Dean steps out into the early morning sunlight, shielding his eyes and then making his way to the car to retrieve his sunglasses. His eyes feel old and gritty, his limbs worn and lethargic, and the early morning Nebraska sunlight is blinding, disorientating.
He feels old and hungover, the constrictive heat and lack of sleep taking its toll. Staying at a Super 8 has its perks though, number one amongst them being free coffee in the morning and Dean plans to take full advantage. Making his way to the reception he contemplates the days action - interviewing witnesses, checking out the hospital and all that boring crap he kinda considers to be the hunting equivalent of paperwork. Pencil pushing and menial labour, and all shit better left to wannabe-lawyer -Sam. He who used to drool over the idea of a life of paperwork.
Walking in the reception door, he's suddenly met with the frigid air being pumped out of the air conditioning system - pure bliss in other words - and he leans back against the door, eyes closed and sloppy smile playing on his lips. Man, if he could just bring his bed in here to sleep. . . Maybe he'd be getting more than three hours a night. He hasn't had anything resembling a full nights sleep since before the djinn attacked, and god knows he hasn't exactly been getting his eight hours in a lot longer than that. If ever. Caffeine, a mans best friend.
Grabbing two cups of coffee from the 'continental' breakfast stand he winks at the girl behind the counter. Young, short, red-headed and inexplicably hot, her raspy 'Morning Sir,' sends his blood rushing south quicker than he can voice a response, and she smirks at his fluster. He blames the heat - making him act like a desperate teenager, unsure and jumpy in his own skin.
'Good morning yourself,' he croons, attempting to get his wits about him, leaning on the counter and eyeing her up how he knows they like. It's all a matter of practice, a matter of façade, and no matter how awkward he suddenly feels, he's done this dance too many times before to falter. Set 'em up and knock 'em down.
'I love the set-up you got goin' on in here, it's hotter than Hell outside already,' he adds with a slow grin, as if he knows the intimate lick of Hellfire against his skin and she's the only who can douse the flame. She's the one flushing now, reaching up to swipe an imaginary strand of hair from her face, biting at her lip as she tries to decide what to say. He follows her eyes as they dart around the room, looking anywhere but at him. She finally rests her eyes on his face and she blushes deep and hard as she offers, 'You could hang out in here for a while if you want? Enjoy the air con? I know it don't work in the rooms for shit,' she half mumbles, half stutters, and he wants to say yes, wants to hang out and drink coffee, but there's an evil monster slaughtering half of Lincoln - and if he doesn't stop it, no one else is gonna.
He reluctantly calls a rain check, and his pathetic 'I'm actually on duty right now sweetheart,' falls flat, sounding like a lie even to his ears. He turns and leaves quickly, and the slam of hot air outside leaves him breathless, the coffee suddenly burning his hands.
Why did he want coffee in the first place? The idea seems ludicrous now as he makes his way to the motel room, sweat dripping down his back and pooling at the waist of his jeans as he walks. His head feels muzzy again, like the heat has sucked out every coherent thought and his mind repeats a mantra, the only words he can seem to remember; shower, coffee, Sam, shower, coffee, Sam.
And even through the fog he's annoyed, because its always there, always on a repeat, just out of earshot, invading every conscious thought; SamSamSamSamSamSam - and he knows now more than ever that it will never fade away.
XXXXXX
The shower and coffee do little to shake him out of his funk, and minutes after towelling off he's sweat damp again, and the official looking suit he has laid out on his bed looks more like an ancient torture method than disguise. He's cranky, he's tired, and the mere sound of Sam showering has him on edge.
To his credit though, Sam had rolled out of bed when Dean had finished his shower with a sheepish look, and a practised apology already playing on his lips, clearly feeling guilty for his bust-up the night before.
'Don't even,' Dean had stopped him before he could even start, halting the guilty, gushing apology he knew was coming. Sam had needed space, Dean had needed space, that was it, end of story. Dean was all too aware of Sam's late night deal-breaking study-sessions, and he was just glad that Sam was possibly out getting a little nookie instead of crying into his mythology books again. The look he pressed on Dean as he made his way into the shower was familiar though, one worn by Dean himself the entire year coming up to Sam's High School graduation. The old 'please don't run away while my back is turned', and the same one that will never do either of them any good.
Pulling on the dress pants and shirt, Dean feels the fatigue of months of late nights cramping his muscles and weakening his bones. His movements are slow and stilted, every shuffle around the room drawing fresh sweat from his pores. He feels like he's swimming through the air and by the time Sam gets out of the shower, he feels like he needs to get back in - if only to cool down. Shrugging into his suit jacket, he grabs the victims notes made the night before and makes his way out the Impala. The air conditioning might be temperamental at the best of times, but Dean's known his baby all his life, and knows how best to coax out a few blasts of cold air.
Sam as usual, takes ten times longer to get ready than the average guy - all that hair - and Dean's been enjoying the air conditioning for about fifteen minutes before he slips into the passenger seat. Tossing his notes into his general direction, Dean starts spouting facts; twenty-two patients in St. Marys, all between the ages of twenty-three and fifty-five, all male, all catatonic. He points out lists of family members likely to talk, and other possible victims of the same beast - the murder-suicides, the vandalism - all most likely originating from the same source, but without adequate evidence nothing can be certain.
Rounding up his explanations he keeps his eyes steadily trained in front of him. He can feel the weight of Sam's gaze on him and he doesn't care to turn around and see it for himself - these days he never knows what he's gonna get from Sam, and he's in no hurry to figure out what flavour it is today. Clearing his throat, Sam asks hesitantly, 'Any ideas on what it is yet?' And no is the resounding answer, and the snarky, 'but maybe we would know if you'd stuck around last night,' dies in his throat. Ten months to live and he's officially lost the will to snark.
The air-conditioning ticks off and Dean roars the Impala to life, skidding as he turns on the highway. Distantly he wonders if the receptionist saw them leaving, saw the suits and thinks he wasn't lying after all, but really he doesn't care and he focuses his mind on the job. CDC investigators, St. Marys hospital, this is your life.
Sam seems impressed with Dean's notes, shuffling through them again and again, making approving noises over random facts of information until Dean snaps and slams his hand on the steering wheel. The movement takes them both by surprise, and Sam looks startled, like a deer caught in headlights and at the same time completely unsurprised, like this freak out has been a long time coming. He reaches forward to place a hand on Dean's arm, eyes dewy and concerned, asking 'Are you okay man?' and Dean nearly blows a gasket, shouting now, 'Yeah I'm fucking okay Sam, I'm mother fucking fantastic. I did this shit for three years without anybody, let alone you,' and that word is spat out like its acid on his tongue, 'so you can stop looking at my notes like it's my first hunt ever, and haven't I done a good job by myself?' he bangs the car door in protest, anger boiling hot in his chest, Sam has no idea what its like, 'Hasn't the idiot stepped up to the plate this time? I can fucking function without you!' And by this stage he's breathing like crazy, white knuckling the steering wheel, and don't let that game face slip Dean-o.
For his part, Sam looks rightfully mollified, and he withdraws quickly from Dean before turning to face out the passenger window. They make a quiet journey to the hospital, no music, no distraction to cut through the growing tension, the unfurling resentment.
XXXXXX
Impersonating a CDC representative in such a panicked city should be harder, but maybe it makes sense that their Ids are hardly checked, and that they're ushered in to meet the patients and the doctors in charge with hardly a once over. Panic and worry and a sense of failure are powerful motivators, and such strong emotions sometimes cancel out all else, all internal indicators of right and wrong. Dean should know.
The Doctor that greets them is grim, introducing himself as Jim Connolly, but just Jim is fine, and they reach forward to grip his hand in a practised firm handshakes, teamed with sincere eye contact. Dean's learned the hard way that the weaker you appear, the faster you're found out - cockiness, in the business of deception is a necessity. Sam starts the questioning, his leather-bound lawyer notebook in hand as Dean canvases the room. Standard industrial paint on the walls, beige tile, beige carpet, white coats. Anyone could go crazy in here and Dean wouldn't judge 'em one bit. There's fifteen people in the room total, all in hospital gowns, all completely - well, catatonic. Whatever that means, cause fuck if Dean are sitting, some standing, but all are just . . .staring at nothing, some moving slightly, others blandly staring at the walls. Its unnerving. In a room full of people, Dr. Just-Call-Me-Jim and Sam are the only ones making noise.
He tunes back in to the conversation. Sam has a full page of notes, and Dean hasn't heard a single word.
'So are you still receiving patients? Has the spread of the infection sped up or slowed down in your opinion?'
'Well, I mean it has slowed down - we were getting, three, four patients a day for the first few days and now we're usually getting one every day and a half, but really - that's still too much.' Jim looks uneasy at that, running a hand through his hair and rubbing it down his face. He looks tired, his hair is greasy - he probably hasn't left here in a few days. Dean can understand the dedication, wonders not for the first time if he would've been a good doctor, saving people, hunting down microscopic evil bad guys.
Yeah, in an alternate universe he and Sam would've been the doctor and the lawyer. How respectable.
And once again he's zoned out, and has missed another page of notes. He clears his throat to ask a question, and belatedly realises it's the first thing he will have said since walking into the hospital. Both Sam and Jim stop and look over at him, and he can feel sweat bead under his collar beneath the pressure of their gazes, the now familiar nervous energy making him stutter, lose focus.
'I was just wondering, have any of them, y'know . . .made any contact with the outside world?' and he sweeps his arm in the general direction of the hospital room, encompassing the entire motley crew, the entire room of stilled life.
'No,' the doctor exhales on a sigh. 'And it's killing us. There's no reason, no trauma. They all lived separate lives, they all lived their lives and now for no reason they've just . . .stopped.'
Sam's up again, another question already on his tongue, and what a lawyer he would've been, could still be. 'There's absolutely nothing connecting them? No shared past times, hang outs, nothing?'
They're grasping at straws here, something has to be there, something always is. And just as he's getting frustrated, about to firmly brand this 'A Giant Waste Of Time', the break they've been hoping for gets delivered on a silver platter; 'Some patients have been reported as having nightmares in the days before the. . .catatonia struck, but I assure you we've dismissed that entirely as symptomatic of the disease. Or infection. Or whatever the fuck this thing is. Best guess is that some of them ran a low grade fever before. . .before it struck.'
Nightmares. Jackpot. This job just became a walk in the park. Or, y'know, a slow hike up a steep mountain.
He looks at Sam and Sam looks at him, and then Sam clears his throat and shakes Jim's hand and says, 'Thank you, we'll be in touch, you've been a great help. We'll do all we can.' And with that, they're off, another bad guy about to bite the dust.
XXXXXX
The diner they stop at for lunch is the same as any other in the continental US, and somehow different, more depressing. The laundrette and beautician on either side of it are long closed, and only the liquor store at the end of the strip remains open. The menus are sticky, the counters are crumby and the red vinyl benches have holes in the fabric, stuffing poked and pulled out by some bored kids long ago.
Reading a menu is superfluous, the options familiar - the menu of a lifetime. Some people have favourite dinners made by a parent, mac and cheese from a Kraft box, chicken and gravy made from scratch, and Dean has bad burgers and soggy fries, a side of bacon and extra cheese - the quality changes, the effect never does.
The diner is only cooled by several small fans, and the effect is nauseating. The recycled air is stuffy and heavy, the scent of fried foods and old grease clinging to his skin, his clothes and creeping down his throat. He's tired, he wants to get out of here, finish the job and get on the road. Kill something and collapse into bed.
They choose a booth at the back and Dean slides into the bench backing the wall, taking in his surroundings. There's eight other people in the diner; a family of three and two guys sitting at the counter, two waitresses, one cook. Resting his head on the back of the booth, he lets the sounds of the diner wash over him - knives and forks crashing against plates, orders shouted to the cook, the baby crying in the booth by the door - and he forces himself to acclimate, to snap out of his funk, to stop freaking out, to wake the fuck up. Whatever it is, it needs to stop,
Their waitress comes by, mid-forties and living paycheck to paycheck - the roots visible in her hair, the ladder in her tights and her dollar-lipstick say more about her than her easy grin and bright blue eyes - but Dean's never been one to pick fault, certain in the knowledge that the scars on his knuckles and bags under his eyes say a lot more about him to the world than he'd care for it to know. He smiles back, as sincere as he gets and orders a cheeseburger, cheese fries, and to hell with it, a chocolate milkshake. Comfort food of a childhood spent on the road, a heart attack on a plate.
Her, 'Sure thing hon,' followed by a wink and a smile that's anything but genuine has him on edge, and suddenly he's right back to where he was in the morning with that receptionist, uneasy, heart beating too fast against his chest. Sam orders, 'Just a Caesar salad for me ma'am, and a water too, thanks,' and he's grinning too, slow and easy with dimples on show. Dean feels like reaching across the table and shaking him, shaking some sense into him - 'Don't trust her! We don't know her man, look away!' - but he pulls himself together, and offers a parting smile to Candy, and my oh my, but what a name for a forty-year-old waitress.
She turns on her heel with a smile and is hollering their order to the cook by the time Dean's got his breathing under control. Sam's looking at him oddly, like that's something new, and he wants to punch him in the face, or at least flick him on the nose to get him to stop. goddam. staring.
While they wait, they discuss the more mundane aspects of hunting - cash left, rounds they need to stock up on, who's turn it is to clean the Impala and so on, gradually turning to talk about Jo and her latest struggle with a Wendigo that left her e-mailing them for advice - she was that desperate. Sam gets this look on his face that he always gets when he talks about Jo - part guilt, and part curiosity at Dean's reaction, as if he's half expecting him to swoon at the mention of her. And yeah she's hot and all but. . .but. Yeah. He's on a pretty tight schedule these days, no time for fucking around that isn't just actual fucking around.
And it really fucking annoys Dean that Sam just wont let this thing go. He's dying, may as well be six feet under, or ash blowing in the wind already for all the good its gonna do him, and Sam will just not quit.
Their food arrives in record time, something that always arouses suspicion, but the burger is cheesy, the fries are limp and cheesy and the milkshake is saccharine sweet and icy cold. Heaven. Sam's looks like a wilted mess because no matter how many times Dean's told the kid to order diner food in a diner, he never does listen.
No matter how good the food is though, his hearts just not in it and finishing is a chore He's almost asleep on his plate before he realises Sam is talking to him; 'So I figure we head over to Robert Schultz's kids place now, ask her about the nightmares and any other anomalies, and then check on a couple of the wives and girlfriends? They'll know about the nightmares, and there's no point trying to hit all these homes, so we may as well try for a cross section. . .' And Dean nods and zones out and then makes a decision.
'Dude, you mind if I go take a nap? You can take the car, I can walk back to the motel, you check on these witnesses and I'll grab some shut-eye and we'll do some re-con before dinner?'
'Are you serious?'
'Did I stutter?'
'No, I mean. . .yeah go nap or whatever, I guess?'
'You guess?'
'Yeah, I mean no. . .nap. Go.' And with that Sam moves to leave, gathering his notes and pausing at the head of the table awkwardly.
'Uh. . .'
'Spit it out Sam.'
'You got this? You alright?'
Choosing to ignore the latter, Dean waves a twenty in his face. Yeah he's got it. He's always freaking got it.
Walking back to the motel room he strips off all outer layers, leaving him in nothing but a wife beater and his suit pants. He feels oddly naked like this, unprotected and exposed. He always wears a coat for the same reason he always wears his shoes, always has a knife in his boot, a paperclip in his back pocket and a gun at his back - always be prepared for flight and fight.
The empty motel room is slightly cooler than outside, thanks to Sam's forward thinking in leaving the curtains shut. Shucking his pants he lays on the bed, closes his eyes, and is asleep before he gets under the covers.
XXXXXX
The nightmare this time is vivid, colours so bright they spill out the edges of his consciousness. He tries to shield his eyes, protect them from the onslaught, but he can't look away, the colours almost hypnotic in their vibrancy. Before him is Sam, his back to Dean and his head turned around, looking back at him, eyes bright and excited. He's saying something, telling him something, pointing at something ahead and Dean strains to hear, tries to look. He moves closer and looks closer at Sam, wary now because Sam is never this carefree, never this open.
And of course it's a trick because his eyes flash black and before Dean knows what he's doing, there's a knife in his hand and he's thrusting it into Sam's back, killing the demon and the brother its possessing effectively. But there is no time for remorse, or panic as the old wound opens up and bleeds under the attack, because that's when Sam turns around, angry now and accusing, 'It was always your fault Dean, always.'
And then consciousness calls to him, and he struggles to grasp on to it, more than ready to pull himself out of this nightmare. Because he knows its not real now, he knows it couldn't be. Swimming through the layers of fog and the sleep still threatening to pull him under, his eyes blink awake and its night time now, and Sam is no where to be seen.
Fully awake now, he takes stock of the situation. A glance at the clock on the bedside table tells him its nearly eight o'clock, or in other words Sam-should-definitely-be-back-by-now time.
He's out of bed, jeans unbuttoned around his waist, feet shoved in boots and cell phone in hand before he's processed how long Sam's been missing, and he's out the door and halfway to the Impala before he realises that he gave Sam the car, and that the car is actually in the parking lot. Which means that Sam is. . .is standing outside the door to the room with his laptop in hand and a caught-with-his-pants-down look on his face.
These days that look only means one thing.
Stalking back toward the room he doesn't spare a glance for his brother, doesn't yell, doesn't slam the door behind him. They've had this argument too many times already, and he's definitely not up for a rehash. When Sam comes in behind him and says he knows what they're after, knows how to kill it, he simply turns around to listen.
A/N Uh, sorry this is late. . .it turns out I'm not good at regularly updating! There is only one chapter left, and hopefully that will be up in a week. I aim to improve! In my defence I did break two ribs two weeks ago in a drunken accident, but really that just left me with more time to write than less. I am fresh out of excuses, but I hope you can forgive and forget, and hopefully now that you've read you might review - Thank you!