Fire and Blood 1/?
Title: Fire and Blood
Author:mlebayre
Genre: General
Characters/Pairings: No Pairings. Dean, Sam, Valkyrie, Bobby, OC's
Rating: R
Spoilers There are references to events in the show, not actual spoilers.
Summary: South Dakota has a werwolf problem. It's not an average werewolf and it's not an average problem. Dean and Sam return to the town where Sam was kidnapped and held captive, victim of a savage serial killer. Having to face werewolves, police and their own inner monsters, both brothers discover recovery never comes easy. Follows about six months after A Safe, Secure Place . There are references and a character from The Game also.
Series: Two Souls Verse
Disclaimer: Not mine, just borrowing from Kripke.
A/N: This is a sequel to Bonding of Souls and A Safe, Secure Place, all parts of the Two Souls Verse. Many thanks to ajcaddick and 6Cookie6 for the great job as beta. Spectacular banner by Thru_Terry's_Eyes. Many thanks to deej1957 who bid on me in the fics4books author auction.
Two souls bonded through eternity.
Without one there truly would not be the other.
The world jolted back in a rush of noise and white light. Pain ricocheted through him, nerve endings screamed as his entire body jerked.
A warm hand rested on his shoulder. “Whoa, whoa. Take it easy. You’re safe.”
An older man, around sixty with white hair gazed down at him with kind, concerned eyes. He was surprisingly strong for someone of a slighter build
“Where-” His voice sounded strained, his throat felt dry and scratchy. “Something was-”
“Yeah, there was something alright. It nearly had you. Fortunately we got you first.”
Eyes traveling the room, they fell on a plaque carved in wood near the door-the meek shall inherit nothing.
The man turned and followed his gaze. He shrugged a bit, “A hobby of mine; wood art, carving, burning. It’s relaxing.”
Nodding, he took in more of the room. Pale cream walls and dark green curtains hung over the small windows with heavy screens. There was a bed, a sink, and a door he presumed led to a bathroom. The bed was a hospital bed, but the room didn’t look like a hospital room. It lacked much of the equipment he’d seen in hospitals. However, he did have an IV in one arm. The line led to a pole doubling as a coat rack near the head of his bed. “Interesting saying,” he croaked.
The man nodded, “But true. You’re safe here.” He moved from the side of the bed to the end. “You should be dead. However, you’re not, you just look like shit.”
“Thanks.” He drew a deep breath and took the plunge. “Tell me you didn’t touch the blood.”
The man raised an eyebrow and crossed both arms over his chest. “I’m a doctor. I know better. Not all of it was yours.”
It wasn’t a question, but he shook his head anyway. “You saved me?” He was having a hard time wrapping his head around that fact.
“No, I didn’t. I don’t know why you’re alive; you shouldn’t be.”
He pushed against the arm without an IV, sitting up far enough to rest his shoulders against the head board. A groan got by his lips. “Did you see it?”
The man nodded affirmative. “There are people who come through here regularly; I help them and they help me. They knew what to use to repel it, gave me some, so I was ready. It’s been around here about two months, but so far no one has been able to get rid of it. Hell, we’ve barely been able to hold it off.”
“Where is here?” He waved one hand at the room.
“This place? A village called Haven.”
“Hav-it’s real? Not a legend?”
The man smiled, “Guess not, son.” Pulling a small vial filled with dark liquid from one pocket, the man held it up. “I’m a doctor. This is your blood.” The blood in the vile was dark, nearly brown and sludge thick. The man’s eyes lifted to meet his. “What are you?”
Avoiding the man’s gaze and pushing himself straighter still, he glanced around the room, spotting his clothes and jacket on a chair. With a hiss, he used his chin to motion to the pile of clothes. “My wallet’s in my jacket. What’s left of my jacket.”
The man moved across the room, patted down the ripped jacket until a battered and bloody wallet was extracted. Silently he handed it over.
“What I am,” he took the wallet and pulled out his ID, “Is a missing cop.” He flipped his badge to the end of his bed. It landed near his foot. “Which means that half the cops in South Dakota who are not missing are going to be looking for me soon. Eventually they’ll find this place, which I’m guessing you’d like to keep unfound.”
The man nodded.
“I need to get out of here sooner rather than later.”
“You’re not going to be able to travel for weeks-”
When he pushed straighter, wincing from the pull and tug against strained muscles the man’s eyes widened for a second. His face almost at once settled back to a calm mask. He pulled his shirt up, looking at his abdomen and chest, then moved one hand along his thighs.
“Your arm-I thought you’d lose it for sure.”
“Guess I have you to thank for that.” He extended that same arm, hand held out. “Tim Forge. Most call me Forge, I hate the name Tim.”
The man shook his hand, but was looking at the length of his arm. “Carter Bitner.” He withdrew his hand, his gazed landing on Forge in a way that was unsettling. “What the hell are you?”
“Hurting.” Forge cracked a grin. When the man just stood there, staring at him he sighed. “Just a rural county detective who needs to get back to his office.”
“It’s been more than a day.” Bitner pointed out.
“Damn. If my car was found…” He looked up at Bitner. “Anyone searching is walking straight to their slaughter. I gotta find that thing and end it.”
“I know someone who can get you back to your car in one piece. He’s been working on this problem, not having much luck though.”
Forge snorted. “Yeah, I got that fact right off.” Being chased through the woods by something intent on ripping his head off had made Forge think he should call in a favor or two, but he wasn’t sure the men he’d ask for help were still alive.
“Look, you still need to rest up and get some food into you. Give me until the morning. I think I can get someone here by then to give you a hand.”
The situation couldn’t get much worse. He was probably already tagged as missing. Another twelve or fifteen hours wasn’t going to make much of a difference. So Forge nodded his agreement.
Bitner brought him soup and a turkey sandwich. Not really enough to quench the gnawing hunger, but it would sustain him for now. He could hold out until the next day for a real meal.
He really didn’t want to be here, in this village. In fact, it was probably one of the last places on Earth Tim Forge wanted to be now or any other day of the week. There was little he could do about it, he was here now.
Haven…
Forge could hardly believe it was here. That he was here. Anyone who spent more than a few years in the south eastern chunk of South Dakota knew the stories and legends of Haven. It was a tiny village with a handful of dirt poor families who refused to leave-even after generations of poverty. There was no hunger, and good medical care, yet no one had money. Legends claimed men and women, some with reported magical abilities, kept the village and its inhabitants safe and hidden, some said for centuries.
Forge knew those people had no magical powers. He knew they called themselves hunters, followed the hunt. It wasn’t deer or birds they hunted, it was something…else.
Forge had known a few of these hunters over the years, but two in particular were memorable and the only ones he’d have asked for help now. His problem was he didn’t know how to contact them or if they were even alive.
The more immediate and pressing problem was not only getting back to where he should be, but his current location.
He was in Haven. The hide-out wounded hunters came to for recuperation, or simply a clean bed and hot meal.
Haven, the hidden village of those that worked in shadow and saw what few even believed possible.
Yeah, Forge had to get the hell out of here.
In the morning Bitner brought him some truly amazing coffee, and a breakfast of bacon and eggs. Forge got him to remove the IV the night before. He was slow on his feet still. It would take him a few more days, a week maybe, before he was back to normal, but he was ambulatory enough to be on his way. There was the small matter of a monster eating hikers in his county.
“How long you been here?” Forge asked between bites of breakfast, this was a snack; he’d get something more filling later. “And can I get a mug of this coffee to go?”
Carter huffed a short laughed. “Sure can.” He set his own mug down carefully. “I’ve only been here three or four months.”
“Whatcha do before coming here?” When Carter simply looked at him, Forge sighed. “Just making conversation, not a cop asking. You saved my ass. I don’t forget that sort of thing. If there’s any way I can repay you…?”
Nodding, Carter took his mug, handed it back to Forge full. “I got myself into a very bad place. I can’t legally practice medicine anymore. I was lucky enough to come here after I left New Mexico.”
Forge froze mid-sip of coffee. “New Mexico? Four months ago?” He gulped the hot liquid sloshing on his tongue down his throat. “You’re the doctor who blew the whistle on Marcus Del Villar. That was in New Mexico. All those men kept there for betting and fights, white slavery ring, for what, a decade or more?” Forge leaned forward, holding out his hand again. “Lemme shake your hand again. That was amazing. I read everything on that place, followed every bit of news. You’re a real hero, man.”
“I just made a phone call. It was others who did the rest. It was just my voice the police heard on the phone.” Carter’s expression became bashful and Forge swore he blushed a bit. Obviously he was not a man accustom to being in the limelight.
A knock on the door cut short anything else Forge could say, or ask, and he had more questions than he could coherently form into words. Carter turned and opened the door. He smiled and greeted an older man. When the newcomer stepped around Carter and came into full view, he pulled his baseball cap off, scratched his head and muttered, “I’ll be damned. Boy, you’d better not cause me trouble.”
It was becoming a habit, whenever he saw this man, and Forge acted without thinking much. Holding both hands in the air, he hoped his voice was steadier than he felt. “Sir, please don’t shoot me.”
“You two know each other?” Carter asked the question the same time Forge did.
The man with the baseball cap rolled his eyes. “This is South Dakota. Not New York City.”
Forge spoke first. “I met Mr. Singer not quite a year ago while investigating a series of murders.”
“Yeah, interesting investigation techniques, using a victim as bait.” Bobby spat out, clearly still irritated by the fact.
“I didn’t use him as bait-I used his brother. I would have asked if the man wasn’t so busy staying away from me. I’m sure if I had asked he’d have agreed.” Forge put his hands down and cracked a grin. “Besides it worked. We got them.”
Bobby snorted. “Where’s your car?”
“North side of Lake Vermillion; I was hiking the trails.” Which put Haven somewhere in McCook County, near the center he was guessing.
“How do you two know each other?” Carter looked from one to the other.
“Nearly a year ago now there was a series of kidnaps and murders in McCook County. A friend of mine was the only survivor.”
“Two brothers. Without them, honestly I’d still be looking and there’d still be bodies. I used the older one as bait to flush out the killers. It wasn’t what I wanted to do.” Forge turned to Bobby, giving him an apologetic look. “I did try to get that kid out of your house. I knew all along they’d come after Sam again, since he could identify them, and I did honestly try to get Dean to get him away.”
Bitner was suddenly busy choking on coffee. “Winchester?”
“Ye-yeah. You know them?”
“South Dakota, not New York City.” Bobby grumbled.
Realization hit Forge then. Dean and Sam Winchester had driven away from kidnappers and serial killers and into a huge royal mess in New Mexico. He had even more questions now, starting with what was Dean Winchester’s phone number.
+++++
Smoke…
There was so much smoke. Hot. Smoke and hot, intensely hot. Sam! Sammy! Christ, he had to get Sam out. Get him out of a cage in a burning building or shoot him. Get him out or shoot him because Dean couldn’t let Sam burn to death. Thick, oppressive smoke hung in the air. It made his eyes itch and his skin tingle. Not dying here. Neither of them were dying here.
He found something to assault the bars and door. Striking at Sam’s prison over and over, hitting Sam a few times by mistake. God, he’d hit Sam, he hadn’t meant to.
Smoke, so much thick, dark smoke. Acrid air. Stairs and pieces of the house above crashing down.
Something landed on his shoulder. Dean’s eyes shot open. Gasping, he straightened and shoved away from the heaviness on his shoulder hitting the car door.
“Hey, Dean, you okay?” Sam’s hand dropped to the seat between them.
Valkyrie wiggled up Sam’s chest to lick at his neck, then bounced from the driver’s side to Dean, tail pumping the air, tongue swiping over his hand too fast to follow the movement. The dog was one long, continuous chick-flick moment. Dean rubbed the dog’s ears.
“Where are we?” Even as he said the words he looked out the front window. The sun was setting, casting long gray shadows everywhere. The landscape very familiar-Dean knew where they were. “Why are we here?!” he snapped.
Sam’s eyes dropped to the steering wheel. He shrugged. Valkyrie shimmied between them, curled in a ball with just her head up. She looked from Sam to Dean.
Dean knew biting Sam’s head off and generally being an ass about this wasn’t going to help, but right now he didn’t care. The dream had been so vivid. It seemed he was destined to constantly relive the horrors of Sam in a cage, a room on fire, no way of getting him out. Dean had gotten his brother out, however. Still the dreams, that scene and others plagued him.
“This is what I get for letting you drive.” Shoving out of the car, Dean barely gave the empty land, the property where the McCreedy house once stood, a glance. He’d had every detail of it burned into his mind for nearly a year. Looking at it was a futile act.
Shaking off the feelings rampaging through him, Dean stomped around the car. Yanking the door open, he gestured to Sam to move over. Sam looked up at him, guilt and something else all over his face. “I’m sorry. I just wanted to see.”
“You should have woken me up first. Now, either get over or get out, but I’m not staying here right now.”
Dean wasn’t sure what bothered him more: the nightmares about Sam’s kidnapping and all they’d gone through with the McCreedy spirits, the nightmares of the Del Villar compound or the fact Sam had sat here for unknown minutes, alone, facing them himself while Dean slept.
“You should have woken me up if you were going to come here.” Dean softened his tone, wondering why Sam would even want to come here as he slipped behind the steering wheel.
“I was okay. There’re trees growing now.” Sam’s voice was soft, and Dean knew he wasn’t exactly okay, neither of them were, but they were closer than they’d been to okay in a long time.
“Yeah.” Dean turned over the engine. “Can we go now?”
He laid one hand on Sam’s arm, wanting to somehow convey he wasn’t angry with Sam, not really. He was angry with himself for not being able to put things behind him, for not being able to do what Sam-and Dean-so desperately needed and put into words what he felt; the why and how of the nightmares, and the other things he knew Sam noticed.
Sam’s eyes dropped to Dean’s hand, then lifted to meet Dean’s. He smiled a bit. Maybe Sam understood more of what Dean didn’t say than Dean gave him credit for after all. Dean gave Sam’s arm a gentle squeeze and a pat before pulling back to the steering wheel.
“We can go,” Sam said softly.
Dean nodded. “Next time you want to come here, let me come with you. Please?”
“You were here, just not awake.”
“Sam.”
“If it’ll make you feel better, I will.”
“Thank you.”
Dean backed the car away from the property and headed out to the road. He didn’t stop until they reached the bar Bobby had directed them to, along with the request.
This was going to be interesting.
Chapter 2
Author:mlebayre
Genre: General
Characters/Pairings: No Pairings. Dean, Sam, Valkyrie, Bobby, OC's
Rating: R
Spoilers There are references to events in the show, not actual spoilers.
Summary: South Dakota has a werwolf problem. It's not an average werewolf and it's not an average problem. Dean and Sam return to the town where Sam was kidnapped and held captive, victim of a savage serial killer. Having to face werewolves, police and their own inner monsters, both brothers discover recovery never comes easy. Follows about six months after A Safe, Secure Place . There are references and a character from The Game also.
Series: Two Souls Verse
Disclaimer: Not mine, just borrowing from Kripke.
A/N: This is a sequel to Bonding of Souls and A Safe, Secure Place, all parts of the Two Souls Verse. Many thanks to ajcaddick and 6Cookie6 for the great job as beta. Spectacular banner by Thru_Terry's_Eyes. Many thanks to deej1957 who bid on me in the fics4books author auction.
Two souls bonded through eternity.
Without one there truly would not be the other.
The world jolted back in a rush of noise and white light. Pain ricocheted through him, nerve endings screamed as his entire body jerked.
A warm hand rested on his shoulder. “Whoa, whoa. Take it easy. You’re safe.”
An older man, around sixty with white hair gazed down at him with kind, concerned eyes. He was surprisingly strong for someone of a slighter build
“Where-” His voice sounded strained, his throat felt dry and scratchy. “Something was-”
“Yeah, there was something alright. It nearly had you. Fortunately we got you first.”
Eyes traveling the room, they fell on a plaque carved in wood near the door-the meek shall inherit nothing.
The man turned and followed his gaze. He shrugged a bit, “A hobby of mine; wood art, carving, burning. It’s relaxing.”
Nodding, he took in more of the room. Pale cream walls and dark green curtains hung over the small windows with heavy screens. There was a bed, a sink, and a door he presumed led to a bathroom. The bed was a hospital bed, but the room didn’t look like a hospital room. It lacked much of the equipment he’d seen in hospitals. However, he did have an IV in one arm. The line led to a pole doubling as a coat rack near the head of his bed. “Interesting saying,” he croaked.
The man nodded, “But true. You’re safe here.” He moved from the side of the bed to the end. “You should be dead. However, you’re not, you just look like shit.”
“Thanks.” He drew a deep breath and took the plunge. “Tell me you didn’t touch the blood.”
The man raised an eyebrow and crossed both arms over his chest. “I’m a doctor. I know better. Not all of it was yours.”
It wasn’t a question, but he shook his head anyway. “You saved me?” He was having a hard time wrapping his head around that fact.
“No, I didn’t. I don’t know why you’re alive; you shouldn’t be.”
He pushed against the arm without an IV, sitting up far enough to rest his shoulders against the head board. A groan got by his lips. “Did you see it?”
The man nodded affirmative. “There are people who come through here regularly; I help them and they help me. They knew what to use to repel it, gave me some, so I was ready. It’s been around here about two months, but so far no one has been able to get rid of it. Hell, we’ve barely been able to hold it off.”
“Where is here?” He waved one hand at the room.
“This place? A village called Haven.”
“Hav-it’s real? Not a legend?”
The man smiled, “Guess not, son.” Pulling a small vial filled with dark liquid from one pocket, the man held it up. “I’m a doctor. This is your blood.” The blood in the vile was dark, nearly brown and sludge thick. The man’s eyes lifted to meet his. “What are you?”
Avoiding the man’s gaze and pushing himself straighter still, he glanced around the room, spotting his clothes and jacket on a chair. With a hiss, he used his chin to motion to the pile of clothes. “My wallet’s in my jacket. What’s left of my jacket.”
The man moved across the room, patted down the ripped jacket until a battered and bloody wallet was extracted. Silently he handed it over.
“What I am,” he took the wallet and pulled out his ID, “Is a missing cop.” He flipped his badge to the end of his bed. It landed near his foot. “Which means that half the cops in South Dakota who are not missing are going to be looking for me soon. Eventually they’ll find this place, which I’m guessing you’d like to keep unfound.”
The man nodded.
“I need to get out of here sooner rather than later.”
“You’re not going to be able to travel for weeks-”
When he pushed straighter, wincing from the pull and tug against strained muscles the man’s eyes widened for a second. His face almost at once settled back to a calm mask. He pulled his shirt up, looking at his abdomen and chest, then moved one hand along his thighs.
“Your arm-I thought you’d lose it for sure.”
“Guess I have you to thank for that.” He extended that same arm, hand held out. “Tim Forge. Most call me Forge, I hate the name Tim.”
The man shook his hand, but was looking at the length of his arm. “Carter Bitner.” He withdrew his hand, his gazed landing on Forge in a way that was unsettling. “What the hell are you?”
“Hurting.” Forge cracked a grin. When the man just stood there, staring at him he sighed. “Just a rural county detective who needs to get back to his office.”
“It’s been more than a day.” Bitner pointed out.
“Damn. If my car was found…” He looked up at Bitner. “Anyone searching is walking straight to their slaughter. I gotta find that thing and end it.”
“I know someone who can get you back to your car in one piece. He’s been working on this problem, not having much luck though.”
Forge snorted. “Yeah, I got that fact right off.” Being chased through the woods by something intent on ripping his head off had made Forge think he should call in a favor or two, but he wasn’t sure the men he’d ask for help were still alive.
“Look, you still need to rest up and get some food into you. Give me until the morning. I think I can get someone here by then to give you a hand.”
The situation couldn’t get much worse. He was probably already tagged as missing. Another twelve or fifteen hours wasn’t going to make much of a difference. So Forge nodded his agreement.
Bitner brought him soup and a turkey sandwich. Not really enough to quench the gnawing hunger, but it would sustain him for now. He could hold out until the next day for a real meal.
He really didn’t want to be here, in this village. In fact, it was probably one of the last places on Earth Tim Forge wanted to be now or any other day of the week. There was little he could do about it, he was here now.
Haven…
Forge could hardly believe it was here. That he was here. Anyone who spent more than a few years in the south eastern chunk of South Dakota knew the stories and legends of Haven. It was a tiny village with a handful of dirt poor families who refused to leave-even after generations of poverty. There was no hunger, and good medical care, yet no one had money. Legends claimed men and women, some with reported magical abilities, kept the village and its inhabitants safe and hidden, some said for centuries.
Forge knew those people had no magical powers. He knew they called themselves hunters, followed the hunt. It wasn’t deer or birds they hunted, it was something…else.
Forge had known a few of these hunters over the years, but two in particular were memorable and the only ones he’d have asked for help now. His problem was he didn’t know how to contact them or if they were even alive.
The more immediate and pressing problem was not only getting back to where he should be, but his current location.
He was in Haven. The hide-out wounded hunters came to for recuperation, or simply a clean bed and hot meal.
Haven, the hidden village of those that worked in shadow and saw what few even believed possible.
Yeah, Forge had to get the hell out of here.
In the morning Bitner brought him some truly amazing coffee, and a breakfast of bacon and eggs. Forge got him to remove the IV the night before. He was slow on his feet still. It would take him a few more days, a week maybe, before he was back to normal, but he was ambulatory enough to be on his way. There was the small matter of a monster eating hikers in his county.
“How long you been here?” Forge asked between bites of breakfast, this was a snack; he’d get something more filling later. “And can I get a mug of this coffee to go?”
Carter huffed a short laughed. “Sure can.” He set his own mug down carefully. “I’ve only been here three or four months.”
“Whatcha do before coming here?” When Carter simply looked at him, Forge sighed. “Just making conversation, not a cop asking. You saved my ass. I don’t forget that sort of thing. If there’s any way I can repay you…?”
Nodding, Carter took his mug, handed it back to Forge full. “I got myself into a very bad place. I can’t legally practice medicine anymore. I was lucky enough to come here after I left New Mexico.”
Forge froze mid-sip of coffee. “New Mexico? Four months ago?” He gulped the hot liquid sloshing on his tongue down his throat. “You’re the doctor who blew the whistle on Marcus Del Villar. That was in New Mexico. All those men kept there for betting and fights, white slavery ring, for what, a decade or more?” Forge leaned forward, holding out his hand again. “Lemme shake your hand again. That was amazing. I read everything on that place, followed every bit of news. You’re a real hero, man.”
“I just made a phone call. It was others who did the rest. It was just my voice the police heard on the phone.” Carter’s expression became bashful and Forge swore he blushed a bit. Obviously he was not a man accustom to being in the limelight.
A knock on the door cut short anything else Forge could say, or ask, and he had more questions than he could coherently form into words. Carter turned and opened the door. He smiled and greeted an older man. When the newcomer stepped around Carter and came into full view, he pulled his baseball cap off, scratched his head and muttered, “I’ll be damned. Boy, you’d better not cause me trouble.”
It was becoming a habit, whenever he saw this man, and Forge acted without thinking much. Holding both hands in the air, he hoped his voice was steadier than he felt. “Sir, please don’t shoot me.”
“You two know each other?” Carter asked the question the same time Forge did.
The man with the baseball cap rolled his eyes. “This is South Dakota. Not New York City.”
Forge spoke first. “I met Mr. Singer not quite a year ago while investigating a series of murders.”
“Yeah, interesting investigation techniques, using a victim as bait.” Bobby spat out, clearly still irritated by the fact.
“I didn’t use him as bait-I used his brother. I would have asked if the man wasn’t so busy staying away from me. I’m sure if I had asked he’d have agreed.” Forge put his hands down and cracked a grin. “Besides it worked. We got them.”
Bobby snorted. “Where’s your car?”
“North side of Lake Vermillion; I was hiking the trails.” Which put Haven somewhere in McCook County, near the center he was guessing.
“How do you two know each other?” Carter looked from one to the other.
“Nearly a year ago now there was a series of kidnaps and murders in McCook County. A friend of mine was the only survivor.”
“Two brothers. Without them, honestly I’d still be looking and there’d still be bodies. I used the older one as bait to flush out the killers. It wasn’t what I wanted to do.” Forge turned to Bobby, giving him an apologetic look. “I did try to get that kid out of your house. I knew all along they’d come after Sam again, since he could identify them, and I did honestly try to get Dean to get him away.”
Bitner was suddenly busy choking on coffee. “Winchester?”
“Ye-yeah. You know them?”
“South Dakota, not New York City.” Bobby grumbled.
Realization hit Forge then. Dean and Sam Winchester had driven away from kidnappers and serial killers and into a huge royal mess in New Mexico. He had even more questions now, starting with what was Dean Winchester’s phone number.
+++++
Smoke…
There was so much smoke. Hot. Smoke and hot, intensely hot. Sam! Sammy! Christ, he had to get Sam out. Get him out of a cage in a burning building or shoot him. Get him out or shoot him because Dean couldn’t let Sam burn to death. Thick, oppressive smoke hung in the air. It made his eyes itch and his skin tingle. Not dying here. Neither of them were dying here.
He found something to assault the bars and door. Striking at Sam’s prison over and over, hitting Sam a few times by mistake. God, he’d hit Sam, he hadn’t meant to.
Smoke, so much thick, dark smoke. Acrid air. Stairs and pieces of the house above crashing down.
Something landed on his shoulder. Dean’s eyes shot open. Gasping, he straightened and shoved away from the heaviness on his shoulder hitting the car door.
“Hey, Dean, you okay?” Sam’s hand dropped to the seat between them.
Valkyrie wiggled up Sam’s chest to lick at his neck, then bounced from the driver’s side to Dean, tail pumping the air, tongue swiping over his hand too fast to follow the movement. The dog was one long, continuous chick-flick moment. Dean rubbed the dog’s ears.
“Where are we?” Even as he said the words he looked out the front window. The sun was setting, casting long gray shadows everywhere. The landscape very familiar-Dean knew where they were. “Why are we here?!” he snapped.
Sam’s eyes dropped to the steering wheel. He shrugged. Valkyrie shimmied between them, curled in a ball with just her head up. She looked from Sam to Dean.
Dean knew biting Sam’s head off and generally being an ass about this wasn’t going to help, but right now he didn’t care. The dream had been so vivid. It seemed he was destined to constantly relive the horrors of Sam in a cage, a room on fire, no way of getting him out. Dean had gotten his brother out, however. Still the dreams, that scene and others plagued him.
“This is what I get for letting you drive.” Shoving out of the car, Dean barely gave the empty land, the property where the McCreedy house once stood, a glance. He’d had every detail of it burned into his mind for nearly a year. Looking at it was a futile act.
Shaking off the feelings rampaging through him, Dean stomped around the car. Yanking the door open, he gestured to Sam to move over. Sam looked up at him, guilt and something else all over his face. “I’m sorry. I just wanted to see.”
“You should have woken me up first. Now, either get over or get out, but I’m not staying here right now.”
Dean wasn’t sure what bothered him more: the nightmares about Sam’s kidnapping and all they’d gone through with the McCreedy spirits, the nightmares of the Del Villar compound or the fact Sam had sat here for unknown minutes, alone, facing them himself while Dean slept.
“You should have woken me up if you were going to come here.” Dean softened his tone, wondering why Sam would even want to come here as he slipped behind the steering wheel.
“I was okay. There’re trees growing now.” Sam’s voice was soft, and Dean knew he wasn’t exactly okay, neither of them were, but they were closer than they’d been to okay in a long time.
“Yeah.” Dean turned over the engine. “Can we go now?”
He laid one hand on Sam’s arm, wanting to somehow convey he wasn’t angry with Sam, not really. He was angry with himself for not being able to put things behind him, for not being able to do what Sam-and Dean-so desperately needed and put into words what he felt; the why and how of the nightmares, and the other things he knew Sam noticed.
Sam’s eyes dropped to Dean’s hand, then lifted to meet Dean’s. He smiled a bit. Maybe Sam understood more of what Dean didn’t say than Dean gave him credit for after all. Dean gave Sam’s arm a gentle squeeze and a pat before pulling back to the steering wheel.
“We can go,” Sam said softly.
Dean nodded. “Next time you want to come here, let me come with you. Please?”
“You were here, just not awake.”
“Sam.”
“If it’ll make you feel better, I will.”
“Thank you.”
Dean backed the car away from the property and headed out to the road. He didn’t stop until they reached the bar Bobby had directed them to, along with the request.
This was going to be interesting.
Chapter 2