A/N: janissa11 was kind enough to allow me to use a detail which appeared in her story, Knock On The Sky: Dean carries around with him a paperback book, Mythology, by Edith Hamilton. The lyrics to the song Gabriel/Dean sings is from Welcome Home (Sanitarium), by Metallica (1986). Chapter title taken from Long Time Gone by the Dixie Chicks.
Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural. This is for entertainment only, and not for profit.
Chapter 3 – Long Time Gone
He was cold. His chest hurt.
Gabriel looked up at Abraham, watched as Abe took the two spent shells out of his shotgun and put two more in. Gabe couldn't feel his legs, couldn't feel the ground he was lying on any more. Big brother looked mad, and Gabriel didn't know why.
The words came out of his mouth in a rough, hoarse whisper: "A-bra-ham…p-pleas'…dun't hurt me… any…mor'…"
"Shut the hell up, you lyin' bastard..." Abraham pointed the shotgun at Gabriel's face. Gabriel stared into the blackness of both barrels and the world disappeared in a blinding white flash.
Gabriel blinked.
"John? Welcome back." A heavyset black man sat across from him. Behind a desk. He wore a dark grey suit.
Gabriel stared at him. For a moment he was completely blank, then he was able to put a name with the face.
Weddington. Dr. Ephraim Weddington.
Gabriel looked down at himself, and he sighed when he saw the straightjacket and the chair restraints.
Weddington looked friendly and concerned, but Gabriel wasn't fooled. The reflection off the glass in the pictures on the walls hurt his eyes. Gabriel slumped forward, against the straps. His feet were cold; he could barely feel the hardwood floor underneath his toes. He clenched his jaws tightly against that nasty dust-dry taste in his mouth. The shaking had already begun. It stuttered up to the surface to loosen whatever weak grip on reality he had left. He raised his heels off the floor, watched his knees jitter, slowly at first.
…need…want my pills…
He was still getting meds every day, but they weren't the ones he really wanted; they were the ones everyone thought he needed. He took the round purple pills, the little white pills, and the yellow ones. He even took the pink triangles that made him sick and cramped his stomach up so bad he laid in the corner of his cell for hours. It was either take them willingly or get stuck with the needle, and sometimes even when he took his meds with no problem he got stuck anyway.
"Can you tell me where you went just now, John? Who's Abraham?"
Damn. He said it out loud.
Gabriel's face went blank. "I dunno."
He glanced up and then looked away quickly. Dr. Ephraim Weddington was one of the sneaky ones. At least with Beck everything was clear and out in the open: Let me touch you, John. Don't hide from me, John. Good boy.
Gabriel wanted to be a good boy again. Red pills everyday, his own special blend that made him feel so damn good, Beck's mouth all soft and nipping, his hands rough against his skin. Rec room privileges, being able to feed himself, instead of being fed. He'd had it all, and that damn Dean had to go and ruin it.
And now Weddington wanted to help him feel all better about it.
He looked kind enough, with those mild brown eyes, but he was real and Gabriel wasn't. People like Weddington weren't to be trusted. The real ones did whatever they wanted to the shadow people, especially in this place.
I used to be real. Used to hunt bastards like you, Gabriel thought to himself as he stared at the man. We'd give you a weapon and a head start, and I could hunt your sorry ass down in the pitch dark.
Bad thoughts, every last one of them. Gabe's shoulders shook, and he hunched over even more, as far as the straps would allow.
"I – I wanna g-go h-home," Gabriel stammered. It sounded like something maybe Weddington wanted to hear.
"Well, okay. We can help you with that." Dr. Weddington's voice was warm, even friendly. Gabe knew the tone. In another life he'd used it often enough, to lure in folks for the hunt.
Sure, I can give you a ride home. My car's right outside.
He did it for family. It was all for family. The problem with family was, sometimes they leave.
Or he got left.
"Leave the sumbitch, Jerry! I'm telling you, we gotta go!"
Gabriel jerked upright in the chair. That was from that other life he had, the one before this. Maybe he should get mad about that, but he was kind of hazy on the details.
"All you have to do is tell us where your family is. You can do that, can't you. John?"
Gabriel looked away, towards the bookcase by the door. If he stared at the books hard enough he could almost feel the leather underneath his fingertips. There were books at home. They were old and dusty, though, and they weren't as nice. The nicest one was the book Missy used to read to him while he was sick.
"Welcome to where time stands still, no one leaves and no one will…" he sang softly, in a low, clear voice.
Weddington stopped and leaned forward.
"Moon is full, never seems to change, just labeled mentally deranged…" The words seemed to fade away as quickly as they'd come out. Gabriel stared down at his lap.
Weddington smiled, just a little. "You like music, John?"
Gabriel blinked. "No."
"How's Dean today, John? Can I talk to him?"
"No."
"You can't leave unless you get better. You can't get better until you talk about this."
Damn liar.
"Do you remember what you did a week ago? Do you remember writing on the wall?"
"N-no."
"Did Dean do that? You said he did. I'm just asking because it turns out that Dean is very smart. Now I don't know what the numbers mean, but the words are Latin. It's part of an exorcism ritual, and the words are supposed to drive out evil."
Gabriel didn't answer.
"If Dean's smart, then that means you're smart too. I just want to talk to him, that's all, find out how he's doing, see if he needs anything. Do you think Dean's trying to protect you? Maybe he wants to drive the sickness away and make you both feel better."
Weddington looked puzzled when Gabriel snort-chuckled. "Did I say something funny?"
"No."
The door opened, and one of the orderlies stepped in. Snow. Tall new guy. Blond crewcut, young and solid as a brick wall. Snow had a faded yellowish purple bruise on his face, right next to his nose, and for a moment Gabriel imagined the feel of the man's skin underneath his knuckles.
Dr. Weddington sighed. "Well, I'll see you next week, Gabriel."
Gabriel just nodded. He sat patiently as Snow unbuckled the chair restraints, and then he was lifted up out of the chair and steered towards the door.
Snow didn't say anything until the door closed behind them, then Gabriel stumble-stepped forward, off balance, as Snow popped him a good one right in the back of his head.
"Owe you one from last week. Hit me in the face, remember? Better be glad you're Beck's crazy little bitch. Bitch."
"It wasn't me. It was Dean." The words stuck in Gabe's throat. They never listened to a damn thing he said. Why would they start listening now?
Snow dug his fingers into the top strap of Gabriel's straightjacket and lengthened his stride. "Bath time, freak."
Gabriel went where he was led.
Cold. He was cold.
Didn't understand it. He'd prepared for this job, hadn't he? Gotten all the winter weather gear he and Sam would need, thermal gloves, insulated long johns, heavy parkas, you name it. The credit cards were good. Hell, they were golden. That bearwalker they were hunting was supposed to be one tough sonofabitch, but they'd covered all the angles.
So why was he still freezing his ass off?
Dean opened his eyes.
The effort to look down at himself seemed to take about five minutes or so.
Dean blinked hazily, tried to put words to what he was seeing.
He was sitting in a tub. Big steel tub. Thick white sheets, wrapped all around him. Wet. The water was freezing.
"Hey there," Beck smiled. "Dean, is it?"
Dean jerked his head up. At least, he wanted to.
"Thought so." Beck said thoughtfully. "It's in the eyes, you know? Yours are a little lighter." He leaned forward, until they were nose to nose, and Dean really did think about leaning in a little further and biting the tip of this bastard's nose clean off. That was a plan, except his muscles weren't working. The cold settled around him like a thick, soft blanket, and even the thought of saying something smartass faded right away.
Just breathing and blinking was wearing him out. It was getting harder to force air in and out of his lungs. He felt sick to his stomach, and he dimly hoped he wasn't gonna puke.
"You're not the one I want," Beck said casually. "You know that, right? I want John. You're making things difficult for my boy, Dean."
" ...f-fuck...y-you....'m…not…he's…" The words wouldn't come. They were stuck inside him and he couldn't get them out. Dean's head bobbled, and he didn't even flinch when someone stepped close and fingers grabbed him by the chin, pushed his eyelid up and back. He was so fucking…tired…everything was blurring out…
Why was Dad doin' this? He'd done ever'thing he ever asked 'im to, right?
"He's close. Lips are blue," the other man said, and Dad nodded.
Dean shivered and shook so hard his teeth chattered. He didn't feel it when his head banged hard against the back of the tub. It was far away, and it didn't hurt.
Dad said…
You're not the one I want.
Dad said…
You're making things difficult for my boy, Dean.
The mouth of the world opened up, white and gaping, and swallowed Dean up whole.
Middle of Nowhere, Bumfuck New Mexico was bright, hard edged, and dusty, just like it had been for real, years ago.
"Damn, that's two days out of my life that I'm never gonna get back," Dean muttered. He threw the shovel into the open trunk.
Sam waited. He never knew when Dean would show up in his dreams, what he'd look like, or what he'd say when he did show.
Dean died in Sam's dreams. A lot. Sam saw him bloody, cursing, raging and defiant until the end, until the people that took him got tired of him, double-tapped him in the head, or strangled him from behind with a thick rope or chain. Dean starved to death in Sam's dreams, gagged and bound, whittled down to skin and bones. He lay dead in a deserted church somewhere, laid out on a black altar, an offering to some ancient bloodless god. Out in the woods somewhere in Sam's dreamscape Dean Winchester lay rotting underneath freshly turned dirt and leaves.
Not in this one. Sam blinked in the hot sun-dazzled air. This was one of the good dreams.
"Well," Dean pursed his lips, like he always did when he was about to say something he damn well knew Sam wasn't going to like. "We got lucky last time, y'know? That thing with Roy LaGrange and my heart. But…" Dean glanced down at his dusty work boots.
Or maybe not.
Dean looked tired, just as red-eyed as he'd looked that day. They'd spent the last forty eight hours staking one bruja after another. One less coven to worry about.
Sam steeled himself when Dean raised his head and looked directly at him. That always made Sam's heart ache, looking into those wide, moss green eyes.
"Luck runs out, bro'. Sooner or later, it always does. I know you don't wanna hear that, but that's just facts." The corners of Dean's mouth quirked upwards, and he shrugged carelessly. "I won't be here always. At some point you're probably gonna be by yourself. On your own."
Sam shook his head, his lips pressed into a too hard line. "Not gonna happen."
"What?" Dean looked puzzled.
"I said, that's not gonna happen. We make our own luck. We know things the rest of 'em out here don't."
The corners of Dean's mouth quirked upwards. "No shit? All right, then. We'll see."
The dream darkened, turned into bright neon lights, mirrors and wood paneling.
Kugel's Keg. Hibbing, Minnesota.
Not again. Don't want to see this, Sam thought to himself. Please, I don't…
"Dude, we could have another round. It's still early." Dean rolled his eyes as he threw another dart. Bulls eye.
"Motel's down the road." Sam shook his head. "I'm tired, Dean. I gotta take a leak first."
Hell of a thing for his last words to be.
"You really know how to have fun, Grandma," Dean snarked. He shrugged into his jacket, picked up Dad's journal. "Okay. I'll meet you outside."
Famous last words. Dean didn't.
Five feet away from the Impala Sam found Dean's flashlight, his wallet, and Dad's journal on the ground. The flashlight was crushed; the journal flattened, with oily tire tracks on its pages.
The dream turned on itself, and by now Sam knew if he woke up just then, it would only pick up where he left off if he went back to sleep, just like it had so many times before.
He saw himself suit up the next day. FBI Agent David Matthews walked into Hibbing Sheriff's Department the next day. Deputy Kathleen Hudak was nice enough. Nice enough, and useless. She was red-headed, pleasantly efficient at her job, but by the end of the week Sam really felt he was wasting his time, that the entire universe had conspired to swallow one Dean Michael Winchester up whole, without a trace. Sam felt another, larger twinge of guilt for painting Dean as the ne'er do well, the black sheep of the Winchester family that he was tracking down for his worried aunt and uncle.
The camera on the highway was down for maintenance that night. No one saw or heard anything. Sam and Hudak canvassed the hospitals and every jail in the adjoining counties, for anyone fitting Dean's description, for two weeks.
Nothing.
On the last day Hudak looked at him sadly, told him that she really hoped he'd find Dean.
And that was that.
Dad was there, in that big black truck of his, at the Shade Tree Motel when Sam pulled up.
Sam had called Bobby, of course. Let him know what was going on. Apparently Dean going missing was enough to make Bobby to forget that he threatened the elder Winchester with buckshot. Singer must have called John up and probably cussed him out for letting his sons twist in the wind like that.
Sam clenched his right hand into a fist at the sight of his father, just like he did in real life.
He did the same thing in his sleep.
Dream John seemed unconcerned and slightly annoyed.
You're one less soldier, Sam thought to himself. "Bobby call you?"
"Yeah."
"So you ignored me when I called you before, when I told you that Dean was sick. Bobby calls and you come running, huh?"
John scowled. "You're being an ass about this, Sam. We got to work to do."
Yeah, Sam was. He figured he deserved that much. It was his friggin' dream, after all.
It was just one more job, at least that was the way John acted. He'd find Dean soon enough, rip him a new one for worrying the hell out of everyone, give him new coordinates for another job, another hunt, and then they would all go their separate ways.
Four months later, John disappeared into the night just as easily as Dean had. No voicemails, not even coordinates. Sam got it. At least, he thought he did: You're not the son I want to hunt with.
It was harder at night. Night was when Sam couldn't pretend anymore. He was alone, really alone, for the first time in his life.
After John left, Sam always booked a room with double twin beds.
Because. Just because.
Sam didn't throw away any of Dean's stuff. Not his duffel, his guns or knives, and certainly not the leather jacket, the skin or the car mags. Dean had one book, a paperback edition of Mythology, by Edith Hamilton. The pages were dog-eared. Well-read. Sam figured that some folks would have been surprised that Dean could even read, but he did. It wasn't all Busty Asian Beauties and phone numbers hastily scrawled on cocktail napkins. Hell, Dean helped Sam with his homework back in grade school, through junior high.
Dad? Yeah, right.
Sam turned over on his side and stared at the other bed in the room. Dean never was an early riser, not even in Sam's waking dreams. Sam could see him lying on his belly, half out of the covers. Grey tee shirt and matching boxers, short spiky hair all sleep rumpled, face buried into his pillow, one arm underneath it.
Dean whistled in his sleep sometimes, because he'd gotten his nose broken when he was thirteen. Sam bitched good-naturedly about the noise sometimes, but the sound was a secret comfort to him. It told him that all was well. They'd made it through another hunt, another night.
Sam laid there staring. He held off blinking as long as he could, because when he finally did, Dean vanished into thin air.
Next post Friday
