Supernatural Fan Fiction ❯ A Sea of Waking Dreams ❯ Old Problems ( Chapter 2 )

Chapter 2

 

Dean was getting restless, and he hated himself for it. He hated himself for wanting to leave, for wishing he could just get out of this crappy little motel room and be outside again, for longing to just take Sam and put him in the car and move on.

 

That was what he wanted. That was what every hunting instinct told him to do. And that was what made him hate himself, because that wasn't what Sam needed. And right now, shouldn't he be thinking of Sam before anything else?

 

Sam's answer to that question would have been completely different from his answer—the right answer—of course. That was why Dean didn't let a single hint of what he was thinking slip through the cracks.

 

Right now Sam needed stability. He needed to stay in one place. He needed to stay here, so that was what Dean needed, too.

 

So they wouldn't move on.

 

But seriously. What could be the harm in going outside?

 

Dean glanced over at Sam, who was sound asleep in his bed still. It was just touching dawn—he didn't have nightmares at this time, and he'd probably sleep for a while yet. Maybe there wouldn't be any harm in stepping out for just five minutes, if he left the door open a crack so Sam could figure out that he wasn't far…

 

Yesterday, Dean wouldn't even have considered it, but—well, Sam hadn't had another nightmare after their talk and had remained asleep when he'd slid out of bed, which would normally have woken him instantly. Maybe it wasn't a risk today, especially with Sam so deeply asleep that he barely moved when Dean touched his shoulder.

 

That more than anything decided the matter, and in a second Dean was slipping silently out the door.

 

Outside, it was about at the halfway point between night and dawn. Things were lightening, dray. The sun would be coming up soon, but for now it was chilly, just the right kind of chill to wake a man up, to revitalize him.

 

Dean had never been one to enjoy beating the sun awake, but the air had the same effect on him as it would have had on many others. He took a deep breath and let it out, leaning against the wall and closing his eyes. For a long time he let himself drift, thinking of nothing, enjoying the quiet that came with a blank mind.

 

Thing was, no thoughts could stay empty forever, and after a while Dean's drifted back toward reality. He struggled to stop them, to hold them where they were, to grab onto a few more minutes of peace, but to no avail. Finally, he gave up, and let his mind go where it would.

 

Of course, it headed immediately for the practical, as a hunter's mind was wont to do. And it didn't help that there were so many practical things to think about here—not the least being money.

 

New York was an expensive place. The Winchesters never stayed there very long. But this time they'd been here over a week, if you counted the times when they didn't actually have a motel room booked. And between visiting hell's deeply boring alter-ego and dealing with an insane, then a comatose, then a barely-sane, brother—well, Dean hadn't had time to exploit any of his several means of making a quick buck.

 

And in the meantime, the bills were piling up. And not just motel and food bills. No, that would've been too easy. There had to be a hospital visit to contend with, too.

 

Normally Dean wouldn't have even spared a thought for that. The way he figured it, he and Sam threw away any chance at normal life, and jobs that would allow them to pay for medical care. Why should they worry about using fake credit cards or fake names to pay for doctors and hospitals?

 

And besides, Sam had been in the psych ward. Strapped to a bed. Immobilized. Dean normally would've been both furious and dubious as to why he should consider paying a single dime for those accommodations.

 

But…well, he'd met Sam's doctor. Had talked to him. The guy was…different. He'd looked and seemed genuinely concerned about Sam, and genuinely relieved that the kid actually did turn out to have family. And what was more, Dr. Thornton had never once mentioned payment. He probably would if he ever saw them again, but he hadn't. Not at the time.

 

Dean would have liked to be able to pay him back for that. Would've liked to thank him, too, come to that. But things were what they were, and gratitude would have to be pretty low on the list of priorities here, only checked off if the opportunity came freely.

 

Any way Dean looked at it, though, leaving here was going to be messy. Difficult and messy. And he didn't know when it would happen, or if he would be taking care of those details alone.

 

So much depended on Sam. Maybe all of it.

 

Dean was broken out of his thoughts when a fire truck whizzed down the road in front of the motel, sirens blaring—a fire to really start the day off right. The elder Winchester sighed. He glanced at his watch and was startled and dismayed to find that he'd been out for over half an hour. Muttering an oath, Dean hurried back into the room.

 

And felt his heart skip a beat at what he saw there.

 

Sam was awake. More than that, he was sitting up, huddled against the headboard in a ball that was impossibly small for his size. Huge brown eyes gazed at Dean in nothing short of terror, tears gathering at the corners even though they didn't fall. He looked…well, pathetic, but not in an insult way. Just a broken one. One that made Dean want to hold him like he was five again.

 

So that was exactly what he did. Dismissing manly pride and chick-flick moments and whatnot, he practically leapt across the room and sat down on the bed, drawing Sam into his arms.

 

Sam didn't hesitate. He burrowed in close, his arms tight around Dean, his face hidden form the world. He didn't cry. He didn't make a sound. But he shook. Shook like he was hypothermic, actually, and Dean's worry upped a notch.

 

Again.

 

He didn't even try to ask Sam what had happened. They could talk about it later—once Sam felt less fragile, less like he was going to fly apart if he left the protection of big brother's hug too soon. Questions could wait.

 

“Y-you…”

 

Dean started a little, looking down at the mop of brown hair on his shoulder. He hadn't expected Sam to speak.

 

“Sammy?”

 

Sam lifted his eyes to meet Dean's, and it seemed to steady him just a little.

 

“Y-you…” he repeated, then licked his lips and tried again, without the stutter. “You weren't there. I looked everywhere—I couldn't find you…and then there was this sound…like when you went in the fire.”

 

He put his head down again, resting it on Dean's shoulder, and Dean ran a hand up and down his back even as he cursed himself. Stupid, stupid, stupid…

 

He'd thought, when he decided to go out, that leaving the door cracked would be enough. That Sam would see his favorite leather jacket still hanging on the chair, see the partially open door, and deduce. But that was the old Sam. The calm, steady Sam. Not this new fragmented Sam who had experienced being all alone in the world and now panicked at the mere possibility of not having someone—or not having Dean—around.

 

And the stupid fire truck hadn't helped. Hadn't done anything to keep Sam from slipping back a step again.

 

Any more than Dean had.

 

This had to stop. The fear, the worry, the nightmares, the panic—it all had to stop. If it didn't, Dean was sure it would be the death of them both. And it could be stopped, Dean was sure of it—if only Dean could figure out how.

 

But Sam needed more. He needed more than this scummy and familiar motel room, than ordered-in food and someone to be there after the nightmares. He needed those things, but he also needed more. He—they­—needed knowledge.

 

What they needed, Dean decided, was help.

 

XXX

 

It didn't take Michael a lot of work to get the name of the only other person who'd witnessed Becky's death. Tracking him down, though, was a different story altogether. Anthony Tripp was an intern, and his position dictated that he was constantly on the move, going and doing wherever and whatever he was told. It made him nearly impossible to track down.

 

In the end, though, Michael finally cornered him and got him alone—at least until his pager went off again.

 

The time restraint altered Michael's plans a little. He's wanted to be polite, to charm the information out of Dr. Tripp rather than resorting to quick, clipped, almost angry questions.

 

Luckily, Dr. Tripp was either very trusting or very stupid. Either that, or he blamed the psycho kid for Becky's death as much as Michael did. Either way, he seemed perfectly willing to spill whatever information he had.

 

Unfortunately, what information he had wasn't much.

 

Michael tried not to be too impatient with Tripp. From what he'd heard, the nut job had also been a John Doe, and had busted loose before anyone even got ID, blood samples, whatever. So, really, how much could he really expect anyone to know?

Still, he couldn't help being bitterly disappointed, and a little angry, when all he ended up getting was a description that could've fit a hundred people in Manhattan alone—well, okay, with the height, maybe closer to seventy-five.

 

Big odds, any way he looked at it.

 

He could get the PD on it, but he knew better than most that with the info he had, he wouldn't get many results.

 

So, in the end, Michael turned to leave feeling even more discouraged than before.

 

He was almost out the door when Tripp spoke up behind him.

 

“Oh, I almost forgot something. A couple days ago, someone came looking for him. The kid. I didn't talk to him directly—that's why I forgot. But I did get his first name from Dr. Thornton. It was…Dean, I think.”

 

Michael turned the information over in his mind. Not much—but something.

 

“Thank you, Dr. Tripp.”

 

“There's something else, too,” Tripp added as Michael started to turn away again. “The guy—Dean—drove a sweet car. '67 Impala. Black. Don't see many of those anymore. Might help.”

 

Michael turned back to him. Stared. Absorbed.

 

And, slowly, smiled.

 

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Author's Note: Well, first of all, I'm sorry for the OOC-ness. I know it's bad. But seriously? After that season finale, I needed it. I'm hoping you all feel the same way and won't ream me too badly for it.

 

And secondly, I know this chapter is just as short as the last one. I was planning to make it almost twice as long, but then I decided I'd better go ahead and post, because the end of the school year is coming up, and I'm sure you all know what that means: projects. They are all different lengths, all different classes, and require all different kinds and amounts of research, and yet they all manage to be due on the exact same day. (If anyone can explain this phenomenon, I'd appreciate it.)

 

Plus, I'm due to ender finals-induced hibernation around this weekend. Once that happens I don't know how often I'll be able to write, until next week.

 

So, the bottom line is, I really am not sure when the next chapter will be up. Could be as soon as the weekend, or I might not be able to get it up until after all my finals are over. Either way, though, I'll get to writing ASAP!

 

Wow, that was along note. Sorry, guys!