The Void, 5.1/? [PG13] Dean, John, Sam, Bobby
Dean leaned into his brother’s shoulder, grateful for the break from their half-assed ‘exploration’ of Bobby’s scrap yard. Dean had really, really not liked the idea of going outside. Sit on the couch in the dark and the silence or stagger around the yard leaning on his kid brother for some semblance of balance? Despite being an all-action-all-the-time kind of guy, Dean would rather have sat around bored out of his mind than stumble around the uneven terrain. This whole thing was beyond freaky and, though he’d never admit it, he preferred to be somewhere he could almost fool himself into believing everything was okay. The feel of Bobby’s couch was familiar, the rumble of the Impala comforting, hell, he’d take the scratchy polyester of a hotel bed over the ever-shifting mud and rock of Bobby’s backyard.
But, here he was, leaned against his brother somewhere in what he had been told was the scrap yard. He could feel the slight tug of the breeze against his shirt, invisible fingers waving through the short spikes of his hair. Sammy’s chest rose and fell beside him, his shoulder moving slightly with what Dean assumed were the turnings of his head. Other than that… nothing. It was like being in one of those black holes they talked about in science class when there weren’t any hot girls there to draw Dean’s attention. No light, no sound, no nothing: a complete void.
The first few moments after he fell into nothingness were etched vividly into his memory. He thought it was a dream at first - one of those freaky-ass nightmares where it’s just you in the darkness searching for someone. For Dean it had usually been Sammy or Dad in the distance, calling his name. Only this time there was no one. He had reached out, swinging his arms through the darkness when he felt the slimy textures of leaves below him, their wetness soaking through his jeans.
Then he remembered. It was so vivid, the memory of the witch pinning him down with her butt-ugly old body. She was half his size, her saggy skin flopping as she fought to press him into the damp earth, but she’d caught him by off guard with some nasty-ass gunk and he’d been too busy trying not to choke to death to properly fight her off.
Suddenly the world had slowed down and he’d been struck by the sharp tang of the wet air, the stench of the rotting leaves, the dull throb of blood in his ears, the face of the wrinkled old hag. He felt his body betray him, laying heavy in the dirt as his senses screamed, mind flipping out as he realized she'd whammied him. He tried to get up, to struggle, to move his pinky finger, but nothing responded to his frantic mental commands. Even as she let go and leaned away, fingers reaching out of his sight lines to procure an earthen pot, he lay helpless. His forehead tingled as she drew her finger across it, swirling and dotting across his skin in some intricate pattern that was completely beyond him. Everything around him faded, drawing back into the distance until he could only really follow the brush of her finger on his face.
There was a report - a sharp sound that shattered the world around him - then nothing.
He woke to think everything was a dream. What he wouldn’t have done for the whole thing to be just some freakily realistic nightmare.
But he could feel the wet leaves below him, the cool air brushing his shirt.
A tap on his shoulder.
“Get the fuck away from me,” he growled, or he thought he’d growled it. He felt for his throat, trying to work out why he hadn’t said anything. He could feel the buzz of his vocal cords, but he couldn’t hear himself speak. He tried to talk, but his voice was lost to the silence that surrounded him. The silence that was framed in darkness - complete and utter darkness.
He panicked. He knew his father would have killed him for it, but honestly, what the fuck else was he supposed to do? His assailant was closing in with some sort of freaky voodoo and Dean couldn’t see or hear her. Hell, he couldn’t see or hear himself. She took him by the shoulders to force the next dose of her bodily-fluid juice down his throat and he did the only thing he could - he fought.
His Dad had taught him to fight blindfolded, once upon a time. It had been both a terrifying and oddly awesome experience. How cool was it that he could spot a person coming just by the sound of their feet? By the rustle of their clothing? By the rasp of their breath?
Had he been able to hear any of those things, he would have been okay. But no, here he was in the middle of the forest in a black pit of nothingness. He was fighting a witch who he couldn’t see, couldn’t hear, and who was currently kicking his ass.
Wait.
He weighed twice as much as her, had easily three times her muscle, and now he had his breath back. There was no way in hell she was the one pinning him to the forest floor.
Confusion stilled his struggles as his mind reeled. The hands on his arms were familiar - he knew this hold.
“Dad?” he called, or thought he called. The silence rang in his ears. He tried again. He tried a few more times.
The pressure on his back was gone, but the hand was reaching for him again. He could feel it hovering there, making the hair on the back of his arm stand to attention.
Slowly, painstakingly, Dean reached for it. It took a few frustrating misses for him to locate the massive, calloused palm.
“Dad?” he asked once more, “’zat you?”
He wasn’t sure if he’d spoken for sure that time, but then he wasn’t sure of anything anymore. He could feel his brain sputtering and spitting as it tried to process as much as possible from the touch of that one hand.
“Dad?” he asked again, no response forthcoming.
It hit him, then. He was asking for a response he couldn’t understand. For all he knew his father was probably screaming at him to get up, demanding to know what Dean was tripping on that he’d try to take down his own father.
Assuming this was his father.
Then his hand was moving of it’s own accord, guided up to the scratchy side of what must have been a face.
He might have asked who it was, or he might not have. He wasn’t sure anymore.
Until the face he was holding nodded. It nodded into his palm.
Yes.
This was Dad.
Dean drew a shaky breath, struggling to sit himself up in some semblance of attention. No slouching, no slacking off - especially not after he’d just tried to beat up his old man.
“What the fuck is going on?” he asked, though that too could just have been in his mind. He felt his father pushing him upright, helping him back up to the proper soldier’s position.
Well, it wasn’t like he expected an answer anyway.
So he reached up for his father’s face, trying to figure out how angry his old man was. In the movie this always worked for the blind people - just feel the features and you can figure out how a person looks.
Heh, no. Not so easy. All he knew was that there were two eyes, a nose, a mouth, and some scrubble. It wasn’t helpful, dammit, it just drove in how useless he was.
Then he drew his fingers over his father’s mouth.
It was moving, and it was spewing air.
Fuck, was all Dean could think as he brought his fingers back to his own mouth. He felt the question form on his lips, felt them struggle beneath his fingers. The air tickled as it brushed the mud caked on his hands.
His father must have understood because he nodded into Dean’s palm.
It was too much. It was too fucking much. His mind froze at the thought that he might be stuck like this forever - he might go through life as a brain without a body. He’d be Spock’s brain from the old reruns - no body, just the circuits of a computer to keep his mind alive. Only Dean wouldn’t even have a computer to interact with. He’d be all alone in his head. All fucking alone.
He didn’t know how long he sat there before Dad hauled him to his feet, supporting him as the darkness spun lazily around. It was surreal, feeling the dizziness without the visuals.
The Impala, though, she made it better. Damn, but the feel of her leather was the best thing that could have happened to him. The rumble of her engine was home. Even if he couldn’t hear it, he could close his useless eyes and pretend that everything was okay, as long as she was purring around him.
:::
He nearly killed himself when his father shook him awake. It was just so goddamn disorienting to wake up in the dark, even with his baby around him. His fist hit hard on the frame in his panic, hard enough that he could almost hear it crack in his silence-bound mind. As his father pulled him out of the car, though, all thoughts of his knuckles disappeared. He focused instead on his struggle to keep up as his Dad dragged him across the ever-moving ground. He still couldn’t get his balance, not that his father was really giving him the chance to try.
They paused suddenly and Dean fought the urge to ask why. For all he knew they could be in a crowd where his speech - god, how screwed up was his voice? - could draw attention.
Then they were moving again, settling on a lumpy, yet bouncy surface that must have been a bed. He could feel the scratch of cheep sheets beneath his fingers. They were back in the hotel. But was it their hotel? Had they just stopped at the closest place instead of driving all the way back? Had they gone on to meet one of Dad’s hunting buddies who knew more about witches?
Shit. Where was Sammy?
This was his first time alone while they went out hunting. He’d been worried about it all day, pacing and fretting and generally being a nervous wreck. The last thing he needed was his family disappearing without a trace.
Dean couldn’t help himself as the bed dipped next to him. He jolted back, grip tightening on his father’s arm.
Then his father took his hand and put it on a bony shoulder, letting go to disappear off into the darkness.
Dean frowned, fighting the urge to flee as he followed the bony shoulder with his fingers. He hit face, then hair. Long hair, but not long enough to be a girl. Or so he thought, anyway. Also it was tangled and greasy and gross.
And so, so Sammy.
God, he’d never been so grateful for his brother’s girly hair.
He felt himself relax, so freaking happy that his brother was here. Now Sammy could stop worrying about protecting the room, could stop worrying if his father and brother would make it back safe. Or alive, at any rate.
Then there was nothing.
The head pulled away from his hand and he was alone, palm floating in the void.
He reached out, calling for his brother. He needed his brother, his father, somebody, right the fuck now.
And damn if he wasn’t panicking like a little girl. He could feel his breath catching in his lungs, struggling to squeeze past the terror of being completely and utterly alone.
Then there was a hand in his. He took hold, pulling it close and holding on for dear life as his father - it had to be Dad, right? It was way too big to be Sammy - let it lie in his grip. He struggled to calm the fuck down, to act like the adult he was.
He had only just caught his breath when his father hauled him to his feet, tugging him across the room. It was all he could do to follow, moving as his father’s rough hands dictated. He helped peel clothes from his body, clung to the old-people bar and fought down a blush as his father helped him scrub the mud and witch-juice off of his body. He shivered into a towel and a fresh set of clothes, trying to hold onto whatever pride still lingered as he felt his father tying his boots.
Then they were walking again and he was being lowered into the Impala. A small hand took his and he felt the door shut beside him. Latching onto the door he kept a firm hold on his brother’s arm, trying to figure out what was going on. Why were they back in the car? Where was Dad? Why wasn't the engine runing? Where were they going?
Then Sammy’s arm started jerking up and down.
Dean frowned, turning his attention to the little brat. He felt up to his brother’s face, hoping that maybe this time the old TV stereotype would help.
The wet and sticky goop on his brother’s face could only mean one thing.
Well fuck, he was crying. Great. Even deaf and blind and Dean was being a pain. Here he was, clinging to people like his life depended on it (which was so not his style, by the way) and not even trying to explain what was happening to his kid brother. Surely Sammy had been asking questions - there was no time when he wasn’t asking questions - but this time he wasn’t getting answers. He was just watching his brother act like some sort of freak, completely without explanation. No wonder the little brat was freaking out.
Dean groped around until he could get a good hold on Sammy’s neck, drawing him in for an awkward half-embrace. Little arms slid around him, correcting for Dean’s awkward position. There was suddenly a small person sobbing into Dean’s chest and it was all his fault.
“m’sorry,” he muttered, trying to still the sobs that wracked Sammy’s small frame. He only ever shook like this when he was really bawling his eyes out, “m’s’rry.”
Time escaped him yet again as he sat there rubbing small circles on his baby brother’s back. He wouldn’t have known time had passed at all if he hadn’t felt the Impala rumble to life around him.
Sammy shifted in his embrace, laying down maybe? Dean wasn’t sure.
All he knew for sure was that not long after Sammy settled, his breath settled into the slow rhythm of sleep. It wasn’t long before Dean followed suit, grounded by the rumble of the Impala and the comfort of his kid brother.
:::
Part 5.2
Star Trek reference is from the episode Spock's Brain. It is also not mine.