The Illusionist II
Chapter 6 : No Light, No Light
Four Days after Christmas
Sam grunted as he hit the floor, any air that he had in his lungs dispelled, leaving him gasping for breath. He looked up through his bangs (after this was over, he was so getting a hair cut), and saw Dean and the white-haired being circling one another. Its crimson eyes flicked over to him momentarily, a smile creeping across its blood red lips.
It smiled, showcasing its gleaming, bleached-white teeth. Even from across the room and in the dim lighting, Sam could still see them, looking as sharp as a piranha's. It took every bit of restraint not to shiver. They'd fought many creatures and monsters in their lives, but never one of these.
He tried to push himself up off the dirty, dust-covered floor boards but his body refused to cooperate. Instead, his arm gave out, sending him right back down to the creaking, rotted floor. His gaze shot back up to his brother who was starting to look more and more like a caged animal as the Grine continued to back him up into a corner of the room.
Sam grit his teeth, forcing himself up, feet still stumbling as he stood. His head swam and he realized at that moment that if there was as bad a time as any, now was probably the worst for his blood sugar to drop.
Even though the almost empty house was freezing, sweat slicked his back and palms. He could feel his hands starting to shake, the grip on his weapon starting to loosen as the seconds ticked by. It didn't take long before he felt weak, and as he watched his brother get thrown up against a wall, he knew they were fucked.
"Leave him alone!" he managed to grind out, his throat scratchy from the layers of sawdust coating everything.
The creature paused, its movements slow and mechanical as it reached out for Dean. It peered over at Sam, its pale skin appearing transparent in the scant light. It tilted its head back and laughed, something low and gravelly that came from deep down in its throat and sent chills down Sam's spine. Now was no time for fear, but he could all but feel it, its tendrils creeping across his body and holding him still.
He pushed himself forward as he watched it take its claws (vicious looking things that were probably clear once in its lifetime, but were now a faded copper color, stained but still razor sharp) and smack his struggling brother across the face, leaving four deep gashes in his pale flesh.
The sound (a choked-out whimper) Dean made afterward only fueled Sam's determination, causing him to place his pain on the back-burner and ready his knife. He forgot all about how badly his hands were shaking until the sound of something metal falling to the floor entered his mind, the resounding thud forcing his gaze from the creature to the place where his three-days-old blood soaked weapon laid.
"Dammit!" he spat out, his movements uncoordinated and off. He glanced up just in time to see the Grine coming towards him, a demented sneer upon its face.
Yeah, they were totally fucked.
Two days before Christmas
The room was still devoid of any light when Sam opened his eyes, still unsure of what exactly woke him up. He took in a deep breath and saw his brother closing the motel door behind him as he stepped into the room. Even in the dark, Sam could see how flushed his brother's face was, and how badly he was shivering (even in God knew how many layers).
Sam sat up, feeling the stirrings of anger start to whisk around his brain. He glanced at the clock, the red numbers stating that it was, in fact, only 5:33 A.M. Before he could control himself, his legs were already sliding over the edge of the bed, feet coming into contact with carpet that was so threadbare, he was sure he could feel the cold floor underneath.
He didn't catch his brother by surprise, as he knew, Dean could see very well in the dark. However, he was pretty sure Dean wouldn't be prepared for the lights to flip on, or Sam moving as quickly as he was.
Even though the sudden illumination of the room hurt his eyes as well, he knew it was just that much harder on his brother's eyes—enough to keep him seeing black and blue spots for the next five minutes anyway.
Dean squinted at him, top lip curling back slightly in annoyance. His fingers automatically spelled out the letters W,T, and F.
Sam rolled his eyes at this, fury scrawled across his brow.
"What the hell were you doing?" Sam shouted, and he wondered in the back of his mind if Dean thought it was foolish when people yelled at him. He quickly shoved the musing away and decided that he didn't care, and he'd raise his voice if he wanted to, deafness be damned. Dean needed to know he was upset.
Dean put a fake grin on his face, and that only solidified in Sam's mind that some smartass remark was sure to follow. With his right hand, Dean formed an "O" shape with his fingers just underneath his chin, then threw his hand forward into a loose "five" shape; then keeping his hand in the "five" shape, brought it back up to his chin and tapped it twice with his thumb, sharply, of course.
Nothin', Mom.
Sam's lips pursed at that, anger making his hands turn into fists at his sides. "Not funny, Dean."
The smile quickly slid off his brother's face, a hint of worry arching his eyebrows when he saw Sam's reaction. The look only lasted a few seconds, but it didn't go unheeded by the younger brunette.
He felt horrible for making Dean feel apprehensive.
Sam was not their father.
Dean shouldn't have to worry about getting hit because of just being himself. Smartass as he was sometimes, he didn't deserve it, but, Sam thought, he shouldn't be trying to kill himself either by training too hard. Especially in freezing weather.
Dean swayed slightly where he stood and Sam immediately reacted, reaching a hand out to steady him, but as he moved closer, he realized something.
Dean was not in his usual workout clothes. In fact, he was still in the same attire he had worn the day before, which meant that he hadn't slept since then. The smell of alcohol suddenly blasted Sam's senses, and for the life of him, he couldn't believe he'd missed it.
The scent was instantly overpowering, and he came to the conclusion that his brother was drunk; exhausted still, but drunk nonetheless.
He hadn't been running himself into the ground. No, he'd been drowning himself in whiskey instead.
Sam huffed, jaw clenching when he saw how blood-shot Dean's eyes were.
He wanted to be angry, but the feeling that had crept upon him before was gone, leaving a trace of pity in its wake.
"Why are you doing this to yourself, huh?" The question was asked gently, and Sam knew that Dean could still understand what he was saying and how he was saying it, even if he wasn't as quick on the draw as usual.
Dean just shook his head in response a few seconds later, letting his gaze fall to the floor. He didn't even try to shrug off Sam's hand, and that worried the younger hunter more than anything. Dean wasn't a passive person, and the fact that he was allowing Sam to touch him meant something was wrong. Sam squeezed his arm in the most careful way possible, not wanting to scare Dean further. Dean lifted his gaze from the carpet to Sam, and when he did, the younger hunter could see the faint wetness in his brother's eyes.
Dean's movements were a bit sluggish as he closed his hand into an "a" shape and brought it to his chest, moving it clockwise a few times before finger-spelling S-A-M-M-Y. He sniffed and looked on the verge of falling over.
Sam shook his head, his heart beginning to hurt. "You've got nothing to be sorry for, Dean. It's alright," he said, glad that his brother couldn't hear how bad he felt. He knew that it was probably written all over his face though. "Let's get you to bed, okay?" he asked, without waiting for a response. Before Dean could collapse, Sam wrapped an arm around his waist (far too thin, dammit Dean, Sam thought) and helped him over to his side of the bed. He quickly pulled back the covers and sat Dean down, his brother barely able to stay sitting while Sam pulled off his boots, frowning at the state they were in.
Sam couldn't believe he'd missed the duct tape that was wrapped around the toe of his brother's left boot or the way the heel was coming apart from the rest of the old leather. He sighed and sat the worn footwear on the floor next to the nightstand.
He didn't care how, but they were most definitely going to get some new clothes and shoes soon. A sound broke his train of thought, and his gaze immediately shot to his brother's face, tears now trickling down his cheeks.
"'M sorry, S'mmy." The slurred words were barely audible, just a faint whisper on Dean's lips. Sam could hear his older brother's breath hitch, green eyes closed tightly, too embarrassed of himself to even even meet Sam's gaze. "'S all my fault."
Sam's lips and teeth came together, instinct already forcing him to make shushing noises even though Dean couldn't hear him. He laid his hand on the back of his brother's head (for comfort but to also keep him momentarily upright), fingertips brushing through the light brown locks and gently scraping against the nape of his neck. He could feel Dean sink into the touch, but his brother was still distraught, shaking his head as a sob escaped his throat.
"He was stuck with me, didn't have you anymore. 'Course he was mad. Who would wanna be stuck with me?" Dean was hanging his head now, his voice still barely audible. Sam had to lean in close in the quiet room just to hear his brother's words. "Sorry, Sammy. Sorry you're stuck with me now."
Sam blinked tears out of his own eyes. He hadn't realized just how broken his brother was. Stuck with him? Dean was one of the best hunters he knew. And there was no questioning how great of a brother he was. Dean wouldn't think twice about putting his own self at risk. No matter what, he'd always watched over Sam. And the youngest Winchester had done some pretty dumb things in his life, but no matter what, Dean was always there for him. Stuck with him? Hardly. No. Not at all.
Sam really hated their father.
He brushed the tears from Dean's cheeks, the action only making his brother scrunch his eyes closed tighter.
"He was mad. He had every right. Screwed up...I'm a screw-up, Sammy." He was murmuring now, lips barely moving.
Sam instantly wrapped his arms around him, pulling his brother into an embrace, a hand still gently placed on the back of his head. He could feel Dean slowly lean into him and bury his head in his shoulder, the material of his shirt becoming damp. Sam squeezed him a little tighter, feeling Dean's hands grip at the sides of his sleep shirt.
Somehow, they both fell asleep, Dean still wrapped tightly in Sam's arms.
Of course the next day, Dean had forgotten all about it. Or acted like it anyway.
Sam knew better.
Four Days After Christmas
Sam's vision was swimming badly, but he was able to make out his brother's smaller form, crawling across the floor towards the Grine.
"Try as you might, you can't get rid of me," it said, voice something of another world. It made Sam's ears burn, and his hands immediately shot up to cover them. It only laughed in response, and the noise made the younger hunter drop to his knees. The voice was deep, too deep to be a human's yet mixed with a screeching undertone and he could still hear it even with his hands clasped over his ears.
It was almost as if the thing's voice was in his head.
His thoughts were confirmed when he saw his brother's eyes open wide, the sea of green apparent even through his low blood sugar haze.
They had went into this hunt almost blind, something that they hated, but happened here and there. There wasn't too much information to be had on what they were hunting, and there was even less information on how to kill it.
All they knew is that there was something bad going on in Albion, Michigan; and that was were the coordinates on Dean's phone led them to.
It was still a sore spot between them—the fact that their father was still texting Dean co-ords—and the fact that Dean was still insistent upon following them. They'd had their share of arguments about the subject, but Dean had put it plainly that "even though they're from Dad, the people still need our help."
The look on his brother's face had convinced Sam that he was right, but as Sam stared at the white-haired creature before him, he wasn't so sure.
This wasn't a typical werewolf or wendigo or vengeful spirit; no, this was a Grine, a djinn type of being that was born into an adjacent world when its human counterpart was born. According to Moroccan myth, everyone had one, only somehow, Randall Winters' (the unlucky bastard they were now fighting) one had somehow managed to find a gap and crossed over into this plane, all the while taking over its earthly twin and destroying the man. They still held the same face and body, but the man Sam had read about—the Randall Winters that was a fourth grade school teacher, beloved by all his students and staff—was now a demonic killer who'd already murdered three people, his wife and own mother included.
After sifting through pages and pages of myths and theories on how to destroy such a creature, the only one they could find involved a silver knife coated with three-days old blood from a deceased person, and stabbing the monster straight in the heart, careful to turn the knife counterclockwise one full rotation. Anywhere else—even a fraction of an inch to the left or right—would only piss it off and make it more likely to kill its attacker.
So basically, they had one chance, and from Sam's vantage point, it wasn't looking so good right now.
He watched as Dean grabbed a hold of its leg, the Grine immediately responding to the contact by kicking his brother in the face with its opposite limb, sneering all the while. Dean, on the other hand, wasn't about to give up, and Sam hated the weakness that he was feeling all the more for it. Black spots danced before his eyes, and though he desperately tried to keep himself from passing out, he still felt it coming.
He probably only had a few minutes til his vision blacked out completely.
And if that happened...
Scratch that—he didn't want to even consider the thought.
He and Dean were getting out of this, no matter what.
Christmas Day
The light shining through the motel window was bright, but not sun-filled. Snow covered the ground outside and beyond, four to five inches at least, Sam guessed as he peered out, his eyes still hazed with sleep. He yawned as the bathroom door opened, remnants of steam from his brother's shower filtering out. Sam glanced at him, then did a lazy double take, his head moving more slowly due to his tiredness.
Sure enough, as he'd predicted, Dean's hair was short, trimmed back down to within an inch or two of his skull, gel holding it firmly in place.
His brother's eyes met his gaze when he realized he was being stared at, his shoulders automatically shrugging in his now commonplace "What?" gesture.
"You cut your hair," was all Sam said in response, folding his arms tighter across his chest. The room was freezing, the heater working but on its last leg.
"And?" Dean mouthed, the tips of all his fingers and thumb on his right hand pressing together just in front of his chest and spreading apart as he moved his hand across his chest.
Sam clenched his jaw, trying not to get upset at the moodiness his brother was currently showcasing. "Just an observation. That's all," Sam stated, signing the last part with a tight smile on his face. He'd gotten so used to having Dean read his lips that he'd hardly been signing at all as of late. He figured it was important that Dean knew he hadn't forgotten, and he could still move his hands and fingers just as sharply.
Dean just looked at him for a moment, an unsure expression set upon his face. A few seconds ticked by before Sam watched his brother make his way over to the table, pulling out a chair and sitting down. Sam imagined a line going straight down the middle of the poor thing; his laptop and a few books piled neatly on one side, and their guns lined neatly up on the other side, ready for Dean to clean them for the umpteenth time in a row.
Sam sighed and sat down opposite of his brother, bringing both elbows up on the tabletop and resting his chin in between his hands. Eventually, Dean realized he was being stared at and glanced up, the familiar shrug of his shoulders and exasperation clear on the furrow of his brow.
"It's Christmas. Today," Sam said simply.
Dean stared blankly at him, obviously waiting for his point.
"Just saying," Sam mumbled and looked down at his lap. He'd spent the last three Christmases with Jessica. He'd almost gotten used to putting up a tree and hanging lights around the apartment and having the aroma of her fresh baked Christmas cookies (iced Santas and reindeer) waiting for him as he came through the door. It had made her happy, and that in itself had made him happy.
Those days were long gone.
She was gone.
He cleared his throat in an attempt to get rid of the lump that had decided to form there, but as hard as he tried, it stayed put.
He was on Winchester time now, he told himself, and Christmas wasn't exactly on their to-do list. There was a hunt to plan and—
His train of thought was cut short as he felt a hand on his shoulder, thin fingers squeezing ever so lightly.
Sam glanced up, finding water in his eyes as he saw that his brother had somehow managed to sneak from his side of the table over to him, standing above him with a sad expression set upon his visage, mouth drawn into a frown, eyes looking as weary as ever.
"It's okay, Sammy." Dean's voice was tiny, whisper-thin, and barely audible, but Sam was able to hear them. He nodded and sniffed, clearing any traces of tears from his eyes with the heels of his hands. He took in a deep breath and opened his eyes, two beers sitting on the table before him and Dean now back in his chair. He watched Dean pick his up, and couldn't help but let a small smile tug at the corners of his lips as he did the same, his brother tipping it towards him and murmuring in that same whispered, barely there voice, "Merry Christmas, Sammy."
"Merry Christmas, Dean."
It didn't matter that they were already drinking at nine o'clock in the morning.
Hell, it was five o'clock somewhere.
Four Days After Christmas
He could feel it's breath ghosting across his face as it held him up against the wall, warm and reeking of blood, the iron odor making him want to gag. He could feel its nails digging into the flesh of his shoulder, even through his jacket, hoodie, and t-shirt. A grunt escaped his lips as it dug in further, and the creature croaked out a laugh in response.
"So weak, and so easy to kill," it cooed menacingly, another nail gracing the tip of his defiant chin.
"That's what you think," Sam spat out through the pain and dizziness in his head, watching as his brother crept up on it, using all the strength he had left to stab it in its back, plunging the long knife into its vital organ and twisting.
Suddenly, the light in the monster's eyes vanished, replaced by two black, lifeless voids. It collapsed to the floor with a defining thud, it's body no longer moving. Blood immediately began to pool underneath of it, soaking into the floorboards and puddling around the corpse.
"You did it," Sam mumbled breathlessly, sliding down the wall he'd been pinned against, a misplaced grin on his face. It wasn't long before he felt Dean kneeling beside him, forcing something into his mouth. It was liquid—whatever it was—and tasted like candied strawberries. Sam swallowed it without choking, the goofy grin still in place as he glanced up at his brother.
Dean was covered in blood, but where his began and the creature's ended was hardly discernible to Sam. It all looked like his brother's to him.
"You're hurt. We gotta get you to a h-hospital," Sam slurred worriedly, a hand clamping down on his brother's shoulder and gripping it tightly. "C'mon," he said, attempting to stand up but his legs slid bonelessly back to the floor. "C'mon, Dean. Le's go," he tried again, but his body just wouldn't cooperate.
It wasn't long before he watched Dean retrieve another small, red plastic bottle from his inside pocket and tear the seal off of it. With shaking hands, the older hunter unscrewed the top off and held it up to his brother's lips.
"'S more?" Sam asked, and when Dean nodded in reply, he readily gulped down the too-sweet liquid. After a few minutes, the room became less fuzzy and his eyes more focused. His body had stopped trembling, his hands finally still. Dean was still staring at him from the same position, serious green eyes observant on his every move.
"Ready?" Dean mouthed. If he was speaking, Sam couldn't tell because there was no sound that came out of his mouth.
Sam nodded and started to stand, Dean helping him up as he did so. Once he got to his feet, he steadied himself, gaze drifting to Dean's blood and cut-covered hands that were still clasped over his forearm and bicep.
"You okay?" he asked, waving a hand in front of Dean's face when he saw his brother hadn't replied even though he was staring right at him. The older hunter's movements were slower, but he finally responded with a tight nod, eyes briefly glancing at Sam before darting back to the door in front of them. In that moment, Sam could see how badly his brother was straining to remain upright. His jaw was clenched tightly, and there was a bone-deep weariness present in his eyes. His shoulders were pulled taught full of tension though he was walking with his back slightly hunched, as though he couldn't stand fully straight. Sam gave Dean another once-over, trying to determine what exactly was hurting him the most because God knew Dean would never speak up and tell him first.
The older hunter's face was cut open and would probably need to be stitched up; he had a nice sized gash on his right arm, the torn jacket and other shredded layers underneath making Sam aware of just how sharp that bastard's claws had been. Through both of those injuries, Sam was sure the worst one was somewhere on Dean's mid-section. Sam prayed it was only a bruised rib or two, but he knew better. It was never bruised—just fractured or broken.
They'd made it outside, the night air not much colder than it had been in the house, but it still made the both of them shiver. Sam had allowed Dean to help him into the car, though he wondered if he shouldn't be the one to drive when he saw Dean pause at his door, shake his head of whatever cobwebs were flooding it, and finally open his door and get in.
The drive back to the motel was luckily a short one, but the brief distance did nothing to quell his fears.
Dean was pale, and only growing paler.
The moonlight that filtered in through the windshield did nothing but make his brother look more and more like the corpse they'd just left back in that abandoned house, dark shadows falling across his forehead, cheeks, and neck. His lips were pulled tight, and his jaw still tensely set; and the white-knuckled grip he had only the steering wheel only made Sam's gut churn all the more.
Soon, the motel came into view, all the other rooms in the one-story structure dark. Dean pulled up in front of their room and killed the engine, letting out a shaky breath as he did so, something which immediately earned Sam's devout attention.
The brunette lightly tapped his brother on the shoulder, "You sure you're okay?" resonating off his lips just as it had moments before.
He watched his brother take in a deep breath and nod, though he looked anything but. Sam could feel his eyes wanting to roll at the lie, but he kept them in check, and got out of the car. He heard Dean doing the same, but instead of just standing up and closing the door like there wasn't a problem, he heard Dean's boots skidding on the asphalt and the Impala's hinges squeak pathetically. Sam immediately dashed over to the driver's side, only to find Dean hanging onto the door like it was a lifeline. "Dammit, Dean," Sam chided gently as he wrapped an arm around his brother's waist and used the other to wrap Dean's arm around his shoulders. "You don't have to be afraid to say no." Even though he was holding up most of Dean's weight, the short journey to the motel room was anything but hard.
You shouldn't feel so damned light, Dean, Sam thought.
He fished the key from one of Dean's pockets (lower right side tonight) and opened the door, getting Dean to the bed before he doubled back around to close it. His brother was a mess, face twisted up in pain, though he was trying damned hard to make it look anything but.
Sam shook his head and immediately started removing the layers covering his brother's thin frame, starting with his jacket. He could tell Dean was reluctant to take anything off, but Sam had to see what damage had been done, regardless of how self-conscious his brother was.
Dean continued to fight as Sam pulled off his Henley, followed by the two t-shirts underneath. Sam couldn't hold back the gasp that filtered through his lips as he took in his brother's sorry state. There was a large gash running in a diagonal line down Dean's mid-section. It was deep and would need to be wrapped, but not deep as intestines spilling out and about everywhere.
The wound was still bleeding, but not that badly. Though, the gash was hardly the worst thing decorating his brother's gaunt frame.
Scars littered his chest and stomach and just about anywhere there was flesh, and it took all the strength Sam had not to lose it right then and there because he knew—he knew—that those were not all hunting wounds.
No, he was pretty damned sure the majority of them were from their father, and now he'd set the thought in stone that whenever they did see their father again, he was sure it would be the last time.
Clenching his jaw so hard that his teeth just might break, Sam retrieved their first aid kit from his duffel and a few towels from the bathroom. By the time he'd made it back to the bed, Dean had passed out. Sam knew that it was more than likely from pure exhaustion that anything. Of course, he'd lost a good enough amount of blood, but not nearly enough to faint over it.
The gashes on his cheek had already clotted over, but would still need to be stitched. Sam quickly made a mental checklist of his brother's wounds, deciding first and foremost to deal with the one on his abdomen to begin with.
He cleaned it with alcohol first once the bleeding had stopped, then began the arduous task of putting his brother's flesh back together, all the while trying to keep himself composed. He forced himself to focus and block out all the other markings adorning Dean's body, including the two crisscrossed, pink slivers that were etched into the middle of his chest. Or the still fresh red line that ran along his left side. Or the thin white line that stretched over his too-prominent collar bone.
He could go on and on.
It was as though his brother's body was a constellation of scars.
Sam could feel the anger—no, hate—returning and bit his bottom lip to keep from accidentally taking it out on his unconscious sibling.
Once he was done with all the stitches (cheek and mid-section), he covered the wounds in gauze and white medical wrappings, managing to exhaust the majority of their first aid supplies.
He sat back for a minute once he was finished, running a bloodied hand through his sweat-slicked hair. He let out a sigh and cleared anything that wasn't a linen or Dean from the bed. Trying to let his brother keep as much dignity as possible, he slid off Dean's ratty jeans, boots, and socks and pulled the covers and blankets over him.
He looked so small; so fragile.
So un-Dean like.
Sam scrubbed a hand over his face, exhaustion hitting him full force.
He couldn't recall a time when he'd ever felt so hopeless.
They'd been searching for their father for two months now, and still didn't have a clue as to where he was. Not one trace, just a bunch of texts leading to hunts that were getting more and more dangerous by the week.
And, of course, Dean had been getting the brunt of the injuries.
It might not have been a spoken fact, but Sam knew it to be true, especially judging by the colorful landscape of scars, cuts, and bruises littering his brother's body.
Sam had his share of them, but they were nothing compared to Dean's.
He let out a breath and grabbed some sweatpants and a t-shirt, telling himself that he'd be lucky if he didn't pass out during the shower he was about to take.
The coming year was going to be a long one; if they both lived long enough to survive it.
A/N- Once again, I just want to thank you all for your amazing reviews and continued support of this story. Each and every single word means so much to me, so THANK YOU! :D And thanks again to those who've reviewed, including : HPSmallCharm29, babyreaper, shammy101, CrazyDreamin, Sjoeks, Glades of Grey, dandy44, 2People, BethanJonesSPN1996, kissacazador, renniespice, and What You See in the Shadows (I don't know anyone personally that's deaf, just decided that if I was going to write a deaf character, I should do my research, so I've been studying ASL :D). Again, thank you all so much, and I hope this chapter sufficed.