This chapter is a little longer and is once again in Dean's POV. Thanks for reading, and for all the really great comments. Hugs, Ember
Chapter Eight
No one's so unlucky that they almost die twice in one night, unless someone's helping them along with it, and it didn't take much searching on my part to find the bottle buried in what I'd thought at first was a dog hole created by Rumsfeld. But what rubbed my nerves raw was that Sam's impostor practically pointed it right out to me. It was almost as if he wanted me to know what he was doing. Which made his grudge against me as personal on his level as it now was on mine. But if his grudge is against me, why isn't he trying to kill me instead of Bobby?
Sam – he has Sam's memories, so knowing all that Sam knows about me, he knows the best way to hurt me is to hurt the people I care about. It's why he was so adamant about coming to Bobby's. It's why he wanted to find out where my father is.
If the thing pretending to be Sam is holding my brother captive somewhere, I need to play it real smart. He has to believe I truly think he's Sam until I find my brother – and I will find him. If he doesn't believe he's tricked me, then whomever is helping him might kill my brother before I have the chance to save him. I can't let that happen. I won't let that happen. So I have to play his game until I'm sure Sam's safe.
As of right now he holds all the aces in the deck, and I'm pretty sure he's feeling pretty damn smug seeing as I would need a Royal Flush to kick his ass. But at the moment, I'm only holding the Ace and King of Spades in my hand in the form of the hoodoo bottle he had buried near Bobby's front door, and the knowledge that I'm dealing with a Shapeshifter. The way he wouldn't look into the light so I could see his eyes earlier tonight tipped me off as to what I was dealing with. Shapeshifter – not a problem, silver bullet to the heart.
But what has my gut twisting into tight knots is the whole damn hoodoo aspect of this screwed up situation. If I've only learned one thing from my dad, it's that you don't mess with hoodoo or those who are well practiced in the darker aspects of the craft. Bobby nearly choking to death right after the Shifter placed the curse on him is living proof of that.
How could have I been so stupid. I brought the damn Shifter right to his house, and now he's in danger because of me. With that thought in mind, I braced a hand against the ground, and pushed myself to my feet. As quietly as I could possibly manage, I crept back inside the house, and eased the front door shut. Cringing at every creak in the floorboards, I made my way through the living room, and down the hallway toward Bobby's room. Once there, I cautiously opened the door and slipped inside.
It took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the darkness, and then I spied his bed. Slowly I made my way to it, and cupped a hand over his mouth. Startled awake, he shouted a muffled curse against my hand.
"Bobby, I need to talk to you outside," I whispered, and lifted the hoodoo bottle so he could see it. No other words were necessary. He understood exactly what he was seeing and what it meant.
He slid out of bed and followed me as I went back outside. Neither of us said a word until we entered the garage, and then Bobby let loose with the one question that was utmost on both our minds.
"I'm guessin' that's a Shifter inside," he hitched a thumb back over his shoulder toward the house, "so where the hell is Sam, Dean?"
"I'm not sure, Bobby, and that's why I need your help," I said, smashing the hoodoo bottle against the cement floor, breaking the hex against Bobby, and hopefully sending it backlashing against the Shifter. "I figure whoever has him is pretty deep into this hoodoo crap if he was able to get around all the protection you've got set up in your house. Which means Sam's in deep shit and I'm running out of time."
"What do ya need me to do?" he asked, and bit thoughtfully at his lower lip as he stared at the pins, needles, and nails lying in the scattered pile of graveyard dirt and broken glass.
"I need to talk to Sam . . . my Sam, and I'm gonna need some things from you so I can do that."
"I thought you said you didn't know where he is?" Confusion furrowed at the older hunter's brow, and then his eyes widened as understanding dawned on him. "He's here, isn't he? You think it was him who pulled me from beneath the Impala, don't you?"
"I think so . . . I dunno." I shrugged, but my gut told me it had been Sam who had saved Bobby from being crushed by the Impala and not the Shifter. "The way I figure it, they've somehow trapped Sam in alternate reality, but I can find him with your help."
"Are you talkin' about astral projection?" He lifted a doubtful brow and stroked at his beard as if trying to figure a way to talk me out of it. "Boy, do you even know how to astral project yourself?"
"No." I shrugged, not about to be swayed from my decision. "But how hard can it really be? Gets some herbs, say a few chants. Not a problem."
"Okay, say you do project yourself – then what? Have you thought it out that far, Dean?" He folded his arms across his chest, looking as if he was prepared to argue the point all night if necessary. "This hoodoo guy . . . he's not just gonna let Sam go, and once your inside what's stopping him from dragging you down, too. You won't be any good to your brother if you're both lost."
"I don't care," I uttered with a firm shake of my head, "It's kinda hard to explain, but I know he needs me, and I can't leave him to think I didn't try to find him. So even if it means I get stuck there with him – at least I'm with him . . . and that's all I care about."
"I don't like it," Bobby argued, although he knew as well as me this was the only way, and also knew no matter what he said or did, I would still go through with it. "If this guy gets inside your head, not getting back might just be the least of your worries."
"You're not gonna talk me out of it, Bobby. So either you're gonna help me or I'll find another way to do it."
"You're every bit as damn pig-headed as John." With concern written plainly across his features, he heaved a sigh and asked, "What herbs are you gonna need?"
"Benzoin, dittany of Crete, sandalwood, and vanilla," I recited from memory a page in my father's journal.
"Alright," he gave a nod, "I'll go and get what you need." He waved a hand at the shattered glass and dirt, "you'd better get this cleaned up so the Shifter doesn't see it. "
"Thanks, Bobby."
"Don't thank me, boy, you just make sure you get yourself out of there alive or I'll kill ya myself."
With that said, Bobby left to get the supplies I needed, and while he was gone, I made quick work of cleaning up the glass, dirt and nails. By the time he'd returned, I'd finished finding the last few pins and needles that had scattered across the floor, and was dumping them into garbage can as he walked through the door.
"I sure hope you know what your doing," Bobby grumbled as he helped me combined all the ingredients and then I set the mixture ablaze in a sturdy metal container he'd thought to bring with him. Thick grayish smoke stung stung at my eyes as I took a seat beside the burning mixture and breathed in deeply of the strong aromatic blend of scents. From what I recalled from my dad's journal, the herbs Bobby gathered for me would help enhance my ability to astral project myself. But as I'd never actually tried it before, I wasn't exactly sure what I was supposed to do to 'leave' my body.
"Just close your eyes and relax your mind, Dean," Bobby instructed in a soothing albeit very UnBobbylike manner, and I felt him place a hand on my shoulder.
So there I sat in Bobby's garage with my demolished Impala only a few feet away, breathing in herbs so I could travel the astral plane to find my little brother. I'm not even gonna lie – this was as weird as all hell even by Winchester standards. So when Bobby said relax my mind, naturally I tensed every single muscle in my body. A million thoughts raced through my head at double speed, and my teeth clenched so tightly together, I could've sworn I heard one of them crack. Sweat beaded on my brow and snaked a path down my face as the strain in my shoulders and lower back grew more and more uncomfortable.
With a deep aggravated growl, I opened my eyes, and shook my head. "I don't know what the hell I was thinking, Bobby, I can't do this." I'd never been able to sit still. Not at home. Not at school. And the closest I've ever been to being completely at ease was when I was driving in my car, so how was I suppose to relax my mind enough to find Sam?
I glanced at the Impala, sitting on four flat tires. It was my home – the place I felt most comfortable and safe. So why couldn't I astral project from there?
"We'll find him another way," Bobby uttered, and was just about to snuff out the burning embers, but I grabbed hold of his hand to stopped him.
"No, I'm gonna do this," I said as I pushed myself to my feet, and carefully slid the metal container toward the Impala with my boot. "I just wasn't going about it the right way." Prying open the driver's side door, I slid behind the wheel, leaned back in the seat, and closed my eyes.
Almost instantly the tension ease from between my shoulder blades, and I breathed in deeply as I slowly closed off my mind to everything around me. The sound of Bobby's voice drifted off to be replaced by the sound of my own heart which slowly faded to a slow dull thrum. And if it weren't for a full conscious awareness of everything around me, I would have believed I was asleep.
The next thing I knew, icy droplets of snow were pelting at my face, and when my eyelids fluttered open, I was standing outside of my car with another demolished car in a ditch only a few feet away. Its blinker flashed yellow against the snow, and cast eerie shadows along the snowy road.
I'd scarcely blinked and a woman appeared at the edge of the road. Her battered body was illuminated in the glow of the Impala's one working headlight, and I knew she'd been the one in the accident with Sam. Blood ran down the corner of her lips, and her neck was crooked at an odd angle. One of her shoulders slumped, and from the way her arm hung loosely at her side, I determined she must've dislocated it when the two cars collided. Her eyes found mine, and within an instant she was at my side.
"H-help me," She begged in a gurgling whisper, "I d-don't wanna die."
I opened my mouth to speak, but not certain how to tell her it was too late, I snapped it closed.
"I-I always loved the sn-snow," she murmured, and with head lolling backward onto her shoulders, she raised her eyes to look toward the heavens. Snow fell on her bruised and swollen lips, and she stuck out her tongue to catch a few of the flakes on her tongue. The snow melted on her forehead, mixed with the blood from the deep gash across her forehead, and sent tiny rivers of blood trailing down between her eyes making it appear if she were crying crimson tears.
"I'm sorry," was all I could think to say, "I'm so sorry."
"Why?" She snapped her head forward, and it immediately lolled to the side. "Y-you didn't kill me." she raised a hand and pointed down the road aways, "He did." With an ear-piercing screech, she vanished only to reappear near another vehicle that I hadn't noticed before now.
Two men stood beside a Ford Explorer parked at the side of the street, and as I watched, she lifted a hand and ran it across the cheek of the taller of the two. She then glanced back at me. "N-not an accident." Then with another ear-shattering scream she vanished within a shroud of brilliant white light.
For several long seconds I couldn't think or move as I stared at the two men – one of whom looked exactly like my brother. But as I peered downward and saw Sam lying in a heap beside the other man, I knew she had meant the Shifter had killed her.
"Sammy," I shouted, and took off at a dead run toward them as they hauled Sam to his feet and threw him into the backseat of the vehicle. The sound of my voice calling out his name echoed from all around me, and drew the attention of the shorter, darker skinned man. He turned to smile at me, and my blood ran cold at the sight of his honey-golden brown eyes.
"I see you, Dean Winchester," he called out to me, with a smile lingering on his lips.
He raised a hand and waved away the snow, and along with it everything faded away only to be replaced by a darkened room lit only by the light of a few candles, and a crescent moon-shaped light fixture on the wall. Next to the crescent moon sat a shelf filled with stuffed animals. A few feet away a cabinet filled with more stuffed animals and baby supplies stood beside one of the windows. Heavy crimson colored curtains covered the two windows in the nursery, trapping in the musty, stale air – but the last time I'd stood in this room they had been white with little pictures all across them.
The only things missing to make the room and memory complete were Sam's crib with the little musical baseball mobile hanging from the headboard, and my mom's rocking chair, and I didn't even want to consider the reasons why they might be missing in this reality.
With my heart pounding hard within my chest, and my legs feeling like stringy noodles, I trudged the short distance to the clock on the wall. With shaky fingers, I touched the old-fashioned metal airplane that moved around the outside as it ticked off the seconds in an hour. I'd always thought it was the coolest clock with its pictures of old cars, trucks and airplanes, and had even begged my mom to put it in my room instead of Sam's. A single tear trailed a path down my cheek as I recalled how she'd merely smiled that beautiful smile of hers – the one I can still see if I close my eyes and try real hard to picture her – and told me the clock belonged to Sam, but within a few days she'd gone out and bought me the exact same kind of clock for my room.
My thoughts were so focused on my mom it took several moments before the soft tinkling of music filtered through to my brain, and knowing the sound could've only come from Sam's musical mobile, I swung around. Stomach flip-flopping, I saw in the center of the room an ornately carved wooden box with the baseball mobile hanging from the front of it. As I cautiously drew nearer, my breath caught in my throat as I peered inside and saw Sam. His skin was so pale, and his eyes wide open but unseeing. Dropping to the ground, I reached inside the box, and pressed two fingers to the side of Sam's throat, searching for a pulse.
"You won't find one, Dean," came the same man's voice from behind me. "I can assure you, in this place," he splayed out an arm and gestured around the room, "your little brother is as dead as I wish him to be."
"He's not dead, you sonuvabitch," I growled as I leapt to my feet and swung to glare at him. "And you have no damn idea who you're messing with. If you hurt my brother, I will hunt you down an' rip you apart with my bare hands."
An amused smirk curled on his lips as he folded his arms across his chest. "Huh," he chuckled, bobbing his head toward Sam, "That'll be kinda hard for you to do seeing as you're trapped in here," he tapped at his temple with his index finger, "trapped in your own mind – with me in the proverbially driver's seat. You really shouldn't have come here, Dean," he scoffed, and with another laugh, he turned his back on me. "You'll only end up dead just like your brother."
"I wouldn't count on that." Reaching behind my back, I pulled out the gun hidden in my waistband, and took aim. "Turn around, you sonuvabitch."
"Or what, Dean?" he uttered in the same amused manner that was well-beyond grating on my taut nerves, "You'll throw a snake at me?"
The moment he spoke, I felt something slimy curl around my wrist and slither beneath my leather jacket. Hearing a rattling noise, I quickly glanced at my hand, eyes widening as a snake lifted its head and flitted its tongue at me. So I did what pretty much anyone would do in the same situation. I screamed and threw the damn thing as far as I could – a knee-jerk reaction that I'll always deny if anyone ever found out about it and asked. So yeah, it definitely never happened. But the moment the snake left my hand, it transformed back into my gun and skittered across the floor, coming to rest near the wall.
"Is that the best you've got?" Sure that would've probably sounded a whole helluva lot more menacing if I hadn't just screamed and threw my gun away, but it was the first thing that came to my mind.
"I didn't make the snake appear, Dean, you did." With another wave of his hand, a large, ornamental wooden chair with crimson cushions appeared. He took a seat, casually crossed his legs, and rested his forearms on his knees. "All I did was put the thought in your head, and you did the rest." His strange honey-golden eyes met and held my gaze, and he grinned. "But you really should've probably kept the snake because snakes like that one eat rodents," he motioned toward Sam's body, "like the rats who are gnawing at your brother's flesh."
I didn't want to look. I knew what I would see as I could already hear them scratching at the wood inside of the box. He'd put the thought in my head, and it got stuck there as if someone had duct taped it to my brain. "They're not real," I said with a curt shake of my head, not about to fall for the same trick twice. "Just like the snake wasn't real."
"What's real here is what you believe to be true," he replied with an unconcerned shrug. "So if you think I can and will kill your brother if given the opportunity, then that is real to you, and as such, I would have to say those rats are as real as you or I."
It only took a second more of hearing the rats scratching around inside of the box, and I swung around to find them crawling all over Sam, biting at his face and exposed hands. He didn't move. He didn't even flinch as they tore away at his skin. A cold chill raced down my spine as I hurriedly swatted the fat, beady-eyed rats away from him only to have them disappear in a burst of blackened smoke.
"I guess they weren't real after all." The man laughed again, and within a breath he was at my side. Leaning in, he whispered in my ear, "You can't help him, Dean. He's dead because I wish him to be dead. It really is just as simple as that – so take my advice and go back where you belong."
"No." With eyes narrowed on Sam, and lips curling into a scowl, I shook my head. "I won't leave my brother."
"Hmm . . . for some reason I really didn't believe you would." He disappeared from my side, only to reappear crouched beside Sam. "But what if I told you that by your being here, you risk killing your brother yourself? Would that change your mind?"
"I don't believe you."
"Listen to me well, Dean, and heed my warning as it's the only one you'll get," he vanished in a shroud of smoke, and reappeared at my side, "if he dies here, he'll breathe his last breath in your world as well."
"I said I'm not leaving my brother, you sonuvabitch."
"Very well." He shrugged unconcernedly, and raising his sights to the ceiling, he smiled. "What do you say we take this back to the very beginning?" He glanced back at me, and with a twirl of his finger flames erupted from the ceiling, and quickly spread down the walls. Thick smoke roiled and billowed, filling the nursery exactly as it had the night my mother had died. Unbearable heat scorched my face as falling sparks and blackened ash singed my hair. And for all intended purposes, it seemed as real as the night it happened the first time, and I had no doubt in my mind that it was.
"Better get moving, Dean, time's melting away," the golden-eyed man said as he pointed to the clock, and as I looked I saw thick crimson liquid dripping to splatter on the carpeting from the melting airplane clock. My head dropped back onto my shoulders, and tears filled my eyes as I saw my mother pinned to the ceiling in her bloodied, white flowing nightgown. Maybe I was losing it completely, and at this point that was a very real possibility, but I could've sworn I heard my father's voice shouting to me to take Sam and get out of the house.
"I gotcha, Sammy," I shouted above the din, and without hesitation, I hefted him out of the box, and dragged his lifeless body from the room. Amidst the sounds of my father desperately shouting to my mother, and the roar of the flames as they ate away at Sam's nursery, I carried my little brother down the stairs. With smoke burning my lungs, making it nearly impossible to take a breath, I rushed outside just as an explosion rocked the house and burst out the upstairs windows.
Shattered glass rained down from above, but as it touched my skin it turned to snow and melted away. My arms fell loosely to my sides, and as I glanced down Sam was gone as was our house, and I was back at the side of the road near my Impala.
"You can't win, Dean," came the golden-eyed man's voice carried on the stiff breeze, but as I peered around he was no where to be found. "You're just exactly like that scared little four year old, running away from danger, so what hope do you have of saving your brother from me?"
"What your forgetting is that I saved my brother that night," I shouted into the darkness, "and I'll damn well do it again. So give it your best shot, you sonuvabitch, cause I'm coming for you!"