Supernatural Fan Fiction ❯ Wayward Son ❯ Chapter Two ( Chapter 2 )

Wayward Son

 

Chapter Two

He was on the ceiling, blood raining down from his side and onto his sleeping brother. He tried to open his mouth, to scream and warn Dean, but only hot, rasping air escaped his throat. Then the burning began. It started at his side, a warming sensation that intensified until it engulfed his entire body in flame. White hot agony seared through him, but he couldn't move, couldn't curl up into a ball to protect himself. Instead he was pinned to the ceiling, silent screams caught in his throat as he looked down at his motionless brother.

Orange flames danced in front of his eyes, blocking out everything except for the fires of hell. The yellow-eyed demon laughed in his ear, whispering to him about his mother---about pretty, little Jess. Everything was taken from him. His mother, his lover, his father and his brother. All gone, leaving him achingly alone. Alone to face the Dark. The yellow-eyed demon laughed again, and the flames licked his body, searing his flesh to the bone.

Then in a breath the flames were gone, and there was only darkness. Not evil darkness, but soothing, comforting darkness. A body moved against him, sliding along his naked spine. A woman, full breasts and narrow waist. The feel of her was familiar, but not memorized. Not Jess, someone else. Someone he knew.

Slender arms wrapped around him, holding him in a comforting embrace. Soft kisses were placed along the shell of his ear, soothing words whispered. The pain in his body was gone. His side no longer burned, and the constant headache behind his eyes dissolved. All that was left was a pleasant floating sensation of satisfaction. The kind that only comes after a night of raw passion and mindless sex.

He rolled over, prying his eyes open. Dark hair, dark eyes, Madison. Sweet, vulnerable, dead Madison. Murdered by his own hand, with his own gun. Sobs well up in his throat, and this time they come, lisping out softly between his lips at first, before degenerating into full blown sobs. Guilt racked him, burning him as deeply as the hell fire.

She whispers to him, soothing him, brushing the hair from his face. She holds him close, pressing his wet face into the hollow of her throat. He can smell her, the scent of jasmine that he remembered. The softness of her skin, the sound of her sighs. His body shakes, and apologies stream out with his sobs.

“No, Sam. Don't. It had to be done. Killing people would have eventually destroyed me. There was no other way. You saved me. You saved me from the guilt. From the ghosts of my victims.”

She lifts his head, pressing soft kisses against his lips. He leans into her, needing her touch, needing her absolution. A glow filters into the room, banishing the comforting darkness, leaving the bed in a pool of soft, satin light. Beyond the edge the darkness waits, but it is menacing, a creature waiting to strike. He blinks, lifting his head, looking beyond the bed to a shelf.

An orb sits, small, slight, delicately fragile, made of glass. Inside light shifts and sways, dancing to an unheard rhythm. Gold and white, enrapturing, beautiful. Perhaps the most beautiful thing he has ever seen.

“What is that?” he whispers, awestruck

“Dean's soul.”

He wrenches his gaze away to look at Madison. Her dark eyes are serious, her rosy mouth pulled into a straight line.

“His soul?” He looks back at the orb, staring at it hard. Madison smoothes her small hand along his cheek, reminding him that she is there.

“It is important that you remember this, Sam.”

He glances back at her, blue-green eyes full of confusion. “Why?”

“Because you are having a premonition.”

His brow wrinkles, and he puts an experimental hand to his head, testing for something that should be there.

“If that was true, there would be pain.”

Madison smiles at him, her perfect bow-shaped mouth curving just how he remembered it.

“No pain this time. Not when I am here. I will protect you, Sam. Like you protected me.”

A growl resounds in the darkness. Evil and deadly. From the shadows comes something even darker. It appears on the other side of the orb, red eyes, black fur, a Hell Hound, ready to collect.

“No!” he shouts, trying to jump up from the bed, but the silk sheets tangles his legs. Madison wraps her arms around him, holding him down next to her.

“No, Sam. It is just a dream. You must let it be what it is. You must see.”

“No, I won't let them take Dean's soul. I won't let him die.” He fights against her, but she is strong, and he is weak. Helpless he watches as the giant dog opens its mouth, row after row of sharp, jagged, shark teeth lining its jaws. A black tongue swirls out, wrapping around the glowing orb and pulling it down into the dark hole of its maw, swallowing it, extinguishing the light.

He is left in darkness again, but there is no comfort, only dread and despair. The soft warmth of Madison is gone, and there is only coldness. He reaches out, searching for her, for Dean, but is left with nothing.

“No!” he cries, feeling only the burn of emptiness.

 

Dean awoke up to a gawd-awful thumping. At first he thought it was his head. It wouldn't be the first time that he woke up with a hangover, especially after a hunt. Eyes still closed, he rubbed his head, trying to dispel whatever it was. Another loud thump vibrated around him, and he finally realized that it was coming from outside his head not inside. He opened his eyes, blinking as his memories from the night before came rushing back.

He shot up from his chair, only to fall back into it dizzily. While the thumping was coming from outside his head, there was a pounding that was entirely inside his skull. A jackhammer that was trying to bash its way out. His mouth was dry, his tongue swollen, and his body had an all over aching feeling that usually only came from a sound ass whooping from some demon or another.

Slowly he opened his eyes again, focusing at what was in front of him. The first thing he saw was the doctor curled up against the headboard where he had handcuffed her, her legs swinging out to kick the nightstand against the wall, making enough of a racket to wake the dead, and more than likely pissing off the neighbors to boot.

Well that had to stop, right now.

He shot up from his chair again, ready this time for the dizziness that was sure to come, and remembering why. He had given Sam as much blood as he dared, before pulling out the IV. He had then hooked up the antibiotics before falling into drained unconsciousness in his chair.

As soon as he stood, the doc stopped kicking the nightstand, and started gesturing to Sam. She was muttering behind her gag, spitting out what he was sure was obscenities, and he mentally congratulated himself on muzzling her. The last thing he was ready for this morning was listening to her rant on about what a cold-hearted bastard he was.

His eyes drifted to Sam, concern wrinkling his normally smooth brow. His brother was moving restlessly on top of the bed, a dark red flush staining his cheeks. Fever. Dean felt the panic well up inside of him. Instantly he checked the antibiotics that he had strung up the night before, seeing that the bag was empty.

He reached for another bag, replacing the empty one, while ignoring the doctor's choked growls. Once that was done, he glanced over at her, his hard eyes clearly communicating a very annoyed, what?

She gestured back, her whiskey eyes shooting fire. Dean sighed with resignation as he stepped over to her bed.

“Do you promise not to scream?”

She nodded quickly, too quickly, and Dean's eyes narrowed.

“I mean it, doc. I don't hit women, but if you make me I will cold cock you.” His words were so clipped and cold that he almost believed it himself. Rule number one in the Winchester handbook: bluff. Rule number two: if that doesn't work, then bluff again. And if an old Indian calls you a liar for the third time, then you just shut the hell up.

Her eyes flickered warily, and she nodded again. Gently he removed the tape, girding himself for her verbal assault. Surprisingly she didn't spew the venom that he could see lurking in her eyes, instead she jerked on her cuffs, reminding him that she was still bound.

“He has an infection. Uncuff me so I can attend his wound.” You prick wasn't spoken, but it was definitely implied by her tone. He fought back the urge to smile. Usually by the time a woman was this hell-bent mad at him, he had already introduced her to the luxury of his back seat and was on his way out of town. Too bad they had skipped the back seat.

Concern for Sam overrode his natural flirtatious instincts, and without a word he released her, keeping a tight eye on her in case she made a run for it. She didn't, instead she leapt off the bed and to Sam's side. Gently she lifted the bandage to look at the wound.

It was red and swollen around the edges, and she could see where puss was starting to drain. He had a low grade infection, and if they weren't careful it could degenerate into something much worse. She cleaned and dressed the wound once more, and checked the IV drip to make sure that the penicillin was flowing smoothly.

Watching her from the corner of his eye Dean riffled through Sam's duffel. He had never woken up so hungry in his life, and he was pretty sure that Sam would have one of his crap-awful power bars stashed in his bag somewhere. Victoriously he pulled the squashed and broken bar from the depths of Sam's dirty shorts, uncaring at the moment what it may have touched. He figured the foil wrapper had kept it safe enough from his brother's cooties.

“We have to move him to the other bed. He can't lie in a pool of his own blood, like this.”

Dean nodded, agreeing with her. Seeing Sammy, laying in that congealed mess was making him queasy. Ignoring his rebellious stomach, he inhaled the bar in two bites, trying his hardest not to actually taste it. He then pulled down the covers to the bed she had slept in, smoothing the sheets for his brother. She undid the IV and together, her at Sam's feet, and Dean at his head, swung him gently over to the other bed.

As soon as it was done, she reinserted the IV and pulled the covers up over him while Dean stripped the other bed down to the bare mattress, balling up the sheets and throwing them into the corner. A huge crimson smear stained the mattress reminding Dean of his brother's mortality. Sickened, he was getting ready to flip the mattress when a knock sounded at the door.

Instantly he was across the room, his hand over the doctor's mouth, her body pressed tightly into his. She struggled with him, but she was too slight to do any real damage. Briefly the thought that maybe he should teach her how to protect herself in the future before they parted ways, drifted through his mind, but he quickly shook it off. He wrestled her down onto the bed next to his brother, trying to be as gentle as possible if not for her sake then for Sam's.

He used the duck tape from the night before to cover her mouth. It wasn't as secure the second time around, and he hoped to God that it would hold long enough for him to bluff his way out of his newest butt-fuck. He cuffed her to the bed, and was up with his .45 in hand.

“Don't make a sound. If you do then I'll have to shoot whoever is at the door, and you don't want me to do that, do you, doc? You don't want their death on your conscious, do ya?”

Her whiskey-colored eyes widened, and he could feel the sinking, I'm an asshole sensation of guilt in his gut. He really was going to end up in that special hell, if he kept up terrorizing her like he was. She nodded her eyes downcast and for a moment he felt dejected.

The knocking had turned into irate pounding by now, and Dean's entire body tensed as he hurried over to the door. Not hearing the tell tale crackle of the police radio reassured him, but not by much. Slowly he cracked open the door, revealing the surly motel manager. Fat and greasy, he looked like a burger that had sat in the sun for a week. He wore what was supposed to be a white wife beater, but the color had mottled into a sick, mustard yellow from sweat and nicotine. A cigarette was clamped firmly in between greenish teeth, and the man's unshaven jowls quivered indignantly as he glared at Dean.

Dean had seen this look before. It was usually directed at him before he had to high-tail it out of town.

“Neighbors say that you are banging up my room real good,” the manager snarled.

Dean schooled his face into a mask of nonchalance, before allowing a small smirk to curl on his lip. “Just pleasing my ol' lady.” His eyelid dropped down into a sly wink that was more than a little dirty.

Somehow the man managed to smirk and glare at the same time.

“I won't have you running off my business `cause you can't plow her right.”

Behind him the doc choked, and he could practically feel the daggers slamming into his back. Quickly he glanced behind him, scowling when he caught her pulling her feet up to kick the nightstand. He waved his gun at her, giving her the dirtiest, I-will-fuck-you-up, look in his repertoire. With that one glare he was able to convey to her that if she alerted the manager to her presence then someone was going to have to die. It was either going to be her or the manager, either way it was bad news for her all around. The pure intensity in his eyes stopped her cold, and she curled up on the bed, thoroughly chastised.

As he turned to glare at her, he had pushed the door nearly closed, but it was cracked enough for the manager to try and peek inside. Dean glared at him in warning, his hazel eyes deepening to green. The man backed up a step, and his jowls quivered again, and Dean instantly recognized it as a tell. His poker hand just got folded.

“Just be quiet in there.” Without another word the man hurried away, leaving Dean to stare after him.

Quietly he closed the door, turning back to see the blood-soaked mattress. It would have been clearly visible through the crack in the door. Dean wanted to kick himself, but instead of wasting time berating himself for his fuck-up, he swept through the room in a whirlwind of action, packing up weapons and supplies as if it was second nature.

Ignoring the woman he ran outside, dumping most of their stuff into the trunk of the Impala and leaving the backseat free. By the time he reentered the room she had managed to scrape the old tape away from her mouth with the back of her arm.

“What are you doing?”

“The manager is on to us. He's probably calling five-o right now.”

“Well, you should let him. You can't move Sam in his condition. He needs to go to the hospital. If his infection gets worse he could die.”

Dean dropped the armful of clothes that he had been carrying, crossing the room to her in a fury. She was perched next to Sam, her legs drawn up to her body protectively. When she saw him coming she cowered down, expecting him to finally beat her into submission.

Dean saw her flinch, and he felt his intense self-disgust coil around in the bottom of his stomach. He couldn't count how many baddies he had killed, but not once had he so much as raised a hand to an innocent. However in less than twenty-four hours he had terrorized her nearly beyond endurance. He should let her go. Just free her right then and there, and ignore the consequences. But he couldn't. Sam needed her. And he needed Sam.

In a fit of frustration, he plucked up the lamp from the nightstand, hurling it across the room so it shattered against the far wall. She whimpered, curling in on herself tighter, but Sam remained deathly still, reminding Dean how high the stakes were. He sunk down onto the neighboring bed, careful to avoid the crimson stain of blood.

“Look, doc.” He paused, brushing his hands through his spiked hair, sighing deeply. Concentrating, he drained some of the tension out of body, trying to soften his scowl, looking for that Winchester charm that had worked for him so well up until now.

“What's your name?” he asked, trying to look as least threatening as possible. Where was Sam when he needed him? He would have flashed her his little boy lost smile that would have had her eating out of his hand in no time.

At first she didn't answer, but he just kept staring at her with hazel eyes. She noted absently that when his emotions ran high they turned a vibrant golden green, but when he was calm they returned to a soft hazel color. It was his eyes that convinced her to speak.

“Delilah Green.”

He nodded, using his trademark smile against her that usually softened up most women.

“I'm Dean.”

She remained unmoved.

“Look, Delilah. Tell you what. We don't have a lot of time. We have to move on. But if Sam---” he paused, staring hard at his brother, and she could see his eyes turn a shade greener. He had such strong emotions for his brother. It was getting harder for her to believe that he was out to save his own hide. He obviously cared for Sam very much.

“If Sammy get's any worse then we'll take him to the hospital.”

He stared at her hard, willing her to see the sincerity in his eyes. She nodded slowly, agreeing to his terms.

“Until then, doc. We need to keep you with us. I know how to bind up most wounds, but this is a little out of my league. I need you.” He choked a little at that, but he rushed forward. “Sam needs you. You can't let him die.”

He glanced at his watch; unable to take any more time to sweet talk her. He would just have to leave her to soak in his words and make her own decision. He walked around to the other side of the bed, gathering up Sammy in his arms. The kid was heavy, a lot heavier than he had been at twelve before the baby fat had given away to long bones and lean muscle, but Dean still managed, years of hunting making him stronger than he looked.

Delilah watched as Dean cradled his baby brother in his arms, staggering a little under his weight. She knew that Sam must be heavy, but the square set of Dean's jaw told her that he would carry him to hell and back if he had too.

Dean wrestled Sam into the back seat, trying to be as gentle as possible, but it was hard. Sam was tall, too long for the backseat, and Dean had to prop him up the best he could without putting too much pressure on the wound. Once Sam was settled he went back to get the clothes he had dropped and Delilah.

Wordlessly he undid her cuffs, standing back so she could rise. She rubbed her wrists, unable to look up at him. She could feel him towering over her, waiting for her decision. As a doctor she made an oath to help the sick and dying. She had forgotten that oath and an innocent child had paid the price. Now she had another chance to repay her debt. She didn't think she could live with herself if she walked out of the room and left Sam behind to die. It would kill her very soul.

Slowly she stood up, following Dean as he led her outside to his car. In the sunlight the black skin of the machine gleamed as smooth as satin as it crouched on the asphalt, waiting for its master to give the command to come to life.

She shook off her superstitious thoughts, climbing into the passage side. She leaned over the seat to check on Sam, making sure that his wound hadn't started bleeding again. Dean slid in beside her, bringing the car to life with a twist of his wrist.

A half an hour later, Dean was doing ninety and was sixty miles out of town. He glanced over at the doctor, who was slumped down in the passage seat, her face dejected. Although she had gotten into the car willingly he had no doubt that she would soon be rethinking her decision. He didn't fault her. A half an hour was a long time to contemplate your follies, and with every passing minute he was sure that she was listing off all the reasons that she was a dumbass for getting in the car with what she was sure were a couple of hard core criminals. He knew that he would be.

It's not that he didn't think she wasn't a good person who wasn't true to her word; it was just in his experience that people lied. Most of the time it wasn't even intentional. People start out meaning well, but then common sense steps up to bat and talks them down from the pitcher's mound. She may genuinely want to help Sam, but eventually the desire to save her own hide was going to kick in. That was what he needed to watch for. `Cause no matter how sweetly he talked to her in the motel room, he still needed her. And there was no way he was going to let her go until Sammy was back on his own two feet.

“How is he?”

Delilah blinked, startled out of her thoughts by Dean's voice. She shifted around so she could lean over the seat to check Sam, prodding him a bit and checking his wound before seating herself forward again.

“He's stable, but we need to get him on a bed soon. He can't stay scrunched up like that for much longer.”

Dean chanced a glance back at his brother, taking his eyes off the road for just a moment. Next to him he could feel Delilah tense and he fought not to smile. If only she knew how many times he had driven at this speed while distracted by a woman or monsters, or both.

Sam was twisted up on the back seat, his arms curled around his chest protectively. His skin was clammy and gray and a little blue around his mouth, but his cheeks were still flushed. His long, sandy hair was damp with sweat, and his eyes were tightly clenched.

Dean swiveled back around, his jaw tightening. He figured sixty miles wasn't nearly enough road between them and the law that was surely on their tail. He really wanted to get the next county over if not the next state.

“Another half hour,” he promised and gunned it up to a hundred miles an hour. Delilah's knuckles whitened as she clamped her hand onto the door, her feet dug into the floor boards and her back pressed as far back into the seat as possible.

“Peachy,” she muttered, wondering if they would survive that long.

Eighty miles later, Dean pulled off the road into a diner parking lot. He parked a few rows back, not wanting anyone to see who was all in the car. He swept his hand over his face, holding his exhaustion and barely concealed panic at bay.

Never in his life could he remember feeling this way. He had been grievously hurt many times over the years and there had always been someone there to nurse him back to health, either his dad or Sammy, but now Sam was the one who was hurt. Dean didn't know what he would do if Sam died again. With nothing left to barter, there would be no saving him this time. He barely fought down the urge to start the Impala up and head for the nearest Emergency Room. Only the thought of Sam spending the rest of his life in prison while he was taking a dirt nap kept him from doing it.

“Food,” he stated unnecessarily, earning him a glare from his companion. He ignored her purposely. The fierily look in her eyes when she was pissed was the only thing that distracted him from Sam, so perversely he took great pleasure in poking at her.

“Soup for Sam?”

She glanced back at her patient, noting his pallor.

“Something brothy,” she ordered, hoping that she would be able to get it down him.

Unexpectedly she felt something cold encircle her wrist. She looked down in time to see Dean snap the other end of the handcuffs to the steering wheel.

“What the hell!” she spat angrily, her whiskey eyes shooting flames at Dean. “I'm in this metal monster willingly aren't I?”

One corner of Dean's mouth curled up in a cocky smirk that usually earned him a glare, combined with a half shrugged it usually got him slapped too. He figured since she was cuffed he could get away with both.

“Just making sure, doc. Wouldn't want you to wonder off now.”

She snarled at him, yanking on her cuffs, reminding him of a cat that just got its tail tied. He shut the door, glancing back at Sam before stalking off to the diner.

A matronly black woman, whose name tag dubbed her Mable, met him at counter when he bellied up. He looked her over, as he always did when he met someone new, looking for any signs of hinkiness. Absently he noted that her eyes were gray, unusual, but not demonic.

“What can I do you for, honey?” Her southern lilting accent was almost immediately calming to Dean. Suddenly he found himself wanting to take a seat and maybe order a milk shake instead of hurrying back out to the car. He shook of the sensation, looking her squarely in the eye instead.

“Get me a couple of cheeseburgers, some fries, and some chicken broth if you have it.”

“Sure thing. Need anything to drink?”

“Naw, we're good. Make that to go though.”

Mable smiled, writing up the order on her tab before sliding it over to the cook. She wandered away, and Dean scanned the rest of the room, looking over the patrons. He didn't see anything unusual, just a normal lunch crowd.

“So is that your missus?” Mama asked as she poured him some coffee. “On the house.”

Dean grunted before glancing out the plate glass window in the direction that Mable was looking. From where he was sitting he could see his car and the vague form of someone waiting inside. He tried not to smile when he thought about how pissed Delilah probably was right about now.

“Yah, the missus.” He smirked, taking a sip from his coffee. Mama raised a brow, but didn't comment. The bell rang and she turned back to the cook and started bagging up their food. She put the bag down next to Dean along with the bill, waiting patiently while he dug out some money to pay.

“Say, do you know where there's a cheap hotel around here?”

“I sure do, sugar. The Paradise Inn is just up the street a ways. You know they say that Paradise was the perfect sanctuary before the serpent slithered its way in. It's nice to think that a little piece of Eden is right here on Earth, don't you think? A nice safe place to hide from the world.”

“Uh, sure.” Dean blinked at her, wondering what the hell she was talking about.

“I'm just saying, it's nice to find a refuge from the world when you are a newlywed.” A huge grin spread along Mable's face, revealing big white teeth that were nearly blinding against her dark skin.

“Uh, huh.” Dean slid the money across the counter to her, and picked up his bag of food. Ridiculously he had the fight the urge to back out of the door, not wanting to turn his back on the strange woman. As quickly as he could he exited, hurrying back to the car.

He slid the food into the car first, placing it in between himself and a seething Delilah. He uncuffed her hand without a word, starting up the car and reversing out of the parking lot. The woman inside the diner had given him the heebie jeebies and he couldn't get away fast enough.

“What did you get me?” Delilah asked, her voice cool with simmering anger.

“A cheeseburger,” he replied, his eyes on the road.

There was a short pause that warned him that she was about to say something that was likely going to piss him off.

“I don't eat meat.”

Dean threw her a disgusted look over the bag of food, focusing on her mutinous glare.

“I am so not attracted to you anymore.”

She sighed, exasperated with him. “Well I guess you should have asked.” You prick.