Hole In The Sky for brihana25 1/2
Aug. 5th, 2012 06:01 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
summergen-mod.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
spn_summergenTitle: Hole In The Sky
Author: judith_88_g
Recipient:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
brihana25
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: None
Author's Notes: Mad props to a lovelymamapranayama who agreed to beta it and did it at the speed of light. Also, to spangielka, your pickups and suggestions are invaluable. Any remaining errors are all mine.
Summary: Dean wakes up on a park bench, not really clear on how he ended up here and why exactly his hangover seems roughly the size of the Grand Canyon. Unfortunately, it turns out to be just a prelude to his troubles as after coming back to the motel, he discovers that Sam is nowhere to be found.
Jesus fuck.
The sun managed to dazzle him even despite closed eyes, piercing through his temples and boring into his brain. Dean moved experimentally, and almost ended up in falling off… What was that anyway? A bench?
The fuck?
He hauled himself up. His stomach protested alarmingly at the sudden movement and Dean spat next to his feet, the taste suggesting that something had died in his mouth and already started rotting. When he lifted his head he saw a pair of enormously huge hazel eyes fringed by two scrawny plaits.
“Jessica!”
The high-pitched voice felt like a wallop to his severely abused head and it was instantly followed by a slender hand grabbing little Jessica by the shoulder and steering her into another direction. Attached to the hand was another pair of hazel, but much more castigating eyes. He must look as craptastic as he felt. Haphazard scanning of the area confirmed his first assumption – he was in the park. It was morning, still relatively early from the look of it, but people had already started sauntering and jogging up and down the paths. He had no idea how the hell a park bench had become his bed for the night and he didn’t remember drinking enough to get himself into this state. Still, judging by his current situation, he might have overestimated his capabilities.
He felt his pockets for the wallet and phone. Luckily, they were exactly where they should be. A U.S. Marshal’s badge and three driving licenses with three different names still on him. Jesus. How could he let that happen? Especially after that thing in Milwaukee. The very thought of being caught with fake documents while lying unconscious on a park bench made him want to punch something extra hard.
Dean ran a hand through his hair and tried to catalogue the events from last night. There was a bar, some beer and scotch – really not that much. There was a brassy blonde playing pool that he had willingly lost to only to buy her a drink in exchange. He had a foggy memory of leaving with her and that was about it, nothing more, not until this bench. He hoped that he had passed out after or at least before getting down to business.
Dean stood up, gave himself a while to overcome the dizziness and wondered briefly if maybe it was just karma laughing in his face for leaving his brother’s flu-ridden ass back at the motel. For once, the hunt turning out to be a complete misfire had actually been welcome, with Sam running a fever of over 100 degrees his nights were better spent sleeping. For Sam, anyway, not so much for Dean.
He walked back to the motel, grabbing some take-out on the way, which neither him nor his brother would probably even touch. Sammy never showed any appetite while he was sick and it was usually more about forcing food into him like into a freaking goose than actual eating. Still, breakfast was as good a peace offering as any.
He headed straight to Sam’s room – the motel had been overcrowded and they couldn’t offer any doubles. Somewhere in the back of his consciousness, Dean cherished a small hope that Sam would be still asleep, oblivious to the fact that his brother had spent a night on a fucking park bench with a warrant hanging over his ass. He shook his head and huffed a resigned laugh before yanking the door handle, yeah, that kind of luck wasn’t usually par for the course for him.
“Jesus, Sammy, learn to lock the fucking door!” He snapped, entering the room and feeling the rush of anger at the glaring neglect. Was it a freaking pestilence of idiocy? They better kick it in the ass soon cause that one was more deadly than all the supernatural shit standing together in one line.
“Ok bitch, nap time’s over,” Dean approached the still unresponsive bundle of sheets curled up on the bed and tapped the place where his brother’s legs should be.
The bundle moved and groaned and the sound was so out of place that for a moment, Dean couldn’t situate it in his mushy mind.
“What the fuck?” From behind the sheet appeared a round, stubbly face bearing the signs of a hangover even worse than Dean’s.
“Hey, sorry man. Must’ve got the wrong room,” Dean said perplexed and left hastily accompanied by a muffled fucktard.
He swept a fleeting glance along the ranks of doors and their numbers, he could swear it was the right one. Then again, his current mental abilities definitely left room for improvement so he could probably give himself the benefit of doubt.
Dean fished out his cell, flipped it open and called Sam. He waited through four rings before slamming it closed again.
Stomping angrily, he aimed for the reception desk, no point in opening random doors and scaring people inside. Sitting behind the counter, engrossed in a paper was the same clerk they had met while checking in two days ago. Good, at least it’ll save him some talking - talking still sounded like too much of an effort.
“Hi there.”
The guy started at the unforeseen noise, lifted his head and smiled politely at Dean’s sight. It was a huge man with an unnaturally infantile face, which created an uncanny combination.
“Hi, what can I do for ya?”
“Well, I had a kinda rough night,” Dean offered massaging the back of his head in a futile attempt to hush the ringing threatening to blow up his skull from the inside.
“Yeah, that’ll be clear,” the guy threw in with a commiserating smile.
“The thing is, I can’t quite remember which room my brother is in,” Dean forced his features to form into something similar to a coy smile but it didn’t help the incongruous feel the admission evoked. “Thought you could help me with that.”
The clerk lifted his eyebrows in a silent question, “brother, you say?”
“Yeah, the tall guy that was with me the other day.”
The guy’s face took even more baffled expression, he shook his head and huffed a laugh, “that sure was a hell of a night you had there, pal.”
Dean glared at him and considered dashing over the counter to swipe that stupid smile away from his ridiculously childish face. ‘Antsy’ was a galloping understatement to describe his state right now.
“The room number?” He barked instead.
The clerk must have seen something in Dean’s expression because his good mood seemed to ebb away in a second. “There was no one with you,” he shrugged as if he was pronouncing something blatantly obvious.
Dean wasn’t prepared for it; the words hit him with a force of a baseball bat applied to the back of the head stopping all his thoughts cold. Before he knew, he was holding the guy by the rags of his shirt, spluttering in his face, “What the fuck are you talking about?”
“When you checked in, you were alone. One single, number 7, that’s it,” the clerk’s speech became a stream of chaotic jabbering, he lifted his palms in a gesture of surrender. “I swear, you were alone. What do you want from me?”
Dean pushed the man away, the momentum sending the clerk against the wall with a loud thump. His eyes were huge with fear and acrimony. Dean looked at him, took two steps backwards and tried to calm himself enough to figure out what the fuck was going on. He studied the man’s perplexed face in search of any signs of a set up. No, as far as he could tell the guy wasn’t lying, which only heightened the cold feeling settling up in his chest. Something was seriously wrong, the visions of Yellow Eyed Demon and the recent possession dancing chaotically in Dean’s mind.
Fuck.
“I need you to tell me exactly what you remember from the night I checked in,” Dean struggled to keep his voice down however, he could see by the clerk’s expression that it wasn’t one of his best performances.
“I don’t know,” the man stammered nervously. “You came, I gave you the key, it’s what I do, I write down names and give keys, fuck man.”
“I want to see these names. You got cameras here?”
“No, I mean, yes, but they don’t work anyway.”
“Ok,” Dean said trying to control the anger bubbling dangerously just beyond the surface. “Names?”
The clerk slid the book that was sitting at the corner of the desk towards Dean and swiftly moved back to his place against the wall.
“Here,” he said weakly after the distance between the two of them was again somewhat acceptable.
Dean opened it and studied the rows of names, he found the one he had checked in under however, there was no trace of Sammy. The cold fear gripped his chest even tighter, making breathing much harder than usual. What the fuck was going on?
“Anything strange happen recently?” He asked not turning his sight from the series of meaningless names, his voice a poorly subdued gritty vehemence.
“Strange, like…”
“Shady people, things, cold spots, electricity shorts.”
“No, no. Not really.”
Dean lifted his head and looked the clerk straight in the eyes, “You better not be lying about this ‘cause if you are, I’m gonna find out and then we’re gonna have one hell of a different conversation, you understand?”
The clerk was standing paralyzed, not moving an inch.
“Do you understand?” Dean repeated, tersely pronouncing each word.
“Yes, I do. I understand,” he snapped out nodding vigorously.
“Good. I’ll leave the keys in the door,” Dean said turning around.
He walked out into the parking lot and headed straight to his room, too many thoughts battling in his head. Sam disappeared. Again. Didn’t pick up his phone. The string of disquieting images and mind-cringing ideas were popping in front of his eyes completely disregardful of him trying to shut them out, wreathed in the mist of blind terror.
He grabbed his duffel, took out the colt and stashed it behind his belt, the feel of the cold ivory handle on his lower back settling him only slightly. He needed to do something. Now. With the phone again in his hand, Dean chose a number and listened to the hollow ringing not followed by any voice. He left the room and went to the Impala parked just outside the door. Dropped the bag in the backseat, leaned against the side of the car, and kept trying to reach Sam. After the fifth botched attempt he slammed the phone and pressed it to his forehead, concentrating on winning some control over himself and refraining from dashing the damn thing against the asphalt.
He looked at the rank of doors situated alongside the parking lot, all painted in mildew green, all closed and concealing their interiors from his sight. He exchanged the phone in his hand for a gun and forged towards the first door.
“Fuck this shit,” he muttered under his breath and then hollered, “Sammy!”
The door wasn’t locked but instead of Sam, there was a couple inside, their faces frozen in terror at the sudden entry. Dean didn’t spare them more than a second and moved on to the next door. This one he had to kick open before seeing what’s inside. Methodically, he proceeded checking one room after another, some people emerging from behind their doors looking petrified, a sea of similar faces he really didn’t give a shit about now. There was no sign of Sam.
“Stop where you are, you fucking psycho!”
Dean froze in front of yet another green entry and turned around slowly to see the clerk standing not farther than fifteen feet away, a sawed-off in his hands.
“Somebody call the police!” he bellowed to the already impressive crowd of people gathering outside their rooms. There was a hint of barely contained hysteria to his voice. “You! Drop the gun!”
“Listen to me feisty, I’m having a really bad day already and you’re working on making it even worse. And trust me when I say, you really don’t want that.”
“Shut up!” The clerk yelled correcting his grip on the shotgun. “I said drop your gun.”
“Heard you the first time,” Dean muttered, making a move as if lowering the colt. Instead, he used the movement to hide the hand with the gun behind one bended knee, the cheapest trick in the book but the guy didn’t look the type to have been schooled in the area. Next thing, Dean was pointing the colt at the man’s fossilized, round face.
“Put the gun on the ground and kick it in my direction,” Dean demanded in a firm tone.
The man stomped nervously but didn’t lower the sawed-off.
“I don’t want to shoot you but I will, just give me a reason. I promise I can put a bullet in your head before you find your finger on the trigger.”
That finally got the aimed effect and the clerk did as he’d been told. Dean bowed to pick it up, suddenly painfully aware of all the eyes peering into him. The cops were probably on their way, so without a word he started walking hastily towards the Impala while still keeping his eyes on the clerk. He saluted before entering the vehicle, put the car in the reverse, and left the scene as hurriedly as possible.
Way to start a day.
***
“Hi Bobby, it’s Dean.”
“Jesus Christ, boy, are you ok?”
“Well, ain’t that a classy greeting,” Dean huffed a bitter laugh at the agitated welcome. “But yeah, sounds about right.”
“What is it, kid?” The question was guarded, the note of which sounded off in Dean’s ears. Bobby might be a lot of things but jittery was never one of them.
“I’m in New London, Missouri,” he articulated pinching the bridge of his nose. Bobby’s strange demeanor could wait, he had more urgent crap to deal with right now. “We’ve been investigating this case, people going missing. Except when we got here, it turned out that all of the ones reported had at some time either died or moved out. I thought the whole thing was a bust, but now Sam’s missing and I’m really starting to have second thoughts about it.” Oh please let that be true. “Any theories?”
“Sam?” Bobby’s voice drawled, unnaturally careful and hesitant. “You don’t mean your brother Sam by any chance, do you?”
Dean blinked trying to shake off the sick feeling groveling up his back. “Of course I mean my brother. Jesus, man, you couldn’t have picked a fucking better moment for boozing your way into the morning.”
“Dean,” Bobby’s tone was baffled and alarmed but it wasn’t what grabbed Dean’s attention. There was something dangerous lurking behind this one syllable, something threatening to charge any time soon and he instinctively braced for the blow. ”Sam’s dead. You do realize that son, right?”
Dean stared ahead blankly, the words Sam and dead refusing to combine into anything meaningful. He swallowed hard, trying to fight the white fear that, despite his better judgment, settled somewhere in his stomach. It wasn’t-, it couldn’t-, it didn’t make any sense.
“Bobby,” Dean snapped hoarsely not really trusting his voice, frustration vying with slowly growing terror. “I don’t know what fucking trip you’re flying on but I don’t think I give a shit just about now. Call me when the shit wears off.”
He was about to hang up when Bobby’s voice gripped him again and froze his movement.
“Damn you boy,” it was a sorrowful, aghast appeal. It sounded as if something let lose in the man. “Whatever’s going on in that melon of yours, there ain’t no comfort in it, not a real one, you hear me? Snap out of it kid.”
The words took their time to sink in, left Dean standing paralyzed, and suddenly acutely aware of what they entailed. The caustic remark died on his lips. The scenery seemed to be spiraling around him in distorted rivulets, making him feel dizzy. It was absurd; Sam had been there just yesterday, in all of his snotty glory. Dean was sure. So why the fuck did everything seem to be hidden beyond the fuzz of mist all of the sudden? He leaned against the Impala, letting his body slide down by her side all the way to the ground. Eyes squeezed shut, he cradled his head in his hands in an attempt to stop the fucking chaos that were his thoughts.
“Dean, you there?” The noise was coming from the distance. The phone, right.
“Bobby?” He managed to croak uncertainly, his mouth chalk-dry. He couldn’t overcome the sensation of being put against the wall with a gun to his face and no way of escape.
There were images, popping out from the haze. Yet, menacingly clear. Scenes chasing each other in a breath-stealing crazy race. Fire in the room, on his hands, everywhere. Dancing mockingly in his way, trapping him, chocking him. Blood dripping from the ceiling. The smell. The yell - oh my God that yell - which he couldn’t do anything about and which should have killed him right then. How could he be still alive after hearing something like this? Two coffins, buried together because it’s what Sam would have wanted.
The phone fell from his trembling palm and hit the ground with a hollow clatter, dragging Bobby’s voice and the whole world with itself.
***
When he woke up, Dean was soaked with the pouring rain and really wished he could exercise a shred of control over this fucking tremor that was shaking violently his whole body. It was already dark, the sky bleak and impenetrable, heavy with ominously-looking clouds sending down a steady portion of cold drizzle.
He stood up wincing as the daggers in his muscles attempted to defeat the effort. On the way up, he realized that the humming which had put a curb to his oblivion was apparently confined to the insides of his head rather than yet another part of the external world trying to fuck with him. The phone lying in dirt caught his attention.
Huh.
He bowed to pick it up and almost did a nose dive first into the ground when the world spun unexpectedly at a heart-breaking speed. Dean struggled to keep himself upright looking for support in the side of the Impala. When the disco lights in his vision finally dwindled, he turned around and propped his elbows on the roof of the car. He stood like that for a while, letting the shivers run his body and thinking why the hell not just get in his baby and drive right off the nearest cliff Thelma and Louise style to save himself trouble.
Thelma and Louise, Sam woulda wet his pants.
Sam. Sammy.
He felt he might puke. The bits and pieces of the dream were jarred and vague and rattled but still clear enough to cause his breath to skip. Sam being right there with him, as if nothing had ever happened. Sneezing and bitching. Hunting with him. Alive. Dean clenched his palms into fists and dipped his head between them, pretended that the stinging in his eyes were the raindrops.
After what seemed like hours he got into the car, wondering briefly what the point was anyway. The only thing he could wrap his mind around in a relatively lucid manner right now was finding a bar. Or a liquor store. Whatever popped out first. And then drink himself to the point of not caring, not remembering. Somewhere at the back of his consciousness, Dean knew it never really worked like that, but if nothing else, catching a few hours of booze-induced sleep was as good a way of taking the edge off as any.
The bar happened to show up first. Pulling into a faltering stop, Dean got a blurry notion of visiting the very same place just the other day. The memory, however, felt strange to him, like one of those that people constructed based on childhood yarns, not really sure which parts were true and which made up. It didn’t matter really; it was just another bar in another town in a string of meaningless places he haunted. He made a beeline for the entrance, not giving the hazy recollection as much as a second thought.
Had it not been for that fucked-up dream, Dean would have already been on his way to another kill. He had a vague memory that a hunt turning out to be a bust hadn’t used to bother him so much. Now however, after hearing yet another alleged widow confessing in tears that her husband had left her rather than disappeared in a bloody mist of secrecy made his skin crawl. Sometimes when he thought about it, Dean could see that blind yearning for a kill clear like a neon sign, but most of the time he was simply beyond the point of caring.
He settled at a bar stool and ordered Jack. At the booth to his right sat a nice redhead wearing a top that didn’t leave much room for imagination and sized him up unceremoniously. He thought that having her lips around his dick didn’t sound like a bad idea, but couldn’t find it in himself to make an effort.
A few rounds later he was completely plastered and called it good to go, figuring he would drive the Impala outside this shithole of a town and catch some sleep on the backseat. Dean stood up, waved the hand with a bill stuck between his index and middle fingers at the bartender and after making sure the guy had noticed, left it on the counter and pushed himself up to a wobbly stand. He was about to make it straight to the exit - straight being a huge stretch right now - when a lock of blonde hair caught his attention. Dean froze, not able to turn his gaze away from the slender silhouette bouncing swiftly among the pool tables. The hairs at the nape of his neck rose. There was something off about that chick. Dean had seen her before, but couldn’t for the life of him remember when. His heart was suddenly hammering in his chest as he watched her perch casually on the edge of the table, sending flirtatious half-smiles to a young-looking guy grinning like a brainless retard in response.
Dean made a few absent-minded steps towards the scene, the feeling of anxiety flooding him in cold waves. The irrational need to stop whatever was happening at that pool table felt like a slash and he lunged towards the place not really clear on all the whys but set on trusting his instincts.
Then she turned around, spotted him and Dean didn’t need more of a confirmation that he was right to the fucking core – whatever it was he was right about. The chick’s smile wavered, her interest in the kid drooling at her evaporated, and next thing he knew, she was turning on her heels, making a dash for the back of the bar. A second exit, Dean thought fleetingly.
The certainty was there in its clearest form: no way in hell he could let her slip through his hands. His steps were quick and violent, the alcohol, however, was taking its toll on his game. Focused on the place where she had already managed to disappear, he tripped over a chair and sent it crashing to the floor together with a girl sitting on it.
“Fuck!” He mumbled through his teeth trying to resume the pursuit as fast as possible, not sparing a second glance to the chick he’d just decked, and trying to overcome the general fuck-uppery of his mushy brain.
“You must be fucking out of your mind if you think you can pull a stunt like that and walk away, you piece of shit.”
The guy emerged out of the fuzz and loomed right over his face.
“Watch me,” Dean barked and started to pass the lump standing in his way.
“Terrance, it’s ok, I’m ok, it’s just a drunk. Leave it alone,” the girl babbled scrabbling to her feet.
One look at Terrance and Dean was sure there was no way the giant shitload of fat was leaving it alone. He cursed, sneaked a sight in the direction where he’d sighted the blonde for the last time and regretted it immediately as the guy’s fist made a fierce connection with his jaw.
The blow flung him a few off-balanced steps backwards. Before the stars in Dean’s vision had time to clear off, Terrance was on him again, grappling his shirt and arcing for another smash aimed at his face. Dean ducked and shot a right hook in the guy’s chin. He missed by an inch and it cost him yet another spray of glitter blurring his vision, sending a clear message: Terrance had no problem in hitting the bull’s eye.
Dean stumbled and would have fallen flat on his ass, but somebody pushed him from behind. He was running on pure instinct, his head spinning, and eyes unable to distinguish any shape beyond the mark. Shaking his head to clear his vision proved to be counterproductive so Dean abandoned the idea, grabbed the first weapon at hand, and smashed the wooden chair against the solid frame in front of him.
Terrance fell flat on the floor and as Dean lifted the chair up once again it crossed his mind that it had been barely a baby slap and next time he needed to pick his hunts more carefully. That was the last thought he had before the blow to the back of his head turned everything off.
***
When he came to, his first realization was of an overpowering stench. Dean crunched his nose and motioned to get up, the movement, however, waking up a thunder in his head, stopping him cold. He waited until the pain subsided a bit and then rolled slowly to the side. Discovering that he was smacked against the wall, he used it as a leverage to painstakingly lift himself up. As soon as his position was changed from horizontal to vertical, a cold wave of nausea claimed his undivided attention. Droplets of sweat mixed up with the raindrops as his stomach lurched menacingly. Easy, breathe in through your nose, breathe out through your mouth, in and out.
When he felt he might actually be able to keep the contents of his stomach in place, Dean took a look around. The wall turned out to be not a wall but a freaking dumpster. A rough examination of his skull with prodding fingers confirmed his first assumption - the back of his head could use a few stitches. His face was sore and he could feel his right eye beginning to swell, but other than that, he seemed fine. Whoever it was that sent him out cold must have dragged his sorry ass into this alley. Out of sight.
Dean checked for his wallet and documents, trying to shake off the nagging feeling of déjà vu. Everything, fake IDs included, was right where it should be. He couldn’t be sure who had stopped him from smashing Terrance against the floor, a bartender or just one of the more heroically tuned patrons, but Dean, to his own surprise, found it in himself to be relieved and maybe even a bit grateful to the guy.
He walked towards the entrance of the alley and discovered that the yucky, narrow cat tray was tucked right behind the bar. Dean dragged himself to the Impala, turned the key in the ignition and let her idle, trying to warm himself up.
He wasn’t planning on leaving just yet. The alcohol was still running in his blood and Dean wished he hadn’t drunk so much. Not only did he have a splitting headache and a bloody gash on his skull which no way he was stitching without help, but he was also about to top it all with a massive hangover already clawing its way through the alcohol fog. He needed to regroup, find his bearing, and figure this shit out. Back in the bar, he hadn’t analyzed, he’d caught the smell and followed it, hadn’t thought about second-guessing his hunter’s instinct. Not exactly a novelty to him but the nagging sick sensation that he’d missed something was an entirely different story. It was frustrating and confusing and felt majorly amiss on more than one level, but the more he grappled to chase it in his muddy mind the more elusive it became.
Dean got out of the car and rummaged in the trunk in search of Dad’s journal when his eyes were caught by an odd-looking sawed-off. Dean could recite the list of his weapons even if woken up in the middle of the night and this one wasn’t a part of the collection. Yet, it seemed remotely familiar. Dean’s mouth was suddenly chalk-dry. Without thinking he reached out his hand, surprised to see the quaver there, and gripped the gun. The feeling he was struck with made him think of a really forceful recoil, except no gun had been shot yet. Instincts kicking, Dean immediately dropped the sawed-off, but it didn’t change anything about the growing terror it had triggered. Like through a thick layer of gloom, he saw a bench, a park, a motel. Felt the surge of fear and despair, urgent and burning, and so much different from the numb void that had been ingrained in him seemingly such a long time ago. He watched the dream he’d had, rewound and played all over again. Except, it wasn’t. No dream could be so real. He staggered on his feet, propped himself against the open trunk and puked next to his feet.
The retching subsided, but the gut-wrenching cavalcade of images, memories, kept scampering in his head. They overflew and leaped over each other, contradictory and befuddling.
Jesus Christ, you’re losing it Winchester.
Dean straightened up, rubbed his eyes, thought that maybe the blow to his head was the one-too-many that had tipped the scales and the idea made a grim chuckle rise deep in his throat. He grabbed an old T-shirt dirty with something that might have been grease or might have been monster goo and picked up the shotgun. Dean was almost sure it didn’t make any difference but was careful to touch the gun only through a layer of fabric anyway. He threw the weapon back into the trunk together with the piece of rag, snapped up the journal before slamming the lid, then walked back to the driver seat.
The rain picked up tempo and the steady volley of heavy raindrops sheeting down against the roof clumped in the interior. Dean listened to the rambling, not seeing eyes focused on something ahead, the journal sitting in his lap untouched. Deranged feelings and thoughts brawled in his head, but most of all, he was just scared; panicking scared. It could have been a curse, a lingering souvenir of his last hunt, or it could have been budding madness. It could have been anything supernaturally-related or not. But it could have been truth. Hell, those memories, they felt true and the crazy that hope this idea entailed was scaring him shitless. It was the kind of hope that wreaked havoc, leaving nothing but bloody debris behind.
Dean dragged a clammy hand down his face, let out a shaky breath.
Come on, get your shit together. Think.
It was John Winchester’s voice that resounded in his head and it hit just the right tone. The self-imposed cold-mindedness felt precarious and Dean knew better than to rely too heavily on his composure right now, but it was too late to put out the tiny spark that set him in motion. Vying in his head were two versions of the same story: a town in Missouri with an unsettling number of people going missing, except, one featured Sam and the other one grief. Nevertheless, the pattern seemed the same – families reporting disappearances only to retract later on, admitting that their loved ones had either left or died.
Sam died. Sam died with that horrible scream and Dean couldn’t do anything to stop it.
Dean got out of the car, hurling the door violently behind himself. Yanking open the back one, he started ransacking through the pile of mess collected on and under the seats. He needed a proof, something to let him hold on to his sanity. There was an impressive collection of take-out bags, a few pieces of garments, some long lost knives, but abso-fucking-lutely nothing that would render Sam’s recent presence.
“Fuck! Fuckin’ fuck!”
Dean slammed the door and kicked it savagely causing the metal to dent.
“Fuck,” he added desperately, leaning against the car on his outstretched arms, dipping his head.
Then something caught his attention; a mere scratch right next to the lock, standing out in the dim light pouring from the bar.
“Huh.”
Dean rubbed a finger against it, squatted down and studied the tiny line disrupting the black of the lacquer.
The lock had been tampered with.
The twitch of realization sent a cold flash of white anger down his spine. It was all the confirmation that he needed.
Part 2
Author: judith_88_g
Recipient:
brihana25Rating: PG-13
Warnings: None
Author's Notes: Mad props to a lovely
mamapranayama who agreed to beta it and did it at the speed of light. Also, to spangielka, your pickups and suggestions are invaluable. Any remaining errors are all mine. Summary: Dean wakes up on a park bench, not really clear on how he ended up here and why exactly his hangover seems roughly the size of the Grand Canyon. Unfortunately, it turns out to be just a prelude to his troubles as after coming back to the motel, he discovers that Sam is nowhere to be found.
Jesus fuck.
The sun managed to dazzle him even despite closed eyes, piercing through his temples and boring into his brain. Dean moved experimentally, and almost ended up in falling off… What was that anyway? A bench?
The fuck?
He hauled himself up. His stomach protested alarmingly at the sudden movement and Dean spat next to his feet, the taste suggesting that something had died in his mouth and already started rotting. When he lifted his head he saw a pair of enormously huge hazel eyes fringed by two scrawny plaits.
“Jessica!”
The high-pitched voice felt like a wallop to his severely abused head and it was instantly followed by a slender hand grabbing little Jessica by the shoulder and steering her into another direction. Attached to the hand was another pair of hazel, but much more castigating eyes. He must look as craptastic as he felt. Haphazard scanning of the area confirmed his first assumption – he was in the park. It was morning, still relatively early from the look of it, but people had already started sauntering and jogging up and down the paths. He had no idea how the hell a park bench had become his bed for the night and he didn’t remember drinking enough to get himself into this state. Still, judging by his current situation, he might have overestimated his capabilities.
He felt his pockets for the wallet and phone. Luckily, they were exactly where they should be. A U.S. Marshal’s badge and three driving licenses with three different names still on him. Jesus. How could he let that happen? Especially after that thing in Milwaukee. The very thought of being caught with fake documents while lying unconscious on a park bench made him want to punch something extra hard.
Dean ran a hand through his hair and tried to catalogue the events from last night. There was a bar, some beer and scotch – really not that much. There was a brassy blonde playing pool that he had willingly lost to only to buy her a drink in exchange. He had a foggy memory of leaving with her and that was about it, nothing more, not until this bench. He hoped that he had passed out after or at least before getting down to business.
Dean stood up, gave himself a while to overcome the dizziness and wondered briefly if maybe it was just karma laughing in his face for leaving his brother’s flu-ridden ass back at the motel. For once, the hunt turning out to be a complete misfire had actually been welcome, with Sam running a fever of over 100 degrees his nights were better spent sleeping. For Sam, anyway, not so much for Dean.
He walked back to the motel, grabbing some take-out on the way, which neither him nor his brother would probably even touch. Sammy never showed any appetite while he was sick and it was usually more about forcing food into him like into a freaking goose than actual eating. Still, breakfast was as good a peace offering as any.
He headed straight to Sam’s room – the motel had been overcrowded and they couldn’t offer any doubles. Somewhere in the back of his consciousness, Dean cherished a small hope that Sam would be still asleep, oblivious to the fact that his brother had spent a night on a fucking park bench with a warrant hanging over his ass. He shook his head and huffed a resigned laugh before yanking the door handle, yeah, that kind of luck wasn’t usually par for the course for him.
“Jesus, Sammy, learn to lock the fucking door!” He snapped, entering the room and feeling the rush of anger at the glaring neglect. Was it a freaking pestilence of idiocy? They better kick it in the ass soon cause that one was more deadly than all the supernatural shit standing together in one line.
“Ok bitch, nap time’s over,” Dean approached the still unresponsive bundle of sheets curled up on the bed and tapped the place where his brother’s legs should be.
The bundle moved and groaned and the sound was so out of place that for a moment, Dean couldn’t situate it in his mushy mind.
“What the fuck?” From behind the sheet appeared a round, stubbly face bearing the signs of a hangover even worse than Dean’s.
“Hey, sorry man. Must’ve got the wrong room,” Dean said perplexed and left hastily accompanied by a muffled fucktard.
He swept a fleeting glance along the ranks of doors and their numbers, he could swear it was the right one. Then again, his current mental abilities definitely left room for improvement so he could probably give himself the benefit of doubt.
Dean fished out his cell, flipped it open and called Sam. He waited through four rings before slamming it closed again.
Stomping angrily, he aimed for the reception desk, no point in opening random doors and scaring people inside. Sitting behind the counter, engrossed in a paper was the same clerk they had met while checking in two days ago. Good, at least it’ll save him some talking - talking still sounded like too much of an effort.
“Hi there.”
The guy started at the unforeseen noise, lifted his head and smiled politely at Dean’s sight. It was a huge man with an unnaturally infantile face, which created an uncanny combination.
“Hi, what can I do for ya?”
“Well, I had a kinda rough night,” Dean offered massaging the back of his head in a futile attempt to hush the ringing threatening to blow up his skull from the inside.
“Yeah, that’ll be clear,” the guy threw in with a commiserating smile.
“The thing is, I can’t quite remember which room my brother is in,” Dean forced his features to form into something similar to a coy smile but it didn’t help the incongruous feel the admission evoked. “Thought you could help me with that.”
The clerk lifted his eyebrows in a silent question, “brother, you say?”
“Yeah, the tall guy that was with me the other day.”
The guy’s face took even more baffled expression, he shook his head and huffed a laugh, “that sure was a hell of a night you had there, pal.”
Dean glared at him and considered dashing over the counter to swipe that stupid smile away from his ridiculously childish face. ‘Antsy’ was a galloping understatement to describe his state right now.
“The room number?” He barked instead.
The clerk must have seen something in Dean’s expression because his good mood seemed to ebb away in a second. “There was no one with you,” he shrugged as if he was pronouncing something blatantly obvious.
Dean wasn’t prepared for it; the words hit him with a force of a baseball bat applied to the back of the head stopping all his thoughts cold. Before he knew, he was holding the guy by the rags of his shirt, spluttering in his face, “What the fuck are you talking about?”
“When you checked in, you were alone. One single, number 7, that’s it,” the clerk’s speech became a stream of chaotic jabbering, he lifted his palms in a gesture of surrender. “I swear, you were alone. What do you want from me?”
Dean pushed the man away, the momentum sending the clerk against the wall with a loud thump. His eyes were huge with fear and acrimony. Dean looked at him, took two steps backwards and tried to calm himself enough to figure out what the fuck was going on. He studied the man’s perplexed face in search of any signs of a set up. No, as far as he could tell the guy wasn’t lying, which only heightened the cold feeling settling up in his chest. Something was seriously wrong, the visions of Yellow Eyed Demon and the recent possession dancing chaotically in Dean’s mind.
Fuck.
“I need you to tell me exactly what you remember from the night I checked in,” Dean struggled to keep his voice down however, he could see by the clerk’s expression that it wasn’t one of his best performances.
“I don’t know,” the man stammered nervously. “You came, I gave you the key, it’s what I do, I write down names and give keys, fuck man.”
“I want to see these names. You got cameras here?”
“No, I mean, yes, but they don’t work anyway.”
“Ok,” Dean said trying to control the anger bubbling dangerously just beyond the surface. “Names?”
The clerk slid the book that was sitting at the corner of the desk towards Dean and swiftly moved back to his place against the wall.
“Here,” he said weakly after the distance between the two of them was again somewhat acceptable.
Dean opened it and studied the rows of names, he found the one he had checked in under however, there was no trace of Sammy. The cold fear gripped his chest even tighter, making breathing much harder than usual. What the fuck was going on?
“Anything strange happen recently?” He asked not turning his sight from the series of meaningless names, his voice a poorly subdued gritty vehemence.
“Strange, like…”
“Shady people, things, cold spots, electricity shorts.”
“No, no. Not really.”
Dean lifted his head and looked the clerk straight in the eyes, “You better not be lying about this ‘cause if you are, I’m gonna find out and then we’re gonna have one hell of a different conversation, you understand?”
The clerk was standing paralyzed, not moving an inch.
“Do you understand?” Dean repeated, tersely pronouncing each word.
“Yes, I do. I understand,” he snapped out nodding vigorously.
“Good. I’ll leave the keys in the door,” Dean said turning around.
He walked out into the parking lot and headed straight to his room, too many thoughts battling in his head. Sam disappeared. Again. Didn’t pick up his phone. The string of disquieting images and mind-cringing ideas were popping in front of his eyes completely disregardful of him trying to shut them out, wreathed in the mist of blind terror.
He grabbed his duffel, took out the colt and stashed it behind his belt, the feel of the cold ivory handle on his lower back settling him only slightly. He needed to do something. Now. With the phone again in his hand, Dean chose a number and listened to the hollow ringing not followed by any voice. He left the room and went to the Impala parked just outside the door. Dropped the bag in the backseat, leaned against the side of the car, and kept trying to reach Sam. After the fifth botched attempt he slammed the phone and pressed it to his forehead, concentrating on winning some control over himself and refraining from dashing the damn thing against the asphalt.
He looked at the rank of doors situated alongside the parking lot, all painted in mildew green, all closed and concealing their interiors from his sight. He exchanged the phone in his hand for a gun and forged towards the first door.
“Fuck this shit,” he muttered under his breath and then hollered, “Sammy!”
The door wasn’t locked but instead of Sam, there was a couple inside, their faces frozen in terror at the sudden entry. Dean didn’t spare them more than a second and moved on to the next door. This one he had to kick open before seeing what’s inside. Methodically, he proceeded checking one room after another, some people emerging from behind their doors looking petrified, a sea of similar faces he really didn’t give a shit about now. There was no sign of Sam.
“Stop where you are, you fucking psycho!”
Dean froze in front of yet another green entry and turned around slowly to see the clerk standing not farther than fifteen feet away, a sawed-off in his hands.
“Somebody call the police!” he bellowed to the already impressive crowd of people gathering outside their rooms. There was a hint of barely contained hysteria to his voice. “You! Drop the gun!”
“Listen to me feisty, I’m having a really bad day already and you’re working on making it even worse. And trust me when I say, you really don’t want that.”
“Shut up!” The clerk yelled correcting his grip on the shotgun. “I said drop your gun.”
“Heard you the first time,” Dean muttered, making a move as if lowering the colt. Instead, he used the movement to hide the hand with the gun behind one bended knee, the cheapest trick in the book but the guy didn’t look the type to have been schooled in the area. Next thing, Dean was pointing the colt at the man’s fossilized, round face.
“Put the gun on the ground and kick it in my direction,” Dean demanded in a firm tone.
The man stomped nervously but didn’t lower the sawed-off.
“I don’t want to shoot you but I will, just give me a reason. I promise I can put a bullet in your head before you find your finger on the trigger.”
That finally got the aimed effect and the clerk did as he’d been told. Dean bowed to pick it up, suddenly painfully aware of all the eyes peering into him. The cops were probably on their way, so without a word he started walking hastily towards the Impala while still keeping his eyes on the clerk. He saluted before entering the vehicle, put the car in the reverse, and left the scene as hurriedly as possible.
Way to start a day.
***
“Hi Bobby, it’s Dean.”
“Jesus Christ, boy, are you ok?”
“Well, ain’t that a classy greeting,” Dean huffed a bitter laugh at the agitated welcome. “But yeah, sounds about right.”
“What is it, kid?” The question was guarded, the note of which sounded off in Dean’s ears. Bobby might be a lot of things but jittery was never one of them.
“I’m in New London, Missouri,” he articulated pinching the bridge of his nose. Bobby’s strange demeanor could wait, he had more urgent crap to deal with right now. “We’ve been investigating this case, people going missing. Except when we got here, it turned out that all of the ones reported had at some time either died or moved out. I thought the whole thing was a bust, but now Sam’s missing and I’m really starting to have second thoughts about it.” Oh please let that be true. “Any theories?”
“Sam?” Bobby’s voice drawled, unnaturally careful and hesitant. “You don’t mean your brother Sam by any chance, do you?”
Dean blinked trying to shake off the sick feeling groveling up his back. “Of course I mean my brother. Jesus, man, you couldn’t have picked a fucking better moment for boozing your way into the morning.”
“Dean,” Bobby’s tone was baffled and alarmed but it wasn’t what grabbed Dean’s attention. There was something dangerous lurking behind this one syllable, something threatening to charge any time soon and he instinctively braced for the blow. ”Sam’s dead. You do realize that son, right?”
Dean stared ahead blankly, the words Sam and dead refusing to combine into anything meaningful. He swallowed hard, trying to fight the white fear that, despite his better judgment, settled somewhere in his stomach. It wasn’t-, it couldn’t-, it didn’t make any sense.
“Bobby,” Dean snapped hoarsely not really trusting his voice, frustration vying with slowly growing terror. “I don’t know what fucking trip you’re flying on but I don’t think I give a shit just about now. Call me when the shit wears off.”
He was about to hang up when Bobby’s voice gripped him again and froze his movement.
“Damn you boy,” it was a sorrowful, aghast appeal. It sounded as if something let lose in the man. “Whatever’s going on in that melon of yours, there ain’t no comfort in it, not a real one, you hear me? Snap out of it kid.”
The words took their time to sink in, left Dean standing paralyzed, and suddenly acutely aware of what they entailed. The caustic remark died on his lips. The scenery seemed to be spiraling around him in distorted rivulets, making him feel dizzy. It was absurd; Sam had been there just yesterday, in all of his snotty glory. Dean was sure. So why the fuck did everything seem to be hidden beyond the fuzz of mist all of the sudden? He leaned against the Impala, letting his body slide down by her side all the way to the ground. Eyes squeezed shut, he cradled his head in his hands in an attempt to stop the fucking chaos that were his thoughts.
“Dean, you there?” The noise was coming from the distance. The phone, right.
“Bobby?” He managed to croak uncertainly, his mouth chalk-dry. He couldn’t overcome the sensation of being put against the wall with a gun to his face and no way of escape.
There were images, popping out from the haze. Yet, menacingly clear. Scenes chasing each other in a breath-stealing crazy race. Fire in the room, on his hands, everywhere. Dancing mockingly in his way, trapping him, chocking him. Blood dripping from the ceiling. The smell. The yell - oh my God that yell - which he couldn’t do anything about and which should have killed him right then. How could he be still alive after hearing something like this? Two coffins, buried together because it’s what Sam would have wanted.
The phone fell from his trembling palm and hit the ground with a hollow clatter, dragging Bobby’s voice and the whole world with itself.
***
When he woke up, Dean was soaked with the pouring rain and really wished he could exercise a shred of control over this fucking tremor that was shaking violently his whole body. It was already dark, the sky bleak and impenetrable, heavy with ominously-looking clouds sending down a steady portion of cold drizzle.
He stood up wincing as the daggers in his muscles attempted to defeat the effort. On the way up, he realized that the humming which had put a curb to his oblivion was apparently confined to the insides of his head rather than yet another part of the external world trying to fuck with him. The phone lying in dirt caught his attention.
Huh.
He bowed to pick it up and almost did a nose dive first into the ground when the world spun unexpectedly at a heart-breaking speed. Dean struggled to keep himself upright looking for support in the side of the Impala. When the disco lights in his vision finally dwindled, he turned around and propped his elbows on the roof of the car. He stood like that for a while, letting the shivers run his body and thinking why the hell not just get in his baby and drive right off the nearest cliff Thelma and Louise style to save himself trouble.
Thelma and Louise, Sam woulda wet his pants.
Sam. Sammy.
He felt he might puke. The bits and pieces of the dream were jarred and vague and rattled but still clear enough to cause his breath to skip. Sam being right there with him, as if nothing had ever happened. Sneezing and bitching. Hunting with him. Alive. Dean clenched his palms into fists and dipped his head between them, pretended that the stinging in his eyes were the raindrops.
After what seemed like hours he got into the car, wondering briefly what the point was anyway. The only thing he could wrap his mind around in a relatively lucid manner right now was finding a bar. Or a liquor store. Whatever popped out first. And then drink himself to the point of not caring, not remembering. Somewhere at the back of his consciousness, Dean knew it never really worked like that, but if nothing else, catching a few hours of booze-induced sleep was as good a way of taking the edge off as any.
The bar happened to show up first. Pulling into a faltering stop, Dean got a blurry notion of visiting the very same place just the other day. The memory, however, felt strange to him, like one of those that people constructed based on childhood yarns, not really sure which parts were true and which made up. It didn’t matter really; it was just another bar in another town in a string of meaningless places he haunted. He made a beeline for the entrance, not giving the hazy recollection as much as a second thought.
Had it not been for that fucked-up dream, Dean would have already been on his way to another kill. He had a vague memory that a hunt turning out to be a bust hadn’t used to bother him so much. Now however, after hearing yet another alleged widow confessing in tears that her husband had left her rather than disappeared in a bloody mist of secrecy made his skin crawl. Sometimes when he thought about it, Dean could see that blind yearning for a kill clear like a neon sign, but most of the time he was simply beyond the point of caring.
He settled at a bar stool and ordered Jack. At the booth to his right sat a nice redhead wearing a top that didn’t leave much room for imagination and sized him up unceremoniously. He thought that having her lips around his dick didn’t sound like a bad idea, but couldn’t find it in himself to make an effort.
A few rounds later he was completely plastered and called it good to go, figuring he would drive the Impala outside this shithole of a town and catch some sleep on the backseat. Dean stood up, waved the hand with a bill stuck between his index and middle fingers at the bartender and after making sure the guy had noticed, left it on the counter and pushed himself up to a wobbly stand. He was about to make it straight to the exit - straight being a huge stretch right now - when a lock of blonde hair caught his attention. Dean froze, not able to turn his gaze away from the slender silhouette bouncing swiftly among the pool tables. The hairs at the nape of his neck rose. There was something off about that chick. Dean had seen her before, but couldn’t for the life of him remember when. His heart was suddenly hammering in his chest as he watched her perch casually on the edge of the table, sending flirtatious half-smiles to a young-looking guy grinning like a brainless retard in response.
Dean made a few absent-minded steps towards the scene, the feeling of anxiety flooding him in cold waves. The irrational need to stop whatever was happening at that pool table felt like a slash and he lunged towards the place not really clear on all the whys but set on trusting his instincts.
Then she turned around, spotted him and Dean didn’t need more of a confirmation that he was right to the fucking core – whatever it was he was right about. The chick’s smile wavered, her interest in the kid drooling at her evaporated, and next thing he knew, she was turning on her heels, making a dash for the back of the bar. A second exit, Dean thought fleetingly.
The certainty was there in its clearest form: no way in hell he could let her slip through his hands. His steps were quick and violent, the alcohol, however, was taking its toll on his game. Focused on the place where she had already managed to disappear, he tripped over a chair and sent it crashing to the floor together with a girl sitting on it.
“Fuck!” He mumbled through his teeth trying to resume the pursuit as fast as possible, not sparing a second glance to the chick he’d just decked, and trying to overcome the general fuck-uppery of his mushy brain.
“You must be fucking out of your mind if you think you can pull a stunt like that and walk away, you piece of shit.”
The guy emerged out of the fuzz and loomed right over his face.
“Watch me,” Dean barked and started to pass the lump standing in his way.
“Terrance, it’s ok, I’m ok, it’s just a drunk. Leave it alone,” the girl babbled scrabbling to her feet.
One look at Terrance and Dean was sure there was no way the giant shitload of fat was leaving it alone. He cursed, sneaked a sight in the direction where he’d sighted the blonde for the last time and regretted it immediately as the guy’s fist made a fierce connection with his jaw.
The blow flung him a few off-balanced steps backwards. Before the stars in Dean’s vision had time to clear off, Terrance was on him again, grappling his shirt and arcing for another smash aimed at his face. Dean ducked and shot a right hook in the guy’s chin. He missed by an inch and it cost him yet another spray of glitter blurring his vision, sending a clear message: Terrance had no problem in hitting the bull’s eye.
Dean stumbled and would have fallen flat on his ass, but somebody pushed him from behind. He was running on pure instinct, his head spinning, and eyes unable to distinguish any shape beyond the mark. Shaking his head to clear his vision proved to be counterproductive so Dean abandoned the idea, grabbed the first weapon at hand, and smashed the wooden chair against the solid frame in front of him.
Terrance fell flat on the floor and as Dean lifted the chair up once again it crossed his mind that it had been barely a baby slap and next time he needed to pick his hunts more carefully. That was the last thought he had before the blow to the back of his head turned everything off.
***
When he came to, his first realization was of an overpowering stench. Dean crunched his nose and motioned to get up, the movement, however, waking up a thunder in his head, stopping him cold. He waited until the pain subsided a bit and then rolled slowly to the side. Discovering that he was smacked against the wall, he used it as a leverage to painstakingly lift himself up. As soon as his position was changed from horizontal to vertical, a cold wave of nausea claimed his undivided attention. Droplets of sweat mixed up with the raindrops as his stomach lurched menacingly. Easy, breathe in through your nose, breathe out through your mouth, in and out.
When he felt he might actually be able to keep the contents of his stomach in place, Dean took a look around. The wall turned out to be not a wall but a freaking dumpster. A rough examination of his skull with prodding fingers confirmed his first assumption - the back of his head could use a few stitches. His face was sore and he could feel his right eye beginning to swell, but other than that, he seemed fine. Whoever it was that sent him out cold must have dragged his sorry ass into this alley. Out of sight.
Dean checked for his wallet and documents, trying to shake off the nagging feeling of déjà vu. Everything, fake IDs included, was right where it should be. He couldn’t be sure who had stopped him from smashing Terrance against the floor, a bartender or just one of the more heroically tuned patrons, but Dean, to his own surprise, found it in himself to be relieved and maybe even a bit grateful to the guy.
He walked towards the entrance of the alley and discovered that the yucky, narrow cat tray was tucked right behind the bar. Dean dragged himself to the Impala, turned the key in the ignition and let her idle, trying to warm himself up.
He wasn’t planning on leaving just yet. The alcohol was still running in his blood and Dean wished he hadn’t drunk so much. Not only did he have a splitting headache and a bloody gash on his skull which no way he was stitching without help, but he was also about to top it all with a massive hangover already clawing its way through the alcohol fog. He needed to regroup, find his bearing, and figure this shit out. Back in the bar, he hadn’t analyzed, he’d caught the smell and followed it, hadn’t thought about second-guessing his hunter’s instinct. Not exactly a novelty to him but the nagging sick sensation that he’d missed something was an entirely different story. It was frustrating and confusing and felt majorly amiss on more than one level, but the more he grappled to chase it in his muddy mind the more elusive it became.
Dean got out of the car and rummaged in the trunk in search of Dad’s journal when his eyes were caught by an odd-looking sawed-off. Dean could recite the list of his weapons even if woken up in the middle of the night and this one wasn’t a part of the collection. Yet, it seemed remotely familiar. Dean’s mouth was suddenly chalk-dry. Without thinking he reached out his hand, surprised to see the quaver there, and gripped the gun. The feeling he was struck with made him think of a really forceful recoil, except no gun had been shot yet. Instincts kicking, Dean immediately dropped the sawed-off, but it didn’t change anything about the growing terror it had triggered. Like through a thick layer of gloom, he saw a bench, a park, a motel. Felt the surge of fear and despair, urgent and burning, and so much different from the numb void that had been ingrained in him seemingly such a long time ago. He watched the dream he’d had, rewound and played all over again. Except, it wasn’t. No dream could be so real. He staggered on his feet, propped himself against the open trunk and puked next to his feet.
The retching subsided, but the gut-wrenching cavalcade of images, memories, kept scampering in his head. They overflew and leaped over each other, contradictory and befuddling.
Jesus Christ, you’re losing it Winchester.
Dean straightened up, rubbed his eyes, thought that maybe the blow to his head was the one-too-many that had tipped the scales and the idea made a grim chuckle rise deep in his throat. He grabbed an old T-shirt dirty with something that might have been grease or might have been monster goo and picked up the shotgun. Dean was almost sure it didn’t make any difference but was careful to touch the gun only through a layer of fabric anyway. He threw the weapon back into the trunk together with the piece of rag, snapped up the journal before slamming the lid, then walked back to the driver seat.
The rain picked up tempo and the steady volley of heavy raindrops sheeting down against the roof clumped in the interior. Dean listened to the rambling, not seeing eyes focused on something ahead, the journal sitting in his lap untouched. Deranged feelings and thoughts brawled in his head, but most of all, he was just scared; panicking scared. It could have been a curse, a lingering souvenir of his last hunt, or it could have been budding madness. It could have been anything supernaturally-related or not. But it could have been truth. Hell, those memories, they felt true and the crazy that hope this idea entailed was scaring him shitless. It was the kind of hope that wreaked havoc, leaving nothing but bloody debris behind.
Dean dragged a clammy hand down his face, let out a shaky breath.
Come on, get your shit together. Think.
It was John Winchester’s voice that resounded in his head and it hit just the right tone. The self-imposed cold-mindedness felt precarious and Dean knew better than to rely too heavily on his composure right now, but it was too late to put out the tiny spark that set him in motion. Vying in his head were two versions of the same story: a town in Missouri with an unsettling number of people going missing, except, one featured Sam and the other one grief. Nevertheless, the pattern seemed the same – families reporting disappearances only to retract later on, admitting that their loved ones had either left or died.
Sam died. Sam died with that horrible scream and Dean couldn’t do anything to stop it.
Dean got out of the car, hurling the door violently behind himself. Yanking open the back one, he started ransacking through the pile of mess collected on and under the seats. He needed a proof, something to let him hold on to his sanity. There was an impressive collection of take-out bags, a few pieces of garments, some long lost knives, but abso-fucking-lutely nothing that would render Sam’s recent presence.
“Fuck! Fuckin’ fuck!”
Dean slammed the door and kicked it savagely causing the metal to dent.
“Fuck,” he added desperately, leaning against the car on his outstretched arms, dipping his head.
Then something caught his attention; a mere scratch right next to the lock, standing out in the dim light pouring from the bar.
“Huh.”
Dean rubbed a finger against it, squatted down and studied the tiny line disrupting the black of the lacquer.
The lock had been tampered with.
The twitch of realization sent a cold flash of white anger down his spine. It was all the confirmation that he needed.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}