Tomorrow's Valentine's Day! So, all those happy couples out there, have fun celebrating it. But don't support the flower and candy industry too much – stick to the simple things, those which tend to get lost somewhere in between work and friends and duties and all that stuff straining a relationship...a simple 'You know what, I love you so madly, it's almost supernatural!' might do the trick.
By the way, this chapter's nothing for fragile souls, it contains some heavy gory stuff. Be warned! And enjoy!
Chapter 15
The road just outside the graveyard was deserted, only a few occasional cars passing by. Dean paused and pondered whether it was wise to walk along the main road into town, even if it was devoid of people, but decided it was the quickest way leading him straight to the motel.
Dean just hoped Sam was there to open the door and ready for a swift departure. They had no time to loose, the faster this town was ging to appear in the Impala's rear view mirror the better Dean would feel. Focusing on the lights of the houses and shops, Dean followed the road at a hurried pace, glancing over his shoulder from time to time to make sure no one was following.
His thoughts went back to Phillip. The guy had really carried a gun. Hadn't hesitated to point it at him. And if they hadn't had a good rapport with each other, Dean didn't doubt he would have felt at least the barrel impacting with his skull after turning around and marching off. Maybe would have felt the bullets themselves, entering his body. He just hoped the other man would find an explanation for Dean's disappearance. One that wouldn't cost his job or send him straight into jail.
Dean turned around once more. No one in sight, no one behind him. Good. This was almost too easy.
However, when he turned forward again he was met with a toothy grin.
Skidding to a halt, Dean almost fell backwards onto his butt. He stared at the person in front of him in disbelief.
"I see you're free. Congratulations."
Steeling himself, Dean clothed his face in cold smiles. "Tell me something, Mike", he said, wincing at the betraying tremor in his voice, "how do I get rid of you, huh?"
Mike laughed and started to pace up and down, slow, small steps. "Maybe you should've done your job better downstairs. Should've gotten rid of me when you had the chance." He jerked his head towards the town. "Come on. Let's have a walk."
Dean's face darkened. "Thanks. I'll pass."
"Fine", Mike shrugged, "Then stay where you are."
"What do you want? Did I borrow something and forgot to give it back? Power drill? Poultry scissors?"
"Actually, I wanted you to be a part of our little reunion."
Dean narrowed his eyes. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"Take a look around."
He could kick himself for even listening. For standing there having a chit-chat with some bad memory that only gave him one gastric ulcer after another. But curiosity was a strong thing; sometimes it overrode the common sense. So Dean turned around, every angular degree causing his terror to spike higher.
It was a small selection of faces he never wanted to see again. Only five or six people, standing in an exact circle around him, not too close to be intimidating, but too close to be comfortable.
He knew everyone of them. Knew them from the inside out. Knew the color of their blood, their smell, their screams.
"What...how...", Dean stammered, the sight almost choking him.
"You remember them, don't you", Mike replied calmly, "it's funny, really. Someone might think you don't recognize your victims anymore, concerning the body count. Plus, they're intact right now, no torn clothes or shredded skin. And still you recognize all of them. Amazing."
Dean's instincts were screaming at him, were mentally pulling him away, forcing him towards the sanctuary that was the town. He just couldn't move. He was frozen to the spot, memories catching up with him in the most vicious way. His mouth was opening and closing like that of a stranded fish, no possible things to say available.
"Remember her?" Mike asked, walking up to the woman to Dean's right, "she was so scared. But you managed to earn her trust so easily, lulled her into a sense of security so false it had been gruesome to watch..."
"It wasn't false", Dean shouted, his eyes watering, "I wanted to protect her...I did!"
"Yes, you did", Mike spat back at him, "for a few years you did. But then you accepted Big Al's offer, you got off the rack and friends turned into victims, people worth protecting got worth to hurt..."
The moment Mike finished his sentence, the woman threw her head back with a blood-curdling scream, clawed hands raising to her face. When her porcelain skin began to rupture, countless lacerations covering her face and hands, Dean clamped his eyes shut and turned away, shame and terror pressing down on him.
"It's hard to watch when your soul's intact, am I right?" Mike hissed into Dean's ear, "It didn't bother you when you were the one inflicting those injuries."
"I'm sorry..." It was a desperate whisper, scarcely audible, "I wasn't myself..."
Mike's voice sounded from farther away suddenly. "How about him? He was one of your last!"
Dean reluctantly looked up, fought against the compulsion that tried to keep him from doing so. He had done that. He would at least have the decency to see what he had done with his own human eyes and mind.
The kid, not older than Sam, met his gaze with a mixture of sadness and mockery, scrutinized him in a way Dean could hardly bear. Eyes that accused him. A twitching mouth that laughed at him.
"Sorry", Dean rasped, feeling hot tears run down his cheeks, a lump in his throat making it harder to talk and swallow, "I don't know what to do to fix this..."
Suddenly the kid's eyes widened in shock, mouth opening to a soundless cry.
Downstairs those soundless screams, that silent suffering had driven Dean mad with annoyance and anger. Watching it here and now was the worst experience Dean had ever had to make.
Once again the Winchester had to avert his gaze, covering his eyes with trembling fists. He knew what was about to happen with that boy. He didn't want to see it.
"Blades", Mike spoke up in awe beside him, "You've been always good with all kinds of blades. Tell me, Dean, what's been so exciting about machetes and knives and razors? The convenient handling or the pleasant feeling of sharp metal running through flesh and muscle as if it were butter?"
"Stop it..."
"Aw, are you done already? You haven't seen the half of it yet, torture master." Mike's voice was so close all of a sudden, it was literally everywhere – in Dean's head, in his ears, it even hurt his teeth.
"LOOK AT IT, DEAN!" – an angry hiss, piercing marrow and bone.
Dean felt something warm running down his hands, causing him to yank them away from his face. "God, I'm so sorry..." At the sight of fresh, gleaming blood covering his fingers a wave of nausea slammed into him, smothering the last bits of composure.
Frantic, glassy eyes darted from the mess on his hands to the boy who was staring in confusion at his limbs laying on the ground. Back to the woman whose skin resembled a spider's web of macabre beauty. Over to another woman whose scalp was torn off, the remains of her long brunette hair in her hands, being stroked lovingly.
Dean stumbled backwards, shaking his head in denial and horror, trying to wipe the sticky liquid from his hands in a frenzy.
"Leave me be", he sobbed, his lungs screaming for precious air they were deprived of due to panicky gasps and hitches. The part of his brain still holding tight onto a last bit of reason registered that Mike stayed back, didn't follow him. He stood, surrounded by mutilated things that were covered in blood, screaming and howling and crying, watching Dean retreat with curious interest.
From the corner of his eye something bright caught Dean's attention. In the distance, closing in quickly, gaining brightness and strength. A noise, similar to the call of a large animal, rang out. Somewhere a familiar voice yelled his name.
Relief washed over him. The light engulfing him felt so warm, so soothing. Dean heard his name again.
"Cas", he breathed, managing a feeble smile, "about freaking time."
The night got dark and silent in an instant when a ferocious blow knocked him off his feet and pure agony ripped him from consciousness.
Sam knew that pressing an elevator button like a mad man had little to no effect on the elevator itself. It didn't gather speed, the doors didn't open or close faster. Still, Sam's whole hand hurt from pushing and slamming the buttons as if a tad of violence and a few curses could will the whole thing to get his gear wheels moving.
He didn't wait for the door to open fully, squeezed his tall frame into the hallway, turning right towards Salinger's office. Sam wasn't surprised to find a small crowd in front of the doc's door, a few people he knew, some others he didn't.
Spotting Salinger smack in the middle of the gathering Sam dashed right towards him, not bothering to apologize to the persons he was pushing aside in his hurry. When the doctor spotted him, he motioned him to come closer.
"Gentlemen", Salinger exclaimed addressing the others, "I need to talk to doctor Larsson in private, if you don't mind." He signaled Sam to come into his office with a curt wave of his hand.
Sam clenched his jaw and passed the elder man, heading to one of the chairs in front of Salinger's desk without sitting down. He was in no mood for courtesies. The moment he heard the door click shut he turned at the doctor.
"Where is he?"
Salinger tilted his head and pointed at the chairs. "Don't you want to take a seat, doctor Larsson? I could..."
"I want to know where and in what condition he is."
The other man let out a sigh and rounded his desk, sinking into his huge leather armchair.
"Dean's in the hospital ward. He has yet to regain consciousness but we think we can handle his injuries here, there's no need to admit him to a hospital."
That was the information Sam hadn't gotten over the phone. Information so desperately needed. Was his brother okay? Alive? Briefly closing his eyes in relief he decided to slump down onto a chair after all.
"What happened?" he asked the third important question on his list.
"He fell down a staircase, from the highest step. Fortunately his nurse was with him and was able to administer first aid."
Sam gaped at the doctor. A staircase. Dean fell down a staircase?
"Dean's injuries", Salinger continued, "are mostly superficial and not life-threatening, thank god. Somehow he managed to tear the stitches on his wrist and the cut reopened, but he didn't loose too much blood, thanks to Phillip. A concussion and an arsenal of cuts and bruises – it could have been much worse. Some guardian angel Dean has."
You have no idea, Sam thought bitterly and pinched the bridge of his nose. He felt his heartbeat settle, the sea of emotion and worry for his brother quietening down a bit.
When his cell phone had ripped him from a deep, peaceful slumber it had taken Sam a moment to even process who was on the other line. The keywords 'Dean', 'accident', 'attendance requested' however had kicked him awake in an instant, had provoked a storm of thoughts, fears and confusion. There weren't many times he had gotten dressed that quick, had driven the Impala at such high speed, had stormed a building with so much force and determination.
His brother had fallen down a staircase, which was bad. But compared to the things Sam had feared it was...disturbingly natural. No demon involved. So far, at least. Because that had been his biggest concern, the demon Dean had spoken about making the first move and trying to hurt or kill his brother before they had a chance to get the son of a bitch.
"I'd like to see him", Sam demanded, his voice surprisingly soft.
Salinger nodded. "Of course. But as I said, he's not conscious. And when he wakes up he might be a bit out of it because of the pain medication."
"It's okay, I just..." ...want to see my brother, the only family left, with whom I had an argument the last time we met..."well, I'd like to check on him. And maybe it's possible to talk to that nurse? Phillip, right?"
Again, Salinger nodded. "He's one of the most dedicated people we have in here. He's very upset about the incident."
Sam managed a pained smile and stood. He was eager to hear the story from first hand. And maybe he'd check the guy, just to be sure.
Dean was a mess. An unconscious, colorful, wrapped up mess. Running a hand through his hair, Sam shook his head while he took in his brother's appearance.
The complete left side of Dean's face was grazed as if he had tried to act as a brake with his cheek and temple. Some minor cuts on his forehead were held together with butterfly strips while a white bandage was covering a spot just below his hairline. The formerly thin gauze that had been applied to Dean's wrist when he had been admitted here was much thicker now, a tourniquet to keep the blood were it belonged.
To Sam's relief there were no noisy machines attached to his brother – there was no hiss of a ventilator, just a very soundless nasal cannula, no peep! peep! of a heart monitor. Sam hated those sounds. Would always hate them. They were unwelcome reminders that life wasn't infinite. That Dean wasn't infinite.
Not that he didn't know that, though, after all that crap that had happened to him in the last years.
Dean's wrists, injured and uninjured one, were restrained by leather belts. It was a disturbing sight, a sight that had Sam pondering over hauling the nurse on duty up to Dean's bed and force her to take them off, NOW. But knowing that it would only get them into trouble, would only attract suspicion he tried to ignore the bonds, tried to accept them for what they were – the usual safety standards for inmates in crisis stabilization.
"What are you doing, man", Sam breathed defeatedly, wincing at his own voice echoing in the silence of the room. "A staircase, Dean. Why do I have problems believing this story?"
A soft knock interrupted Sam's train of thoughts and he looked up, seeing Phillip standing in the door.
"You wanted to talk to me, doctor Larsson?" he asked tentatively, taking a step into the room. Sam watched the nurse's gaze fall onto Dean, his features softening slightly, before he looked back at Sam once more.
"Yeah", the younger Winchester replied, trying to sound open and friendly, "I just like to hear your version of what has happened. As you were with him, you know."
"Of course. But maybe we take a walk as not to disturb Dean. He needs all the rest he can get."
Sam was a bit taken aback by Phillip's care towards his brother. As if there indeed was some kind of bond between those two.
"Sure", Sam answered, standing and looking at Dean once more before he followed the nurse outside into the hallway.
"What was Dean doing outside his cell in the middle of the night?" Sam hated himself for that question. He sounded like one of those real psychiatrists or Colombo or whatever. But to keep the facade up for Phillip it was the right dose of coming across as a dick.
"He called me, said he wasn't feeling well. So I decided to take him outside into the inner courtyard to get some fresh air. On top of the staircase...I don't know, he got dizzy or something...he fell and I couldn't reach him in time to keep him from...you know." Phillip took a deep shaky breath and Sam was again amazed at the pure concern radiating from the other man.
He was either a real good actor or truly shocked.
"I'm sorry, I know I'm responsible for my patient and I should have kept a better eye on him. So, if you or Dean want to take legal measure against me, I'm okay with it." The man was so miserable, almost broken, Sam couldn't believe his eyes and ears. Salinger was right, people that dedicated were indeed rare. Especially when it came to Winchesters.
"No, no, I don't think that's necessary...at least not yet. I mean...Christo, it was an accident, right? It could happen to anyone."
Looking straight into Phillip's eyes Sam waited – for eyes turning black, for muscles to twitch, for any reaction. He was genuinely glad when nothing happened.
"Doctor Larsson, I..."
"Please", Sam interrupted, "it's Sam. That whole 'doctor' thing makes me feel a hundred years old."
Phillip looked at him, raising his eyebrows. "You're name's Sam?" he asked astounded.
"What's wrong with it?"
"Nothing...it's okay, really...I was just...", Phillip snorted, "Dean told me about his cat, Sammy."
If Sam would have been drinking something right now he certainly would have been choking right now.
"Oh, his cat?" he asked nonchalantly. What the hell?
"Yeah. You know about it, too, don't you?"
"Yeah, yeah. Sammy. Sure." I'm going to kill you, Dean.
"Must've been close, those two. He...well, Dean had some kind of panic attack and was calling for that cat."
This made Sam stop short. "He did?"
Phillip nodded. "So, I'm sorry I had to chuckle about the coincidence of your name being Sam, you know."
Sam blinked, couldn't suppress a pained smile. Knowing that it was him, his name on his brother's lips that kept Dean grounded, even after the last argument they had had, was both moving and unsettling at the same time.
And all the more an incentive to get Dean to freedom with all Sam's might.
To be continued...