The Illusionist Part II

Chapter 9 : Panic Switch

Dean stared at the sandwich as though it were one of the many things they hunted instead of something that was supposed to be edible. Sam had for the most part been force-feeding him broth, soup, and whatever else he could since he'd been sick, and as much as he loved his brother, he didn't care too much for all the extra food that he didn't need.

He swallowed thickly, trying to shove down his nausea at the sight of the turkey that looked like it had just been cut from the bird itself, or the gooey cheese that looked more like burnt plastic than something he was supposed to eat. The lettuce was brown on the edges, and he was sure that if he peeled back the layers that it was probably just as nasty looking on the inside as well.

He carefully pushed the plate away from his breathing space and settled for his cup of coffee instead. He made sure to roll his eyes too, in attempt to let Sam know that he wasn't hungry, and he sure as hell wasn't going to eat that slop that was intended for him. Burnt diner coffee would suit him just fine. Besides, thanks to Sam, he was sure he'd put on weight in the past two weeks, and that was not something that he needed to be doing. He needed to be in fighting shape, not slow and bulky.

"I'm not hungry, Sammy, so don't push it," he mumbled, letting his gaze fall everywhere but on Sam.

The younger of the two, in turn, resorted to pouting and rolling his eyes. Dean figured he was probably sighing too and saying something, but he wouldn't allow himself to look. He knew better. Once he started reading his brother's lips (especially when he was being stubborn or in a mood), he never liked what he saw, and it usually pissed him off.

And then, they'd fight.

"You can pout all you fucking want, but it's not gonna make me any hungrier. And please, don't pull that if-you-don't-eat-neither-am-I crap because in case you forgot, you're diabetic and you have to eat." And with that he let his eyes finally land on his little brother, smirk planted firmly on his thin face. He almost let himself chuckle when he saw Sam clench his jaw, but decided against it. The smirk got Sam every time anyway.

Sam rolled his eyes (again) and started to eat, shoving his fork into his mouth harder than necessary.

"And you can stop looking at me like that now, Sammy. I'm fine, really," Dean reassured, glancing up from the newspaper that beckoned him from a nearby table. "I'm not some delicate little flower that's just gonna blow away when a gust of wind strikes because that's the title you currently hold," he mumbled the last part, but obviously not low enough because he saw his little brother's face reddening. "Stop being such a girl, I was only kidding," he said with a grin as he grabbed up the newspaper and started to flip through the pages. He couldn't help but jump when Sam laid his hand atop his. "What?" he snapped, jerking his hand back as though he'd been burned. "What?" he repeated, this time he hoped a little more calmly.

Sam stared at him for a long moment as though he were studying him, then finally shook his head and mumbled what looked like, "Never mind, you never listen to me anyway."

At least, he was pretty sure that's what was said. Knowing Sam, it was anyway.

"Of course I don't listen to you, Sammy, I'm deaf," he stated, taking his eyes off Sam and the hurt expression that was now on his face. He sighed, and continued to flip through the pages. He hated the tension that tended to come between them, now especially. There had been a few bad days since he'd had that damn dream, times where he'd look over while he was driving and Sam would stare back at him with black eyes and he'd almost wreck the car, and then claim that something had ran out in the middle of the road when there clearly hadn't been anything there. Then, more often than not, he'd jump practically every time Sam touched him, didn't matter how faint it was, he just couldn't stop himself. He hated feeling so damn weak and on edge and pathetic, and he knew better—he knew better—but he just couldn't stop his reaction. It didn't help that Sam would just stare at him for minutes afterward, trying to figure out what the hell he had done, which was really nothing. It wasn't his fault Dean mistook him for being a demon every now and then.

But then there were other times—that were becoming more and more common—when he'd wake up in the passenger seat and catch Sam watching him, always quick to turn his head away and back to the road, but there had been a look in his eyes...an expression Dean couldn't quite place. All he knew is that he didn't like it, and made Sam very aware of that fact. But it still continued to happen, and he couldn't help but wonder the reason.

What did Sam see when he looked at him?

His train of thought was disrupted as his phone vibrated in his pocket. He immediately reached for it, heart pounding as he flipped the cell open.

+36° 7' 18" n, -97° 4' 7" w

He stared at the coordinates for a moment—they'd been the first their father had sent them since he'd been ill, and he wondered if the man didn't somehow happen to know that. Feeling Sam's eyes on him, he glanced up from the phone, disliking the dark expression he was met with. Sam was already starting to shake his head even before Dean could get a word out.

"Sammy-"

"No, Dean. No. I'm not going anywhere that man sends me anymore. I'm through listening to him, and you should be too," Sam stated, clenching his jaw.

Dean couldn't help but feel angry, Sam's stubborn resistance already beginning to piss him off. "We've been through this before, dammit, and the fact that someone needs our help there should make you stop acting like such a bitchy jackass. If Dad wants us there, it's for a reason. We're going."

"Why do you always follow him so blindly, Dean?" Sam nearly shouted, attracting half of the busy diner's attention.

"I don't-"

"Yes, you do," Sam argued, face beginning to redden. "You're right, we have been through this before, and you're still following him just as dumbly as always."

With those words, Dean stood up abruptly, jaw clenching visibly through his skin as he grabbed his jacket and mumbled so low Sam almost couldn't hear him, "I'm leaving in five minutes. If you're not in the car by then, you're on your own."

Not even giving his little brother a chance to respond, he stalked out the door, shrugging on his jacket. The air was still biting cold, and he felt every gust as it blew against him as he made his way to the car. His heart was still pounding in his chest, and he could feel the way it made his neck throb, pulling the skin tighter, pulse far higher than it should've been. His hands were shaking as he threw open the Impala's door, and got inside. It was almost as cold in there as it was outside so he promptly started it up, turning the heat on full blast. He rubbed his hands together quickly, trying to warm them, but it wasn't doing any good. He hadn't been retaining too much warmth nowadays.

He glanced at the diner's door, and it wasn't long before he saw Sam reluctantly shoving it open and pulling his jacket tighter around his thin frame as the bitter wind hit him too. Dean let his gaze shift to the street, the odd car driving past, spitting up slush and dirty snow as it drove past. Trying not to roll his eyes as he felt the car shake with Sam's entry, he glanced over at the taller hunter, the younger of the two's face wearing a stony expression.

It didn't take long before Sam turned to stare at him. "After all that he's done to you, how can you trust him so freely, Dean?" When Dean opened his mouth to interrupt, Sam continued on without missing a beat. "He hurt you, Dean. He treated you horribly, and I don't care what reasons he had, you didn't deserve it, and I know you still think you do. There is no reason why we should keep following these coordinates he gives us just because there's somebody there that needs to be saved. In case you haven't noticed, the last few hunts he's sent on us on haven't exactly been picnics. Hell, they've nearly gotten us killed!"

Dean set his jaw as he spoke, eyes gleaming dangerously as he did so. "You and I both know that there's a risk with every hunt we take, and just because Dad's the one sending us there doesn't make the hunt any less important." He paused for a moment, gaze falling back to the lonely street ahead. "Are you in or out?" Quickly, he let his eyes dart in Sam's direction and saw his frustrated response.

"In."

"Now that that's settled," Dean started, reaching across Sam and retrieving a map from the glove box, "Look up those co-ords and tell me where we're going." He casually tossed the object onto Sam's lap and put the Impala into gear.

He didn't have to see it to know that Sam had probably sighed the moment he brushed off their argument and frowned with both his mouth and brow. As much as he wanted to care, he just couldn't find it in himself to do so at the moment. They had work to do (when didn't they?), and a hunt to head to.

They could argue later.

Hell, they always did anyway.

S*P*N*S*P*N

Mile after mile they drove, Sam could feel himself growing more and more anxious, and yet, he had no particular reason why. He just was. He knew he kept drawing Dean's attention away from driving due to his constant shifting in his seat, or all the fingernails that he'd managed to chew off again.

Their destination was Stillwater, Oklahoma and Sam couldn't help but dread what was awaiting them there. It was the second hunt they'd been on since Dean had recovered from pneumonia, and Sam wondered if he was actually one hundred percent or just putting on a front (something he was far too good at doing). He was acting more like his normal self, just as bossy and jerk-like as always, but still...

As Sam's gaze drifted from the dashboard to the passenger side window, the dream that he had been plaguing him on and off for the past two weeks now flashed before his eyes. Trees covered with snow and icicles flashed past the Impala, but all Sam could see was a cold, dark motel room; their father struggling with his bindings, calling out for him; and then Dean—his loving and ever-chastising brother—staring at him with pitch black eyes and a sneer meant for a creature of the night, not him, not Dean.

Almost every time he fell asleep, he was treated to the sight, and he couldn't make sense of it no matter how hard he tried. He could only watch as it happened over and over until he finally forced himself awake, head ache ablaze in his temples and hands trembling violently, body covered in sweat. Sometimes, Dean had caught him and just stared, eyes wide with fear; other times thankfully, he'd stay asleep, or pretend to at least.

Always pretending...

Something snapped him back into the present, and remnants of the dream faded as they always did, but they'd come later, haunting his eyes, granting them a quiet gloom that he knew Dean could see because Dean saw everything.

Sam forced his gaze away from the frozen wasteland of southern Missouri and the long harvested corn fields and onto his brother. He was still far too thin, cheek bones peeking through his skin and looking so sharp they could cut paper. With all the food Sam had shoved down his throat lately, it still didn't look as though it had done any good. Dean had gained maybe five pounds, if that, and Sam knew he desperately needed to add more to his scrawny frame.

He was still mad at him too, angry at the fact that he could just up and leave at a moment's notice because their father sent them a text message with some stupid coordinates on it. Sam didn't even try to understand because he didn't want to. Didn't even want to fathom the why's and the how's. He just wanted to throttle Dean. As much as he loved him, he couldn't stand to see the constant pain that had become a permanent fixture in his eyes. Sometimes, it actually hurt to look at him, but Sam would never voice that thought. He just knew that if he did, Dean would just withdraw more from him and refuse to speak again.

"Pictures last longer," Dean's smooth voice cut through the car, and Sam just continued to stare, blue eyes full of questions he knew he'd probably never get answers to. Dean glanced at him, green eyes gleaming through the shadows cast upon his face from the dark that was beginning to claim the cloud-laden winter sky. "You really gotta stop with all that worrying, Sammy. You're gonna look forty when you're twenty-five. Don't want that now, do ya?" the older of the two quipped, but Sam just couldn't find it in himself to smile.

He hated the fact that their father still had control over them even though he wasn't there, and Dean just went along with as though it were okay, but it wasn't. Couldn't he see that? No, Sam thought sadly, he couldn't.

"Sammy, just stop, will you?" And Dean's tone had done a complete one-eighty. Instead of sounding teasing and light, it sounded desperate and pained; pleading.

Sam decided to play dumb this time. "Stop what?" he asked, holding out his left hand, palm facing upwards, and brought his right hand down on it sideways, then shrugged.

Dean stared at him for a long moment before turning his eyes back to the road, brow drawing into a frown. "You know what I'm talking about. I'm fine. I don't know how many times I have to tell you that. I haven't even coughed in four days. So just stop.

Now."

Sam rolled his eyes and folded his arms across his chest. It was times such as this one where he truly wished Dean could hear. That way, he could scream and shout and tell him what an ass he was being, but instead, he kept it inside, lost in some imaginary scenario in his mind.

Clenching his jaw, he forced his gaze out the window once more, a roadway sign stating they still had almost two hundred more miles to go. He closed his eyes and attempted to prepare himself for what they were going to face next, whatever it may be.

Softly, Highway to Hell played on the car radio as Sam drifted off.

S*P*N*S*P*N

"Looks like we're up against a raw head," Dean stated, staring at a bulletin board full of missing children's pictures. There were at least half a dozen tacked and posted to it on the coffee shop wall, boys and girls, mostly under ten.

Dean hated rawheads. Perhaps despised was a better word. They were freaky looking bastards who fed off of children, taking them in the middle of the night from their own beds, never to be seen again, leaving nothing but pain in their wake. He grimaced inwardly.

He couldn't wait to get his hands on this bastard. He'd choke the life out of it—

His train of thought was broken as Sam pushed the laptop across the table, the movement catching his eye. He focused on the screen, reports of desperate parents pleading for someone to bring their children back home to them staring back at him. He scanned the screen, various facts catching his attention.

….Six children in three weeks...

….All lived within a five block radius of each other...

….Victims all disappeared during the night, windows and doors still locked...

….No obvious signs of break ins...

"Okay, so the we know that rawheads tend to live near bodies of water. Any lakes or ponds nearby?" Dean asked, glancing up at his brother.

"Let's see," Sam answered, brow lowered in concentration as he pulled the laptop back and began a search. Dean watched as his fingers tapped across the keys, becoming a mere blur as they danced across the keyboard. After a few seconds, he turned the computer sideways so they could both see the screen.

"No bodies of water nearby, however," Sam stated, clicking on another page, a new news article popping up when he did, "according to this, there's a drainage ditch that runs along this block; the same block that two of the children lived on."

"So, more than likely, it's using one of those homes as its lair," Dean concluded, looking up from the screen to Sam.

Sam nodded in response. "And," he said, clicking on another link, "the drainage ditch flooded the last three houses on the block."

"Which means one of those is our spot. Just gotta find out which one's vacant. Then, we go in and nab the sonofabitch," he said with a determined look set upon his features. "See," he started, sliding a surefire grin onto his gaunt face, "This one's easy as pie, Sammy."

The neutral expression on Sam's face transformed into a haunted one, tainted with a hint of anger. "Yeah, let's hope so," he mumbled, the muscles in his jaw set tight.

"Ain't no hoping about it, Sammy. C'mon, we got us a rawhead to fry," Dean said, and slid out from the booth they were sitting at.

Sam watched as his brother walked away, and prayed that he was right; prayed that this would be an in an out job, and they could be on their merry way. But as much as he wanted to believe that, the logical part of his brain warned him that sometimes, no matter how much praying was done, things could still turn to shit.

And he hated—hated—when that part of his brain was right.

S*P*N*S*P*N

"That the place?" Dean asked, nodding towards a dilapidated-looking, one-story structure as they pulled up along a row of homes, none appearing too much better off than the one he was gesturing towards.

"Yeah, if you can believe it," Sam replied, taking in the scenery. The entire neighborhood looked to be in dire need of repair, most of the houses looking uninhabitable, and Sam wondered how people even managed to stay in them.

"We've lived in a few places like this," Dean's soft voice cut through the car, jerking Sam from his thoughts.

"What?" he asked, brow lowered in confusion as he stared at Dean, the older hunter wearing a distant expression on his weary visage.

Dean stared at him for a moment, then shook his head. "Nothing," he mumbled, face now set in determination as he steered the car into the alley behind the house. He came to a stop in the rear of the building, and exited the Impala. He stepped out and made his way to the trunk, pushing it open and removing two tasers from the rear compartment.

"Got these set to one hundred thousand volts, so be careful, Sammy. You only get one shot, so make it count," Dean stated, handing one of the tasers over to his little brother, voice serious and all business.

Sam took in a breath and nodded, not liking the way the hairs on the back of his neck were standing on end.

Dean extracted a couple of flashlights as well, handing one to Sam. "You ready?" Dean asked, eyes automatically focusing on his brother's lips.

"Yep," Sam replied, waiting for Dean to lead the way.

The older of the two instantly took charge, going up the raggedy, wooden steps carefully, steadily; first. They creaked softly, the faint sound barely audible as it was muffled against the wind that had begun to howl. It made no difference to Dean. He'd trained himself to be as light as possible on his feet for years, scaring Sam and their father alike numerous times, but he knew if he were to even be a decent hunter, he had to learn to control the way his weight shifted on certain objects.

The difference was noticeable to Sam, and he couldn't help but second guess his stealth, no matter how fleeting or momentary the thought.

What little moonlight they had was soon covered as they neared the back door, darkness blanketing them as Dean tried the door. Unsurprisingly, it wasn't locked. Steadying himself, he opened it slowly using the tip of his taser and proceeded forward, cautious with every move. Within seconds, he felt Sam gently tap him on the shoulder. Steeling himself, he jerked his head in his brother's direction, and was met with, "Downstairs," and Sam held his hand up to his ear.

Dean nodded in response, and silently made his way down the hallway, careful not to trip on the old toys and other clutter that littered the weathered floorboards. The door leading to the basement was already wide open, and Dean didn't waste any time making his way through it and down another set of rickety stairs, with Sam in tow.

Once they were at the bottom, he glanced back at Sam, looking for an indication of the origin of the noise. Sam pointed towards an ancient-looking cupboard that had seen much better days, and as Dean let his gaze travel to it, he saw how it shook ever so slightly. Tasers at the ready, they both made their way over to it, and without hesitation, Dean threw the doors open.

Heart pounding in his chest, he couldn't help but be thankful at the sight that met his vision; two of the children that had been missing were huddled in the small space, fear plastered bright in their scared eyes and their hands covering their ears. Dean quickly tried to reassure them. "Hey, it's okay. It's okay," he said, putting on the warmest smile he could dredge up as he laid a comforting hand on the little boy's shoulder.

They both started nodding, and he immediately glanced back at Sam for an answer. "It's still here," Sam stated, worry threaded throughout his features.

Dean turned back towards the children. "Alright, we're gonna get you two out of here. Grab your sister's hand. That's it. Let's go," he said, helping them both up and out of the confines of the cupboard. He carefully guided them towards Sam, and gave them all a gentle push as he stayed behind, ready to take the rawhead out at a moment's notice.

Sam had made it to the middle of the stairs when suddenly, the rawhead's bony hand reached out from between the steps and grabbed a hold of his ankle, bringing him down hard and fast on the wooden staircase.

"Sam!" Dean shouted, eyes darting through the dark in an attempt to locate the creature. As soon as he spotted it, he aimed the taser and shot at it, but missed. "Dammit!" he cursed, glancing back in Sam's direction. "Go! Get them out of here!"

He could see the reluctance in Sam's eyes, not wanting to leave him all alone down there, but he knew that Sam knew that it had to be done. "Make it count!" Sam shouted to him as he tossed his taser at him, and Dean nodded thankfully.

His gaze immediately traveled back to the place where the rawhead had first appeared, only to find the spot empty. Letting instinct kick in, he began to scan every inch of the dank basement, the smell alone making him want to gag, but he held his reflex in check and continued to search for the creature. He'd taken less than five steps before it appeared out of nowhere, catching him completely off-guard and knocking him to the floor. He hit the concrete hard, hard enough to phase him for a moment until he realized exactly where he was at, and what the hell he was supposed to be doing.

Dean scrambled away as the rawhead advanced on him, saliva dripping from its cracked lips as it pursued him. The young hunter had lost hold of his weapon and flashlight when he fell, and was thankful for having more than well-trained eyes when he finally located it a few feet away from him on the floor. Without hesitation, he dove for it and turned back around, pulling the trigger on the mechanism and watching as it hit its target.

The rawhead trembled violently as the electricity took hold of its body, and Dean was almost able to let out a sigh of relief, until he realized what was happening; and by then, it was too late.

S*P*N*S*P*N

He'd listened to Dean, even though he didn't want to, he did, and couldn't help but feel regret for it. He managed to get the kids outside and safely away from the rawhead; and then, he made his way back into the house and down the stairs. Without a flashlight, it wasn't all that easy to see in the dark, but it didn't take long for him to find the one thing that he feared the most.

"Dean!" he shouted, not giving a shit that his brother couldn't hear him. "Dean!" he yelled again as he rushed over to his brother's still figure, grabbing a hold of his collar and pulling him up half-way off the floor. Dean was unconscious, breath slow and labored, and Sam immediately forced himself into action. Water stained the knees of his pants as he knelt down, fishing for his phone with one hand, and holding Dean up with the other.

Having dialed the number countless times, he didn't even have to look at the keypad of his phone to do so. After a few rings, an operator answered, and he quickly proceeded to tell them his location and situation.

It wasn't long before the sound of sirens rang in his ears, and without even thinking (because he wasn't exactly in a calm, rational mode at the moment), he lifted Dean up, chest sinking with the lightness of his brother's frame. He promptly carried him up the stairs and away from the rawhead's corpse (because how in the hell was he going to explain that one to the EMTs?), and out of the house, gently laying Dean in the front yard. His mind was racing and his heart pounding, and it didn't take much to put two and two together.

He'd told him to be careful, hadn't he?

Hadn't he?

Sam could feel the tears welling up in his eyes, but he forced them back, blinking them away as the ambulance pulled up. Two paramedics hopped out of the vehicle, and Sam did his best to stay calm but the act was a trying one.

One of the EMTs, a dark-haired male, came up to him, medical pack in hand. "He's been electrocuted?" the man asked, glancing at Sam. He quickly nodded in response, eyes still glazing over against his will. "It'll be okay..."

"Sam, my name's Sam," the brunette replied, voice two shades from being steady. He cleared his throat, but it wasn't helping matters much.

"Okay, Sam, why don't you do me a favor, and give us a little room, okay? I'm Matt, by the way," he said calmly, offering Sam a pleasant but urgent smile.

"Right, right, sorry. Um, yeah," the youngest Winchester mumbled and slowly backed away, worried eyes never leaving Dean. He ran a hand through his hair, and it was only then he realized how badly he was shaking. "He's—if you say something to him, he won't be able to hear you. He's deaf," he explained, swallowing thickly.

Matt nodded, glancing at him, and then diverted his attention back to Dean. Sam watched as they checked his pulse, and couldn't help but feel the tiniest bit of relief when he heard Matt mention to the other EMT that there was still something there; that his heart was still beating in his chest. Inwardly though, he chastised himself for not even thinking to check his brother's vitals. All he had thought of was getting Dean out of that dank, cold basement that seemed far too much like a graveyard than what it actually was.

He'd been so busy watching Dean that he hadn't even realized the police were there, comforting and speaking with the children, and him as well. He hadn't heard a single word they'd said.

He murmured his answers to a uniformed officer, never letting his gaze leave his brother, and as they loaded him up into the ambulance, he was thankful that the officer that was questioning him gave him the go ahead to follow them.

The drive to the hospital was a mere blur; the only thing he could pay attention to was the lights of the emergency vehicle in front of him. It wasn't long before they reached Stillwater Medical Center, but it was hours before he heard anything about Dean's condition.

After one last round of questions from the police (nothing major), he was finally approached by a doctor. Bald and dark-complected, the medical professional greeted Sam promptly. "Mr. Burkowitz? I'm Dr. Theron," the man said as he walked up to him, a neutral expression on his face.

Sam swallowed and nodded. "How is he?"

"He's resting right now, but I'm afraid, I don't have good news." Sam's heart sunk as the man continued on, though he barely paid attention to his words. "When he was electrocuted, it triggered a massive heart attack. The organ is badly damaged. I'm sorry, but there isn't much we can do now but keep him comfortable."

Sam shook his head, not sure he was hearing right. "I'm sorry, but what exactly do you mean by keep him comfortable?" He could feel the anger welling up in his chest, and tears springing to his eyes, because the man had to be wrong. Even if he was a doctor, he was still human, and humans were wrong all the time. It didn't make sense! Dean was strong, and capable, and not dying.

Not dying...

Not dying...

Nonono!

"I'm sorry, Mr. Burkowitz, but he's dying. His heart is weak, and at this point, there are no viable treatment options. He has a few weeks, maybe a month left, but not much more. I really am sorry," the doctor apologized again before walking away.

Sam stared in disbelief at the spot where the man had just stood. He shook his head to himself, not caring if he looked like he belonged in a mental ward or not. This wasn't happening. There was no way in hell that his brother was dying. No, it just wasn't possible. A tear rolled down his cheek, and he furiously wiped it away.

No, this wasn't happening. He wouldn't allow it. He was going to find a way to save Dean, because it needed to be done—because Dean was going to be saved. And after Dean was saved, they would find their father and...

There would be time to think about that later. For now, keeping Dean alive was his main priority.

Hold on big brother...

A/N : I don't think I have enough words to offer up an apology for taking so long to get this out to you all. I am beyond floored and appreciative of the support that I've gotten for this story, and I seriously can't thank you all enough. RL has kicked my ass these past few months, and once again, I truly am sorry it took so long to update. MANY, MANY THANKS goes out to Niweeg, babyreaper, HPSmallCharm29, Zuza chan, renniespice, dandy44, Glades of Grey, Bethan1996SPN(I wish I could update faster, but working 60+hrs a week, doesn't exactly help, once again, my apologies:), kissacazador, Bloodmoon-Shinigami, silencesuffers, CrazyDreamin, and all those that have faved or have this story on one of their lists. I seriously can't thank you all enough. Hope to update sooner rather than later, and hope this chapter sufficed. Thank you all again :) Oh, and if anyone ever wants to chat about this story or SPN or anything, I've got a few ways to reach me on my profile page. :D