so this was another tough chapter to write, hope you enjoy...as always please let me know what you think...thanks!!
Chapter Four
So, I'm gonna blow my brains out. A wry smile twisted on Dean's face. Note to self, steer clear of guns. A shiver of relief coursed through Dean's body at the sight of the banshee disappearing. She's real. I knew she was real . . . it isn't all in my mind. Seeing her was the first thing that made any sense.
A banshee . . . a freakin' banshee. Dean let out a short rasping laugh. She'd become his only lifeline. His only link to reality. Huh, how's that for irony.
His father had seen her. Of course he didn't think she was a banshee, but that doesn't matter. All that mattered was he'd seen her, which meant she was real. And if she was real then so were all the other things he remembered. If she's real then this can't be. Can it?
Dean clenched his fists, hating the helpless feeling that something else was controlling his fate. He was the one always in control, always looking out for Sammy. Now he didn't know where Sammy was, or what was happening. And why the hell is something trying to make me think he's dead instead of Dad? It doesn't make any sense unless — Sammy!
His stomach twisted thinking of Sam being all alone. What if something is trying to split us up so it can get to him? He'd been so busy trying to prove to himself he was dreaming, he forgot Sam might be in just as much danger if not more. Sonuvabitch! I've gotta find Sam before something happens to him.
I don't think a banshee has that kind of power. But if not the banshee then who? Some kind of demon? Damn it, Sammy, why aren't you here! I hate doing research. I can't ask Dad. He'll think I've totally cracked up. But someone had to know. Someone who knew as much about demons as his father.
Bobby! Dean grinned. Why didn't I think of him sooner?
Daring a sidelong glance at his father, the smile slid from Dean's face. John rested his elbow against the window frame, fingers gently kneading his forehead, tired eyes trained on the road ahead
Dean turned away to stare out the window, seeing nothing, lost in thought. This isn't fair to him. He did the best he could. Dad may not have always been around, but he always made sure Sam and I could stay together. Always protected us. Hell, he's protected so many people and its cost him everything. Dean scrubbed his open palm across his face, sighing regretfully. It really doesn't matter if it's in my reality or this one, he's still ends up without either of his sons.
"Dean," his father's voice startled him out of his thoughts. "You wanna go inside or would you rather I get us some takeout?"
Dean glanced up at a sign flashing, Arlene's Country Diner, in bold pink neon.
There was a neon sign. Not this one. Where was it? Sam was angry. He left me there. Damn it, why can't I remember?
He squeezed his eyes shut, searing pain ripping through his skull. His chest constricted painfully making it almost impossible to take a full breath. Balled fists pressed to his temples, Dean fought the overwhelming nausea.
John's powerful hand cupped around Dean's neck, calloused fingers gently kneading away the ache. "You okay, dude?"
"She had jade eyes."
His father drew back to stare at him. "Who had jade eyes?"
"I-I don't know."
"Maybe I should call Dr. Gordon."
"No! I don't need any shrink messing with my mind." Something else is already doing a bang up job of that.
"Dean."
There was that sound in his voice again. The uncertainty, the warning. It hurt to see John didn't trust him. Hurt that he watched him relentlessly, a wary, fearful expression on his face whenever he'd thought Dean wasn't looking. It's like he's waiting for me to . . . to what? Slit my wrists again — blow my brains out? God, does he think I am that crazy?
"I said no!" Dean grimaced, shaking his head. "Dad, I don't want to argue with you. You know that." When John scowled in response, Dean added, "I just can't go to a shrink."
Bad enough his Dad thought he was crazy. That he was forced to go against John. Inside he seethed at the idea of something — someone — trying to make him choose. To choose between a life with his Dad, real or imaginary, or a life with Sam. Why does it have to be a choice? Why can't I have it the way it's supposed to be — the three of us?
He'd been around his father long enough to read his expressions, and Dad's stern gaze could only mean he was well beyond angry, heck angry would have been nice compared to what he really was.
"Look, Dad, I'm okay. I'm just tired."
John pursed his lips, and conceded with a curt nod.
He gestured toward the small diner. "So you wanna go in?"
"Naw, I'll wait here."
"All right, I'll be back shortly." John got out of the truck, and headed into the restaurant.
Drumming his fingers on the dashboard, Dean bit at his lower lip, watching as his father flipped open his cell phone and made a call. Damn it. He's calling that shrink anyway. Stroking his lower jaw with his hand, Dean frowned. I ain't goin' to no damn shrink.
Dean slid over to the driver's side, turned the key, the engine roaring. He sped out of the parking lot, leaving his father behind. Sorry, Dad, but I have to find Sam. Without a shadow of a doubt, Dean knew if someone heard him rambling on about banshees and his supposedly dead brother being alive, they'd have him committed. I have to figure this out, and I can't if I'm locked away in some nuthouse.
In the rearview mirror, Dean noticed John running out of the building, waving his arms and yelling something to him. Dean turned the radio up a little louder, Metallica blaring, drowning out the sound of his Dad's voice and also alleviating the stab of guilt eating at him for stealing his father's truck. God, actually feel bad about this. It's not like it's really Dad . . . or his truck. I have nothin' to be sorry for . . . this isn't real.
Dr. Mason? The name came to mind so rapidly, it took Dean a moment to figure out why. Of course! He has to remember Sam and me, after I barged into his house and accused him of bringing his daughter back from the dead.
It took a moment for it to register that he was going in the opposite direction of Dr. Mason's house. Damn it. Grimacing, Dean slowed the truck and did a u-turn, cringing at the thought of having to pass by his father, knowing how pissed he was going to be.
John stood, arms crossed, at the edge of the road, glowering at Dean. Dean sank down in his seat as he gunned the engine and sped on past him. He stifled a short laugh as his father's look of anger turned to one of stunned incredulity. Man, Sammy, you would've loved seeing that.
Pulling up to Dr. Mason's, Dean killed the engine and stared at his house. Dean sighed in relief. The home appeared exactly the same as he'd remembered, two stories, wide staircase fanning outward, white double columnstwo windows flanking the door.
Dean got out of the truck. Taking the steps two at a time, he reached the landing and then tentatively knocked on the door and waited. He heard scuffling feet as someone crossed the hardwood floor inside, and then the door opened. He swallowed hard, biting back the laughter escaping from his lips when he saw thelook of shocked horror on Dr. Mason's face. Oh yeah, he remembers me.
Dr. Mason tried to slam the door shut, but Dean stuck out his arm and held onto to it firmly.
A short, balding man glared at him. "If you don't leave now, I'll call the police."
"Look, sir, I just want to talk," Dean said, forcing a fake smile and trying to take on the tone Sam used to charm people. Damn, Sammy, you always make this look so easy. "It'll only take a moment of your time."
The older man hesitated, a slight tick in his jaw, hand visibly trembling. He opened the door wider, and stood firmly in front of it, arms crossed, barring entrance. "What do you want?"
Now that Dean had the man's attention, he didn't know what to say. Anything I say is gonna come off sounding completely crazy. "Do you remember the last time I was here?" It sounded ridiculous even to Dean's ears, and the incredulous look on Dr. Mason's face, spoke volumes. Obviously, the man remembered him. "I mean when my brother and I came to see you after your daughter died."
Dr. Mason's brows furrowed, brown eyes staring intently at Dean. "Look, you've upset my family enough as it is and I'm not going to stand here and go through this with you again."
"Please, I just need to know if you remember my brother coming here with me?"
The doctor let out a deep exasperated sigh. "No, you were alone. Alone and talking to yourself. Okay? Can I go back inside now?"
Dean felt as if the doctor had just punched him squarely in the gut and for an old man he packed quite a wallop. "That's not possible," he choked out, trying to catch his breath, his lungs burning with the effort. "You're lying. Sam was here with me."
"You need serious help, son." At the sound of footfalls coming down the stairs, Dr. Mason grew more agitated, his nervous gaze shifting from Dean to whoever was on the stairs and back again. "You have to go. And tell your father, next time I won't hesitate having you — "
"Dad, who's at the — " the girl's voice stopped mid-sentence as she came to the door, her face blanching. Soft, pale skin stood in sharp contrast to her dark wavy hair and enigmatic eyes. "Wh-what's he doing here?"
Dean took a back step, bracing against the railing. Angela? No, that's not possible . . . she's dead. I staked her through the heart myself. Dean gestured toward her, hand trembling. "You — you died. You were in a car accident and you died. I'm sure of it."
"Enough!" Dr. Mason bellowed, wrapping his arm protectively around his daughter. "I'm calling the police."
Dean shot forward, gripping the doctor's shirt. "What the hell did you do? Some sort of demonic ritual to bring her back? I staked her to her coffin once I can do it again!"
"You're out of your mind! Angela, call the cops." Dr. Mason's voice rose dramatically as Dean slammed him into the door. "Now, Angela!"
Angela slipped from her father's grasp and ran to the phone on the long table in the foyer and quickly dialed. "This is Angela Mason. The man who's been stalking me is back and is threatening my father . . . yeah, that's the address . . . yes, I'll stay on the line . . . please hurry!"
Still holding the phone to her ear, Angela rushed to her father's side. "Leave him alone . . . he hasn't done anything to you."
Damn it, what the hell am I doing? Dean stared into their terrified faces, his breath catching in his throat as he forced trembling hands to release the older man. "I'm . . . I didn't. . . ."
The distant sound of sirens quickly silenced Dean. Dean rushed down the steps, struggling to catch his breath beneath the crushing pressure weighing upon him. He leapt into the truck, revving the engine, he peeled out, tires squealing, the scent of burnt rubber filling the air. Dean sped away, tires screeching in protest as he skidded around a turn on two wheels and then blew through a stop sign, scattering several college students crossing the road. He raced out of town and headed toward the cemetery.
"Dean, slow down. You're gonna get us killed driving this fast."
At the sound of Sam's voice, Dean slammed on the brakes, jerking the truck to the side of the road, coming to a grinding halt in front of the cemetery.
Clenching the wheel in a white-knuckled grip, Dean cast a sidelong glance at the passenger's side. Sam sat staring at him, brows tightly drawn together, a scowl on his face.
Dean blinked hard, hoping the image of his brother would disappear. This isn't happening. He isn't here. I know he isn't here. When he opened his eyes, Sammy was still there, shaking his head at him and watching him worriedly. Dean raked his fingers through his hair in utter frustration.
Thrusting the door open, Dean lunged out of the truck. Sam followed close on his heels. Dean held up a hand to stop him. "You get away from me!"
"What the hell's wrong with you, Dean? What did I do?"
The profoundly pained look in his hazel eyes was so like Sammy's Dean was forced to do a double-take. If the eyes were truly the windows of the soul then this was definitely his brother. Everything that was clearly Sam was written in those soft, mournful orbs. But it can't be . . . he isn't here . . . this is just some freak-ass nightmare.
Dean turned, and thrust out his arm, pointing for Sam to leave. "Just go away! You're not real — you're can't be! Something is just messing with my mind!"
"Dude, you're scarin' me." Sam edged closer. "What's wrong?" He swung Dean around to face him. "Why won't you let me help you?"
Why won't you let me help you? Graveyard, banshee, impending death . . . just stop me when any of this stuff starts ringing a bell?
Dean glanced around at the cemetery and then at Sam, pinching the bridge of his nose as an intolerable pressure built inside his head. Everything is blurring together . . . I couldn't have made it all up — I just couldn't have.
Dean drew in a shallow breath, coughing with the effort. "Sam, what were we doing yesterday?"
Cocking a brow, Sam cast a quizzical look. "What do you mean?"
"Yesterday . . . where were we?"
"We were headed to South Carolina, and then for some reason you turned around and came here."
Shaking his head, Dean muttered, "Why the hell would I do that?"
"I don't know, Dean." Sam shrugged. "You haven't spoken two words to me until now."
This makes no sense. "Do you remember Angela Mason?"
Sam smirked. "Yeah, how could I forget. Full on zombie action. She broke my hand . . . remember?"
Yeah, she did, didn't she? Dean stared at him for a moment, nodded, and then stalked away, heading toward Angela's grave.
Gale winds gusted through the trees, bent branches dipping low to the ground as ominous storm clouds swept in, a gloom spreading through the stillness of the cemetery. In the distance, Dean could hear the low rumble of thunder. By the time he reached the spot where Angela should have been buried, the first sprinklings of what promised to be one helluva storm, issued forth. This day couldn't get any better, could it?
Dean pivoted, taking everything in. His mother's grave. Sam's grave. Numerous other grave markers, trees, bushes, flowering shrubs, but no gravestone for Angela Mason. It was right here. He jabbed his finger toward the ground. Sam saw it. He knows I'm not making this up.
"Sammy!" Dean hollered. When Sam didn't respond, he yelled louder. "Damn it, Sam, answer me!"
No response.
Dean sprinted through the pouring rain, feet sloshing in the rapidly forming puddles, mud caking on his pants, as he searched frantically for his brother. He reached the truck. No Sam. With aching slowness, Dean circled the vehicle, aching with the certainty clutching at his heart. Sam wasn't there.
I knew he wasn't real.
Dean dropped to his knees, clutching his chest, eyelids closed, rainwater streaming down his face.
"Come and get me, damn it!" he cried out to the banshee. "I know you're here! You're real," he sobbed brokenly.
He doubled over, praying she would heed his call, praying he could just let go of this strange new reality and follow her cry and find some peace at long last.