Mad World

Chapter Three: And I find it kinda funny

Now

Sam had ducked and rolled as taught to him at age four, he'd watched Dean aim and fire as he knew the elder man had been doing all his life - or at least all of Sam's. The brothers followed every textbook procedure down to a tee - as much so as was possible, anyway, considering there wasn't actually a textbook.

Yet they still found themselves in one of the stickiest situations they had ever encountered. So much for precise calculations.

Looking back on it now, Sam could see all the details much more clearly than he could at the time, having not bothered to register anything in his state of mild panic. They were in the middle of a wide open field, lush grass molding under their feet, tall crops of some unknown plant about a hundred yards to the left, right and behind them. The Impala was parked straight ahead, on the road that darkness had shadowed so thoroughly that it couldn't be seen any longer.

Dean was off to his right, running like hell. That could be expected though, when one was being chased by a werewolf. It was in that moment, that timeless moment of seeing Dean weaponless and being honed in on by a soulless creature of the night, that Sam had made his decision.

A few hours later in a rundown motel in the middle of nowhere New Jersey, he was still hearing about it.

"Seriously, Sammy," Dean sighed, sounded aggravated, impatient, pissed off and scared to death -if you really knew how to listen to him - all at the same time. He slapped some more antiseptic onto Sam's left forearm. "What the hell were you thinking?"

"That I really wanted matching arm wounds?" He tried the comical angle of the situation, hoping it would diffuse the tension. Dean just pulled gauze around his gash much harsher than necessary. "Hey, ow."

"Suck it up." His brother snapped, rolling his way through the bandage, Sam started calculating how long he'd be able to leave it on before his circulation got cut off. "You're the one who-"

"Saved your life?" Sam cut in, knowing there was no way they wouldn't be talking about this.

"I had it under control." The elder snapped again, with an angry, even mean, tone. This certainly had progressed much farther than the simple Salt & Burn case Sam had initially laid out for them.

"Yeah," Sam snorted, not hiding the sarcasm. "If I hadn't done what I did, I'd be talking to your body bag right now."

Something dangerous flashed through his brother's eyes, and Sam knew he'd hit a soft and vulnerable spot in the older man. "And because of what you did, I was about three inches away from talking to yours." But his voice was a little softer and when he spoke next, Sam heard the resignation there. "Come on, kiddo, who shots a werewolf with rock salt?"

And the little endearment Dean threw in - be it subconscious or not - assured Sam that all would be right with them by morning. With that knowledge he breathed a little easier, and went back to focusing on how his arm hurt like a bitch.

"I'm sorry." Sam told him, and meant it - a little bit, at least. "But I wasn't gonna watch you die."

Dean looked at him with sympathy and understanding. I get it, little brother. He said with his gaze, and his suddenly gentle hand on his arm. I woulda done the same thing. We're okay.

"Fine," he sighed aloud, and grabbed another bandage from the First Aid Kit. "But, really, rock salt?"

Sam laughed this time, finally seeing the true idiocy of his split-second decision. Shooting rock salt at a werewolf was pretty much the equivalent of chucking rocks at a really angry Rottweiler. Or rather, a pack of pissed off Rottweilers, on steroids, with rabies. All in all, not a brilliant idea.

"What else was I supposed to do?" Sam asked. "Fling myself at it?" Never would he admit to his brother that - had he been physically close enough - that probably would have been in the cards for a speedy course of action.

"Woulda been just as stupid," Dean muttered and ignored Sam's raised eyebrows. "You're just lucky as hell that that gun had silver bullets in it."

"Lucky?" Sam asked, astonished. "I bother to actually do research, and you call my precautions lucky?"

"You gotta admit," Dean argued, "the chances of there actually being a werewolf in New Jersey, well, can you see my doubt?"

"I told you that field was a paranormal magnet." Sam argued back, enjoying the familiarity of it. "And why wouldn't it be? A place where almost two dozen murders took place, it's gonna be a hot spot."

"I know." Dean agreed. "But, c'mon, werewolves? I haven't seen a werewolf since..." he trailed off, scrunching up his face in thought.

"1990," Sam filled in after a few seconds. "That cabin up in Colorado, when dad was out hunting...I don't know, something-"

"Poltergeist," Dean cut off, looking as if he'd suddenly recalled a long lost childhood memory. "You were only about eight-"

"Seven," Sam corrected automatically. "I spent my birthday that year in the hospital."

"That thing nearly sliced you clean in half." There was that pain in Dean's voice - the pain the younger brother would always pick up on when they were discussing injuries - Sam's injuries. He'd just blocked it out it until now. He knew that Dean had always felt responsible for him, since the fire all those years ago; like looking after his little brother was his job.

He'd just never paid attention to the raw pain in his big brother's voice when he thought he'd failed at that. He'd never let himself go there, not on a conscious level. But he saw it now - his brother lived to protect him. Dean lived to keep Sam living.

Something strong fondled his heart as he swallowed a lump away from his throat.

God he was going to miss that.

"Yeah," Sam agreed, half smiling to keep those emotions away. "I've still got the scar. I used to tell Jessica that I got it crashing a motorcycle, just to impress her."

Dean didn't say anything, and Sam figured he was lost in his own memories - his own guilt. A few minutes later had them both pulled out of their separate, subconscious worlds as Dean patted Sam's, now bandaged, arm lightly and said, "You're good to go." Then a beat later, as Sam studied his new injury - silently relieved that his brother had rewrapped the gauze that had been threatening to cut off his blood flow - Dean continued. "Hey, speaking of, you hungry?"

Sam's head snapped up and Dean smirked, "I don't know about you, but nearly dying really takes a lot outta me."

Sam opened his mouth, shut it, then opened it again. "How is that speaking of?"

His brother shot him an affronted look, like he was insulted Sam didn't get whatever reference it was. "Come on, dude. Taco Bell? Not as memorable as that talking dog, I'll admit, but someone saying you're good to go, eighty somethin' times in one commercial should stick with ya."

"Yeah, alright." Sam agreed, happy that they were no longer discussing that long ago incident - he didn't particularly feel like being unnecessarily sad at the moment. "And, yeah, I am kinda hungry."

"Great," Dean clasped a hand on his shoulder as he got up off the bed he'd been sitting on while his brother worked on his arm. Sam had never paid it any mind before, but during - and immediately after - the care of flesh wounds, was one of the only times the brothers showed physical affection for one another.

A darkness loomed on the edge of Sam's subconscious, black and terrifying, threatening to overwhelm him. But he pushed it away. Far, far away, hoping - praying even - that it wouldn't intimidate him any longer. He just needed to get through this initial stage of grief - because as soon as he got to acceptance, everything would be okay again.

"So," the brothers moved to retrieve clean jackets out of their respective duffel bags, and Sam ignored reality some more. "Taco Bell? 'Cause now I want it."

"Not microwaved mini-mart food," Dean shrugged. "Sounds good to me."

"Great," Sam echoed his brother's earlier word quietly as they headed out into the night, making it to the Impala quickly.

Sam smiled, comforted by familiarity, as Dean revved her up, and automatically flicked a knob; he watched as her headlights sliced their way through the inky black world around them. He leaned back into the cold vinyl, feeling not so alone anymore.

Then

Portgrove, Maine

"This place is a crap-shoot," Dean spoke none too quietly and Sam cringed, throwing his brother an irritated glance. "What?" The older man responded to the look. "It is."

"Just knock." Sam demanded, less interested in the junkyard that made up the front yard of the tiny shack that bore Hallie Morgan's address. He didn't care if this woman lived in a paper bag on the side of the street, if she knew anything about Sam's powers, that was all he was interested in.

Dean - having gotten no response to his first couple knocks, tried again, opening the screen door to bang solely on the wood of the front door. "Shit," he cursed loudly and suddenly. The front screen door had come off its hinges when Dean had tugged on it; he now looked like a missing prop from a surreal movie set - just standing there, holding a door that was no longer attached to anything.

"That'll make a great first impression." Sam said sarcastically, looking at Dean with disapproval.

"Shut up, Sammy," His big brother mumbled, adding some obscurities under his breath as he placed the detached screen door to his right, propping it against a wall that was half an ugly green color and half a hideous maroon shade - you could see where the siding had been painted over several times. The outside of the house had no porch, only overgrown grass and what might, at one point, have been a welcome mat where the brothers waited impatiently.

Sam was debating whether or not to go in search of a back door, when the front one burst open. Dean was startled, his whole attention being taken up by grumbling about - or to, it wasn't quite clear - Sam, while simultaneously fiddling with the hinges he'd broken.

A woman had opened the door, poking her head out only enough to speak to them, remaining mostly in her home, and Sam studied her curiously. She was young, somewhere in-between Sam and Dean's age - but she could easily pass for ten or twenty years older than that, the lines on her face tracing a trying life. She was tall and slender, but her list of positive attributes ended right about there.

She had dark hair that was long and matted - not dirty, exactly, just not taken care of, like she'd taken a shower without combing it out every day for the past year or so - pieces of it strewn over her shoulders, falling a little past her chest. Her skin had that overly golden, 'I spent a few too many hours out in the sun' look about it.

Dean, having been thrown off by her appearance, immediately flashed his shit-eatin' grin; his natural defense mechanism when dealing with strangers "Hi there," he spoke cheerfully, Sam stayed silent. "We're looking for Hallie. Hallie Morgan. She around?"

The woman's eyes moved from Dean to Sam, slowly scanning both of them, as if checking for threats, before her gaze landed on Dean's, ah, mishap in the corner - and that's where it stayed.

"Yeah," Dean finally spoke. "Had a little, um, your door..." he looked up and she met his eyes. "Ah, I'll pay for that." He finished lamely.

She nodded before looking away again. There was something about her eyes - Sam couldn't tell for sure what color they were from where she was standing still partially shadowed in her home, but they looked gray - they seemed to see everything. Through everything, more like. It was eerie.

"Your car?" Her voice was neutral as she gestured towards the Impala. Dean nodded, looking apprehensive. "Can I have it?" Dean raised his eyebrows, and Sam studied both his brother and this girl closely.

"Bad deja-vu," was all he said, and Sam breathed a silent sigh of relief. If this woman was psychic, she certainly didn't have that nifty mind control power.

"If you're not gonna give me the car," she snapped, irritated, "then I really don't think we got anything to discuss."

She tried to shut the door, but Dean put out a hand to stop it. "So you're Hallie Morgan," he inferred, still trying to sound friendly. "Look, someone gave us your name, said you might be able-"

"Who?" She cut off, leaving Dean to sputter slightly over a few words. "Who told you to come here?"

"Ash," Dean answered questioningly after a beat.

"Ash what?"

The brothers exchanged a sudden glance and a silent huh, never thought about that passed between them. Ash didn't need a last name, as far as they were concerned.

"Good question," Dean admitted, smiling hopefully at Hallie.

"I know a couple Ash's," she shook her head. "I'm not in the habit of trustin' people when I don't know where they came from."

She went to close the door again, but Dean's arm remained steady. "Ash from the Roadhouse?" He tried.

She seemed to consider it for a moment, before speaking again. Her voice always stayed the same, never bending or contorting to fit any particular emotion - it was almost as unnerving as her eyes. Like she had no soul.

Finally, she nodded, and said. "Whaddya want?"

"Information." Dean tried to remain completely factual, but he kept stealing glances at his younger sibling. Sam found it off-putting. Yeah, he wanted to shout, I'm a fucking freak. Get over it. "About...about psychics."

He was always so hesitant when dispensing information about his brother's abilities. Sam knew logically it was to protect him - protect them - against the people in the supernatural hunting world, who wouldn't accept this truth. But a part of the younger man - an insecure part that should have died with the emergence of adulthood, but he kept well hidden nonetheless - believed it was because Dean was embarrassed by him. Ashamed that he was such a freak.

She shook her head back and forth slowly, expression still remaining stoic. "Wrong person," she mumbled.

"Look, we drove a long way-"

"Leave," she cut off immediately. "Get outta here 'fore I call the cops."

"We just want your help," Sam finally spoke up. "Not even to do anything, we just wanna talk to you."

Still facing Dean, she repeated, "Leave."

Dean looked helpless, exchanging another glance with Sam, before the younger man looked back up at Hallie. And that's when he heard it.

Come back without him.

It was Hallie's voice, only Sam was looking right at her, and her lips weren't moving. She was just standing there, looking mildly annoyed that Dean was preventing her from closing her door.

"Ash said-" Dean began, and Sam was sure he said more, but his voice got blocked out for the younger man. He heard only...and he'd hoped this was one phrase he would never have to use... But he heard only, the voice in his head.

Come back tonight without him, Sam. If you want the truth.

Dean's voice faded back in as her's ceased. "Just think about it, alright? We'll come back tomorrow."

It was his brother's tugging on his arm that finally broke him out of his post-traumatic, mind-raped state. Now he knew how Dean felt last week when his head had been invaded.

"C'mon, Sammy," he mumbled, obviously thinking his brother's distress was that of a different sort.

Sam let himself be led away, blinking hard to regain some handle on this new reality. This new truth of someone being able to inject thoughts into his head. It didn't freak him out as much as he thought it should, but nothing really did these days anyhow. So he just followed Dean, trying to decide how best to start the conversation in which he would explain to his brother Hallie Morgan's very personalized invitation.

They were at the Impala when Sam heard her one last time, he shivered slightly as a feeling of dread washed through him at her words.

I'll tell you the truth, Sam.

TBC...