Unseen, unheard

Chapter 9

With Eleanor's disappointed face floating cruelly in his mind's eye, and his chest burning and hitching painfully with every movement, every breath, Dean soon found himself regretting his premature departure from the hospital. He managed to call a cab outside the hospital to get back to the motel room and the Impala, then left immediately in his beloved car, clutching in his hand the scrap of paper with the address from Michael's room, written in Eleanor's neat, efficient handwriting. Even behind the wheel of his own car, Dean felt uncertain and insecure, vulnerable with his fragile chest and awkward movements.

The building he sought wasn't easy to find, either. It seemed to be somewhere on the outskirts of town, or even a few miles outside it, but without any knowledge of the area, or a navigator, Dean could only drive around aimlessly until he found the road mentioned on the slip of paper. It took several hours for him to find anything, and every wasted minute made him more agitated. Who knew what Michael could be doing to Sam? Or what Sam could be doing to himself?

He had lost track of time when he saw it, but it brought him a pang of frustration: a street sign, one he had already passed several times, almost entirely obscured by undergrowth. He was out on a back road, which was lined on both sides by the thick forest which seemed to encircle the whole town. This road was narrow, and dark, overshadowed by trees, but the turning indicated was worse: it looked as though it hadn't been used in several decades, except that the mud and plants were cut through with clear, fresh tyre tracks.

Dean cursed himself: how could he have missed this the last time he passed? Despite the ominous look of the track, Dean swung the wheel around between his hands without hesitation, without even thinking of the risks presented to the Impala by the clinging mud and scratching branches. Something like energy ignited in his tired body: Sam was here, he was convinced of it. Everything was going to be ok.

Two hundred yards or so up the track, it narrowed further, and Dean had to leave the Impala, reluctantly, and walk. Every step reminded him forcibly that he shouldn't be out of bed yet, but every stab of pain also reminded him of the one responsible, and increased his resolve to deal with Michael.

It occurred to him suddenly that Michael was human, and that according to Sam's code of ethics, he shouldn't have to pay with his life for what he had done. Dean resented this: he didn't tolerate the killing of innocents, but Michael's actions had made it clear in his mind that the teen was as much a monster as anything he'd ever hunted. It seemed unfair on the werewolves, vampires and demons of the world that they should be killed for being evil, while Michael could get away with being equally sadistic and be punished only with a slap on the wrist. Still, he didn't want to violate Sam's beliefs, and he could see his brother's point: if he started killing his own species, he was no better than those he fought against. Despite that, he couldn't shake the feeling that no punishment would ever be severe enough to constitute justice for what Michael had done.

Breathing painfully through his teeth, Dean kept on up the muddy track, his feet becoming heavier and heavier with the black mud sticking to them. A shack melded into view through the trees, and another turn brought him out into the clearing in front of the battered building.

It was single-storey, wooden and ancient, creaking with the gentle encouragement of the wind and crumbling away at the corners. The corrugated iron roof seemed to stay up only by leaning against itself, and the whole building had the haphazard air of being ready to collapse in any direction, or all directions at once, if someone were to walk up and nudge it. Dean's first thought was that, if Sam was in there, he hoped the whole structure didn't collapse on his brother's head before he could get him out.

Nobody appeared to challenge him, so he simply walked up to the door and pushed it open – gingerly, wondering if the doorframe could still support the weight of the wall when the heavy wooden slab was out of its place.

The interior of the shack was so like the outside that it seemed as though the house had been turned inside-out. The same wooden walls, insecure and not perpendicular to one another, even the same quilted, rusting roof, visible from underneath. The floor was dry, sandy dirt, and the furniture was minimal: a table, two chairs, a bed, and a door, apparently leading into a second room. Sitting in at the table, slumped and dejected, with his head in his hands, was Sam. Alone.

This is too easy, Dean thought incredulously, marvelling at his good fortune. He wondered idly, what's the catch?

It didn't take him long to find out.

He took a tentative step towards Sam, stretching out a hand. Worried that his brother was in no state for a shock right now, he tried to make his voice as gentle as possible, and he spoke before he was too close to Sam's side.

'Hey, Sam,' he said quietly, and the words caught his throat and came out hoarse, choked by relief.

Sam jerked like a startled rabbit and fixed wild, red-rimmed eyes on his older brother. Instead of sighing with relief or gasping with amazement, his eyes filled with irrational terror, and he leaned back on his chair, clutching impulsively at the table with cold white fingers. His eyes fixed, wide and panicking, on Dean's stunned face, he opened his mouth and yelled raggedly at the top of his voice.

'Michael! Michael!'

Dean's heart jumped a somersault in his chest, and he found himself gasping for breath. He staggered a step closer to Sam, and whispered urgently to his brother.

'Sam, it's me! What are you doing?'

Still staring at him with horror, Sam paid no attention to his pleas. 'Michael!' he screamed again.

The internal door burst open with a loud, explosive sound, and Michael himself appeared, exactly as Dean remembered him, but wearing an expression of deep concern rather than the sadistic pleasure that had governed his face the last time Dean saw him. His black eyes flicked from Sam to Dean and back again, showing some surprise, but carefully burying it.

He ignored Dean utterly, and knelt in front of Sam, leaving the older Winchester brother to watch in horrified confusion.

'Sam, what's up? Did you have another vision?'

'I can still see him, Michael… I think he's haunting me, because I killed him… I'm so sorry, Dean,' he added, looking into Dean's perplexed eyes, still looking terrified.

'Sam, you need to learn to controll your powers. I can help you, but I need you to let go of this guilt… It makes you emotional, and then you're not in controll of your own mind. You can be really powerful, Sam. More than me. You could do great things for our master. But you need to let go… you need to forget about your brother…'

Dean, gaping silently, having temporarily lost the power of speech, expected Sam to object to this: to say that he couldn't just forget about his brother, that nobody was his master. But he was to be surprised, again.

'I'm sorry Michael. I'm trying to forget. How can I make it stop?'

He was pleading now, begging Michael to save him from his brother, or from his brother's memory. This wasn't the Sam Dean knew; it wasn't the brother he had come looking for. This man was lost, broken.

'Sam, look at me!' Dean demanded, finally finding his voice. He stepped forward again, and found that the walk to the shack was catching up to him: the world swayed in front of him, and he struggled to stay upright. 'Sam, I'm not dead! Look at me!'

Sam whimpered pitifully, retracting further into the chair, away from Dean.

'What's the matter? Can you still see it?'

'Yes,' Sam breathed. 'Can't you see him? Or hear him?'

'What did it say?' Michael asked, keeping his back turned away from Dean, holding Sam's gaze.

'He said he wasn't dead…'

'It's just your head, messing with you, Sam. Fight it, you have to push it away.'

'Sam, look at me! I'm your brother, why the hell would you believe him instead of me?' Dean demanded; desperate and not a little hurt that Michael had so easily won Sam's trust away from his brother.

'How?' Sam asked, flinching away from his brother's words, still staring at Michael.

Michael made an impressive show of looking helpless, and earnest to help. 'You're the expert, Sam. Didn't you say something about salt, for spirits? Do you think that would help?'

Dean followed the direction Michael was pointing and noticed, for the first time, a shotgun leaning casually against the wall behind Sam's chair. He swallowed. Rock salt to the chest had been agony, the last time. But then he had been healthy. He didn't want to find out what such treatment would do to skin that was already ruptured and inflamed, lungs that were already working overtime just to keep pulling oxygen in to fuel his body.

Michael picked up the gun, and swung it around. 'Tell me where to point it, Sam,' he said, making a show of directing it everywhere except at Dean. Sam pointed a shaking finger at Dean, and Michael followed it with the gun, but for some reason ensured that his aim was still off.

Sam plucked the shotgun from Michael's arms and pointed it straight at his brother. He was still shaking, but he somehow managed to hold the gun barrel steady. He faltered, and looked at Michael.

'I don't know if I can… I feel so guilty… I shot him once before…'

'You told me,' Michael reminded him softly, risking a sly glance at Dean out of the corner of his eye.

'You son of a bitch, Michael… so help me, I swear…'

'He's talking to you…' Sam muttered, shooting nervous glances from Michael to the focus of the shotgun.

'It's not real, Sam, trust me, I can't even see it…'

'Fuck you! Sam, listen to me, I'm real, damn it! I'm alive!'

Doubt flickered for the first time in Sam's eyes. Not enough, yet, but a start. Dean risked another step, and regretted it immediately. His legs gave way as pain washed over him, and he grunted, dropping to his knees.

'Dean…' Sam muttered, looking at him now with concern, rather than terror.

'I'm here, Sam…'

'Don't fall for it, Sam!' cried Michael, seeing that his hold on the younger brother was weakening. 'I warned you…'

Sam looked confused. He was stuck in the middle, suddenly; he didn't know who to believe. The shotgun in his hands was heavy and cold, and his finger was tensed so hard against the trigger that it was white and trembling. He tried to recap the facts: he had seen Dean die, hadn't he? He was almost sure of it, but it was hazy, like most details of the past few days: he couldn't say for sure. But Dean was dead: he couldn't be mistaken about that. He needed to learn to control his powers, Michael could help him, if he could just overcome his guilt and his grief. All that power, knowledge, and the substitute family that Michael had promised. The only way to move on from Dean's death. He could have it, if he pulled the trigger.

But Dean looked so solid, kneeling before him, with green eyes full of disbelief, pleading with him. He couldn't shoot something that looked so much like his brother, he had sworn he would never shoot Dean again. And he had always trusted Dean. Even if it was an illusion, it used Dean's voice, and Dean's face: his instinct was one of absolute trust.

'I know it's hard, Sam…' Michael whispered in his ear, 'but you have to let go.'

'I…'

'You have to…'

Dean glared at Michael, and looked past him to fix his brother's eye with his green stare. 'Sammy,' he said firmly. Nothing else, just 'Sammy'. But Sam heard the old, hated nickname and knew suddenly, beyond doubt, that whenever he had a choice between trusting Dean, and trusting someone else, he would always trust Dean.

The shotgun fell to the ground with a clatter, and Dean lurched forward, grasping his brother's hand. Sam felt the undeniable solidity of his brother's living flesh and gasped, choking with disbelief and amazement.

'You… you…' he gasped.

'Save it,' Dean cut him off, gasping as he struggled to his feet. Michael was advancing on them, murder written on his face. Sam spun round, and all the implications of what had happened struck him at once in the form of an emotion too powerful for words. He expressed it, instead, in action. His fist swung round at hurricane pace, colliding viciously with Michael's pale, thin face. The student collapsed backwards, hitting the dirt floor with a heavy thud. Sam felt his knuckles crack, and knew his hand would be bruised from the violent impact, but didn't care. It was worth it.

Sam slung his brother's arm over his shoulders, and the pair struggled out of the dilapidated building together.

The walk back to the Impala was a painful one for Dean: the elation of having found Sam gave him energy, but his body no longer had the strength to support it. He leaned on Sam, grateful for the reassuring presence by his side.

'You're gonna have to fill me in… Dean, I'm so sorry I nearly killed you…'

'Sammy, you didn't…' Dean croaked, lowering himself into the car. Sam blinked, looking, if possible, even more confused. 'Long, long story. I'll tell you later.'

He settled back in the seat of his beloved car, and for the first time in days enjoyed natural, peaceful sleep.

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It's not quite over yet. Review!! Please! Or I'll sulk. : (