Disclaimer: See Chapter One
A/N: Thanks again for all your reviews – Vicky, thanks for the lovely comments. I'd write you personally, but you're a bit incognito, so I'll say it now – thank-you so much. You're notes are truly appreciated. This chapter is a bit heavy on the flashbacks. Sorry the action is a bit on the down side, but I had to do some backstory. Oh, and MAZ? In an odd way, you make me want to do better. Thanks for that.
Chapter Eight: Salty Dog
March, 2009
Time ticked away through the cold night. The rain had stopped for a short time, giving a small break to the heavy hit area. The tavern sat eerily tranquil in the black, chairs on top of tables, the jukebox dead quiet, the floor swept clean from the aftermath of exploding bottles and spilled liquor.
In the back bedroom, Sam's eyebrows were climbing his forehead as he slept. It had started out so peaceful. A simple hand extended to him in a wordless request, an affectionate invitation. Then something happened.
It started out in his stomach. An ache. A churn. A need. It started to rise like a wave flooding his esophagus and into his mouth. His taste buds zinged to life, charged with a static electricity that his body had become acquainted with.
Sam swallowed, caught in time between sleep and wake. He rolled to his side on the small mattress and felt his stomach roll with him. His eyelashes stuck together as he tried to wake to the dark of the room. His senses were sizzling, his radar sharp and alert.
Something was moving in the bedroom. He looked over his shoulder.
Nothing.
Nothing but the black. He lay quiet and listened.
He heard more than most people probably could. Bumps and scratches and moans that others' ears couldn't humanly pick up. There was something there and it was darker than the black that surrounded him. It was an energy that was gathering, eyes that were watching, an ominous tension that was building.
He pushed with his palms to sit up when it flickered at the foot of the bed. It stood calmly watching. Sam's eyes narrowed. He knew it was there but didn't want to be seen. It liked the dark just as much as Sam did. It hid better there.
Sam's chest expanded to take a breath and in a whirl of black and blue, it rushed the bed. Its fingers were sweeping his body as the air shifted in its delight. Its hands were finding substance – a chin, a nose, a mouth. A heavy weight pressed down into an air-tight seal.
Sam fell back in a creaky thud to his musty pillow, his arm slipping from the side of the twin mattress and landed palm down on Dean's bare shoulder.
His brother woke with a strangled gasp.
-0-
May, 1996
They hadn't planned on returning to the tavern in Chesterhill. Like, ever. John knew when to stay away and when to press his luck.
"The supernatural can evoke two kinds of people, boys," he had explained in his all-too cryptic way. "Those who see the supernatural and those who don't."
Sounded easy enough.
"And then there are those who can't see it, but they lock away those who can."
The boys never asked how their father added one plus one plus one and got two. Instead they nodded and pretended like they were following.
Sam was driving. Really, really fast and without a license. Dean was in the back of the Impala, his right had clutching his thigh, his left hand clutching the front seat. Sam could hear him hissing from the pain erupting down his leg. He tried to ignore his brother as best as he could and concentrate on the cell phone he had clamped to his ear. His dad's words were breaking in and out, but he got the gist.
"Does… hospital? Broken leg. What? Where? Fine." And then there was a long pause where Sam didn't know if his dad was still there or if the call had dropped off until he heard a hot sigh release into the receiver and one word sounded clear as a bell: "Chesterhill."
Sam responded with temper-tantrum huffs and the occasional curse word but then he heard Dean moan as he punched the seat next to Sam's back. "FINE!" Sam screamed, louder than he wanted, and threw down the phone.
He really didn't want to go back to the old saloon. But Sam had heard the pop when the two of them were chasing the stupid Orthrus. Dean's leg breaking had sounded like a gun being shot off. Sam had sunk to his knees in front of Dean and put his hand on top of his tibia. The bone had snapped in half, he could detect the fracture through the skin. The heat radiating off it was sufficient to warm Sam's fingers and the scream Dean stifled when Sam had touched it was enough to force the younger man to his feet and help his hopping brother back to the car.
They were in the middle of nowhere, though. Nowhere to go and Dad was four hundred miles away. So Sam stuck his brother in the backseat and started driving. It took him an hour just to get his dad to call him back and when he did, John's suggestion left Sam with a choking sensation.
"I'll call Jeff and let him know to expect you," John had told him.
So much for staying away.
"Sam, pull over."
Sam glanced out the rearview mirror, catching Dean's half-mast lids pulling his lashes against his too pale cheeks. Sam had to stop himself from slamming on the brakes as he pulled the Chevy over to the gravel on the side of the road.
Dean's door was already opening and his brother was rolling his torso out of the small space, vomit splattering to the dusty earth below.
Sam took a step back so it wouldn't land in a messy display all over his shoes.
He waited until Dean was empty before he tried to touch him and even then the older boy pulled away, righting his body back in the car. He leaned wearily against the back leather seat and closed his eyes.
"Dean-"
"Just get in the car and fucking drive."
Sam swallowed hard but he shut the door and climbed back in the driver's seat. He turned the ignition, letting the engine rumble to life and stole a last look at his fading brother.
"We're going to Chesterhill," Sam said over the idling motor. Maybe saying it would make it more real. Maybe Dean would say something that would make him feel better about going.
He saw Dean's throat bob and his lips mouthed Okay but he didn't hear the word.
Sam pulled the gear shift into Drive. "If you need anything, just ask."
Then he chuckled back a sob when he heard Dean whisper, "Zeppelin."
www
They had almost made it through the cassette. Plant and Page was just starting in on No Quarter when Dean saw the simple road sign blur by alerting them that they were Welcomed to Chesterhill. He let out a relieved sigh simultaneously with Sam and his eyes automatically flew to the back of his brother's head. Sam had made it in record time.
Dean let his head fall back to the window in exhaustion. He really hoped that his voice was loud enough when he said "Good job, Sam." because he meant it and he wanted Sam to know.
Jeff had left the light on for them. Literally.
The barkeep was waiting up, keeping the backdoor open so Sam could get Dean up the stairs and into the small bedroom without being detected. It was just after ten p.m. and the bar was alive. Loud voices, even louder laughter and the bass thumping out the old jukebox was shaking the walls.
Dean winced as Sam and Jeff laid him on the mattress. His right hand gripped his thigh. He couldn't go any farther than that. The pain was too intense. He kept his eyes screwed shut, blocking out the dim light of the room, refusing to look down at the injury.
"Dean?"
He could hear his brother's thin voice against the boom boom of the room and he wished he could shut his hearing off, too. The vibration of the bed was making his stomach turn and he really didn't know how much longer it would be before he started throwing up again.
"Hey, man, there's a doctor here."
Dean opened his eyes to Sam's voice. Through slits of green, he was able to make out ancient blue eyes gazing back at him. There were wrinkles encasing the almond shaped lids and more wrinkles that flowed down her face liked penciled vines. She smiled at him and Dean could see her teeth were too big for her mouth. Her tongue pushed up onto her soft palate and secured ill-fitting dentures back in their rightful spot.
"You're a doctor?" Dean's eyes slid over to Sam and back to the old woman.
She kept smiling though, and Dean tried to find comfort in her dry lips. "Retired, dear." Jeff brought up one of the wooden chairs and she sat down in a whoosh of air under her ass and turned her attention to the patient. "Whew." She fanned her hand in front of her nose. "What were you hunting? You smell like one salty dog." She rotated like an antique mannequin to take a cool cloth from Jeff. She gave an odd smile as she reached across Dean's body and pushed the washrag on his forehead.
It felt instantly cool and he realized then that he was sweating. She pulled away and Dean could smell stale cigarette smoke on her fingertips. She reached behind her and took a pair of scissors off a small tray.
"What're you doin' with those?" Dean's voice escalated. He felt a warm palm on his chest, pushing him down gently.
"I'm just going to cut your jeans off. Get myself a look at what's under here." She lifted her eyebrows mischievously and then waited until he nodded. He watched intently as she reached down and grabbed at tri-focal glasses hanging crooked around her neck.
Dean frowned at her as he noticed it took her two times to figure out how the glasses went on. Then her tongue pushed at the dentures again as the scissors sliced up the denim.
"Oh, my," she exclaimed as she filleted open the pants. She stared at the broken tibia, her wrinkles deepening with concern. She glanced over at the brothers and noticed the open mouthed gawks they were tossing in her direction. She'd seen the look before; they were scared. There was only one thing for her to do. "Well, I think I can help you out." She didn't sound so sure of herself. "It's not pretty. The best thing I can say is, it's not an open fracture." She took a deep breath. "It's not exactly my… field of expertise."
"Oh, God." Dean rolled his head on the pillow and groaned. "You're a vet."
She let out a short laugh that caused her to lose her breath and cough. "Well, a vet might be a better suited person for the job." She smiled again and waited until Dean's eyes were on her. "I'm a doctor, dear. I'm an OBGYN."
Both sets of eyes narrowed at her.
She laughed again. Her hands came up and clumsily shoved her falling teeth back into her mouth. "I delivered babies."
"Oh, Jesus Christ." Dean lifted a fist and hit Sam on the arm. There wasn't much heat or strength packed behind it, though, and Sam barely swayed.
"Don't worry," she soothed. "I've performed my fair share of emergency c-sections and I've even saved a few lives. I've pushed parts of the body back inside where they belong and secured them with a single stitch of thread." She looked over at Dean, her old blue eyes peering over the rim of her glasses. "I think I can set a bone."
Dean licked his lips and gave a quick nod.
"Good." The old woman cast her eyes on Sam then. "Are you going to be okay, dear?"
Sam was on his knees, in front of the mattress near Dean, his face the first in line for his brother to search for, if needed. "Yeah. Sure."
"Well," and her smile broadened, "that's good because the way your brother is holding your hand only tells me that as this goes on, he's probably going to break your fingers." She leaned in closer to them. "And I was hoping that this would be the only bone I'd have to snap in place tonight."
Sam and Dean glanced down at both their right hands. Dean hadn't even noticed he had grabbed hold of Sam's fingers and was already squeezing them white.
He let go immediately, almost shoving Sam's hand away.
The doctor requested her black medical bag from Jeff and asked for a few things around the bar to assist her, including the man's clean hands. She placed everything she needed on the tray behind her. She had everything from Whiskey to rubbing alcohol, from clean towels to chloroform, from antiseptic to a soft wallet. After all the bottles were open and all the wrappers were torn, she donned on a pair of sterile gloves. "Get the wallet ready, Jeff." She stood up and bent over her young patient, a white towel in her hand wet with chloroform. "If he wakes up in the middle of this, he's going to need something to chomp down on."
Dean's eyes widened as the old woman became the only thing he could see, her voice the only sound he could hear. He smelled a sweet nutty flavor as the rough cloth pressed hard against his face and he thought he might have bolted out of bed had he not felt the warm hand gather his again and hold tight.
www
Sam was certain setting Dean's leg had been harder on him than it had been for his unconscious brother. Dean had muffled a few groans, even the occasional whimper, but he had stayed asleep for the entirety of the procedure.
Sam had been wide awake. He remained on his knees, hand clasped with Dean's, eyes on his brother's face. Most of the time. He couldn't help the quick glances down to where the doctor was working. He'd noticed the two shots of Whiskey the old lady slammed back before starting the procedure, her eyes checking her hands until they stopped shaking. He knew he'd never forget the crunch that echoed off the four small walls of the bedroom when the bone cracked into place.
It was just before noon the next day. Dad had arrived an hour after the leg was fixed. Too late to do any good except sit and wait and Sam already had that position filled. Dean had opened his eyes a few times already but the pain meds the old doc had prescribed were keeping him pretty much out of it. Rest, water, keeping the leg still in the metal brace she'd brought along would be the best thing her patient could do to heal.
"Come on." John tapped at Sam's shoulder. "I had Jeff order us in a pizza. You need to eat something."
The pizza was cold by the time the barkeep had arrived back with it. Still Dad sat next to Sam at the counter, each boosted up on the stools eating and drinking while Eric Clapton's voice dreamily drifted in and out.
It's late in the evening/she's wondering what clothes to wear
It was the silence between father and son that was soaking up most of the strained non-verbal exchange. They'd reach for napkins at the same time. Dad's eyes glared at Sam as he picked off the sausage and refused to eat the crust. Sam would glance at the cuts and tears decorating John's hands.
But neither said a word. Anger and spite could only lead to yelling and hurt feelings. Silence was golden. And could split and break hearts.
Jeff had left the two. He said something about errands to run but as he came to the old front door, he hesitated. "Ben'll be coming in." He stated it cautionary. Like maybe John wanted to prepare a speech or at least prepare some defensive moves.
Sam noted that he hadn't mentioned anything about Valentina or Ramona. He hoped they would be staying away. But his dad didn't ask about them, so neither did he. He really doubted they would come by. Ben had probably kicked her out a while ago anyway. It had been years since the bar owner had demanded that John leave with his sons and God knew what the hell had occurred in the meantime.
Neither had detected the front door opening. There wasn't a scrape or a scratch to alert the patrons that someone else was coming in. This time, it was just the calm name called from behind them: "Winchester."
Sam noticed his Dad's jaw stopped moving mid chew, which made it hard for Sam to swallow his own food.
John moved slowly, wiping his fingers on a napkin, then the corners of his mouth. He took a quick drink before his body actually turned around. Then he smiled.
Sam was engrossed in the stand-off between the adults. Ben had grown older, heavier, scruffier. But he still had kind eyes and they twinkled when John nodded, greeting him with a "Hey, Ben."
Sam let out a relieved sigh when Ben smiled in return. "Never thought I'd see your ugly face again," he joked.
There was small talk kicked around so Sam went back to his pizza and Coke, listening to Clapton. His ears continued to stray, though, back to the words spoken around the music. He watched out of his periphery as John stood and looked around the tavern as Ben showed him the repairs that had been done and the ones that still needed to be completed. Sam followed, too. He didn't notice any difference from the last time they'd been there.
Ben checked the clock over his shoulder more than once and finally spoke up that "Ramona will be dropped off soon." Then he oddly added, "The sitter had a hair appointment or something."
Sam noticed his Dad's body stilled. John's arms folded across his chest. Ben's hands were jammed in his front jean pockets and then it was rambling out of him. There had been a train and Val had taken Ramona in the night. They were in the car. The train hit them and Ramona was found on the tracks, in one piece, barely alive.
John was silent, listening as the man went on with his account of the night. Ben shuffled his feet, his eyes looking down, then back up again, his words thick with emotion.
There wasn't anything the doctors could do for her. She would be in a wheelchair and her mind was gone. She had retreated back to an infant. She'd need twenty-four hour care. The hospital suggested a facility, gave him the names of a couple in the area, but Ben had insisted that he take her. He would hire help and along with his brother, she'd be no burden at all.
Sam had forgotten about the pizza and was fixated on the two men. His Dad tilted his head a few times, cleared his throat and let a "Damn" slip out once. Then he just stood motionless as Ben finished his story and waited.
"What about Val?" John asked and Ben's hands retreated out of the safety of his front pockets and covered his face as he broke down in silent sobs.
Sam looked away as his father took a step and folded the man in his arms.
-0-
March, 2009
In all honesty, he thought it would be the other way around.
Dean Winchester had gone from earth to hell and to earth again. He had gone from soul savior to soul torturer. He had started as a sinner and become righteous. He had crossed the line from skeptic to believer.
He was the one who was supposed to have his brother staring at him. He was the one who was supposed to be poked to be sure he was real. That he was there, in the flesh. He was the one that was supposed to have questioning looks fall upon him. He was the one who was supposed to have been changed.
Because he was.
His brother didn't look at him like that, though. He seemed all too quick to accept and move on. It was Dean that was stuck on the logistics of the resurrection. On the how's and the why's. He was the one looking at himself with a scrutinizing eye. He was the one who was looking at himself like he didn't know his own face. Like he didn't feel right in his own skin.
He was also the one who was staring at his brother with questions. It was one thing to feel too tight in his own skin. It was another not knowing who inhabited Sam's.
His brother still looked like Sam. Had the same hair color. He was way too tall for his own good. He had the same voice. But there were things. The way he spoke. The words he used. The force. Sharp, cold, and distant. The way he carried his body. Closed, dangerous, and isolated. The way his eyes cast different shades of colors. The green hues that morphed darker and sometimes… sometimes glinted with yellow.
It was the silence that Dean paid attention to the most, though. The things Sam didn't say. The secrets he kept, the powers he possessed. The lies he told to both of them. Most mornings Dean didn't know which version of his brother he was waking up to. Sam was becoming a shadow possessing skin and bone. He walked and talked, laughed and fought but the Sam he knew had died while Dean warred in Hell. This version of Sam was just a ghost left to taunt and remind him of the brother he once had.
It was Sam's hand.
Sure as he knew his own brother, this version or another softer model, it was Sam's hand. Dean's eyes flew open into the dark room. He lost his breath somewhere in this throat and shoved his body up. The pull from his shoulder caused a shock wave of pain to radiate up his neck and rage through his head, settling in his jaw.
His muscles bounced along his chin, his head whipped to the left towards the bed. Sam's hand was still blindly flailing over the side of the mattress, thrashing in the darkness, his fingers curling in desperation.
Dean jumped to his feet and hit the light switch on the wall.
Nothing. Nothing but Sam. His eyes were closed, his left hand was grasping his neck, his right hand was still… searching. Dean's eyebrows bunched over the bridge of his nose as he slowly approached the bed.
"Sam?" Dean waved a hand over the empty space above his brother. It went through easily, not hitting on any invisible obstruction.
Sam opened his eyes then and sucked in a throttling breath. The black of his pupils were constricted and at first, he didn't give any indication that he was seeing anything.
Dean bent over, into his direct line of vision and tapped gently at Sam's cheeks. He lowered his voice and tried a faint smile. "Hey… Sam."
One blink. Two blinks. And he was back. Sam's eyes rolled while his eyelashes fluttered and suddenly he was focused in on his brother. Dean kept two fingers on his cheek. He let Sam arouse with his senses; he was able to see, hear, smell and feel his way back to the small room.
"Sam." Dean took advantage of the edge of the bed, shifting a hip near his brother and dropping his hands back into his lap. Dean watched Sam in the quiet. His brother gulped in a few cleansing breaths, filling his lungs and letting the air sluggishly release. His feet danced under the sheets. Nervous energy or blood return, Dean wasn't quite sure. He waited while Sam splayed a hand against his chest and then finally he flung an arm over his eyes and shut the dim light out of his sight again.
Which also meant Dean was shut out, too. Doors, words, and Dean. This Sam was really good at shutting out lots of things.
Dean breathed. It wasn't too long ago where to calm his brother down, all he had to do was lay his hand over Sam's. Or to slow his breathing all Sam would do was try and match Dean's. Or when Dean said his brother's name, Sam would respond. He wouldn't lay on a mattress battling himself against a force that wasn't even there and then just rollover and pretend nothing had just happened.
"Sam?" Dean's voice was more abrasive, carried a bite that the older man hated that he heard, but he couldn't hide it. "Sam, what the hell was that?"
Brown hair was splashed against the pillow, some damp with sweat as Sam shook his head in answer. His arm stayed firmly across his eyes, his throat working a dry swallow.
Dean waited. He pushed and shoved at the rage that was building inside him. The tension was climbing again, starting in his chest and winding its way around his heart. Everything Sam did these days resulted in the same reaction from the older brother. His frustration, his insult, his fear, his concern – it all ended in the same display of messy anger and hurtful words.
Dean tilted his head and slowed his heart rate. Calmly, so very calmly, he tried again. "I didn't…" He paused a moment as Sam's breathing reduced. "I didn't see anything in the room. When I turned on the light. I didn't see anything."
"It was gone."
And so was Dean's anger. He nodded at Sam, almost energized, even though he knew Sam couldn't see him. "Okay," Dean encouraged. "Did you… did you see what it was?"
Sam's throat was still working up and down. He swallowed breaths, tasted the air. His arm didn't budge. "It was too fast."
"It was Val?"
There was a few seconds where Sam hesitated and Dean almost asked again when his brother suddenly blurted out, "I don't know."
"But it tried to choke you?"
"Yeah."
"Well," Dean's eyes surveyed Sam's throat closer. Satisfied that it was basically unscathed, he continued, "it sounds like Val's M.O."
Sam wasn't speaking again. Just breathing.
"Funny that the light scared it away," Dean commented as he stood up.
"Wasn't the light."
Dean looked down at his brother. "What?"
Sam removed his arm from his eyes and stared back. There was a raw need, young and scared tucked away in there that Dean recognized from before.
Before it all went FUBAR on them and he and Sam had lost everything. Even now with second chances they still had to fight good and evil to win. And good and evil lived everywhere. In everyone Inside and out.
"What was it?" Dean asked, his voice husky and worn, too tired to know the difference.
Sam held up his hand. "It left when I touched you."
Dean blinked. "Oh." He felt his knees wobble momentarily and then he cleared his throat and let out a deep sigh. "You mean… just like…" He tried to go on, but everything in him was just screaming to grab his brother and pack up and leave.
"Yeah," Sam's voice pulled his gaze back. "Just like before."
-TBC-
Playlist: Wonderful Tonight performed by Eric Clapton
A/N: Just a note – I know that in the land of fanfic, we can do things that we wouldn't normally be able to do. Like use lyrics. I apologize if the lyrics of a song trip you up when you are reading any of my stories. I know I've been thicker in some than in others. This story was set mainly in a bar and really? I could have gone CRAZY with the lyrics, but I held back. I thought the fic was a bit heavy and didn't need to be peppered with lots of songs.
With that being said, I also wanted you to know that although I am a lucky girl with a lovely husband and a nice life, I certainly took the long way around the block. There was a time where I made poor decisions and I risked more than I had. And I lost. BIG. I actually remember the day I woke up and I realized I had two roads I could go down. One lead to where I am today, the other… probably a puffy crack whore, but who knows? My point is, during this time I had no home, I had no friends, and my parents had a warrant out for my arrest. Needless to say, I was screwed. But I figured it all out, went to college, patched things up, paid my retributions, and I did it while I lived on the streets. Until I got a dorm… that hole never looked so beautiful!
To this day, I hold those days close to me. I go there daily in my mind. I will never forget what I did and I will always remember the people I hurt – those who forgave me and those who never could.
When my husband proposed to me, I smiled and said, "First, I have something to tell you." And I spilled it. Two years of dating and he never knew about those months. When I was done telling him, he looked at me and he said, "Jesus, Amy, how did you survive that?" And, without missing a beat, I told him: "With help from my friends." He frowned. "But you had NOBODY." And I said, "I had Tom Petty. And Tracy Chapman. Annie Lennox. Robert Plant." By the time I got to "Terrence Trent D'Arby" he said, "Yeah, okay, I get it."
So, I like to use lyrics. I think there are songs that can take you back to a particular time in your life and I think there are songs that can save your life. If I trip you up when you come across a lyric, it wasn't my intent. I just have a thing for a good beat.
Salty Dog performed by Flogging Molly