Midnight Of the Century - Section One
Jun. 11th, 2010 09:25 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
glasslogic
"For almost the entire history of Western civilization this month
has been a holy time. The Druids, winter solstice, Hannakah, the
Romans converted Saturnalia into Christmas. Imagine that, Christ
wasn't even born on this day. So no one knows for sure when
the millennium really begins. And how much time is left."
-Peter Watts, Millennium
Prologue
Snow was falling in heavy, wet flakes, clinging to everything and blanketing the countryside with deep, white silence. The roads and walkways were still visible where lingering heat and traffic kept the winter at bay, but by dawn there would be nothing to distinguish concrete from grass
Pastor Jim walked through the kitchen with a frown. He had been given the charge of two boys, but only one was sitting at the table slurping soup.
"Dean, I thought I asked you to tell Sam to come in?"
The twelve-year-old looked up and shrugged. "I did, but he doesn't want to. I made sure he had all his heavy clothes on and gave him my jacket to wear over his while he's outside freezing his butt off."
"Is he in the yard?"
Dean nodded. "By the old gate, with the tombstones."
"On the cemetery side? What is he doing out there?"
The boy crumbled another handful of crackers into his soup. "He says he's watching people."
"By the old gate? That gate has opened to an empty field for the last century. No one comes in that way anymore; the old stone sidewalk was even torn out when we did the renovations to the plumbing."
"I didn't see anyone. Sam likes to play weird games sometimes," Dean announced in a tone clearly demonstrating the long-suffering nature of the older sibling. "Dad tells him to knock it off, but it makes him happy." He shrugged again.
"Well, it's too cold to play this game this evening, he needs to eat something. And don't just eat all the crackers, drink your milk too."
The Pastor went to find his own boots and jacket. John would never forgive him if his youngest caught pneumonia because no one bothered to drag him in out of the snow.
Jim crunched through the frozen grass and deepening ice towards the old iron gate at what was now the rear of the church property.
Over a century earlier, when the church had been center of town life, a wide stone avenue had led through the gate to the chapel. But now the public road ran on the other side of the church, and the chapel that had once been the entirety of the church building was just a very small part of the structure. The tombstones in the yard behind the church dated back to the earliest Christian settlements in the region, and most were no longer even legible.
He found Sam sitting on the ancient stone steps that led up to the old chapel doors. The boy was indeed huddled in his brother's jacket, watching the gate with wide hazel eyes. His lips were almost blue and a heavy dusting of snow covered his shoulders. He was clearly focused on something, but Jim didn't see anything unusual in the stillness of the yard. The deep shadows of evening were gathering and, Christmas Eve or not, the churchyard was not a friendly place for the living.
The boy didn't seem to realize he had company, but Jim noticed that his eyes were flickering back and forth as though watching something with movement.
"Sam?"
The boy blinked and turned his head towards the Pastor.
"What are you looking at?"
Sam frowned. "The people, where are all the people coming from? Where are they going?"
Jim felt the skin at the back of his neck prickle and all the hair stand up.
"What people, Sam?" he asked carefully.
Sam waved a small gloved hand at the snow covered pathway through the closed ancient gate.
"There! All of those people. They keep coming, but they won't talk to me. Then they go away."
Jim looked again, but the cemetery was still deserted. "Are they people you recognize?"
The boy looked thoughtful. "No, well ...maybe. I thought I saw Ms. Lizzie, but I wasn't sure and she didn't hear me when I talked to her."
Jim nodded. A shiver ran up his spine at Sam's mention of the church choir director.
"Okay, Sam. Well, it's time to come in now. It's much too cold out here for you."
Sam looked at him, eyes wide. "Dean didn't believe me. He said I was making it up. Why can't he see them? They're right there!"
"Maybe he was teasing you," Jim offered gently. "Do you see a lot of things that Dean says he can't see?"
Sam wrinkled his nose. "Sometimes. When I tell him about weird things I see, Dean makes fun of me and tells Dad, and Dad tells me I'm too old for little kid games. But I'm not lying," he added hotly.
"Weird like how?"
Sam shrugged and pointed out into the empty yard.
"Do you ever tell your Dad?"
"No. Dad's always busy."
Jim nodded and reached down to pick Sam up. At eight he was getting big, but not too big to be carried around just yet. The boy clung to him and rested his head on Jim's shoulder.
"'M not lying," he mumbled again.
"Don't worry about it, Sam. Let's get some hot soup in you and get you to bed."
"Is Dad coming back tonight? He said he would be back for Christmas."
"I'm sure your Dad will do everything he can to be here for tomorrow. And if he doesn't make it, we will just have to start without him and tell him about everything he missed."
Jim carried his friend's son back into the church and settled him in the kitchen with his brother, where the two promptly engaged in yet another one of the sibling spats their age made them prone to.
Sam seemed okay, and so Jim was inclined to not make a big deal of anything, but as soon as John showed up they needed to have a long talk about his youngest son.
Chapter One
"For the thing I greatly feared has
come upon me. And what I dreaded has
happened to me. I am not at ease, nor am I quiet;
I have no rest, for trouble comes."
~Job 3:25, 26
"What are you looking at, Sam?"
Jess wound her arm through his and leaned into his warmth. Sam was watching the path through the churchyard with a strange, haunted expression. Jess kept looking between his face and the people walking, trying to see what was absorbing so much of his attention.
Sam had been a little reluctant to come to the Christmas Eve service, but she had chalked that up to his stress over the upcoming Bar exam in February. Graduating a semester early, cramming for the Bar on his own, the Bar itself, the wedding shortly afterwards, a new job ...he had plenty of reasons to be a little frazzled. She thought a low key evening out doing family things would be a nice break. And spending the evening with her parents meant they could sleep in and not show up at their house until around noon tomorrow for Christmas brunch. Sleeping in meant they could have a late night, and she had definite plans for how to use that time.
"Sam?" She swayed her body gently against his, forcing him to take a step to keep his balance.
He turned to her as if startled to find her there. Twinkling lights over the arched entry of the church behind her made a halo of her blond hair and added to the cheery festive bustle of the crowd entering to find seats.
Jessica smiled at him.
"You seem so ...absorbed. I was just wondering what you're looking at."
Sam tightened his arm around hers. "It's …nothing." He tried a reassuring smile, but it never reached his eyes. "I just thought I saw someone familiar."
Jess turned and looked again at the path. A few people were still hurrying about, heading for the entrance before the service started.
"I didn't think you had ever been here before."
"My family traveled a lot when I was a kid." Sam's smile was a little more genuine as he tugged her back towards the open door to the church. "Sometimes it seems like I've been everywhere."
Jess glanced back at the street with a frown, but let herself be distracted and drawn back into the warm light of the church hall towards her parents. Sam seldom spoke about his childhood, and she respected his privacy enough not to poke. They would have a lifetime together; if it was important, he would come clean eventually.
Sam excused himself from the throng of people as soon as possible, leaving Jessica in the circle of her family and retreating to the privacy of the restroom. It was thankfully empty and he leaned heavily on the sink, splashing water on his face and trying to convince himself he hadn't seen what his heart was sure of. The shuffling crowd of shades hadn't been such a surprise. It was Christmas Eve after all, and he had known what he would see in the churchyard, any churchyard; the silent wraiths of the coming year's dead.
In his childhood, one of the few family traditions John had gone out of his way to observe was making sure his boys attended Christmas Eve services. It was an annual mark of normalcy that really just served to highlight how otherwise abnormal their lives were. Attending was easier once he befriended Pastor Jim; after that, the holiday presented itself neatly as an opportunity to talk shop and pick up tips from someone who had been involved with hunting, even if only on the margins, for a lot longer than John had. Sam was eight or nine when Pastor Jim realized that Sam's preoccupation with the churchyard on these visits was more than a child's fascination with old gravestones and snow.
That was the last year they did any kind of traditional Christmas. John never brought it up to Sam, but Sam himself ran across the legend during research in his teens, and remembered those half-seen figures coming to Mass. He had gone to his father upset, demanding to know what it meant that he could see them. His dad had assured him it didn't mean anything, that some people were just sensitive to things like that, and that Sam knowing they were real made him even more open to seeing them. The words had been right and comforting, but the shadows in his father's eyes spoke other things to Sam. They never discussed it again.
He followed his father's footsteps and stayed away from churches on Christmas Eve. But he hadn't been able to deny Jess this tonight, not when between her working to support them both, and his studying for the Bar practically every waking hour since graduation, they scarcely saw each other, except passing through the kitchen and completely exhausted in bed. She had been patient and supportive, and had asked nothing of him since he started studying but that he take a few hours over the holidays to do family things with her and her relatives.
Soon to be his relatives.
Sam wished to a God he wasn't sure he believed in that he had told her no. He didn't know what to do with what he had seen tonight. Down the line of drifting shades, looking straight ahead, and as expressionless as they all were: his brother. The brother who hated him for reasons unknown, and whom he had sworn off in return. He had the knowledge that his brother would die in the coming year. Even if they no longer acted as brothers to each other, it seemed like information he should give Dean. Let him have at least the chance to avoid his fate.
But even if Sam wanted to, he didn't know where to find Dean, or how to begin looking.
Chapter Two
Bob Bletcher: If it was 500 years ago,
you'd have been burned as a witch.
Frank Black: Nothing I do is magic, Bob.
Bob Bletcher: Yeah, a lot of people shouted
just that from the middle of a bonfire.
~Millennium
Sam whispered apologies and edged carefully around people's feet as he made his way through the pews to the open seat at his fiancée's side.
Jessica flashed him a concerned look, but he shook his head and she gave a slight nod of acknowledgment: nothing serious. She squeezed his hand when he sat.
He was grateful for the tangible display of her affection, but his mind wasn't on the service.
Throughout the evening it turned over and over in his mind. Flashes from his youth and childhood. His adored and adoring older brother. By turns both father figure and confidant, but always his protector: his best friend. The shocked white look on his face when Sam announced he was leaving for college. His shuttered expression when Sam turned to him in mute appeal for support against their father's ultimatums. The hours Sam had waited at the bus station, knowing Dean would come to say goodbye, even if their father would never forgive him. Sitting through three different connections before being forced to accept that fact that Dean wasn't coming either. Dean never visiting, never calling, not even when their father had died. Leaving Sam to find out second hand during a chance call with a mutual acquaintance. Sam finally breaking and trying to call Dean, leaving messages everywhere he could. Terrified his brother was gone too. Never hearing back, being assured Dean was still alive and well by people who knew him. Fear and worry turning to rage and anger.
Dean's blank translucent face, his brother in that endless line of men, women, and children who passed by the living, silent in the snow.
Destined to die in the coming year.
His brother.
By the time the service had ended and people were rising to gather coats, kids, handshakes, and hugs, Sam had reached a decision.
The trip back was strained. Jess kept trying to draw Sam into conversation, and he kept answering in monosyllables and nods. It didn't get any better when they got home.
At a loss as to how to crack Sam's moodiness without direct confrontation, she slipped into the bedroom to change from her heavy winter clothes into the sleek negligee she had purchased for the occasion. Her fiancé's strange demeanor had thrown her enough that she dragged a robe on over the skimpy lace before heading back out to the living room to see where he was.
"Sam?"
He was bent over his laptop, drumming the fingers of one hand nervously on the table, oblivious to her presence.
She took a few steps closer and tried again.
"Sam?"
"Hey, Jess." He frowned and scrawled something illegible in an open notebook, still focused on the computer screen. "Thought you were going to bed?"
"I thought we were going to bed." She let the robe slip off her shoulder a bit, showing the lacy strap beneath.
"In a little bit." He still didn't look up.
Jessica sighed as the last of her amorous mood evaporated. She pulled the robe back into place, resigned.
"I'm pretty sure this isn't supposed to be a problem until after the wedding," she commented dryly.
"Hmmm?"
Jess rolled her eyes and went back into the bedroom. "I'm turning in; try not to wake me up when you come to bed."
The next day was odd for Jessica. Sam had done as she asked the previous night and had not disturbed her when he finally abandoned the computer. She had the strong suspicion, from the depth of the shadows under his eyes, that it had been some time after dawn before he came to bed.
Sam was attentive enough that no one at her parents' house seemed to think anything was off, but to Jess it was obvious that wherever his mind was, it wasn't on Christmas brunch.
Strangely, it also didn't seem to be on the Bar, or any of the other things he liked to worry over. She promised herself he could have the rest of the day to work whatever it was out in his mind, but first thing tomorrow they were going to talk.
He was gone when she got up in the morning. She found a note on the table:
Jess could recall the times Sam had mentioned his brother on the fingers of one hand and have digits left over, so after the stress of the last few months, and the weird behavior of the last few days, all she could think was he's left me.
She fumbled for her phone.
"I haven't left you!" Sam repeated with slightly more of an edge. It was the fifth or sixth time in the last few minutes. A large part of him knew he damn well deserved it -- he didn't know what he had been thinking leaving at 3 in the morning with only a one line note explaining his abrupt departure -- but when Bobby finally called him back at 2:45 a.m. and said he might know where to find Dean, Sam just had to go. He knew if he woke Jess up he wouldn't leave for hours, and hours might mean the difference between catching Dean alive or finding his body. He only knew Dean would die in the coming year --he didn't know when, or how.
He had been half expecting Jessica's phone call since the sun rose, braced for her anger; the undercurrent of grief and confusion had hurt his heart. Still, there wasn't much more he could do than "I haven't left you," and "I'll be back as soon as I can and explain everything then," --and won't that be fun. He figured he was getting through to her when the misery in her tone evaporated into annoyance with a strong undertone of danger, and she hung up abruptly. It was amazing how much sudden silence could sound like a slammed receiver.
Sam shoved the problem as far back in his mind as he could. He would have decades to smooth this over with Jess, provided she didn't leave him, but Dean could be in danger now.
The miles were crawling.
Bobby's call in the middle of the night hadn't really been that informative. It had also been reluctant. Sam had called Bobby every four hours since getting home from the church service armed with determination and a plan, trying to get him to fess up to where Dean was. Bobby was the only contact Sam thought Dean might be keeping up with that Sam had the number for. The junkyard owner had been a close confidant of their father --when the two were speaking, and not laying out death threats-- and Bobby had always been kind to John's kids. Even with John dead, Sam had been confident that Dean would be in touch with Bobby, and Sam's bet had paid off. He knew Bobby had the information he had wanted, and would eventually give it to him, just by the fact that he kept picking up Sam's calls at all.
What Sam didn't understand was why Bobby had played the game in the first place. He had started off with a flat "no," and then tried to dissuade Sam, telling him that if Dean wanted to talk to him, he would have given Sam his number, and that it would be better for everyone if Sam just left well enough alone. Naturally Bobby refused to elaborate on that.
Sam had been reluctant to tell Bobby why it was suddenly so important he find his estranged brother after over six years of silence. A hunter's instincts died hard, and it had not gone over Sam's head that confessing to any sort of psychic ability could make him a potential target to more than a few of his father's colleagues. The shades of Christmas Eve weren't the only things Sam's mind forced him to witness, though thankfully, through sheer denial on his part, the other manifestations seemed more and more infrequent.
His father had trusted Bobby with his life --and, more tellingly, his sons' lives-- on more than one occasion. So when it eventually sounded like Bobby's "no" wasn't going to budge, Sam had told him what he had seen in the churchyard. He had also confessed about some of other things he had seen. He needed Bobby to believe in what he saw, and not think it was some kind of dream.
Utter silence on the other end of the line while Sam waited for either condemnation or help. Bobby finally told him to wait by the phone without any other comment. Three hours and a heavy sigh later-- a location.
Chapter Three
~Emily Dickenson
Cookeville, Tennessee, was pretty typical for a truck-stop town off Interstate 40. The only thing that made it stand out was it was also home to a university, so the normal interstate hodgepodge was mixed with an eclectic assortment of shops aimed at the college population, a truly impressive number of Christian bookstores, and the most extensive representation of restaurant chains all gathered on one road Sam could ever remember seeing.
He found the Impala parked outside the Key West Inn.
There was no way of knowing which room was Dean's, and Sam was pissed at him anyways, so after a quick look around, he felt no guilt at picking a rock up out of the parking lot and casually busting the passenger side window out of the Impala. Well, maybe a little guilt, but that was more due to the pangs of childhood memory than feeling sorry about Dean having to fix it.
He went to the front desk, where a frazzled attendant wearing a crooked name tag reading "Matt" was having a stressful phone conversation with an angry customer. The woman on the other end was so loud that Sam, standing feet away, could make out half the words she was snarling. Sam waited until Matt finally got a word in, begging the woman to be patient for just a moment.
He covered the received with one hand and mustered up a smile for Sam.
"What can I do for you, sir?"
"Some kid just broke out a window on that Impala in the parking lot. I just wanted to stick a note on the owner's door with my number in case they need a witness. Do you know whose it is?"
Matt looked greatly alarmed and told the woman on the phone he would call her right back.
"The Impala?"
"Yeah," Sam said impatiently, "black, classic, right over there--" he pointed out over the guy's shoulder to where the Impala sat in clear view.
Matt turned and looked dismayed at the shattered glass.
"Shit. Just now?"
"Yeah, man. They looked like they were trying to fish something off the floor. I yelled and they ran off."
Matt ran his hand nervously through his hair. "I talked to the guy when he checked in. He had to give us his license plate number for parking..." He gave Sam a hopeful look and Sam obediently rattled the tag number off. Matt didn't look suspicious that Sam had it memorized. He typed something into the computer before nodding and shoving a piece of printer paper and pen across the counter towards Sam with a roll of tape. At the top of the paper Matt had written "107."
"He insisted on the ground floor. I guess he's in, but take the tape just in case."
"Thanks." Sam took the paper, pen, and tape off the counter and headed back outside.
Room 107 was at the far corner of the hotel. Sam assumed the parking lot must have been fuller whenever Dean had parked, or his room would never have been so far from his precious car.
A "no smoking" sign was neatly centered on the door, and the curtains were pulled tightly. Sam took a deep breath and knocked.
No answer.
He waited a minute, and knocked again. The door remained stubbornly closed, and there was no sound from inside the room. Sam frowned and pulled out the lock picks he had slipped into his pocket by habit.
He was rusty, but it still took him only a couple of minutes to get the door open.
The room was silent; no sound of running water. Sam looked around and felt a strange feeling of disorientation. It was like taking a step into his past. A local map was tacked up on the wall, along with some articles, the text blurred by the dimness of the room.
Dean's familiar canvas duffel bag lay on the low dresser, dirty clothes kicked into the corner. A thick line of salt lay in front of the window, and the remains of another one crunched in the carpet in front of the door where it had been laid, destroyed by the door opening, then laid again. From the amount of salt Sam knew Dean had been here for several days.
It could have been any room from his teenage years, when his father had abandoned him and Dean to their own devices for days or weeks at a time. All that was missing was Sam's stuff --and his brother.
The clock on the bedside table was flashing 2 p.m.; Dean was probably out finding food. Every restaurant imaginable was less than a block away, so it was reasonable he would have gone on foot.
Sam flipped the lights back off and dragged the comforter back up over the rumpled sheets. He lay down, curling up on his side and resting his head on pillows that smelled like his brother. The drive had been draining, but he didn't mean to really sleep, only rest a bit, for just a few minutes...
He started awake when a strong hand closed roughly over his shoulder and pressed him down flat on the mattress.
"Sam?!"
He was abruptly let go, and sat up blinking in the sudden glare of overhead lights.
"Hey, Dean," he muttered, voice still rough with sleep's edge. "You should do something about the security around here. A toddler could have picked that lock."
Dean glowered at him. "What the fuck are you doing in Tennessee?"
"It was a free country last time I checked," Sam snapped back. Oh, God, Sam thought, with an edge of something that might have been hysteria coloring the thought, it's like I never left at all.
Dean must also have been feeling the ridiculousness of the reunion after the six-and-a-half years of silence that separated them, because he didn't respond, just stalked across the room and pulled a beer from the mini fridge. He popped the cap off with his ring and slouched against the wall, glaring at his little brother.
For his part, Sam used the time to look Dean over. His brother looked much the same on the surface. Maybe a little thinner and a little more worn. The hunting business was a rough one, and Dean had been doing it alone for three years now. He was still wearing the amulet Sam had given him, which seemed incongruous with his total abandonment. Faced with Dean in person, Sam's confusion and frustrated rage towards his brother melted a little into more bewilderment and nostalgia. He still didn't know what had happened to drive them so far apart, but maybe this trip could be a chance to mend the damage a little.
Dean finished off the beer and set the bottle down heavily on top of the TV. "Take a picture, it'll last longer," he snapped.
Or maybe not. Sam's annoyance flared front and center again, and he shoved himself to his feet.
"Good thing I didn't show up for a family reunion, huh, Dean?"
"Family reunions are for people who have families, Sam," Dean said harshly.
Sam recoiled inside. Dean's dislike for him was obvious, but he was still shocked by the viciousness of the attack. For a moment Sam was actually speechless, before he remembered the purpose of the visit and squared his shoulders.
"I won't drag this out, then."
Dean reached for another beer. He pointedly didn't offer Sam one. "I would appreciate it."
"I was at a church on Christmas Eve. I saw your fetch in the yard."
"What the fuck were you doing in a churchyard on Christmas Eve, Sam? I thought you and Dad had an understanding about that."
Sam blinked. "Dad's dead, Dean," he lowered his voice, "and I'm not so ...different, that I can hear his orders from the grave." His eyes narrowed. "Thanks for the heads up on that, by the way. And aren't you maybe a little more concerned with the whole dead before the end of the year issue?"
Dean shrugged, planting the half empty bottle down firmly by the first. "Would have told you if I thought you'd have cared. And unless I know how, it's not like I can avoid the getting dead issue. No reason to get all bent out of shape about something you can't change. I'll make sure to wear my seatbelt and avoid hookers with guns."
He fixed Sam in place with a hard look. "So, the churchyard, Sam?"
"I was with my fiancée and her family," Sam snapped, ignoring the slight about his caring --trying to get Dean past the churchyard and onto more important matters.
"You have a fiancée?" Dean sounded honestly surprised, and even possibly interested.
"I've had one for three years now, Dean. Which you would know if you had ever bothered to call or come by."
"I did come by."
"You--" Dean's admission caught Sam by surprise and his mind scrambled to make sense of it,"--what? You did not."
Dean frowned, looking deeply regretful that he had spoken.
"If you fucking stopped by why the hell didn't you let me know you were there!"
"It's not a big deal, Sam. I just stopped in town once or twice to make sure you were doing all right. You know, not face down in an alley, or missing and presumed dead."
Sam gaped. "And after driving out there it was just too much trouble to knock on my door?!"
"I promised Dad I wouldn't bother you."
"Bother me, promised Dad -- what the hell Dean?!" Sam knew his voice was rising, but he couldn't seem to help himself.
Dean remained silent, no longer looking at Sam at all, but past him at the door. A silent directive to drop it and get out.
Sam made no move to obey. He took a moment to calm himself and to try to take in this new information. Finally he recovered enough to speak. "I really need an answer, Dean."
"I told you. I gave Dad my word I would stay away from you."
"Actually, you didn't, Dean. 'Not bothering me' and 'staying away from me' are two really different things. Why didn't Dad want you to come see me? Did he think I would tempt you down the insidious and evil path of a college degree too?"
The corner of Dean's mouth quirked in an unhappy smile. "Not so much, Sam."
"Then what, Dean!" Sam stalked over to stand in touching distance of his brother.
Up close, Dean looked worse than Sam had thought. The dark hollows under his eyes and the edge of a sutured wound peeking out from the neck of his t-shirt spoke of rough living and pain that Sam didn't want to think about while he was so angry and frustrated.
"What could he possibly have been worried about? Was it just to punish me? If so, man -- I thought we were closer than that." Sam didn't think he was doing such a good job of keeping the hurt from his voice anymore, and was marginally pleased to see a flash of expression across Dean's face that might have been guilt.
"It wasn't to punish you, Sam. And it hardly fucking matters now!" Dean looked like he wanted to escape, but in six years apart Sam had grown from an awkward, over-tall teenager into a man who could make his presence felt when it suited his purposes. Dean would either have to slide out against the wall, or actually touch Sam if he wanted to move. He settled for looking angry and trapped.
"I don't see how you can say it doesn't matter if even when he died you still wouldn't fucking come see me." Sam hissed. "Even pick up the phone and let me know! What could he have possibly said to you that was so damn important that you didn't tell me when that happened, huh, Dean?" He was getting angry again, clenching his fists against his sides, yelling practically in Dean's face.
"He was protecting you, Sam," Dean admitted reluctantly.
"Protecting me from what, Dean?! What was he possibly protecting me from by cutting me off from my family?"
Dean set his jaw but didn't answer.
Sam twisted his hand in the front of Dean's shirt and shoved him hard back into the wall. "I deserve a fucking answer, Dean!"
Dean wrenched free and before Sam could blink their positions were reversed. Dean slammed Sam into the wall and pinned him there with an arm barred across his throat.
"You want an answer, Sam? Really?" he snarled.
"Yeah," Sam gasped, "I really think you owe me one."
Dean lessened the pressure slightly. "It was me, Sam. Dad was protecting you from me."
Sam stopped fighting.
Dean let him go and stepped back.
"From you?" Sam asked, trying to regain his breath.
"Yeah, Sam. From me. Dad didn't want you to go away where he couldn't protect you, but on the other hand, he was just so damn glad to get us separated." Dean's smile was twisted. "If you had been a little nicer when you told him about Stanford, he might have bought you a freaking bus ticket and waved you cheerfully off from the station."
"What?" Sam was coming up blank, nothing about the conversation was fitting in with his understanding of his family, or the event of their separation.
"You see, Sam," Dean said, an unreadable expression on his face, "I have this little issue. I wasn't sure I could trust myself, the situation being what it was, so I told Dad. He'd been trying to find a way to split us up, more than a couple of days at a time anyways, for months when you made your little announcement."
"What problem, Dean? Why the fuck can't you just give me a straight answer?"
Dean smiled again, it was a strange miserable expression. "I love you, Sam."
"You've got a twisted way of showing it, Dean! What the hell was your problem that you and Dad completely wrote me off just because I wanted to go to college."
"The problem was that I love you."
Before Sam could figure out how to respond to that, Dean rolled his eyes and Sam found his back against the wall for the second time in five minutes. Dean's hands were warm through Sam's flannel where they pressed against his shoulder; Dean was so close Sam could feel the heat of his body through the layers of his clothes. A heartbeat, a deep breath, and Dean's lips found Sam's own.
Sam froze in shock.
A brush of Dean's tongue, and time caught up with Sam again. He shoved Dean hard so that he staggered, the backs of his legs hitting the edge of the bed and dumping him across it. Sam ran both hands through his hair and stomped towards the door.
"Problem, Sam?" Dean called mockingly behind him.
Sam turned to see his brother still lying across the bed, feet planted on the floor and propped up on an elbow, his face an expressionless mask.
"You know, Dean. I don't know what the fuck I did to make you hate me so much. All I wanted was a freaking answer, and you know what? If you can't bring yourself to give me that, then maybe I just don't care enough to find out anymore. If it's such a big secret that you have to resort to juvenile bullshit just to try and throw me off stride, then keep the damn secret to yourself. I'm done." Sam ripped the door open. "I told you what I came to say, what you do now is up to you. Goodbye, Dean."
Sam closed the door behind himself without a backwards glance.
He slid behind the wheel of his car and pulled his cell phone out to call Jess, to let her know he was on his way home.
Chapter Four
-WH Auden
"Sam, you dressed?"
Jessica was trying to get the earring loop through her ear while balancing on one foot to slide a heel on. "We're going to be late!"
Sam walked out of the bedroom tugging the collar of his button-up out from under the sweater Jess's parents had given him for Christmas.
"A fate worse than death," he replied wryly.
Jess eyed him darkly, finally getting the earring in and shoving her other foot into the shoe. "It might be. We used up all of our free points of holiday goodwill when we ditched the after-Christmas party."
"Tell me again why you didn't go?" Sam asked, holding her purse out to her.
"I didn't go because my fiancé had vanished in the middle of the night, my eyes were all red from crying, and the absolute last thing I wanted to do was sit and endure the worried hand-wringing of my mother and the snide looks and fake sympathetic comments from cousins Brunhilde and Gertrude," was her tart reply.
"You mean Emily and Janice?" Sam asked, amused. He wrapped an arm around her, and the two made their way out to the car.
"Are those their names?" Jessica asked airily. She flashed Sam a smile when he opened the car door for her, and waited until he was in the driver's seat before continuing. "Anyways, we are likely to have a whole different level of snide and whispers to endure tonight. Be nice, I'm sure I can find something to make it worth your effort later."
"Why are we going to be popular tonight?"
"I certainly wasn't in the mood to explain to my parents all about how you went off and left me with no explanation--"
"Jess…" Sam interrupted with a slight warning edge.
Jessica had greeted Sam's return with happiness, relief, and a certain edge of reserved anger. He had only given her the bare bones of what had happened: that he had met up with his estranged brother ...and they were still estranged. She seemed willing to give him some space for the moment, but Sam knew as soon as they had some breathing room she was going to demand the explanation she deserved, and if he failed to supply one, her reserve on the anger was likely to vanish.
"--so I may have implied to my mother that we were distracted enjoying the holidays in a fashion that could net her grandchildren, and she hushed right up," Jess paused, an evil twinkle in her eyes, "and no doubt promptly told every female relative I have. Expect to be bombarded with suggestions on how to treat a pregnant lady right."
Sam groaned. Jess's mom had started hinting heavily the second year of their engagement that she wanted to be a grandmother before she was too old to enjoy it. Jess had finally managed to convince her mother that the absolute earliest there was any possibility of that would be after Sam graduated and settled into a steady job.
A time that was quickly approaching.
Jessica's mom was a nice lady, but the next few months promised to be filled with pointed hints, expectant smiles, and possibly threatening looks from his soon-to-be father-in-law. A man who never seemed quite convinced that Sam was good enough for his youngest daughter, and who was completely convinced that living together before marriage was a cardinal sin.
It seemed an unspeakably cruel fate to force on someone who was running on less than three hours of sleep.
The party was in full swing and had been for hours. There were less than thirty minutes left before the ball dropped, and Sam was a mess.
For the first couple of hours he had been fine. He bantered, mingled, and endured both the gossip and the hopeful expressions from Jess's mom and aunts. Jess's parents had rented out a ballroom for their end-of-the-year bash. Sam didn't know how many people were there, but it was well over a hundred.
He occasionally caught sight of his fiancée, but she was being handed off between relatives and friends of the family, and Sam had just wanted things a little bit more low key than that. But people kept finding him, and wanting to talk. And the press of the crowd was making him feel claustrophobic and hot. And Jess's vulpine cousin just wouldn't take the hint. Which were the only excuses he had for how he ended up telling her off so loudly that conversation in that corner had just completely died.
He had gathered the rags of his dignity and exited the room with as much pride as he could manage, leaving dozens of blinking eyes, and one stunned mid-twenty-something in a fancy dress staring after him with flushed cheeks.
He didn't stop walking until the heat and lights were so far behind him that the cold December wind was slicing through his sweater, and the icy slush on the sidewalk was melting into his dress shoes.
Sam hadn't made a conscious decision to go outside, but now that he was there he felt like his head was clearing.
There was no way he could face the crowd again after that exit, so he found a little bench protected from the blowing wind by a garden wall and brushed it clean of snow. If he had thought his relationship would survive abandoning Jess again, he would have been sorely tempted to just leave.
He had passed cold and was heading straight into frozen-over when he heard the crunch of snow and felt a light touch on his shoulder.
"Sam?"
Sam covered Jess's hand with one of his own, feeling a sudden rush of affection for her; standing almost ankle-deep in snow, her high heels buried, the skirt of her silk dress turning dark on the edge from the damp. He looked up and saw that she was wearing an oversized coat she must have purloined from the cloakroom; it certainly wasn't the one she came with. She had his jacket gripped in her free hand. He took it and shrugged it on, not having realized until wrapped in its insulation just how cold he was.
"So I guess your cousins are going to have a lot more to talk about now," he said by way of greeting.
She didn't say anything, but sat on the bench and leaned against him.
"I'm sorry," he said softly.
"I don't care about that, Sam," she sighed. "I'm just worried about you. Something is going on; it's been going on since Christmas. You were all weird, then you went away, and now this ...you need to talk to me."
"You don't want to know, Jess. You'd think I was crazy, and if you think you're worried now...." He huffed something like a laugh but without humor. "Trust me. I'm working some stuff out. I just need a little more time."
She stiffened. "Sam ...no. Just, no. No more time. You didn't want to talk after Christmas Eve, and I let it slide. You didn't want to talk after Christmas, and I let it slide and you took off on a road trip without a word. You came home, and you still wanted some time, and I let it go then too. I'm not doing this again, Sam. We're supposed to be partners for life --you asked me to marry you. If that means anything, you have got to give me some kind of explanation for whatever the hell is going on with you lately!" She paused and gripped his hand, squeezing tight. "If I think what you say is insane, then we can deal with that. But you have to at least try. For us."
Sam twisted on the bench to face her. "You want to know what's going on with me, Jess?"
"Yeah, Sam. I really, really, do. I'm not sure there are enough words in English for me to explain just how much I want to know what's going on with you!"
"Fine. Christmas Eve I saw my brother's ghost wandering around the churchyard. Well, not really his ghost, it was actually a fetch. They hang out in churchyards on Christmas Eve letting people who can see them know who's going to die in the coming year. I haven't really spoken to my brother since, oh, I started college. I kinda wanted to, but then our dad died and my brother couldn't even be bothered to call and let me know. I decided I at least owed him a heads-up about the impending doom and tracked him down to his hotel, where he was camped out stalking a Fouke Monster, also known as the rare Southern Sasquatch, in central Tennessee, which had apparently been trashing the occasional lone trailer out in the countryside. My brother didn't seem too happy to see me, but after the obligatory yelling and drinking, he did manage to kiss me before pretty much throwing me out. Then I got to drive another obscene amount of hours to get back home, where I end up at a stuffy miserable party, full of stuffy miserable people, being stalked by pissy women with too much obsessive interest in my personal life, and I feel like I haven't slept in days. Do you feel enlightened now, Jess? Because if you do, feel free to let me in on it."
Sam knew it had been a mistake to open his mouth as soon as it happened, but he couldn't take it back, so he braced himself for ...whatever her reaction would be.
He wasn't expecting her to stand up and face him.
"I'm cold, Sam. Are you cold?"
"Um..." He noticed again the thin dress and her high heels, and winced. "Yeah, it's ...cold."
She held her hand out and he took it tentatively, letting her help pull him to his feet.
"You're right about this party. I'm cold, you're tired, and they have entirely the wrong sort of alcohols here. Let's go home."
They got back in the car, Jess had taken the keys from him and seemed to be paying close attention to the road as she steered them back to their apartment.
Sam let the silence sit for about half the trip before it was too much.
"Are you going to say anything?"
"Not right now, Sam. Right now I'm going to get us home and put you to bed. And then I'm going to take a hot shower, curl up on the couch with a stiff drink and a bowl of popcorn, and indulge my sudden need to see Colin Firth as Mr. Darcy."
"Bridget Jones's Diary?"
"No."
"Pride and Prejudice?"
"Yes."
"Isn't that movie five hours long?"
"Maybe a few stiff drinks."
"Jess..."
"Shut up, Sam."
Sam woke up the next morning feeling both better and worse. Physically, he felt much improved after ten hours of sleep. Unfortunately, the benefits of sleep were balanced out by his perfect recall of the conversation with Jess, which made him feel terrible. He imagined there were more tactful ways for a woman to find out her fiancé was a raving head-case than in a semi-coherent rant while freezing to death at a New Year's Eve party.
New Year's Eve party.
Today was the New Year.
He sat on the edge of the bed and wondered numbly if anyone would think to call him when Dean... When his brother...
He wondered if anyone would even know.
His mood was still bleak when he finally wandered out of the bedroom to find Jess.
Jess, for her part, was still curled up on the couch when Sam made his way into the living room. She was dressed in the blue terrycloth bathrobe that had been yet another of her mother's gifts to Sam, and it dwarfed her in its folds and length. Her blond hair had partially straggled free of a careless knot, and a popcorn bowl with quite a few chocolate wrappers was discarded on the floor. The level of liquid in the tequila bottle on the table beside her was considerably lower than he remembered.
She was reading the morning paper and eating an apple.
"Do you need aspirin?"
She rolled her head back on the couch so she could see him where he stood behind her and raised an inquisitive eyebrow.
He eyed the bottle meaningfully.
She shrugged.
"Nope. I'm good."
"How is that humanly possible?"
"The trick is not to sleep."
"Is it time to talk yet?"
"You mean the talk about how you need to take a break from the insane stress you've been under and maybe we should go on vacation? That talk? Sure. I vote Vegas."
"Jess ...that wasn't stress," he insisted earnestly. "That's all real. Maybe it wasn't the best way to let you know," he glanced at the bottle again, "and maybe this isn't the best time either. But I'm not crazy. It's a very different world out there than people think it is, and dealing with it, with the nightmares --that's what my family does. Did," Sam sighed, "Dean does."
Jess got up and walked into the little kitchen area, carrying the paper with her.
Sam slumped down into one of the cheap wooden chairs, watching her.
She poured some coffee and sat in the chair next to him.
"You've been under a lot of stress, Sam. Graduation, the Bar, the job, the wedding, my parents, your family issues... It's okay to just admit it's a lot to deal with and take a break. And talk to someone. There are a lot of very nice people who make a lot of really nice cash dealing with things like this."
"Things like ghosts?" Sam asked pointedly.
"Things like stress," Jess glared.
"You want me to see a professional?"
"I wanted to go on vacation! You're the one who's insisting ghosts are real. I'm totally willing to chalk all this up to a nervous breakdown, go blow a bunch of money on the slot machines and share a sleeping bag at the Grand Canyon until you feel better. Or we go broke."
"Running away isn't going to change the basic facts of reality."
"No, you're trying to change the basic facts of reality. And if you aren't going to see reason, then you really, really need to talk to a professional. Maybe a couple."
She took a long sip of coffee.
"We can move the wedding off a little, you can take the July Bar, I'm sure Dad's buddy will hold the job for a few months, or we can find you a different one. It's not a big deal."
Sam sighed. "I'm not crazy, Jess."
She slammed the coffee cup down, liquid sloshing onto the table.
"Look, Sam. I love you. But if you are going to keep up with the insanity then I'm going to have to insist you either prove yourself, or get some help. My mom's best friend had a breakdown a few years ago and really made a lot of progress with her Dr. ...I think the guy's name was Tobin. I'm sure I can find it and make you an appointment; this doesn't have to be a huge thing."
"Or?"
"Or what?" She frowned.
"You said I have to either prove I'm not insane, or go see your doctor. Or what? Don't you need some kind of threat when you start handing out ultimatums?"
Jessica could see in the way he held himself that he was angry now, and defensive.
"There is no threat, Sam. If you won't go ...I don't know." She held the newspaper to her chest like a shield and gave him an unhappy look. She really didn't feel her position was unreasonable. Her fiancé had vanished for a week, come back, told off her cousin at a New Year's Eve party in front of half the town, his future boss, and her parents, and then spilled out a story in which he claimed that sasquatch and ghosts were real.
"You're not going to walk out? Break off the engagement? Never see me again?"
The words were bitter and suddenly Jessica got it. The bits of family history he had shared over the years, and last night --Dad died and my brother couldn't even be bothered to call and let me know-- and she grabbed his hand with one of hers, squeezing tight.
"No," she said firmly. "I'm not going to leave, I'm not going to make you leave. No one is leaving."
He nodded slowly, then seemed to gather himself. "Hand me the paper."
"What?" Jessica looked confused.
"The paper. Hand it over."
"Sam," she tried for gentle and persuasive again, "we need to work this out. I'm really worried about you. It's not a big deal to just go in and talk--"
He interrupted her. "You said I could see the doctor, or I could prove I'm not crazy. I'm going to prove it. Hand me the paper." Sam looked around. "And that pen on the counter."
Jessica stood up and slammed the paper down onto the table in front of him, but leaned on it and glared. "I'm not going to watch you destroy yourself, Sam. You clearly need to talk to someone. If it isn't going to be me, then it needs to be a professional."
"Do you have boots?"
She sagged back and leaned against the wall rubbing her eyes. "Why do I need boots?"
"You also need gloves. And something with long sleeves." He discarded a few sections of the paper and skimmed through local news. "You should also probably cancel any plans you had for today or tomorrow."
Jessica took a deep breath. "Okay, Sam. We will do this your way first. But promise me that afterwards, you will go see Doctor Tobin?"
Sam looked up at her. For the first time since Christmas, she saw in his eyes a glimpse of the man she had agreed to marry shining in his eyes. "Jess, if you aren't completely convinced of my sanity by this time tomorrow, I will go see any doctor you want."
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Date: 2011-03-21 05:06 am (UTC)Nice but a fear for Jess, she won't survive or leave him.
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Date: 2011-03-21 05:20 am (UTC)