to cough again.
"Sam..." Dean started again, a warning look in his eye.
Sam was trying to figure out the best way to get around the unmovable wall that was Dean Winchester when he heard the sudden, discordant sound of metal hitting metal.
As one, the eyes of both boys flew to their father.
John was looking down at his feet, where the weak dawn sunlight was reflected off the spokes of an old, dirty wheel.
"Betcha it's red." Sam said humorlessly.
Dean's laugh sounded slightly manic.
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Dean moved towards John, throwing a warning glare at Sam, which Sam naturally ignored. Picking up his shovel, he rejoined John, the two men making quick work of removing the remaining soil. Soon the entire bike could be seen, the aging red paint the color of old, dried blood.
Sam came to stand beside Dean, and Dean didn't need to feel his forehead to sense the heat the kid was throwing off. Unthinkingly, he reached into his pocket for the aspirin he'd stashed there earlier, knocking his closed fist into Sam's chest to get his attention. Sam took them from Dean without so much as a grimace, dry swallowing them obediently. Sam's eyes were fixated on the bike in front of them, and Dean felt his heart wrench at how pathetically small and tragic it looked, buried away, the last piece of a lost little boy.
"Let's light it up." Sam said impassively, and Dean was again reminded of Sam's new and improved hunter attitude. The kid who would have once argued that Peter deserved their sympathy, despite his recent actions, was long gone, vanished much like Peter's body into the depths of the lake.
Dean found it disquieting to be the brother standing over a hole in the ground, romanticizing their quarry.
Without another word, Sam bent down for the canister of rock salt, thoroughly coating the bike. Forcing his head back into the game, Dean lifted his own canister of lighter fluid, dousing the bike.
"Stand back." John ordered, and they obediently moved away as John flicked a kitchen match against the box he'd pulled from his own bag, tossing it into the pit, the movement precise and methodical.
"It's not gonna be enough." Sam stated tonelessly, and Dean geared himself up once again to argue flight for now, because he honestly sure how much more Sam could have in him. Andrea didn't look much better at this point, and even John was beginning to show signs of fatigue.
Of course, it could never be that simple.
"Who the hell are you guys?" The Sheriff's voice might have been shaking, but his gun was trained unerringly on John, and Dean doubted the man could miss at that range.
"Dad?" Andrea cried, alarmed, watching her father with wide eyes.
"We know what you did." Sam's voice echoed loudly in the preternatural hush of the clearing.
Dean could have stomped on his foot for that little trick, because immediately the Sheriff turned, weapon now trained on Sammy. Dean froze, hand halfway to his back, reaching for gun. John had better luck, however, drawing smoothly on the Sheriff.
Sam stood, not the slightest bit of fear apparent on his face. On the contrary, if anything, he looked mildly annoyed, and Dean was torn between pride and utter exasperation.
Lucas awoke then, perhaps sensing his mother's distress. Frightened by the tension surrounding him, he began to sniffle.
John cocked his gun.
Sam narrowed his eyes at the Sheriff. Raising his hands slowly, he tilted his head inquisitively at the man. "How often do you think the average law enforcement official actually fires his weapon?" He directed his question at Dean, and Dean played along, while silently promising himself that he and Sammy would have words later about Sam's hostage negotiating technique.
"Not as often as Dad, I reckon, kiddo." Dean replied.
Lucas began to cry harder then, and Sam looked at the Sheriff again. "Put it away, Sheriff, you can't shoot all of us."
The Sheriff seemed to deflate then, as if every bone in his body just melted into a pool of shame and despair.
"We were just kids..." He whispered brokenly. Turning stricken eyes to his daughter, he said, "Andrea, honey, we were just kids, just a couple of scared kids."
Tears were running down her face freely now, and she stared at her father as if she'd never seen him before. A sob broke loose before she could restrain herself, and the sound seemed to spur Lucas's panic even higher
"Andrea, Sam's gonna go with you and Lucas and you guys are gonna pack some bags. Sam's right, this won't be enough to stop the ghost, we need to get you two out of dodge till this is over." John commanded.
Andrea was shaking her head. "No. No, Dad, we have to talk about this. You lied...you killed someone, that's the reason Chris is dead, and that boy, that boy you killed came after me..." She sank to the ground, frame racked by sobs.
Lucas was positively manic now, and John snapped at Sam, "Sam, take him in the house. Dean, watch him!" He gestured with his gun to the Sheriff. Dean drew his piece, training it on the heartbroken, shell-shocked man.
He glanced worriedly over to where Sam had somehow managed to wrangle Lucas into his arms. Sam was moving slow, but he nodded to Dean, letting him know he'd manage. Dean turned back to the Sheriff, covering John as John slowly approached the upset woman, kneeling down and speaking to her slowly.
The Sheriff stared listlessly at the still smoldering ruins of the bike, the frame now twisted and warped by the heat.
Dean spared another worried look at the house, where Sam was just now disappearing in the door, Lucas looking frantically over his shoulders.
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Lucas seemed to weigh a hundred pounds in his arms, though Sam knew realistically that the child was actually on the small side for his age. His legs protested every step, but he hefted Lucas higher in his arms, and forced himself to the back door. Once inside, he set Lucas on the counter top, and leaned over beside him, resting his forehead on the counter, breathing as deep as he could manage. He felt like he had swallowed half the lake last night, and the breathless feeling was getting worse and worse by the minute.
Straightening, he leaned over the sink, staring out the window at the scene in the back yard. The Sheriff was still motionless, tears tracking down a face that suddenly seemed much older than the first time Sam had seen him. Dean's posture was soldier-perfect, focused and unwavering, though Sam could have swore he could feel Dean worrying about him even at this distance. John and Andrea appeared to be arguing, the poor woman obviously pushed beyond her limits and Sam could tell even from the house that John was about to lose his patience.
Suddenly, Lucas made a strangled, frightened sound, and Sam's eyes flew to his. Lucas, however,was staring in terror at the sink that Sam was leaning over, and Sam jerked back instinctively when he realized just what was happening. Before their eyes, the handle of the faucet was slowly turning, loosing first a trickle, and then a steady stream of brackish water.
Already the sink was filling, filling far too fast and Sam could only think that water must be overflowing from the drain at the bottom also.
Once again, the air was tainted with the smell of rotting and damp, and Sam lunged forward, wrapping his arms around Lucas and backing away from the counter. He stepped backwards another few steps, reluctant to take his eyes of the danger. He nearly lost his balance, however, and when he looked down, he saw a thin film of water spreading across the kitchen floor. Water was pooling from under the sink, and under the fridge as well. Backing out of the kitchen, he could see water coming from down the hall and down the stairs as well.
Peter was flooding the whole house.
Sam turned to go out the front door when he lost his balance for real, going down hard, twisting instinctively to avoid falling on Lucas. He knee screamed in pain, and Sam saw stars for a moment.
Breathless, and not sure how fast he could regain his mobility, he gasped out, "Lucas, go out the door. Get Dean, Lucas, run!"
The boy hesitated, staring at Sam, and Sam yelled again, "Now, Lucas, go now!"
The boy took off like a frightened deer, the front door banging behind him.
Sam pushed himself up slowly, warily watching for Peter. His knee protested, but Sam didn't think he'd done any real damage, just wrenched it good. The water was an easy two inches deep across the entire floor now, and Sam had the uneasy suspicion that it was seeping up from between the wooden slats themselves. The musty smell of dead fish and mud was overwhelming, and Sam was nearly choking on it.
"Come play with me."
The voice echoed from the water, or the walls, or maybe from Sam's on head, he couldn't really tell anymore, but Sam was twenty kinds of finished with this shit. Wondering where the hell Lucas was with Dean, he edged towards the front door.
Suddenly the window to his right slammed shut, so hard the glass shattered and Sam flinched. The window across the room did the same thing then, the sound of falling glass muffled by the rising water. Sam was astonished at the sheer strength of the ghost. Deciding to make a run for it, he braced himself as well as he could, stealing himself for the pain from his knee, and loped for the door.
He made it, barely, the door slamming hard, so close behind him it actually caught the hem of his jean's leg, and Sam found himself having to jerk free.
That was probably a good thing, however, because it meant he fell, hard, onto the slats of the porch. The sunlight was fracturing off the water of the lake in front of him, and it nearly obscured his vision for a moment, dancing lights flickering like drunken stars
When his eyes cleared, however, Sam's breath stalled in his chest.
Lucas hadn't run to Dean.
Lucas was on the dock, staring out into the water.
And a few yards out from Lucas, just barely cresting the waterline, Peter was staring back at Lucas.
"DEAN!" Sam realized it was him screaming at about the same time he realized he could run after all, was, in fact running towards the lake.
He slowed as he neared to dock, feeling the temperature drop exponentially as he got closer to the water.
The cloying stench of the water was coating his throat, and he felt like a fireman attempting a rescue on the surface of an ice covered lake. Carefully, afraid to move suddenly and trigger the ghost's anger he edged out onto the dock, one slow, painful foot after another.
He extended his hand out, as far as he could, but Lucas was still several feet away. Sam was fairly certain Peter was just waiting for Lucas and Sam to both be drawn to the edge of the dock before attacking, and he spoke, urgently and low to the child.
"Lucas..." He stage whispered, crouching, trying to make himself into a smaller target while still bracing for attack. He edged out just a little further, than froze as the ghosts attention shifted to Sam.
Lucas seemed to rouse a little then, seeming to come back to himself, fear blooming across his features.
Sam could understand Lucas's confusion, with the full weight of Peter's gaze on him, the entire world had seemed to go slightly off kilter, time slowed and sped up at the same time, colors running, the gentle lapping of the water suddenly as loud as the ocean at high tide.
Sam shook his head, desperately trying to fight off the psychic attack, attempting to focus.
"Lucas!" He urged again, low and firm, and this time the boy looked at Sam.
"Back up slowly, okay Lucas? Slowly...that's it...you're almost there..." Quietly, he coaxed the frightened boy back until Sam's hand closed over his shoulder.
Drawing the boy back to him until they were flush, he whispered- "No sudden movements, no noises. I'm gonna take a step back, and you're gonna take a step with me, okay? Just one...step... at a time."
The boy nodded jerkily, Sam could feel it against his chest, though Sam was having trouble focusing, still fighting off the stare of the ghost, mind still full water and red bicycles and whispered words and darkness.
"SAM!" Dean's voice was pitched low, he was too accomplished a hunter to have not picked up on the danger in front of him, but it didn't matter.
The spell was broken and Sam's mind shouted a desperate warning at him he had only a second to obey.
Turning violently, he wrapped his hands around Lucas's chest and shoved, nearly threw the boy to his brother.
He didn't see whether or not Dean managed to catch Lucas, because the dock exploded then, up and out and away, all at once, seeming to literally disintegrate under Sam's feet while he was simultaneously flung outward with vicious force.
He hit the water hard enough to set his ears ringing, and he only had time to gasp one huge, frantic breath before he was pulled under.
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Dean's head had jerked up when he'd heard Sam's yell, racing around the front of the house without another single thought for the Sheriff or Andrea or even John.
Slowing when he viewed the tableau in front of him, he advanced forward cautiously.
Sam seemed to be edging his way carefully to where a frozen Lucas stood near the end of the dock. Dean's skin started crawling when he finally caught sight of the ghost, dripping hair dark against fish belly white skin, angry eyes seeming to glow with malice.
It was so cold Dean's breath was coming out in a cloud in front of his face, and he could hear the others come up behind him.
"Lucas!" Came Andrea's panicked voice, thankfully muffled by a quick-thinking John's hand.
"You can't go out there, that's what it wants!' He heard John warn lowly.
Dean kept his eyes on Sam, who had managed to get to Lucas, and was backing slowly down the dock ,towards Dean. Dean saw the shift in the ghost's features, saw it sink into the water, realized it was going in for the attack.
'Sam!" He called out, a low desperate warning, and somehow, Sam must have understood, even though Dean himself didn't know quite what he was saying, because Sam practically threw Lucas at Dean, and then suddenly everything was just gone.
Dean was knocked clear onto the thin edge of rocky beach, head ringing. He could hear the others behind him regaining there feet, but his eyes were on the water, searching frantically. He'd nearly managed to catch Lucas, had felt the boys shirt sleeve brush his finger tips, but now the child was nowhere to be seen.
Neither was Sam.
Dean ran into the water, diving under far to soon, he was lucky he didn't snap his neck on a rock. He could here his father behind him in the water, and when he came up next, he called out, "Look for Lucas! I'm going after Sam!"
"Dean!" He heard his father call, but Dean didn't stop, didn't slow, cutting smoothly through the water until he reached his best estimation of where Sam would have gone in. Jackknifing down smoothly, he tried to see through the murky water, searching for any sign of Sam.
Coming up to double check his location, he met his father's grim eyes from a few yards away, John's quick shake of the head let him know he hadn't fared any better in his search for Lucas.
Beyond panicked, he dove down again. This time, he caught sight of a pale shape a few yards away, and he recognized the light blue of Sam's t-shirt.
Kicking over, he could just barely make out what had happened. Sam's jean's were torn at the bottom, one ragged end caught in the splintered portion of the dock that had somehow already managed to sink down, effectively pinning Sam to the lake bottom.
With a start, he realized Sam was awake still, kicking his legs desperately, flailing his arms in an attempt to get loose. His water logged jeans hugged his legs like a second skin, and Dean doubted they had the time to get them off, because Sam was already moving less, kicking slower.
Dean grabbed Sam's leg, adding his own strength, but there was no way to get leverage, no purchase to be gained under the water, and Dean had no idea how Sam was even still conscious, because already his own lungs were screaming for air.
Sam knew it too, and he grabbed Dean's shoulders weakly. Dean grabbed Sam's face, trying to get him to focus on Dean, to fight losing consciousness and breathing in water.
Sam's eyes were losing focus, though and with the last of his strength, he pushed Dean away, gesturing up, to where the fractured sunlight filtered through the water, weak and distorted.
Dean shook his head in angry denial, but it was too late, Sam's eyes had closed and precious bubbles of air were streaming past his slack lips.
Dean shook him once, but Sam was gone, floating limply, hair drifting like a halo around his head.
Dean reached for his knife, but it wasn't in his back pocket. Knowing he had no choice but to surface, he kicked upwards, gasping when he breached the surface. Looking over, he could see Andrea and John kneeling over a prone Lucas on the bank, but the Sheriff wasn't beside them.
"Where's your brother?" The voice startled Dean, and he turned, treading water to to find the Sheriff beside him.
"Trapped!" Dean gasped. "His pant legs caught on the wreckage, I can't get him out!"
"Here!" A fishing knife was shoved into Dean's hands, and without another moments hesitation, Dean dove again, swimming unerringly for his brother.
A voice in his head was screaming too-late too-late too-late, and he knew, knew Sam had been under too long, had lost consciousness too long ago, but Dean was damned if he was leaving Sammy down there.
He sensed more than saw the Sheriff keeping pace with him with long, even strokes, and they reached Sam quicker than Dean expected. Dean realized Sam wasn't really that far down, but that few precious feet would be all it took it they didn't get him out right now.
Opening the knife, he attacked the leg of Sam's jeans, the water making it nearly impossible to cut the cloth. Strong hands took it from Dean, and the Sheriff motioned for Dean to wrap his arms around Sam, ready to pull when the Sheriff gave the signal.
When the Sheriff motioned, Dean kicked with herculean effort, dragging his lifeless brother to the surface with him.
Using a rescue hold, he started kicking to the shore, where John met him halfway out.
Andrea was rocking a crying Lucas, but Dean only had eyes for his motionless brother.
Sam wasn't white, he was blue, and Dean wasn't getting a pulse. Not even hesitating this time, he launched into chest compressions, and John took up position by Sam's head, counting for Dean and giving the appropriate rescue breaths. A moment passed, and then another and Dean's entire world narrowed down to one-two-three-four, wait for John to breathe, again, one-two-three-four...
"Come on Sammy, come on, dammit, breathe already bitch! Sam, come on, breathe, SAMMY! Come on!..." Dean chanted without realizing it, verbally pushing his brother as he had all their lives, urging him forward, the way he had taught him to walk, to shoot, to fight.
"Dean..." His father said, a flat, strangled tone in his voice and Dean fixed him with a glare that could have melted iron, never stopping and when John didn't give the rescue breaths after the next round, Dean did it for him.
"Dean.." His father said again, and if Dean had had a free hand in that moment, he would have hit him but he didn't because he was beating Sammy's heart for him and he wasn't stopping until Sam was doing it on his own.
"Dean!" John raised his voice this time, reaching out for his oldest.
"NO!" Dean snarled at him, nearly rabid, and something in his face must have reached through to John, because with the next round, John resumed rescue breathing grimly-
And then Sam coughed weakly.
Dean hauled Sam up and over as Sam emptied what seemed like gallons of water onto the beach beside them, head lolling weakly against Dean's shoulder as Dean rocked him, clutching Sam to him with a white knuckled grip.
"It's okay, you're okay, I gotcha, you're okay, you're okay..." Dean was babbling, he didn't care, he just continued to rock his kid, as they shivered in the cool morning sun on the bank of the lake.
"I hate drowning..." He heard Sam mumble into his shoulder, and suddenly Dean was laughing, the kind of laughter that came with tears and curses and shaking limbs.
He met John's eyes over Sam's sodden, shaking shoulders, and flinched a little. For just a second, there had been a look in John's eyes that Dean couldn't place, but it had every instinct screaming danger.
"Dad?" He said, clutching Sam to him even tighter in that moment, though he couldn't say why.
"The Sheriff never came back out." John finally replied, and Dean didn't think that was the answer to the question he hadn't quite asked, but it would have to be enough.
Sam was breathing. Dean needed a drink. Or a hundred, however many it took to erase to memory of Sam's blue face from his mind. He wrapped his arms even tighter around Sammy, marveling at how small he seemed in that moment.
California sounded fan-freaking-tastic about now.