Disclaimer: Refer to Chapter One
A/N: This is the longest chapter of the story – hope you guys make it through without falling asleep. Hey, marinawings and madebyme, glad you guys have joined the party that is the SUPERNATURAL fandom. Your stories are pretty cool. I'm glad you sought me out. You have both been a treasure to find!
Masta-Beta: MAZ101, I wish there wasn't an ocean between us. Even if you lived 1.000 miles away, I'd make that drive. I love knowing you're over there somewhere, though.
Chapter Nine: Caps and Bottles
March, 2009
There was a loud banging on the bathroom door followed by a playful, "Zip it up!"
Despite their middle-of-the-night ghost, Dean seemed to have woken up in a good mood today. Or maybe Sam just hadn't pissed him off yet. Sam spat out the toothpaste and grabbed a paper cup to rinse his mouth. He filled it with cold water and tossed his head back to gargle, spitting into the basin as he came forward.
The small bathroom was only big enough for a petite shower stall, a toilet and the littlest sink Sam had ever laid eyes on. There was an 8X10 picture frame that hung on the wall, next to the basin that ribbed him every morning. It had been there as long as he could remember. Inside it held a collage of pictures of the lives of the Timmons brothers throughout the years. Sam had looked at it when he had been in the bathroom the day before and had stifled a chuckle. One thing about the way he and Dean lived, he didn't have to worry about a flurry of photographs illustrating the way he had grown away from his family.
He could hear music from the jukebox drifting in small swells down the hallway and under the door. That was how he remembered growing up. What song was playing on the radio on the way to a hunt or what tune was one of them humming when the other was sick. Music always sparked memories. And with the memories, came the pictures in his mind.
This morning, it was a bluesy-ballad that was filtering into the small bathroom.
Every time that I look in the mirror/All these lines on my face gettin' clearer
Sam sighed. And made it a point not to look at himself in the mirror. He'd seen his hardened reflection too many times in the past months. He'd seen himself changing, he'd seen himself fading and he didn't want to look anymore. He didn't want to know who he'd see this time. Or who he wouldn't.
The past is gone/It went by like dust to dawn
He tried to tell himself he needed to do this. This would get him to the next level. He needed to be able to let himself alter and modify into someone else because the old Sam would never have the strength to do what the new Sam had to.
Isn't that the way/Everybody's got their dues in life to pay
He hadn't lied to Ruby when he had told her that he didn't want to do this job when he was an old man. He hadn't exactly told her the truth, either. The fact was he didn't want Dean doing this when he was an old man. He didn't want Dean to have to fight at all. Not after everything he had done for Sam. Not after everything he had sacrificed for him. He had sold his soul. Gone to Hell. There was no Thank-you that could ever be big enough to make up for what Dean had done.
I know what nobody knows/Where it comes and where it goes
And what had Sam done so far for Dean? Abandoned him. Gone to college. Had three years of normal. Blamed him for bringing him back into their screwed up life. Abandoned him a couple more times. Oh, yeah – failed at saving him from the pit.
I know it's everybody's sins/You got to lose to know how to win
But now Sam could defeat Lilith. And when he defeated her – if it cost him his own life – well, sometimes what's dead should stay dead.
Sam's eyes stayed low as he turned from the bathroom and opened the door. His brother was almost sinking on the mattress, tying his black boots.
"Let's stop dragging our asses and get the hell out of here."
Sam let out an exaggerated huff.
"I'm just saying," Dean finished with his boots and was shrugging into his black jacket, "we get up on the hill, tear down the fence line and torch the death car. Get the hell out of dodge."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah." Dean threw his brother his jacket and turned the door knob to the hallway.
"It's too easy," Sam said, pulling on his coat. "Too clean."
"You should know by now, man, nothing is ever easy."
Exactly, Sam thought but he bit his bottom lip and let it go.
Dean stalled in the arch way, like he wanted to say something, but then his expression fell and he turned his body away. Sam watched him pivot, watched the way he grabbed at the door jamb, the way he favored his right shoulder. He moved like his body was damaged, bent, and aging; not like it was blessed and new.
"Remember when Big Ben used to think Val was just crazy?"
Sam's words stopped Dean. He stood with the door held loosely in his hand, his gaze still focused down the small corridor. "Ben never thought she was crazy, Sam. He just didn't want to face the truth."
Sam thought maybe Dean was trying to say something else as he walked away. Whatever it was, he took it with him. But he left the door open for his brother.
www
"This is a bitch!" Dean thundered as the rain fell down and his boot struck the fence.
It wasn't just the rain, either. Today they had to deal with twenty-five mile per hour winds. It made their clothes beat on their damaged bodies, the old fence bowed low to the ground and the wind itself lacerated their skin. Everything stung.
Originally, he had come up with the idea to have he and Sam on the same side of the fence and each could just push the fence down, but it kept bouncing back up. They had tried a saw, but out of the two Ben had one was a hand saw and was too dull and the other lost its chain three minutes into cutting the fence.
Dean and Sam were unsure if their characteristic bad luck or supernatural forces caused that.
So Sam had come up with them being on different sides of the fence and kicking it at the same time. Dean had scoffed at the idea, but as their boots came into contact with the sagging wood, the fence splintered apart.
Dean tweaked an eyebrow to himself. Guess working opposite sides of the great divide still got the job done.
It took a couple of hours to gather the scattered pieces of the fence down off the hill. Dean built a mound of sticks and doused it with accelerant. The fire hungrily engulfed it in the rain and wind, but despite the weather and new curse words later, the wood was pretty much chips of ash.
"Car's in the yard," Ben growled as he walked them behind his house to the back yard. "I had it pulled around for you this morning." He stopped by a few antique cars that he had been fixing up or planning to, but had long abandoned the jobs. His chubby finger pointed to a lone car. It had been a 1988 Ford Taurus. Now it was a heap of metal.
Big Ben wouldn't come any further. Too hard, Dean figured. There were some things people just couldn't say good-bye to even though they never wanted to say hello again, either.
"You gonna be okay?" Dean asked as he gripped the lighter fluid in his hand.
Ben nodded, his eyes seemed droopier today, if that were even possible. "I need some peace. Hell, I need her to have peace. And if you-" He stopped then, shook his head and instead just waved his hand at the brothers as he turned his stomach and the rest of his body away from the dead and dying automobiles and hobbled back into the house.
The interior of the car was smashed, but the seats were still there and were made of cloth, not leather. It soaked the accelerant like a sponge. Dean had passed the can to his brother and watched as Sam coated his side of the car, hitting the dashboard and the backseat as well. Dean didn't notice any hairs sticking to the broken windows or any pieces of brain on the floorboard. His eyes did catch the bloodstains, though. They were everywhere. The cloth interior had soaked them up, too.
It took a few chosen spots to get the fire roaring to life. The seats burned up easily, smelly, and smoky but the outside of the car was a different story. They got it as charred as possible, leaving behind an unrecognizable block of black tin.
"I can't believe we burned a car," Sam was saying as Dean drove back to the bar. His eyes skated across the seat. "To get rid of a ghost."
Dean hitched a shoulder. "We've done worse."
Sam shrugged a look. "Guess so."
Dean watched the outskirts of town pass by them over the sleek hood of his baby. Small farm houses whizzed by, all of them looking like they were in need of a paint job. They passed cows and horses, pig pens and rows of corn. Then came the single streets of row houses. All scrunched together with barely a two foot span of grass to separate the buildings. Each street started with the old muddy road and each ended at the packing plant.
The Impala rounded a curve and off to the left was the big old hill housing the cemetery, with the tavern off to the right. The beer logos were dimly illuminating the coming rainy night. There were cars already parked in the crammed lot and a small group of four drinkers were just swinging out the front door.
Dean hoped that their efforts had worked, but the air still felt thick. Nothing felt like a balance had shifted or that a tension had lifted. It all still felt the same. Not that he really remembered it feeling any different when they had been there before.
"Holy shit," Sam quietly breathed and Dean felt his foot lift off the accelerator.
"What?"
"There she is."
Adrenaline raced through Dean's system and found his foot. He slammed on the brakes. "What? Where?"
Sam's gaze was fixed out his window. Dean had to lean over, his brows lifting high on his forehead, getting a good look at what his brother was seeing. Way up on the old hill was a figure standing still. The rain fell down and the wind whipped wildly. Her hair blew in violent strands against a porcelain face and her blue dress waved in warning.
He could hear Sam swallow and his eyes swung over to catch his brother dropping his gaze. He was staring at his hands, rubbing them together in slow movements. Dean pushed back to his own seat and pressed on the accelerator.
"Guess we didn't get rid of her." Dean stated, his mouth turning down into a frown.
"Guess not." Sam was looking out the window again, watching Valentina watch the tavern.
Dean looked ahead. The group of four had made it into their cars and were departing, one of them nodding heads with another person as he entered the bar. He was big. Older. Looked like Ben. And he was using the handicap entrance to the front of the building. Dean's eyes narrowed as he closed in on him. Up the wood plank he wobbled back and forth as he pushed a shiny wheelchair in front of him.
Aw, Sammy. "Sam?"
There must have been something off about Dean's voice because he heard Sam's neck twist to look at him. Dean tried to say something to prepare Sam, but he was already following Dean's stare out the front windshield.
"Holy, shit," Sam repeated. "There she is."
-0-
May, 1996
Dean had come out of his chloroform-induced haze slowly. And violently. Neither John nor Sam had expected the flying fists or the attempts to sit up and bolt out of bed. They hadn't counted on the nightmares or the daymares and were each surprised by his impressive vocabulary. And what Dean thought of each of them.
"He doesn't mean it," John had barked at Sam while they struggled to hold the injured boy down. Sam hadn't thought Dean meant any of it and besides the fact that he was risking hurting himself all over again, Sam had actually found Dean's comments to be amusing.
Especially when they were addressed towards their father.
Still, it was nice when Dean opened his eyes and looked around the room for the first time and found Sam with knowing eyes. "Where's… ol' l'dy?" he slurred.
Sam had been confused but then realized that Dean was talking about the doctor. "She's gone."
"It worthk?"
Sam giggled. "Yeah, it worked."
Dean's eyes roamed the small prison of dark paneling. "Dad?"
Sam nodded back. "He's here. Just, you know, out in the bar."
That settled Dean's anxiety. Dad was there. Sam was there. He was there. The three of them together and in one piece – well, at least now they were all in one piece. Thanks to the retired baby doctor. Dean let a long sigh escape and his eyes closed as his head dropped deeper into the pillow.
"Get some sleep –"
"Don't want to," Dean retaliated, but his eyes stayed shut.
"It's okay, Dean. I'm not going anywhere."
Those were the days when Dean was a superhero and Sam idolized him and there was no running away from each other. Just running away with each other.
"What song is this?" Dean asked, listening as the jukebox played on for the evening customers. They weren't rowdy yet, they were just getting warmed up.
"Uh," Sam listened for a moment. He knew the group. "Steppenwolf."
"What's the song?"
It wasn't one of their popular ones. No Magic Carpet Ride or Born to Be Wild. It was too early to be blaring those favorites out of drunk mouths. "Hootchie Kootchie?"
Dean grinned and his eyes slit open for a few seconds. "Man. Hootchie Kootchie Man." He shut his eyes again.
Sam thought his brother had gone back to sleep until another riff started up.
"What's this song?"
Sam smiled wide. Dimples everywhere. Dean didn't see them but he heard them. "The Who." It continued on like that, through the evening until night descended. Sam answered every song, every artist, the lead singer, the bass guitarist, the drummer. He recounted where Lynyrd Skynyrd had gotten their name and who died in the plane crash. Then that brought on a whole other subject of how many bands each of them could list where a member perished in a plane crash. Then those who O.D'd. Then those who blew their brains out… or something to that effect. They continued for hours until Sam's voice grew hoarse and Dean fell asleep for real.
Then Sam could let go.
The bar was crazy loud. Dad hadn't been by to check on them. Since they had arrived, Sam had taken the floor and Dad had slept on a cushioned booth near the pool table. Sam crawled off the bed and down to the hardwood along with the dust mites. He smoothed out the blanket and for the first time in two nights, he fell asleep right away.
As the evening danced on and the bar life came to a close, the small room in the back became darker than the night. Sam shifted on the blanket, his shoulder getting caught underneath him as he tried to rollover.
Something scratched on the floor and Sam's eyes opened. He glanced over to the where his feet lay tangled in the blankets and saw a murky form swing from left to right. It didn't seem to have much substance, but as his eyes adjusted on the darkened speckles, it blinked at him.
Sam swallowed and held his breath as the figure sucked in the warm air and released an icy breeze into the bedroom. Its gaze never shifted, never deterred. It seemed to be very content in the watching.
Until Sam took in a shaky breath and the oddly flickering body lurched forward. Sam reached up with his left hand and touched Dean's shoulder.
And just like that, the figure dissipated into the night, leaving Sam gasping for air.
www
Sam couldn't explain what the thing was in the back bedroom. He didn't even know if it had been real or if it was just a bad dream.
He never was one to have good dreams.
"So it wasn't real?" Dean had probed from the twin bed.
Sam's eyes were everywhere but on Dean. "I don't know."
That answer didn't help anyone out.
They spent the days playing cards and reading Native American History books on Legends and Lore. They brushed up on their Latin and had arm wrestling matches.
Dean slept and Sam prayed.
John walked. A lot. He told Sam he was just killing time while Dean's leg healed but Sam never knew his dad to do anything so leisurely. No. He was checking things out. He carried around a pocket EMF and chanted a few words of Latin every so often. Sam saw him etching symbols into the muddy road. He even caught him raising his right hand up, as though he were giving a blessing at a Catholic mass. He did that over several stones in the cemetery.
None of them were the newer ones.
On the third day since Dean had woken up – it had been the fifth day since they had arrived – John and Sam moved him from the bed to a chair for the first time. Considering the fact that he had just about lost a leg, the move went rather well.
"Mother fucker – Son of a – Oh, my God!" Dean spat out, his weight bearing down on his good leg while he attempted to balance with help from dad's shoulder. "Son of a bitch!" He cried out half way down the hallway.
"Breathe through it," John suggested helplessly.
Dean tried but it grunted out in short "goddamn's" all the way into the bar.
Sam moved a chair closer and grimaced when Dean shuddered in a breath as Dad lowered him down. Sam pushed a table closer and brought over a couple more chairs. One for Dean's leg. The other for Sam.
"Here you go." Sam handed Dean a paper bag and gave one to John, too. His dad had taken it and retreated back to the counter and his beer.
"Thanks, Sam," Dean tossed out between bites of roast beef and cheese. His eyes twinkled and for a moment Dean almost looked happy.
Sam smiled and thought about how easy it was to take care of Dean. He liked that his brother let him. Even if it was for just a few days.
Playing cards and arm wrestling was much easier to do at the table. Sam was the current reigning champ, claiming 7-4 odds at Poker and 12-9 full-on hooks and rollovers in the arm wrestling category.
Sam had, of course, accused Dean of being a cheat. Letting him win. But Dean admonished the accusation. He claimed he was caught off guard, in a weakened state or some lame excuse like that.
Then he grinned and Sam never did buy it. It was okay for Sam to take care of his brother as long as he remembered who was still older. Dean was always good at subtly pulling rank. Even if it was to say thanks in his own way.
It had been over four hours of sitting in the bar listening to everyone from Steely Dan to Heart have their turn squealing out of the jukebox and Dean was way past time for his pain meds. He had drunk more Cherry Cokes than Sam could count and was shifting uncomfortably.
"I gotta take a leak," Dean announced to only Sam. "And I think I need to lie down."
John had his back to them, his nose and eyes buried in a stack of newspapers. Sam knew he was scanning for their next hunt or his next hunt, whichever fitted into his schedule. He had been soberly quiet throughout the day, only throwing glances at the boys every now and then. He had walked over and picked up the trash from the subs, barely even asking Dean if he was okay when he accidentally bumped the chair his bad leg was stretched out on.
Sam sighed, realizing without a doubt that they'd be leaving soon. He just hoped they'd still have an entire day and not a few hours. Dean needed one more night in a real, albeit crappy, bed.
"Think you and I can get you up together?" Sam asked, not wanting to bother his dad in the middle of research.
Dean tilted his head. "That's what I'm counting on, man."
Sam had his right arm draped around Dean's back; his thumb hooked into the belt loop of his jeans. "One. Two…"
"Three," Dean grit out as he pushed his body up, most of his weight falling onto Sam's shoulders.
All the noise Sam was making standing his brother up didn't even compare to the elevated sounds Dean was making. Combine the two and neither of them heard the snick of the front door.
"I told you," Sam heard Ben shout out, "that there might be a couple good lookin' boys for you to see."
Dean's breaths were punching in and out of his lungs. Sam felt him stop and start to circle in the direction of the man's voice. His weight swayed with him, his left side slumping into Sam's right.
Ben was placing a shiny silver wheelchair into a locked position in the middle of the bar. He turned to his guests and nodded at them all. "You remember Ramona."
Dean smiled first. He even showed his teeth and let it touch his eyes. Sam was amazed that no matter if his brother was in pain and needed to pee like a mother he could still offer a civil 'hello' to the hand that fed them.
Sam readjusted his grip on his brother's back as Dean leaned in even more. He forced an awkward, uncomfortable smile at the girl. "Hi."
Ramona didn't respond, though. She was still a year older than Dean but it was hard to distinguish. Her left leg was missing below the knee and her right leg was long and sleek and ended with a foot that turned abnormally inward. Her arms were long as well with hands that were contractured into steeled fists. Her neck pulled tight to the left and her head fell heavily behind her. The wheelchair was equipped with a nice leather head rest that caught it so she could look around if she wanted.
"She sure looks a lot like her mother," John was saying.
She did, too. In fact when Sam looked beyond everything, he could see a very young Valentina detained in the wheelchair. In the body.
He felt a shiver run down his spine.
"Sam," Dean spoke softly. "I'm ready."
Sam tore his gaze away from Ramona's broken outline and started helping Dean hop out of the bar. Ben was talking with John about how pretty Ramona was and Ben was talking about how rewarding caring for her had been, not difficult, like everyone had predicted.
Then there was a sniff. It was loud and nasally and it seemed to go on and on.
Sam halted. He felt Dean stop mid-step and they both turned their heads over their shoulders.
Ramona's head was resting upright away from her neck rest. Her eyes were focused, her pupils the size of a pin point, staring at Sam.
"Jesus Christ," Ben stammered.
Ramona's mouth opened and her lips started moving in slow motion. No one breathed as the girl continued, her mouth widening and closing until air escaped, strumming her vocal cords and she whispered, "Truth."
Sam's eyes narrowed and he felt his heart rate pick up. "What?" He asked just as quiet.
Her head bobbled to the left and the right, her nose twitching with it. Sam watched as her chest swelled with the scents of the room. Her body jerked forward from the wheelchair and her mouth expanded releasing a horrific scream.
-0-
March, 2009
He was shaking.
Sam, whom up to this point had held it together with secret powers and strength beyond his own comprehension, found that his knee was bouncing. The nerve-racking jumping was traveling, too. Up his leg, through his arms, quaking his fingers as they reached for the car's door handle. He tried to steady them, his eyes falling to watch as his hand curled around the silver lever but he caught sight of his own reflection in the glass of his window and his chin trembled.
This shaking wasn't caused from fear. It wasn't caused from the fire of pain he had endured in his back that day. It was the itchy wriggle of withdrawal.
Sam wiped a sweaty palm on his thigh, the denim bunching under his skin.
"You want us to both go after Val?" Dean was asking. "Or did you want to split up?"
Sam frowned and looked over to his left. Dean was staring straight ahead, the Impala chugging into a close-enough parking spot to the tavern. He turned the ignition off with a flick of his wrist and pocketed the keys.
Sam was still frowning. And still shaking. He swallowed the cluster of spit that had gathered in his mouth and felt his stomach roll. It wasn't saliva that his body wanted.
"Why would we split up?" he asked, trying to sound solid, not wavering. Trying to sound normal and not strung out.
Dean was assessing the situation through the protective glass of his window. "I just thought I could, you know, go into the bar and make sure everything is Kosher in there. Put down more salt, get people out or take cover and you could-" He turned and looked at Sam. "Jesus, what's wrong with you?"
Sam's line over his nose deepened. "What?" He involuntarily licked his lips and then wished he hadn't.
Dean was looking at him like his head was going to spin around and he was going to start chucking pea soup.
"I'm fine," he lied. And was caught because I'm fine was always code for the opposite.
"You're sweating. Is it your back?" Dean sounded concerned. His eyes were narrowed, his shoulders were tense. Sam was half expecting to see the back of his hand checking his forehead for a fever.
Which actually sent Sam from paranoid to pissed because the prickle building inside told him he didn't need Dean and his goddamn concern. He didn't need Dean telling him what their next move should be. He didn't need Dean being the older brother. Cause while Dean figured out the method of madness down yonder, Sam had figured out that being an only child gave him choices. And being the only one who made the choices gave him advantages.
So when one became two again, Sam realized that it wasn't about being older. It was about being stronger.
"No." Sam pulled on the door handle. "I'll go take care of Val. You make sure everyone's safe in the bar."
Dean was out of the Chevy, slamming the door, following Sam around to the back of the car. He glanced twice up the hill to be sure Val was still there. She was. Still staring down the bar like she was waiting to see if it was going to make the first move.
"Sam," Dean kept his voice low, "you need to stay focused."
"Me?" Sam rummaged the trunk with one hand, keeping the other wrapped around his lurching stomach. "I'm not the one who's on the brink of a fucking nervous breakdown."
If he would had looked up, he would have seen the hurt in Dean's eyes. The betrayal. But he didn't look up because lately he'd seen that look mask the hazels of his brother's irises too many times.
"You're making this about me." Dean pointed out softly.
"It is about you."
"Is it?" Dean chided back and Sam felt him still. His breath held and he swore Dean had somehow gotten closer to him under the lid of the trunk.
Sam's vision parted and cleared through edges of white and black. He slowed his heart rate and calmed his breaths. His back expanded and retracted in smart jabs of pain but he blinked past them went back to his search of the trunk.
His right hand was resting on the sawed-off. Probably had been the entire time.
He saw Dean check over his shoulder again, eyes scurrying up the hill. They had to make a plan and act on it pretty damn soon.
Dean was moving next to him. His hand rested on the open lid and he cleared his throat. "I'm sorry I started all this."
Sam's eyes skimmed over. "Started what?"
"This." Dean's hand turned, palm up. "I broke the first seal."
"Dean," Sam shook his head and quickly checked the sawed-off. Locked and loaded. "I'm not mad about that."
"What are you mad at then?"
Sam smiled then and it was almost breathtaking. His dimples warmed his cheeks and his eyes twinkled reminding them both of a lost little brother. Sam reached into the trunk and snagged extra salt rounds and stuffed them into his front pocket along with two silver flasks. One with salt, the other with holy water. He felt his whole body vibrate with a dull ache of secrets that he wouldn't own up to as he felt Dean's eyes bore into him.
"Fine," Dean said sharply and alternated his own hands in the back of the Impala, picking out his weapons of choice. "I'm just trying to be honest with you. Make sure you haven't forgotten which side you're fighting on."
Sam hefted the sawed-off over his right shoulder, feeling his back pluck with bursts of stings. His stomach was his culprit, though. It snarled in a pool of acid. "Yeah, well, I think I'm pretty clear. You just make sure you know what side you're fighting for." He stood tall and rigid, meeting Dean's wondrous eyes.
"I always know what side I'm on," Dean said, slamming the trunk closed. "It's been the same side I've been on since day one. And just so you won't forget – I'm on Mom's."
They stood in silence long enough to hear another customer leave the bar and to catch the middle of Don McLean sing American Pie.
Oh, and as I watched him on the stage, my hands were clenched in fists of rage
No angel born in hell could break that Satan spell
And as the flames climbed high into the night, to light the sacrificial right
I saw Satan laughing with delight, the day the music died.
The wind thrashed around them then and took the rest of the song away. Sam wished it could take more. The barren sour feeling in his stomach, the disease pumping through his veins, the fact that he needed to pacify it. He swallowed hard and forced the acid back down. The problem was, where he used to have the answers, now he didn't and when it came to his brother he didn't know where he was supposed to go anymore. Forward was not something in their current vocabulary.
"Well, I guess we're going to split up," Sam finally said, drawing deeper lines into Dean's already strained frown.
Dean was nodding. Splitting up got the job done faster. Or so they claimed. Divide and conquer. Of course, if they thought they were alone when they were together, they always found that they were desolate when they were apart.
"I'm just going to get everyone out of there and salt the place."
"I'll go up the hill and smoke Val out-"
"You sure you can do this alone?" Dean sounded hesitant and Sam felt the stress pull between them again like a rubber band, seeking its weak spot.
God, what was this? Candid Camera? Punk'd? He wished Ashton Kutcher would just reveal himself already 'cause Sam had already been doing this alone for months. Not counting the Trickster's fucking evil joke, either. And there were times like these – where he was on the brink of losing it – where if he let himself really think, really feel… he would realize how lucky he was. How scared he was. If he shut his eyes and opened them a split second later, maybe he'd find his fairyland would all blow away.
He'd be alone again. The only one calling the shots. The last Winchester standing.
Never. Sam swore to himself. Never again.
Sam nodded at his brother.
Dean stared back, his freckles standing out against the poor light from the tavern. His green eyes stayed on Sam and the younger man had to look away. In another time, Dean was capable of seeing more than Sam wanted. The older brother hadn't quite gotten the groove back on that one, but right now Sam was more raw than he had been for days.
Dean would be able to read him inside and out.
So Sam kept his eyes shaded. "Yeah. I can do it alone." He said the words slowly, not holding any emotion to them. He wanted – he needed – Dean to believe him.
"Okay," Dean agreed.
They started to turn away from one another. One to the left, one to the right when Dean tugged at Sam's jacket.
Sam reluctantly stopped.
"Just… take the first shot, okay?" The concern was back or maybe it had never left. "Don't over think it. And don't miss. That bitch is fast and likes to duck to her right." He paused a few beats before throwing in, "Just watch yourself."
Sam tried not to grimace. He took a step away from Dean forcing his hand to let go of the jacket. He tried to remember that regardless of strength, Dean was the older brother and it was hard to release authority of that role. Sam ignored the look splashed on Dean's face.
He nodded once, holding a tightness in his thin pierced lips. "You, too."
He turned and ignored that his brother's words actually made him feel warm. That they actually hit him somewhere deep down inside. He tried to forget because allowing all of that would remind Sam of how human he really was. How much he needed his brother. And he wanted – he needed – to not have to need.
Sam crossed the muddy street and looked up the hill to see an image in blue staring back down. She wasn't moving. She was still in the wind. Her stagnant body was like a statue, overlooking the small town passing judgment and waiting to see who would topple.
Sam drew in a deep breath of the cool, snappy wind, but all he could taste was the iron and sulfur coated on the back of his tongue.
Better than Mother's milk…
He kept his eyes on her wind-ravaged form as he started up the hill. His lips twitching, his hands shaking, his stomach turning topsy-turvy for a fix he hated to admit that he craved. He tried to push it all to the side and keep in mind why he was doing this. Why he kept going on. Why it was all so goddamn important.
Kill Lilith.
He smirked as he started his first steps into the mud and the rain. His hand found the inside pocket of his jacket and he pulled out a flask, known only to him, concealing the bloody richness that he needed. He took a swig and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He looked dead ahead and under his breath whispered, "Don't worry, Dean. I won't forget. I'm on your side."
www
Dean was in the dark.
Normally, he embraced it. As long as it wasn't small confined spaces, but this kind of dark had a depth to it that he couldn't find his way out of. His brother was making sure of that. Sam used to be like the sun for Dean. Capturing the light in a young world where monsters and obligations stole so much from him. But since his return, Sam was more like the moon. He had a dark side that he never showed anybody.
So even in the light, Dean was in the dark. It didn't mean he had to like it or accept it. And it certainly didn't mean he couldn't fight it.
He pulled open the old heavy door of the tavern and shoved himself inside. The music was booming, there was a handful of couples dancing near the pool table and a handful more scattered around the dusty room. Smoke filled the air, peanut shells dusted the floor, and caps and bottles littered the table tops.
His eyes landed on Big Ben and Jeff talking on either sides of the dark paneled bar. Ben's stomach was pressed as far as he could go against the counter, his left hand hanging loosely on the silver handle of the wheelchair.
Dean refused to look at Ramona. He pushed himself on, edging up to the brothers. They were nestled close, their heads dipped near one another, words exchanging fast, he thought he heard his name being said. The men's hands were fidgeting and Dean followed the fussy sign language until he saw Jeff's eyes dart up.
Dean read it as plain as day. Jeff's lips mouthed, He's right there. He's right there. as Dean nudged behind Ben. The big man turned to him with a false smile spanned across his face.
"You're back!" he exclaimed, too loud, too animated.
Dean's eyes narrowed for a split second. He hated always being in the fucking dark.
He gave a slight nod and pretended not to notice the swing in the air. There was no point in letting on that he was suddenly alert, that the hairs of his neck were on end. That he was all too surprised to find that he was unexpectedly suspicious. Fact was, he didn't have the facts.
"Yeah," Dean was saying, "but she's still… around."
Ben scowled and he pulled away from the counter. "What do ya mean?"
"Val's not gone," Dean explained matter-of-factly. "We need to get all these people out of here and you need to close the bar down for a couple of days."
Ben considered that for a few electrical beats of Eddie Van Halen's guitar and then nodded. "Yeah. Okay."
It took unplugging the jukebox and taking away some feisty customers drinks to get them all out. Jeff stood at the open door and handed out five's and ten's to everyone and asked them to come back in a couple of days.
"We received some bad news about a family member," Jeff told them as they exited the building, bills clutched in their hands, pissed looks on their faces, not enough beer in their bellies.
Dean was back to salting up the place, wondering if they would have enough in the bags that were left over from the previous night.
"Where's Sam?" Ben asked.
Dean turned to look at him. He was standing near the wheelchair, Ramona's back was positioned towards him. Her long arms and tufts of dark hair were all that he could see.
"You need to get her out of here." Dean advised abruptly and turned away.
He heard shuffling behind him and checked over his shoulder. Jeff was teetering near his brother, their eyes on one another, their heads ticking in a non-verbal speech Dean recognized as one the brothers only understood.
"Where's Sam?" Ben asked again but this time he held a command to his voice.
Dean felt an invisible roll run the length of his shoulders and land in a throb of pain in his beaten right arm. He curved his back as he rocked on the heel of his boot to face Ben. His eyes stayed dull, his face remained firm as he planted his feet square with the rest of his body. "Sam's saving your ass."
The big guy looked puzzled, confused even. His eyes shifted to Jeff who was standing so still and quiet that he was camouflaged into the background.
"You need to get Ramona out of here," Dean repeated. He wouldn't do it again.
Ben blinked and seemed to come to his senses or give the impression that he was. His hand gripped the handle harder and he nodded. "First," he began, "I need to know-"
The lights zinged and flickered. The brothers froze in Dean's vision. In the light and in the dark. Their images burned like a negative against his lids until they were all thrown into the black.
"Aw, Christ!" Dean heard Ben bellow.
Dean's eyes flew out the large window of the tavern, catching glimpses of headstones across the street and all he could think of was one thing.
If Val was coming, where the hell was Sam?
Of course, the click of a revolver being cocked and pointed at him robbed the thought away as Dean's eyes found Ben's. Suddenly he realized he wasn't among friends anymore.
But he was still in the dark.
-TBC-
Playlist: Dream On performed by Aerosmith
American Pie performed by Don McLean
Caps and Bottles performed by Dropkick Murphys