Hi. I'm not dead. Life is a lot right now. I'm sorry you had to wait but that's just life lol. Thursdays are better for me than Fridays so I'll try to update next Thursday too. I have stuff written but I'm really busy. I'll do my best but no promises. But this story will be finished.
Please enjoy.
~TH~
The movement of the car made Dean feel sick. He leaned his head against the window and let out a had been a long time since he'd felt this bad. In reality, he's probably never felt this bad.
It was like having the flu, but worse. And by worse, he meant like something was sapping every last ounce of strength and energy in his body. It's what he imagined being drained by a vampire would be like.
He was achey. Everything hurt. Even breathing hurt. And movement of any kind took so much effort it wasn't even worth it. Then there was the constant upset stomach. Mac had set him up with an IV the last couple days because Dean couldn't keep any food or water down. The doctor had only cleared him for this because, without it, he'd die within the weak. His body was destroying itself and no amount of medicine could fix it.
And yet, physically Dean looked fine. It was only when he looked at his face in the mirror that he could see something was wrong. His eyes didn't look right, and his face was pale. He looked sickly but it wasn't something that could be tested or fixed. And yet, the bodies he had found showed their disease. Did it only become apparent after they died? Hopefully he'd never find out.
It was strange. While in the Castle, Dean had felt younger than he ever had before, but now he felt older. So much older. So old and so tired. He just wanted this to be done.
He knew Whiteman needed to die. Caleb was right. There were still moments where he doubted, where he wanted to argue with the Triad and Caleb and make them see. The Brotherhood was wrong, the Entetee was right. But Damien had convinced him, and that's who he was doing this for. Dean might have understood why Whiteman needed to be dead, but he really didn't want to be the one to pull the trigger.
The jeep stopped and Dean turned towards Caleb. The rest of the Triad were waiting in the other car, trying to give Dean his space.
Caleb didn't turn towards him, he kept looking straight ahead, a death grip on the steering wheel. "You think you can walk from here?"
No, but he was going to have to. He was having trouble walking to the bathroom by himself. But he knew that Caleb couldn't come with him. The closer the psychic got the more likely Whiteman would catch onto the plan. He already had to be super guarded just to make this work. If he let it slip what his real plan was…
"Deuce? You with me?" The older man relaxed his grip, his worry causing him to turn.
Dean cleared his throat. "Yeah, sorry. I'm good."
"You sure? I can drive a bit closer."
"I'll be fine, dude. We both know you can't get any closer. No one can. I have to do it myself."
Caleb offered a single nod.
"Listen, if anything goes wrong, and I mean anything, get out of there. We'll figure something else out."
"Yeah…" He looked out the window, noticing the surrounding buildings. He'd never really noticed them before. Pretty much every time he'd been down this street he'd been on the verge of death so… "Yeah, I'm sure everything will be fine."
"Fifteen minutes. I'm serious."
"Fifteen minutes." Hopefully he could walk the short distance to the Castle in fifteen minutes. "I'll see you then."
Dean stepped out of the vehicle and took a hesitant step. He'd be fine. He wasn't an invalid. He was only kind of dying. He could do this.
The closer he got to the building the stronger his steps felt, but the more his mind seemed to twist.
This wasn't fair. A new feeling of sickness washed over him. He couldn't do this. He didn't want to do this. It was his stupid duty to the stupid Brotherhood. It wasn't fair. Why did he have to be the one to kill him? How was this fair? When had Whiteman ever done anything but be nice to him? Why did he deserve to die?
Dead kids. Right.
He could see the castle now. He felt the longing. He wanted to go in. He wanted to stay. He didn't want to do this!
Coming to a stop and taking a deep breath, he closed his eyes and cleared his mind. He thought only of one thing. How much he wanted to return. That was the only way this would work. The Entetee would pick up on any other emotion and he couldn't afford that. He couldn't know that Dean was here to kill him. Especially when he was in so much turmoil over couldn't let the Entetee talk him into coming back, no matter how much Dean wanted it.
Dean walked towards the steps and felt a calm strength come over him. Just being in the presence of the large brick building had relieved some of the pain. He truly felt that he was finally home.
He knocked, feeling an odd anxiousness. Dean gave a final glance towards Caleb before taking a deep breath clearing his mind.
"Dean!" And Whiteman seemed pleased, but not surprised that he was back.
The boy said the first thing that came to his mind. "I'm sorry." He could pretend the break in his voice was intentional and not a mix of emotions and exhaustion.
"Come in, come in. You look like you need to sit down. Here." Whiteman took his arm and led him to the couch where Dean had first agreed to stay.
Dean now felt sick, bile rising from his stomach. Not that he really needed to worry. He hadn't been able to keep any food or water down over the last couple of days. He'd gone from not needed to eat but being able to, to needing to eat and not being able to. His entire life was some cruel joke that thrived on oxymorons.
Whiteman seemed to sense his discomfort, reaching up and pressing a hand to Dean's forehead. He frowned. "You're burning up!" He muttered. "I didn't expect you to stay away for so long."
"Sorry." Dean quietly said again, leaning into the touch. "Couldn't get away." He needed to play this carefully. If he lied too much, the Entetee might sense the untruth, but Dean obviously couldn't tell him everything. Dean also needed to keep his mind clear, he couldn't think about what he came to do. It may not be a problem considering Dean couldn't seem to think at all.
"It's alright my boy, all is forgiven." Whiteman's eyes sparked gold momentarily and the throbbing behind his eyes lessened a bit. "Now, how long has it been since you had a pill?"
Pills. Those sounded amazing. Lot's and lot's of pills."Since I left. I shoved them in my bag after…" He trailed off. After Caleb had come that night. Whiteman might already know, but he wasn't going to be the one to inform him. Especially since it had started this whole mess. If Caleb had not come that night, he could have continued living a peacefully ignorant life. "It's been too long." He didn't need to fake the dreamy tone. Dean didn't know it was possible to become so dependent on something so small. Without It, his life felt so meaningless. The side effects were worth the relief.
"It's also been awhile since a sacrifice. That should bring you some relief. Some release of the filth you were forced to return to. Simply being around them likely caused you grief. I can smell their abuse and intolerance on you. Come." He helped Dean up, who was feeling slightly better. He allowed Whiteman to help him. He could probably do it but at the moment he was too tired to try.
Once in Whiteman's secret room, Dean hesitated. He didn't know what to do. Did he do the sacrifice? Would that make him unable to do the… other thing? Was it worth it? Would this be the one that made him like the other dead kids? Or would it make him feel better? Make him feel whole again?
He wished he could think but a heavy cloud was hanging out in his brain keeping him from seeing what should be obvious. He was so tired.
"Dean?" Whiteman held out the sacrificial blade, drawing the boy's attention out of his own head. "I believe in you." He encouraged with a gentle smile. "I know that after such a long time it may be difficult, but simply take it and it will all come back to will feel whole again."
Dean took the knife as instructed, his heart beginning to pound. Whiteman offered another encouraging nod. He would have to sacrifice. He knew suddenly. The sacrifice blade had to be dipped in his own blood. This was the most obvious way to accomplish that. And maybe it wouldn't feel so wrong if he didn't want it so much. But he wanted to sacrifice. He wanted to watch the blood cascade down his arm and fill the bowl. It was a sick twisted desire and he now knew that, but it didn't change the reality that he craved the blade.
Caleb flashed before his eyes, he couldn't tell if the look was encouraging or disappointed. He shook his head to clear the thoughts. A hand came down on his shoulder, causing him to jump. "Do not worry about him. You are home now. Here," He handed Dean a case of pills. "A show of good faith."
Dean nodded, accepting the gift and shoving it into his jacket pocket. Trying to push down all thoughts of the Brotherhood, he slipped out of the jacket and dropped it to the ground. He was doing this for him, and he would not care what others, even Caleb, would think. Stepping forward, he made the cut. His hands shook as the thoughts of what he needed to do creeped in. Dean dropped the knife in the bowl, watching the blade become even more saturated with his blood. He offered a fumbled apology as he picked it up, ensuring it was fully covered before gripping it tightly in his hand.
Dean closed his eyes. He knew he couldn't think.
He just had to do.
Whiteman came forward to heal him, a warm smile on his face. Dean refused to think, letting his hand do what had to be done. The blade was thrust forward, finding a place deep in the man's stomach.
Whiteman froze, his eyes widening as his jaw went slack. Slowly, the man looked down.
Dean released the knife, stumbling backwards, his eyes not leaving the hilt sticking out of the man whom he had come to view as a father figure."I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry." His choked, the feeling of an icy hand gripping his heart. Dean didn't even notice the blood pouring from his own arm. He went forward as Whiteman fell to the ground, placing his own hands around the hilt, trying to staunch the flow but only resulting in his own blood mingling with that of the man who had taken care of him at his lowest. A sob forced its way out of his lips.
"It's alright Dean." The man gasped, a hand wrapping around Dean's wrist. "I know this is not your own doing."
"I'm sorry. Im- I shouldn't have- I didn't want to-" He needed him to understand. He never should have done this. He'd made a mistake.
"I- I forgive you Dean." The Entetee's voice was becoming weaker. The hand slid from Dean's own, covered in blood. As Whiteman sank into the ground, a zap of energy came from him. Dean jerked backwards with a gasp. He watched as the eyes sparked gold, then went dead. Dean watched as the eyes sparked gold, and then grayed, all life gone.
"No! Nonono- please- I'm- I can't- I didn't-" The boy let out a sob, his shaking hands now floating uselessly over the dead body. He felt the loss of connection. He'd never understood what Caleb meant by the physical pain of loss but he felt it now. He felt it and didn't know how to handle it. The pain and loss and confusion and-
Something was happening. The Entetee'sl body was beginning to fade gray. When all color was gone, the body was gone, replaced by a pile of ash. A black shadow remained on the ground, as if an atom bomb had been dropped and frozen the Entetee in time.
Dean suddenly felt even weaker than he had before. He looked down and let out a cry when he saw a thin, malnourished body. He was hungry like he hadn't been in weeks. He hurt and ached and the pain was only growing.
Then there was the blood. So much blood. Whiteman had never healed his arm. Blood still poured from the cut, coating his arms and hands and jeans and he knew it was not all his own. Some of it was Whiteman's. It was too much. It was all too much.
Dean didn't remember any slow fade to consciousness, but he vaguely remembered hearing a thump as his body hit the ground.
~TH~
I know I've made you wait, but would still enjoy comments. My motivation to update directly coordinates with the amount and quality of comments.
Poor Dean. I want to hug him. He just can't catch a break.
Much lvoe and God bless,
Jamie
