FACING YOUR DEMONS
Chapter 4
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Sam leaned across the Impala's bench seat and gently squeezed Dean's shoulder, watching him gradually stir into a state resembling consciousness.
Dean's head nodded upward; once, twice … his eyes flickered open on the third nod.
"Where'r…we?" he slurred, speech thickened by the lingering effects of half a pack of Advil and his increasingly inflamed jaw.
"We're here dude," Sam explained quietly; "at the dentist, remember?"
Dean's body stiffened momentarily as he burrowed back against the seat, glaring at Sam with an expression that had 'betrayal' written all over it.
"C'mon dude," Sam coaxed as patiently as he could, well aware that time was ticking down to Dean's appointment; "we talked about this; just think how much better you'll feel when this is all over, huh?"
Dean's right hand moved upward to it's now-customary position, gingerly cradling his swollen cheek.
Holding his breath, Sam waited until Dean managed a tentative nod of agreement, trying to overlook the fact that the expression frozen onto his face told a very different story.
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The waiting room of the Jefferson Dental Clinic was cosy and welcoming; in need of a lick or two of paint maybe, but Sam felt at home as soon as he stepped through the door. The walls were plastered with aging posters showing beaming children displaying the kind of toothy sparkle that only gameshow hosts and Jaws could aspire to, all extolling the virtues of brushing, flossing, and visiting your friendly neighborhood dentist regularly.
The room didn't have that funky, chemical smell of a clinical environment either; it smelled of coffee, old magazines and furniture polish. It was the smell of a room that was unpretentious and comfortably lived in; Yep, Sam definitely had a good feeling about this place.
Dean, on the other hand, was giving nothing away as to his opinion of the waiting room. He sat hunched into the chair beside Sam, a picture of fidgeting, restless misery, cradling his sore face and looking nowhere but at his feet.
Not wishing to make Dean feel any more humiliated than he already was by doing anything so girlie as holding his hand, Sam just settled himself down quietly beside his brother; a rock-solid presence against which Dean could lean and, hopefully, take strength.
"This guy sounded really cool," Sam announced suddenly in an attempt to mask the sound of the drill which he'd heard start up in the treatment room opposite them; "he's got years of experience, apparently." Pausing for a moment, he listened until he was satisfied that the drill had stopped; "I think you'll like him. He says he's used to dealing with nervous patients and traumatic situations."
Dean looked up at Sam; "used t'dealin' wi'them – or causin' 'em?" he mumbled thickly. Sam couldn't be entirely sure if Dean was joking so he settled for a wry smile instead.
A heavy silence settled over the brothers until, eventually, it was Dean that spoke up.
"D'y think I'm n'idiot?"
Sam turned to see Dean looking directly at him; even the unfocussed glaze caused by the pain of his condition, the fatigue of his sleepless nights and the heavy medication coursing through his system couldn't hide the intensity with which he was searching Sam's face.
"No, of course I don't," Sam replied fervently; "why the hell would I think a thing like that? We've all got our hang-ups."
Dean turned away and looked back at the floor; "I think I'm 'n'idiot," he mumbled.
Sam shook his head; "well, you shouldn't," he scolded softly. "Is it your fault Dad never took you to the dentist when you were a kid? Never let you have that experience? Fear of the unknown is a powerful thing." Sam hesitated to see if his words were sinking in; "it's like a big black monster - a demon - hiding in the back of your mind, and all the time it's growing and growing, bigger and stronger. Then unless you face that demon, and beat it, it'll possess you; just like the demons we fight."
Dean shrugged non-committally; "shoul'nt be afraid," he grunted; "not when I do wha' I do.".
"At least you're not scared of clowns," Sam replied with a shudder.
Dean looked up at him and managed a brief, lopsided smile; "yeah, guess it coul' always be worse."
Sam grinned at the brief flash of spirit; "jerk," he snorted.
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They both glanced up as the door to the treatment room opened and a young man emerged. He looked, Sam was relieved to see, relaxed and content and not even slightly traumatised. Crossing the waiting room to the exit, he gave the brothers the faintest of nods before disappearing out into the street.
"Looks like it's showtime," Sam muttered. Rising up out of his surprisingly comfortable chair, he stood and waited as Dean eventually hauled himself to his feet with the weary resignation of a man about to attend his own execution.
"Hey guys."
They both glanced round at the voice; which sounded amiable enough to raise a smile across Sam's face.
A smile that dropped into a shocked gape as soon as he caught sight of the figure the voice belonged to.
The man who stood before them was stocky and, as Sam had expected, middle aged.
He was almost entirely bald, save for a few stray tufts scattered across his bare scalp like tumbleweed.
But it wasn't his hair, or distinct lack of it, that had captured Sam's attention; it was the long scar that began somewhere south of his crown, bisecting his forehead and disappearing beneath a threadbare eye patch which looked almost as old as the man himself, before ending somewhere behind his left ear.
Sam's heart sank as the man twiched sharply, his head jerking sideways as if it had been yanked on a wire; this wasn't quite what he had in mind when he'd tried to find a safe and reassuring pair of hands to help Dean through this ordeal.
He didn't even have to look beside him to see that every trace of colour in Dean's already-pale face had drained away.
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tbc