warning: an expected amount of sadness and the familiar use of the english language.
AN: I really don't have an excuse this time because either way it should not have taken anywhere near this long to complete. All I'm going to say is I officially hate research papers with a burning passion and seem to have spiraled into an even shorter attention span. That desperately needs tuning. I'm going to work extra hard on that. But with the way things are looking, at least by December 18, there will be smooth sailing with next to no distractions(expressive words just don't seem to properly illustrate how happy I am about that finer detail). But yeah. I pretty much suck out loud. And have introduced my head to the desk. I'm sorry I'm such a jerk and take so long to update more often than not. Really, I am. :headdesk:
reviewers: I got some PMs and dA comments to urge me into getting around to finishing this. So, thanks for those if you're one of those people, or just someone who left a review to snap me into focus. And once more, I'm so very sorry I waited this long to get around to updating. I love every single review I've read and appreciate each one. Thank you all so much for taking the time to let me know how you feel about my story!
unfortunate: This is not the end as expected; the chapter got to be a little too long for my liking and if it had been wrapped up the way I intend to finish it, this would not have been updated for another two weeks and been about 5000 words longer. The weight of this hefty, yet quickly paced chapter was just too much. I see chapter five as being the best though(which is what I said about four, but this was supposed to be what chapter five is going to be, it just got too long), so maybe you have the heart to stick around and finish it up. Enjoy the read!
Chapter Four:
Dean abruptly stopped the car, jolting his father out of his semi-conscious state. He could see the hotel, even distinguish the third from the right red door that belonged to them, but made no attempt to ease the car into the easy parking just outside of the room. His fingers twitched with an odd mixture of anticipation and anxiousness as he killed the engine, sharing a knowing look with his now coherent father. Engines were loud. Engines were loud enough to let those occupying the room know that they had arrived; loud enough to give a heads up. It was a risk neither Winchester was willing to take. And so they came to a stop on the far side of the nearly vacant lot where anxiety and stone cold dread hung low and heavy.
Dean fisted the ends of his sleeve before unfurling his fingers to reach below his seat. His heart was thudding almost painfully at this point, and the gun weighing down on his hand wasn't helping matters. He didn't have time for this. He wrenched the door open, surprised by the fierceness of the chilling wind he had fully expected a moment before. A hand on his wrist held him in place and he thought he might break it if he waited a minute longer.
"Dean..."
"What?" He snapped a bit harsher than he intended. In reality he didn't even care. This was a waste of precious time Sam just didn't have.
"You don't need to do this alone, he could –" He swallowed a little too obviously, "Sam could, he might –"
"What?" Dean whirled to face his father but failed to pull his wrist free from the vise-like grip. "Already be dead?" The word left an unsettling after taste in his mouth.
His father blanched before taking on a mask of anger. His hand noticeably tightened. "It's too dangerous!"
"We don't have time for this. Sam doesn't have time for this. And seeing as you have virtually no mobility at this point," he nearly growled, "you need to let me go."
"Dean." Dad had that tone. The kind that told him he was crossing a line and somehow falling a little too far behind.
"Let. Me. Go." Dean was actually baring his teeth, but his eyes were over his father's and through the window, completely focused on the ominous red door. He could see the false gold number glinting in the light from the streetlamp if he looked just right.
"Just hand me my gun and –"
"Why don't you try," He snapped, yanking his hand from John's grasp.
John was twisting in his seat, reaching for something, anything, Dean suspected. Sweat covered his brow as he fumbled with his shaking hand, avoiding Dean's eyes and failing to hide back a wince of pain. "I am not losing two sons tonight!"
Dean backed up a step, his mouth slightly agape. He needed to throw up. He clamped his hands over his temples, gun loose in his right and cool against his skin. Two sons? Sam wasn't dead. "We don't have time for this," he repeated more firmly than he should ever have been able to manage, and slammed the door.
He turned, knowing his father wouldn't be able to follow, wouldn't risk drawing the attention. He rolled his shoulders, suddenly stiff and unresponsive. His head was swimming and it was getting harder and harder to focus on putting one foot in front of the other. He could hear his breaths coming out in shallow rasps and he couldn't bring himself to care. What did it matter? There was no way in hell he was stopping to gain his ground. It was now or never.
He wanted to scream. Now or never? He nearly choked on the lump in his throat before he even knew it was there. Never. He tightened his grip on the gun and removed the safety. Sam was fine. He wondered vaguely how his knees could hold his weight when they were shaking so badly. He wanted to thank God for keeping his body on autopilot but couldn't bring himself to thank something that had remained so blatantly absent throughout the night's events. Hell, the deity had been absent Dean's entire life. He was only a couple yards away now. But it wasn't really Dean's life God had been absent for, it was Sam's. He passed his father's truck with a trained eye, scowling at the thought of something that looked like his dad having driven it there. Dean had four blissful years of happy ignorance. Sam had no such history. All he knew was pain and hate, lies, war, and more death than anyone should have to deal with, and Dean was afraid it was all he'd ever get to know. How could he know anything else? One fateful night had viciously snatched away the opportunity of experiencing anything he really deserved.
Dean eased against the wall, gun down, hands suddenly steady as if they had finally grasped the importance of the situation. He stared out into the darkness and managed to make out the bleak outline of the Impala and resisted the urge to shout the first profane thought that came to mind. Nothing could stop him from what he was about to do, not even some stupid, ominous, too logical point of his father's; no matter how much it scared him. But it didn't matter how scared he was because the reason for that fear was not for himself but for his brother. Sam's face was crystal clear in Dean's mind as it spread into the tiny grin of victory he tended to grow just after duping his brother into something with his patented puppy dog eyes. Dean blinked the image away and sent up a silent prayer, despite himself and his unabated hatred of God, for a chance to see the smile again.
He rolled his neck, let the hatred wash over him, fuel him, and stepped in front of the door. He didn't hesitate to fiddle with a handle he knew to be locked, and landed a sturdy kick just below the knob. The frame splintered as the door swung inwards and Dean eased with it, gun at the ready. He somehow managed to stay steady despite the utter chaos that assaulted his vision the moment he passed through the door. His eyes quickly scanned the upturned room, resting on the overturned stand in the center, scattered glass and plastic strewn beneath and around it. He swallowed and swiveled his gun in the direction of the sliver of light shining through the crack in bathroom door and stepped quietly toward it. He pushed in with his foot, squinting in preparation, completely unprepared for the shattered mirror splintered with tiny rivulets of blood.
"Sammy," he breathed, losing his last ounce of oxygen in the process.
Sam lay motionless, sprawled awkwardly on the tiled floor, long dark locks drifting lazily over his eyes, failing to obscure the amount of blood leaking from his temple. His lower lip was split wide, staining his bottom teeth crimson, and his face was covered in a combination of bruises, abrasions, and gashes that had Dean's gut twisting in concern.
"Sam?" He dropped to his knees at his brother's side, discarding his gun without a second thought. He slipped his hand beneath his sibling's neck and lifted slowly, supporting Sam's lifeless head by the back of the skull, and eased him onto his knees. Cuts spider webbed from his ear and splintered to the height of his right cheek, caking the side of his face in a mixture of fresh and near-dry blood. Dean cupped the side of Sam's jaw, running his thumb across the skin, and managed to pull him farther into his lap until his back rested against Dean's knees and chest. "Come on, Sammy, wake up."
Sam's head rolled listlessly to the left and against Dean in response.
"Sam." Dean swallowed the bile slowly rising in his throat. He could feel Sam's heart beating beneath the palm he had against his chest, so why wasn't he moving? "Sam." He was so much smaller than Dean last remembered. "Come on, little brother." Dean could hear blood thumping loudly in his ears, drowning out too many things he desperately needed to hear. Shouldn't he be awake? He put a trembling hand to Sam's arm and shook him slightly. He wanted to hear Sam's annoying teenage psycho babble, an insult, anything but the ear splitting silence ripping apart his mind and tearing deep into his heart. He pulled Sam a little closer and lowered his chin to his brother's head; no chick flick moments be damned. "Wake up, Sammy," he whispered, "please, wake up."
Sam responded by rolling toward Dean's voice, burying his face into his brother's chest and voicing the most beautiful whimper Dean had ever heard. He shifted enough to see Sam's face and cradled his jaw toward his direction. "Let's see those eyes, little brother," he tried to keep his voice from cracking with relief.
Sam grimaced at the light assaulting his eyes, but managed to blink in Dean's general direction. He stared questionably into Dean's doubling eyes and allowed himself to relax in the arms surrounding him. "Dean."
Dean nodded, letting himself rake a hand through Sam's unruly hair. "Yeah, Sammy, it's me."
Sam's eyes suddenly widened as a look of panic tore into his gaze. An unchecked fear Dean never thought possible of his little brother had settled in his eyes; the same eyes that remained locked on Dean's.
And all at once he began to struggle, desperate to free himself from Dean.
"Sam, what the hell? It's me, calm down!" Dean fought to keep his voice steady but refused to release his hold, terrified of the consequences of letting go.
"No!" Sam screamed with his eyes clenched shut, arms flailing in a helpless attempt to escape the pair surrounding him. He wasn't even attempting to fight, just writhing with all he had. A sense of hopeless terror seemed to have assumed control and overrode his system. "NO!"
"Sam!" Dean loosened his hold but would not let go; couldn't if he tried. "Shh. Sam, you're okay, little brother, you're okay now," he forced himself to whisper, keeping his lips close to Sam's ear in a futile attempt to calm his thrashing sibling.
"No..." Sam's struggles weakened but continued, all at once accompanied by tears and shuddering sobs. "No."
Dean's heart pounded mercilessly against his chest as a painful reminder of just how badly things had fucked up, how much Sam had to pay. He felt his brother breaking and couldn't seem to catch the pieces. "It's okay, I'm here now," he shushed, running his hand in circles on his back, hoping the touch would somehow soothe away his fears, "nothing's gonna to happen. I'm right here, Sammy, it's okay now."
"Plea-please..." Sam's weary plea tore deep into Dean as he watched him lean as far away as his constricted movement allowed him and fought to breathe through his sobs. "D-don't. Any –anyone else. Please..."
And Dean did something he never thought he'd be capable of doing. He eased his arms away and let go.
"Okay, Sammy. It's okay." His mind screamed in rage and self hatred. His brother was terrified and there seemed to be nothing he could do to protect him from that awful fear, not when he was the apparent cause. He watched dejectedly as Sam bolted from his lap, connecting hard with the tile and scrambling to the far end of the bathroom, as far from Dean as possible. He collapsed in a heap, tightly pressed to the corner near the bulb of the toilet, and drew his knees to protect himself from the threat of imminent doom that only he could see.
"Sammy?" Dean reached cautiously for Sam's arm when something beyond the room snapped just loud enough to reach his ears. He whirled, heartbeat racing, and raised his arms in an attempt to shield Sam from the presence he could feel lingering in the living space before his eyes even attempted to connect with its form.
"What the hell did you do to my room?" A burly man of stoic stature stood in the carnage of the ransacked hotel room, peering angrily at the splintered wood beneath his feet. Dean felt his pulse slow a fraction but searched hungrily for his fallen weapon before detecting the barrel, clearly visible, peeking beneath the raised legs of the tub. "What the fuck did you do?" the man repeated, still staring in shock about the vicinity. Dean recognized the face as the hotel manager's and watched wearily as he finally brought his furious gaze upon Dean, still crouched in his protective stance. Something was off.
"Listen, you little shit," he spat, taking deliberate strides in the direction of Dean, "you're paying for every splint of –" he trailed off as his eyes shifted from Dean's warning glare over his shoulder and to the huddle of a human being crouched and cowering behind him. "Jesus Christ," he whispered, all rage leaving his features and being quickly replaced with sickening concern. "He okay?"
Dean opened his mouth to respond but found his mouth too dry to speak the retort screaming inside his mind. He only grimaced lightly and shifted slowly to hide Sam from his eyes. "Call an ambulance."
"Hey kid," he huffed, craning his neck for a better look at Sam, almost as if he were an interesting exhibit in a zoo. Dean's jaw twitched in rage as he found himself incapable of explaining why he couldn't just deck the man where he stood. "You okay?"
"Does he look okay to you?" Dean shot back with a daring stare. He tried to ignore the way Sam had taken to holding his breath. "Call a goddamn ambulance!"
The man scowled before redirecting his attention to Sam and further softening his tone. "Kid, did this guy do this to you?" Dean felt his insides freeze in a sensation of pain and rage. His fingers twitched in anticipation but remained raised for good measure as his eyes went back to the gleam of the gun. He didn't miss the way the older man's eyes darted nervously in the weapon's direction.
Sam let out a single, muffled sob he had been holding for quite some time.
"I'm his brother," he found himself defending, palms exposed to the quickly darkening features of the man before him, "You saw us together yesterday, remember?" It was painstakingly obvious that the hotel manager remembered no such thing. His beady eyes darted from Dean to the far edges of the room as if a magical solution would somehow appear at any given moment in time. "Please," Dean repeated, pleaded, "he's my little brother and I –"
"My brother's dead," Sam whispered softly from behind.
Dean felt his heart stop, and in a moment of desperation, of complete and unrelenting need, he spun to face his brother, thoughts of the burly manager forgotten as he met Sam's watery, determined gaze. Dean's knees would have buckled at the sight of abandonment he saw reflected in Sam's bloodshot eyes had he not already been on them, and he found himself incapable of doing more than stare pleadingly into his brother eyes for a long moment. He reached tentatively for Sam's face and managed to ignore the way he flinched away from his touch.
"I'm right here, Sam," Dean whispered, gently directing Sam's jaw, "I'm right here."
Sam leaned away from the touch, shutting his eyes in an attempt to block the sight, only to have Dean raise his other hand to guide Sam's face back toward his. He ran his thumbs beneath Sam's eyes, tracing away the trails of tears and enticing his them to open. Sam squinted in his direction and pressed against the wall as if caught in a cage, too accustomed to freedom to know exactly how to react.
"I'm not him, Sammy," Dean whispered, keeping his green eyes connected firmly with Sam's, "You know I'm not him. You know it." At that Sam's eyes began to fill and Dean spread his fingers through the tangled locks of brown hair, careful of his right side, to ease his hand across Sam's left temple and through his hair in a way he'd done countless time before. "You can't fake everything Sammy," he said through the lump in his throat.
Sam's lips curved into a small, sad smile as he fought the desire to lean into the familiar touch and held his ground. And Dean nearly lost his resolve when he realized how much damage he was causing, how close he was to breaking his little brother.
"He can't fake this. You know that, Sam, you know it," Dean said sternly, placing his palm against his brother's cheek. "No one can fake our lives." He traced a circle against Sam's temple with his thumb the way he did when a much younger Sam was too stubborn to fall asleep on his own, fully aware that teenage Sam would ordinarily have swatted him away with a half-serious scowl if he even attempted it. "Not even a shapeshifter." Dean kept his eyes clear and unwavering as Sam searched desperately for any trace of deception, visibly torn apart, lost, and so very alone. "I'm right here, Sammy," he reassured as Sam let out a small rasp of a sob and leaned hesitantly into his hands. "I'm not going anywhere." Sam just nodded and pressed harder into his callused hands. He rested his own trembling fingers around his brother's wrists and clung for all he was worth with a small smile and trusting eyes.
Then his eyes drifted to the left of Dean's shoulder and his fear was suddenly stronger than before. He was tugging on Dean's arms, forcing him to the right, but it was too late. And he knew it. "NO!"
Dean spun in time to feel a sudden, searing pain erupt in his left side above the hip, just as the hilt of a knife came to rest against the material of his shirt and snagged its current trajectory. He inhaled, aware of only a fraction of the pain he should be feeling as it flared through his shock protected nerves, and nearly stumbled in surprise. He managed to look down, study the familiar hilt he'd seen as it traced the lines of his jaw hours beforehand, and distinguish the sound of his brother screaming his name before his legs were swept from beneath him and the knife was abruptly pulled away. He fell hard, blissfully to the right, and landed with a thud that jolted the offending wound and forced a sharp cry of pain to pass from his lips before his mind had even registered the fact that he had hit the floor. Dean blinked back spots of black and struggled to regain his focus as his eyes shifted to the blossoming spread of crimson across his shirt and watched as it rose and fell in sync with his uneven gasps for air, clinging to his skin through the thin material. So much for focusing.
"Now, why'd you half'ta come and spoil all the fun?" The hotel manager's face loomed overhead with a grim frown of true disappointment.
A groan was pretty much all Dean could manage at this point and he was quite suddenly aware of the fact that his recent tumble had expelled nearly all oxygen from his lungs. He blinked blearily at the towering man before him and tried to scowl but lost focus somewhere along the way and found himself glaring pointedly at the hilt of the knife grasped between the man's pudgy fingers instead.
"I'm talking to you, kid," the shapeshifter growled, ramming his foot into Dean's side. He attempted to roll away, reflexively longing to protect his throbbing wound, but only managed to aggravate the opening further. He gasped at the pain and blinked through tears. He managed to catch sight of Sam rushing the man from his point of view before he landed a solid foot to his brother's chest and sent him sprawling back against the wall.
"Son of a –" He found himself pinned to the floor by a boot to the jugular before he could attempt an attack. The man lifted the knife in Sam's general direction and leaned down to grab the gun, opting for the firearm. "Move and he dies," he spat in Dean's direction.
Dean seethed silently, half listening for Sam's steady rasps to catch his breath, and eyed the gun currently trained on his little brother. "You're a strange one, Winchester," the man said thoughtfully, digging his heel a little harder into Dean's throat before bending to place the tip of his too-familiar knife against his right shoulder just below the collarbone. "Real strange," he muttered over Dean's yelp of pain. He pressured the blade just enough to view it sinking into the folds of clothing and produce a moderate flow of dark, red blood. And Dean couldn't hold back the grunt of pain as the blade was promptly yanked out with an audibly sickening squelch.
Then Dean was being tugged by the arm while the soles of his shoes skidded against the tile and a hand slid lightly over his leg. Sam came into view, wide eyed and alert, but before Dean could locate his voice, the tip of his shoulder slammed into the doorframe and his world swam black right along with the howl of agony that tore from his throat. The man dragging him let out a soft chuckle. "Whoops."
Dean grimaced as he was deposited on the floor of the hotel, but managed to scramble back and away from the man before he could make another attack. He hauled himself to his feet and tried to ignore the way his knees wobbled beneath him. "I'm going to enjoy killing you," he growled, seeing only red.
The man laughed at that. "And how exactly do you plan to go about doin' that, kiddo?" He grinned, sparing a glance in Sam's direction and leveling the gun with his head. "Didn't work out so well last time for dear Sammy, now, did it? You ready to risk that again?" He asked, cocking the gun to emphasize his point.
Dean glared, keeping the intense gaze on the beefy man before him, but took a small step back, palms up in defense. "He didn't do anything to you." Dean's eyes darted nervously to Sam's who had frozen mid step in the doorway of the small bathroom, focus trained on barrel pointed at him with a mixture of fear and grim determination.
The man flicked his eyes in Dean's direction and grinned. "No?" He barked out a laugh. "Kid nearly busted my lip." Dean grinned proudly before the double of the manager returned his smile to Sam. "I'm thinking your whole family's done something to me, Deano. I'm thinking every goddamn hunter's done quite a lot, that's what I think." He lowered the gun a little, moving to face Dean, "I'm thinking Sammy here's gonna be first."
But Dean saw the break in his stature and made a lunge, effectively startling the shapeshifter into refocusing his attention toward him. Dean shifted to avoid the barrel of the gun and made a grab for the wrist holding the offending weapon, used momentum to drag the man around, but lost his grip on the pistol, barely aware that it had fallen to the floor with a soft thud. Unfortunately his father's fighting skills seemed to have rubbed off and the man easily twisted out of his grip and dodged a well placed blow. Then Dean was seeing black specks as a fist connected forcefully with the side of his skull and sent him stumbling backward. Another fist whizzed past his ear, accompanied by the glint of a blade, just as he half-ducked, half-fell away from the attack and rolled to regain his footing.
"Stupid, fuck," the shapeshifter muttered, grinning bigger than ever.
Dean ran the back of his hand across his mouth to rid himself of the taste of blood and eyed the large man with a seasoned sense of adjusted fear, briefly letting his eyes slide to Sam and locate the gun that rested an equal distance away from them all. His shoulder ached with an intensity he had felt a handful of occasions before, but the steady flow of slick blood from his almost numbed side was quickly testing his attention.
The shapeshifter's grin was back, coal eyes on Dean. "Too slow," he muttered as he shifted to rush the youngest Winchester.
Dean couldn't hear himself scream for Sam to move or remember making a conscious decision to lunge; he only saw the glint of the blade and the look of shock that spread across his brother's face before the sound of his own heart beat flooded his ears and the top of his shoulder connected with the towering man's side, sending them both to the floor. His elbow rammed into the man's nose just before a pressure against his side left him motionless, gasping for air. He twisted in time to avoid the swipe of a blade, managed to kick the knife from the man's grasp, and struggled to regain his footing, only to be dragged back down again, chin meeting the thin carpet with a jarring intensity. He blinked back tears and dizziness, resisting the urge to gag on the amount of blood currently flooding his mouth, and rolled to his back, momentarily dazed. His eyes darted to the gleam of the blade's reflection as his fingers groped for the hilt just as a heavy knee bore down on his chest, freezing his search and restricting his air. He twisted against the hold to find himself staring into the barrel of his own gun. He blinked again, unable to pull in more than a thin gasp of air, and the tip of the gun was suddenly against his temple, cool and oddly familiar as his hands were all at once pinned beneath the same knee planted firmly against his chest. Sam was frozen again, arms held out in submissive fashion and knees trembling from their halted offense. He blinked wide, frightened, somehow furious eyes in Dean's direction, silently asking what to do and desperately avoiding the plausible outcome. Then a hand was digging into Dean's hair and yanking his head back, straining his neck to face the beady, little eyes of the manager and the toothy grin of the shapeshifter.
"You," he rasped, licking away the blood collecting at the corner of his lips, "are way more trouble than you're worth."
Dean only winced in response as the barrel against his temple was driven painfully closer and his head was jerked to the left, facing Sam. A thousand and one things to say came spilling into his mind but a rough shake to his scalp and the tilt of his world bluntly stated that there was less than no time for even one. He met Sam's quickly filling eyes with stirring dread, and, to Dean's horror, Sam's shaky gaze was unquestionably reflecting the debate of an assault. This was it. The fucking end and Dean couldn't even take a last breath for the weight against his ribs. But in the millisecond it took to process the familiar glint of determination in his little brother's eyes, he attempted to convey at least one of the racing thoughts with what must have been a pitiful glare in time with the click of the gun.
Don't.
Then Sam's knees buckled and Dean was forced to squeeze his eyes shut at the tightening of the hand against his hair and unwillingness to have the image of Sam crumpled in defeat branded into his mind for good. "Say Goodbye to Dean, kiddo," the hoarse voice whispered almost greedily over his head.
The sound of the shot echoed through the walls and seemed to reverberate through the very core of Dean's being, from the hand against his head, to his seemingly hollowed chest, and into the tingly, tiny nerves of the tips of his fingers with rather vengeful intensity as all remaining sights and sounds faded into an insignificant shade of gray. A muffled voice, whether it was a laugh or a sob, broke the escalating silence as the weight pressuring against Dean was suddenly shifted and began tilting to land heavily against the splintered pieces of wood, dragging Dean along with it. He rolled, halting in a painful impact that left him more nauseated than ever but couldn't possibly strike him as all bad because it was quite apparent that he was still alive, and that had to mean something. He dragged himself away from the lump of rotund man, managing to sit up in the process, and located the mattress of the nearest bed to lean against. He cracked open his eyes just in time to catch an armful of Sam who promptly dug his nose into Dean's uninjured shoulder more forcefully than originally intended.
Dean barely bit back the howl of pain that came with Sam's unceremonious embrace but managed to wrap his own arms around his sibling's trembling frame before snapping to attention and scouring the still spinning room. His eyes roamed from the lifeless form of the shapeshifter, facedown in a puddle of pooling crimson from the rather gruesome hole in the back of his skull, to the cause of the gore. He couldn't help but let the heaviness in his eyelids direct themselves and dig his own face into the crook of Sam's neck at the sight of his father, breathing raggedly, propped against the doorway, gun loose in his grasp.
"Fuck," he slurred before he could really stop himself, "that was a little too close, huh?"
Sam only pulled himself a little closer and nodded slowly against Dean's shirt.
Dean successfully ran a quaking hand through his brother's hair, all at once too tired to decipher the subtle differences between up and down as an all too-familiar vertigo settled in his head and off-centered his balance. He found himself leaning into Sam just before everything tilted a little too far to the right and faded into a comforting blanket of black that swept all thoughts of aches and pains far away form the tiniest crevices of his conscious mind and into a void of blissful nothingness.