The Illusionist II

Chapter 5 : Blinding/Roads

Questions streamed through Sam's mind faster than he could keep track of them, but the only thing that he could hear was Dean's voice, telling him over and over again that their father had been possessed while he'd been away, enjoying college life.

Guilt stabbed him in the gut, and refused to let go. It wound its way up his chest to his throat, finally stopping in his brain. He swallowed thickly, but it didn't make the feeling subside. It stayed there like a lead weight, keeping him anchored to the seat he was still sitting in. He let out a breath and pushed his hair out of his eyes, forcing his other hand to open the door.

"He got possessed, Sam! Dad got fucking possessed!"

The look of sheer hurt on his brother's face when he'd said those words made Sam ache to his bones. In all his years, he'd never seen that expression on Dean's visage before. Pain, fear, terror and hate all rolled into those green eyes that tried to never give away anything, but Sam saw it. He saw all of it, and hated what it did to him.

He cracked open the door and managed to slide out of the car, the frigid air hitting him and blowing more stray hairs right back into his face. He shivered and closed the door, catching sight of the tiniest of dents on the side paneling. Something about the newly discovered blemish on the Impala made his skin crawl, and his heart sink even further. His mind couldn't help but lead him to wonder if a piece of his brother hadn't caused that dent, unintentionally, of course.

You should've been there...

Sam quickly made his way to their room, almost afraid at what he'd find when he went in. With a shaking hand, he turned the knob, his gaze falling on Dean who was currently pacing back and forth, his lips moving but no sound befalling them. Even from his distance, Sam could still see the tear tracks that ran down his brother's sunken cheeks. He wondered if he could despise himself anymore than he already did.

None of this would have happened if he had just stayed.

He kept his eyes on Dean as he stepped into the room, taking in his brother's sorry state. Aside from the tear stains, he was covered in dirt, and his jeans were wracked with holes. They were old and worn and baggy, just like every other pair of jeans he owned. The more Sam thought about it, the more he realized that Dean didn't own a brand new pair of anything. Even his boots were on their last leg.

Had their father been possessed the whole time he was gone?

The thought terrified him, his eyes widening at the assumption.

Taking a deep breath, he steadied himself and walked over to his brother, hating the way Dean jumped when he turned around to face him. Sam didn't miss the flare of fear that washed over his brother's greens before seeing that it was just him.

And not their possessed father.

"We need to talk," Sam forced himself to utter, almost grimacing at his own words. He knew the last thing his brother wanted to do was actually talk, and God forbid, get something off his chest instead of holding it in until he broke; but it had to be done. Sam had to know what the hell happened. What he had let happen...

Dean stared at him for a moment until his brow finally lowered. He shook his head and mumbled, "I have to take a shower," before turning away and heading towards the bathroom.

Sam didn't hesitate when he reached out, grabbing firmly onto his brother's thin bicep and spinning him around. "No," Sam simply stated, much to his brother's bemusement. "You can't just go take a hot shower and scrub whatever happened off!" His voice was raising, but he couldn't bring himself to care. Sometimes, tough love was necessary; just not the violent kind. If he didn't get Dean to talk about it now, he knew his brother probably never would. He sighed internally, feeling like a broken record player.

There were tears threatening to spill over onto Dean's cheeks, and the guilt that Sam was reeling in before only worsened, feeling as if he'd been hit with a ten-ton truck. "Please," he let the single word fall from his lips, watching the way Dean's brow raised with slight surprise. He slowly released his grip, inwardly telling himself that it was a habit he was going to have to stop.

"Fine, what do you want to know?" His brother's voice was soft and surprisingly not standoffish like he thought it would be. It almost sounded...defeated, completely and utterly defeated.

"First things first," Sam started off. "When did it happen? Hell, how did it happen?" The hardly noticeable flinch that wracked his brother's thin frame after the his last question only made him all the more curious. "Dean?" he asked gently, one eyebrow quirking up.

After letting another moment of silence pass between them, Dean finally answered. "About a month and half before I came to get you, so two, almost three months ago?" His voice sounded worn now, and older than it should. And just so damned tired.

"Only two months?" Sam replied, shocked. A part of him wanted to refuse to believe it, because the state his brother was in now took a lot more than just two months to achieve.

Dean nodded slowly. That was when he broke eye contact, choosing to stare at the floor instead of at Sam. As he began to speak, a far away look spread over his eyes. "W-We were in Wyoming when we got a call from Caleb about some people offing their families in Nebraska." He started to fidget with the hem of his jacket, thin fingers pulling at the fabric. "Dad already had a clue to what it was, but I-I didn't."

Concern marked Sam's face as he heard his brother's breath hitch in his throat, and something sounding like a half-sob come out of his throat. He immediately wrapped an arm around his brother's shoulders and guided him to the bed, not liking the slight swaying of Dean's body as he stood. They both sat down, side by side, but Dean still refused to look at him.

"Sammy..." He paused to lick his chapped lips, eyes still glazed with tears. "Sammy," he repeated, his voice breaking, "Dad knew it was a demon because he'd dealt with it before. Sixteen years ago." He was silent as he chanced a glance up at Sam, confusion drawing the youngest Winchester's brow down.

Sam did the math in his head, brow managing to lower even further. "You would've been nine," he said the words, trying to understand what they meant. "Nine," he repeated, and realized what the significance of that particular age was. "That's how old you were when..." he let his voice trail off, finally understanding. "Oh, God, so you're saying-"

"It made Dad choose between you and me." Dean's voice was soft, not a trace of anger or jealousy in his tone.

Sam, however, felt like he'd just been punched in the stomach. The taste of bile rose from his throat to his mouth, but he bit back the taste, eyes watering. He didn't want to believe the words he was hearing—they just sounded like nonsense to his ears. Nonsense. Their dad could be a right bastard, he knew, but never would he have chosen between his sons, would he?

"How do you..." Sam started but cut himself off when Dean carefully pulled their father's journal from the inside of his jacket pocket. He'd been guarding it with his life since they'd found it, not even letting Sam get a peak of the pages within it. He gently dropped it on Sam's lap, looking to the carpeted floor once more.

Sam hesitantly picked it up, biting the inside of his cheek. The book felt heavy in his hands even though he knew it couldn't weigh more than a pound or so; it just felt like more because of the contents that were inside of it. He flipped through the pages absentmindedly when he heard Dean's barely-there voice begin to speak again.

"It got to me first," he whispered, the confession jerking Sam's head from the journal. "There was this little boy, and...the bitch possessed him. I didn't know, and I was trying to help him." A choked laugh escaped his lips, a hand going up to pinch the bridge of his nose. "I didn't even have a clue. Next thing I know, everything goes black. I don't remember too much of it, because it didn't really last that long. It was just using me to get to Dad. And it did." He harshly wiped a tear that had managed to stray from the confines of his tear ducts away with the back of his sleeve and sniffed.

Sam stayed quiet, letting Dean get it all out.

"He was possessed for two weeks before I even realized it, Sammy!" Dean whisper-shouted angrily, green eyes still agleam, his gaze finding its way back to Sam. Guilt was clearly written all over his face, but there was something else there as well.

Shock.

Like he'd just admitted to something that he in no way, shape, or form should have.

Sam stared at him, his heart pounding in his ears. He was not expecting the day to turn out like it had. That was for damned sure. And he was most definitely not expecting Dean to tell him that he couldn't tell the difference from their father being normal and being possessed.

Sam steeled himself, taking in a deep breath before he spoke next. The fact that Dean had purposely turned his head away from him again was a signal that this was just going to go from bad to worse.

Quickly.

Sam's hand found Dean's wrist again, encircling it gently as he wrapped his fingers around it. He didn't miss the way his brother attempted to jerk it out of his grasp, though to no avail. Sam was stronger than Dean now, and if he had to use that fact for his advantage, then so be it. It was for his own good, at least, that's what he kept telling himself.

"No," Dean whispered, shaking his head. "Just...no."

Sam sighed and carefully raised his other hand to Dean's chin, daring to ease it in his direction so that they were eye to eye. "Dean, I know it hurts, but please, just tell me what happened. Please?"

Dean was shaking now, trembling beneath Sam's fingertips. His lips moved, but nothing came out. Another tear leaked from his eyes and made a trail down his cheek, but before he could make a move to swipe at it, Sam gingerly rubbed it away with his thumb. "Take a deep breath and relax," Sam instructed, watching his brother watch his lips move. Dean glanced up into his eyes and swallowed. After a few seconds passed, he nodded and did so.

"Things..." He paused, and Sam could see that he was still hesitant to speak. Dean adverted his brother's gaze once more and chose a spot on the carpet to focus on. "Things got bad after you left, Sammy. Dad-" He cut the words short and cleared his throat. "Dad was angry after you went away. And...I couldn't stop messing up!" he said, voice raising, glancing back into Sam's eyes. "You weren't there, and I was bad back-up and I-I just wasn't you. I'm not you," he said quietly, eyes falling even more downcast.

Sam was fairly positive that his heart had broken into a million little tiny pieces and was now drifting endlessly through his bloodstream, probably never to be whole anymore.

"He hates me, Sammy," and this time, Dean sobbed, tears falling freely and fast down a broken face.

Sam wrapped a protective arm around him and pulled him close, suddenly feeling much older and more like the older brother with each minute that passed. Dean was trembling in his arms, his thin frame wracked with tremors. Even through all the layers, Sam could still feel the ridges of his spine as he rubbed a hand soothingly on Dean's back and it was no wonder his brother was in the condition that he was. He was almost afraid at what else was hiding underneath Dean's clothes.

He's been there for you all this time, helped you with anything and everything. It's your turn to be there for him.

The dreams Sam had been having suddenly invaded his mind, and it all made sense. He felt like an ass for not seeing it sooner. Their father had abused Dean, and once Sam actually let the thought come to fruition, anger flooded through him swiftly and efficiently. His grip on Dean got tighter, but he was pretty sure his brother didn't even notice.

Sam was sure of one thing, when they found their father, it wasn't going to be pretty.

Not at all.

S*P*N*S*P*N

Flurries were gently collecting on the windshield of the Impala as Sam drove it down the interstate. He glanced over at his brother who was currently asleep in the passenger seat, knees drawn up to his chest and off to the side a bit. He looked as though he had tried to make himself as small as he possibly could and then some. Sam shook his head and glanced back at the road, jaw clenching as thoughts of his father and what he was going to do to the man when he found him drumming through his mind.

It had been two weeks since Dean had spilled his guts to him, and his brother hadn't spoken a word since. He'd reverted back to only signing, and then, only when it was absolutely needed. Sam could tell that he'd somehow managed to lose even more weight, his face being the only indication since Dean refused to wear anything less than three layers at a time. The clouded light that flooded through the windows only showcased the hollows of his brother's cheeks and the sharpness of his cheek and jaw bones.

He looked sickly, but somehow managed to keep up with whatever they were hunting. Sam honestly didn't know how he did it.

He'd tried to get Dean to eat more than the meager crumbs he called a meal, but his brother insisted with a furious shake of the head every time Sam encouraged him to eat more that he was full.

Sam highly doubted that.

If he'd been more immature and less rational, he would've given Dean the I'm-not-going-to-eat-if-you're-not-going-to-eat charade, but he knew that wouldn't get them anywhere faster than they already were. It would only make things worse, and Sam wondered if that were actually possible. He wasn't sure how much worse things could get if something didn't change soon.

Sure, he knew what it was like to be depressed and along with that came loss of appetite, but something told him it was more than that. Dean still insisted upon training on a daily basis, whether Sam thought it was a good idea or not. Some days, he'd watch Dean leave the motel room for a run and not come back for two hours. Others, he'd feign low blood sugar just to get his brother to stay. He hated doing it, but he didn't see many other options at this point. If he didn't do something quick...he didn't want to consider what would happen if he didn't.

The flurries were starting to turn into fat flakes by the time he crossed the Michigan state border, and he'd decided about a half hour later that the next town they came across he was going to stop in, regardless of their actual destination. It was getting late, and the last thing he wanted to do was have an accident.

His gaze traveled from the road back to Dean, who was now staring out the window with half-lidded eyes. He'd finally uncurled his legs from his chest and stretched them out in front of him, though his head was still laid back against the seat, strands of light brown hair falling just above his eyebrows. Sam knew any day Dean was going to walk out of the bathroom with it shorter, but for some reason, he'd been neglecting it lately.

Another odd thing that nagged at Sam.

His brother had hardly even been remembering to put his ever-usual gel in his hair. It'd just been getting longer, still combed, but untouched.

Sam almost laughed inwardly at the thought of them both having the same hair style, but he knew hell would freeze over before that happened. He couldn't rid himself of the smirk that still managed to cross his lips though.

It quickly vanished when he realized Dean was now staring at him, a what? expression on his face.

Sam shook his head, and said, "It's nothing."

Dean stared at him disbelieving for a little while longer before letting his eyes be pulled back to the frozen landscape outside of the car. All the trees that surrounded both sides of the highway were dead, branches reaching out atop the road looking more like skeletal arms and hands and fingers than just a part of nature. Sam watched him shiver and pull his jacket tighter around his too-thin frame.

A sign on the side of the road informed Sam that the town was just up the road and to the left, so he followed its direction, pulling off the main highway and onto the off-ramp. He turned onto the crossing street and continued on, casting sideways glances at Dean while looking for a motel to pull into. The town was small enough, and within a few minutes of driving past a couple of gas stations and some fast food restaurants, he came upon one, a sign stating that there were vacancies flickering with welcome.

He pulled the car up to the main office building and killed the engine. "I'll be back in just a minute, 'kay?" he asked, looking over at his brother.

Dean nodded, silent as ever.

Sam let his gaze linger but not long enough to annoy his brother.

Too much.

He got out of the car and jogged inside to the main office, a cheap wreath hanging on the door that had Feliz Navidad written on it. A bell jingled when he opened the door and went over to the counter. There was no one in sight, but as he peered behind the counter and at the door that was half-way open behind it, he saw some children and a few adults watching a television, It's a Wonderful Life playing with the sound up fairly loud. In Spanish, no less. He sighed and pressed the buzzer that was marked PRESS FOR ASSISTANCE. It took a moment, but finally he saw movement in the other room and an older Hispanic man coming his way.

"Uh, hi," he greeted the man with a nod, impatience in his tone. He didn't want Dean to have to stay out in the cold any longer than necessary. "One room, two beds, please."

The man stared at him a moment before glancing down at the guest book in front of him. "Lo siento*," the man said, shaking his head. "One room, but only one bed."

Sam bit his bottom lip. Dean was going to hate this, but knowing their luck, this place was probably the only one available in this town. And Sam wasn't going to drive anywhere else tonight, the roads were becoming too slick as it were.

And there was no way in hell he was going to let Dean drive either.

"Fine," he said, with a nod. "I'll take it."

The other man smiled and nodded, took his credit card information and gave him a key. "Gracias*."

"Yeah, gracias," Sam repeated with a faked, polite grin. He hurriedly accepted the key and went back out to the car. Dean was already standing in front of it, trying to hide how badly he was shivering. He had both their duffels slung over his shoulders, and Sam rolled his eyes when he went to take his but Dean shrugged away from it, signaling that he, in fact, had them thank you very much. "Whatever," Sam mumbled and led the way to their room.

He hated the fact that his brother felt he had to now prove himself all the time.

The talk that they had two weeks previous didn't seem to help at all. If anything, it seemed like it had actually made things worse. Sam was becoming more and more protective, and Dean was becoming more and more standoffish. The thought almost made him laugh, because never in a million years did he see their roles reversing.

Ha.

Sam cracked open the door and the smell of stale cigarettes and cheap air freshener immediately assaulted his nose. He wrinkled it slightly in return and flipped on the light switch, moving out of the way as he did so so that Dean could come in.

Everything was quiet until he heard the duffels drops and Dean make a noise, somewhere between a grunt and a scoff.

Sam immediately turned to face him after setting up his laptop on the standard, cheap motel table. His brother was staring at the single queen bed, jaw visibly tightened underneath his skin. Sam sighed, knowing what was coming.

Dean glanced at him and pointed to the floor, telling Sam in his own sweet way that that was where he'd be sleeping.

As if.

"No," Sam said, shaking his head. "You're not sleeping on the floor. Look, I'm sorry, but this was all they had. It is almost Christmas, you know," he added for emphasis, though he was pretty sure Dean didn't give a damn.

Dean rolled his eyes and held both his hands out in front of him, palms facing down. Then, as sharply as he could, he poked himself in his chest with his right thumb, fingers held out in a "five" shape.

"The floor is not fine, Dean. The bed is big enough for the both of us, and I promise, I won't touch you. Okay?"

He heard the silent, frustrated sigh escape between Dean's lips as he mouthed "whatever", though doing so without signing.

Ever since Dean had opened up to him, he'd closed himself off even more, and Sam wasn't sure how much longer he could take it.

The worst part was, Dean hadn't exactly given him any details about the entire situation. He'd just left Sam had to make an educated guess and run with it. He still wasn't quite sure of everything that had happened while he was gone. Just that it had been bad.

Really bad.

And that Dean was done talking about it.

Other than that, his older brother didn't go into specifics, so he hadn't a clue. Which was quite frustrating, all things considered.

On one hand, he was happy that Dean had at least opened up to him, but if he had known it would be like this afterward...

Dean had claimed the right side of the bed as his, and was currently digging a pair of sweatpants from his bag, all the while doing his best to ignore Sam.

It didn't take long for the youngest Winchester to catch on. Sam hated the silence between them, hated the distance that was separating them even though they were mere feet apart. They were brothers, and yet they were acting anything but at the moment.

Sam made his way over to his "designated" side and flopped down, brown locks whooshing up before falling back in front of his eyes. He could tell that that act alone annoyed his older brother, but at least he had gotten his attention. It took a moment, but finally Dean caught his gaze, more than reluctant to hold onto it.

"Dean, you've got to stop."

The middle Winchester's brow immediately narrowed, anger creeping across his forehead. He shrugged noncommittally as if to say "what?"

"I don't think any less of you for telling me what you did. You can't hold everything in forever," Sam replied, thankful that his brother was at least taking the time to read his lips. He was trying desperately not to think of their father, because he knew if he did, his anger would get the best of him.

Dean responded by folding both of his hands and bringing them to his chest, making sure to overemphasize the corresponding sigh for the "tired" sign.

"You do realize the reason you've been so tired lately is because you haven't been eating nearly enough, right?" He hated that he was letting anger creep into his body language—into his brow—but his patience was fading with each brushoff his brother gave him.

Dean clenched his jaw once more, bringing his right hand to his mouth in a squished "O" shape and tapping his lips a few times (movements still sharp) before bringing his hand down to his chest in the "five" shape again, and tapping his thumb harshly against it.

"You think eating once a day is fine? Is that what Dad taught you?" Sam spat, regretting the words instantaneously.

The look of hurt that flashed across Dean's eyes quickly faded, replaced once again with anger, but Sam wasn't blind.

He'd seen it.

He also didn't miss the way Dean promptly broke eye contact and snatched a pillow off the bed, proceeding to head straight for the floor.

"Dammit, Dean," Sam grumbled, getting up from the bed and practically stomping around to the other side. He was about to kneel down, could feel himself reaching for Dean's arm (something he'd been doing way too much of lately), but he stopped himself short when his brother brought a firm hand up to his mouth without actually touching it, and quickly brought it back down above his left hand, crisscrossing them over each other, but not making contact with it either, all the while keeping his gaze on the floor.

Sam nodded curtly, standing back up with his hands resting on his hips, lips slightly pursed. "Yeah, good night, Dean."

And he calls me stubborn.

Shaking his head, he made his way back over to the other side of the bed and sat down. He slipped off his boots and pulled nightclothes from his bag, deciding to just change right there. After he'd pulled them on, he got under the covers and closed his eyes, tired yet hesitant to let himself fall asleep.

The room wasn't exactly winter-proof, and even under the sheet and two blankets, he was still quite cold. And that only told him that if he was still freezing, Dean had to be suffering.

Running a hand through his hair, he sat up and scooted across the bed, peering down to the floor were Dean was currently shivering on his side, legs tucked almost up to his chest, and arms folded just above them.

He was half-way tempted to just scoop his brother up and toss him on the bed regardless, but since the stubborn bastard was such a light sleeper and insufferable at the moment, Sam settled for yanking the blankets up off the bed and laying them gently across his brother's thin form.

Surprisingly, the older hunter didn't stir, just laid there in the same position, brow drawn even in sleep.

Sam shook his head and settled back in underneath the lone cover.

He'd make due for tonight.

A little chill never hurt anyone, at least, that's what he kept trying to tell himself as he fell into a restless sleep.

A/N- That came out a little longer and more angstier than I imagined it. Anyway, THANK YOU ALL so much for your lovely reviews. I really do appreciate them! :) Many THANKS to kissacazador, Glades of Grey, astafir, HPSmallCharm29, babyreaper, incredible ANON ;), dandy44, CrazyDreamin, renniespice, Sjoeks, Lbdba, all of you who have favorited me, and all of you who reviewed Me, I'm Not. Thank you all so much for continued support of this story. :D Hope this chapter sufficed.

*I'm sorry

*Thank you