I've got an awesome new job that I'll be starting here pretty soon, so I need to get this story done as soon as I can. To that end, here is Chapter 7, ahead of schedule. Chapter 8 should be up in the next few days, and Chapter 9 (the last chapter of section 2) a few days after that.
Thank you to everyone who has reviewed this story; I hope you're all enjoying where this is going.
Thank you to my beta K. Hanna Korossy, who knows better than any of you that the natural state of my punctuation leaves much to be desired.
Enjoy Chapter 7,
Kohadril
Chapter 7: Delusional
The car was a mile and a half behind them, parked just out of sight of where the road was gated. They were making their way up what was little more than a wide dirt trail, and Dean wondered how anyplace this far afield even had an address.
It was fairly plain that Sam was hiding something from him. His acting had been pretty good; Dean had almost believed that his brother was just stressed. The kid was a skilled liar—they both were, as their father had been—and he knew exactly what to say and how to say it. But Sam was not good at lying to Dean.
It wasn't that Dean had some kind of preternatural ability to read him, though that was probably what Sam believed. He just always gave himself away, eventually, when he lied to his big brother. In the car, earlier that day, there had been a moment near the end of the conversation when Sam had broken eye contact. He'd covered well, but not well enough, and Dean had known immediately there was more than he was being told.
He wasn't really sure how to handle this. It had been a while since Sam worked this hard to keep him in the dark about anything. Since just after Jess had died, in fact, when he'd hidden that he'd had precognitive dreams about it. Dean hadn't really ever figured out how to handle that, but the situation had resolved itself: Sam had eventually told him of his own volition.
This was different. Sam was sick, and Dean needed to know how sick so he could keep him safe. Part of him wanted to make Sam tell him what was going on, beat the truth out of him if need be, but he couldn't make himself do it.
Independence was important to Sam, and at the moment he had almost none. They were always together, and since his illness, Dean had been watching him more closely than usual. At this point, there wasn't much in Sam's life that Dean wasn't a part of, and Sam clearly wanted to keep his monopoly on whatever he was hiding. As much as Sam's independence had hurt him in the past, Dean didn't want to take away what little the kid still had.
All of that would be moot if Sam were really in trouble. Though if he were, Dean wanted to believe Sam would come to him on his own. Dean called him a kid, but he was actually an adult; a full-grown man who had the right to decide how to deal with his own issues. But the moment Dean saw something that suggested Sam wasn't able to do the job, he was going to make him talk.
There was another reason he was reticent. Dean would never say it, and he didn't like to think about it, but this was working him over pretty badly. Doing this job was hard enough without having to watch Sam every minute of the day, without having to make sure he took his medicine, without having to worry about every odd expression and out-of-character mannerism. By not telling him about this, Sam was trying to lighten the weight on his shoulders. Dean wouldn't have let him, but the load really was heavy.
He hated thinking about shit like this, but they were hiking through the middle of nowhere, and Sam wasn't being particularly conversational. And humming Zeppelin wasn't soothing Dean at all.
He didn't know what to make of this job. Their trip to Washington's compound seemed like a really easy way to risk their necks for nothing, but ever since they'd taken down Aphorael, it had been one frustration after another. There weren't a lot of other options, and neither of them knew how long they had before Sam started hearing voices and seeing things again, or how long those things would be controllable before he went crazy, or how long after that until he was completely consumed.
So, yeah, there were things Sam wasn't telling him. But there were things he wasn't telling Sam. Like how those moments Sam had been hallucinating, out in that random farmer's field, had been some of the scariest of Dean's life. Or how absolutely fucking terrified he was that he was going to fail, and that his brother would pay for it with his sanity.
They were coming up on some kind of heavy-duty perimeter fencing, and Dean was glad for something to distract him from his introspection. He looked up to see some pretty nasty-looking barbed wire on a plane jutting outward from the top of the fence. They might risk that wire going the other direction, but it was impassable from this side. The gate was heavily reinforced, and the padlock holding it closed looked like it was designed to take a handgun shot.
"Saw that coming," Dean groused. Fuck. They had to see this guy, but they didn't have his phone number, and they weren't about to wait for him to come out and find them. He looked at Sam, and they shared a frustrated look. "Start looking for a weak spot in the fence, 'cause we're gonna have to cut our way in."
The stranger stood and looked into the sky. He was clad in heavy garments, jeans and layered clothes that looked made for work, and the demon knew he had seen them somewhere before. Yes! The night those hunters had come after him, the first to enter had been wearing clothes like these. Though he had been masked, this man had the same build and height.
Aphorael knew for a fact that this hunter was not immune to his powers; he threw his hand out, diverting all his energy into a telekinetic blast.
His target, wholly unaffected, turned back to him, eyes shifting to a natural grey-green. "I am not the man whose form I have taken, and you have no power over me."
"Who are you?" the demon breathed.
The stranger stopped for a moment, his tight smile growing just slightly wider. "The dream of a dead god."
"What do you want from me?" Aphorael asked tremulously.
"I have not taken this form by chance," the man said conspiratorially. "I took it to show you the face of a man I wish destroyed."
Aphorael felt some of his fear fade. He had some leverage now.
"I do not have the power to fight those hunters, not so long as you keep me in this body," the demon said.
"You will stay in that body, since I cannot follow you if you flee. But I will give you the power to complete your mission."
The demon looked at his new master quizzically, assessing whether anything he had just learned represented an exploitable weakness. "Why can you not kill him yourself?"
"I am trying."
They had made it through the fence, but they'd had to find a place where they could slide in under it; the mesh had proved far too tough for the small wire cutters they'd brought with them. This had taken them about a half a mile around the side of the compound, leaving them quite a distance to cover. Sam was not having an easy time of it.
"Just admit it. The world would be a better place if you'd never been born." The voice was still Jessica's, and Sam was beginning to have trouble keeping his cool.
He stopped for a moment, letting Dean get a few yards ahead of him. Sam turned from the path and just stopped for a moment, resting his head against a large spruce tree and closing his eyes. He tried to concentrate on what was around him, the things he could hear, smell, feel: the reality that wasn't in his head. For a moment he heard nothing, and thought he'd done it.
"Dean would still have his mother and his father," Jessica accused. Sam's frustration spiked, and his hands balled into fists. "My parents would still have a daughter."
"Damn it!" Sam yelled, punching the tree without thinking. He gasped and drew his hand back, cradling his damaged fingers.
"Sam?" Dean called, and Sam could hear him hurrying back through the undergrowth.
"I'm fine," Sam called back, just as his brother came into view. Dean came right up to him, a suspicious look on his face. "I tripped," Sam tried.
"What happened to your hand?" Dean asked, reaching for Sam's arm. Sam nearly pulled away, then realized that would look suspicious. He let Dean inspect his injury.
"Bashed it into the tree when I fell," he gritted as Dean looked it over. The older hunter lightly squeezed an area just between Sam's battered first and second knuckles, and Sam yelped in pain.
"You didn't fall. You punched the tree. Hard enough to bruise your hand," Dean said, a hint of disappointment in his eyes. "What, did it say something about our mom?" he joked humorlessly.
"I didn't—"
"Don't lie to me!" Dean snapped.
It was all unraveling. Sam tried to come up with something Dean would believe, but he didn't have any time. He did his best to keep the panic from his face.
"What's going on, Sam?" Dean asked again, this time with quiet insistence.
"Don't tell him anything." It was John Winchester again, stern and forceful.
Sam tried to keep his mouth shut, but he couldn't stand the way that Dean was looking at him: angry, worried, and unapologetically affectionate. He had to tell him.
There was a rustling sound in the foliage just ahead of them, interrupting the conversation. Dean immediately put up his finger, pulling the .45 out of his waistband. Sam drew his Beretta. Dean signaled for him to take the right, and Sam complied.
"Freeze," came a calm, gravelly voice. A rifle barrel appeared from out of the bushes beside Sam. Sam looked to his right and saw an older man with steady hands holding it. As Dean turned to help his brother, another man emerged behind him.
"Hands on your heads, down on your knees," the older man said, without any particular anger. The brothers did as they were told. "What are you, reporters? Cops?"
"No," Dean said. "We're looking for James Washington. We're hunters. He knew our dad."
"I'm James Washington." The grey-haired, square-jawed man looked thoughtful for a moment. "You're John Winchester's kids?"
"Yeah," Dean said.
"Well, he must be dead then," Washington concluded. "Because he would never have been dumb enough to send you here."
They had been brought to a building at the center of the compound that looked a lot like an old mission house. There were crosses everywhere. Dean was seated next to his brother on a low bench facing a long table; this looked to be the militia's dining hall. Washington glowered at them from the other side of the table, and two of his lackeys stood at the door, cradling rifles.
"Well? What is it? What did you come here for?" Washington challenged.
Sam wasn't moving, and he wasn't talking. His head was hanging, his eyes distant. He looked like something indefinable had been kicked out of him. Dean was alone on this one.
"I told you. We're here about what's happening in town. The whole 'plague of insanity' thing?" It was a moment before Dean realized he should probably rein in the sarcasm.
Washington stared at him, unblinking. There wasn't a hint of acknowledgement.
"You do know that the whole town is going crazy," Dean pressed. "Right?"
The grey-haired man nodded slowly. "Yes, we know."
"O…kay," Dean mumbled confusedly. What the hell was up with this guy? "So, do you know what's causing it?"
"Yep," Washington answered with a smug grin.
"And…what is it?" Dean prodded.
"Boys, do you know why your dad and I didn't get along?"
"No. Does it have anything to do with whatever evil S.O.B. is making everybody crazy?" Just get to the goddamn point!
"John Winchester was a good man," Washington said seriously. "But he lacked vision."
"Fine. Yes. Vision. Whatever. What the hell kind of monster is it?"
"You shut your mouth, boy, or I'll have you put against a wall and shot!" Washington snapped, suddenly fiercely angry. "You and your brother."
Dean dutifully shut up.
"As I was saying, your dad didn't see what was really going on here. All these demons, all these evil things, they can only hurt us because of the godless era in which we live. That's what lets them into the world: our sins. And our government, our culture, our entire way of life supports those sins." Washington's eyes were wild with passion. "You want to stop the demons? Destroy that culture, and rebuild it from the ground up."
Realization started to dawn. "You're doing this somehow," Dean said, low and cold. He looked over at his brother and tried to keep himself under control.
"Have you ever heard of the Anasazi?" Washington asked. "They were a Native American civilization indigenous to what is now the Four Corners region of America. Their history spanned two thousand years. Then, suddenly, they all disappeared."
Dean glared at him, and Washington looked pleased.
"Jeremiah is built on what used to be their farthest northeastern outpost. I know what ended their civilization, what the final few of them managed to trap here, deep within the earth." The madness in Washington's voice was palpable. "It is a being of pure chaos, a product of our great subconscious fears. It is the bringer of catastrophic change, a fire to cleanse the world, that we may start anew. Once, long ago, it destroyed the Anasazi. And now that I have broken the spell of its ancient captors, it rises again."
"You bastard!" Dean exploded. The guards at the door immediately trained their guns on him. "What's happening to all these people, to my brother…all those suicides; it's all your fucking fault!"
"Your brother?" Washington glanced over at Sam, who was silently watching the exchange though his mind appeared to be somewhere else. Washington looked back at Dean, his expression now having shifted to what seemed to be genuine remorse. "I'm sorry."
"Right," Dean spat.
"I am. Many of my people have been taken by the disease. My wife among them," Washington admitted painfully. "We put them out of their misery. They are heroes and martyrs, as is your brother."
"A martyr gets to choose," Dean growled, shifting in his seat. The only thing he wanted in the world right now was to leap across the table and tear out Washington's jugular.
"You're lucky he's not a psychic," Washington said solemnly. The brothers' eyes snapped to one another. "It makes their powers go crazy."
"I don't suppose you're going to tell us where it's buried, or how to kill it?" Dean guessed.
"No. And I'm afraid there is no cure for your brother but death."
"I'm right here," Sam said softly. Everyone's attention immediately shifted to him. "You can stop talking about me like I'm not."
Washington sized him up. There was a twisted kind of sympathy in his eyes. "If neither of you has the strength…I can end your life for you, Sam."
"No," Dean said immediately. Sam gulped and shook his head.
"Fine, then." Washington looked back to Dean. "You're going to leave this town, and not come back until after this thing has risen. By then, you won't have any power to stop it."
Dean just kept glaring.
"You're dead if I see you again. Do I make myself clear?" Washington threatened. Dean forced himself to nod. "Then my men will take you back to your car."