Supernatural Fan Fiction ❯ Wayward Son ❯ Chapter Seven ( Chapter 7 )

Disclaimer: I don't own or make a profit from Supernatural.

 

Wayward Son

Chapter Seven

 

Sam could smell the sweet scent of honeysuckle and jasmine in the air as it trickled by in the midnight breeze. A fat, lazy moon hung heavy in the clear sky, casting shafts of light through the thick overhang of trees, illuminating the landscape around him. White marble mausoleums decorated with wrought iron and dead, rotting flowers lined the winding path he was standing on. They were crammed together, next to carved stone tombs and sunken entrances to underground crypts. Blooming vines crept over statues of Madonnas and lamenting angels, threading along until they reached the tall, thick wall that encircled the entire cemetery.

It was by far the most beautiful and peaceful graveyard he had ever visited, and he had seen many throughout his life. There was something about it that made him want to wander the cobbled paths mindlessly as he basked in the intoxicating scents and sounds of the warm summer night. Crickets played their sing-song melody and in a distance a dog howled a lonely ballad. Beyond the thick adobe wall, Sam could hear faint sounds of passing traffic, and the pulsing heartbeat of city life.

He wasn't surprised when slender arms encircled his waist and a woman pressed her length against his solid back. She was warm and soft, the embodiment of everything he imagined a woman should be. She slid around, ducking under his arm so they were chest to chest, her dark eyes peering up into his blue-green ones.

“I know now, when you'll appear. The dreams are so real, so vivid. Will it always be that way?” His words were deep and husky, a voice meant for satin sheets and moonlit bedrooms. He felt her shiver against him, and he pulled her deeper into the shelter of his arms.

“You, more than anyone, should know that the veil between dreams and reality is whisper thin.” Her tone matched his, bedroom throaty and champagne sweet.

“Thin, but insurmountable.” Sam's words hardened and his body tensed with disappointment.

Madison shrugged, twisting so one arm wrapped around his back and she was tucked into the shelf beneath his shoulder. She tugged him forward, prodding him to walk beside her.

“The insubstantiality of dreams can be made into reality,” she murmured as they traversed the path. Most of the cobblestones were lying evenly, but a few were missing and clumps of thick ground cover grew in the barren spaces, their tendrils crawling along the crevices of the stones.

“You mean my visions that become reality.”

She nodded and his frown deepened.

“But dead is dead.” His words dropped into the night like heavy boulders being lobbed from a catapult. She stiffened against him, before her body noticeably relaxed. She glanced up at him, dancing, dark eyes veiled by thick lashes.

“Dead in reality, but here with you now.”

“You never answered me. Will it always be that way?” He pulled her to a stop, forcing her to keep her gaze locked with his. Her eyes grew moist, and she lifted one small, pale hand to brush against his cheek.

“It will be this way as long as you wish it. Here, in this world, I am yours.” She pulled her hand away from his face, sweeping it across the dreamscape.

He cupped her heart-shaped face in his huge hands, his fingertips brushing under dark hair to wrap around her sensitive nape while his palms cradled her jaw. He tilted her head back, and her eyes drifted closed as he lowered his lips to hers. He tasted her, teased her with his tongue until her pink lips parted under his. He swept his tongue past her teeth, deepening their kiss, claiming her as his. She could feel his brand upon her lips and she surrendered to it, basked in the simplicity of it.

They parted and Sam could hear his rough breathing echoing in his ears, but the sound was lonely. Under his watchful eyes, her cheeks remained pale, her lips stayed a soft pink and her chest did not rise and fall. His lashes swept downward, but they weren't fast enough to hide his disappointment and despair.

Wordlessly, Madison turned from him, masking her own sadness as she pointed at a thick, towering tree sprouting from the center of a cracked crypt.

“The Vampire Tree,” she announced and Sam looked where she pointed. It was then that reality intruded upon his dream.

“We are at Panteon de Belen.”

Madison looked back at him in surprise and he smiled. “I know my bone yards. It's a Winchester family requirement.”

She laughed at that, and the sound dispersed the heavy angst in the air, but for only as long as her tinkling chimes echoed. Reality was still an intruder, and Madison's reasons for appearing were clear to Sam.

“I read that ritual that you sent me after, Madison. You had to have known that I would never do such a thing. I could never sacrifice someone else to save my brother.”

Madison's gaze dropped to the ground and her shoulders lifted with a stifled half chuckle. It seemed as though she was laughing at her own personal joke rather than him—that he was confirming something for her that she already knew.

“Of course you wouldn't, Sam. That's what makes you so wonderful.” She met his eyes before her gaze skated back to the stone crypt. “The tool that you need to complete the ritual is buried in the tomb beside the body. Since the stone is cracked it should be easy enough to retrieve.”

Sam's golden brows grew together in a fierce frown, and all the frustration that he had felt building inside him the last few months came to a head. He reached out, wrapping his strong fingers around Madison's upper arms, pulling her towards him. He growled down at her, shaking her slightly as he tried the control the rage festering inside of him.

“I told you that I wouldn't do it. Don't you think I want to? Don't you think I want to save my brother more than anything? But I can't do it. I would never forgive myself. Dean would never forgive me.”

When he said his brother's name it was laced with so much pain that Madison had to fight the urge to wince. He loved his brother so deeply, that it was actually preventing Sam from saving him. He couldn't bring himself to do something that would lower his worth in Dean's eyes.

“Sam.” She pressed the palms of her hands against his hard chest, her touch and voice soothing him instantly. She sunk into him, resting her head at the hollow of his shoulder, wrapping her arms around his waist. She pressed herself against him, and he responded by encircling her thin shoulders with his arm, resting his chin on the crown of her head.

“I know you would never trade an innocent person's life for your brother. But Sam, you know there is so much more out there, hiding in the dark. Souls that wander, evading the hounds that would pull them into Hell. A soul such as that, something profoundly evil, could easily be offered in your brother's place and there would be no guilt in that. In fact, all you would be doing is your job. Sending another spirit back to where it belongs.”

Sam's arm tightened around Madison as her words touched him. She was offering him hope, a light in the ever increasing darkness and he wanted nothing more than to reach out and grab it with both hands.

“And where would I find this spirit?”

Her laugh was husky, and not for the first time, Sam wished he had dreamed of something more romantic than a graveyard.

“Sam,” she chided, and he smiled into her hair. “You could easily find a spirit. However, there is one closer to you than you think. All you have to do is look.”

It sounded so simple, so easy. Devil's pacts were often that way. Sam pulled away, looking deeply into Madison's dark eyes, and for the first time he wondered if it was really her. Everything about her was a temptation, her face, her body, her voice. The hope that she gave him was almost too good to be true.

She saw his frown and her smile faded, her eyes becoming hooded.

“And if I don't?” Sam's words were cold and clipped, beating her away without blows.

A small, pink compact appeared in her hand, and she flipped it open, refusing to meet his accusing gaze as she pretended to check her make-up.

“Then Dean dies.” Her tone was sharp, but the wealth of sarcasm beneath them screamed that there was so much more that she wasn't saying.

“And?”

Madison continued to look into her mirror, and Sam felt his fingers curl with the urge to tear it from her hands.

“Well, without Dean as your shield, you will eventually falter.”

Sam snorted and spun away from her. He glared out at the darkness, wondering what was past the thick adobe wall that encircled the graveyard. The sound of traffic had died away, and the lonely dog had fallen silent.

“You are talking about me going Darkside. Well that isn't going to happen anymore. The yellow-eyed demon is dead, remember?”

Madison sighed behind him, and he felt the center of his shoulder blades twitch—a well-honed instinct that shrieked that something was following him.

“Think of Hell as a corporate entity. Just because someone in middle management dies doesn't mean that the position they had disappears.”

In the distance Sam could hear the wail of a siren, and beneath his feet, the ground trembled slightly. He turned back towards her, his eyes narrowed.

“What are you saying?”

“The bond you and Dean share goes so much deeper than most family ties. He is the thread that grounds you to reality, which keeps you innocent even when you are not. When he is gone you will find yourself lost. You are strong, and you'll hold out for a good long while, but eventually your grief will erode your sense of righteousness.”

Somehow they found themselves at the cemetery's exit, and together they walked through the intricately curved wrought iron gate. A few steps from the curb was an old fashion gas lamp. They stopped beneath it, bathing in the yellow pool of light that it cast. Beyond the light there was only a deep darkness that spread out for an eternity. Sam looked behind him, but he could no longer see the gates to Panteon de Belen. They had disappeared into the darkness like the rest of the world.

“You're lying. That would never happen.”

Madison stared out into the darkness, tears leaking from her eyes. Sam grabbed her arm roughly, forcing her to turn and look at him. The wail of distant sirens became more insistent, and the rending of steel echoed around them. The trembling in the ground became a low rumble, and Sam had to brace his feet apart to keep from stumbling. Sam ignored it all, his attention centered on disproving the woman who was reciting his greatest fear to him, verbalizing his destiny.

“No, it's not true. The yellow-eyed demon is dead. No one is hunting me. I'm free. These things won't happen. I won't let it.”

“Yes, the yellow-eyed demon is dead, but all that means is that his position is in need of being filled. A vacuum was created and someone must rise up to take his place.”

“Who? Who is it? I will kill them too.”

The sorrow on Madison's face was etched so deeply that Sam could feel his heart breaking. Slowly she lifted the open compact, facing it outwards so his reflection appeared in the mirror. His eyes skittered away from hers as he peered into the polished glass. He saw his face, the square jaw and tanned cheeks. His shaggy brown hair fell over his creased brow. What he didn't see was the familiar blue-green of his eyes. Instead they glinted yellow in the darkness, shining with the fires of hell.

“You couldn't live without Dean so one day you made a deal. You and Dean were reunited. Blood being thicker than water as they say. Essentially you're still the same. You still hunt, but the game is different. You still stand together, side by side, protecting each other from any threat be it Heaven or Hell. It's common knowledge that starting something with one brother means starting it with the other. You're inseparable. Undefeatable. Un-killable.”

From the darkness the Impala appeared. It drove out of the shadows, liquid sleek, crouching low. Its black metal body was polished until it looked like obsidian glass, the bright headlights cutting through the night as it pulled up to the curb.

Madison stepped outside of the ring of light and melted into the shadows. She didn't whisper or wave goodbye and her departure went unnoticed by Sam. He peered into the windows of the Impala, but was unable to see past the tinted glass.

With practiced ease he opened the passenger door, and slid onto the leather seat. Now looking out through the windshield the world spread out before him changed. The empty darkness was burned away by orange flames licking the sky. Blazing buildings toppled into each other as the metropolis crumbled to a smoking ruin. The city streets were strewn with bodies, and crimson blood ran in the gutters. Dogs barked with terror, and women holding their dead children wailed in misery.

“I'm done here, little brother. Are you ready to go?”

Sam turned his head to look at Dean whose lips were twisted in a cocky grin. His brother's sharp white teeth flashed in the dying light of the flames and Sam felt something writhe in his insides. Everything about Dean seemed normal, right down to the upturned collar of his leather jacket. Everything except his eyes. They were liquid black, polished obsidian, matching the sheen of his precious car.

The world tilted on its axis, and in the distance Sam could hear the frantic screams of a woman. Sam swallowed hard, and pain bloomed behind his eyes. Suddenly his whole body jerked and he was no longer looking at his brother, but was staring at the white cottage cheese ceiling of their motel room. He blinked his nightmare away, but the woman's screams continued to reverberate around him.

He snapped his head to the side, seeing Dean and Delilah standing beside their queen-sized bed. Dean was holding her in a calming embrace, but her eyes were locked onto something on the bed. Sam looked over, stunned to see Dean's bowie knife stabbed through her pillow and into the thick mattress beneath in a very obvious threat.

“Dude, what the hell?” He hauled himself up so he could brace his back against the headboard of his bed. He wasn't feeling quite strong enough to stand up just yet. Maybe after three cups of some very black coffee.

“I don't know,” Dean clipped a reply before returning his attention back to Delilah. “You need to calm down. It's all right.”

“The hell it is! Which one of you did this? Why would you do this? What is the matter with you two?” Her rapid fire questioning made both their heads spin.

Dean spun her in his arms so she faced him, cutting her off from the sight of the knife jammed into her pillow. The very same knife that he had set on the nightstand beside him before they fell asleep the night before. Since sharing a bed with her he had stopped shoving the blade under his pillow for fear that she would accidently cut herself with it. How it ended up thrust into her pillow was a mystery. The fact that she would blame them was infuriating. She was still whimpering a bit under her breath, and he shook her lightly to get her full attention.

“We didn't do this, Delilah. You have to know that. We would never do such a thing.”

“If not you, then who?” she spat, her whiskey eyes glaring at him hard.

He opened his mouth to respond, but he couldn't find the words. What was he supposed to say to her?

From the corner of his eye, Sam caught a glimpse of something formless, a dark shadow in the corner of the room. He glanced to the side, but nothing was there. His eyes narrowed, before he turned his attention back to his brother and Delilah.

“Look, Lilah. You know that we are different. We do things that aren't ordinary. Sometimes the work that we do follows us home.”

Delilah's gaze skittered over to Sam as he spoke. His sandy hair was flopped over his forehead, and his eyes were wide with sincerity. There was something about his face that just radiated truthfulness and she faltered. She was so confused that she didn't know what to think.

“Are you talking about ghosts?”

“More like a poltergeist,” Dean answered softly, and she glanced back at him. His hazel eyes were earnest and her confusion grew. No matter what she had seen the day before, her mind was still convinced that there was no such things as ghosts or poltergeists. And for good measure, Santa Claus didn't exist either, dammit.

“I uh, need a minute.” She moved away from Dean and gathered up the bags of clothing she had purchased from Wal-Mart the night before.

When she had walked into the motel room after her shopping trip with Dean she had been bubbling with happiness. She had never been to a place like that before. She had promptly dressed herself in some jean cut off shorts and a pair of two dollar flip flops. If her mother could have seen her, she would have had a heart attack right there on the spot. The Greens did not shop off the rack, much less at a store where you could buy both clothing and groceries at the same time. It was just unheard of.

She took her newly purchased clothing and walked into the bathroom, shutting the door firmly behind her. Sam and Dean watched her go, both of their faces grim.

Dean glared despondently the closed door a moment longer, before he snatched up his knife to sheath and tuck away in his duffel. When he looked at Sam, the grim expression on his face deepened.

“Where is it?”

Sam shot him a startled glance, his puppy dog eyes firmly in place.

“Where's what?”

“The paper that you sent me to dig up in Hell's fun farmhouse yesterday.”

Sam frowned and squirmed in his bed uncomfortably. Dean saw the unconscious movement and his eyes narrowed.

“What? Did you think I would forget? I'm not that distracted, Sammy, no matter what you think.”

“I burned it,” he muttered, his eyes downcast. He picked at the god-awful paisley print bedspread that was bunched up in his lap.

“What? Why? I thought you were all hell-bent on finding it.” Dean snapped, cutting another look at the closed bathroom door. They heard the shower turn on and they both sighed in relief.

“It was a necromancy spell. Not the kind of shit we want to have around.”

Dean frowned at his brother, wondering what the hell was going on with him. Sam's hair was matted with dried sweat, and his cheeks were flushed with color. He stepped closer, slapping his palm over Sam's forehead to check for a fever.

“What the hell? Get off me, Dean.” Sam swatted him away with a lazy, heavy hand.

“You don't have a fever. Did you have a nightmare?”

Sam shrugged, looking away. He didn't want to talk about his dream just yet. He was still separating the reality from the fantasy---the vision from the nightmare. He was trying to decide if he was desperate enough to do as Madison suggested and swap souls with the devil.

“Do you think that parchment is the reason we have an uninvited guest?” Dean asked, his eyes skating around the room suspiciously.

Sam watched him a moment before answering. “Maybe.” That was a damn lie, but Dean was too busy looking for something to kill to notice. Sam was pretty sure that whatever was haunting them had been with them longer than just one night. However, whatever it was, Sam wasn't sure if he was ready to have it leave just yet. He hadn't committed to anything, but he didn't want to limit his options either.

Dean frowned at Sam's answer, his hazel eyes landing on his brother in a harsh glare. He decided to let it slide. There was nothing he could do about the ghost at the moment. He would just have to wait and see if it would reappear. Until then he would keep an eye out and a shotgun loaded with rock salt nearby.

“Well if all you were going to do was burn it, then why the hell did your weirdo vision insist on you finding it.”

Sam frowned, knowing that he couldn't tell Dean the truth. If he let it slip that he was on a quest to save him, Dean would shut down entirely. It seemed he was dead set on dying in three months. He wouldn't say why, but Sam was fairly sure that it had something to do with him and the deal Dean struck with the crossroads demon.

“Maybe to make sure that no one else found it and made use of it.”

“I don't know, Sam. It was fairly well hidden.”

“Things get found all the time, Dean.”

Dean's eyes narrowed even further as he glared at his brother. Sam still wouldn't meet his eyes and Dean knew that he was up to something. Sam thought he could run a bait and switch behind Dean's back while he was distracted by Delilah, but he was dead wrong. Dean could be two counties over and know that his little brother was scamming. The boy just didn't know it.

Delilah breezed out of the bathroom, her hair pulled back into a wet bun, with no make-up on her face. She was dressed in a bright pink tank and a pair of jean shorts. It was the least put together, Dean had ever seen her, and that was including the three days she spent in the same set of clothes. It was almost like she was shedding her skin and becoming someone else. Someone he could more easily relate too.

“So where are we off to?” She sat down on the bed, pulling on a pair of flowered flip flops. It was clear by her bright tone, and cheery demeanor that she had decided to forget about the whole knife incident. Dean smirked at her. That was a coping mechanism that he had no problem understanding. He was of the belief that if you ignored something long enough then it just went away.

“Guadalajara,” Sam answered before he could change his mind.

Dean whipped around to stare at him in disbelief and Delilah's mouth popped open.

“Guadalajara, Mexico? The home of the tequila train?” From the look on Dean's face, Sam could tell that his brother didn't know if he should be stunned or elated.

“Why would you want to go to Mexico?” Delilah's mouth had snapped shut, and now she was frowning at Sam as well. What she was really asking was if they had decided to skip the country after all.

Dean's brow furled and Sam knew that he had decided to forgo stunned and elated and opted for suspicious instead.

“An excellent question, Delilah, but a better one would be; how are we getting to Mexico?”

“Fly,” Delilah offered.

“Drive,” Sam chimed.

Dean cut a mean look towards Delilah that startled her, before he shot an equally nasty one at Sam.

“Firstly, we are not driving my baby into Mexico. We'll never get her back in one fucking piece. Secondly, once we arrive, there is no way that we can get back over the border. Hell, there is a good chance that we wouldn't be able to get over the border in the first goddamn place. I'm sure Hendrickson has our pictures pasted up and down the Rio Grande.” He turned to face Delilah with his finger raised in censure. “And thirdly, I don't fly, sister.”

Delilah blinked at him a moment before her pale pink lips curved up into a smile at his absolutely affronted tone at her suggestion that he fly.

“Ah, is yous afraid? Poor little boo boo.”

“Keep it up and it's cuffs and a gag for you.” He glared at her meaningfully.

Her eyes narrowed dangerously and the temperature dropped in the room by about ten degrees, but she kept her evil thoughts to herself, much to Dean's relief.

“She's right. The best way would be to fly,” Sam offered, unable to resist poking his brother even more.

“Hello!” Dean sassed back, throwing his arms into the air in frustration. “If you thought driving over the border would be a pain in the ass, could you imagine trying to get through airport security? We would be pinched before we even walked into the joint.”

“Not if you were boarding a private jet.” Delilah's words were cool, and Dean fought the urge to hunch his shoulders. Yeah, he was so going to be paying for his little jibe later.

“Yeah, cause we got a plenty of money to rent one of those.” Dean dismissed her and hopefully her resentful attitude (uh, doubtful), returning his attention back to the original question. Doing so, he completely missed the strained expression on Delilah's face that was quickly hidden away.

“Why do you want to go to Mexico, little brother?”

Sam dropped his eyes, glancing over to Delilah who was still sitting on the opposite bed, completely mystified. Dean easily read his brother's silent communication. Sam and his freaking weirdo visions, again.

“Is this going to be another wild goose chase? Cause, dammit Sam, this isn't like hopping one state over.”

Sam kept his eyes lowered beneath Dean's glare, shrugging. Dean's lips twisted into a sneer, and his growl of frustration echoed through the room. Delilah shivered inconspicuously on the bed.

“Sam,” Dean's tone was low in warning.

“I don't know, Dean.” Sam snapped back, meeting his brother's glare head on. “I don't know, but we have to go. It's important.”

“Important, how?”

Sam quickly glanced at Delilah before looking back at Dean. “I can't say. Just believe me.”

Dean's sigh sounded like a strangled groan, and he swept his hand through his spiky hair.

“Fine. But you and I are having a conversation later. Let's get packed. We'll figure this out on the road.”

Dean and Delilah packed the car, while Sam struggled to dress himself. He stumbled into the bathroom, pushing Dean away when he tried to help. For a minute he thought he saw Madison's reflection in the mirror, but when he turned to look she was gone. Loneliness burst through his chest, and his grip on the sink tightened until his knuckles turned white.

He stared at himself in the mirror, looking for a hint of yellow in his eyes, and seeing nothing but blue-green.