A/N: Computer problems suck. Big time. Thank you everyone, for the reviews!
Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural. This is for entertainment only, and not for profit.
Chapter 33 - the persistence of memory
Sam sat by Dean's bedside and stared at his sleeping brother. Dean lay curled up on his side. That haircut still didn't look quite right. The color was still wrong, the cut was wildly uneven, with hanks of hair framing Dean's forehead, but he looked peaceful now.
One thing that hadn't changed, after all these years: instead of snoring, Dean still whistled as he slept. He'd broken his nose back when he was twelve.
Dean's chest rose and fell, and occasionally Sam saw a slight hitching motion, as though Dean was having trouble catching his breath. Sam always froze whenever he saw that.
All kinds of scenarios raced though his mind: Dean not breathing, Dean limp and nearly lifeless as his lips turned blue and the life drained out of his body.
Dean exhaled, slow and deep, and Sam relaxed. He knew CPR, was more than ready to use it if he had to.
This new sleeping position of Dean's was only another reminder of how much he'd changed. Out on the road Dean slept on his stomach, with one hand underneath the pillow. He kept one hand on his knife like that at all times. "It's not fear," he'd told Sam one time. "It's precaution."
On the few rare occasions when he felt safe, usually at Bobby's, Dean slept on his back.
Sam couldn't ever remember seeing Dean sleeping in a fetal position like this. He didn't moan or groan in his sleep. There was no sign that he was dreaming about Gabriel or Sweetbriar Hospital. It was good to sit there and watch Dean like that, and Sam hoped Dean was dreaming only good things. Sam hoped that, but he wasn't counting on it.
Dean spent the entire time in the shower while Doc Blair tended to John and Bobby, and after Sam's turn was done John knocked on the bathroom door. Dean came out of the shower like he was going to his own execution, his eyes gone to slits the moment he saw Blair and his doctor's bag and stethoscope.
For a brief second Dean was John Doe 317 again, and Sam could see it, fear and helplessness and pure rage in every line of Dean's body.
"Dean?" John said quietly. "It's all right, son."
This was Dad's command voice, but it was layered with something else. Sam nearly groaned aloud. Dad was in father mode now, and that had to be the worst joke Sam had ever heard. He felt more comfortable with John Winchester the hunter, or John Winchester the drill sergeant. John Winchester the father? Not so much. Kodak moments and heartfelt fatherly understanding was something that Sam really felt he couldn't deal with.
The trouble was, the tone of John's voice worked. Dean settled himself with a visible effort. He stared at John, Sam, and then Bobby, hard, unblinking, and he relaxed enough to allow Blair to examine him.
He's trying to remember how to be Dean again, but I don't know if he can. He's still not right. I wanted to help him, and I fucked it all up.
The thought made Sam feel all nervous and jittery inside. He rubbed his hands on the thighs of his jeans to settle himself and that didn't work at all. The ground underneath his feet shifted, slid slideways, and he couldn't get his balance. Things were changing, the damn family was changing, and he couldn't get a grip on anyway of it.
It was nice having Dean on his side. During the constant arguments, especially the ones leading up to the mother of all blow-ups, and Stanford, Dean was the peacemaker, the barrier between John and Sam. He still was in a way, but Dean's attitude change towards the Harvelles was another thing altogether. He'd always enjoyed seeing them, far more than Sam ever did. When he was a kid Dean would practically wriggle from head to toe with pleasure at the prospect of spending some time with Ellen, Bill and Jo. They spent weeks with the Harvelles in the beginning while John hunted, came back to recuperate from hunts gone wrong, from sickness. The Roadhouse was a refuge, a place to rest up from too many days and weeks on the road.
Sam endured the visits like he always did. It was just another reminder that the Winchesters weren't normal, and they didn't have a home. On one level Sam realized that he always resented the Harvelles for that, so it really didn't take much to sour Sam's attitude, especially with all that "Dean is dead" talk Jo had done for the last four years. But the way Dean was now, well…
Sam closed his eyes, leaned forward, and rubbed the back of his neck with both hands.That dull throb only promised to get worse. I want my brother back. The old Dean. Macho and stubborn, but I could see the kid in him too. I never told him, figured he'd call me a bitch or a girl, but I miss the old Dean. I do.
Sam opened his eyes.
Lim straddled Dean in bed.
The demon was dark, spider-like; Dean was pale, still as a statue. It slowly ran its fingers up and down Dean's left shoulder, and then his thigh.
Dean didn't stir.
Hello, Samuel. Lim's eyelids clicked as it leaned down. The dark moist slits where its nose would have been flexed wide open as it sniffed at Dean's pale, freshly scrubbed skin. He's so delectable, Samuel. Such a tender, toothsome morsel, your brother. Lim's hair tentacles snapped and waved in the air around him as it raised its head and closed its eyes as it savored Dean's scent.
"You can't be here," Sam snarled. "You can't be. Get the hell away from him or ---"
Or you'll what? Lim's mouth stretched into a wide merciless grin. You're dreaming. You do know that, don't you? It looked down at Dean fondly, and that look made Sam's body tighten. All this sound and fury around him, and beauty still sleeps. So peaceful. Not a care in the world.
Lim fingered a strand of Dean's hair with its long dark grey claws.
But you and I know better, don't we, Samuel? Lim cooed. You're here, so I'm here too. I'll always be here. Sooner or later you'll pay your debt to me. After all, you wouldn't want Dean to suffer any more, would you? It's the kind thing to do, the brotherly thing. Gabriel's gone, but he's not forgotten. Not really. Dean's body remembers. It will never forget.
Sam gasped as the scarring on his left hip flared up bright and hot enough to make him squeeze his eyes shut against the pain.
When Sam opened his eyes again again Lim was gone.
Downstairs in the kitchen it was just the grown-ups for this family meeting. Bobby, Rufus, Bill and Ellen sat around the kitchen table.
Ash was up in his room, the one place in the Roadhouse that Ellen and Bill considered off limits. What happened in Dr. Feelgood's room stayed there, strictly don't ask, don't tell.
Bill quirked an eyebrow at Ellen. "Jo?"
Ellen shrugged. "She went to town. Movie."
"Oh." Usually Jo would make it her business to hang around Dean. The look on Ellen's face was guarded yet all too obvious. Talk to you about that later.
Bill nodded.
Bobby grunted to himself as he slowly rolled his right shoulder. He hated shots, always had, and his arm still ached and burned from that damn tetanus shot Doc Blair gave him. Blair wisecracked about Bobby's orphan little toe.
Bobby stared at him deadpan. "You got one helluva bedside manner, Blair."
Blair smiled tightly. "I do what I can." He tossed a small brown bottle of antibiotics at Bobby and nodded in satisfaction as Bobby caught the bottle in mid-air with his left hand.
"You hunters make lousy patients. Two week supply. Take 'em or don't, Singer. Makes no difference to me. And if you don't, go to the nearest ER and see if they care."
Yep. Bobby didn't care much for doctors.
Rufus sat back in his chair and frowned at the half empty beer bottle in his hand. "Now, why are we doing this again? And why the hell should I even listen to you?"
Bobby grunted. Damn, his arm was singing soprano louder than his right foot was. "Either we deal with this now, or deal with it later. You really want some civilians buying that place, thinking everything's all right and normal and it's not? With all those spirits around, they'll be walking into a buzzsaw. It'll get bloody. Very bloody."
Ellen looked thoughtful. "Stop the problem before it even gets started. That's deep, Singer. Real deep."
"I have my moments." Bobby finished off his beer. "Anyway, how the hell do we know that was all of Gabriel in that damn tree? They probably have his jawbone hidden somewhere." He nodded at the ceiling, and everyone knew he was gesturing towards the upwards room where Dean and Sam were. "That man up there needs to know that he doesn't have to worry about that bastard Gabriel ever again."
Rufus drank the rest of his beer. Damn good stuff. "So we're doing this out of some half assed sense of justice?"
"That." Bobby nodded curtly. "And payback is a stone bitch."
It was time to pay his condolences to the Fletcher family, and that was something John preferred to do in private. The far end of the parking lot behind the Roadhouse was far enough away. There was no need for Dean to become involved, or to make amends. He became quiet when John told him about the Fletcher brothers dying. It was hard to read Dean even on a good day, even before Gabriel Bender.
Aaron Fletcher sat behind the wheel of his truck. He looked up and nodded as John approached. Fletcher looked old and tired. Burying loved ones will definitely do that to a person.
Two days ago the bodies of the Fletcher brothers, Clyde and Emmett, were recovered, salted and burned in a secluded spot of the family farm. John knew the father, Aaron; he'd hunted with him on more than one occasion. John was two states away when that bruja hunt turned bad. Dean somehow managed to kill the damned thing and haul Aaron out of there, busted up, but still alive.
The argument could be made that the Fletcher brothers were at fault. They'd disobeyed John's orders and come anyway, and brought the Benders in right behind them. They got stupid, and they got killed. It was an old hunter's adage. John wondered if things would've worked out for Dean if the Fletcher boys hadn't screwed up like that.
Mysterious ways, John. Missouri's voice was a faint whisper in his memory.
"Just wanted to give you my condolences, Aaron. I'm sorry about your boys." John said quietly.
"How're your boys? How's Dean?"
"Fine."
"Good. Good. You take care of your sons, Winchester. A parent should never have to bury their child. It's not thw way things should go." Aaron sniffed noisily. His voice cracked a little, then he straightened up behind the wheel. "The people that killed my sons…Singer tells me they're all dead."
"Every last one of them," John said flatly.
Aaron's mouth firmed into a thin, hard line. "Well…there's still room for some payback." He smiled a little as the back door to the kitchen area opened up and Bobby and Rufus stepped outside. "I'll take what I can get."
"Take care, Aaron."
"I will. You too." John turned away and walked towards Bobby and Rufus. Bobby rolled his right shoulder (God, that damn doctor was a butcher, couldn't give a damn shot to save his life), grimaced, then took one look at the expression on John's face and shook his head. "Hell no, you're not going."
"What?"
"I know that look, Winchester. You stay here with your boys." There was no need for Bobby to add: Neither one of them is quite right now, and you know it.
"Me and Rufus are heading out with Fletcher. Gonna meet up with the others. We'll be back in a day's time, then I'll take the boys back to my place."
"Beck's still in the hospital. When he leaves, I'll know it," John drawled. "His ass belongs to me."
Bobby snorted. "Keeping tabs on that one, huh?"
John chuckled as he walked by. The grin he flashed Bobby was bright and somehow wolfish. "Damn right I am."
"Come on baby," Beck whispered. "Come on. Don't hide from me, John. Don't."
Beck slid his hand up and down Dean's bare stomach.
Dean shuddered. The air in the infirmary was cooler than he remembered. He tried to move away from the touch, but he couldn't. His head felt funny and his legs didn't work right. He looked down at himself. He wasn't strapped down or tied up. All he had on was a pair of light blue scrub pants, and the elastic waistband was pulled down snug over his hipbones.
Sweetbriar. He couldn't understand why he was back there.
He couldn't understand why Dad, Sam and Bobby were there too. They stood around watching as Beck mouthed the side of Dean's jawline.
Beck looked at them and rolled his eyes."You really think you're safe around them?"
Another light touch, this time across the top of Dean's shoulders.
"You want this," Beck whispered. "You always did. That crazy bitch had you for three and a half years, butt I gave you what you really needed, didn't I boy?"
Beck traced a pattern with his tongue and mouth down the side of Dean's neck.
Oh God, no… Dean felt himself lean into the touch. He screamed inside his mind, but his body had other ideas. His skin felt too tight.
Beck's hand slid down Dean's side, and Dean's back arched in response. He was already half hard. He wanted to turn towards Beck, wanted to open his mouth and moan as Beck pressed his lips down firmly onto his.
"That--that was G-Gabriel," Dean stammered. "That was John. Not me. Not me…"
Beck's mouth stopped just underneath his right ear. Dean shuddered as Beck pulled at his earlobe with his mouth.
Skin. It was Gabriel's skin, not his. Gabriel's.
"Dad…Sam…Bobby…please, help me…"
They stared at him. They stared at him and they didn't do a damned thing.
Beck's hands moved slowly all over Dean's body. The waistband of the scrub pants slipped even lower.
"No." Dean said it out loud. He had to. This was a dream. This was a lie. He didn't want this. He didn't, even though his body did. "I'm not John, I'm not—"
"You'll always be my boy, Doesn't matter what name you go by." Beck's whisper slithered wetly over Dean's skin. Dean squirmed as Beck dug his fingernails into his hips. "Mine now and forever…"
"Why the hell aren't you helping me!" Dean yelled.
"Dean? Dean!"
Dean awoke with a jerk. His back and shoulders slammed up against something hard and solid. Wall. He'd backed himself up into the wall behind his bed.
Sam stared at him wide-eyed.
"Dean, wait a minute. Dean!"
Dean rolled out of bed in the opposite direction. He was barely aware of the thump as his feet hit the floor and then he scambled for the bathroom. He held himself tightly, but he was screaming inside.
I'm not crazy. I'm not.
Dean slammed the door hard enough to shake the frame.
Crazy's doing the same thing over and over and expecting something different.
"Dean? Come on, dude, open up!"
It was Sam. Dean ignored him. He turned towards the shower, turned the spray on with a flip of his wrist. The water was warm, and the steam built up rather quickly.
Didn't go down far enough that's all.
Dean shucked off his t shirt, shimmied his black boxers off his hips and then quickly kicked them off. The weight of the fabric made his skin crawl.
Didn't peel enough layers off.
Dean slowly wiped the steam off the mirror with his hand. There was still too much Gabriel there. Too much.
The scar down his face? It was a fine thin line, but that was okay. It was Gabriel's, but Dad gave that to him. Dean could claim that.
The hair was Gabriel's still, but he could fix that. Cut it all off, start over again. Get a buzz cut, something.
Freckles across his nose, his chest, shoulders and back. That was him. Dean, not Gabriel.
Dean picked up the soap and stepped into the shower. Water rolled down his broad back in one long silken sheet. He'd lost some weight, but his thighs were still muscular, still tight. His stomach was flat. He still had washboard abs.
Dean soaped the palms of his hands and then rubbed the soap into his skin.
I had this first, you hear me? Mine first?
He stared long and hard at the long thin scar straight down the pad of his left thumb.
Gabriel. That was Gabriel.
They'd given the woman they were hunting that night a knife. Gabriel laughed as she swung at him. He didn't notice it until later.
There was a lot of blood, but most of it was hers.
Curved scar across his left bicep. Black dog. Dean smiled tiredly to himself. That was him, that was Dean. He fingered the slightly raised scar tissue. It was slick and wet underneath his finger tips.
Clawmarks around his left ankle. Black dog. Chicago.
Dean.
He ignored the dent in his left hip. That was Gabriel.
At one time Dean actually thought about taking Dad's Bowie knife and carving that part out with the tip of the knife, the way a person would carve out the rotten part of a pear or an apple.
He didn't think like that now. There was more Dean in him. He knew it, didn't doubt it. He'd had over twenty years of being Dean Winchester. Four years of Gabriel Bender couldn't wipe that out.
More soap, more water, and Dean scrubbed harder. He was getting the hang of it now.
Lee Bender floated in the air above the pit. There was a little less of him nowadays. The other spirits always came after him in swarms, but he recognized a few of the faces: that college kid and his girlfriend, and that older couple he and Jerry had picked up a couple of months before Gabriel arrived. Lee was the last, and the least, and judging from the damage he took it was clear that the other spirits weren't intimated by him at all.
They shrank back in fear from Pa and Gabriel. Jerry's size alone might have given them pause, and even Missy (with or without her knives) would have made them take a step back, but they obviously had Lee's number right from the very start, and all the angry dead there knew it.
Cats sensed the wrongness surrounding the Bender property first. They stayed away. Squirrels were ripped apart, birds were crushed like egg shells. One stray dog, a lab-beagle mix named Boomer, was too stupid to heed the chill in the air, but his dying howls alerted the others in the area to stay away.
The Bender farm became a dead zone. Even bugs and maggots refused to crawl over the boundaries after a time.
The restless dead grew even more angry, and they waited for something bigger to take their rage out on.
Next post Saturday
