so another fun filled chapter torturing poor Dean's mind!! hope everyone enjoys!! let me know what you think!! thanks for reading!! bambers;)

Chapter Five

Dean lay hunched on the ground, unaware of the passage of time or the water pooling around him, clothes drenched, face smeared with mud, waiting, hoping, praying for — for what? Sam? My sanity? Death? Anything is preferable to this.

Sammy's not coming. If he's even alive. Slowly, Dean dragged himself to his feet and trudged around the truck, head hung low, every jarring step wracking his body with excruciating pain. He got in and sat staring out as heavy rain pelted the window. How could've I made it all up?

He looked down at his wrists, felt the raised scars. If this isn't real, why do I remember doing this? Remember the pain I felt . . . the loss?

Folding his arms over the steering wheel, Dean leaned forward and rested his head against them, his eyes stinging with unspent tears. Did you really die that night, Sammy? Did I make this all up . . . all of it?

Head still cradled in his arms, Dean turned slightly to glance out the side window, trees and the drizzling rain impeding his view. It was raining that day . . . raining like it is now. Dad, Bobby and I were the only ones there besides the priest. I remember smelling roses . . . white roses were covering his coffin — Oh God, why did I remember that now?

Dean shook his head, brows furrowed. He grimaced, swallowing hard against the pain constricting his throat. "You can't be dead, Sammy." He swallowed again, fighting the tears. "But if you're not dead, why does it hurt so damn much? Why does it ache to even breathe?"

Dean reached into his father's glove compartment and pulled out a .45 his Dad kept stashed there. He palmed the gun in his shaky hand, staring at it, but not really seeing it, a wave of inexorable pain blurring his vision. A feeling of anguish so profound and so deep, it seared his soul, burning with a desire to be released.

"Sammy . . . dude, you have to give me some sort of sign that you're alive . . . something — anything! I can't take losin my mind . . . I'll fight off any demon if it means you're alive and safe."

As if in answer to his plea, he heard Sam's clear voice whispering in his thoughts as certainly as if he were at his side. "Hold on, Dean, I'm gonna find you . . . gonna save you . . . so don't you dare die on me!"

"Sammy."

"You have to trust me, Dean. You have to hold on."

Dean rolled down the window and threw the gun out into the driving rain. "Ha . . . take that you crazy, banshee bitch!" He rolled the window up, a wry smile twisting on his face as he thought about his father. "Damn, Dad is so gonna kick my ass for throwing away one of his guns."

Dean turned the key in the ignition, his eyes glistening with renewed determination. He's alive . . . he has to be. Alive and searching for me — God, please let that be true. Shifting into gear, Dean pulled out onto the road and headed toward Bobby's.

Night yielded to day, and Dean continued without pause, eating up the miles to Bobby's place. Sunlight filtered through the window, warming the truck, but Dean shivered, his damp clothes clinging to him.

Unfamiliar memories flashed into his mind. Memories he was almost certain had never occurred, but felt real nonetheless. He remembered more about the day they'd buried Sammy. Dean had worn his black 'Blues Brothers' suit and Sam had been buried in his, although with the closed coffin service, Sam could've just as easily been wearing a flannel shirt and jeans. A grim line formed on his lips as Dean thought of how few people had turned out for the service itself. You deserved much better than that, Sammy . . . What the hell am I talking about? You didn't die.

Dean shuddered involuntarily, recalling the pain and isolation he'd felt being locked away in the asylum. His stomach clenching with fear and loneliness as he'd sat in a padded cell with a straightjacket restricting his movements. The nights had been the worst part . . . alone in the darkness where nightmares crept into his mind, never allowing him any peace or rest.

These memories aren't real . . . I'm not crazy . . . I'm not. None of this stuff ever happened. I just have to remember that. It's not real. Only he wasn't so sure now. It was getting harder and harder to deny what was right in front of him. His father, the scars, the memories, Sammy's grave. How can I refute all those things? I can't. God, Bobby you better have a good answer for me.

By the time Dean pulled into Bobby's salvage yard, the sun was dipping well into the western sky. Sunlight flickered off shattered windshields casting prismatic beams of light across the dry dirt. A veritable maze of twisted metal wreckage cluttered the ground.

Dean got out of the truck. Squinting, he scanned the junkyard for any sign of the Impala. Not finding it, his gaze settled on Bobby who'd come out of his house the moment Dean had slammed the door shut.

Bobby stood leaning against the door frame, stroking his beard and staring at Dean. "Yer Dad's been lookin' for you. Said you stole that." He gestured toward the truck and laughed. "And so you have. Ol' John must've been so pissed. Would've paid good money to see the look on his face."

Dean glanced at the truck and then at Bobby. "How ya been, Bobby?"

"Doin' okay." Bobby removed his baseball cap and swiped his hand across his forehead, his stern hunter's gaze leveled on Dean. "But you didn't come all this way to find out how I'm doin', and I won't ask how you're doin' cause you look like shit." He motioned toward Dean's clothes. "What, did ya start takin' up bathin' in mud now?"

Dean looked down at his mud-caked clothing with a grin, and shrugged as he met Bobby's eyes. "Somethin' like that."

He turned and searched for his car again amongst the rubble. "Came to get the Impala and to ask for your help in finding a demon."

Bobby lowered his head, shoving his fists into his pockets. "Thought that might be the case." With a slight nod in the direction of his house, he motioned for Dean to follow him inside.

Bobby's house hadn't changed at all since the last time Dean had been there. Books and papers still lay strewn all over the entire living room, covering the tables, chairs and the floor. The scent of stale smoke lingered in the cramped room even though Dean was certain there hadn't been a fire in the fireplace in a long time.

"Here." Bobby pushed a cup of coffee into Dean's hand. "Looks as though you could you use this." Bobby went and sat on the beat up looking couch, beneath a window, tossing aside books and papers to make room.

"Still lacing it with holy water?" Dean smiled briefly.

"Naturally. Can't be too careful."

Dean stared at the cup of steaming liquid, then gulped down half the coffee in one long swallow. His empty stomach churned in protest and he felt as if he were going to throw up.

One sip to poison the mind.

I drank something? It made me sick. What was it?

"Bobby, is there any demon who can alter how you perceive reality?"

Bobby swiped his open palm across his beard, not looking the least bit surprised by the question, if anything it appeared he'd expected it. "Dean . . . we've already gone through this several times."

Dean scowled. "Humor me. Act as if this is the first time I've heard it, okay?"

The old hunter regarded Dean thoughtfully for a moment then nodded. "Yeah, to some extent, all demons can alter their victim's sense of reality. But there would be glitches, easily detectable personality flaws."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, demons can't understand the concept of loving and caring for people, it's just not in their nature. So in any reality they create there would only be darkness."

Dean sank down onto a cushioned chair, feeling as if his knees would buckle at any moment. Dad, might've been pissed as all hell at me, but I could see the love and concern in his eyes. He's done everything to try and protect me from pain, and all I've done, is continually hurt him for it.

"Bobby?"

"Yeah?"

Clearing his throat, Dean bit at his lower lip, not sure if he wanted to know the answer to question he was about to ask. "How many times have I come here and asked you this?"

Bobby shrugged. "If yer includin' today, it's been five times."

"Five times," Dean choked out the words, breathing hard, feeling as if he were suffocating. "And you think I'm crazy too, don't you?"

"I think you miss your brother, Dean, and I'm sorry for what happened to him . . . and you."

Dean coughed, trying to clear his throat, the smoke-tainted air in the room weighing heavily on his aching lungs. "Where's the Impala?" He stood abruptly, needing to leave the house before he passed out from lack of oxygen.

"Dean." Bobby stood as well, concern etched in his dark eyes.

"Where is it?"

"I think you should wait for yer father to get here."

"Bobby!" Dean growled. "I want to see my car!"

Bobby nodded, shrugging, he jerked his thumb toward the back of the house. "It's out behind the house, just the way you left it."

Without waiting, Dean stormed out the front door, slamming it shut. Long purposeful strides carried him quickly around to the backyard. He stopped short, his breath catching in his throat.

I fixed it . . . I know I fixed it, after Dad —

Dean stared at the passenger's side, grimacing at the crushed-in framework, black paint chipped and covered with road dust, windows smashed. Dried patches of blood darkened the black leather upholstery where his father had sat and in the backseat where Dean had been laying. He trudged to the other side, his stomach twisting as he saw the door where Sam had been driving ripped from the hinges and laying in a crumpled heap on the ground beside the Impala.

Sammy.

On Sam's seat, amidst the dried blood from the injuries caused by the car accident, a fragile wisp of dark brown hair caught Dean's attention. With wistful attentiveness, he grasped the tuft of hair, kneading it between his fingers, tears brimming in his eyes.

Oh God, Sammy, I'm so sorry. I should've protected you.

"Dean," Bobby called to him, edging closer.

Dean held up his arm. "Get the hell away from me."

Bobby retreated a step. "I called John, he'll be here shortly. He's bringing Dr. Gordon with him."

"I don't need Doctor Gordon, Bobby. I just need this to make sense. Why can't I make it make sense?"

"Because you don't want it to make sense, Dean." Jade eyes taunted him, a soft voice murmuring in his mind. "Don't want to remember what really happened that night. How Sam really died."

"He didn't die!"

"Oh, yes he did. You were conscious. You saw the whole thing."

"No! I didn't!" Dean snatched a crowbar off the hood of another car, gripping it tightly in both hands. "Where the hell are you, damn it! Come out and face me, bitch!"

"Dean, what's the matter with you?" Bobby yelled, concern evident in his voice.

He rounded on Bobby. "Don't you hear her?"

Bobby shook his head.

"He had the Colt . . . you remember. He threatened the demon with it."

His green-eyed gaze narrowed on Bobby. "You can't tell me you didn't hear that, Bobby?"

Frowning, Bobby shook his head worriedly, reaching for his cell phone. "I'm gonna call John and tell him to hurry."

"I don't need you to call my Dad, I need you to believe me — I'm not crazy! I'm not! She's some sort of demon!"

"I'm right here, Dean."

Dean swung around and slammed the crowbar into the front windshield of the Impala shattering the glass.

"Stop it, Dean. . . . " Bobby's voice was drowned out as the feminine voice grew louder.

"The demon used you to get to him. You must remember the pain as it tore at your insides."

Dean clutched his chest, struggling to breathe, his lungs on fire. "No, that's not how it happened."

"It was killing you, Dean. The demon told Sam if he didn't give it the Colt, it would rip your heart out through your chest," the voice came again from behind him.

Twisting, Dean struck out, the crowbar colliding with nothing but air. "Show yourself, you stupid bitch!"

"You begged Sam not to listen . . . screaming in agony as blood streamed down your chest."

Whirling back and facing the Impala, the memory of that night came crashing down around Dean.

"Don't you do it, Sammy! Don't you give that sonuvabitch the Colt," Dean screamed, clutching at the back of the car seat, tasting blood on his lips.

Illuminated in the headlights' glow, the demon raised a clawed hand, torturing Dean with its demonic power, his heart constricting against the building pressure.

"Dean, its killing you!" Sam's hold on the Colt slackened as Dean cried out in agony. "I can't let it kill you!"

"Shoot the bastard! Do it, Sam!"

Sam raised the gun and leveled it on the demon, finger on the trigger.

"Shoot me and your precious brother dies too," the demon taunted, laughing.

"Sammy!"

"I'm sorry, Dean." Sam cast him a sidelong glance, before returning his attention to the demon. "Release him first and I'll give you the Colt."

A wicked smile crossed the demon's face. "Done."

"Sammy! No!" Dean growled through clenched teeth, the waves of excruciating pain decreased as the demon released the viselike grip on his chest.

The demon ripped the Colt from Sam's grasp then seized Sam by the hair and yanked him from the car.

"I said I'd let your brother go, I didn't say anything about you." The demon slammed its fist into Sam's face sending him sprawling into the Impala.

The demon hauled him to his feet, Sam squirming trying desperately to break free, to no avail.

"Dean . . . !"

Dean pushed open the door, trying to stand, his legs shaking with the effort, the world shifting precariously in and out of focus. He'd taken several unsteady steps before the demon finally realized he was out of the car.

The demon raised its arm and waved it, sending Dean crashing into the car, his head striking the unforgiving steel.

"Sammy."

White sparks danced in front of his eyes and then he was swallowed up in darkness.

"It was your fault, Dean. He died because of you. You know it's true. It's your fault he's dead."

"No!" Dean struck out at the jade green eyes, slamming the crowbar into the Impala repeatedly, the sound of the blows striking metal echoing hollowly. "He's not dead!" He smashed the back window, shattered glass flying through the air. "He's not dead!"

"He is. He died begging for you to save him. He tried to save you. Why didn't you save him, Dean?"

"Sammy's alive! I know he is!" He raised the heavy tool and bashed it into the car again, metal creasing and buckling with the ferocity of his wrath.

"Dean!"

Whipping around, Dean lashed out at the sound, the crowbar connecting with something solid.

Dark eyes stared disbelievingly into Dean's stormy green one. His father's strong hands shook as they draped on either side of Dean's neck. John winced. Losing his balance, he fell into Dean's arms.

"Dean." His father's knees buckled as blood dripped down onto his collar.

"Dad?" Dean's trembling fingers touched the side of his fathers's head, pulling them away covered with blood. "Oh, God, Dad! I'm so sorry . . . I didn't — I didn't . . . Oh God, help me!"

John's eyelids fluttered briefly then closed, his body going slack in Dean's arms.