The Illusionist II
Chapter 16 : Castle of Glass
It was around eight o'clock Friday night when they finally made it into Manning, and another twenty minutes before they arrived at Elkins' cabin. Sam had followed their father road after twisting,winding road when they eventually stopped. Sam turned the car off, glancing over at Dean before he got out. His brother looked apprehensive, eyes darting back and forth between the cabin and their father.
Sam could only imagine what Dean must have been feeling, so he tried his best to put himself in front of his brother whenever their father hopped out of his truck.
The more distance between the two of them, the better. Though Sam wondered if he himself could handle it. They'd managed only one argument in the twelve hundred miles they drove, and he figured Dean was probably considering that a win.
It wasn't though.
It was taking every single fiber of Sam's being not to let loose on the man. His mind had been racing ever since they'd left Minnesota, and he'd gotten little sleep at the one motel stop they did make. His brain just wouldn't shut down, too many images of dreams and nightmares past keeping him company.
He wondered how the hell their father could live with himself. After all the things he'd done to Dean, he honestly didn't understand how the man could even look him in the eye. Though, Sam did notice, their father barely even batted an eyelash at the middle Winchester. Even when Dean was speaking, the older man made sure to put his focus on something else, and every time Sam saw him do that, he wanted to punch him.
It wasn't easy restraining himself, and he had the marks on his bottom lip and tongue to prove it. He'd bitten his tongue (literally and figuratively) so many times, he wasn't sure how many he had left in him. He saw the way their father watched Dean when he ate (what little he ate), and how he didn't say a word about the amount. Dean hadn't even really touched his food at the pit stops they did make, and Sam wanted to get angry—hell, who was he kidding, he was angry—but in a way, he understood it too. It only made sense that Dean would be even more afraid to eat when their father was around, because he was the reason for it in the first place.
The thought made Sam clench his fists, his too-long nails digging into the flesh of his palms and leaving little crescents in their wake. No matter how long he was to avoid it, he was pretty damned positive that by the end of their current excursion, his he and his father would come to blows.
"Are you sure he's here?" Dean's voice cut through the silence of the night. Dusk had fallen a few hours before, and the sky was clear and black, only the stars cutting through its thick, dark blanket. There were no lights outside the cabin, none that Sam could see. He glanced up, brow creasing as he noticed there had been a porch light, but it was broken.
"Something's wrong," the brunette stated, pointing at the broken glass that lay underneath the light socket.
"Step back," John immediately said, casting an arm out. The action caught Dean off guard, and he reacted instantly, flinching to the side and bumping right into Sam.
"You okay?" Sam asked, worried eyes staring into his brother's fearful ones as he laid a firm hand on Dean's shoulder, to steady him. The smallest Winchester tensed under his grasp, and backed away, mumbling an irritated, "I'm fine."
Sam's immediate reaction to those two words was normally a roll of the eyes, but he kept himself in check, and settled for shifting his position so that he was directly in front of Dean now.
John circled back to his truck, retrieved his sawed-off and a flashlight, and came back to the porch. "Stay behind me," he ordered, gaze mostly on Sam as he handed him the flashlight.
The brunette nodded, reluctance in his posture. He'd had a bad feeling about this place ever since their father had mentioned it, and as John warily opened the unlocked front door, the feeling grew stronger. Something was most definitely wrong, he thought, and as they all stepped inside, he could see why.
The interior of the cabin was a complete and total mess. There were books and tools and furniture strewn about everywhere, definite signs of a struggle. As they all edged closer to the center of the chaos, Sam could see the blood that littered the floor. There were puddles and streaks of the crimson substance everywhere. It was clear that whoever had lost it was probably not amongst the living any longer.
"I don't think your friend is here anymore," Dean's voice cut through the silence, fear and uncertainty evident in his tone.
John sighed, and stood down, letting the gun fall slack at his side. He looked thoughtful for a moment before heading to the area where his friend's large desk was flipped upside down.
Sam followed after him as John started to dig through the debris. "Shine that over here, will you?" he said, impatience and irritation heavy in his tone.
Sam did as he was told all with a clenched jaw and iron grip on the flashlight handle. He remained silent, vigilant eyes watching as Dean started to dig around as well. Objects clattered to the floor as both his brother and father tossed them down, tearing through pile after pile until Dean finally stood still, a small wooden box in his hands. Before he could even open it, John was there, ripping it from his grasp.
The older man opened it, brow narrowing as his eyes fell on a mostly empty container. Their were still five bullets left in the casing, though the gun was gone. "That bastard did have it, all this time," he muttered, dark eyes gleaming dangerously as they scanned the mess once more.
"I thought you said he was ready and willing to give it to you—that he knew we were coming?" Sam questioned, all the disdain he felt for his father bleeding out into his voice. "You lied, didn't you? He had no clue we'd be here! What the hell have you gotten us into?" Sam shouted, seething now.
"No, he knew we—I was coming. I did contact him, and I told him I'd be here," John stated, still clenching the empty box.
"Well, who the hell else did you let on in this little venture, Dad? Because it sure as hell looks like someone beat you to it!" Sam's heartbeat was visible in his throat now, the anger he was feeling making his fingertips tingle. He felt his hands twitching, the urge to punch his father square across the jaw coming back tenfold.
"No one else knew," John ground out, his voice sounding even rougher and more gravelly than before.
"Dad." And this time it was Dean's voice cutting through the darkness, sounding scared and unsure. Both of the other Winchester's ignored it, continuing on with their argument.
"Obviously someone did!" Sam retorted, gesturing towards the ransacked cabin.
"And I'm telling you, no one else knew!" John shouted back, inching a step closer towards his youngest son.
"Sam." It was Dean again, pleading in his tone, yet once again, neither man paid him attention.
"What? Are you gonna hit me now?" Sam taunted, daring to look his father straight in the eye. "Feel those old urges coming back? Huh?"
"Shut up, Sam. That's an order," John commanded, tight-lipped, quiet voice filled with contained fury.
"You think you can say those three words, and I'm just supposed to automatically listen? Well, I hate to break it to you, but I'm not some robot that's gonna do everything thing you order me to! I'm your son, not a soldier on the battlefield that you can command!"
"Sam," and there was warning in John's tone, warning that Sam cared to ignore. Instead, he kept on.
"You drag us out here to the middle of nowhere, and for what? An empty box that supposedly had a magical gun in it that could kill anything? I can't believe we actually listened to you aga-"
"STOP!"
Both men fell silent at Dean's voice, both pairs of eyes darting over to where he stood, a journal that looked a hell of a lot like John's resting in his hands. His green eyes were glimmering in the faint light cast from the flashlight as he looked back and forth between them. "I found something," he said, and this time his voice was so quiet, both men could barely hear it.
Dean took a few steps forward and held the open book in front them, a bandaged hand pointing to the last passage in it.
It wasn't written like all the other scribbles of black ink and tiny, pained-looking writing. There was only one word there—lamia—spelled out in fading red.
"Shit!" John cursed, running a hand through his hair.
"For being vamps, they sure left behind a lot of blood," Dean commented quietly, staring at the drying substance on the floor.
"That's because they weren't actually here to suck his blood," Sam stated, glare falling on his father once more. "They knew about the Colt too."
"And now we have to get it back," John said finitely, already heading for the door, box still in hand.
Sam stood there for a moment, anger still coursing through his veins when Dean's voice cut off his train of thought. "Let's go, Sammy." Sam jerked his head in his brother's direction. He was standing in front of him, unsure look on his face as he stared at him, green eyes still gleaming with wariness. "C'mon."
Sam pursed his lips and nodded, leading the way out of the disheveled cabin.
"Where to now?" Sam asked, standing next to the driver's side door of the Impala, looking to his father, still clutching the flashlight in his hand.
The oldest Winchester placed his gun and the empty box on his passenger side before replying. "We'll find a motel and regroup. Then we'll figure out where the damn nest is at. Shouldn't be too hard," he said before climbing into the truck.
"Yeah, nothing's ever too hard with you around," Sam mumbled bitingly.
"Sam, please stop."
Sam glanced over at his older brother, the guilt that he'd pushed away before coming back and hitting him full force in the chest. Dean looked so damned sad, so lost, and so small; and Sam felt his heart breaking all over again.
It wasn't like he wasn't trying—he truly was. Their father just made it so damned hard. The man had no regard for them or their well being. All he cared about was the next mission.
And Sam knew the shit was important. He really did, but at what cost would it come?
The sound of one of the Impala's doors closing snapped him from his reverie, and he hurriedly got into the driver's side. He started the car up, the engine roaring to life as cool air poured out of the vents. He glanced at Dean, taking note of just how badly his brother was shaking.
John pulled off, but Sam didn't follow. He sat there, hands on the wheel, watching the black truck grow smaller and smaller.
"What are you doing?" Dean asked, confusion on his visage as he stared at Sam.
"Waiting for the car to warm up," Sam stated simply, glancing over at him. The shadows cast from the moonlight on his brother's cheeks make them look all the more hollow and haunted, and the thought of just driving away and leaving their father to look for the Colt on his own sounded far too tempting. But he knew his brother would never let him do that.
Dean wanted revenge for their mother, just as badly as he wanted revenge for Jessica. He just hated the fact that they had to work with their father to get it.
"Why?" Dean's voice once again cut him off from his train of thoughts.
"I don't know. Just...felt like it is all," Sam lied, unable to tell Dean the truth. He knew his brother hated showing any sign of weakness, and shivering like a wet kitten was pretty high up there on his list of things not to do in front of Sammy. It was a fairly long list, one Sam had down pat.
"It'll warm up just fine if you drive it," Dean said, unconvinced.
"Do you honestly want to keep doing this?" Sam asked, unable to keep his thoughts to himself. He stared straight ahead at the now empty road, John's truck already gone from sight.
"Keep doing what?" Dean asked, a sliver of annoyance in his tone. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, the noise barely audible above the purr of the engine.
"Following him? I mean, if this gun actually exists, why don't we just look for it ourselves?" Sam slowly let his gaze drift from the road to his brother who was currently staring at him with a look of disbelief.
"Sam, I know you can't stand him, I do, but this isn't just our fight. He might not win any father of the year awards, but Dad lost someone too. And we can't just let him do it on his own. Or on our own, for that matter. We need each other." Sam heard the conviction in his brother's voice, hating it just as much as he hated the reasoning it held as well. "I mean, c'mon, an entire pack of vamps? There's no way either of us alone could take one out. We'd get killed in the process. We have to work together. There's no other way."
"Right," Sam said, swallowing thickly as he shifted out of park and began to drive down the road. He could always count on his brother to make him feel guilty, somehow even for their father which seemed wrong on so many levels.
It didn't take him long to catch up to John; the man had waited for them, the black truck parked right in the middle of the pitch black gravel road a mile or so away from the cabin. Once their headlights had come into view, the truck started moving again, leading them down the mountain and back into town.
The rest of the car ride had remained silent as they reached the motel John had picked. The place was a bit different than the majority of the places they stayed at. Instead of long rows of rooms connected to one another, this one had tiny one-room cabins lined up next to each other. Sam parked along side his father and exited the Impala.
"Stay here, I'll grab us a room," John stated, already making his way to the office.
Sam nodded. He rubbed his hands together, but not because he was cold. He was anxious, and still on edge, and as he glanced in the car at Dean, he saw that his brother was too. He didn't miss the way Dean's gaze followed their father, staying on him the entire time the man was getting them a room, all the way until he came back outside.
"103," John said, nodding towards one of the small cabins to their left as he tossed Sam the keys.
The younger hunter caught them with ease, a questioning look on his face. "Just one room?" he asked, brow quirked in curiosity.
"That's all we need," John answered simply, and started unloading his belongings out of the truck.
"Of course it is," Sam muttered, and grabbed his pack out of the backseat, Dean doing the same. "You got it?" Sam asked, noticing the grimace that crossed his brother's face as he hefted his duffel out of the back and across his shoulder.
"'m fine," Dean answered, limp still detectable as he headed towards their room.
"As always," Sam murmured under his breath as he followed him with John in tow. He slipped the key into the lock, then stepped back to let his brother and father inside. Naturally, Dean stepped back as well, head hung and gaze on the ground as John went in first. "Go on," Sam said softly, holding the door open for his brother. Without a word, Dean did as he was told and stepped across the threshold. Sam followed, closing the door behind him.
The room was small, but it was equipped with two beds, a stove, a sink, and a fridge, which would all come in handy just in case they were stuck there for a little while. Sam though, hoped they weren't. There would only be so much space he could put between himself and his father in there. Three people crowded into one small space was a recipe for disaster, but his father never listened to anyone but himself, so it was no use trying to talk reason to the man.
"Why don't you two try to catch some sleep. I'm gonna set up the radio. I'll wake you if I hear anything," John said, once again, gaze focused mostly on Sam.
The youngest Winchester was really beginning to hate the obvious showcase of attention his father was giving him, and he wanted to scream at the man, and tell him to address his other son at least once, but he was pretty sure that Dean would hate him for that so he kept his mouth shut. Instead, he forced himself to nod, and set his stuff down on the bed closest to the center of the room. Dean took the one nearest to the door, and set his duffel down. Without a word, he laid down on the bed, not even bothering to kick his boots off.
Sam watched as he turned on his side, facing the door.
The brunette sighed and finally sat down on the edge of his bed, hands folding in his lap as he glanced at his father and the clock on the nightstand. It read 10:35 P.M. He honestly didn't know if he'd be able to fall asleep—he was still high-strung and unable to rid himself of the tension that seemed to follow them wherever they went. He ran a hand through his hair, and decided it would be best just to close his eyes even if it was for only a few minutes. Leaving his shoes on, he laid back with his head on the too firm pillow and closed his eyes, the faint sounds of a police radio running through his head as he drifted off to sleep.
S*P*N*S*P*N
He'd banged on the doors and windows for what seemed like hours, but he wasn't sure because the clock on the nightstand stayed at 8:36PM the entire time. His whole body hurt, pain radiating through all his nerve endings, but he ignored it and continued in his attempt to beat his way out. The door didn't budge and inch, and not even the glass in the windows rattled. His hands were bloodied, but he kept on and on until a voice cut through the air.
"I should've gotten rid of you when I had the chance."
He recognized it instantly as his father's, head jerking back as he looked for its origin.
"I-I'm sorry, sir. I've been trying to be better...for Sammy. I've been trying..."
And that—that was him. He brow narrowed in confusion, fear beginning to tingle up and down his spine.
"Obviously not hard enough."
He froze, recollection of that particular conversation coming back to him. He felt his body begin to shake and tremble—the movements sending tiny pricks of pain throughout his nervous system. He grit his teeth, but the pain still came, electrocuting his arms and legs and torso.
"Drown you like the pathetic, useless dog that you are."
He remembered that part all too well, remembered the way his father's rough hands had gripped his loose clothes so tightly it hurt...
It was then that he realized that the grim daylight that had been casting a faint glow from the windows was gone, replaced with darkness. With hesitant steps, he stood in front of the glass, watching as the scene that he was hearing played out before him. Horror danced in his eyes as he watched his father cast him into the lake, his screams of, "Dad, no! Please, I'm your son!" falling on deaf ears.
It was at that moment, that Dean felt the sudden rush of bitter coldness wash over him, and he could feel the water, wet and freezing soak his bone-chilled body. He was choking on icy cold water that wasn't there, the murky substance invading his lungs and airways. He grabbed a hold of the window sill, doubling over as it grew harder and harder to stay upright.
With pressure building in his skull, he forced himself to peer out of the window, even as the feeling of drowning started to overcome him.
It was then that he saw his father fall to his knees at the edge of the lake, eyes rolling into the back of his head as his mouth opened wide, a black, smoky substance pouring out of it and rushing through the air towards him.
He gasped at the impact, and all at once, the chill of the water was gone, replaced with a dark bleakness so deep, he felt even more weighed down that before. He sank to his knees, and leaned his head against the glass, a sick feeling rising from the pit of his stomach.
With his head bowed, he heard the muffled sounds of his father groaning, then yelling at someone. Using all the strength he had, he forced his gaze from the floor to outside the window again, and watched as his father fought with someone. He wasn't positive, but it looked like one of the Benders. They exchanged a few blows before John had managed to knock the other man out. Then, much to Dean's surprise, his father began to reach for him, grasping him by his wet clothes and pulling him forward. Just before the scene faded, he watched his little brother come into view, and then before he knew it, the empty parking lot was back, with its gray, overcast sky, and desolate, looming loneliness.
"No, no, this can't be right," he murmured, the taste of vomit on his tongue as he shook his head, fingers trying but unable to grasp a hold of the wall. "Not again."
Dean didn't recall the first time he'd been possessed at all. However, he didn't forget the feeling he was left with afterward. And it was now that he realized, as breath rushed in and out of his lungs, that he had been in this motel room before; when he'd been possessed the first time, and also when he was nine years old, when he'd passed out and woken up in a hospital room without his hearing.
"Deja vous's a sonuvabitch, ain't it?" The amused voice of the demon came from out of nowhere, resonating through his head. (Hell, it was using his voice now, and that just made it all the worse.)
He clenched his jaw at the noise, hands turning into fists at his sides.
"Ol' Johnny boy was so obsessed with finding that demon that killed your mother that he didn't even see me coming this time. It was beautiful. It really was," the voice reminisced mockingly, and the urge to vomit burning the back of his throat.
Dean stayed quiet, trying desperately to keep his emotions in check, but as the demon continued to speak, he knew his actions were fruitless. It was going to get the better of him whether he liked it or not.
"He was so close to finding it too, when he found me instead." It laughed, and Dean wrapped his hands around his ears, but he still heard it. There was no blocking it out.
It was everywhere.
"Aw, Deano, am I upsetting you?" It laughed again, and he wanted to scream and tell it to shut the fuck up, but he grit his teeth, and squeezed his eyes tight instead.
"Oh, trust me, what's going to happen in the coming days is going to upset you more. The possibilities are endless," and it chuckled again, the sound echoing off the walls. "See, you're gonna screw up at some point on this hunt that your daddy has configured. Once that happens, I predict that big bad John is going to be so upset, that he slips and hits you. And that, in turn, is going to set off your baby brother. Then, there's gonna be a big fight, and it's gonna be marvelous! Don't you think?"
When Dean didn't reply, the demon's voice turned malevolent.
"That gun your daddy wants? He's going to get it. I'll see to that happening. However, just when he thinks everything's going to come together, it's all going to fall apart. And I'll make sure you're the one's that responsible. So sit back and enjoy the show, Deano, cause it's gonna be one long, bumpy ride."
It was at that moment, a high piercing noise broke through the air, and Dean felt his blood run cold at the sound.
It was one that he was quite familiar with. Along with his little brother's cries, it had been the last thing he had heard before he went deaf.
It rose in pitch before becoming damn near unbearable to hear. Then, all it once, it stopped, and he was left with nothing but silence.
S*P*N*S*P*N
John stared at the radio blankly as voices came and went, but none specifying what he was looking for. A car was needed at 1342 Dunham Ave. for a possible robbery, another at 653 Sixth Street for a domestic altercation, but other than that, there hadn't been any activity. None indicating vampires anyway.
His gaze drifted from the table to the beds, his boys laid out on both, still fully clothed, just in case they needed to get up in a hurry. Sam was flat on his back, hands resting at his sides, a look of anger and frustration still on his face even while he was resting. Dean was laying on his side with his back to them, and as John stared at him, he couldn't fight the guilt that overwhelmed him.
While the boy was awake, John had forced himself to avoid the kid's eyes, not wanting to see the pain and fear that he had caused staring back at him.
John was scared though, but he didn't let it show. Hell, he couldn't let it show.
One minute, he'd been on the trail of the demon that he knew had killed his wife, the next, he was standing in front of a lake in the middle of Minnesota, Dean floating in the water looking more dead than alive.
He wasn't quite sure what had happened, but the voice inside his head told him it couldn't have been good.
He'd been on his way to Colorado to talk to Elkins about the Colt, had stopped somewhere in Iowa for a bite to eat, and then he drew nothing but a blank. He had his boys with him now, sure, but at what cost? The thought terrified him, and he knew it could honestly only mean one thing, but he didn't want to think about it. Didn't even want to consider the possibility that he'd been possessed again.
But there was no other reason that he could think of for his blackout.
He scrubbed a hand over his face, his eyes fixed on his oldest son. He didn't miss how easy it had been to pull his kid from the water. Even soaked and wet, Dean was too easy to maneuver. And who was to blame for that? He knew. God, did he know. He'd seen the meager amount Dean had been surviving off of, and he hadn't even said a word about it. Just let it continue on, even though he knew better. The kid was starving himself, and he just let him. What kind of father was he? Not much of one, he knew.
John knew there was no way in hell he would ever be able to redeem himself. He'd fucked up far too many times for that. The only thing he hoped for was that, together, they could catch the demon that killed Mary and Jessica.
Even though he knew it was too late to bring any kind of peace to his soul, maybe it could bring some for his sons.
His gaze drifted back to Sam, brow narrowing as he thought about how they'd almost come to blows earlier. The kid fought him tooth and nail, and yet, was more like him than he cared to admit. Both had stubborn streaks longer than the Mississippi, and both fought for what they thought was right, regardless of what anyone else had to say in the matter. He wished, for just a moment, that they could just speak instead of shouting at each other. But John wasn't stupid. He knew there was already too much animosity between them for any kind of reconciliation. Sam was going to hate him for as long as he lived, and a part of him wondered just how long that might be. And, of course, that was his fault as well.
"Unit 22, let me confirm. Mile marker 41, abandoned car. You need a workup?" The voice of the dispatcher roused him from his thoughts.
"Copy that. Possible 207. Better get forensics out here."
Shit, this was exactly what he was waiting for. "Boys!" he called out as he pulled his jacket on.
Sam stirred immediately, sitting bolt upright; Dean, however, didn't.
"Get your brother up, it's time to go," John ordered, and went out the door, unable to even bring himself to touch Dean. It wasn't less than a minute later before both of his sons were bustling out the door, heading for the Impala. He motioned for Sam to follow him, and sped out of the parking lot, hoping in the back of his mind that they weren't going on a wild goose chase.
He had to find that damned gun.
For Mary.
For Jessica.
For his sons.
A/N – Thank you all so much for your wonderful reviews, and for sticking with me for so long. MANY THANKS goes to : MysteryMadchen, CrazyDreamin, babyreaper, Stryder2008, HPSmallCharm29, jazzy2may, dandy44, renniespice, kissacazador, and everyone who has faved or is following this story. I can't thank you all enough, and hope this chapter sufficed. Until next time...