When the Cradle Falls

Chapter Twelve: Hazy

The fog cut through the dense forest and enveloped the shallow beams of light attempting to penetrate the haze. Moving in tandem, the three beams swept back and forth across the trees slowly, as if a scanning pair of eyes. There was a chill in the air that seemed to grow sharper with each twig or dead leaf that was snapped underfoot, beneath three pairs of feet.

"Eyes sharp," the leader of the group demanded. "This bitch likes to hide way up in the trees."

"Yes sir," two voices responded. At once, the flashlights were raised up, along with the guns loaded with gold dipped lead bullets.

Sam's couldn't help and wander, as he tried to make out the tops of the trees, reminding him of some twisted scene someone would see in a horror movie or terrifying book. This was the kind of place that would send a normal person running screaming.

They were hunting something known as a Trinka. According to Japanese lore, they were goddesses that lived high in the mountains and gave the samurais their abilities and prestige. A Trinka would most often appear as a beautiful young woman with flowing black hair and a white face. But if threatened, she would transform into a green locust, the size of a person and claw out a person's eyes, and then the heart.

Researching it had been a pain, for it was something not even John had heard of. Only when they heard the eyes were being clawed out, did they suspect it was something other than a werewolf or even a vengeful spirit.

And lead bullets weren't enough to do the trick. Trinkas were attracted to gold, it was a common gift brought to them by the samurai. But many samurai would bring them alchemist's gold, or lead. Knowing they were being deceived, the Trinkas would transform into the insect-like beasts and devour the samurai, ultimately bringing shame and dishonor to their legacy.

And how a Trinka had gotten to a national park in Utah, one could only imagine.

Considering there were so many unknowns about this case, Sam was surprised John was letting him come along. Even for some creatures that John believed were too dangerous for Sam but were common-like wendigos and ghouls-the man allowed his youngest son to tag along.

Last week, when Sam and Dean were pulled out of their beds at the crack of dawn by their father was a jarring event. After being at Bobby's for a month, they had fallen into a rhythm. Although it was a stressful one, Sam still relied on the monotony of it to pull him through. If he knew what was going to happen, he would be fine.

And now, here he was, not even a week later, returned with their father who gave them a very short and gruff summary of what happened with the demons, ending with him not wanting to talk about it or hear Sam and Dean talking about it ever again. John's word was law, so that's how it went. And off they went on another hunt, this time Sam right along his father and older brother.

Glancing over at Dean, who was slightly ahead and to the left, Sam couldn't help but shake his head. Dean had always been simple. He would chase skirt, hunt monsters, and eat greasy food. He was generally in a good mood and when he was in a bad mood, it usually had something to do with John, although he would never admit to that.

Now, Sam didn't really want anything to do with Dean.

He was in a pissed off mood, and that rubbed John the wrong way most of the time now. Dean tended to ignore Sam for the most part. Sam wouldn't go as far to say that Dean was neglecting him, but for the first time in his life, Sam couldn't say one hundred percent he felt like his brother was there for him.

Never had he felt like that. For as long as he could remember, Dean was the one safety net Sam had, the one thing that remained constant. Now that the constancy was gone, Sam wasn't quite sure how to fend for himself when nothing was certain anymore.

But he would try.

He had to.

He had to try, Dean thought. It felt like he was in a week-long dream he couldn't wake up from. It was halfway between a nightmare and a nonsensical dream. But the only thing he could think of was Alice's stomach growing in size, a baby forming that would be a person in the world in a few months. A person, who like Cara, was partially him.

When he thought about Cara, there was something that constantly surprised him: he missed her. Although he had only held her a few times and saw her for a few days, her grasp on him after he went away sunk deep within his heart. Every day, he would wake up when John and Sam were still sleeping and would carefully remove the picture of her from his wallet. He would smooth it out and stare at it for a few minutes, smiling, thinking about his daughter. He remember which day exactly he started doing that, but it felt completely natural to him.

That feeling of bliss went away every time he saw his father or brother. He felt guilty every time this occurred, guilty that he was lying to them, but also that he was unable to be there for Alice and Cara and this new baby. He couldn't seem to reconcile his two lives, for he needed to be a man, but Sam and John just reminded him he was still a kid, a stupid stupid kid.

And now they were hunting some insect goddess that sounded as made up as they came.

It was awhile now Dean hadn't felt like hunting. He hadn't felt like doing anything but running back to Alice. That would be so easy to do. He was welcome there.

He didn't feel welcome in this one family any longer. Although neither of them knew, Dean felt like an outsider, looking in through a stained window at the people he used trust unconditionally. Now, it wasn't Sam's fault at all, and that was something Dean regretted, that he was thinking that way about his brother.

The opposite of that, Dean was beginning to see his father in a new light. He always respected the man, always believed John was doing the best he could do.

But now, as someone who was going to be a father of two kids who was being pulled in so many different directions, Dean felt himself identifying with his father. In accordance with that, he could feel the strain John was constantly under and felt himself embodying that anger, even towards the man he felt himself becoming.

It didn't make any sense.

Everything just felt hazy.

Dean had always been one to be focused on a hunt, but not this time.

So when the canopy of the trees began to rustle, John only noticed just as a hauntingly beautiful face as pale as the moon, surrounded by black swooped downwards, and slowly morphed into a scaly and red eyed bug with long pincers that forced Dean to the ground.

As the pincers went for Dean's eyes and heart at the same time, several gun shots went off, from two different directions.

In a panic, Sam and John both emptied their guns into the monster that morphed back to a young woman before bleeding black and turning to dust, the bullets crumbling as the scream of the Trinka lingered long after her form had returned to the earth.

The guns were then dropped without haste and the other two still standing dropped down, knees landing on the soft, mossy ground. John grabbed for his older son's face, blood following a path down his cheeks in a place where tears had ran. Through his button up and undershirt, there was an angry circle of blood seeping through his upper left chest.

"Dean! DEAN!" John yelled, shaking his son vigorously. Eyes still shut, Dean's head rolled around, blood seeming to pour more quickly from his chest.

"Dad, he has to go to the hospital," Sam whispered, staring at his brother in horror.

Still crazed, John clutched Dean's torso, angling his unconscious son so he was more upright. "No. No hospitals. Too many questions. I can take care of him. I can take care of my damn son."

"He's bleeding a lot."

"I know Samuel. Now help me get him up and to the car. Grab his legs." Obeying hastily, Sam scurried to Dean's legs and grunted when he and John lifted Dean.

The trek to the car was arduous. Sam's arms and legs were burning and he desperately wanted to stop and rest, but he would look down at Dean, the front of his shirt completely red, and that would steel Sam to keep going. Not even John's constant and abusive barks of command were what was keeping Sam going much longer and further than the thought he could've gone.

For once, Sam didn't need Dean; Dean needed Sam.

After dragging Dean several miles, they finally reached the clearing where the Impala was parked. Once Dean was loaded into the back, Sam took off his own plaid shirt and balled it up, pressing it against his brother's chest. John threw himself behind the wheel of the car and squealed out of the clearing, and down the two-lane tree-lined road.

"Come on, Dean," Sam muttered, keeping his eyes focused on the shirt acting as a compression. He knew if he were to look at something else, like Dean's bloodied face, Sam would crumble.

"Almost there!" John called, hanging a sharp right into the parking lot of the motel. Parked right in front of their door, John fell out of the car, kicked open the motel room door, and then opened the back door of the Impala. Tapping into his reserves for strength, John grabbed Dean by the torso and carried his nearly grown son through the motel room door and placed him on the closest bed.

Sam followed, slamming all the doors he needed to, retrieving the first aid kid that was sitting on the nearby table.

John shouldered Sam out of the way and pulled out a pair of scissors from the kit, cutting through Dean's shirt.

There was an arc around the bottom of Dean's heart that was deep and bleeding profusely. Blood gushed out with every heartbeat. There were two sharp intakes of breath.

"Sammy," John said.

Not even needing a command, Sam retrieved some rubbing alcohol and a needle and thread from the kit, first handing John the alcohol. The father upturned the bottle over his son's chest, to which Dean's body didn't even clench from the sharp sting.

"Thread it," John urged. Sam's hands worked quickly and handed the prepared needle to John and then grabbed one of Dean's hands. He tried not to wince as he watched the needle disappear in and out of the skin, pulling the parts of the gash together, like a zipper on a jacket.

"Shouldn't he be responding?" Sam asked, rubbing his hands together nervously. "He doesn't even look like he feels the pain." He paused, hating what he was about to ask. "Is he-"

"Don't you dare, Samuel," John hissed, quickly tying off the end of the stitch. When he was done, he wiped away the excess blood and placed a gauze bandage over the wound. Moving onto Dean's face, he wiped away the blood and opened each of Dean's eyes. There was a tiny but angry red scratch on the white part of his white eye.

Sitting back, John stared at Dean. Sam was right: other than the wound on his chest and the small scratch on his eye, Dean was fine. Sure, he could've been knocked out by his head being hit and by the loss of blood, but John had found no bumps on his head, and Dean's skin was still a healthy, pinkish color. He should've been somewhat responsive.

Not wanting to scare his younger son, John nodded, seemingly in approval. "He'll be fine, Sammy. Why don't you go take a shower, wash off all the blood and dirt? I swear he'll be okay, I'll watch him." John stopped for a minute and appraised his son. "I promise Sammy. You did good."

Guard dropping a little bit, Sam glanced at John and Dean and decided he would listen to what his father had to say.

It was the clearest he had felt in a week.

That was how Dean knew this couldn't possibly be real when he opened his eyes.

He wasn't at Bobby's or even in the motel room in Utah, but the forest where they had been hunting the Japanese goddess. Only now, it wasn't night. There was no dense layer of fog, so harsh rays of sunlight were permeating the thick canopy of leaves, warming splotches of the forest floor.

Standing up slowly, Dean brushed the moss and leaves off himself. He wasn't wearing anything unusual, just a pair of faded jeans, a white t-shirt, and a bomber jacket.

"Son of a bitch," he muttered, when Dean didn't feel any pain. He did remember the bitch monster jumping on him and then the lights going out. Surely, if this were real he would feel some pain.

He turned in a circle and tried to think of what could be happening. There was one realization that kept plaguing him.

"Am I dead?" He asked out loud.

There was no response.

"Course not. This isn't heaven. They wouldn't let me in there. Not like that place is even real," he mused, beginning to walk forward. "And I would think down under would be a little more...fiery."

He walked some more. The ground began to slope and he moved up a hill, not feeling tired in any form. He could run for hundreds of miles and then run a hundred more.

At the top of the hill, he could see below the trees were less dense. There was another irregularity in the uniformity.

A person stood between two of the trees, palms pressed against trunks on either side.

He squinted. It was a young woman with wavy brown hair that created a curtain around her face. She wore jeans and a black utility jacket. That was all he could make out from this angle, but even from the top of the hill, he knew it was Alice.

Feeling a swelling excitement in his chest, he felt himself smiling and he raced down the hill, feeling the hundreds of miles he would run to get to her.

"Alice!" He called excitedly, nearly running into her.

When he stopped, Alice looked up, and Dean nearly fell back in shock.

He fell back, because the woman in front of him wasn't Alice.

Her face was different, paler, and sharper. The soft smile that was there was replaced by a look of slight disdain. When Dean looked at the woman as a whole, he started to see more differences. She was shorter than Alice, with darker hair, a bit curvier as well.

"Who the hell are you?" He demanded, freaked out by the similarities between Alice and this woman.

She gave a slight smirk and then scoffed before walking behind a wide tree.

Dean immediately went to follow the woman, but paused when the woman was gone.

He circled the tree several times in confusion, effectively freaked out. It must've been some kind of evil that twisted Alice into something unpleasant.

Shaking his head, Dean called for the woman to reappear, and he heard rustling behind another tree and whipped around. "Come out and tell me who you are!"

Only adding to Dean's ire, the new person to step out from behind another tree was not the woman who vaguely resembled Alice. Now, it was a young man which black hair and an imposing stature. This time, he was close enough to make out immediately.

This person also had a smirk on their face, but this time, it was more relaxed and a bit playful. The young man gave a small chuckle and crossed his arms, leaning against the tree he emerged from behind. His light eyes had a mischievous glint in them.

"What the hell are you?" Dean demanded. "A shifter?"

The man shook his head, not saying anything.

"What?" Dean goaded. "Hunter got your tongue?"

"Clever," the man said, in a deep voice.

"What the hell are you and where the hell am I?" Dean demanded in irritation. He didn't even have a weapon on him to the threaten the creature with.

The man shrugged. "You already know of me."

"Can you be any less vague?"

The man shrugged, not saying anything. The smirk seemed to grow in size. He leaned back against a tree, seeming to enjoy the conversation, seeing that it was only aggravating Dean.

Dean whacked a hand against a tree. "Well, this is all fun and what not, but where am I?"

"In a motel room in Utah," the man offered as if it was obvious.

"So I'm dreaming?"

"Something like that," the man suggested.

"Why? Is there a point to this?"

The man shrugged. "Dunno. I'm just here. I don't really know what I am."

"You just said I knew who you were?"

The man nodded. "You do. But that doesn't mean I do."

Dean shook his head at the man. At least the woman didn't say anything, but this man was proving to be a bit irritating. "I took some drugs. Is that it? I'm high right now."

"No. You're not high. Just unconscious."

Dean paused for a moment. "Who was that woman?"

"Someone."

"Are you and that woman the same?" After all, she had disappeared behind a tree and came out the other side as a man.

The man laughed. "Sort of."

"What kind of creature are you?"

"What makes you think I'm a monster?" The man countered, slightly offended.

Dean shrugged. "You said you don't know what you are and I've seen some weird things. And ten times out of ten, it's a monster."

"I'm not a monster, but I'm more than a figment of your imagination."

"So then you're real."

The man pondered that for a moment. "Yes."

"Have I seen you before?"

The man stopped. "Perhaps you should wake up now."

"Wait!" Dean commanded, holding up a hand to the man, who had turned slightly to walk away. "You're not giving me any real answers."

The man smiled. "That's because they don't exist yet."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

The man shrugged. "I don't know. But maybe you'll find out. And maybe those answers will change. You just have to wait and see."

Dean was about to ask another useless question but was never able to finish.

Like a smart ass, the man clapped his hands together, and he was gone.

The first breath of air Dean was consciously aware of taking was sharp and painful. It burned like white fire as something other than air invaded his lungs. He panicked for a minute, wondering what the hell was happening.

Mind still spinning, a pair of strong hands gripped his forearms and catapulted him forward out of the white fire. A cool, white surface stopped the momentum that sent him away from the burning sensation. There was a dull ache in his frontal lobe, a throbbing one where his heart was.

Dean realized no matter how many times he blinked, he still couldn't see clearly. "What's wrong with me?" he muttered, starting to feel like he was trapped in a frozen tundra. He asked this from the white tile of the motel bathroom floor. Beside was a tub filled to the brim with ice water, not white fire.

"You got attacked by the Trinka," the gruff voice of his father explained. John draped a towel over Dean's shoulders. "Come on, up buddy." Dean staggered up with the help of his father who handed his son a pair of clothes. "Put something warm on before you freeze to death."

"But why was I in a tub of ice?"

"Your temperature spiked suddenly. Just get dressed." John shut the door and left Dean alone.

When Dean emerged from the bathroom, he found a pile of blankets assembled on one of the beds. Sam, who Dean had not seen until now, was sitting in an arm chair between the two beds. He looked tiny, like he was a little kid cowering in the middle of a thunderstorm.

"Where's Dad?" Dean staggered over to the bed and burrowed himself under the covers.

"Went out to get you some food and medicine." Sam sat up a little straighter and scrutinized Dean. "Are you cold?"

Trying to control the shivers wracking his body, that seemed to do the opposite as Dean began convulsing even more aggressively. "Yeah," he admitted quietly.

Getting up from the chair, Sam grabbed the other blankets from the bed and piled them on top of his brother.

"Sammy?"

"Huh?"

"What the hell happened?"

"You got attacked by the Trinka. It came out of nowhere, jumped right on top of you, just starting clawing at your chest and face." Brushing his shaggy hair out of his face, Sam moved away from the bed and started rearranging random knick knacks set out on a dresser. He adjusted the antenna on the television and opened and closed the drawers, checking to make sure his small pile of clothing was still there.

Dean frowned when he noticed Sam's strange behavior. He sat up slowly, wincing at the pain that rippled through his chest. When he had stood in front of the bathroom mirror, Dean gasped at the first sight of the angry, red wound that was across his chest.

Now watching Sam dust off the surface of the dresser with his shirt, Dean couldn't stay quiet any longer. "Sammy." Sam wouldn't even look at him, Dean realized.

Realizing what he was doing, Sam sighed and wiped off his shirt. Slowly, he turned back around and reoccupied his seat on the armchair.

"I'll be fine. I swear. I'm not going out because some Japanese bitch goddess got mad at me." Dean laughed in spite of himself, vaguely remembering the strange dream he'd had.

"It's not that, Dean," Sam muttered.

"Then what?"

"Ever since those demons, things have been different. You and Dad are different. Things between us are different."

He wanted to bark at Sam, tell him he wasn't different, but that would've been a tremendous lie. Dean knew he'd been acting like a terrible son and brother lately. But he was an even worse father than that. So Dean just remained silent, because he couldn't think of anything to say that wouldn't make it worse.

"And when the Trinka attacked you, I thought you were dead. You were unresponsive and you lost a lot of blood. Dad said you were still breathing."

Dean remained silent, the dream he'd had becoming clearer.

"I thought you were dead, Dean," Sam repeated. Dean stared at Sam heavily, noticing how his younger brother wouldn't look him in the eye. Dean knew it had something to do with the fact things were different between them. And it was entirely Dean's fault.

Sam sighed and turned his head to look down at the carpet. Even though he had convinced himself he would wean his dependence off his brother, Sam couldn't. Although Dean was very much alive in front of him, Sam kept wondering what would've happened if Dean had indeed died. Would Dean have died thinking Sam was nothing but a pest, an annoyance that wouldn't be able to stand on two feet without his older brother? Maybe that was something Dean had never thought of, but even unconsciously, it was instinct for Dean to take care of his brother, so on the most basic level, Dean had to recognize Sam was unable to take care of himself.

Sam scrubbed his palms together, no idea Dean's mind was whirring just as much.

To add to his guilt, Dean expunged the first thought he had when he found out he had almost died. Oh God, what about Alice and the kids? Cara would never remember meeting her father once, and this unborn baby could never even say they had met their father. But this all had to be at Sam's expense.

Sam was there. Alice wasn't.

No. That sounded wrong too.

Dean had been the one to go away.

He hadn't figured anything out. He was just as stuck as before. And now, it was worse. He had slipped up, hadn't been focused on a hunt. He'd almost gotten himself killed, could've gotten John or Sam killed as well. He was no good to them. He wasn't good for anything.

"Dean?" Sam asked. "Are you okay?"

"Uh-huh. I'm fine." Eyes shut, Dean burrowed himself back under the covers, feeling every stupid mistake he made crash over him like a wave in the ocean. Turning his back to the room, Dean allowed the wall between Sam and himself to grow a little taller.

With his eyelids and black backdrops, Dean could minutely see the imprints of the forest. Like shadows, he remembered-like strangers passing on the other side of the street-the strange people he had seen in his dream. The details were hazy, but he could recall talking to one of them. They hadn't been there at the same time, Dean knew, but one of them had been there longer than the other. He wondered if it meant one of them was more important than the other.

He wondered what any of it meant.

Because all he knew laying in that bed, his younger brother broken, father absent, it meant shit right then.

It's been awhile since I've updated and I apologize for that. I'm taking a couple classes over the summer, so I've been a little busy. Please continue to favorite and follow. I'd also really appreciate any reviews. Any feedback or comments are greatly appreciated!