A/N This chapter begins immediately following the end of Chapter 45. Pay attention to the time stamps!
TRIGGER WARNING — There's some seriously graphic depictions of violence in this one. Take care of you and skip this you want
For the record, anything that happened in the panic room on the show in s04e21 All Hell Breaks Loose that is started, but not actually shown, is unchanged (so if a scene starts the same as it did on the show, and keeps going — yeah, I changed it!).
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Singer Salvage
Bobby's House
Panic Room
November 4, 2008
2:52 PM
Sam waited until he heard the door at the top of the stairs close, then waited three more minutes before he forced himself back up, stumbled over and locked the panic room door from the inside again.
"I'm sorry, Dean," he whispered, "but I won't risk you or Bobby."
Sam dragged himself back to his pitiful bed and curled himself up on the cot, one arm wrapped around his stomach, the other clutching the metal frame so hard his fingers cramped.
The slow, steady, drip…. drip….. drip….. was the first clue he had that he was holding so tightly to the bare metal that it was cutting into his fingers.
The deep laughter was the first clue he had that he was no longer alone.
"Oh, I do love to see you bleed, Sammy."
Strong hands grabbed him, straightened him out and pulled his arm out to the side.
He opened his eyes and looked up into the bloodshot orbs of Gordon Walker. The Vampire Hunter (Vampire/Hunter? Hunter Vampire?) smiled at him as he placed a long nail over the center of his palm and raised a heavy hammer, grinning down at the captive hunter below him.
"No. No, please. Don't. Don't!"
"Seems fitting, don't you think, Sam?" he said conversationally as he pounded the nail through Sam's hand into the rough plank of wood beneath his arm, to the accompaniment of Sam's screams.
Sam felt each pound on the nail, each fractional inch it progressed through his hand, as if it were his whole world. First, the break of the skin and the beginning of the blood. The next swing, the tearing of tendon and connective tissue sending waves of pain rocketing down his hand and along his arm. Another swing and the distinctive crack-snap of bone shattering. One more, and the vein on the back of his hand burst in a fit of agony, sending blood gushing, pulsing down his hand and arm, even as the nail penetrated the rough wood and shot splinters into the back of his hand.
Gordon moved to the other arm, and pulled it across the other side of the wood beam running under Sam's shoulders.
"Stop! Stop!"
The nail skewering through his other palm was an agony that somehow made the first hand hurt even worse, the pain resonating through both hands and up his arms with every beat of his frantic heart.
"Where was your famous empathy for me, huh, Sam?" Gordon glared at him, lowering his fangs as he stacked Sam's feet and placed a long, thick spike on the middle of the top foot.
"Please! You don't —-"
Gordon brought the hammer down, as Sam continued to scream out his agony, while Gordon pinned him to the board that ran behind Sam's spine, talking with every downstroke of the hammer. "I never drank anybody's blood. I was going to off my own self, after killin' you. But you… You killed me anyway. And stayed alive. Filthy thing that you are."
"You were going to kill me," Sam tried to yell, his voice a weak croak, his throat already raw from screaming, his body too pained to muster up the strength for more. "You were drinking Dean!"
"Right, right," Gordon nodded, and reached down to adjust Sam's mutilated feet just so, wrenching another scream from the hunter. "Because you're the only one allowed to drink blood, ain't that right, Sammy?"
"I didn't know!"
"Didn't know, or didn't want to?" Gordon challenged. "Anyway, it don't matter anymore. I've done what I came for," he smiled and started to walk slowly around Sam's pinned and bleeding body. He paused at Sam's side, just below his outstretched right arm, and drove the clawed end of the hammer hard into Sam's body, puncturing his lung, before continuing his leisurely stroll to wind up standing at his victim's head, looking down into the wide, frightened pale green eyes. He pressed down on Sam's aching shoulders (he lacked the strength to scream again) and the table he was strapped to swung his head towards the ground, his feet into the air. "I've made you what you should be. Show the world what you really are, Sam. The Anti-Christ. On an upside down cross." Gordon laughed.
"You can't win," Sam gasped, the pain in his side and the unnatural position robbing him of any hope of breath. "I'll.. I'll survive."
Gordon knelt on the ground, and leaned down to look into Sam's eyes. "No, you won't. Because you don't get crowned with thorns, Sammy. You get crowned with this," he grinned and spun the hammer in his hand, inches from Sam's face. "And the whole world will see you, Sam," he added, straightening, and flung his arms out in a mimic of Sam's own crucifixion. "Here lies the Anti-Christ!" he yelled and swung the hammer back once, twice, before bringing it fully forward in a strong stroke, laughing all the while..
"NOOO!" Sam closed his eyes and braced himself for unimaginable pain — or the end of all pain.
Either way, he was pissed as hell to die at the hands of a crazy hunter he'd already fuckin' killed.
But there was no pain, no laughter, no sound at all except his own ragged breathing.
Slowly, he opened his eyes, to find himself lying flat on the cot, horizontal to the ground, arms flung out into air beside the cot, feet unnecessarily crossed over each other, suddenly able to breathe again without pain or difficulty.
Slowly he sat up, pulling his hands — his aching but unblemished hands — in front of his face.
"The answer is yes," said a young, but eerily familiar voice behind him. "You're hallucinating."
He turned to face his younger self and only sighed.
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Bobby's Library
2:52 pm
Bobby was waiting in the library, sitting at his desk, surrounded by open books, two glasses of cheap Hunter's Helper at the ready, with a nearly full bottle standing by. "Didn't think I'd see you for a while," the older hunter grunted, handing Dean a glass and watching the kid toss it back in a single gulp.
"Didn't intend you to," Dean admitted and dropped into the ancient chair across from him. "But Sam…" His voice cracked and he cleared his throat roughly. "Sammy says my being down there just makes it worse. Makes him worse."
Bobby raised an eloquent eyebrow and refilled the glass Dean held out to him.
"He can feel other people's emotions, ya know that?" Dean wondered, and looked away when Bobby just frowned at him. "Mine, anyway."
"Well," Bobby drawled, "I can see's how that'd be a detriment right about now."
"Yeah," Dean chuckled, and winced when Sam's screams echoed up from the basement.
"No. No, please. Don't! Don't!"
"Oh, god," Dean gulped down the bile that rose to his mouth.
"Take it easy, boy," Bobby warned when Dean surged to his feet and started pacing.
"Easy?!" Dean laughed. "None of this is gonna be easy, Bobby."
Another scream, another full-body flinch.
"Jesus," Dean gasped and grabbed the bottle from Bobby's hand, taking three long swallows before handing it back. "How the fuck do we get through this, man? What am I supposed to do, Bobby?" he wondered, his voice thick with tears he wouldn't let fall. "How can I stand here — " his voice broke off as another scream of agony split the air like a bullet aimed at his increasingly brittle heart. "How can I let him keep getting tortured like this? He's my brother."
"He's not actually being tortured, Dean," Bobby reminded and took another slug of whiskey (from a glass, he wasn't quite as far gone as Dean. Yet.), as the screaming crescendoed.
"Sure about that?" Dean scoffed.
"I ain't saying he don't think it's real, boy. And I ain't saying this is gonna be easy, it's not."
"Stop! Stop!"
"But Sam said we got no other choice, here," Bobby reminded, "and he's the closest thing we got to an expert on this, so… Kinda gotta take 'im at his word."
The screaming continued downstairs, and Dean collapsed into his chair, leaning forward to bury his face in his hands. "Sammy," he moaned. "Oh, god, Sam."
"He knows what he's doing, Dean," Bobby reminded as kindly as he could. "And the kid's strong, stronger'n I think either of you realize."
"Please, you don't…"
The words cut off into another scream Dean swore went straight to his own lungs, robbing him of breath. "That sound strong to you?" he gasped, and surged to his feet again, heading down the hall, Bobby at his heels.
"Where are you going, boy?" Bobby pushed by him, and blocked the door to the basement, bracing his arms to either side.
"NOOO!"
Bobby flinched, but set his feet and took a stronger hold on the door frame.
"Get out of the way, Bobby."
"Can't do that, Dean."
"Dammit, Bobby! I can't… He's… Bobby, it's Sam."
"I know, son, I know." Bobby let go of the door and wrapped his arms around the crying boy. "I know," he repeated and took a strong hold on the back of the bowed head that rested against his shoulder.
"I…"
The screaming from below had stopped — for now — but in front of him, Dean was breaking apart in his arms. Bobby raised Dean's head to meet his gaze, gently wiping away the tears Dean hated, but knew Bobby, at least, would never condemn him for.
Particularly now, when Bobby's face was streaked the same.
"This is for Sam, boy," Bobby reminded. "He wanted to do this. He needed to."
"He didn't…" Dean gasped and took a moment to take a breath, two, to find his voice again. "He didn't know it would be…"
"He didn't?" Bobby challenged, raising an eyebrow. "Really. Sam Winchester," he continued and started to lead Dean away from the basement, back through the house to the library. "The same Sam Winchester who spent six years looking into colleges before he even took his PSATs? The same Sam Winchester who, at the age of 12, figured out the vengeful ghost y'all were hunting at a courthouse was not just a lawyer, but a former D.A., and proceeded to hold the ghost off while you and your daddy found and burned what was holding him there, not by using a shotgun or iron, but by successfully arguing that, based on the ghost's position in life, he had the right to make accusations, but it violated the principles of American jurisprudence for the ghost to be the prosecutor, judge and executioner? Sam Winchester, who at fourteen once figured out that the so-called demon you're daddy had tracked down was just a garden variety psychopath, stopped John Winchester from committing literal murder, and left the cops enough evidence on the killer that the bastard's still in jail? The kid who researches everything with a thoroughness that would put me to shame, sometimes," he said dryly and even Dean had to huff a weak laugh. "That Sam Winchester didn't know what he might be getting into? That what he told you, down there?"
Bobby lowered him back into the chair and Dean hung his head. "No," he admitted quietly. "He knew. I just… God, Bobby, how can I…?"
"I know, I know, son. Feel the same," he admitted and poured them each another drink, because there was no way either of them were getting through this thing even remotely sober. "But he wanted this, Dean. Insisted on it. Said he'd…"
Bobby paused and took a deep breath, handed Dean his glass and threw his own full glass back in a single gulp. "Said he'd die for it," he made himself continue.
Dean took a sip of his whiskey. "Yeah," he breathed. "He told me that, too." He took a deep breath and finished his glass, then set it on the desk. "I can't do that, Bobby. I can't… I can't let him die for this. I can't do it," he admitted, his voice breaking.
"No," Bobby agreed. "I can't do that either. But," he added his voice firm and determined, enough so that Dean looked up, "there's a long road between what's happening now and… and that. And we gotta give him that road, Dean. We owe him that."
Dean leaned back, running his hands over his hair to clasp them at the back of his head, using the pressure of his fingers to both soothe the burgeoning headache and ground himself a little more. "I know," he gulped, holding back a sob that wanted to come out. "But I… I can't just sit here and, and listen to…"
Another wordless scream echoed up through the floor.
"…that."
"Then don't," Bobby advised and returned to his seat behind the desk.
"I… wh… what?" Dean stared at him, his arms dropping to the chair. "Bobby, what?"
"Don't sit here," Bobby repeated. "Go for a run. Or a walk. Give that car of yours a tune-up she probably don't need. Give one of my hunks of junk a tune-up it does. Just… Get out of here a while," he advised. "I'll stay. Keep an eye… well, an ear, on our boy. And when I can't take it anymore, I'll come get you, and it'll be your turn."
"Bobby, I can't," Dean protested. "I owe it to him to…"
"You owe it to him to get through this in one piece, Dean," Bobby said severely. "Listen. Sam'll get through this. I believe that, I do. That boy… he's strong. He survived a Prince of Hell. He survived your damned Daddy, boy," he reminded and smirked at Dean's answering snort. "And he'll survive this." He leaned across the desk and held Dean's gaze. "But, you and me," he waved his hand between them, "we gotta be okay when he's done." He sighed and sat back, shaking his head as another scream echoed around them. "We can't do diddly-squat for him now. Unfortunately, all we can do is try to figure out where that bitch Lilith's gonna be next, and sit here with our thumbs up our asses. When this is over, and he beats this thing — because he will, Dean, you gotta believe that."
Dean took a deep breath and nodded. "Anybody can, it's Sammy."
"Damn straight," Bobby agreed. "But I got no idea what kind of condition he'll be in when it's all said and done. That's when he's gonna need us. So, right now, we gotta take care of us, of each other. So when the time comes 'n' we can actually do something, we can take care of him."
Dean leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes and listened to his little brother calling for help Dean knew he couldn't give. When he opened his eyes again, he grabbed another drink from the bottle, then set it down in front of Bobby. "Any particular car you want me working on?"
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Panic Room
7:15 pm
Sam sat on the floor, legs folded up beneath him, head back, watching the fan spinning above him over the devil's trap, and stared out at the dark.
The excruciating pain in his stomach had stopped (and he'd only thrown up six times into the chemical toilet they'd installed his junior year of high school), but now his skin was crawling.
He kept scratching, looking at his arms and expecting to see fire ants or something running up and down his skin. Running under his skin. But there was never anything there, just an overwhelming crawling feeling that he couldn't shake.
His head pounded so hard he could hardly see straight, and the phantom taste of copper-and-sulfur — a taste he'd only imagined after the fact under the smoothies Ruby had doctored, but had certainly smelled at the warehouse — sat on the back of his tongue and no amount of water (or vomit, apparently) could shake it.
He was starting to shake, too, and he could all but feel his bones rattling against each other.
"Poor baby," a voice made him jump and he lowered his gaze from the ceiling to see…
"Mom?"
She was there, looking as beautiful as the few pictures Dean and John had kept over the years. The ones they rarely shared with Sam because Sam hadn't even known her, not really, and so didn't have a right to them.
Her hair was such a pretty gold, and her eyes so blue.
His own eyes looked like that sometimes, Dean used to tell him, smiling: you have Mom's eyes, sometimes, you know that?
John would use it as a curse: Who do you think you are, looking like her, you demon bastard!?
She was in a white nightgown (like Jess had been). The nightgown had a huge red stain across the belly, spreading, seeping slowly, so slowly (like Jess' had).
He expected flames to flare up around her any second.
"Sam," Mary said gently and shook her head, softly. "You look just awful."
Sam laughed. Of course he looked awful, of course he did, and he knew it wasn't just the withdrawals, it was his own deep-seated corruption showing through.
"Go on," he sighed. "Let's hear it."
"What do you mean?"
"Your heart is broken," Sam smirked. "I'm a horrible son, a terrible brother to Dean. You never thought I'd turn out this way. Am I close?"
She crossed to him and urged him up onto the cot, before she sat beside him. Gently, she caressed his face and ran her fingers through his hair in a touch he'd only ever dreamed of, and never thought he'd actually get to feel. He couldn't help leaning into the caress.
"Not at all. You're just what I always imagined you'd be," she said with the gentlest, kindest smile he thought he'd ever seen.
"I am?"
"Well, taller than I expected," Mary admitted and they both chuckled quietly at that. "But smart and handsome and loyal to your brother. And, of course, completely, unremittingly evil."
Sam blanched and just blinked at her, trying to marry the harsh words with the unwavering sweetness of the voice. "Wh — What?"
"Why are you surprised, Sam?" she continued in that mild tone, still caressing him softly. "Did you think a mother wouldn't know what she was carrying? That a Hunter like me, born and raised to fight all the dark things in the world, wouldn't recognize such unrelenting horror and rot, even from inside myself? I knew it almost from the moment I knew I was pregnant. There was such evil in you, it just radiated out, into my body. I was terribly sick, my second pregnancy, did you know that?"
He could only shake his head.
"Mmm. Felt like you were trying to eat my insides," she explained simply. "Nothing like that ever happened with Dean. But then, Dean was just a normal, human baby, conceived of love. Your father and I, we thought you'd be the same. You were conceived in love, just like Dean, but…" She shrugged. "You were just evil, owned by Hell even before you were born."
She paused, still smiling in a way Sam's brain could only classify as loving, and pushed a lock of hair that kept falling over his forehead back behind one ear.
"I wanted to abort you," she admitted, and the simple, unrelenting sweetness in her tone was making him nauseated. "But your father, he wouldn't hear of it. All the medical tests came back fine, and he couldn't understand. He didn't know what I knew. But, of course, he wasn't a Hunter. Well, not then, at least. You changed that, though, didn't you? But I never wanted him, or Dean, to know what was out there, so back then I was just… stuck, wasn't I?"
"Please, stop," he whispered as the tears began to fall. "Just… just stop."
"Honestly, I thought you'd kill me on the way out," Mary continued as if she hadn't heard a word. And still the gentle caresses — hand and voice — never faltered. "For a while, during labor, I thought you'd just claw your way right out of my womb. You didn't, of course, your birth was disturbingly normal really. I had to wait another six months before you got around to killing me.
"You know, when you came out, I half expected you to be some mutated, horrible, disfigured thing, but you just looked… normal," she shrugged. "Beautiful, even. Well, not as beautiful as Dean, of course, there's never been a baby as beautiful, or a son as perfect as Dean. But you were a pretty baby and when the nurse held you up for me to see you, I thought, I actually thought, just for a moment, that I was wrong. And then I held you, and I couldn't figure out how the nurses and the doctor and your father couldn't just feel the sheer EVIL coming off of you.
"I'd breastfed Dean, of course I did," she continued, "but I had to make something up about you, had to cobble together a spell to dry up my own milk, put you on formula right in the hospital. I just couldn't bear to have your skin touching mine that way, it was so…." She stopped talking for a moment and just shuddered, before continuing with that same sweet, gentle smile. "So, really," she continued in that same sweet, kind, awful voice, "you turned out to be exactly how I always knew you would."
"I'm, I'm not…"
"Of course you are," she countered, her voice going suddenly cold and hard. "You're delusional if you ever thought otherwise, Sam. You killed me, remember?" She glared at him and stood, stepping away. "Just like this," she added and flames suddenly sprung up from behind her, around her, through her, the heat enough to sear his face and the arms and hands he brought up to try to protect himself, and she just kept talking as her skin blistered and blackened. "You waited six months and then your evil consumed me. Just like it will do to Dean."
"No!" Sam sobbed. "I didn't… I wouldn't… I was six months old!"
"Evil is evil, Sam," her voice echoed through the crackling flames. "At any age."
The fire flared, seemed to somehow congeal into a solid ball and rushed out at him.
Sam flung up his arms in defense. "NOOO!"
And he was alone, alive and unburned.
On the outside.
He collapsed back onto the mattress and wept.
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Bobby's Kitchen
7:21 pm
"NOOOO!"
Dean winced at the scream echoing up from downstairs, and pushed the chili around in his bowl some more before taking another swig from his (fourth) dinnertime beer.
The back door creaked open and he looked up as Bobby entered, wiping his hand on a rag he tossed into the laundry room as he passed. "Nice job on that Fury," he growled and filled the bowl Dean had left on the counter for him from the still bubbling pot on the stove.
Dean grunted and put his spoon down.
"How's he been?" Bobby asked quietly.
Dean sighed and took another drink of beer. He set the empty on the table with the others and got up to pull another three out of the fridge, setting one down before Bobby and the other two by his own bowl before answering as he lowered himself into the chair again.
"I checked on him around 6:30," he said, his voice flat, his eyes staring at nothing as he flipped the top of the beer off with his ring. "He was on the cot. I think he was asleep. But he… his brain…" He forced the words out with a spastic shrug of one shoulder. "No better. A little worse, maybe," he admitted softly and stared at his fingers idly picking the label off his beer. "Hard to tell."
Bobby nodded. Dean had told him, sometime during their second bottle of whiskey, about his ability to feel Sam's brain, and the wrongness of it. He looked at the bowed head before him, his heart breaking.
It was one thing for him, Bobby, to know what Sam was going through, in a gone-cold-turkey-myself kind of way.
It was something else entirely for Dean — who loved Sam with a fury that sometimes scared the older hunter, (and might've worried the hunter if he didn't know Sam reciprocated the devotion one thousand percent) — to know what Sam was actually feeling in his head.
Bobby was no fool. He knew, had known for years, that there were things about Sam that his boys kept from him. He knew enough — Sam was telekinetic; he could heal himself and sometimes others; he could touch the ground and learn things. From the Force, Dean always said (and Bobby had never been sure if it was because Dean believed it or the kid just wanted to irritate Sam).
And, of course, he was one of the most powerful witches Bobby had ever heard of. Maybe even the most powerful.
But there were times…
Everyone who knew the brothers for more than a few minutes had probably seen the silent communication that moved between them. Bobby had always chalked that up to the way they were raised, often just the two of them, and frequently in dangerous situations where too much (or any) talk could prove fatal.
But sometimes Bobby wondered if that's all their apparently silent communication was.
And he was almost certain that Sam's powers were stronger than they used to be, whether the brothers admitted it or not. He wasn't blind, nor stupid. He was a Hunter, and old for a Hunter, no damn spring chicken or newbie, and he noticed things. It was why he'd got to be so damned old in the first place. He noticed stuff.
Like the way the kid — the same kid they used to have to fight with to keep his clothes on in the summer when he was five; the one who spent most of his high school summers in nothing but shorts because even a 75-degree day (which Bobby and Dean and Rick and most of the rest of America would label perfect weather) was "just too damn hot out" for the younger Winchester — would now rarely go without a shirt even on the hottest days. And the shirts Sam wore were mostly long sleeved to boot.
Or how the boy who always leaned against things to hide his height rarely touched the walls of the house he'd called home for over a decade.
Or how in the middle of reading something, Dean would suddenly smile and two rooms away, Sam's laughter would echo back to them.
Yeah, he was pretty sure Sam's powers just got stronger the older the kid got.
And now, his younger boy was addicted to fuckin' Demon blood.
Like Dean, Bobby hated the idea of Sam suffering in the Panic Room all alone. Unlike Dean, he wasn't sure he'd have the courage to go in there with him.
Bobby knew Sam thought the older hunter was afraid of him. What Bobby didn't know was whether or not Sam was wrong.
Dean picked up his spoon and took a small bite of the (now probably cold) chili and continued moving the spoon idly around the bowl.
Bobby took the opportunity to just watch him, to really look at what Sam's withdrawals were doing to the older of the two boys he loved like they were his own.
Already, Dean's eyes showed the strain. He'd come back from the garage with eyes so swollen and red-rimmed that it was obvious the boy'd been crying his damn heart out, out there — which was why Bobby had sent him outside to begin with, because even with what he and Dean had shared when Dean came upstairs, the kid'd never let himself really let go in front of another living soul. Now, those reddened eyes were already sunken and the skin around his mouth was drawn tight with a frown and tension in his jaw that wouldn't let up.
The five empty beer bottles, and the sixth he was steadily working through, were another sign of how bad it was, but somehow not too concerning for the older hunter to watch. True, Dean didn't usually drink this much when his brother was around. (Then again, he was actually around his brother, was he? And that was the problem.)
Bobby watched the kid grab a seventh beer with a sigh, and didn't even try to stop him. He still remembered the first time Dean had stopped by after Sam had sent his older brother to hunt with their father. It had taken three quarters of a case of the cheapest beer Bobby had on hand to even get the boy to sleep that first night. He expected it would take at least that tonight, even after they'd split nearly two full bottles of Hunter's Helper.
Kid probably wouldn't even have a hangover in the morning.
Neither would Bobby, for that matter, but, well… Functional Alcoholic was practically synonymous with Hunter, wasn't it? Well, except for Sam, and even three or four brewskis it took to get the kid tipsy (he could almost hear Dean's teasing voice saying lightweight) wouldn't have ill effects in the morning. 'Course that could've been Sam's innate healing abilities, now Bobby thought of it.
"You should get some rest," Bobby suggested.
Dean scoffed aloud. "It's 7:30, Bobby. What 'm I, five?"
"No," Bobby said with what probably looked like infinite patience, but was just years of practice dealing with Winchesters, "but it's a fifteen or sixteen hour drive from Montana — even for you — and you ain't rested since you got here. You told me you came straight off a hunt. You been up for, what, 30, 36 hours now? You need to get some sleep, boy."
"Right. With him down there? I don't think that's in the cards."
"I thought we'd agreed to take care of ourselves, so we'd be ready to help him on the other side," Bobby said mildly, and was not at all surprised when Dean just tipped his beer at him and took another pull from the bottle.
"'S what I'm doin'."
"Dean…"
Dean slammed the bottle down hard enough that Bobby flinched. "NO! I'll sleep when he's safe," he practically gasped the words. "We'll get him out, clean him up, I'll put him to bed. THEN. Then, I'll sleep," he said, his voice, his very body, growing calmer at the thought.
"That what Sam would want?"
Dean glared at him. "Sam got all he's getting," he snapped. "I lef…" He licked lips suddenly dry. "I left him in there," he admitted to himself, his voice breaking. "Alone. I'm not going to be two floors away in bed if he needs me again."
"Never said anything about bed, boy," Bobby pointed out. "But you could just… I dunno… stretch out on the couch for ten minutes, or something, maybe. You'll still be able to hear him."
And there was no world in which Sammy in distress didn't wake Dean, they both — they all — knew that.
For a moment, they just stared at each other.
"Can't take care of Sam…" Bobby began, and broke off smiling when Dean stood, rolling his eyes.
"If I don't take care of me, yeah, yeah," he smirked, and headed towards the living room. "Heard it all before, old man."
But he lay down and closed his eyes.
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Panic Room
7:45 pm
"Oh, baby."
Sam froze, and quickly wiped his eyes before looking up, breath catching in his throat at the sound, at the very thought that it could possibly, ever, maybe be her.
"Jess?" he whispered and reached one trembling hand out towards her. His breath escaped in a sob when the soft hands he still dreamed about took his in both of hers.
She looked as beautiful as he remembered, dressed just as she was the last — no, the second to last — time he saw her, in boy-short undies and that cut up, cut down Smurf shirt Brady had once found after a party at his frat and gave to Jess (after washing, of course, because who knew where that thing had been?).
"Hey, baby," she smiled softly at him and sat beside him, kissing his cheek.
"Oh, god, Jess." He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close, not even trying to fight the tears. "I can't believe…" He pulled back and cupped her cheek with one hand, holding her hand with the other. "I missed you. I missed you so much."
She tipped her head to the side in that way she had that always drove him crazy and frowned. "Did you?" she wondered.
"Of course. Every minute. For years."
She pulled slowly away and stood, looking down at him while he worshiped her with his eyes, the way he always had, even before they'd been formally introduced. "Until you met that art chick," she said.
"Wh — what?"
"Sarah Blake. That was, what? Eight months after you watched me burn to death?"
"Noth — nothing happened."
"Okay," she shrugged. "Then, let's talk about the werewolf you fucked, less than a year and a half after I died."
"I… W…." he stammered and started to stand
"You know what?" She stepped forward and slapped a hand on his chest, keeping him on the bed. "Let's forget the time. Let's talk, instead, about you fucking, even knowing about a damn werewolf, Sam! And never telling me! Never telling me any of it!"
"Jess…"
"Would you have told me, Sam?" she demanded. "Ever? After you proposed, maybe?"
He blinked up at her.
"I did the laundry, genius," she scoffed at his shock. "Of course, I found the ring in your underwear drawer! Would you have told me about what you do, about what your family does, when you proposed? Or would you have waited until the wedding night? Or when our first child was born, maybe? When he was six months old and something came to bleed into his mouth, turn him into a monster? Oh, wait!" she said dramatically. "Nothing would've come when he was six months old, would it?"
"No," Sam said firmly and forced himself to stand, pushing her back a step. "Dean and I killed him."
"Wouldn't have mattered," Jess shrugged carelessly and turned way to start walking the perimeter of the room. "No one would've had to come, would they? Any child of ours would've been born a monster, wouldn't he? Because his dad is one."
"No," Sam couldn't help the whine that escaped him. "No, Jess…" he followed her around the room, reaching for her. "I'm not…"
She stopped, spun to face him, slamming a hand into his chest again. "No? Not a monster? You let me die, Sam! You said you loved me and you let. Me. DIE."
"I couldn't… The fire… I couldn't… If Dean hadn't pulled me out…"
"Of course, Dean!" She threw her hands in the air and continued walking the edge of the room, Sam close on her heels.
"Jess…"
"I'd be alive if not for Dean," she said, whirling to face him again. "He killed me almost as much as you did."
"We… Jess, no!"
"He took you away so you couldn't save me when the demon came. And you." She shook her head, suddenly looking so sweet and sad again, all the anger gone, and Sam wasn't sure he didn't like the anger better. The sweetness was making his heart clench so hard it could hardly beat. "You loved me," she shook her head sadly, and reached out to run her fingers through his hair. "And it killed me."
"Jess. I'm sorry," he breathed.
"I was dead the minute you met me."
"I didn't…"
"Didn't what, baby?" she wondered, and put her other hand on his cheek, still running her fingers in his hair in a caress he'd recognize for the rest of his life. "Didn't know? You should have!" she snapped, and grabbed tightly onto his hair to turn them around, putting his back to the wall. She slammed his head into the iron panel behind him. "You're a HUNTER. You should. Have. Known."
"I know," he whispered. "I know."
"You dreamt it, Sam. Why didn't you warn me?" she wailed and slammed his head back again.
"I thought it was the same dream I had when we first moved to Palo Alto!" he tried to defend. "I thought it was Mom," he admitted as the tears began to fall. He wasn't sure if they were sorrow or love or just the concussion he probably had now. Whatever, he tried to hold them back. It wasn't shame or embarrassment; he just didn't deserve the release of tears.
"You got me killed," she repeated, and for a moment, cupped his face in her two hands gently again. "I love you and it killed me," she whispered as her own tears began to fall. "And then you fucked a werewolf," she yelled and slammed his head back into the iron again. "And a demon," and he knew his head was bleeding when it hit the wall that time. "You deserve," she continued, and just kept slamming his head into the wall once for every word she stressed "to suffer here. All the withdrawal. All alone. All the pain. I hope it hurts like I hurt when I BURNED!" she shouted and slammed his head back one last time before letting go and stepped back, watching as he stumbled forward and fell to his knees, panting and blinking rapidly, trying to keep from passing out.
"Look at me, Sam," she commanded and he forced himself to look up, squinting until the five of her coalesced into only two.
"Jess," he reached for her, aiming between the two of them figuring he'd just split the difference and maybe hit something.
"Look at me," she repeated and spread her arms, suddenly dressed as his mother had been, in flowing white and spreading red. "Take a good look," she challenged. "This is the last time you'll ever see me, Sam. Because I'm dead. I'm dead because you killed me. But at least, at least I'm in Heaven," she gloated, and took a step forward and grabbed him once more by the blood-slicked hair at the back of his head (so it was the left Jess that was real) pulling so hard it was all he could do not to vomit from the pain and dizziness. "And you," she fumed, "you'll never see me because you will go to Hell, Sam Winchester. With all the rest of the demons. Marry one of them," she taunted and shoved down so he overbalanced and face planted on the floor, vomiting on the way down..
When he forced himself onto his back, the back of his head slick with blood, the front covered in sick, she was gone again and he rested his aching head against the floor as the tears fell.
"I'm not a demon," he whispered to nothing and no one. "I'm not. I'm not."
It wasn't even convincing to himself.
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Bobby's living room
9:15 PM
"DEAN!"
Dean woke with a snort, startled by the pain-filled yell that filled his head (whether it came from the basement or his own dream-addled brain, he couldn't honestly tell). He wiped his hand down his face and sat up, grunting at the crick in his back from sleeping on Bobby's broken down couch (seriously, the damn thing barely sustained life, what had he been thinking?). He was half way to standing when Bobby came in from the hallway leading to the basement and waved him back down.
"I just came back up," Bobby told him and grabbed a bottle of whiskey Dean had left on the coffee table, tossing back a long swallow.
Dean watched as Bobby's throat continued to work, draining the bottle from half- to quarter-full. "That bad, huh?" he sighed when Bobby dropped to the couch beside him and handed the bottle over. Dean just put back on the table.
Bobby nodded slowly, sighing. "He's… Jesus, Dean, what are we doing to him?" he wondered and dropped his head into his hands."My boy," he whispered and if Dean didn't know better, he would've thought the older Hunter was crying.
Dean patted Bobby's bowed shoulder, and stood, only to stop when a strong — if slightly shaking — hand snapped out to grab his wrist.
"Don't," Bobby warned and gave the wrist a tug. Dean didn't sit, but he didn't pull away either, just lifted his free hand back to Bobby's shoulder. "Kid just yelled at me for checking on him," their surrogate father continued. "Said I made it worse. It'd just be harder for him, if you went down."
"Bobby," Dean protested weakly, "I gotta see…"
Bobby shook his head. "You don't want to see him, now, boy," he said in a voice that was a little too close to broken for Dean to be able to comprehend from the strongest, most steadfast man the brothers had ever known. "He's…" Another deep sigh and Bobby leaned — collapsed might be a better word — against the back of the couch, still staring at the floor. "I've seen him look better after he's been shot," he admitted.
Dean winced. "And that's supposed to keep me away?" he scoffed.
Bobby snorted and raised his head to look at Dean for the first time.
Damn. Old man had been crying.
"Respect for your brother's wishes is supposed to keep you away, boy," Bobby snapped. "Since self-preservation won't."
"Self…"
"Like I said, you do not want to see him, right now," Bobby reminded and reached for the bottle again. "God knows I wish I hadn't," and his voice was shaking more than his hand. Which was saying something.
"Bobby…"
"We painted those walls red for a reason, Dean. So I can't be sure, but… I think there's blood on 'em, now." He took another swig. "He looks like he ain't showered in a week. Covered in sweat, all that beautiful hair just... And he smells like…like…"
"Teen spirit?" Dean tried to quip, his voice shaking with the effort not to breakdown.
"Desperation," Bobby sighed, and twisted slightly to face his older boy. "You need to let me be the one to check on him, now, Dean."
"Bobby…"
"One of us is going to need to be able to face him when he comes out," Bobby said flatly. "I don't know that it'll be me. Jesus," he closed his eyes and shook his head. "Way that boy looks… gonna be in my nightmares for a long time."
"Jesus, Bobby," Dean practically whimpered. "I can't… I gotta…"
Bobby shook his head. "You don't… He don't even look like hisself," Bobby admitted. "It ain't even... He came up to the door, to tell me to leave, and there's…" Another drink was required before he continued. "There's this look in his eyes, I don't… They don't even look human anymore. Not, not black or anything," he hastened to add, "not demonic or nuthin', but… It's just… I dunno." Bobby swallowed, downed a little more whiskey and his voice turned dull. "I once saw an old man with a look like that. A Hunter, no idea how old he was, not in years. Could've been 30, could've been 130. He'd killed the mate of a vampire, centuries old it was, and the damn thing started hunting him. Killed every person in his life, even just people he barely talked to, from his kindergarten teacher to the barista he bought his coffee from. I met him right after the vamp had killed the last person he loved in the world, about a week before the vamp took him out, too. By then, he was the oldest person I've ever seen. Not physically. It was, it was in his eyes. Desperate. Broken. Wild in a way that… It weren't right." Bobby shook his head and made himself meet Dean's gaze. "That's what I saw in Sam's eyes, just now. That, that wildness. A wildness born of pain so deep… It should take decades to get a look like that, not a fuckin' day," Bobby moaned, his voice breaking. "And Sam, he's… He's hardly more'n a kid," he reminded himself, his voice cracking. He forced himself to look into Dean's eyes. "Don't look at him, Dean. Not now. You'll never get over it. I sure the fuck won't," he admitted and closed his eyes when another pain-filled wail echoed from below.
Dean sank to sit on the couch beside Bobby, closed his eyes and stopped fighting the slowly falling tears that matched his mentor's. "Oh, god," he breathed.
"Y'know, I've always loved that boy's imagination," Bobby admitted with a sigh so deep it was more a wave than a breath. "Kid's solved so many hunts with it, found so many connections, those leaps of imagination and logic he can make. But it's turned on him now, and I wish…"
"Yeah," Dean leaned his head against Bobby's and they just sat there, drawing and giving comfort as the screams from below rolled ever over them.
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Panic Room
9:15 PM
He sank to the floor, sliding down with his back to the door he kept carefully locked, legs splayed out in front of him, hands limp between them.
Why did they keep coming down? It hurt, somewhere deep down in his brain (in his heart, in his soul), every time either Bobby or Dean — especially Dean — came down the stairs to peek in on him.
And it had hurt worse, this time, because this time…
God, the look on Bobby's face when Sam had met him at the door. The shock, the pain, the, the… revulsion.
He knew he was a mess, of course he did. It felt like he hadn't bathed in a month, and his hair was so lank and greasy he half just wanted to cut it off (not that he would, he never would; his hair — too long by hunter's standards, or Winchester standards, anyway — was the one rebellion he'd always been able to keep, the only thing in his life he'd always had control over since he was a kid). He didn't even want to know what his breath smelled like.
But Bobby's horror looking at him hadn't hit until their eyes had met, and he didn't know what that meant. Was pretty sure he didn't want to.
Before Sam had taken up residence for the duration of his detox, Bobby had been insistent about pulling the only mirror in the Panic Room out with the rest of the sharp objects. Right now, Sam wasn't sure if he was disappointed or relieved about that. Probably both.
His hand trembled as he raised it to lightly run his finger under his eye, wondering what they looked like.
"They're black, Sammy," a voice he'd never thought to hear again told him, laced with equal parts of laughter and pride.
He tilted his head back and looked up at him. "You're dead," he said coldly, recovering from the flinch he'd been unable to hide. "We killed you in Wyoming."
Azazel crouched beside him, smiling even as the hole reappeared in the middle of his forehead, right where the Colt's bullet had hit. "You did, you did. You, your Daddy, your big brother and that damned, pesky gun," he admitted, grinning. "I'm dead, Sammy," he concurred and reached out to grab his wrist, twisting it so the palm was up. "But I'm not gone," Azazel assured him, pushing Sam's sleeve up one arm to trace the vein running up from his wrist.
Sam couldn't suppress the full body shudder the touch brought.
"I'm right here, Sammy," the demon's yellow eyes glowed as his grin widened. "Right under your skin. Fillin' your veins." He leaned close to whisper into Sam's ear. "I'm. Not. Going. ANYWHERE," he vowed.
The demon pulled back, laughing. "As long as you live, Sammy… I live. Right there," he reminded and pounded a fist over the boy's heart. "You're the Boy with the Demon Blood. My blood. Our Lord Lucifer's blood."
Sam shook his head, trying — failing — to stop the tears. "No. No, Castiel said…"
"Castiel said what he needed to, to keep Dean happy," Azazel said coldly. "It's not about you, Sammy. The angels don't give a rat's ass about you. It's all about the Righteous Man. Dean. The Golden Boy. Your angel crush will say or do anything to keep him happy. Even put up with something as twisted and evil as you."
"I'm not…" Sam sobbed.
"You can't fool me, Sammy. I know you. I'm part of you."
"No."
"Yes," the demon hissed. "The biggest part of you. Where do you think your powers come from, Sammy? Did you really think you were born with 'em?" he scoffed. "It's from ME. It's all from me. Why do think they all went away when I. Died?"
"I just burned out," Sam insisted. "They came back."
"Of course, they did," Azazel grinned and grabbed his arm at the elbow and wrist, pulling it up so he could run a burning tongue along that traitorous vein. "I'm still in you, Sammy." He dropped the arm, practically throwing it into The Boy's lap. "As long as you have blood, my power runs through you. And you've always been mine. You've always been Lucifer's."
Sam dropped his chin to his chest in defeat, shaking his head in futile denial.
"From the moment you were born…"
"…you killed everything good in my life."
Sam gasped, his head whipping up fast enough to hit against the door, and stared up at the only person he'd ever feared more than Old Yellow Eyes.
"Dad," he breathed.
"We were happy before you were born," John glared at him. "Me. Your mother. Dean. He was such a happy little boy. Until you."
"No!" he screamed like he was being tortured. Because John hadn't touched him, but he was, he was.
John squatted in front of him. "I should've let your mother get rid of you," he spat and Sam winced. "We all would've been so much better off."
"You… You said you were proud," Sam sobbed.
John scoffed and shook his head. "Only in your head," he assured him and Sam closed his eyes.
His dad was right, the voice had been in his head. No one else had heard.
Had he really made that up? Was he really that pathetic, still so desperate for the approval of a man who had tried, again and again, to kill him?
"I never should've let you live so long," John spat as his fist slammed into the side of Sam's head, knocking him to his side on the ground. "When you were 12, and Dean got lost on that hunt. I left you at Bobby's," he reminded, looking around the panic room with disdain. "Should've taken the chance then. A dozen other times. Should've finished the job in Asheville," John decided, delivering a strong (all too familiar) kick to Sam's ribs, followed by another to his stomach.
Sam curled himself into a tight ball, only to get a literal kick to the head. Figuring his guts were the lesser of two evils — one, maybe two more hits to his already concussed melon and Sam wasn't at all sure he'd ever wake up again (would that be so bad? a tiny voice whispered in his head) — he slowly unfurled, ending up slightly on his side, and looked up in time to see the steel-toed boot that impacted his kidney.
A strong hand grabbed his shoulder, pulled him onto his back, and Sam's eyes grew wide as John put his knee on Sam's thigh, holding him still as the hunter pulled out his favorite knife.
"Don't," he shook his head, desperately, fear (and hours of screaming) leaving his voice a mere whisper in the air.
"Why shouldn't I?" John shrugged and pulled Sam's shirt up, revealing his stomach. "You're just an animal, Sam," he explained and began skinning his son, the way he taught them to skin a deer when they were young. "Not even an animal," he corrected himself. "A demon. A filthy demon."
The knife parted his abdominal muscles and the pain was so bad Sam couldn't even try to scream.
"I should've killed you. You're evil, and you destroy everything you touch!"
The knife dragged down and Sam felt the slippery slide of his intestines across his skin as they spilled out across his stomach, between his legs, spilling to the floor.
"I should've killed you!"
"Why didn't you?" Sam gasped as the knife came down into his right side, piercing his liver, spilling bile. "You wanted me dead so bad," he panted when John stopped his carving and leaned forward to look him in the eye, "why didn't you just end it?"
"Dean," John said simply. "I didn't think he'd ever forgive me."
Sam chuckled and winced at the pain that caused. "You're right," he wheezed as the carving continued, this time moving to his right lung. "He never did," and he couldn't help smiling even as the blood poured from his mouth with the words, with each breath.
John bent low and whispered into Sam's ear. "He will. Now. Now he knows what you are. So contaminated with the evil in your veins, you didn't even know that you were drinking it. A demon. Nothing but a disgusting…"The knife punctured again, through his left side, "…murdering," up at an angle past bone, through muscle into his kidney, evil…" The knife twisted. "…disgusting…" John pulled the knife down and forward again, and even weak as he was, Sam screamed as his kidney was plucked from his body. "DEMON!"
"Kill me then," Sam sobbed, his eyes closed on the empty room, hands clutching at his whole, unblemished stomach as the pain and blood went on and on in his mind. "Let me die. I deserve… I'm just… Demons should die. Demons should die," he chanted over and over…
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Singer Salvage
November 4, 2008
10:13 PM
Dean had fled the house when the screaming started again, unable to bear it anymore; unable to watch as Bobby drank himself to sleep; unable to make himself go down and check on Sam himself after what Bobby had said.
Too fucking cowardly to face what the detox (what Dean, in his fear and weakness) was putting his brother through.
So, he'd come outside, and found himself sitting on one of Bobby's rusting wrecks, staring up at the sky.
He'd been out here for what felt like hours now (but probably wasn't, his ass wasn't numb enough), just watching the stars, the way they always did when they needed to ground themselves after a bad hunt, or when they just needed some time. Time to remind themselves they were people, men, brothers, not just the soldiers and ruthless killers their father had raised them to be.
"Hey, there's Orion," he pointed at the trio of familiar stars, as a bank of clouds cleared away, and looked to his right, somehow surprised to find himself alone.
He shook his head and took another sip of his beer.
Stupid Fool, he berated himself. Self-indulgent asshole. Out here watching stars while Sammy's…
"Dean."
The deep voice made him start so hard he slid off the hood of the car, barely landing on his feet as he turned his head to look at…
"Cas?"
The angel crossed to him in two long strides, grabbed onto his shoulders with a grip that was a little too firm to be comfortable.
"Your brother," the angel demanded. "Where is he?"
"He…" Dean hesitated, unsure what the angels would do if they realized how bad Sam was.
It was clear the feathered dicks hated his Sammy, because of the blood he'd been fed decades ago. What would they do if they found he'd drunk more — however inadvertently — just a few months back? Cas seemed almost… sympathetic… to his brother, but could he take a chance like that? He couldn't be sure, so Dean did what Dean Winchester did best.
He stalled and he deflected.
"Get off me," he frowned and tried — failed — to shrug his way out of the angel's grasp.
"Dean," Castiel leaned forward so their noses were a scant inch apart. "Where. Is. Sam?"
"Let me go," Dean replied, implacably, and Castiel released him. Dean took a hasty step back. "Dude," he frowned. "Personal space, look it up."
"Where is Sam?"
Dean shook his head. No distracting Cas with a change of subject, then. Single-minded son of a — "Why? Why do you need to know?"
"I must get to him," Castiel huffed, and began to pace back and forth in front of the hunter, running a hand through his already wind-blown-looking hair.
Something in the angel's uncharacteristic agitation finally wormed its way past Dean's instinctive guard. "Cas? What's going on?"
The angel stopped in front of him, stepped right up to him again. (Yeah, he'd have to explain personal space, and soon). "He's praying,"
"…What?"
"Your brother," Castiel explained, his voice and expression conveying very clearly that he thought he was explaining himself to an imbecile. "He is praying."
"So what? Sammy prays, Cas," he defended. "Always has, I guess. What?" he snapped, suddenly offended on his brother's behalf. "The Boy with the Demon Blood ain't allowed to pray?"
"Of course, he can," Castiel assured him, and stopped before him again. "That's the problem, Dean!"
"I don't…"
Castiel grabbed his shoulders again, tighter this time, and Dean's eyes widened as he felt his bones creak, just slightly under the pressure. "He's not praying to me," Cas intoned, as if that explained a damn thing. "Any angel could hear him, Dean," he continued and Dean frowned. It almost sounded as if Cas were… jealous or something.
"So he's praying," Dean shrugged, and tried to pull away.
Castiel tightened his grip further and Dean grimaced. "You don't understand. Any angel that can hear a prayer — and there are thousands, Dean, thousands of angels that could hear your brother, right now, that would hear and never have met him, and only know what they've been told."
"Cas, you're not…"
"And they could answer, Dean," Castiel was actually shaking him now, an intensity in his gaze Dean had never seen before. "Where is Sam?!" he demanded again.
"Cas," Dean countered, "why isn't Sammy allowed to pray?" he begged to know, desperate that this small thing that was such a comfort to his kid not be taken away. Dean might not understand it, but Sam needed it, so Dean would fight to keep it. For Sam. Because right now that was the only thing Dean could fight for.
Castiel looked at him again, and the too-blue eyes shone with a pain — almost a panic — that made Dean flinch. "It's not the praying," Cas explained, letting him go before casting his gaze upwards. "Of course, he's allowed to pray, all sincere prayers are welcomed by Heaven."
"Then what…"
"It's not that Sam is praying that concerns me, Dean," he explained, meeting Dean's gaze again, those blue eyes no less… desperate, Dean thought, that's what they are, desperate. "It's what he's praying."
"W-Wha-what are you talking about?" Dean stammered, suddenly afraid to know.
"Dean," Cas put a single hand on his shoulder again, gently this time, in what Dean recognized as an attempt to offer comfort, to soften a blow. "Your brother is praying," he repeated. "Your brother is praying…
To die."
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A/N Well, this chapter kicked my ass. I knew EXACTLY where I was headed — that cliffhanger, that exact line as a cliffy, has been in my brain since about chapter 36 — but would the Winchesters let me get there? Nooooo. Took me 3 rewrites, dammit. So, sorry this took so long, it was mostly finished about a MONTH ago. Hope it was worth the wait.
Also, I hope Dean's behavior doesn't seem to OOC, but let's face it, Sammy's not the only one who runs when he's upset. Sam is just canonically more literal about it, whereas Dean usually runs to the drinking/gambling/sex thing, but his options are bit limited here, so we'll give the boy whatever comfort we can.
Explanations:
PSATs (Pre-SATs) are a pre-college test offered in the 11th (sometimes 9th or 10th) grade, in preparation for the SAT test offered in 12th (Senior, last) year of high school. Students are usually between 16 and 17 years old when they take them (if 9th or 10th grade, somewhere between 14 and 16). They are used by some colleges as a basis for (or part of) admissions offerings. So, according to Bobby, Sam started researching colleges when he was somewhere between the ages of 8 and 11)
A Fury is, in this case, a car, a Dodge Fury, not one of the Greek demigoddesses.
In America (don't know about the rest of the world), a case of beer is 24 cans.
Smells Like Teen Spirit was a song from 1991 by the grunge band Nirvana (because Dean Winchester is ignoring an obvious pop culture reference in his life is almost as unlikely as him ignoring free food. Or pie.)
Princess of the Fae Dear one, that is kind of the theme of this fic. It's not going anywhere.
Atlasina7 I'm so glad you are enjoying it, and if I'm helping your physical health in any way, I am genuinely honored. I'm saving a lot of people in this fic — there are too many points where I feel like the writers did 'em dirty for no real good reason and I'm not going to let that stand… unless I agree with the narrative imperative, or it's a crucial plot point that I still need, of course. On the other hand, I've been listening to Rob & Rich's podcast Supernatural then and now and I'm finding out that a lot of the things that I thought were going to be sticky points for me were put in either by accident, or just to prove a point, so that's making it easier (and if you haven't checked out the podcast, go for it. It's EXCELLENT, frequently hysterical and just about an hour long, might work for you. LOL). thanks for the comment.