So, this chapter was kind of hard to write...hopefully I managed to make it believable...let me know what you think.
Spoilers: In My Time of Dying and Children Shouldn't Play With Dead Things
Chapter Three
You said you'd protect me — watch out for me — you lied! You should be dead instead of me!
"Sammy!" Dean screamed, bolting upright in his bed. The covers were thrown to the floor in a heap as he leapt to his feet wild-eyed gaze searching frantically for Sam. Tangled sheets lay in a crumpled heap on Sam's bed, the pillow tossed carelessly to the floor. Dean let out a sigh of relief. It was just another dream.
The motel room lay shadowed in darkness, a small shaft of light coming from beneath the bathroom door. Dean could hear the steady rhythm of the shower running. There he is. Sammy's okay. His heartbeat slowed its erratic pace as Dean sat on the edge of the bed and glanced at the clock. 5:17 a.m. Sammy must've had another nightmare.
Cold sweat trickled down his back, the hairs on the nape of his neck standing on end. Dean clutched his chest, a burning pressure constricting his ability to draw a deep breath. He shivered. Rubbing tired eyes with the palms of his hands, he tried to shake the feeling this dream had somehow been different from the others. I shouldn't have gone to sleep . . . should've stayed awake.
I need to see him. Just to be sure. Dean crossed the small expanse, stood at the door for a moment, trembling hand resting on the handle. He looked at Sam's bed, running his hand along the length of his face. If I barge in there, he's so gonna think I've gone mental.
Knocking on the door, Dean waited. When Sam didn't immediately respond, Dean rapped harder, his heart skipping a beat. "Sam, you okay?"
"I'll be out in a sec," came a muffled reply.
Dean let out a pent breath, about to turn, the door creaked open, light streaming out casting long shadows. "Must've been a pretty bad one — " His voice caught in his throat, mouth suddenly dry as desert sand.
"Y-you're not real." He took a step backward. "You died."
"Dean, can we not do this again today . . . not today."
Dean blinked hard. Wake up, Dean. You're still dreaming. When he opened his eyes, his father was staring at him, dark eyes narrowed, concern clearly etched on his usually stoic features.
"Where's Sammy?" Dean's voice rose in panic as he searched the room for any sign of his brother. "I wanna see him now! Where is he?"
His father took a tentative step toward him, arm outstretched.
"No." He held up a hand in warning. "You stay away from me." Dean retreated as John continued to advance in slow measured steps. Dean's gaze darted from his Dad to the pillow, and the knife concealed beneath. Before his father could reach him, Dean lunged onto the mattress, threw the pillow away, grabbing for the blade. Where the hell is it? It's always here.
"It's gone."
Dean whipped around to face him, eyes accusatory. "Where the hell's my knife?"
John stared at Dean, the muscle in his cheek twitching. He shoved his fists in the pockets of his blue jeans. "It hasn't been there since. . . ." He turned away from Dean, went to the dresser and retrieved his watch and silver ring. "It isn't there anymore. You know that."
Dean vaulted off the bed, stormed over to his father, grabbed him by the shirt and swung him around. "Since when?" John refused to meet his steely gaze. "I want my knife! And Sammy! Now!"
John yanked free of Dean's grasp. "Easy, dude, I told you last night, we'd go an' see him today."
Dean shook his head emphatically. "You're lying. I wasn't here last night. I was with Sam. We were. . . ." his voice trailed off as he tried desperately to recall what he and Sam had been doing the night before.
John brushed past Dean, sat, elbows on knees, on the small couch near the window, and sighed deeply. "You were with me all night, Dean."
Eyes mere slits, Dean swung to face his father, shaking his finger. "No! No, I would've remembered that." Stalking back and forth, he scrubbed his face with open palms. "I was with Sam. There was a woman . . . at least I think there was . . . I-I promised I wouldn't die in the bathroom." Squeezing his eyes shut, Dean's fingers curled tightly around his hair. This isn't real. He isn't real.
"You're not making any sense, Dean. Have you taken your medicine yet?"
Dean rounded on him, eyes narrowing in suspicion. "My what?"
"Your medication." John gestured toward several small orange bottles on the bedside table that until now, Dean hadn't noticed. "Dr. Gordon warned there would be setbacks if you didn't take them."
"Dr. Gordon? Setbacks? What the hell are you talkin' about? I'm not takin' any damn medicine."
John was on his feet in a shot, stalking to Dean. He grabbed Dean's hands, twisted them so his palms were upright. "I won't let you do this to yourself again. You will take your medicine even if I have to force it down your throat."
Dean stared at his wrists. Long, raised, scars ran vertically over his veins. The color drained from his face, beads of sweat forming on his forehead. His knees buckled. John caught him before he fell, hooked a strong arm around his waist and guided him to a chair.
Dean traced one of the marks with his fingertips, breathing hard, the pressure in his chest increasing. I remember these — why the hell do I remember having these?
John went into the bathroom, returning with a cup of water. Stopping at the table, he picked up bottle after bottle until he'd found the one he was searching for, and gave it to Dean.
"Here, take this," John ordered, in an authoritative tone Dean had never been able to refuse.
Dean took the bottle and read the label. "Haloperidol. What's this for?"
"It will help keep things straight in your mind."
Dean glanced from his father to the Haloperidol and then his gaze fixed firmly on John, an angry scowl twisting on his lips. His fingers tightened around the bottle. I don't need to keep things straight in my mind. This isn't real.
"No!" He whipped the bottle at the wall, it slammed into a mirror, which shattered, pieces of broken glass falling to land soundlessly on the carpeting. Dean stared at the shards of reflective glassand then down at his fist. He rubbed his knuckles pensively. The mirror . . . I broke the mirror. Sam was there. Where were we?
"I know what's real and this isn't it — you're not real."
"If you do, tell me where your brother is?" John challenged, lips a tight line against his teeth, his brows pulled together in anger.
"I-I'm not sure," Dean reluctantly admitted.
His father's features softened as did his tone. "You really don't remember, do you?"
"I said I don't . . . but I will find him. You can't stop me — I won't let you."
John stared at him, a deep frown creasing his brow. He grabbed his keys off the table. "Get dressed. I'll take you to see Sam." Marching to the door, John glanced at Dean, opened his mouth, as if he was about to say something then turned and left, slamming the door behind him.
Dean walked to the broken glass, bent and picked up a piece, staring long and hard at it.
An image of pale gray-blue eyes came into focus. You're going to die, Dean — you can't stop it from happening. The sound of shattering glassand a door creaking. Sam . . . Sam asking me to let him help.
Running his finger along the sharp edge, he felt the cold sting as the glass sliced through his index finger, blood dripped onto the floor. Blood . . . Blood splattered everywhere.
None of this makes any sense. It's like trying to remember a dream. In aggravation, Dean threw the shard back to the floor and hurried to get dressed.
Closing the door behind him, Dean instinctively glanced around the half-empty parking lot, before starting toward his father. John leaned against his truck, head lowered, toying with his silver ring. The early morning sunlight glistened off the vehicle's polished black exterior. Dean scanned the parking lot, looking for the Impala, frowning when he couldn't find it.
"Where's my car?"
His father glanced up, a sad, weary expression on his face. "Get in the truck, Dean."
"Not until you tell me where the Impala is."
"It's at Bobby's." John got into the truck without saying another word.
Dean's gaze swept the parking lot once more then settled on his father. Why the hell is my car at Bobby's? And why does he seem so real? Everything about him is damn near perfect.
"No," he muttered under his breath. "This can't be real." But it feels so damn real. "Something is messing with my mind. But what?"
Honking the horn, John motioned for Dean to get in. Dean stood for another moment, undecided. If I go with him, does it mean I'm accepting this? He turned and glanced at the motel, not actually seeing it, but beyond it to the medication on the table.
It will help keep things straight in your mind.
He peered down at his wrists, searching for the memory of how they occurred. Pain, so desolate and so profound bubbled to the surface. Slamming his eyes shut, horrifying visions flashed through Dean's mind. Dean dropped to his knees, doubled over, arms wrapping tightly around his stomach.
"Do it," a voice whispered in his ear.
Outside, someone was pounding on the door, calling to him. Dean slid down the wall, coming to rest on the cold tile floor, a straight-edge razor in his left hand.
"Do it," came the voice again, this time from inside his head. "You owe him that much. He died because of you.
"No, I — "
"It's the only way you'll be forgiven, Dean."
Dean struggled to fight against the voice in his mind, but he was too tired, too lost. It hurt way too much. His heart ached with a longing he couldn't escape. And the nightmare never ended. It never would. He wanted it to be over. More than anything he needed to be forgiven.
He bit down hard, a cry escaping his lips as the blade sliced vertically through his flesh, blood spurting, quickly covering the floor. His fingers tingled, a numbness making it difficult to cut into his left wrist.
The bathroom door slammed open, his father towering over him, an expression of shocked horror on his face.
"Oh, God, Dean. What the hell did you do?" Grabbing two towels, John quickly wrapped them around Dean's wrists, blood soaking through. He flipped open his cell and dialed 911, his voice growing fainter as Dean rapidly lost his will to stay awake.
Dean's vision blurred as he stared at his father. "I-I'm sorry. Needed it to end. . . ."
"Dean! Dean — answer me!" John stood beside him, hauling him to his feet.
"I needed it to end . . . needed him to know I was sorry," Dean mumbled vacantly as he rubbed his wrist.
"It's all right." His father nodded in understanding, placing a protective arm around Dean's shoulder. "He forgives you." He helped Dean into the truck then went around and got in.
John was quiet as they drove, for which Dean was thankful.Dean glanced sideways, noted his Dad's tightly clenched jaw and deep brooding gaze. No wonder he thinks I should be medicated. Why would've I done that to myself? Dean leaned against the window, staring out, trying to erase the images from his mind. His lungs burned as he drew in shallow breathes.
The steady motion of the truck finally lulled him into a fitful sleep. Deep jade eyes mocked him, taunting from somewhere just beyond reach. A dark veil hid Sam from view but he could hear him calling, begging Dean to let him help. Sammy, where are you?
Dean awoke with a start, his father nudging him awake. He rubbed his eyelids with his thumb and index finger to clear his vision.
"We're here, Dean."
Staring at row after row of grave markers, Dean shook his head, stomach clenching. "Sam's not here."
"He's buried next to your mother." John got out of the truck, walked around to Dean's side and opened the door, a resigned look on his face. "He died a year ago today." He let out a deep shuddering breath and continued, "You need to make peace with his death or you'll never get better."
Sam can't be dead. I would feel it if he was.
"He's not dead!" Dean receded toward the driver's side, unspent tears glistening in his eyes. "You died, not him."
John closed his eyes and turned away. "I realize you wish it was me . . . wish it were you, but it doesn't change things."
"I'll prove to you, he isn't dead." Dean leapt from the truck dodged past his father and ran to his mother's grave. The sight of two grave markers stopped him dead in his tracks.
Sam Winchester
Beloved son and brother
1983-2006
"No." Dean edged his way to the grave, dropped to his knees, clenching his fist, unshed tears stinging his eyes. "This can't be real."
"He died the night we were in the car accident," came his father's strained voice. "The police said they found his body in the woods nearby."
"I-I don't understand." Dean peered up at his father, his vision blurring with tears.
"The demon got him, Dean. The Colt and the last bullet were gone . . . Sam's skin stripped clean from his body."
"That's not how it happened." Dean's anguished gaze strayed to the gravestone. "He — he was fine. I almost died — you made a deal to save me. You died, not him."
John rested his hand on Dean's shoulder. "I wish that were true, but it's not."
Dean glanced around trying to grasp at anything he could to make it not true. To make his brother be alive . . . alive and here . . . with him. He spied a tree. The last time he'd seen it, it was dead and so was the ground surrounding it. Now it flourished, green leaves blowing in the breeze.
Angela Mason. I was here with Sam after Dad died.
Crawling to his mother's grave, Dean dug frantically at the ground with his fingers, mud caking under his nails. He buried it here somewhere. It has to be here.
"What are you doing?" His father's voice was tinged with concern. Dean saw the panic in his Dad's eyes before he had a chance to conceal it.
"Sam and I were here after . . . I didn't want to come. He said it seemed like the right thing to do." Dean drew a deep breath, coughing with the strain it put on his aching lungs. "I waited right there." He gestured toward the tree, biting at his lower lip. "He — he buried your dog tags. Thought she should have them."
John reached beneath his shirt and pulled out a chain, sunlight reflecting off the silver. "You mean these?"
A hard lump formed in Dean's throat as he stared at the tags. "No — I saw him." Dean leaned against his mother's gravestone, rubbing his forehead, trying in vain to figure out how his father got the dog tags back if Sam buried them. "I know I did. We were here and Sammy buried them."
John peered down at his chain then up at Dean. His pensive expression and chilly silence spoke volumes.
"Something — some sort of demon is doing this to me. I'm not crazy. I'm not . . . You have to believe me."
His father was quiet for a long time, a frown on his face. "I believe you miss your brother, Dean. Miss him so much that you've created a whole world just for you and him. But it isn't real and it's killing you. I can't allow it to happen." He turned and slowly walked away, calling over his shoulder, "I don't want to have to send you back to the asylum, but if you don't snap out of this I'll have no choice."
Dean scrabbled to his feet, his brow furrowing in anger. A mental institution? He had me locked up in a funny farm? He hurried and caught up to his father. Grabbing him by the shirt, he forced John to face him. "What do you mean, no choice?"
John took a calming breath. "Dr. Gordon seems to think your psychosis is getting worse. Your breaks from reality are steadily increasing and he's afraid you'll harm yourself again."
"And what do you think?"
His father was as close to crying as he'd ever seen him. Tears welled in the corners of his eyes. He shrugged. "I don't know." John swallowed hard, drawing in a staggering breath. "I just wish I had my son back — both of them."
He wasn't sure if this was John or not. How could he be sure of anything now? But real or not, Dean didn't mean to hurt his father. He still loved and needed him. And it killed Dean, to see his normally strong father so close to losing it. "M'okay Dad," he lied.
"You're sure?"
"Yeah." Dean forced a smile for his Dad's benefit.
"All right." John clapped him on the shoulder and gestured toward the truck. "Let's go get somethin' to eat."
As if in response to his father's question, Dean's stomach growled and he realized he hadn't eaten since early in the afternoon the day before. Dean nodded, the thought of food and good strong coffee sounding delicious.
He glanced at Sam's grave. I'll figure this out, Sammy. You can't be dead. I won't let you be dead.
He followed his father to the truck, got in, closed the door, all-the-while thinking of what kind of demon could alter his reality. There has to be one. It's the only answer. Damn, Sammy, I need you and your stupid computer now.
John started the engine, put the truck in gear and drove toward the cemetery entrance, Dean staring obliviously out the window. Endless rows of meaningless stone passed without note and Dean felt only numbing unreality . . . Broken in a single moment at the sight of a girl with curling copper tresses kneeling beside a grave. He couldn't see her face but knew she was weeping, could hear her wailing sobs in his mind.
They're all dead you know . . . And so are you, Dean. So are you . . . you just don't know it yet.
A banshee!
"Stop!" Dean ordered, opened the door and lunged out before his father had a chance to react.
Dean rushed to the banshee, grabbed her arm and hauled her to her feet. Frightened blue-gray eyes met his angry green-eyed glare. "You're doing this to me! Make it stop, or I swear to God I'll rip you apart limb by limb!"
"I — you're hurting me," she cried. "Let go of my arm." The girl tried to wriggle free, but Dean tightened his hold.
"Where's Sammy! Give him back to me now!"
"I don't have any idea what you're talking about." She pounded his chest with her fist, digging her nails into his flesh when she couldn't escape.
"You said I was going to die — how am I going to die? Tell me!"
"Dean!" Flinging Dean brusquely aside, John threw his arms protectively around the frightened girl.
"She's a banshee, Dad! Sam and I saw her in a graveyard last night."
John swung to look at her. Her body trembled with fear, glistening tears streamed down her flushed cheeks. He glared at Dean, a tight-lipped scowl on his face. "She's just a girl, Dean. Just a terrified girl. She's not a banshee."
"No, she told me I was gonna die." Dean ducked under his father's arm and grasped hold of her again, shaking her forcefully. "Tell him!"
"Leave me alone, please," she begged, wide eyes pleading with John. "Make him stop!"
"Dean, release her!" his father ordered in his stern hunter's tone.
Jerking his hands away, Dean stared into her eyes, his chest heaving with the exertion of each breath. "I need to know how I'm gonna die. She knows! She knows Sam is still alive."
John pointed to the truck. "Go wait in the truck, Dean."
"But — "
"I don't want to hear it. Just get in the truck, I'll be right there."
Dean glared at his father for a moment then stormed away, hating the sound of John's voice apologizing to the banshee. Making excuses to the monster who'd warned of his death. How the hell can he be making excuses to that bitch. It's just not right.
"I'm so sorry, Miss. Dean . . . well, Dean hasn't been well since his brother died."
"I-I understand." She sniffled. "It's really hard to lose someone you love."
"He didn't hurt you, did he?"
"No, I'm fine."
"You're sure?"
"Yeah."
John marched to the truck. "Get in!"
Dean reluctantly complied. There's no sense arguing with him when he's this angry.
His father brusquely raked his fingers through his short dark hair. "Damn it, Dean! You could've hurt her."
"No, Dad, I could've killed her . . . would've killed her if you hadn't stopped me. She's a ban— "
John silenced him with a sharp gesture. "I don't want to hear it." He put the truck in gear, roared the engine and peeled out, kicking up dust.
Dean glanced back at the banshee. I don't care what he thinks. I know what she is.
The banshee stared at him, holding his gaze. She pointed two fingers at her temple and jerked her thumb down. A sad smile graced her porcelain face, then she disappeared in a wisp of black smoke.