A/N: Okay guys, sorry for another late update. Bestie moving plus lap top issues equals late chapters. My sincerest apologies. Best guess for the next update for this story will be Sunday.
Again, tons of apologies.
As Always,
EverReader
Disclaimer: Not mine not mine not mine, lalalalalala
Prisoner of War – Chapter 14
"Tragedy On Replay"
From the personal journal of John Henry Winchester
"Sam hides the darkness so well, I don't even see it sometimes. I catch myself looking at him, starting to smile, and then I remember the truth all over again.
Inside my son, there is a darkness, a poison running through his veins. I have given up hope of defeating it, but it has laid mostly dormant for years. I have not completely given up on the idea of beating down, delaying what I fear to be inevitable. Again and again I find myself pondering sending Dean away. If Sam goes wrong, he'd be a danger to Dean, but more than that, their closeness might be Dean's undoing. Dean might not survive watching his brother give in to the evil.
What if Sam's evil taints his brother?
I am even more glad now that neither of the two older boys know of the existence of their youngest brother.
Perhaps Adam still has a chance for happiness."
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Sam brushed the dust and dirt off his hands and the side of his face from where he'd been laying on the dirty floor.
Ignoring his (newly, again) screaming shoulder, and the pounding ache in his head, he scrambled over to the window. Pushing aside the ratty, moth-eaten curtains, he peered out into the gloom.
An old, tan Buick was idling in front of the farmhouse. He didn't recognize the vehicle, but the shadowy silhouette in the drivers seat was familiar enough for Sam to recognize anywhere.
Dean.
A chill worked down his spine when he realized there was another silhouette beside the first.
That sure as hell didn't look like Dad.
Turning, he lunged for the door, every instinct in his body screaming that Dean needed help right the hell now.
A crunch as Sam enter the hall way had him looking down in surprise.
One of the old pictures had fallen to the ground, perhaps knocked down by the Impact of Sam's body hitting the floor a few moments earlier. Moving entirely on that same driving instinct that seemed to guide all his other actions these days, he paused, heart hammering in his chest. He knelt, picking up the object, studying it, mind working lightning quick as it jumped, making connections and shifting through evidence, anecdotes and his own, insistent instincts.
A part of his brain was still screaming, saying get-to-Dean-get-to-Dean, but the other part of his mind, the part that had spent the last forty eight hours being haunted by the nagging sense of missing something was screaming even louder.
Here-here-here-here.
It was a picture, frame dented and glass cracked, fissures spider-webbing across the faces of the once happy family. Constance sat, smiling between her two children, the boy to one side, and the little girl leaning against her other.
A giggle echoed down the hall, and Sam's head snapped up, eyes wide with realization.
"She's scared to come home." Sam whispered to himself, dropping the picture to the ground and bounding back downstairs.
Now he knew her weakness.
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Dean stared at the decrepit farmhouse in front of him. The shutters were falling off, and he could see where Sam had kicked the door in, not bothering to replace it, as the house was at the end of it's own private road.
He searched the door ways and windows for signs of his brother, doing his best to ignore the frigid temperature in the car. Constance had seemed to disappear once the vehicle had started itself, but Dean sure as hell hadn't been the one doing the driving on this little field trip.
As discreetly as he could, he tried the door again.
Still locked.
He jumped as Constance appeared again, this time leaning far to close to Dean for his personal comfort.
"I can never go home." She whispered breathily, still flickering in and out of view slightly, the visual discrepancy making Dean's eyes hurt.
He was getting a little sick of her one liners anyway.
"You know, I've never actually cheated, per se." He began conversational, sliding back against the door.
"I'm not exactly the going steady type, so by default, I've never actually cheated, because I've never been exclusive with someone."
She cocked her head to one side. "Everyone betrays what they love the most." She leaned in even further, hallowed eyes locked on Dean's, her voice sounding like it was coming across an old radio.
"You will too."
She reached out suddenly, placing her hand on Dean's chest, directly above his heart. Dean screamed as his back arched upward, muscles straining as what felt like a thousand watts of electricity coursed along his screaming nerves.
He tried pushing her off, but though she appeared to have little trouble touching him, his hands seemed to pass right through her. His body slid down the seat, his head banging against the door handle.
"Down!" He heard the word dimly, from what seemed like impossibly far away, and one part of his confused mind questioned the directive, because wasn't he already lying down?
It made a little more sense a moment later, when glass was suddenly raining down on his face, and he covered his eyes instinctively.
"Sam?" He cried in confused relief. "Where the hell did you get a gun?"
"Move!" Sam yelled, ignoring Dean's question, as he unceremoniously shoved his older brother to the passenger side of the vehicle.
Dean could feel the gritty texture of the safety glass underneath his legs as he scooted over. Sam climbed in, a crazy, triumphant smile on his face, and Dean grinned back automatically. The grin faded when Sam put the car into drive instead of reverse, as Dean had expected.
"Sammy?" Dean asked, mild alarm lacing his voice. "Wrong way, kiddo."
Sam turned to look at Dean, a dare-devil glint in his eyes that Dean hadn't seen since Sam had taught himself to ride a bike without training wheels when he was five.
That was the second time he'd broken his arm.
"We're not going that way!" Sam called over the sound of the engine. "We're taking her home!"
He yelled out, whooping with joy or excitement or insanity, Dean wasn't sure at that moment.
Dean felt the electric shift in the air as Constance materialized in the back seat just as Sam slammed his foot on the accelerator, ramming the car into the front wall of her old home.
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Sam watched in fear, his heart jumping up his throat as the spirit attacked his brother. He couldn't quite make out what she was doing, but whatever it was, it looked like it hurt like hell.
He drew his weapon, but just like the night before, he was unsure of where to shoot. He could see the ghost, but Dean was blocking his shot.
Dean slid down ( or maybe collapsed ) at that moment, and Sam chanced it, yelling a warning to his brother as he fired.
Constance disappeared with an angry swirl, and Sam sprinted over to the car, fighting his reluctant lungs for breath.
How to get her inside the house? He could only think of one way, and he didn't think his brother was going to like it.
Dean's face supported Sam's supposition as Sam slammed on the gas, but Sam couldn't help but laugh again.
Christ, he'd been wanting to knock down a building for weeks now.
Might as well enjoy it.
The impact was jarring, knocking Sam's teeth together, but at least Dean had stolen an older model Buick without airbags. The car had crash-landed in the living room of the old farmhouse, and dust and debris rained down on the car.
Unfortunately, the dust finally got to his overtaxed lungs, and he erupted into a harsh coughing fit.
"Sammy? SAM? You good?" He heard Dean asking, felt Dean clapping his hand against Sam's back as Sam hunched against the steering wheel.
"Yeah!" Sam finally managed to wheeze, glad that Constance hadn't yet reappeared.
"Help me out?" Sam mumbled, but Dean was already out of the passenger door, hurrying around the rear of the car.
Sam's door was wedged shut so Dean had to help him climb out the shattered side window as Sam battled another coughing fit, more safety glass raining from his clothes as he finally stood.
"What the hell were you thinking?" Dean yelled as he patted Sam down, checking for yet more injuries. The Buick was totaled, and Sam was infinitely grateful that he hadn't had to use the Impala for this little expedition.
"We gotta get out of here!" Dean finished, as he started tugging Sam towards the newly renovated wall.
"Wait, not yet." Sam argued, throwing up his hand up to tangle in Dean's shirt, bringing his brother to a momentary halt.
"Wait for it." Sam whispered.
"Wait for what?" Dean said incredulously, looking around quickly, his own gun in his hand now.
The piano suddenly shot across the room. The boys ducked as debris rained down.
Constance materialized then, moving forward in that jerky half-motion particular to very strong ghosts, seeming one moment to glide, the next moment to leap forward in space.
She was carrying the same photo Sam had been holding earlier.
"What are we waiting for, Sammy?" Dean was gripping Sam by his good shoulder, and despite the inch he had on his older brother, his recent weight loss had Sam struggling to keep them in one place.
"Just trust me, Dean. I think I found her weakness." Sam mumbled, trying to move his lips as little as possible.
"Did you hit your head again?" Dean muttered back, shoving Sam partially behind him as she advanced angrily.
Sam looked up them, as a drop of water, then another dripped onto his forehead from the ceiling.
"X marks the spot." Sam muttered, thankful that Dean understood his meaning, even if he didn't understand the plan.
Sam took one careful step backward, then another, pulling Dean with him, gradually leading the ghost towards the slowly growing puddle of water saturating the old carpeting.
"What the hell, Sammy?" Dean half-sang, half-stage whispered, as the boys backed away from the growing puddle.
Constance herself seemed entirely oblivious. She threw the portrait down angrily, the chime of breaking glass echoing in the dead silence of the house.
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Sam and Dean were now backed up against the living room wall, their elongated shadows thrown by the lights of the Buick.
"We destroy what we love." Constance hissed angrily.
"That's not my idea of love, lady." Dean sneered back.
"Dean!" Sam hissed, "Freeze!" Sam breathed out the last word almost silently, his breath fanning across the back of Dean's neck, and Dean obeyed, eyes searching for whatever Sam had seen.
Looking up at the staircase towering behind Constance, he suddenly saw what Sam had noticed, and his hand clenched unconsciously tighter in his brother's shirt.
Man, he hated creepy ghost children.
Dean watched as the two small shadows detached themselves from the wall, forming the shapes of two heart-breakingly tiny human beings.
Or, they had been once, at least.
Now, as their outlines solidified, Dean realized what had attacked Sam while he was on the phone with Dean, and began to understand Sam's plan.
Giggling echoed down the staircase, and Constance froze.
Dean could almost have been sorry for her in that moment, as an indescribable pain drifted across her features.
She pivoted, unknowingly coming to stand directly in the puddle of water in the middle of the room.
She glanced upward as more water showered down, coming faster now, and she began to struggle as the children moved down the stairs, their laughter twining around the room's occupants like serpents.
Constance appeared stuck, as if she had stepped into quicksand, instead of merely water, and the ghost children were so close now Dean could see the logo on the boy's shirt, could see the ragged, one eyed teddy bear the little girl dragged behind her.
"You've come home, Mommy." Twin voices echoed eerily, and the room was so cold frost was climbing up the remaining window panes.
Behind him, he could feel as Sam started to shake with cold, but they were trapped until whatever the hell was happening played itself out.
On the now-frosted window pane closest to them, Dean watched as words suddenly appeared in the frost, as if drawn by tiny fingers on a winter day.
Come-Home-Mommy-Come-Home-Mommy.
Constance screamed then, in fear or sorrow or some combination of both, as the dripping wet children wrapped their arms around her.
The three of them seemed to pulse, and the two children disappeared, leaving the ghost of their moving standing wild eyed in the center of the room. Her hair flew about her, like Medusa's snakes, and she turned her eyes back to the brothers then, making as if to move towards then.
Dean braced himself instinctively for the attack that never came. Constance remained stuck, and she keened in fury. She thrust her arm out, and the boys flew the last remaining inches into the wall behind them with a thud.
More plaster dust rained down, but water was no longer just trickling from the ceiling, it was pouring, and Dean got a chilling glimpse of just what exactly Sam and Lucas had encountered during Peter's attack at Lake Manitoc.
Suddenly, two pairs of small, right arms thrust up from the dark puddle at Constance's feet, and she screamed her fury one last time as she was dragged down into the water, as if sinking into a black hole.
And then there was silence.
"She was afraid to come home." Sam said quietly, standing beside Dean now, and Dean stared at him, wide eyed.
"How the hell could that have possibly counted as a plan, Sammy?" He demanded, as they crawled around the stolen Buick and limped towards the Impala, which Sam had thankfully parked a ways back, out of harms way.
"We needed to find her weakness. Her kids were the best I could come up with." Sam said simply, sighing as if he hadn't slept in a year, and crap, his kid looked freaking awful, dusty and dirty and wet, with plaster dust in his hair and dark bags under his eyes.
Lines of pain marched across his forehead and Dean could only imagine how bad crashing the call into the farmhouse must have hurt his shoulder.
"Jesus, Sammy. That was fucking nuts." Dean shook his head, nearly rendered mute by the insanity of his brother's actions. Sam had had no way of knowing that any of that would work, and whats more-
"I told you to call Dad!" Dean whipped around then, angrily, pushing down his unease for the comfort of aggression.
Sam reared back, startled and off-kilter, and Dean had to fight down the urge to bundle his brother into the car and tuck him under a blanket.
"Umm." Sam stammered, looking uncomfortable.
"Well?" Dean demanded, fists clenched.
"I did." Sam finally said, shoving his hands into his jeans, looking anywhere but at Dean.
"You what?" Dean asked incredulously.
"I did...call Dad." Sam repeated uncomfortably. "We both knew the cops wouldn't be able to hold you for long. Dad didn't want to leave Bobby without back up. He told me to handle it. So...I did."
"Dad knew I was in jail?" Dean asked, confusion warring with pride. Of course, Dad was right, the county lockup had been a joke to someone trained by John Winchester. But still-
"Dad knew you were on your own?" Dean shook his head, unable to reconcile the idea of John "Dean-watch-out-for-Sammy" Winchester would ever leave his youngest hanging without any back up.
"I'm sixteen. You guys can't protect me forever." Sam said quietly, and there was a look on his face that had everyone of Dean's big brother instincts screaming bloody murder.
"We're hunters, Dean. Shit happens, it happens all the time. That's why we do what we do, right? Cause bad things happen to good people, and we're what happens to the bad things."
He said it so matter of factually, and Dean was torn, because, yes, of course Sam was right. That was what a hunter did. Whatever it took to kill the nightmare of the week. The monsters went bump in the night, and hunters bumped back.
Dean wasn't afraid of dying, not particularly, but the way Sam pronounced those words left them echoing in Dean's brain.
They sounded an awful lot like an eulogy.