Part 3
Wet warmth rolled along Dean's forehead, spreading with every heartbeat that pounded like tympani through his throbbing skull. Head heavy, disoriented, and aching with pain radiating along his midsection, Dean slowly took in a shaky breath and attempted to wipe at the sticky substance collecting at his hairline. Arms like lead and positioned abnormally above his head, Dean suddenly understood why it was his head felt so grotesquely large. He was upside down, the seatbelt digging into his side and stomach, surrounded by the gnarled frame of the Avalanche and broken glass.
The semi, Rachel swerving, the crash, all slammed into him along with the understanding that they didn't have time to be hanging there, out in the open, trapped in the wreck. Sam had told them the twisters would be back, and evidence to that fact was becoming apparent with the increased ferocity of the wind ripping through the shattered windows.
The CB was snapping with static, drawing his attention as he thought he heard something faint through the fuzz. While trying to figure out the best way to get right side up without dropping on his already bruised skull, Dean heard something again, stronger this time.
"…ean…Dean…hear me?…"
It was Sam, and he sounded freaked. Dean couldn't blame him. There was no telling how close the demon-like whirlwinds were now, or how much time Rachel and he had before they were carried away by them.
"Aw, screw it," Dean muttered, unable to do much of anything in his current position but release the belt keeping him suspended. The second the belt snapped away, Dean was in a heap at the ceiling of the vehicle, swearing as he twisted uncooperative limbs around to straighten himself.
"Rachel?" he called, reaching for her as he folded around into a crouch. "Rachel, we gotta move."
She stirred, groaning through a split lip, eyes working open above her bruised cheek. She gasped as too much sudden movement jostled something that hurt, causing her to breathe fast, eyes clamped shut.
"Oh God…" she whispered, taking hold of Dean's outstretched arm, squeezing down on it as she shook.
The lyrics to Bad Moon Rising echoed through Dean's subconscious, residual and mocking. I hear hurricanes a blowing…I know the end is coming soon…
Cursing the damn song and promising himself the next time he heard it he'd make sure he wasn't in a moving vehicle, Dean tried to prod Rachel along faster. The weather was getting worse and he could hear the two ravenous beasts of nature churning near them, the sound they made droning on deeper and faster.
"Can you move?" he asked, positioning himself so he could get a better look at her.
Blood glistened along her lips and a small cut along her cheek, but she seemed to be all right. If anything, she was more in shock from flipping her vehicle.
"I-I'm okay," she finally exhaled, opening her eyes. "Help me down."
Dean couldn't get to her very easily, wedged between the gearshift and steering column.
"Oh, God," Rachel bellowed, as she started to yank at her seatbelt. "It's…It's jammed! Dammit!" She pulled faster, trying to click it loose at the same time, panic saturating her voice, making her actions impetuous. "Dean!"
"Hold on, hold on," Dean tried to calm her, his own system flooding with adrenaline as he tried to get to the belt. She was fighting him for it, and he had to grab her wrist. "Rachel, look at me!"
She stopped struggling, wide eyes barely softening, "Don't leave me here," she pleaded.
"Rachel, I'm not gonna leave you."
The vehicle started to rock, grinding against glass, moaning as it was pushed by the wind, causing Rachel to whimper.
"We'll never outrun it…"
Dean couldn't get the latch on the belt to release, and when he moved away for a moment, Rachel latched onto his sleeve like she feared he'd go back on his word. Dean freed the knife from his boot and came back toward her, flicking out the blade.
"I'm not gonna leave you. And we're gonna outrun the bitches, you hear me?"
She nodded quickly, releasing his shirt, her rapid breaths betraying the fear he knew she was trying so hard to push down. Sliding one arm in front of her, the knife between her body and the belt, Dean tried to keep her steady as he ripped the blade back and sent Rachel spilling forward into him.
"Come on," Dean encouraged, having to shout now above the gale force winds, half carrying, half dragging the nerve-wrecked researcher backward through the shattered passenger window.
Lights poured over the trashed SUV, and Dean could hear tires squealing to a halt as he shielded his eyes against the approaching headlights' intensity and the debris tearing through the air. He was halfway through hauling Rachel to her feet, the wind wreaking havoc on their ability to see and whipping Rachel's hair around her bloodied face, before Dean saw Sam leap from Russ' van and push into a sprint.
"Dean!" Sam bellowed.
Dean pulled Rachel up, holding her tightly under her arms, lending the support of his chest as she stumbled. There was something wrong with her leg. He knew the second she tried to put weight on it and couldn't find strength there. She was shivering against his chest. The strong, smart, proud, adrenaline junkie Rachel was shivering.
"I'm sorry," he heard her say.
So that was what this was about. She knew her call to stubbornly stay the course was going to cost them.
"Hey," Dean said sternly, twisting around to the side on which he'd felt her leg buckle, letting her lean into him that way. "What part of anything I just said did you not get?"
Sam practically barreled into them on his dead run, tripping to a stop, before grabbing hold of Dean's shoulder. "You two okay?"
"We can't drive out of this!" Russ was shouting as he and Wes approached, faces flooded with concern and something they'd never admit was akin to terror. "Damn, girl, you toasted your ride."
"I know. I know. Leave the dead friggin' lie. We have to take cover," she instructed, the stronger side of her seeming to take hold in front of her team.
Dean tipped his chin toward Sam to let him know they'd live; that is, if they could find cover.
"Come on!" Sam prodded, taking Rachel's other side. "There were houses…"
"My van!" Russ started.
"Leave it!" Rachel snapped.
Russ shook his head, shrugging up the bag he had on his shoulder, the equipment he'd been able to salvage. "Suck," he breathed. "Be strong, Baby!" He called back to the van, and Dean felt an odd twinge of sadness for Russ and his vehicle.
All that changed as the rampaging wraiths kicked up enough wind to blow Dean forward, knocking both him and Sam off their center.
"Now would be a really good time to run, dammit!" Dean shouted at the others, wondering why the hell they needed a charge order to get their asses in gear. Two tornadoes coming to claim your life seemed like enough incentive to him. "Russ, move your ass. She can take care of herself!"
Shifting Rachel's weight between Sam and him, they started forward into the best run the three of them strung together could manage. Russ said his goodbyes with a salute to his van and the middle finger to the two twisters, then grabbed Wes by the shirt and tore them both back around to follow.
Plowing forward through the nearby woods, tripping, dragging, and stumbling their way toward lights in the distance, Dean felt that outrunning the Devil himself probably would have been more plausible. Shouts to "keep moving" and to "not look back," kept the wounded, weary party on their feet as the trees snapped and broke in the most terrifying combination of raucous, nerve-grating cracking and howling Dean had ever heard the wind produce. It left no doubt that something big and terrible was coming, and one more slip up, one more uneven step and they wouldn't make it.
We'll never outrun it…
They would. They had to. There was no way Dean was going to go out this way, and there was no way he would ever not make good on his promises.
Breaking out of the path and onto a driveway, the house they needed to get inside was only a few feet away when Rachel collapsed, both Sam and Dean going down with her. Russ and Wes had alighted the steps and were pounding on the doors, the windows, making their way around back. Dean grunted, swearing, as he recovered from the fall, fingers digging into dirt and flesh as he and Sam both ungracefully grabbed an arm each and wrenched Rachel back up.
Russ and Wes had grabbed a baseball bat from the yard and were taking it to the glass doors around back. A couple of good swings and Russ cleared the door frame completely, ignoring the horrified look from Rachel.
"No one's home, dude! And I don't think they're gonna care about a window, Rache! Not in the next few minutes!"
"No one's gonna care about our bodies ending up in the next county either!" Dean barked, having to agree wholeheartedly about the window, but failing to see the point in justifying it now. They could debate morality over coffee in some nice warm diner later…if there were any diners left later. He waved Russ and Wes through the door, letting them take Rachel's arms and help her toward cover. "Come on, come on! Move!"
Once inside, they quickly found the door to the basement, barreling down the steps just as the large picture window in the living room burst inward, sending razor-like shards of glass flying toward them. Dean was the last one to go down, ducking behind the door and using it as a shield as glass embedded itself on the other side. Slamming the door shut behind him, Dean grabbed the railing, taking the stairs as many as he could before he made it to the safety of concrete walls and floors.
The team hunkered down in the center of the basement, listening as everything above them was scattered, ravaged, and torn apart. Dean and Sam were leaning against storage bins, both with their eyes on the ceiling. So little stood between them and whatever was left of the house, and Dean found himself wishing that this hunt hadn't become so much bigger than they were. There was no way to fight this without knowing what was controlling it, no way to defend himself and Sam against something this strong or powerful.
They couldn't keep running and hiding. He knew he should have listened to Sam. How long until the thing dropped on them at the hotel, or before the F5s Rachel had mentioned decided to level the town? Dean slid his eyes over toward Sam who was sitting with his shoulder touching his, Sam's throat working, muscles bouncing in his jaw, as he listened to the storm.
Sam caught Dean looking at him and dropped his head, face taut with worry. Dean apologized with a knowing glance, but Sam shook his head. There was something else weighing down on him. Something that had to do with how Sam knew the twisters would change directions, something that was scaring both of them right now.
The storm seemed to have passed over, the overwhelming noises and shaking lessening until it was a retreating rumble. No one moved though. No one even ventured to exhale.
Russ whistled eventually, which turned into a laugh. It drew out the tension a little from the air, grabbing weak smiles from Wes and Rachel. "That was another close call, bros. You're both either lucky bastards or really bad luck…"
Dean shrugged up a shoulder, grin pulling at one corner of his mouth. "Little of both I s'pose."
"Bad luck," Sam sighed, only audible to Dean as Russ continued on, talking to Rachel about the video Sam was able to capture.
Dean tilted his head toward his brother, feeling Sam's shoulders sag against his. He kept his voice low, guarded, chin tipped down. "What happened back there?"
Sam shook his head, before rubbing a hand across his lips. "It's not a demon," he whispered tacking on a halfhearted laugh. "I was wrong."
Dean wasn't sure he understood. "What do you mean? How do you know that?"
"How do I know anything like this, Dean?" Sam came back. "Trust me," he said with a certain nod, eyes filled with that scared, small look Sam only got when he was questioning everything. "It's not a demon. It's someone like me."
The Sunny Days Motel, Evening
"So, let me get this straight…" Dean's voice vied for Sam's attention, drawing it back from the computer screen and his jarred thoughts.
Dean was pacing. Sam hated it when Dean paced. Sam's mind was scattered enough at the moment without having to track Dean's trapped animal-like movements around the very small, very enclosed space.
When the storm had ceased, they'd been able to dig themselves out of what had once been a house and make their way back to the road. After revealing what he knew to Dean, Sam had remained quiet, ignoring the worried looks he kept getting from his brother, focusing on helping Dean and the others get Rachel back to Russ' van. The van was amazingly, much to Russ' unabashed glee, and despite once again being misplaced, dented, and missing windows, still in one piece.
Rachel's ankle was going to be okay. She was keeping it iced in her room, and Sam had helped Dean tend to the cut above his brow. Sam was relieved it hadn't been worse. It could have been a lot worse…
Now, in the security of their motel room, even away from the team, Sam found it hard to voice what was going through his mind; found it hard to believe and grasp. Analytics needed more time to digest things and Dean, with his incessant trudging and wearing down of the carpet fibers, wasn't helping.
"Some psychic is behind these storms," Dean finished, head swinging back over his shoulder to look at Sam.
"Yeah. That's what I said. Someone like me," Sam sighed, fingers flying over the keyboard as a theory brewed in his mind.
"I wish you wouldn't say it like that," Dean returned.
"That's the only way I know how to describe it, Dean. Could you—would you stop moving for two seconds and just…stand there?" Sam beseeched, holding out a hand. "Please."
Dean stopped, holding up both hands at his sides like he was afraid to touch anything. "Better?"
"Yes," Sam replied, "Thanks...Now, I can think."
"So, you had a dream...a vision?" Dean continued to pry, and Sam knew he wouldn't be satisfied until he knew exactly what had happened.
"Yes, Dean." It was the only answer he could give while running the searches online, skimming articles and finding what he was looking for.
"And?"
"And, I had a dream." Sam responded without giving much thought to the answer, realizing once it left his lips that he'd have to go into more detail on that one.
"Wow, clarity!" Dean exclaimed.
Sam finished his search and turned slightly in his chair to look at his brother square on. "I had a dream where I was there, Dean. Saw the tornadoes...there was someone else there and I felt..."
"What?' Dean pressed, eyes eager.
"That familiarity. That connection I have with whatever this is inside of me. Similar to when I tap into my abilities."
"And you're just now telling me this? Just now saying something?" Dean asked, coming closer, resting his hands on the back of one of the chairs.
"I thought you didn't want to talk about it," Sam returned, somewhat angry. The look he got from Dean—hurt, bewildered— made Sam regret saying that. "Truth is, at first it felt like just a dream. I didn't know until..."
"You saw it with your own eyes."
"Exactly..." Sam breathed. "Everything that was happening...what we'd discussed earlier...I—I guess I figured that this was just me processing."
"Processing?" Dean raised a brow. "Sam you're the only one I know who dreams in friggin' Technicolor. Something like that happens, you tell me."
"I know. What do you want from me, Dean?"
Dean swiveled the chair around, pulled it up to the table and sat down. It was getting too hard for him to stand still, Sam observed, as Dean's knees bounced and he ran his fingers across his lips. "Let's start with how you know it's a psychic. I mean, we're talking the Max, Matthew, Alyssa camp of psychics, right?"
"Sure as hell ain't Miss Cleo, dude," Sam shot back.
"Okay, okay," Dean took the defensive.
"Asking the same question over and over isn't going to get you a different answer, Dean," Sam exhaled.
"Alright. I'm sorry. Processing," Dean said, waving a hand for Sam to continue. "A tornado threw a friggin' truck at me. I'm just a little on edge here."
Sam sighed, eyes finding the search engine screen less imposing than his brother's fervent eyes. He felt exposed, more like the word "freak" should be tattooed to his forehead, when Dean was like this. It made Sam realize that maybe he didn't want to know flat out exactly what it was that Dean thought about these abilities. He really needed Dean's centering reassurance right now. It worried him that the one person who was his center, his anchor, was making him want to fall into some crack in the floor.
"Anyway, like I said, there was another presence, in my dream. Like we...like we were sharing the same vision. I couldn't see their face though. Again, that connection was present...and we both know my abilities have a way of showing up when there are other psychics around."
"That doesn't explain Leicester. And, oh by the way, what exactly are your abilities anyway? This doesn't sound like a death vision..."
Sam studied the dust between the keys on his keyboard, ticking up his shoulder, replying tiredly. "I don't know. I honestly don't know, Dean."
Dean bobbed his head a few times, jaw set in thought. "Okay, so do you have any theories on who it could be? Where to even start looking?"
Relieved that the attention was off of him, head clearing in the brevity of relief that moment provided, Sam spun the computer around for Dean to see.
"These two look familiar?" he asked, nodding to the articles he'd pulled up. He could see Dean's eyes light up with recognition.
"We ran into those two yesterday. Uh...Jay something and his trigger-happy emo friend."
"Jaime Alden and Nathan Cole," Sam gave Dean the formal introduction. "A couple of things started to bother me about yesterday after the dream. One of them being Jay's nickname for Nathan."
"Yeah, what was that again?" Dean asked, leaning into the table to get a better look at the articles. "Ah-er-sake, or something."
"Arashi," Sam pointed to an article, a black and white picture of Jay, smiling, younger, the date several years prior. "Arashi means 'storm god' in Japanese. Jay had an internship in Japan, had his hometown proud and publishing about it in the papers, but, it looks like Jay came home about the same time Nathan's mother fell ill. There's a blurb written up about Jay and Nathan taking over the Cole family business."
"M'kay...so Jay's calling his friend 'storm god', and you're thinking…?"Dean hedged.
"There's obits for Nathan's mom, and Jay told us the other day that Nathan's had a bad run lately...guy's luck sucks, Dean. There's articles about Oroville's promising youth, Nathan listed among them...Does he look like he's putting his undergraduate degree to much use? And that little girl, Chelsea, I think Nathan's also her guardian."
"So...we've got one miserable bastard whose best friend has got to be calling him 'storm god' for a reason."
"Jay knows something, Dean. Has to. Before the bar was hit last night, there was some kind of fight that broke out. I didn't see what happened, but I could have sworn I saw Jay there. Right before everything went to pot."
"I don't know, Sam..."
"I know it's thin...but beyond this, I've got nothing, and it can't hurt to try to talk to him."
"You do remember the shotgun, right? I imagine loading it isn't the only thing he'll do when we start asking him if he's the male version of the X-men's Storm."
Sam huffed, closing his laptop. "And that right there, is the reason I'll be doing the talking."
Cole Residence, Night
"Nathan." Chelsea's voice, smaller than he remembered it, had reached out to him, tugging at his heart.
Sitting in the living room, head in his hands, the TV in the background relaying the news about the tornadoes that had struck earlier that afternoon, Nathan felt more tired and alone than he had in a long time. Her voice only added to the dull ache building in his chest.
More people had died, more of Butte County had been destroyed, and he knew it rested on his shoulders. God, he didn't know how or why this was happening to him, but there was no denying the screwed up pattern he'd long since picked up on. If there was any way to stop it, he didn't know how…
Lifting his gaze to Chelsea, he saw her hugging the wall, half hiding against it as her inquisitive eyes searched his, one small hand playing with a ripped piece of wallpaper.
"Um…I was wondering why I'm going to Marissa's tonight?" Rocking on her feet, he knew she was nervous, scared even, and he couldn't blame her. "Shouldn't we leave, Nathan? Lotsa people are leaving."
Swallowing hard, eyes stinging, Nathan knew the gravity of the decision he'd made would affect her deeply. "We're not leaving, Chels."
"But if we don't leave—"
"I know you're worried," he cut her off, finding it hard to keep the shaky timbre from his voice. "I know you're scared the storms will come here again, but—"
"Not that, Nathan. We need to go so no one else gets hurt."
Her words halted him, settling against his heart with cold fingers. "What did you just say?" She knew. Oh God, she knew…
She shied away a little, sliding back along the wall. "I'm scared, Nathan."
"Of me?" Nathan asked breathily, unable to hold much strength in his voice. Especially after Chelsea nodded slow, dropping her eyes to the carpet, toeing at something there.
"I…I overheard you and Jay…when I came back for my bike," she admitted.
She was looking at him like she wanted him to fix this, like she wanted him to tell her everything would be all right. But he couldn't promise her that now. Especially when there was only one solution pressing at the back of his mind, a solution that he knew would hurt her.
"I understand, kiddo," Nathan said, laughing weakly as he ran a hand through his hair. "You know I don't want to hurt people, right?"
She nodded quickly. "I know, Nathan. You want to help people. It's why you went to school. But then you came home to help mommy and me..."
Something about that statement, coming from her, pummeled his heart, pushing up bile. She trusted him to take care of her. "I'm sorry for all this, Chels," Nathan came back, eyes threatening to spill, pressing the brim. "I wish..."
The sudden and quick bleat of a horn from outside stopped Nathan, and he looked toward the front door. Marissa. He'd asked her to wait outside, to honk and he'd send Chelsea. He thought about what Jay had said about taking her out on a date sometime, smiling sadly that he'd never taken the chance, never let himself get close. He was doing this for her as much as he was doing it for Chelsea, for Jay, for the town he'd grown up in.
"You better get going, Chels. Jay will pick you up later, okay?"
Her face scrunched up like she was going to cry, and she pushed away from the wall to hug his legs. "Don't be sad, Nathan. Come with me."
He couldn't see her through the blurry haze setting over his eyes, blanketing his vision. "I'll see you later, okay? Please, do this for me...Be good for Marissa."
She pushed away from him as the horn blared again. Wiping at her eyes, her bottom lip trembled as she managed an obedient nod. She didn't say goodbye, just turned and ran for the door, a sob audible as the screen slammed behind her.
She knew...
This wasn't something that would just go away if they left town, though. He loved her for thinking they could run away, that they could just move and keep others safe. If only it was that simple. If only he knew what to do to control whatever this was that was brewing inside of him, then he wouldn't have to leave her like this.
There was only one way he could see to end the suffering, and he'd made the decision before he'd called Marissa. In order to save the ones he loved, to protect what was left of his family, he would have to stop the dreams...permanently.
Taking the revolver from where he'd kept it hidden underneath his shirt, in the back of his waistband, Nathan waited until he was sure that Marissa and Chelsea were long gone and had a seat back on the couch. He rolled the cold, heavy metal over in his hands. The weight of the gun nothing compared to the sudden heaviness encasing his heart.
He wouldn't hurt anyone anymore...
*****
They'd parked at the end of the Cole's long gravel driveway, making sure they killed the headlights on the Impala before they got too close, and didn't attract any attention to the road. They didn't want to have Nathan already waiting for them with that shotgun as Jay had warned them. Using the stealth dark provided to their advantage, Sam and Dean made it onto the front porch, and found the door open, the screened door's latch unlocked.
Inviting themselves in, wincing at the creaking of the door, Sam moved ahead of Dean before he could take the lead, stepping into the kitchen where he had a clear shot at the back of the house. It was then he saw Nathan, gun in his hands, head lowered as he stared down at the weapon with a desperation Sam knew all too well. Clearly lost in what he was determined to do to himself, Sam knew Nathan had no idea they were even there, and held up a hand to stop Dean from coming forward.
Sam didn't want to startle Nathan, and he approached slowly, hands up, palms out. "Nathan..." He started, quiet, letting the message of understanding fill his voice, his stance, his movements.
But Nathan was unavoidably alarmed by their sudden presence, shooting to his feet, fingers wrapping around the grip tighter, one resting near the trigger as the revolver hung at his side.
"Wh-what are you—? How did you—?" Nathan started. "You're the—You're the guys from yesterday..."
"It's okay, it's okay. We just want to help," Dean said, ignoring Sam's earlier gesture and stepping around his brother.
"We're just here to talk," Sam assured him.
"You don't get it," Nathan seethed. "I want you off my property!"
"See that's just the thing, Nathan," Sam tried, eyes going between the gun and the scared man's face. How desperate was he to end this? How far would he go? Would he take them with him? Sam made sure he knew where the gun was as he continued, especially with what he was about to say. There was no telling how it would be received. "Nathan, I know why you've got that gun in your hands. I know that you've got a secret you don't think anyone will understand. But I do..."
Nathan's lips pulled thin against his teeth, face scrunching in confusion and pain. "How could you possibly know? What could you possibly have to say to me?"
Sam felt Dean move closer to him, saw in his head without looking, the expression Dean was giving him now. His brother was starting to wonder if this was such a good idea, and all Sam could do was ask him with a sideways glance to please trust him on this.
"I admit," Sam pressed, "we're not who we said earlier, but we know about the storms, Nathan."
Sam was throwing out generalities, seeing if the truth was in fact that Nathan was the one behind everything going on. If not...well then Sam knew the ground he had to stand on would be rapidly retreating. When Nathan paled a few visible shades, Sam felt it was suddenly easier to breathe. They were alike. He could help talk him down from this...
...Or end up with another Max Miller.
"You and I, Nathan. We're the same. You can do things you can't explain, right? I've been through this, still trying to figure it out myself."
"Do you kill people?" Nathan asked flatly. "Do you go to sleep and wake up among destruction? Do you bear that kind of cross?" Nathan opened his hand, and electricity sparked from finger to finger.
Atmoskinesis or something like it. That was all Sam could come up with. He didn't even know if that was a technical term, but on the micro and macro level, the psychic before them could manipulate more than Sam had imagined possible. Do you go to sleep and wake up among destruction? In his sleep. He was creating storms in his sleep.
Dean had shifted his weight back at the sight of the electricity, his muscles visibly bunching with anticipation of an attack. The memories of being electrocuted were no doubt careening through his mind.
Nathan closed his hand, tilting his head with curiosity, but there was nothing inviting about his eyes, darkened and dangerous, full of anger, matching the intonation of his voice. "What can you do...? Sorry...didn't catch your names..."
Sam was taken aback by the question for a beat, looking over at Dean, before remembering the gun, eyes darting to the front. "Sam...this is Dean. Dean doesn't...have...abilities."
He saw Dean shrug out of the corner of his eye.
"Lucky him," Nathan ground out, then tilted his chin toward Sam. "You? What is it that you can do?"
"Uh..." Sam started, knowing no visible proof was possible. Not like Nathan had just given them.
"Show me," Nathan demanded. Visibly nervous and scared that they were somehow trying to trick him, he backed up until his ankles were flush with the sofa.
"I, uh, I don't really know...what it is I can do..." Sam admitted. "Visions, telekinesis..." Given Nathan's state of mind, he left out what he'd been able to do to Alyssa.
"Visions..." Nathan said absently.
"Death visions," Sam corrected himself with a weak smile.
"That sucks," Nathan said.
"Tell me about it," Sam laughed nervously. In that breath of relief from the tension he thought he saw Nathan soften, thought he saw Nathan look ready to listen to reason.
"You never answered my question," Nathan reminded him. "Do you kill people?"
At that, what hope Sam held of talking Nathan down moved quickly and rapidly away from his grasp.
When Sam didn't answer right away, Nathan started to raise the weapon to his head. "I do. I kill people. In my sleep." He closed his eyes a beat, wetting his lips. "It's gotta stop, Sam. I know you mean well...but I'm not worth saving."
"What about Chelsea?" Sam asked, hoping to regain a foothold. "What's she gonna do, huh?"
Nathan winced, face contorting in sadness and grief over what he was doing, just at the mention of her name. "You think I want this?! You think I want to die?! I can't control it, Sam! I can't make it stop! And I won't risk her life! She doesn't need a freak like me messing her up!"
Freak. Sam hated that word. The things he was saying were torn right from Sam's thoughts, making him wish there was something more he could do to stop Nathan's desire to end it all...
Sam had been so absorbed in what was being said, in the ground he was losing with Nathan, that he hadn't noticed Dean getting closer to the couch. They both had been. Subconsciously closing the distance on Nathan and the gun.
Nathan apparently hadn't noticed either, tear-filled eyes locked on Sam's, pleading with him to just let this be what it was. So when Dean spoke, when proximity, and stance and Nathan's rapidly disappearing space finally registered, the chain reaction of events that unfolded did so with breath-stealing speed. One blink and everything in front of Sam fell apart.
Dean asked Nathan to calm down, and Nathan turned the gun on him, the words "back up" barely past his lips before Sam overreacted. He'd stretched out his arm, shouting at Nathan to stop, his heart in his throat, mind misfiring, not understanding that Dean wasn't in danger. All Sam registered was Dean and the gun, and suddenly wind slammed into both Nathan and Dean, the gun discharging in Nathan's hand as it snapped back toward his temple.
The deafening report seemed to stop time, which sped up only when Sam saw the blood...
Dean was moving, pushing up from the ground, and clawing for the couch where Nathan was laying, arm dangling on the floor next to the revolver, head tilted into the sofa cushions, the white floral pattern rapidly filling with crimson.
Dean grabbed the blanket on the back of the couch to press against the wound, turning Nathan's head to assess the damage.
"Graze..." Dean breathed, eyes turning to Sam. "Call for help, Sam."
Sam couldn't make himself move, couldn't seem to find the strength or the ability to grab his phone and call 911. He was still trapped in that moment, mind grappling with what he'd just done. He'd commanded wind out of thin air...
"Sam!"
Dean's voice was like a shockwave through his brain, and suddenly Sam could move, fingers grasping for his cell phone. With shaky hands, Sam clumsily punched out the numbers, risking a glance at his brother. Dean was staring at him, eyes knowing.
"I didn't..." Sam started.
Dean nodded toward the cell. "'S okay, Sam. It will be okay."
Sam wanted to believe that, and Dean saying it was enough for him. Enough, at least, to help him focus on the call. Turning away, Sam could still feel Dean's eyes on him, worried, scared, and ever-conscious of what had just happened.
Freak.
It was the one word, the one thing Sam didn't see in his brother's concerned irises or hear in his steadfast voice. Sam knew as he collected himself, that this one thing that was absent from how Dean saw him, was the reason some revolver had never made it into Sam's hands.
The Sunny Days Motel, Night
After the paramedics had picked Nathan up, Sam and Dean returned to the Impala, both wary of the thunder gathering and swelling in the distance. If when Nathan slept he dreamt of storms, then with him completely down both brothers knew they were in for one hell of a night.
The storm that followed not long after they'd returned to the motel beat into the windows, pelting them with hail to in almost hypnotic rhythm. Sam had come to rest on his bed, back against the headboard, boots still on and wet, soaking the comforter with mud. It wasn't like he'd be sleeping tonight, not after what had happened earlier, and not with the weather like it was.
A part of Sam wondered if the dream he'd had earlier had been more than that, if there had been more than one tornado for a reason. The sudden gust of wind that had taken out Nathan had come from him, and there was no rationale that could explain to Sam any differently how that had happened.
There was one more dimension now to Sam's theory about himself. The reason he couldn't figure out what it was that he could do, was because, other than the visions, he couldn't do anything. Not on his own anyway. He needed circumstantial catalysts, and someone who was actually gifted nearby to draw from. If he was right about what had happened earlier, sleeping wouldn't be a good idea, not with everything already going on outside.
There was another crash of thunder, the room lighting up with a sputtering flare of lightning, and the lights browned out.
Dean was listening to the radio, having just emerged from the bathroom and changing into dry clothes. He was toweling off his hair, drying it after running back and forth from the Impala to get a few things from her trunk. In just a few seconds from the door to the car and back, Dean had returned soaked.
Pausing in the ruffling of his hair with a towel, Dean looked at Sam, mouth thinning out like he was trying to think of something to say to him. It was a rare and scary moment when Dean was at a loss for words. Sam saved him the trouble with a weak smile.
"Before you ask…we both know what happened back there, and no, I didn't know control of the wind was one of my abilities."
"When your powers combine…" Dean said, trying again to lighten the thick and suffocating quality the air had taken on. "That was… Captain Planet…nevermind. Wussy ass cartoon. I mean, what kind of power is Heart anyway?"
Sam smiled in spite of himself, briefly thinking if anyone had that ability, Sam was staring right at him. He swallowed against the constricting muscles in his throat, trying hard not to lose it.
"Dean, I don't know what to do…" Sam finally voiced, hating how small that made him sound.
There was a knock at the door before Dean could even venture a response and Sam watched Dean drape the towel around his neck before going to open it. Rachel was standing outside, drenched, arms crossed and Dean stepped aside to let her come in. She was favoring her ankle slightly, but Sam was glad to see her back up and moving around.
"Did you hear?" she asked, looking between them expectantly.
Dean nodded toward the radio. "Just caught the end of a report. I guess outside of Oroville got hit pretty hard."
Sam sat up, blinking. He'd been so lost in his thoughts he hadn't even heard what Dean was listening to when he'd gone over to the radio.
Rachel drew in her bottom lip, nodding. Sam noted how pale the researcher looked. He was about to get up and grab her a towel, but Dean was ahead of him, snagging one from the rack above the sink and offering it to her. She thanked him with a weak smile, before continuing.
"Not just pretty hard...Not much left out that way," she said, burying her face in the towel to wipe off the beads of rain dripping down her nose and lashes. "The team is heading out there to help...A lot of people left before this one hit, but...it's leveled. A whole town in just the blink of an eye. They think the worst is over and we're going to help try to get as many out as we can." She was twisting her fingers around one another, eyes losing the fervor they'd had the first time they met her. "Look, about earlier… About that stupid move I made..."
"Rachel," Dean started.
"No...no, I need you to know that I'm sorry. Manitoba..." She sighed. "My judgment was questioned there too...and it cost us. It was nothing against Sam, but when my decisions were being doubted again, I didn't think. I just didn't want another..." She laughed lightly, sadness seeping back into her features. "I made a bad call, almost got you two killed...so I'd understand if you turned around and went back to campus. Actually, I'd prefer you did."
"We're not leaving, Rachel," Sam spoke up, on his feet now after the news about what had happened.
"I'm sorry, I know you've got nothing for any papers or reports you had to write up about this, but I don't want you two to get hurt...and these things...well, there's unpredictable and then there's chaos. This is chaos. Science only takes you so far, and then there's this huge, black space of unknown..." Her eyes got distant; all previous boldness had left her. She shrugged it off like she couldn't believe she was saying what she was about to say. "I hate when I come up against it. This place…" Another sad laugh, and she had to look away. "I hate it because I doubt what I know."
Before either of them could respond, she'd exhaled, throwing a thumb over her shoulder. "I should get going. You two take care of yourselves."
Dean shot Sam a look that was asking if he was up for this. Sam nodded confirmation, grabbing his jacket while Dean stopped Rachel from leaving. Sam needed to do something other than sit there and wonder what the hell they were supposed to be doing. Nathan was causing these storms, and Sam had been the one to take him down. Short of pulling whatever plug was holding Nathan to this world, Sam didn't think there was anything they could do, and right now that option bunched and coiled in his gut unpleasantly, along with everything else that had been revealed in just a few short hours.
Sam understood why Dean kept pacing earlier. He understood the self-fueled need to move, and right now, if they could help anyone at all, Sam would be able to stop his mind from crashing into the wall it was heading for fast.
"Rachel," Dean spoke up after he'd returned Sam's nod, reaching for her arm. "We get it. We do. We know you're not in this just for the thrills. You want to make a difference, you want to save lives and understand the unexplained. It may not look like it, couple of college students like ourselves, but we get that. Going out there to help is part of the job, just as much as admitting you don't know all the answers, just as much as going after these things. We're coming with you."
She looked to Sam like she wasn't sure and Sam mustered the best understanding smile he could. "We know the risks, Rachel. Trust us. We didn't come out here to play it safe."
Rachel rubbed her arms, still looking unsure. "Okay, then. We'll be outside."
"We'll be right behind you," Sam assured her.
West Butte County, CA, Night
There was no sorting through the myriad of emotions, thoughts, or reactions that rose up within Dean as they walked among the rubble of what had been a small neighborhood. He'd seen pictures of the damage tornadoes could cause, but he'd never stood at ground zero, taking in the devastation of the aftermath. An odd, surreal emptiness wavered through him, and caused him to pause when he saw a mangled red tricycle before him in the street.
For a moment, he wondered if he was still in California, the landscape too foreign to be anything but some post-apocalyptic backdrop of a movie set.
Rachel was ahead of him with Russ, passing a flashlight beam into car windows, and over piles of debris. Sirens, which Dean had become more than accustomed to since their arrival there, bleated over and over, several ambulances and fire trucks peppering the remains. Their lights were supposed to be promising hope and help, but to Dean, as he watched another body bag rolled out and laid down in the street beside the rescue vehicles, they were just colorful death markers.
Dean could hear Sam's thoughts through his brother's silence, could see them written out in Sam's tired eyes as they passed over everything, taking it in, processing.
"So many…"Sam finally voiced, but Dean heard my fault roll out within those words.
Dean made sure the others were well ahead of them before he grabbed Sam's arm, slowing him to a halt.
"Don't you even start, Sam," he said, knowing that if Sam's mind kept going toward shouldering the blame, it would break his brother down. "This is not your fault."
Sam didn't appear to be listening to him fully, focus on some middle distance. "I don't even recognize the town, Dean…"
"Sam, look at me," Dean ordered. "Not out there. Look at me."
Sam's eyes reluctantly tore away from the ruin around him, coming to settle on Dean's.
"Stop. Just stop," Dean pleaded. "We'll figure this out, okay? We always do. But you didn't do this, Sam. Just because Nathan's abilities somehow transferred, doesn't mean you're to blame for what happened."
"I—I overreacted…I pushed him…the gun…" Sam continued.
"Sam," Dean sighed, starting to wonder if coming out there was the best idea. Especially when he knew after their encounter with Nathan, Sam was suffering. "Please don't…"
Before he could continue Rachel was calling for them both. Dean could see Russ digging through a pile of wreckage, trying to lift what looked like a support beam from the legs of a survivor. Dean jogged over to help, meeting Russ' gaze and nodding to his instructions to lift on count three. Grunting, straining every muscle he could, the three of them were able to remove the beam, revealing a very beaten and bloody man underneath.
The EMTs arrived, stepping between Dean and preventing a longer look at the man. Dean moved back for a moment, hands slick with blood, and suddenly it hit him that only three of them had lifted the beam. Russ, Rachel, himself…
"Sam?"
Dean turned back to an empty street, and his heart punched into his throat. He wasn't there. He wasn't anywhere that Dean could see, and dread filled him so fast he was running before he knew exactly where it was he was going.
"Sam!"
*****
The electrical wires were hissing, coiling in and around themselves like the slick bodies of snakes, sparking, spitting in the street. Sam moved as carefully around them as he could, wary of the ground they danced on as he started to climb the wreckage that had once been the front of a house. Lacing his fingers through some lattice work, Sam climbed to the second story window, unable to get over the collapsed front of the house any other way.
Setting his feet down on unstable ground, Sam took a moment before he could let go of the window sill, arms out at his sides for balance on a floor that sloped down toward a nasty gaping hole. There was no telling if it went straight through to the basement from where he was, but he wasn't about to trip up and find out the hard way.
After Dean left, Sam had heard someone calling for help, and he was sure it was coming from this house. Doubt filtered through him, however, as the house was quiet, save the occasional groaning from its fresh wounds. It wasn't until the call for help came again, that Sam was able to press forward without reservation, moving closer to the drop off.
It had been the voices of a young girl and a woman, and as Sam slid to the edge of the ragged hole punched through the floorboards, he could see them two floors down, looking back up at him
"Hey," he shouted down to them. "Either of you hurt? Anyone else down there with you?"
The floor groaned again, this time accompanied by a snapping sound that sent every synapse in Sam's brain firing. He had just about enough time to comprehend he was falling, that the floor was no longer there, before he was grabbing at anything he could to hold onto, sliding with the section of floor that had lost its support.
Something slowed his descent, seemed to push back on him lessening the impact as he landed in an unceremonious heap on the concrete basement floor. Moaning, muscles protesting his movements, Sam felt small hands encircle his wrist, helping him up. It was amazing that he hadn't broken anything, even more so when he realized he would have broken bones if something hadn't been pressing against him from below. It made him wonder if he'd freaked himself into another psychic form of protection.
"Oh my God, are you okay?" the woman he'd heard was down on her knees beside him.
"Marissa," the girl, whose voice sounded familiar, was still tugging on Sam like her small frame was going to be able to budge him. "I know him."
Sam blinked through the poor light of the woman's flashlight, taking in the girl's face. Curious blue eyes and blonde curls. "Chelsea, right?" he asked.
She nodded. "You're a reporter."
"Not quite," Sam sighed. This was Nathan's sister. He had no idea what she was doing here, but he had a feeling she had no idea what had happened to Nathan.
"Sam!"
Dean's voice bellowed from outside and Sam got to his feet, looking up at how far he'd fallen. A rope would have definitely been a good idea. Sam called out for Dean, Marissa and Chelsea joining in until Dean and Rachel appeared at the edge of the hole. Dean, clearly upset, suddenly looked perplexed, raising a brow.
"Dude, how the hell did you—?"
Sam held out his hands, shrugging his shoulders "Slipped."
"Graceful. What were you trying to do, one man rescue without even bringing a rope?"
"Like you thought to bring one," Sam shot back. "Look, I wasn't thinking, and talking our way out of here isn't an option."
"Ye of little faith, Sammy. You're lucky some woman saw you trying to get in here and play hero," Dean said, disappearing for moment, and returning with a coil of rope. He dropped it over the edge and Sam moved out of the way as it uncurled with a quick snap. "Not thinking. That's a scary thought," Dean continued as he swung one leg over the edge, Rachel encouraging him to be careful. "Lucky for you I'm the brains in this outfit."
"And our hero," Sam mused.
Dean slid down the rope, dropping the last few feet, and clapping Sam on the shoulder. "We're both big damn heroes, Sammy. But you ever do this again, and I'll have to kick your…"
"Dean!" Sam's eyes darted to Chelsea.
"He'll kick your ass," Chelsea finished.
"Thank you," Dean nodded at her. "What the little lady said." Dean tilted his head, recognition dawning. "Don't we know her?"
"Yeah, Dean, you remember Chelsea?"
Dean gave Sam an "oh man…" look, wincing. "Nathan's sister..."
The house groaned again and something fell away in another part of the home. The place was waiting for them to give it an excuse to collapse in on itself.
"Think we should carry on introductions outside of the nice death trap," Dean suggested. "Come on Chelsea, I'm gonna need you to hold onto my shoulders."
She came toward him obediently, then remembered something. "My bag," she said, turning before Dean could grab her. The house groaned again, and this time they heard the floors above where Chelsea had run start to crumble, smashing down into one another before any warning could be given.
Dean was closest, and Sam saw him spring for Chelsea, not able to pull her back in time. Instead, Dean curled himself over her, pulling the girl into his chest as a last shot at keeping her from being crushed.
It came faster this time, near naturally, like Sam knew he could save them by simply willing it to be true. Sam saw the floor descending on them from above and everything slowed down, everything ceased to have significance or purpose, and the two huddled on the floor were the only things in Technicolor. Marissa screamed, turned her head, and Sam cast out a hand, heart screaming to a halt as wind plowed into the boards and debris, sending it scattering in all directions around them, keeping a single speck from landing on their heads.
Sam let out a stuttered breath, hand dropping to his side before he ran for Dean and Chelsea. Marissa was staring at them, wide-eyed, disbelieving that they'd been missed and not crushed beneath it all. Chelsea got up from the floor and ran to her, apologizing and telling her she was okay.
Grabbing Dean's forearm, helping him to his feet, Sam waited for a reaction, something to indicate that his brother was okay, and not just physically. Dean was out of breath, eyes everywhere but on Sam.
"It's getting easier for you, isn't it?" Dean finally asked.
Sam's throat bobbed, finding it hard to swallow, throat dry. "I think so…" Opening his hand out of eye shot from Marissa and Chelsea, he focused on what he'd seen Nathan do earlier. Sparks spun between the first few fingers. "A lot easier."
"You're like my brother," Chelsea said, looking right at Sam, startling him. She couldn't have seen that just now, but did she know he'd just saved them? She knew about what her brother had done? "I want to see Nathan, now…" she pleaded, face red. "Please."
Oroville Hospital,
Butte County, CA
The pain in his head was maddening, mercilessly thudding through every plate and tissue in his skull, making it feel like it was prying apart at the fissures from the inside. Disoriented, aching for the pain to stop, Nathan found himself waking to the low humming and beeping of machinery.
It was dark in the room, for which he was grateful as his swollen eyes had trouble focusing on what lights were coming from the monitors. Turning his head, weak and trying to figure out his surroundings, Nathan saw someone sitting with him in the dark. Vision blurred, he tried to move his thick tongue to ask who they were.
"Nathan," Jay's voice came, saving him the trouble.
"What happened?" he asked. "Where am I?'
"Oroville," Jay answered, coming closer. "You tried to kill yourself, Nathan."
It was then he remembered, the two "reporters," being knocked back, the gun firing. The gunshot was painfully imprinted in his memory, making the cut along his head burn and pound. He couldn't look at his friend, closing his heavy eyes. He didn't want to know what Jay thought about what he'd tried to do.
"I think I understand why now," Jay continued coldly, all traces of compassion gone from his timbre.
Confused, Nathan tried to understand what it was his friend was saying. "You…understand?"
"'Nother one hit, Nate. This time it was bad. Really bad. Chelsea and Marissa are dead."
Something hard and painful lodged deep in Nathan's throat, heart shattering right there in his chest. "W-what?" he croaked out.
"You killed them, Nathan. You did this, Arashi."
Hot tears pressed from Nathan's eyes as his face contorted in grief, mouth working in incoherent supplication for release from the despair that had dug cruelly into him at those words. "I—oh, God…I never…I was supposed to die, not her…not them…I just wanted it to end…Jay…"
Nathan looked for some sign of forgiveness in Jay's eyes, some kind of freedom from this nightmare, but Jay's eyes weren't Jay's at all. All Nathan could see was cold, black pitch glaring back at him.
"I'll help you end it, Nathan. I'll make the pain go away."
A/N: I know...this was a cruel way to end this part. But a writer's got to do what a writer's got to do. *laugh* Again, many heartfelt thanks to you guys. Re-posting this story here has really been a positive experience and I want to thank you for that. Last part goes up Wednesday. Will Sam and Dean be able to save Nathan? I'm not gonna tell you. ;) You'll have to come back. I'm gonna go curl up with a new outline I'm working on, and grab some hot cocoa on this freezing, Michigan winter night. Been a long day at work, can you tell? Take care, guys!