Chapter Seven.
The radio up in Belle's bedroom had been playing Christian music when Sam had got up there, crossing the room to sit next to her on the bed, mirroring Isaac who was perched on the other side. Belle had taken up one of their hands each, repeating her tried and tested 'my handsome boys' line. Isaac had smiled adoringly, Sam had tried hard to follow.
But it wasn't right. Something still wasn't right.
Nor had it seemed right until the wind had blow in through the drapes and knocked the radio onto the floor, flipping the station to something that pounded out thrashing guitars, a hammering beat and screaming vocals, a tune that was familiar and comforting, a song that reminded him of…
Instantly Isaac had picked it up and turned it off, responding to his mother clamping her ears with her hands. She had let them drop again in the silence, laughing breathlessly,
"Bless me what a racket! It should be the Lord's word morning, noon and night and nothing else in my book. Horrible, horrible music."
"Metallica," Sam had put in suddenly, not knowing where it had come from but realising it had drawn troubled looks from his mother and brother, who had sent him off to bed soon after claiming he was still delirious from his head-knock. He didn't feel like he was, but then, where else would something so strange have come from?
He'd lain awake tossing and turning for hours, listening to the subtle sounds of the chair scraping against the floor in the kitchen, wondering why his thoughts kept going back to the man within it. What had finally driven him out of bed altogether however, was the sound of a crash from downstairs, followed by a muttered curse, both noises remarkably missed by Isaac and Belle who slept on unaware. He couldn't.
The first thing he saw as his feet touched the cold tiles of the kitchen floor, was the upturned chair lying on its side. Obviously the constant movement had made it give way, planting both seat and prisoner sideways onto the floor. Hence the cursing and the continued struggling. Sam ran his tongue across his lips,
"H – hey…do you know Metallica?"
Instantly the movement ceased, followed by a hiss half surprised, half irritated.
"Sam?"
"Answer the question."
The F.B.I agent paused and Sam could see the bound hands open wide in a what the hell gesture he was surprised he could instantly read,
"Yeah. I know Metallica," came the snapped reply,
Sam took a deep breath,
"So do I."
There was a vague pause, then a softer reply,
"Well, of course you do Sammy. I play enough of it."
"You really think my name is Sam?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
There was the sound of shifting wood accompanied by a grunt and then the voice, biting with sarcasm,
"Think you could sit me up before we start pouring our hearts out?"
Sam blinked, a slight smile tugging at the corner of his lips at the bitingly sarcastic tone. He liked it, somehow it felt, comforting.
He crossed the space between them quickly, grabbing hold of both the back of the chair and a handful of Dean's jacket, puling hard on them as he put considerable weight to the task. Both grunted, from a combined mixture of exertion and pain before the chair clattered back onto its four legs again, wrenching Dean forward with added pressure on his twisted arms. He winced, throwing up a grin,
"Don't suppose you want to untie me while you're at it?" In response he simply got a look; I don't trust you that much. He nodded, knowing defeat when he saw it, "Fine. Forget I asked."
"So…" Sam continued, in a much more Sammy-like tone, "Why do you think I'm you're brother?"
"I don't," came the succinct reply, drawing a frown,
"Don't what?"
"Think you're my brother."
The frown deepened,
"But you said – ,"
"I don't think you're my brother Sam," Dean sighed in world-weary tones, "I know you are. Hell, we've spent the last year and God knows how many months stuck in the car and in crappy motel rooms together."
His revelation was met with surprise,
"We have? Why?"
"Because…" Dean paused, raising his eyes to the ceiling as he tried to find the right words. Because we fight demons? Yeah, that wouldn't freak him out much. God knows the kid was already screwed up about things as it was, no need to make it worse, "We work together,"
Another frown,
"At the F.B.I?"
"No…" Dean thought hard, "We're more like…salesmen."
"Salesmen? What do we sell?"
"Services…" Dean replied slowly, "…I guess."
"Like satellite TV?"
"…Sort of."
Except nothing like that at all. Feeling the theme of the conversation come to an end, Sam dropped his head and sighed, clearly trying to process everything he was hearing.
"So, what's my name? My full name I mean,"
"Sam Winchester,"
"And yours?"
"Dean,"
"Dean…" Sam's eyes glanced across to the I.D abandoned on the table, "Di'Anno?"
The question drew a grin and Dean shook his head in amusement,
"No, Winchester. Di'Anno is my…stage name," he offered, "Like Paul Di'Anno, original lead singer for Iron Maiden, you know?"
Sam paused, surprise registering across his face,
"Yeah, actually I do."
Great, thought Dean sarcastically, he can't remember me, our job, anything but a random fact about Iron Maiden? Yeah, that he gets. Unbelievable. His mental rant however, was interrupted by the sound of a chair scraping across the floor and the sight of Sam sitting down heavily in front of him, F.B.I badge in one hand, thumb absently stroking across the photo of Dean's face.
"What are your…our parents like?" he asked gently, watching a small but genuine smile slip across the other man's features, "Are they…nice?"
"The greatest Sammy," It was a virtual whisper, cut-through with emotion and instantly Sam believed that they were.
"Yeah?" he asked, a smile of his own appearing, "What do they do?"
Dean faltered,
"They err…" the downcast eyes revealed the truth before he even got there. No point in lying about this one, "…they're dead."
It hit Sam like a soccer punch despite the fact that he didn't know them – didn't remember them anyway. The breath rushed out of him in a gasp,
"What? H – how?"
If Dean had thought losing Sam's memories to someone else was hard, then it was only because he hadn't been banking on this part. Dredging up the whole family history with the one person other than himself who should have known it inside out? Reliving the two times in his life his parents had died right in front of him. Still, this Sam – Jacob, didn't need to know the whole truth.
"The house burnt down when you were little," he took a long, deep breath, "Mom didn't get out."
"And…dad?"
"Car crash, couple of months back," just saying the words made Dean clamp his teeth down on his lip, biting his emotions away through pain.
Sam look shell-shocked,
"I – I'm sorry."
"Yeah."
"Was I – ," he paused suddenly, aware that the next question seemed almost like prying into a stranger's life but so confused it was as if he had to know, "Was I happy? Being Sam?"
Dean looked up at him, not willing to lie and, honestly feeling more emotionally drained than he had in months.
"Not always."
"But enough?"
Dean met his gaze,
"I hope so. A Hell of a lot happier than you'll ever be here with that pair of freaks,"
Abruptly Sam looked up, loyalty flashing in his eyes. Dean knew the look well, it was usually loyalty for him that triggered it. This time it wasn't.
"Don't talk about them like that!" he replied, tone taking on an edgy of moodiness, "You don't know them,"
"Neither do you Sam!" Dean hissed as sharply as he could against the silence of the rest of the house,
"I – I do!" his younger brother shot back, although the uncertainty of the reply spoke volumes,
"Oh yeah?" Dean countered, sensing the hesitance, "What's your first memory of them?"
He waited with his eyebrows raised expectantly, not surprised when an idea failed to be forthcoming. Sam caught his scepticism, hurrying to explain for both their sakes as his head spun in fear. He couldn't remember anything.
"I – I hit my head and – ,"
The answer didn't wash.
"Come on Sam!" Dean snapped instead, "You can't remember jack about those people because before two days ago you'd never met them! That creepy old broad has never done one damn thing for you in her life – she didn't raise you, she didn't cook your meals, she didn't walk you to school, she didn't read you bedtime stories, none of it!"
Sam felt his brows knit together in frustrated anger, suddenly annoyed by the gaps in his memories, worried that he was doubting what little he knew.
"Yeah?" he interjected hotly, determined to make Dean trip-up so that he could settle the issue once and for all, "Well since your mother is already dead and you think mine's so bad maybe you want to tell me who did all that for your Sam?!"
The answer did anything but prove his point, flashing across the kitchen loud and frustrated,
"I did!"
They both paused, a shocked silence settling across the room. Finally Sam swallowed,
"You did?" he asked with a frown of amazement, "You did all that for…me?"
Dean shrugged awkwardly, avoiding eye contact in the sudden show of emotional touchy-feely-ness which for him was uncomfortable at the best of times,
"Well, yeah Sam, you're my little brother. What was I supposed to do?"
It wasn't a question that needed answering, which was probably just as well, because at that moment there was the sound of footsteps on the landing above that sent Sam straight to his feet, eyes wide in panic. For both their sakes, he simply could not be found down there. Dean knew it too, nodding his head towards a gap behind the door,
"Don't worry about them. Go."
Sam paused, hesitantly, gaze swinging back to the battered but stoic man before him.
"What are you going to do?"
The answer was simple,
"Give you time to get your ass back upstairs where they think it is."
The stairs were creaking now, under the heavy tread of someone, which given Belle's light frame was probably Isaac. Sam paused again,
"But what about – ,"
"I'll be fine Sam. It's not like I'm going anywhere anyway." Despite his best efforts that was. Still his brother seemed uncertain,
"You're sure?"
The footsteps were closer now, louder.
"Yes. Go!" Dean snapped, suddenly hissing one last instruction to his confused sibling, "Sam!"
"What?"
"If you're still not convinced check the basement. You're not the first Jacob this family has had in the last year, hell, you're not even the original," his expression grew frightening serious, "They're going to kill you Sam."
He didn't have time to reply, even though he was dying to, because at that moment the footsteps hit the floor of the hallway and Sam was forced to squash himself out of sight in the gap behind the open doorway, watching as a lean figure wandered past him into the kitchen and came to a standstill before Dean chuckling mirthlessly.
"Talking to yourself, pig?" Isaac smirked in the half-gloom, drawing one of Dean's rebellious smiles,
"No, just saying my prayers like a good boy,"
"You're going to need to," Isaac replied, his focussed attention allowing Sam the opportunity to escape unseen, albeit with a prompting glare from Dean. Isaac continued unawares, bending in so uncomfortably close to his captive that Sam half-paused on the threshold of the room in alarm before being sent on again with a firm look, "God doesn't like filthy pig sinners,"
Dean kept his face poker-straight, watching Sam disappear out of the corner of his eye.
"From what I remember he's not keen on murderers either."
The sound of Isaac's fist connecting first with face and then chest echoed out into the hall where Sam stood halfway up the steps, heart pounding with a strange amount of concern. He couldn't remember anything about this 'Dean Winchester' or the life he claimed the pair led, but something in him left him deeply concerned about his welfare. He didn't want him hurt – but then, what could he do against his mother and brother? He may not have been able to remember much about them, but he knew they were to be obeyed at all times. Going against them just wasn't an option. Was it?
From the kitchen he heard Isaac speak up again, voice now a taunting whisper,
"You're going to get yours in the morning pig," he hissed, a sigh of relief escaping Sam's lips as a sarcastic – if not a little winded – voice answered him back evenly,
"Can't wait."
Isaac snorted then, turning on his heel and heading out of the kitchen back into the front room. Sam heard him coming, taking the remaining steps two at a time as he headed upstairs before him, just managing to slip into bed as the curly-haired outline walked past in the dark, pausing to swing open his door and peer in to satisfy himself that Sam really was asleep. The acting obviously convinced him but instead of shutting the door again, he left it wide open and padded across to his also open doorway leaving Sam to curse quietly. There was no way he could chance going downstairs again tonight with Isaac both awake, cautious and in such close proximity.
Both Dean and the basement would have to wait until the morning. If he went at all of course, which was something he was still debating with himself. Why believe the man anyway? Surely that was a better question to ask himself than what's in the basement?
Sighing, he set his jaw and placed his head on the pillow, trying to quell the swirling doubt and confusion in his mind and replace them with sleep, telling himself the same things over and over.
It could wait until the morning.
It was probably all a lot of nonsense anyway.
Maybe it was true…
Sleep was a long time coming.
Another day, another chapter and we're slowly starting to build towards the big showdown! Thanks again for all my lovely smile-inducing reviews, they were lovely to come home to after a bizarre and freezing cold day at work! Please keep them coming!