A/N: There's cussing in this one. Cover your ears, young'uns.

Chapter 10 – not the poster boy for normal

I jerk myself awake some time later. Don't know how long I was out. I can still hear Dark scratching around inside my head, but I can't make out the words.

We're sitting on the shoulder of the road again. The engine's running, and the headlights are on. I blink a couple of times, and for a moment I think things never changed. Then I look over at the driver's side. Dad's sitting there looking at me.

And he's got his pocket knife in his hand.

My throat's dry. I sit up as straight as I can. "Yeah? What?" Damn, I sound like one'a those frogs on those Saturday morning cartoon shows I used to watch with Sam.

Dad quirks an eyebrow at me. He's staring at my eyes again. Then: "Figured it's time to cut you loose."

"Huh?" I blank out for a moment. He's gonna ditch me after all this?

"Dean," Dad says quietly, and he motions downward.

I look down and yep, I'm still duct-taped up like a bad care package at Christmas. "Oh."

"You're not gonna try to kill me, are ya?" Dad says calmly.

I freeze up then. "Uh….no."

"Good." Dad leans in and starts cutting me loose. I take a deep breath as soon as the tape's off, stretch my arms and legs as much as I can. I don't wanna get out of the car. Not gonna get out of the car.

If I do, he might…he might leave me.

"You okay?"

"Yeah." Everything feels awkward now. I turn sideways on the bench seat, towards the window. I hunch my shoulders up, pull the collar of my jacket around my neck. I want to ask him. Want to ask Dad what he sees when he looks at me, why he keeps staring at my face and eyes.

I don't though. I don't think I could stand hearing the wrong answer: "I'm just looking at the damn fuck-up who almost got me killed tonight?"

Don't know where that came from. It comes quick and it goes out even quicker. I'm tired, and when I close my eyes I don't dream. It's all black, and that's a good thing.

I can sleep anywhere, no matter how noisy it is. That used to drive Sam apeshit. He'd huddle there all annoyed and anxious, and I'd curl up in a corner and catch a quick nap. Noise doesn't bother me, and I can't tell you how many times I've dozed off with the television blasting, or jackhammers going off at a construction project next door or down the street.

Yeah, I'd laugh every single time when I saw how prissy Sam got. Hey, that's what big brothers do, all right?

I can't hear my girl's engine anymore, even in my sleep. It's too quiet all of a sudden, and I open my eyes.

It's still dark outside. We're not moving. I'm looking at the farmhouse, and it doesn't look like much from the outside. Two stories, wooden porch railings, white siding. Look in the dictionary; there's a picture of this place by the word "country." There's even a large red wooden barn over to the side, and could that be any more of a damn cliche?

I heard that our client used it as a country home, and after Dad and I did that job for her she had the place remodeled just a bit, just for us. Usually we never get paid, and we never get thanked, but sometimes we do all right. Sometimes.

"Okay, bud. Let's go." Dad opens up his door and pushes himself out. Takes me a little while longer to move; I'm stiff and sore and as soon as I open the door and stand up I feel both knees buckle. I yawn and stretch and try to play it off as I hold onto the door frame.

Did I fool him? Hell no. Fool Dad? My Dad? He shoots me this look and says, "I'll get the kit."

Crap.

I know as soon as we get inside he's going to want to play medic, and right now I don't feel like being touched. I've had enough, at least for tonight. I try not to snap but when I answer him my voice is rougher and angrier than I intend it to be: "Thanks anyway, I can do it myself."

Dad stops, tilts his head to one side. He stares at me, and I stare right back at him.

I'm not a kid anymore. Jesus. I can tend to my own wounds.

I break eye contact first as I turn to get my duffel out of the back bench seat. I know I'm being stubborn but I don't give a rat's ass. After the shit I've been through tonight I think I'm entitled to throw a bitch fit.

Dad walks back to the trunk and pulls out the medical kit. He walks to the front door jiggling the keys. I grab his duffel and limp after him.

This is my second time coming up here and there's a lot more to the place on the inside. We've got all the comforts of home and then some. Dad makes a beeline for the kitchen, and I follow him as he goes through the place, switches on the lights in the hallway and the rooms as we pass.

The kitchen's fully stocked, and so is the large pantry with canned goods and stuff. I can cook a little…used to fix meals for me and Sam. Used to cook for Dad when he was home. Dad can't cook worth a damn. He'll burn water, and the only time I ever saw him slaving over a hot stove was when he was melting down silver for bullets.

He puts the kit on the table, goes into one of the overhead cabinets and pulls out this big-bellied blue plastic bottle.

Dad puts it on the table in front of me and it's my turn to look at him funny.

"Holy water," he says simply.

I put my hand out and he puts his hand on the neck, nods at the doorway behind me. "Through there. Bathroom."

I stop and look at the bottle like it's gonna jump off the table and bite me. Flexible plastic, long neck, just wide enough to stick up my -- oh.

Shit.

I pull my hand away. "T-That's an enema?"

Fuck, why is my voice squeaking?

"Yep." Dad doesn't blink.

I swallow hard, and my throat and my mouth go dry as a bone. Dad's shoulders start shaking even though he's still got that hole in his shoulder. He flinches a little and stops, but he's still enjoying the hell out of this.

"Just go inside and drink it, Dean," he rumbles. He's just so damn amused.

"Uh, that's not another spew drink, is it?"

"No. Just holy water."

When I reach out for the bottle Dad still doesn't move his hand. He looks me directly in the eyes. "You need to shower," he says, and I recognize the tone. It's not a suggestion, it's an order.

"You know what to use. After that come back out here and I'll patch you up."

I just stare at him. The weight of my clothes hurts my skin. Hell, the weight of air against my skin bothers me.

All I do is blink at him.

"Dean? Did you hear what I said?"

"Yessir." I sway on my feet a little, to the side. Dad's eyes flicker and darken at the slight movement and he frowns. He raises one eyebrow.

"Do you need me to help you?"

Oh, God. Oh hell no. I shake my head and drop his duffel at my feet. I slide my game face into place and keep it there. Last thing I need is to have Dad decide it's time for a father-son heart to heart gabfest. Sam's the one who does emo, and damn it, he's not even here.

Once I'm inside it takes me a while to take off my jacket and the rest of my clothes.

I drink the whole bottle in one chug. It's lukewarm, and it tastes okay. After a minute my eyes widen as something hot and nasty rumbles back up out of my stomach and up my throat, and wouldn't you just know it, it's pea soup time again. I manage to slam the toilet seat up and back in time, and I'm half-kneeling, slipping and sliding on tiptoe, gripping the sides of the porcelain throne. My throat feels like my insides are about to come sliding up and out of my mouth, and my ass is clenched tight.

Oh yeah, this is the perfect way to end a sucktastic evening.

Just as I think I couldn't hurl any more, as I'm staggering to my feet my body decides to pull a switch and I piss so much green water I wonder if I could ever drink enough holy water to actually piss on a demon. Might try that next time.

Shower next.

It's not a steam shower, but it'll do. The shower head is one of those expensive brass jobs the size of a dinner plate. Adjustable swing arm. Turn the water on full force, and you've got your own personal monsoon. Sweet.

The bathroom is stocked with expensive, high end items, just like you'd find in a luxury hotel. Thick towels, all kinds of shampoos, soaps, shower gels and hair conditioners. I pull the caps off several bottles and wrinkle my nose at the smell. Girly.

Sam would love this crap. That's when I realize that he's never been here, and he didn't believe me about how nice the place was when I told him about it.

I look over the rest of the bottles, and the ones I settle on smell good, not too wussy. I grab a bottle of the shower gel and a bottle of the shampoo and step into the shower.

One of the water valves is marked "Holy water."

Well, hell. I'd forgotten about that one.

I'm kind of leery using it, seeing as how just drinking the damn stuff went, but I know Dad'll get after me if I don't use it. Besides, I'd rather not have any souvenirs from the rec center after tonight. If I don't use the holy water I might have to deal with the gift that keeps on giving, whatever the hell that would be. No thanks. I turn the holy water on lukewarm and at half force and stick my hand in.

It tingles a little. Doesn't feel bad at all, and there's a slight mist coming out of my skin. I angle the showerhead back, then I walk over to the wall and I turn the spray up some more. The water hits my upper back and shoulders, runs down my chest and legs. I put my palms against the wall for support, and lean into the spray. I close my eyes, lower my head, and let out the breath that I've been holding in.

The muscles in my back and shoulders loosen up. I don't want to move, but I know I'm going to have to, sooner or later. The water flows down my back and my legs in one solid sheet of warm slickness, and it feels good, warm. Not like fingers, or lips.

Or teeth.

I focus on the sound of the water, and it doesn't help. I can still hear all the shit going on inside my head. It's like a room full of crazy drunk people all trying to get my attention all at once.

When I turn around and put my back to the wall there's blood in the water going down the drain. It's not coming from me.

Anne Marie's here.

She looks so damn small now. She's pushed herself into the far corner of the stall, and for some reason I decide to walk towards her. I forget that I'm naked as the day I was born, and she doesn't even notice that. She starts sobbing as she tries to back into the wall, now she's halfway in and halfway out, eyes wide and watery, mouth stretched out as she cries and wails silently. Her hair is a mass of long wet bloody strings on either side of her face. She rocks back and forth and I decide to stop when I'm a few feet away from her. I kneel down and she cringes.

She's afraid.

She's afraid of me.

"I'm sorry," I whisper to her. "I never meant for you to get hurt. I never meant any of this. You deserved better..." She's sobbing harder now, and I don't even know if she even hears me. "You have to go now. You have to move on. It's over."

I kneel there, watching her, and the more she sobs the more transparent she gets, until finally she's gone.

Just like that.

I stay there, staring at the spot in the wall a little longer, then I stand up. I stand under the shower head and this time I turn the water on full force.

I try to focus on the good stuff. Mom. Dad. Sammy. My family before the fire.

Believe it or not, at one time my family did normal. The only salt we had in the kitchen was a small box that Mom used to cook with. I remember this bracelet she showed me one time. It had five charms on it, a cross, a pentagram and some other charms. I can't remember what they were now.

I close my eyes, put my face into the shower spray, and the light, clean smell of Mom's hair comes back to me. I remember how her face lit up whenever she looked at me, how she felt when she hugged me. I remember how I felt.

I felt normal. I was safe.

Everything was good. I remember that.

I used to ride shotgun in the Impala with her. We'd go shopping, or just joyriding, to the park, or just out.

I'd play ball with Dad in the backyard. Dad seemed lighter and brighter those days, too. He'd come into my room after working at the garage and I'd get a bear hug from those big arms of his without even trying. He'd ruffle my hair and make me laugh. "Hey, Bud," he'd say, "what you been up to today?" He'd get all solemn as I tried to tell him, like what I was saying was the most important stuff he'd ever heard.

And Sam? Well, he was just Sammy. Too small to do anything but lay in his crib. I used to follow Mom around and just sit there and watch her feed him or wash him up in that kiddie bathtub of his. I'd pull a small chair up to his crib, stand up on it, lean in and let Sam grab my fingers. Kid had a hell of a grip even then.

No way Sam could fit into that little wash tub now. Sasquatch comes in really small packages. Who knew?

He doesn't remember that time. I think he's the lucky one. Sam doesn't even know that I was the one that carried him out of the house that night, not Dad. You can't miss what you don't remember, but Sam does. I don't know why.

I know how quickly normal can be taken from you. In a fucking heartbeat.

After Mom died I didn't talk to anyone or anybody for a while. I thought maybe if I kept quiet that she'd come back, y'know? I made a lot of wishes inside my head. Hey, I was four, all right?

I wished that Dad didn't look so sad and lonely. I wished that we had a home again. I wished that Mom would come walking into Pastor Jim's rectory where we stayed after the fire, and she's alive and beautiful and smiling, her arms opened wide, saying, "It's all right, it was just some silly misunderstanding. I want my boys to come home with me right now."

Sometimes, I wish...

I wish…

Wish in one hand and shit in the other and see which one fills up first.

My skull's wide open, and I can't stop this crap from coming out.

By the time I wash my hair and come out of the shower my fingers have pruned up and I feel almost clean again. I said almost. I still don't feel quite right in my head.

My mouth tastes like the bottom of a birdcage. I finish off the festivities by gargling with holy water, then I brush my teeth and finish off with mouthwash. Thank God, no more puking…I'm damn sick of the color green.

I towel off, pull on a clean pair of black boxer briefs and head for the kitchen.

I don't really want to, but I got no other place to go.

Dad's got the medical kit open on the kitchen table, and a chair's already been pulled out for me to sit in. From the look of him he's already cleaned himself up, clothes and all, and now he's got his sleeves rolled up. For a moment I get pissed off at him, because he's acting like there was no way I would disobey one of his orders.

Then I get pissed off at myself. I don't know where this damn mood is coming from.

I sit down in the chair and watch as Dad pulls out several thick cotton pads and a bottle of hydrogen peroxide out of the medical kit.

"Um...have you seen Sam lately?" I try to sound casual, and my voice sounds hoarse.

Dad's face lights up briefly with a grin. "Two weeks ago. On campus. Why?"

I sound casual about it. "Just wondering." I look past Dad, pretend I'm so damned interested in the painted tiles over the kitchen sink as he steps close to me.

The scratches on my neck, back and shoulders are too shallow for stitches. That gouge on my left calf will probably need some, or at the least, surgical super glue. Bruises? I've got em, all over. Bite marks on my neck and shoulder. A nice goose egg on my right temple.

I bow my head and close my eyes as Dad works the peroxide in. I'm so used to this I don't even flinch as the peroxide bubbles up into streaks of stinging white foam on my skin. Dad's heavy handed with it, but him being that close to me, touching me, doesn't bother me.

I open my eyes when I he pokes at my ribs.

Hurt me.

Bastard's hurt me enough tonight. I'm fucking sick and tired of this…

My eyes narrow, my head cocks to one side slightly, and I hear myself growl deep in my throat. Dad stops and looks at me, frowning. The next thing I know he's blocking my punches and we're both on our feet moving backwards and I'm trying to force him into a corner.

I don't even remember getting up.

"Dean – "

I never stop hitting him. He keeps blocking me, and it's not fair, I want to hurt him. Somehow Dad slips a good one in and hits me in the face. My head rocks back and I see white stars, and then he's behind me, he wraps his arms around me tight, pins my arms to my sides and that scares me, he's behind me and I can't get him off me, and I hear him saying, "Dean, it's all right, son, it's me," and I can't fight my way clear.

I know it's you. That's the whole damn problem. I want to say that out loud, but I'm so pissed off feels like I'm strangling.

Dad sweeps my legs out from under me with his foot and we end up on the floor and he's holding me tight and I can't get up, I can't get away and it dawns on me that the last time he held me close like this was when I was four, right after Mom, after Mom...

"..sorry…" I shake my head as the words tumble out of my mouth. "…'m so fucking sorry…"

Dad starts rocking me, slowly, gently, the way Mom used to when I'd wake up from a bad dream. I'm shaking and trembling and he tells me that it's all right, tells me to relax, over and over again.

I can't.

I want to.

I won't.

I start shaking and trembling as the adrenaline rush leaves me. Everything turns white and the last thing I feel is Dad's arms around me, holding me up, holding me tight.

Next chapter will be posted Sunday.