The Illusionist II

Chapter 15 : You Don't Know Me

Awkward. Tense. On edge.

Dean couldn't help but feel all those things and more with John sitting less than five feet from him. Every single movement, no matter how small, made him want to jump; and even though he kept most of his fidgeting under control, a few twitches and flinches still prevailed.

He felt foolish, yet at the same time, he couldn't help but be scared. And as much as he hated to admit that to himself, he knew it was true.

His father's eyes had been black, void of any emotion whatsoever, when he'd thrown him into that lake, but he'd overheard the man telling Sam that he'd saved him, and he couldn't help but question himself. Had he really seen those two solid black orbs sunken deep within his father's skull, or had it all just been a hallucination? Had he really been that bone-deep exhausted and hurt that he'd just made it all up?

Dean was positive that the salt lines hadn't been tampered with. He'd looked over the window and the door, and neither line had been broken.

Demons couldn't cross salt lines if they weren't broken, could they? He was sure they couldn't. Pretty positive anyway. No—they couldn't. It was impossible.

"...There are certain signs that appear in an area where demon activity is involved; cattle deaths, temperature fluctuations, electrical storms—all of them are telling signs. And lately, this type of activity has been happening around the Chicago area..."

John's voice filtered in and out of Dean's head. He tried desperately to concentrate on what the man was saying, but something still felt wrong; off.

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Sam's leg bouncing and shaking underneath the table, and his immediate instinct was to reach over and stop him, but he didn't. He knew his brother was just as anxious as he was, though Sam was much more willing to show it.

He glanced at his brother, saw the way he kept clenching and unclenching his jaw, and couldn't help but wonder if he'd been doing the same thing. He knew how angry Sam was. Hell, when wasn't his little brother angry about something? Although, Dean had to admit, most of Sam's anger was due to Jessica's death. Nowadays anyway.

Dean figured that was probably the sole reason why Sam was actually listening to their father instead of snapping at him or cutting him off every few seconds. He wanted to avenge his dead girlfriend. Then what? The middle Winchester knew his brother hated hunting, had ever since he'd found out what John actually did for a living when he was five years old. Hated it even worse when he got older, and saw how brutal monsters really were.

Dean had never even considered hating the job. It was apart of his life, a mark emblazoned on his soul, something that he couldn't shake, regardless of the fact of how shitty it could be at times. They saved people—that was what was most important. Saving innocent people who had the unfortunate luck of being haunted by a ghost, or worst case scenario, being possessed by a demon.

It didn't matter if he got a scar here or there, it only mattered if there was one less person that had to worry about having a sleepless night, or live in a waking nightmare.

He didn't regret his job one bit, and would live the life he had over and over again, no matter what. He only wished that he could be better at it, faster, and more intelligent. Be someone that Sam and his father could be proud of instead of just stuck with.

"...I have a friend back in Colorado. Name's Daniel Elkins. You see, boys, he has this weapon, a Colt; and it can kill anything. Including the thing that killed your mother and Jessica."

"You're sure about this?" Sam asked, the curiosity in his voice catching Dean's attention. He looked over at Sam again, kid hadn't even touched his food. It sat there in its container, lid closed just as his was. His leg had stopped bouncing though, and the anger that had been carved into his face for the past couple of hours slowly eased away, like waves washing sand off of a beach.

John nodded in response. "I'm positive. I've already contacted him, told him we'd be there by Friday night," the oldest Winchester admitted. He hadn't really touched his food either, Dean noticed. There were a few bites missing from his burger, but other than that, his container remained mostly full as well.

"Wait, Friday night?" Sam inquired, brow narrowing in reflex. "That's only two days from now. You do realize that we're not exactly a hundred percent here, right?"

John's neutral expression darkened at the tone of the youngest Winchester's voice. "This is the thing that killed your mother, Sam. And Jessica. Does it really matter?"

Dean stilled altogether, sensing a fight about to erupt. He couldn't help but compare his little brother and father to thunderheads, clouds that kept raising higher and higher into the atmosphere until the pressure inside them became too great, and they exploded into a thunderstorm.

"Of course it matters!" Sam snapped back, every bit of tension that had left him making his body rigid once more. "Dean's got injuries over forty percent of his body. He was tortured by those maniacs for Pete's sake!"

"Sam-" Dean hated it when they spoke about him as though he weren't even there. He knew they'd done it when he was deaf. They'd gotten away with it then, but he wasn't about to let it continue now.

"He's not in any shape to be chasing after some mythical gun you claim your friend has!" Sam continued on, looking like a snake poised to strike. The only things he was missing were fangs and a forked tongue. The image would have been hilarious if it had been a different situation, but right now, Sam was basically stating to their tough-as-nails father that Dean was weak, and unable to do anything but sit back and rest like a good boy was supposed to.

Dean couldn't help but agree with their father on one aspect—if this was the thing that had killed their mother, he didn't give a rat's ass how wounded he was, he wanted to find it and kill it and rid it of this world and the next. But as per usual, Sam never saw things the way he did. Never tried to anyway, not that he could tell.

"Sam-" Dean tried again, only to be cut off by his little brother once more.

"Does it matter?" the brunette scoffed, "Of course it matters!" Dean knew he was going to keep rambling on if he didn't stop him, so he forced the words out of his throat, even if it hurt.

"Sam, I'm fine!" Dean declared, voice raised loud and clear.

Those words got his little brother's attention, although, the rumbling tornado also known as Sam Winchester decided that he didn't like them, so his anger immediately jumped from their father to him.

"Fine? You can't be serious?" Sam said incredulously. "I just sewed your skin shut and patched up numerous burns all over your body, Dean. You are not fine."

"Sam, all we're gonna do is drive to Colorado to retrieve a gun, okay? It's not like the demon's gonna be waiting for us right then and there, and even if it is, like Dad said, does it matter? I don't care how banged up I am, if we've got the chance to kill this thing, then we need to take it," he explained, hating the way Sam was currently looking at him. He knew the expression well. It was the oh-so-you're-taking-Dad's-side-again-go-figure one.

"You're just going to sit back and pretend like nothing ever happened, aren't you?" Sam questioned him, anger lowering his brow once more.

"Sam, can't you just set your differences aside for the moment, and focus on the task at hand?" Dean knew how bad he sounded, could hear the way his voice gave out and cracked after every other word, but he cleared his throat and kept on going, trying his damnedest to make his case convincing. Though, Sam had been studying to be a lawyer, so he was probably shit out of luck anyway. His baby brother could argue with the best of them.

"Differences? Dean, should I remind you of what the definition of differences actually is-"

"No, Sammy, there's no need for that," Dean stated finitely, his own jaw clenching visibly through his skin. "We have an opportunity to catch the thing that killed mom. Maybe I need to explain to you what the definition of the word comprehend is, because I don't think you understand what I'm saying. We can't pass this up. This could be the only chance we've got, and as much as you may not like it, we need to take it."

"It's just that simple for you, isn't it?" the younger brunette asked, trademark bitchface sliding across his features. "Doesn't matter how badly you're hurt, Dad comes back and it's jump on the bandwagon time, and screw everyone and everything else." It was at that moment, Dean saw how pale his little brother was, and just how badly his hands were shaking.

"You can get angry later," Dean returned, reaching over the table and unlatching the lid on Sam's container. "Eat." It was a simple command that drew nothing but ire from the youngest of the three hunters.

"I'm not hungry," the brunette stated firmly, blue eyes narrowed and questioning.

"This isn't a debate, Sammy. You're blood sugar's low; you need to eat something." The last words were spoken gently, gently enough that he hoped they would coax Sam into listening to him.

"Look who's talking," Sam spat, a light sheen of sweat starting to spread across his forehead. "I need to eat?" He laughed at his words, the sound forced and fake. "I'm not the one that's been starving myself for the past three years." His gaze traveled from Dean to their father, and Dean wanted to clamp his hand over his brother's mouth right then and there, but his father beat him to the punch.

"Dean's right, Sam. You need to eat something. Now." It wasn't a question, or a suggestion. It was an order, and Dean knew his little brother hated to take orders, especially from their father. He only hoped they wouldn't have to hold him down and force something down his throat. Hell, right about now, he honestly didn't know if he was strong enough.

"Is everyone deaf in this family? I said I'm not hungry!" Sam shouted, and suddenly, silence filled the room. Immediately, he realized his mistake. "Dean—Dean, I'm sorry-"

"Don't, Sam," Dean said, shaking his head, unable to look at his brother now. "Just...Just eat." He didn't sound angry, just exasperated and hurt.

"I didn't—I didn't mean it like that," Sam rambled on, his face growing more pale by the minute.

"It's okay, Sammy," Dean murmured, handing his brother a plastic fork.

Slowly, Sam began to pick at the overcooked, yet cold fettuccine alfredo, forcing a few forkfuls into his mouth.

"So, it's settled then," Dean sighed. "We leave first thing tomorrow morning?" The question hung in the air until John finally answered with a nod.

It was decided. They'd be leaving for Colorado in the morning; that was, if John and Sam didn't kill each other by then.

S*P*N*S*P*N

The sky was gray as they loaded all of their belongings into their respective vehicles. John was inclined to take his truck, and for that Dean was thankful, and he knew Sam was too.

His brother and father had been exchanging glances ever since Dean offered to grab some breakfast for the three of them, though the idea was quickly shot down. Sam insisted that Dean shouldn't go out anywhere by himself, and honestly, none of them were truly hungry. When they were, they'd stop somewhere along the twelve hundred miles they would be driving through.

Dean was still limping badly, his attempt to hide it becoming more futile the longer he tried. Once their duffels were in the trunk along with the rest of their supplies, Sam snatched the keys from Dean's pocket, ignoring his brother's glare as he got in the driver's side of the Impala.

"Seriously?" Dean asked after he painstakingly climbed in on the passenger side, obviously annoyed with his little brother's over-protectiveness. "I can drive, Sammy," he stated irritably, sounding more like a stubborn child than the adult that he was.

Sam pursed his lips together, but didn't say a word. Instead, he started the vehicle up, the engine rumbling to life. The sound of the car's purrs eased Dean's discomfort a little, but he was still bitter that he wasn't the one in the driver's seat. He sat back and sighed an over-exaggerated sigh, one that he made sure was just loud enough for his little brother to hear, hoping a little of Sam's medicine would come back to bite him in the ass. It didn't quite work out that way though.

Suddenly, Sam's voice cut through the car, his tone making the hairs on the back of Dean's neck stand to attention. "We both know how much it would actually hurt for you to hold this steering wheel right now, Dean. This is a twenty hour drive, and you and I both know you're honestly in no condition for it. You need rest instead of a road trip, but since you insist on following Dad like he's the Pied Piper, you're going to shut up and let me drive." Even though Dean knew Sam thought his words were finite, the middle Winchester wasn't having it.

The black truck in front of them finally pulled out of the parking lot, and Sam followed, reluctance evident as ever.

"You need to take that stick you're sitting on out of your ass, and drop this emo bullshit facade, little brother," Dean rebutted, gaze cast on the fumes funneling out of their father's truck as he hit the gas and sped up down the state highway. "Oh, and yes, I know what the definition of facade is," he added curtly, folding his arms across his chest, and immediately regretting the action. His chest still ached from the burn, and his hands were honestly killing him. Every time he moved them, he felt the skin around his knuckles pulling and threatening to split open once more. He grimaced at the pain, the action earning an automatic scoff from his brother.

"You see? This is exactly what I'm talking about!" Sam stated, his right hand defecting from the steering wheel and gesturing towards Dean. "You always act like nothing can hurt you, and that you're always perfectly fine, but you're not! When are you going to realize that you're not invincible, Dean? Huh? When are you going to see that you're just a human being like the rest of us mere mortals?" There was sarcasm edged deep within the end of Sam's last sentence, and a quiet bitterness that made the anger that was building in the middle Winchester dissolve slightly.

"I don't think I'm invincible, Sam," Dean replied. His voice was hushed, as though it actually hurt to admit to having something that even closely resembled a weakness. "You shouldn't worry about me." That part was murmured, damn near inaudible thanks to the rumbling of the engine, and the fierce wind that was blowing against the vehicle.

Dean trained his vision on the world outside the Impala, not wanting to see the expression on his little brother's face. Sam just didn't realize that it wasn't his job to worry about him. Dean was the older brother—the worrier, not the other way around. Sam didn't need to know or care, for that matter, if he was hurt. His pain was just a useless distraction that kept his brother from focusing on the task at hand, and that was something that they could both do without. They were about to catch the thing that killed their mom, and that was what all the attention should be on. Dean would get by; he always had. He'd have a few more scars mapped out on his flesh, sure, but they wouldn't matter in the end. They never did before.

Why now?

Hell, why ever?

Dean's train of thought was interrupted when he felt the car jerk to one side, and suddenly a flood of memories from years past cascaded through his mind. He recalled all the times when his father had done the same damned thing just to draw his attention, because at the time, it wouldn't have mattered how loudly he had yelled, Dean wouldn't have known, wouldn't have heard.

And now Sam was doing the exact same thing.

Only, he could hear his little brother's fury as he began to yell, making his skin crawl and heart pound in his chest. "Is it because he's back? Is that what it is? Is your self-esteem so low that you think I should just ignore you like he did?"

Dean swallowed thickly, eyes narrowed, right hand gripping the door panel; it was the same stance he'd grown accustomed to years before, and it had snapped right back into his psyche as though he'd never stopped doing it.

"Answer me, dammit!" And Dean was sure he heard hurt in his little brother's voice, but he stayed quiet, body hunched in on itself, as though he were instinctively ready for the strike that was about to come, but never did.

Of course it hadn't, because this was Sam, not their father. Sam wouldn't pull off to the side of the road, get out of the car, and then proceed to beat the shit of him. Sam wouldn't throw him against the Impala so hard that he'd leave a dent. Sam wouldn't stand there after all was said and done and tell him what a miserable, pathetic fucking son he was.

"Dean." And Sam sounded desperate, so desperate that it hurt to hear. "I'm not him."

Those three words, those three simple words awoke Dean from his stupor. He felt hot tears spring to his eyes, but blinked them away as fast as they had come.

"I know," Dean murmured, finally finding his voice again. "I know," he repeated a little louder, letting go of the side panel and straightening his back out. He was sure Sam nodded in acknowledgment next to him, but he still couldn't force his gaze towards him. "Sorry, Sammy."

"You don't have to apologize, Dean," Sam said, voice taking on a more delicate tone. An uneasy silence drifted between them until he heard Sam's jacket ruffle quietly, music drifting through the speakers as he turned the volume up. "It's gonna be a long ride, so if you want to rest, I'll do my best to avoid any bumps," Sam stated, hopefulness in his tone.

Dean nodded and leaned further back into the seat, eyes watching the trees and the sky and the white-dotted lines pass by. He wanted to sleep—he really did—he just didn't think he'd be able to. He'd caught an hour or so the night before, keeping watch over Sam while their father slept in the room next to them, but that was about it.

He still couldn't shake the ill-fated feeling he had. The air felt thicker, like it was honestly harder to breathe, but he knew that was a foolish thought. The air was the same as it ever was, invisible and always there.

One side of his lips quirked up at that. He never thought he could compare himself to air, but damn if it wasn't the truth. He was always there—for his father, for Sam, for anyone that needed him—but the more he thought about it, the more he realized that it was the exact opposite for them.

When his father had been beating his ass to kingdom come because Sam wasn't around anymore; every time their father would leave them for a hunt, and he'd have to watch over his little brother—he was the constant in those equations, and his family the variables. His smirk grew a bit wider at that—Sam's eyes would probably shoot right out of his skull if he knew Dean actually had a clue as to what algebra was and how it worked.

"What's so funny?" Sam's confused voice filtered through his thoughts, drawing Dean out and away from them.

"Nothin'," he lied, shaking his head while trying to get more comfortable, gaze falling on the clouds and the lightning that lit them up. Thunder rumbled distantly in his ears, as well as his kid brother's voice again.

"If you say so..."

Then, there was the invisible part.

He had felt that way often, especially in the last fifteen years of his life.

All throughout school, no one honestly noticed him, and the few that did were the assholes that liked to bully and make fun of him.

If his little brother was angry or upset with him, he instantly became like one of the ghosts they hunted, ignored and cast away, forgotten about until something was needed from him.

He shook his head, recalling the time his father had forgotten him at a diner, leaving him there until the man and Sam returned a half an hour, still arguing over why they had to move for the third time in three months. John hadn't even said he was sorry, and Sam—well, Sam just pretended like it hadn't happened.

Always there and invisible—that was something he was going to have to change. And soon.

S*P*N*S*P*N

Dean sat bolt upright, a stinging in his right cheek as though he'd been slapped. He looked around, puzzled when he found himself to be in a motel room instead of the Impala.

"What the hell...?" he murmured, rubbing his cheek as he glanced around the room. It looked like the typical room they stayed in; clean, sparsely decorated, and just big enough for Sam to pace through when he had a problem to work out. "Sam!" he called out.

He received no response.

"Sam!" he tried again, and forced himself up and off the bed. It was hard though. His legs felt as though they were made of lead instead of the skin and bone and muscle that they actually consisted of. "Sam, this isn't funny! I told you to wake me up...not carry my ass in here..."

The hotel room remained silent, as well as the world outside of it.

"Where the hell are they?"

Fear stabbed him straight in the chest as his words echoed in his head.

They left you behind...because you're useless.

He shook his head, scrubbing a hand across his face as he stood up. His body ached, from his legs to his chest; he just felt sore. He cast the feeling off, supposing that it was just from the long car ride, but inwardly, he knew better. He'd driven down plenty of endless roads full of more miles than he liked to count, and he'd never felt this bad after something as simple as a ride.

Painstakingly, he made his way over to the window, drawing up the curtain as he peered out. The parking lot was empty, not a car in sight.

Fear wound itself up tight in his gut, making the muscles clench as he immediately went for the door. He grasped the handle, only to find that no matter how hard he tugged on the metal piece, the door wouldn't budge.

He was locked in the room.

Shit.

His heartbeat pounded in his ears (thu-thump,thu-thump,thu-thump) as he pulled his hand away from the knob as though he'd been burned.

"You can't escape, Dean. There is no way out."

He jerked his head towards the sound of the voice, unable to place just exactly who it belonged to. It sounded familiar, yet foreign at the same time.

"Who's there?" he demanded, anger flooding through him, but not replacing the fear that was currently sweeping up and down his spine. He could feel his body trembling, and no matter how many times he told himself to stop, the shaking continued. "Who the fuck is there?" he shouted, turning around, only to be met with a still empty hotel room.

"This is where you'll stay now," the voice told him, the sound resonating in his ears, chilling him to the bone. "This is your new home."

"Yeah, I don't think so," he stated incredulously, eyes darting around the room. After a moment, he finally caught movement out of the corner of his eye. The bathroom door was closed, but the light appeared to be on inside it, and with it came shadows gliding across the floor. "Gotcha," he mumbled, forcing himself to run over to it, the weighted feeling hitting him tenfold. It felt like he was moving in slow motion, and there didn't seem to be a damned thing he could do to stop it. It wasn't long before pain started to shoot through his legs, gradually making its way up past his hips and stomach, and then spreading throughout his arms and chest. He grit his teeth, but kept moving forward, finally managing to throw the bathroom door open.

The room itself was empty, not a soul to be seen in it. Confusion snaked through Dean's brain, and suddenly, it felt hard to breathe.

It took every ounce of strength he had to drag himself over to the sink, praying that the cold water that would come out of the faucet might offer some relief. With quivering hands, he turned the knob, but what came out wasn't water.

It was thick and black and oozing from the rickety steel faucet, staining the white porcelain sink below it as it spewed out. Dean gaped in shock, a sick feeling burning the pit of his stomach.

"There's my boy," the voice cooed, and Dean looked up, staring at his reflection in the mirror. It was smiling back at him, impossibly white teeth gleaming from between his lips.

His brow narrowed, dread overcoming his features.

"Hey, Deano, it's been awhile," his reflection said, and as Dean continued to stare at it, he saw that his reflection was not alone, for on the other side of the mirror, he could see Sam and his father talking behind him, seated at the motel table.

Dean glanced behind him, the room still empty and silent.

"No, no, no," he murmured, the hair on the back of his neck standing on end. "This isn't real, this is just a dream," he stated to himself, shaking his head.

"Oh, my sweet little demon toy, it's not. This is as real as it gets, I'm afraid," not-Dean said, green eyes turning to black. It's grin grew wider, more ominous.

"No, no, there's no fucking way!" Dean could hear his voice raising, feel his throat constricting as realization hit him fast and hard. His heart continued to pound, pound, pound away in his chest, the sound of his blood rushing through his ears as it beat faster and faster, consumed by fear, hate, and confusion.

"Aw, Dean, you're scared. That's so cute!" the demon beamed at him from the mirror.

Dean stared at his reflection in horror. It was wearing his clothes, his face, his eyes—and worst of all—his skin.

"Oh, Dean, don't you remember all those months ago when I said, 'Try as you might, you'll never get rid of me?' Well, guess what? I wasn't lying." And the expression on its face turned to one of fierce anger. "I promised you that, remember?"

Dean shook his head furiously, hot, wet tears burning his eyes. "This just a dream," he said through clenched teeth, slim fingers gripping the counter top. "This is just a dream, and when I wake up-"

"Oh, no, no, no," not-Dean scolded him. "I hate to be the one to break this to you, Deano, but there won't be any waking up from this dream. Like I said, this is your new home, where you're going to live out the rest of your days while I wear your pretty little meatsuit like it was my own. Don't you see?" it asked, "You're trapped."

"Fuck you!" Dean shouted, his lead-like arm punching the reflective glass. The skin on his knuckles split apart like a rotten fruit that had been stepped on, blood beginning to pour from the wounds.

The demon laughed at him from the other side of the mirror, something deep and throaty, and un-Dean like. "You're so damned cute when you bleed, Deano. Blood looks good on you, you know."

"Once I get out of here, I'm going to make you pay, you bitch," Dean growled, holding onto his wounded right hand with his left, a copious amount of blood slipping through it and dropping onto the floor.

It's face turned serious again, and it tsked at Dean's words. "Threats will do you no good, Dean. You know better than that," and before Dean knew it, there was an arm reaching from the mirror and pulling him forward. His face collided with the glass hard, and it wasn't long before he felt something warm streaming down his face. "I'm going to rid the world of you, Dean Winchester, once and for all. But before I do, I'll make sure you get to watch your daddy and precious little brother go before you." He cringed, feeling its warm breath hit his cheek as it spoke, and it reeked of sulfur. "You see, I've become a much better actor since the last time we met, and I can promise you this, neither one of them is going to know until it's much, much too late. And all the while I'll be out here, wreaking havoc in your name, you'll be stuck in there, just a mere little spectator to the events going on in the outside world."

"Fuck you," Dean managed to spit out, the broken glass cutting his lip open as his flesh brushed against it.

"No, Deano, this time you're the one that's getting fucked. And there's not a goddamned thing you'll be able to do about it."

It released him from it's grip, and he collapsed against the sink, it being the only thing keeping him from falling to the floor.

"Ta-ta for now. In the meantime, I'll let you have a bird's eye view of the action," it said, and all at once, the image on the mirror changed, and Dean was looking out of it's eyes—his eyes. His skin crawled as he watched with mute horror as he heard Sam's voice, and suddenly there was his little brother, staring up at him from the table, asking if he was alright. Then he heard himself reply, "I will be once we catch this thing."

All he could wonder was how in the fuck this had happened.

You'll find out soon enough, the demon's voice replied inside his head. And Dean screamed when he heard it, screamed until his voice gave out, and he collapsed to the cold, hard floor, unable to do anything but listen as it spoke.

It wasn't long before darkness washed over his eyes, and he let it consume him, not caring how temporary it would be.

He had to find a way out.

Before it was too late.

A/N- I tried to do two updates in May, but unfortunately, it just didn't happen. Anyway, MANY THANKS goes to Stryder2008, Babyreaper, HPSmallCharm29, Akira, dandy44, Glades of Grey, SupernaturalCheetahFast, Cutiepi97, and the rest of you who are still continuing to follow this story. I hope you're enjoying it, and this chapter sufficed. Until next time...