AN: Here's the last chapter (before the epilogue). Thank you to everyone who has reviewed so far, your encouragement and support has been overwhelming, and greatly appreciated. Note that this chapter is double the length of the others. You'll see why when you get to mid-point. I figured that you've endured enough cliff-hangers from me with this story, so I couldn't in good conscience torment you with one more before the end. Enjoy:-)
BLOOD ON THE TRACKS
- Chapter Ten -
Ted spat and chewed his way through the fabricated Star Trek language with sprayed spittle and forceful grunts. Dean watched with a sick heart as the older man ploughed through the script with something close to glee: evidently convinced that the bizarre dialect would summon his daughter in a way that no Latin ritual would. Dean doubted it.
He had not moved from Sam's side. Every thirty seconds or so his hand slipped to Sam's neck to feel his pulse as unoxygenated blood pushed through resistant veins. Dying from the inside out, the slow deterioration invisible, bar for the blood on Sam's upper lip and the blue tinge to his face and hand. But Dean could ignore those, angle the torch just right so it seemed that Sam merely slept.
He sniffed and threaded his fingers through Sam's hair. Over and over, a repetitive pattern that passed over the same smooth ridges of his brother's skull. Oil and sweat from his fingers combined to gel the brunette strands into loose tufts. Probably could make Sammy a punk Mohawk if he tried. But he didn't, because his hand shook too badly and his vision had an odd shimmering bend that denied dexterity. Don't do it unless you do it right. That applied to sibling Mohawks – it applied to everything – and Dean couldn't do it right.
Ted abruptly snapped and snorted, his lips vibrating in anfractuous pronunciation and Dean flinched, startled as much by the sound as the spittle that sprayed his face. The briefest of hesitation, a quick glance and the older man launched back into it. Dean looked away, let the spit dry on his face and just kept threading, layering strand upon strand of his brother's hair until they stood upright of their own volition.
More splurged Klingon tore up the air, louder and faster, voiced with a frenetic scourge of rabid insanity. Dean opened his mouth to issue a verbal halt to the older man, but a sharp iced cold against the back of his neck stopped him. His senses immediately sharpened, his vision cleared as he scanned for the rock salt, the shot gun, the weapon's bag. All just out of reach. The cold intensified and Ted clued in. His head came up and his jaw slackened, his breath fanned in the frigid air.
"Melanie, my dear Melanie," Ted said, his voice raw, breathless. Tears shimmered in his eyes and shone as dying stars in the muted light.
Dean stretched imperceptibly as fingers tingled and adrenalin warmed. The shotgun lay less than a foot away, loaded and primed.
"Father?"
For a dead psychotic dematerializing bitch, she sounded unnervingly… normal. Dean shivered and stretched in a slow deliberate movement, one hand on Sam, one arm outstretched.
"Father, I don't understand why you are here."
"To see you." Ted stepped forward, tucked the diary into a pocket and splayed his hands out, palms forward. "I'm sorry for not being there for you. You needed me and I wished I had known."
"Known what?"
"That you were ill."
Dean inwardly cursed. Ted had agreed not to piss off the dead bitch – at least not until Dean had her in the shotgun sights.
"I'm not ill," Melanie said, her tone hitched up, indignantly dangerous.
Dean leaned further away from Sam, the growing gap as he reached for the weapon setting a warning throb through him. Ted took another step forward, another unscripted move and Sam shuddered, unconsciously sensing the danger, the hypothermic freeze to the air. Melanie noticed.
"You brought him back?"
"Yes, he's hurt. But you can—"
"He fought me, father. You picked him and he defied you."
"I… what?" Ted's head swiveled, his haggard features scrunched in confusion. He glanced at Dean, at Sam before he lifted his gaze to his dead daughter. "Melanie, no. I… oh God, is that what you think? Is that how you—"
"Father, don't be bashful. You've been trying to pick my friends for years. Dinner parties, invitations, meetings. I don't like it and don't want it. I've told you that."
"Then, if you—" He wrung his hands. "If you think I'm still picking your friends, then why do you take them?"
"To save your feelings, of course."
Ted blanched, his mouth gaped but no sound came out, just a wisp of frosted breath against the frigid air.
Dean's flesh crawled as he extended his reach, so close now that his fingertips teased the metal of the shotgun. Another inch and he could grab it.
"And," she added, as though in afterthought, "Emory suggested it."
"Emory." Ted knuckled his hands, the skin alabaster over the smooth bones. "Have you seen him, spoken to him?"
"Why?"
"I… thought he might help."
"He's busy."
Dean grasped the shotgun, cinched it toward him and held his breath.
Ted plucked at his overcoat and dug his hands into the pockets. Dean tensed, afraid that the drunkard would withdraw the diary, but Ted seemed to gain control of his tremulous emotions and his hands stilled. "Why the train?"
"Emory said he would meet me here."
"And… and did he?" Ted asked, his voice soft and sick sounding.
She fell quiet for a moment, then said, "What's his name?" She must have gestured to Sam because Ted's gaze dropped.
"Sam. He's about your age. The age you were when…." He blinked and his eyes glinted against the shadows.
"So who's that guy?"
Dean did not let Ted answer, he now had enough information to work with, and he grasped the shotgun and whirled. Simultaneously he felt Sam wrenched away. Ted side stepped, splayed his arms out, blocked Dean's aim. The old man looked shaky, pale faced, his bloodshot eyes wide. Melanie crouched behind, on her knees beside Sam, her face cast in shadows that made the dead flesh seem to glow. Dean fluidly pushed to his feet and moved so he had Melanie in his sights.
The five foot-nothing spirit had pulled Sam three feet down the subway, dislodged the nasal canula, left his limbs splayed half off the walkway, half on the track. His injured left arm lay across the rail, his face turned toward it. Still unconscious and unmoving… and now without oxygen.
"Don't shoot," Ted said, he palmed one hand outward. "Please, Dean, don't shoot her. I need—"
"Ted, zip it."
Melanie's head came up, her eyes fixed on Dean, dark dead orbs within a milk pale face. The red hair looked almost black in the absence of light. Every instinct told Dean to fire, to blast her full of rock salt and get her the hell away from Sam. But he couldn't, because he needed her.
"Who are you?" she asked, her tone as frosty as the air around them.
"Dean Archer. Emory sent me."
Her dead fingers cupped Sam's face and one thumb traced the ridge of his cheekbone. "How do you know Emory?"
"I'm Jonathon Archer's nephew," Dean said. Melanie's eyes narrowed and the air grew impossibly colder. Dean tightened his grip on the shotgun as cold sweat made him shiver. "Captain Archer, the Starfleet officer—"
"I know who he is."
"Okay, so Emory came to my uncle for help after he lost his son during an accident with the transporter. I knew a few things, helped out here and there. Helped him with Quinn."
"Quinn died. You couldn't have been much help."
Dean schooled his reaction as his stomach clenched in fear. He literally felt the seconds tick past, time that leached away Sam's life, and time that brought the already delayed train closer. "We've learned from that mistake," he added, a painful knot forming in his gut as she showed little response.
The unperturbed expression remained as Sam twitched beneath her touch, a tremor that might have been the beginnings of a convulsion or an attempt to regain consciousness. Dean realized it was mostly likely the former, with Sam off oxygen his system would go into shock and death would quickly follow. His fingers gripped the shotgun, the aching need to go to his sibling almost obliterating the stamina it took to remain unmoving. Only Melanie could fix this, and until he gained her trust he could do nothing to help Sam.
Ted, however, apparently lacked Dean's fortitude. The older man lurched forward, snagged the oxygen tank and dropped to his knees beside Sam. Melanie tipped back, her form flickering and Dean held his breath, his heart hammering as Ted reattached the nasal canula with shaking hands.
Melanie's form stabilized. "What is that? What are you doing?"
"He can't breathe," Ted said thickly. "His lungs, you… the dematerialization ruined his lungs."
"No, he's got a low pain tolerance, that's all. There's nothing wrong with him."
"Melanie, he's dying. Unless you can fix this, he will die. You're killing him, like you killed nine others."
"Ted," Dean warned, his mouth pasty and dry. He swallowed convulsively and continued, "Melanie wants to hear about Emory, about the message I have from him."
Ted ducked his head, his shoulders slumped. He carefully tucked Sam's bandaged hand in against his chest and checked the canula again. "He's still breathing, but…." he trailed off, his voice choked.
Dean stiffened and looked past the Ted to Melanie. "Emory sent me to help you fix this, and once you do I'll take you to him. He wants to see you. He has a mission for you."
She watched him impassively, her gaze unflinching as Ted stood and shuffled away from Sam. Dean again had a clean line of sight.
"There is nothing to fix."
"This one is dying," Dean prodded toward Sam. "The dematerialization didn't work. You have to reverse it. You have to put him back on the train. Emory wants you to prove to him that you can. He is waiting for you to fix this, then he'll—"
"Will Emory let me keep him?"
Dean's pulse thrummed wildly. He felt sure he could feel the forward sweep of air from an approaching train. "Yeah, okay, whatever you want."
She searched his face, before her focus shifted, sliced across Sam laying unconscious at her feet, to Ted standing hang-dog to one side before going back to Dean. Their gaze met and Dean had a sudden premonitory rush of fear. Even before she spoke, he knew she was not going to do it.
"No," she said, as her form flickered. The words echoed and danced, tossed against the darkened concrete walls like blood on a garish canvas. "Father chose him for me. Emory and his mission can go to hell."
Dean fired before the echo faded, before she had even stopped speaking. Fast, but not fast enough. She moved, flashed and a grey mist molded into the darkness as the air seethed with cold light. Dean fired off a shot, then another as the mist shuddered and punched toward him. The shots went wild as the weapon tore from his hands and the concrete ripped out from under him. He landed on the track in the darkness, inches from the live third rail, his shoulder and back burning. Heart pounding, Dean sprang to his feet, scampered across the track and used Ted as a shield in an attempt to get the gun, to get to Sam. Figured she wouldn't use Daddy as a throw toy. Wrong.
She screeched an unholy wail, lifted them both and tossed them into the darkness of the tunnel. Dean hit the concrete and rolled, instinctively reaching for Ted even as he was still moving. He caught the older man and forcefully yanked him away from the electrified rail. They ended up on their backs, legs twisted and arms caught. Dean felt something crack in his wrist as he scrambled to his feet. He ignored it and took off in a sprint, back toward the light – twin beams in the darkness. The two torches that still burned. Then one went out.
Dean faltered, his mouth thick and dry. The second torch flickered and Dean could see his brother, unconscious and defenseless, Melanie crouched over him. She looked up, their gaze met and she smiled – a self congratulatory grin that left no room for misunderstanding. She had Sam and she aimed to keep him.
The last torch died and so did a part of Dean. He screamed and sprinted, legs pumping through the sludge of ineptitude and regret. Ted called out, a lost lonely sound of anguish that mirrored Dean's own. It sounded sort of like Klingon, but immeasurably worse.
Dean fell. Went down hard onto hands and knees. Pain speared through his right wrist and he yelped and rolled, struggled back to his feet. Darkness teased and toyed, raised the hackles on his neck as distant light speared the darkness, and the soft whisper of air licked his sweat slicked skin. He jerked toward it, choked and panicked as darkness shaded to grey.
Shadows loped along the walls, long and thin, twisted and playfully sadistic. Dean felt wetness on his cheeks, licked cold by the frigid air. He turned toward the oncoming train, saw Ted still on the tracks, twenty feet away, standing stock still. Dean's heart thumped, pulsed against his ribcage, threatened to burst right out of his chest. Enough light now to see the walkway, to see that Sam really had gone. No long limbed, shaggy haired, blue lipped kid brother. Just sheets of paper, their edges flapping in the wind, the weapon's bag and shot gun.
The train rounded the curve of the tunnel as Dean reached Ted.
"Get off the track."
Ted regarded him with deliberate certainty. "I'm a part of this. She chose them because of me. I have to stop her."
"Not by killing yourself." Dean snagged the older man's grimy overcoat and wrenched him to the side. Ted came willingly, a touch too willingly Dean realized as Ted threw a punch that smashed him into the wall. His ears rang even as he retaliated, almost blinded by the light that speared the tunnel as the train bore down. He grabbed Ted and locked on. "No," Dean seethed. "You summon her again. You get her back. You don't get out of this now."
"It's too late."
"Don't say that. Don't you fucking dare!"
"Heghlu'meH QaQ jajvam. Today is a good day to die."
"No! You're Sam's only chance. You die and it's over."
Dean's words cauterized in his throat, burned hard and sharp somewhere in his trachea as the train bore down. Ted did not respond, and Dean probably would not have heard anyway because the train was so close now that Dean could taste the steel. He had a solid hold of Ted, a firm grip with one hand, but Ted was a slimy old bastard who had a history and skills that Dean did not understand. He targeted Dean's broken wrist even before Dean realized he could. Caught the injured limb and smashed it against the concrete wall.
Dean cried out, his knees jellied and his grip on Ted's overcoat loosened. Ted punched him again. The blow smashed Dean's head against the wall, muddied his consciousness and he fell, dazed, unable to resist as Ted kicked his legs to the side. He struggled weakly, flailed with one hand and caught the edge of what might have been Ted's overcoat. The contact severed when something snagged his broken wrist and clamped down, blending bones and flesh into a chaotic mix of blinding pain. He gasped and stiffened, barely stifling a cry as Ted pried free and pushed him away.
"I'm sorry," he heard the old man say as the train descended. Hundreds of tons of pressed steel and molded metal: cruelly uncaring of the fragility of the human form. He heard a wet thud, a dull formless sound and then the warmth of sprayed blood.
Dean choked and instinctively shied away, pulled closer to the concrete wall as sparked metal screeched within two feet of him. A sob caught low in his throat as the train sliced jagged blades through his already crumbling sanity. Pain and horror took Dean down, bled out his consciousness with a lethal certainty that denied resistance: Sam was gone and he was not coming back.
"You have to come with us."
Dean lay on his back on the concrete walkway, the subway tunnel walls looming overhead. He blinked and squinted as a face appeared in his field of view.
"Sir, get up."
Dean jerked and came upright, almost banging his head against the concrete wall as he did.
Two men stood before him, the one who had spoken leaned down and peered at him. "Are you injured?"
He stared, disoriented as memories swirled through his mind in dizzying fragments. He fingered his throbbing jaw even as he squinted and tried to put the confused jigsaw pieces into place. Still in the tunnel, the concrete walls daubed with hues of red. He stared dumbly before he realized that the light came from the rear of a train that quietly idled somewhere close. The last train, Dean thought dazedly.
"I'm dead, right?" He gestured toward the train. "And that's the train car to Hell."
The bushy headed blonde, a thin scar along one side of his face and his features weathered and aged, extended a hand. "No, you're not dead." He spoke softly in a harsh guttural sort of way. "But you do need to come with us."
"To where?" Dean prodded at his jaw then dropped his gaze to his denim clad legs, unsure of what he expected to see. Checked one more time before he stood, and then looked down again as he wobbled.
Blood. He remembered then, his clothes had been bathed in blood. He had felt it, the warm splash of Ted's evisceration. Dean's hand fell to his side, then of its own volition touched at his jacket and thighs. Came away clean. No blood, no gore.
"Sir, are you hurt?"
He patted again, bowed his head and peered through the red tinged light at his denim jeans and leather coat, plain blue shirt. Unmarked, unstained. Dean's muscles stiffened and his blood turned icy. What the hell had happened?
"Sir, if you refuse to come willingly, we will use force."
Dean back-stepped, banged into the concrete wall. Blood snaked through his veins, curdled and thick through organs and viscera, slowing his pulse, shadowing his vision. Ted's body had to be close, at least parts of it. Dean had felt the warm, coppery spurt of exsanguination – no way that evidence could have disappeared.
Dean shoved past the two uniformed men and stumbled onto the track. Red bathed the line, painted blood rich hues on the tunnel wall, lit the metal rails with an hematic glow.
"Sir."
"Where's Ted?" he spat out as he felt the two men draw near. He raised his head. "Where is he? If he's not dead, then where is he?"
The two men shared a glance, and the taller one, older by at least ten years, moved one hand behind his back, reached for something that Dean could not see.
"He's got to be here," Dean said. "Rat eaten khaki overcoat, hair like Santa Clause on a bender, eyes redder than—. No! Back off. Don't touch me!"
One of the men withdrew the object. A weapon. Looked like a pistol, but bulkier, squarer: taser.
Dean sneered, threw his hands in the air and shuffled back. "Find me Ted then I'll come. If he's dead then the carcass should be around here somewhere." He whirled in a full three sixty. "Can you see it? Be hard to miss. Just look for the severed head." He laughed then, though it sounded more like a demented cackle.
More shared glances. Unspoken communication. Dean ducked his head, his vision blurring. "He was with me. He was here. Here. Right here."
"There is no-one else with you, sir."
Cuffs appeared then, metal and shining. Blood red in the light, the glint catching Dean's eye, making him wince, making everything all the more gloriously horrific. "She'll put him back. It's what she does with all of them. But he'll be dead by then, so it doesn't really matter. I screwed up, I let him down. I failed. No! Dammit, stay back."
"Raise your hands over your head and turn around."
Dean raised his hands, grimacing at the throbbing in his wrist, the pain that speared right through to the centre of him. Nothing to what Sam would have felt when the train cut off his fingers. Dean's breath caught, ripped somewhere in his trachea and held, grew into a jagged, painful constriction that seemed sure to physically kill him. Another step back as the men moved closer.
They moved fast, a coordinated assault that whipped Dean's legs out from beneath him, threw him face down to the track, a knee in the small of his back. He let out a muffled cry as they caught his injured wrist, cinched it behind his back and snapped cold metal around it. The other the same. They marched him back to the train. All the way along the walkway, single file, to the front carriage. Pulled him into the train car, ordered a blonde girl and her dread-locked companion from a seat and pushed him into it.
"Stay."
The harsh command begged a retort, a stinging come-back, but Dean had nothing. He bowed his head, kept pressure on his wrist, working and twisting until the pain made him breathless. Still his mind whirred at a hideous pace: memories and facts. The bitter God-awful truth: Ted had killed himself and taken with him Dean's last hope of ever getting Sam back alive, in one piece… or at all.
"Is this the last train for the night?" His voice broke as he raised his head and made eye contact with the burly man who sat opposite, the second of the men who had apprehended him.
The man's eyes narrowed, then he slowly nodded. "What are you doing down here?"
"Why did you stop?"
"Frank thought he saw something on the track. Seems he was right. How on earth did you get down here?"
Dean lowered his gaze, his chin trembling. The last train. Melanie's reign over for another year. She must have released the shroud the moment she took Sam, made it possible for the train driver to see them. Dean shuddered, bit down on his lower lip because the pain through his wrist just wasn't enough. Coppery warmth touched his tongue as the train started off. He abruptly stood, braced his feet against the pitch and roll and again made eye contact with the burly attendant.
"Sit down."
"I can't," Dean said as the older man withdrew the taser and discretely rested it on his thigh.
The temptation to run, to attack, to do something just so the man would taser him, made Dean's flesh tingle. But it would not knock him out, just slow him down and he'd be back in his seat. And he couldn't… sit. Not now. Maybe not ever.
"I need to walk," Dean said, hating the quiet desperation, the heart-felt plea. "Please."
"Sit down."
"I'm cuffed, I can't do anything. I can't hurt anyone. I just need to walk. I can't sit here. I can't. I just can't."
"You on anything?"
"No."
"Strung out?"
"No."
A long pause, then the man leaned forward. "You're that kid they found in the tunnel the other night, with the other one and that drunk." He wet his lips, his gaze softening. "I heard about that and…." he trailed off, his expression searching. "Damn… that's rough."
Dean clenched his jaw to still his trembling chin and averted his gaze. Sam: his kid brother, the young man that Dean would sell his soul to keep safe, who he had fought his whole life to protect, was gone. And Dean had nothing left of him, nothing to bury, nothing tangible to mourn.
He sharply twisted the cuffs behind his back and made them dig in. The man's lips kept moving, but the white rush of blood against Dean's eardrums drowned out all sound and temporarily obliterated his memories.
He saw the taser move, lifted slightly, and figured there was some significance. A threat, a warning. Permission. Dean did not know. Did not care. Just had to move. So he did, stiffly, with precision jerkiness, knees locked at each weight bear. Reached the end of the carriage, and came to an abrupt stop when a hand curled around his upper arm.
"This carriage only."
Dulled panic edged in, made his senses crackle, his fingertips needle with an undefined sensation. He swallowed hard and peered into the next carriage. Almost empty, save for a middle aged couple, the woman's head lolled on her partner's shoulder. Asleep.
He took a step forward and the hand on his bicep tightened. He shrugged the grip and twisted away to avoid being grabbed for a second time. Backed into a corner, Dean panted heavily and struggled for composure. "I'm not… I can't…" He shakily drew in a full breath, grimacing as he twisted his bound hands behind his back.
"You need to sit down."
Dean shook his head, met the older man's gaze and read compassion and pity. His breath hitched as he jerked his head and looked into the next carriage. A low sob forced its way through his constricted larynx, came out as a pitiful, mortifying grunt – proof that he had lost more than he could possibly bear.
"Sammy," he breathed as he slid to the floor, unable to withhold a groan as his hand connected with the wall. He twisted his neck to stare into the next carriage. Things looked better in there. The air fresher, less constricting – less claustrophobic. Maybe in there he could breathe. Maybe in there he would wake from the nightmare, because no way could it be real.
He rose, using his elbows to gain leverage as the train swayed and the metal wheels squealed. He moved quickly, his self appointed body guard moved quicker.
"Don't make me tazer you," the man said, his mouth close to Dean's ear, his breath warm against the side of Dean's face.
Dean wanted anger, rage, desperate homicidal fury, but instead he got empty numbness, tears and a trembling lower lip. He forced his head up, met the older man's gaze and almost said something, but didn't because it hurt too damned much.
"Okay," the man relented, his eyes deep with pity. "But I'm staying with you."
That seemed a fair deal, so Dean sniffed, straightened his shoulders and moved into the next carriage. And then the next, and then the next. He didn't even realize he was searching until he heard voices that he recognized. One in particular, slightly high pitched and mocking. Dean quickened his step, grunted as the train took another curve that threw him of balance and jarred his hip into the side of the seat.
A hand touched his arm, he shook it off and entered the last carriage. Saw them then, the three thugs from only twenty four hours before: the night Sam had been taken. His hands clenched and his breathing grew shallow and focused. Before he could exact any homicidal fury, his attention jerked to the figure sprawled on the seat, and his eyes widened in stunned disbelief.
Ted.
Stinky, whiny, sniveling Ted. Scrappy shoes, stained overcoat, his soiled body rocking with every beat of the train's motion.
"What the hell?"
The three thugs stood over the drunkard, blocking most of Dean's view, and Dean could barely function let alone think. Images flashed through his mind, memories and sensations too horrible to process. Too many involved Sam, but Sam was gone and Ted was dead. So what the hell was this?
Dean's mind reeled and he backed up, nudged into the man who held a tazer against his back, but seemed to lack the will to use it. Dean muttered in silent horror as he stared at an image of mummified déjà vu. What was this? Ground Hog Day? A dream. Nightmare.
Frozen in paralyzed awe, Dean struggled to stop his mind from catastrophic meltdown. He scanned, breathlessly searching for Sam. Everything else looked the same, the thugs, the drunk… but no Sam.
"Got the picture, Grandpa?" the eldest youth drawled as he rifled through the old man's pockets. "Hey! Here she is. Woo hee, finest piece of ass I seen in a while."
Dean swallowed convulsively, breathing hard and fast, panicked shallow breaths that threatened hyperventilation.
"You should sit down," the man behind him said.
Dean flinched, jerked away, maybe he grunted, yelled, did something to attract attention because he found the three thugs staring at him. Not Ground Hog Day, Dean realized as the youth dropped the photo, wrenched his buddies almost off their feet and high tailed it toward the end of the carriage.
"Hey!" Dean's unwelcome shadow yelled. "Hey, you three, stop that."
Dean found himself shoved down, pushed into a seat, a tazer waved menacingly at him and some words that rushed past Dean's ears like a tidal wave, then the man turned on his heel and chased after the three thugs.
Ted.
Stinky, sniveling, whiny Ted. Back on the train. Impossible. Dean had felt him die. Had he been a ghost all along? A disembodied spirit just like his dead daughter. Working in tandem with his kid to lure victims to their deaths – working in tandem to kill Sam?
Dean pushed to his feet. The cuffs dug in, breached the violent attempts to break free as he closed the space between he and the son of a bitch that had taken his brother.
"Ted," he snarled, low and guttural. "You screwed up this time, buddy-boy."
He reached the seat, stood over the splayed out scourge of humanity, the white hospital gown just peeking past the stained overcoat. Dean's hands clenched, the metal restraints dug in, spiked pain through his forearm and cleared his mind. With a deliberate calm, he stepped up onto the seat opposite Ted, cocked his head to the side and narrowed his gaze.
"I'm guessing you can bleed. Feel pain. Suffer. And that bitch won't be back for you until next year."
He kicked the khaki coated figure, a boot into his back, hard enough to bruise. The man moaned, low and deep and Dean stilled, his shoe poised in mid air. His heart thumped and he almost toppled before awkwardly regaining his balance. Skin prickled and something nudged at his psyche, raised the hackles on the back of his neck, made his breath catch in his throat. The figure moved again, long legs beneath the stained over-coat. Longer limbs than Dean remembered. Ted had been just under six feet tall, but this man exceeded that. Dean froze, literally grew as still and as cold as stone. His gaze roamed, sucked up the sight of the figure before him, sorted and catalogued the visual stimuli as his heart pounded and blood rushed.
Shoulders: too broad.
An arm: too muscular.
Hair, the little he could now see: brunette, shaggy, not grey and wiry.
"Sammy," the name fell off his lips as he dropped from the seat, collapsed to the floor, jarred something in his hip, almost severed his consciousness with the pain that knifed through his wrist. He crouched before the man he recognized as his brother though he knew it could not be true. Sam looked wrong, smelled wrong and his presence defied all known logic, but Dean knew.
And so it seemed did Sam because the younger man raised his head before Dean could try to touch him. Sam looked exhausted, dull eyed, hair disheveled and his skin pale. But he breathed with a consistent soft regularity that told of exhaustion, not abnormality. Dean grinned despite himself then chuckled almost manically as he wriggled his hands in an attempt to free them. "Christ, you look like shit," he burst out as Sam blinked owlishly.
"Am I dead?" Sam asked, his voice deep with confusion.
Dean almost choked as he sucked in a relieved breath. He fell forward, forehead pressed against Sam's. His eyelashes fluttered against the bridge of his brother's nose. "No, you're not dead," he said breathily, "but freakin' hell dude, you stink."