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SPN Fic: Dreamwalker (3/3)
TITLE: Dreamwalker
FANDOM: Supernatural
RATING: Adult (rating is for violence)
GENRE: Gen, AU, Horror
PAIRING: Gen, but does feature Sam/Jess -
see notes in Part 0.
WARNINGS and NOTES: See Part 0.
SUMMARY: Doctor Samuel Grey is a powerful psychic and therapist at the Woodward Institute, a hospital for the criminally insane. He has a wife, a home and a promising career, and he's almost forgotten that he used to be Sammy Winchester. He believes his father and brother abandoned him when they found out he was a psychic. But when Dean is suspected of his father's murder, Sam discovers blood is thicker than water after all. (The plot is based on Gothika, though the ending is very different.)
PREVIOUS CHAPTERS: Part One | Part Two
DREAMWALKER
Part Three
Dean came awake with a jerk, his mind full of doors and numbers. He tried to pull free of the restraints and was amazed to find his wrists free. He sat up. "Nice work, Sammy," he said aloud. Dean pushed the blanket aside and went to the cell door. It swung open to his touch. Dean smiled. "I don't know if you can hear me, Sam, but if you can, you're a useful guy to have around." He headed out, closing the cell door behind him.
The first part was easy. Sam had promised him that the guard wouldn't see him, but it was truly weird to experience it. The guard sat at a desk, a row of screens in front of him. He looked bored, even normal. He glanced Dean's way as he passed, but he looked through Dean as if he wasn't there.
The guard on the secure ward won't see you, Dean, but I can't risk messing with more than one of them and the cameras will see you. So once you're past the first guard station, assume the alarm has been raised. They'll expect you to head for the exit, so that's the one thing you shouldn't do. Turn right out of the secure unit and head up.
Dean stayed close to the wall as he walked quickly through the dimly-lit corridors. Thanks to Sammy, he knew the way as if he had walked these hallways a hundred times. Details were odd: at one point Dean noticed a poster on the wall - one of those dumb "inspirational" posters with a picture of a bunny and a pithy quote - but he remembered it being different. Dean didn't allow it to distract him. He found the door to the stairwell and started to climb.
He felt the strain in his muscles almost at once. That bone-deep ache which was the legacy of the seizures he didn't remember was better but still very much present. He couldn't let it slow him down.
Come out of the stairwell on the fifth floor. You'll see a door marked private with a keypad lock. The code is 4321. It used to be a break room for the nursing staff. Now it's a storage closet.
The closet was right where Sam promised and the code let Dean in. Inside he found a rack of coveralls and - beautiful - a stack of boots. He pulled a coverall on over what he was already wearing and buttoned them quickly. He couldn't find boots his size, but he picked the pair closest on the theory that ill-fitting boots were better than bare feet for going on the lam. Then he went through the rest of the cupboards. He found a set of screwdrivers and pocketed the smallest in case he needed a lock-pick. There was a chisel, too, sharp enough that Dean slid it into his sleeve, just in case.
He left the room, walking openly this time, as if he belonged there. He followed the hallway past two wards into an office area. This part of the hospital was quiet, office staff gone for the night. Dean reached the end of the hallway and found the door marked Fire Exit. He opened the door, and caught himself actually holding his breath in case he tripped the fire alarm (Sam hadn't been sure whether the door was wired) but it was silent. He found himself on a metal mesh platform like the fire escapes you find on the sides of New York brownstones, with a chicken-wire fence opposite. Dean looked up at the fence, remembering Sam's instructions.
If you go down the fire escape you'll end up at the main entrance. That's okay in a pinch, but it'll be better if you can escape without being seen. So if you can do it, you want to go over the fence and climb down the outside. The security cameras don't cover that area.
Dean had thought, in the dream, that this would be easy. On a normal day, it would have been: he was strong, athletic and used to physical exertion. But he had reckoned without his physical weakness. Damn it, he was a hunter! He was a Winchester. He could do this because he had to and because there was a spirit out there hurting people. Dean gripped the fence with both hands and shook it hard to test its strength. The fence seemed solidly attached. He looked down. Five storeys was a long way to fall.
He hauled himself up and over the fence and began the long climb downward. The holes in the wire were too small for decent footholds. Dean had to hang on with his hands, wire digging into his palms. He crept downward, inch by inch, his feet slipping, clinging to the fence with every move.
The sudden blare of the alarm and a sudden flood of light made Dean lose his grip. He fell, sliding downward, grabbing frantically at the fence. For a moment his fingers closed over wire. His downward momentum jerked his arm straight and he felt something within him rip, Pain made him cry out. The wire slipped through his fingers. Dean hit the ground heavily.
For a moment, he could do nothing but lie there, winded. His arm hurt like hell but he was down and he was alive and he was one step closer to freedom. The still-blaring alarm brought him back to his senses. He had to move! Dean used the fence to drag himself upright and once he was on his feet he felt a little better.
If you follow the fence around you'll end up in the staff block. The door code is 5249. There's a gym on the first floor and a swimming pool. That block opens directly onto the staff parking lot. There's a security station near the door which should have two guards.
The swimming pool was dark, but light filtered in from the hallway and reflected off the water, painting silver ripples on the walls. Dean went through that room because he figured it was the safest route, but he was halfway across the pool room when he saw the glare of flashlights through the far door.
Shit!
The flashlights moved closer and he heard voices ahead. They were coming to the pool. Probably searching every room in the place. Dean looked around. There was nowhere to hide. Nowhere except...
Dean sat on the edge of the pool, drew in a deep breath and slid under the water, moving as slowly as he dared to disturb the water as little as possible. It was a heated pool and the water was cool, but not cold as it closed over his head. Dean sank down and down until he could feel the bottom of the pool with his feet. The wet clothing weighed him down but he felt for a handhold anyway. He looked up through the water and saw light moving above as the men swept the room with flashlights. Dean felt a few bubbles of breath escape his lips. His lungs were burning and the pain in his injured arm was rapidly becoming agony. The lights above were still moving across the water. Dean fought to stay down, to keep his breath inside. Finally, he couldn't stay underwater any longer. He had no way to be sure they were gone but it was breathe or drown. He pushed up and came to the surface gasping for air, clinging weakly to the side of the pool.
But he was alone.
He crawled out of the water and lay at the side of the pool, waiting for his breathing to steady. When he thought he could move, Dean took the time to strip off the coverall: the fabric was heavy and wet it was even heavier. And cold. Dean stripped off, poured water out of his boots, rolled up the coverall and twisted it as hard as he could to wring out the water. He repeated the process with the pants and t-shirt, then pulled the still-wet clothing back on. It was uncomfortable, but as his only alternative was to go naked, it would have to do. He took the chisel and screwdriver he'd purloined and, holding both in his left hand, he made for the door, boots still squelching wetly around his feet.
Through the door, he could see the security station across the way, and the exit beyond. He saw only one guard there. Sam said there would be two. Where was the other? He opened the door a little and heard the crackle of a radio. The guard on the security station spoke into it; Dean couldn't catch his words. Maybe the second guard was one of those searching for Dean.
Dean couldn't wait any longer. Sooner or later the searchers would come back through the pool and he would be caught. Dean didn't see another option. He had to get past the guard; he had to take the guard down.
There was no way to sneak past him. Soaking wet from the pool, Dean couldn't exactly blend in. Sam would be pissed if he killed the guard...and Dean wasn't into murdering civilians anyway. He was as sure as he could be that the guard was alone. Fast and direct: that was best.
Dean considered his two weapons. He slipped the screwdriver into his boot. The chisel he flipped over in his hand, holding it like a knife. He kept it out of sight at his side, put on a brash grin and sauntered boldly toward the security station.
As the guard looked his way, Dean improvised, "Hey there. I was just goin' for a swim and I guess I got lost. Could you tell me where..." He reached the desk and moved fast. Dean grabbed the guard by his shirt and yanked him upward, holding the sharp end of the chisel against his throat. "You even think about touchin' that alarm and I'm gonna slice you up like a Thanksgiving turkey. Let me see your hands."
The guard paled, his eyes wide with fear. He raised his hands out to his sides. "Please, I have a family..."
"Do exactly what I tell you and you'll see 'em again," Dean promised. "Are you armed?"
"Y-yes."
Dean grabbed the guard's head and smashed him down against the desk. He fell, bonelessly. Dean vaulted over the desk and felt the man's neck for a pulse. It was strong and regular: he would be fine. Then he searched him for his gun. It was a .22, not a gun Dean would have chosen (shooting something is supposed to stop it. A .22. was a freaking bee-sting to most of the things Dean hunted), but he took it anyway. Then he headed for the exit, fast.
The staff parking lot was right there, just as Sammy said. Deal looked around. He spotted the red Mustang that Sam said was his. I know you'll have to steal a car, but if you take mine I won't be able to meet you later. Sam suggested that if Dean wanted Sam to stay out of it from then on, he should take the Mustang: Sam would get the message. So Dean looked around for an older car, something less likely to be alarmed and easier to hotwire, and took that instead.
Dean ditched the car in a clump of bushes about a mile out of Willow Creek. He had no idea what time it was, but it was still dark and the roads were quiet. He walked from there across the fields, back to the cabin where he'd lived with his father.
He and John came to Willow Creek to investigate the death of another hunter. Ellie's journal was all they had to guide them and, unlike John, she didn't exactly make detailed notes. All they knew was something worth hunting was in Willow Creek, or somewhere nearby. The research was slow going. Dean had been looking into a couple of disappearances in a neighbouring town (turned out to be a bust) and was on his way back when he met Rachel's spirit on the bridge. The night John died.
The cabin door was sealed with that awful yellow tape cops use. Dean tore the tape away from the cabin door. It was unlocked.
Dean walked through this door that night...
the weight of a weapon in his hand
and his dad had been waiting for him...
lying in wait
No. That made no sense. Dad wouldn't hurt him!
Inside, the cabin looked like the set of a horror movie. John's papers were scattered over the coffee table and Dean could see blood streaked across them. The shape of a man's body was outlined in tape on the floor, behind the couch. A large stain of blood had soaked into the wooden floor around the tape. Dean swallowed. He steeled himself to get closer. He needed to know what John had
stood up as Dean approached, his eyes taking in the machete Dean carried. Lips moved, saying something but Dean didn't hear. John's eyes glittered silver
Dean knelt beside the table. The first thing he saw was a newspaper clipping with a photograph of Sam's wife, and Rachel. The headline read MISSING RACHEL GREY FOUND DEAD. Dean picked up the clipping and found another hidden beneath it.SERIAL KILLER RYAN BIZZARE SUICIDE. Beneath the headline was a photograph of a man in his 50's with dark hair and strangely pale eyes. Except for the eyes, he looked like average-Joe-who-owns-the-local-store. Beneath the photograph were two words written in John's hurried scrawl:
suicide = Murder?
Beside this was a bloodstained page torn from John's journal. Dean lifted the page, the writing still visible beneath the blood.
Nya Daris - drowning - Apr '12
Lucy Enfield - fall - Nov '12
Alexandra Mattson - car accident - Apr '13 (survived)
...and there was more. They were all female names, all apparent accidents or suicides.
John could always make these connections more readily than Dean. A series of seemingly unconnected events and John would link them. However tenuous or far-fetched his links appeared to be, he was rarely, if ever wrong. Dean remembered asking him once if he were psychic; John laughed and told him he wouldn't admit it if he were, but Dean shouldn't mistake experience for psychic ability. Dean honestly wasn't sure if there had been a confession in there, or not.
Now Dean stared down at the remnants of his father's work and knew there were details missing. Some pieces of this puzzle died with John. Dean wasn't up to it. He didn't know how to make sense of all this.
He didn't understand why his father was dead.
It hit him suddenly: a breath-stealing, gut-wrenching realisation that John was gone. He would never again clasp Dean's shoulder in silent approval after a kill. He would never again criticise Dean for failing to clean a weapon or pour out scornful words to hide his fear when Dean got hurt. He was gone.
Dean laid John's papers back on the table and rose to his feet slowly. He remembered walking through here, the machete still in his hand...John tried to stop him...his eyes were weird, like silver...
He was possessed!
machete handle slippery with blood, blade slicing into John's flesh
No! God, no! Even if John were possessed, even if he were dangerous, Dean would have found another way.
face covered with blood, eyes open as he struggled to rise, aiming a gun
Bile rose in Dean's throat and he fell to his knees, retching. No, it wasn't me! I didn't! I couldn't!
But he remembered it, Dean realised as he wiped his mouth weakly. He remembered swinging the machete. He remembered striking the death blow.
What he didn't remember was feeling anything while he did it. That made no sense. Dean knew he was capable of killing but he didn't kill coldly. He killed in anger, in fear, in hate...but never as this cold, detached thing.
Not alone.
He tried to stand. His legs felt weak and shaky and he grabbed onto the wall to steady himself. As he did, he caught a glimpse of his reflection in an old, cracked mirror on the wall. The fresh scars stood out starkly on his cheeks and forehead.
his own blood-spattered face in the mirror, eyes wild
flames bursting around him
screaming out his rage and grief
Fuck.
The first thing Sam saw when he woke himself from the dream, was Jessica. She was sitting beside the bed, waiting patiently for him to wake. But Jess never came to him while he was working. Sam sat up groggily. "Jess?"
"Sam," she said, very seriously, "what have you done?"
Sam knew exactly what he'd done, but he frowned as if confused. "What do you mean?"
Jess looked stern. "Dean Winchester escaped from the Institute last night."
"What?!" Sam hoped he sounded convincingly surprised, because what he was thinking was Well, done, brother! "How?" he asked.
"You tell me." Jessica's blue eyes narrowed. "What did you do, Sam?"
Sam reached for his glass of water and drank. He swung his legs over the side of his working bed. He looked closely at Jessica; she seemed tired, perhaps stressed.
"Jess, what are you accusing me of doing? Last I heard, Winchester was under sedation and restrained in a maximum security cell. What could I have done?"
"I know you're more powerful than you let people know, Sam. Even me."
Time for truth; Jess knew him well enough to read a lie. Sam nodded. "Yes, that's true. But my power is in dreams, Jess. I could have gone into his dream to help him escape and he'd have woken up still tied to a bed."
"Why are you lying to me, Sam?"
Shit. Sam held out a hand to Jessica. She stood and took the offered hand and he pulled her close to him, sliding his arms around her waist and kissing her. "Jess, say I did do what you think I did. I'd be lying to protect you, not to hurt you."
She touched the tip of his nose. "Protect me from what?"
"Hypothetically, maybe from having to decide whether to report me...or to whom."
Her eyes went wide. "Do you really believe I'd do that?"
She seemed genuinely shocked. Sam kissed her again, tucking a lock of her hair back behind her ear. "I believe you're a committed professional and an ethical person. If I'd done something like help a prisoner escape, I think you would feel an obligation to consider turning me in."
Jessica drew back, her expression serious. "You should have been a lawyer."
Sam mock-shuddered. "Not me! I like helping people, not conning them."
"I'm your wife, Sam. Dean Winchester, whatever else he is, is your brother. Has it occurred to you that makes him my family, too?"
Truthfully, that thought hadn't occurred to Sam. He'd been thinking only of what seeing Dean again meant to him. "You don't even know him," Sam pointed out.
"I know you, Sam Grey. Tell me the truth. I won't report you."
Sam was still holding her hand. He stood up, letting her go. "I showed him a way out," Sam confessed and it was a confession. He trusted Jess, but if she did report that he'd used his psychic ability to help Dean escape, then Sam would be legally responsible for anything Dean did. If he hurt someone... But Jess wouldn't tell anyone. One thing about Jessica: she was always honest. If she intended to report him she'd have said so, straight up.
"Why?" she asked simply.
"Jess, I need to keep that to myself. Please." Sam couldn't tell her Dean had seen Rachel. He could not tell her their baby girl was a restless spirit haunting the road to Willow Creek. He certainly couldn't tell her what Dean was going to do to remedy that.
Jess bit her lip. "Sam..."
"You have to trust me, baby."
She nodded, but the gesture was reluctant, uncertain. "What do you plan to do next?" she asked.
"Write up my night report. Go home."
"And?" she pressed.
Sam swallowed. "We agreed on a rendezvous. I'm going to help Dean remember what happened - if he still needs help - and in return, he'll stop the thing that attacked Chloe."
When he mentioned Chloe's name Jessica's expression changed. "Sam, I know Chloe's case means a lot to you, but the police are looking for Winchester. If they find you with him, it won't matter that I won't report what you've done. They'll know you had something to do with it."
"I know," Sam admitted. He was thinking fast. Jessica wouldn't be the only one to suspect him. Jess suspected because she knew Dean was his brother; others would suspect Sam simply because he was a psychic and psychics weren't trusted. He could come up with some sort of a cover story but... Sam went to Jess, taking her into his arms. "Listen, I don't know exactly what's going to happen today. Don't cover for me, sweetheart. If I'm more than an hour late for work, and I haven't called, then do all the things you'd normally do if I went missing. You understand?"
"Well, yes, but - "
"I'll be fine, Jess. I promise."
"There's more, isn't there?" Jess looked scared now. "There's something you're not telling me."
Sam kissed her again. "Trust me."
"I do. But I'm not sure I trust him with your life."
Sam drew up outside the ramshackle cabin. He sat in his Mustang for a moment, looking up at the cabin with its yellow tape, cracked windows and tattered curtains. It barely looked liveable. He remembered his childhood with his dad and Dean. They'd never been rich, but he didn't recall living in this sort of poverty. What kind of life was this?
He climbed out of the car, locked it automatically and pocketed the keys. He walked up to the cabin and found the door unlocked, the yellow tape flapping in the breeze. He pushed the door open and walked inside.
"Dean!" he called. "Dean, it's Sam." Dean had told him there was a place he could hide inside the cabin and even if the cops searched the place they wouldn't find him. He'd also told Sam that if something went wrong and he showed up here with cops in tow, Sam should call out that he was alone. That lie would be Dean's signal to stay hidden.
Codes and signals; Sam had forgotten that about Dean.
The main room of the cabin was the scene of the murder. The cops must be holding the scene because no one had made any attempt to clean up. Blood streaked the floor and walls. Sam's father's blood.
He wasn't sure how to feel about that. Sam had spent fifteen years believing his father abandoned him to The Psi Project. Sam believed Dean's version of events now - that John didn't give up until he was told Sam was dead - but it wasn't easy to give up so many years of resentment. Sam no longer thought of John Winchester as his father. Dean was his brother. Dean, he loved. John was just a name...no, he was more than that, but Sam didn't know how much more.
He was saved from thinking too hard about that by Dean's appearance. Dean stood in the doorway to the bedroom. He'd changed his clothing: blue jeans, a black t-shirt, red and blue plaid shirt, hiking boots. There was a gun in his belt. It suited him much more than the grey clothing of the Institute. But his face was still pale and drawn, the healing cuts plainly visible and his expression was unhappy. He was also wearing an improvised sling on one arm.
"Hey, Sammy."
Sam forced a smile. "Dean. What happened to your arm?"
"It's nothing. Dude, we need to talk." Dean walked back into the bedroom.
Sam followed him. He'd been right: this was the bedroom. There was one king-sized bed, and an old couch. The couch didn't look comfortable for sleeping on. The room itself was untouched by the horror in the next room, and Sam understood why Dean preferred to talk in here. Yet in another way, this was worse. The very normality of the room spoke of a life, a family that had been destroyed.
"Is it safe for us to talk?" Sam asked.
Dean sat down on the end of the bed. "Cops searched the place already. This window faces the trees so no one can see us from the road. I think it's safe." Dean looked up at Sam. "Here's what I know. Your daughter died about four years ago, right?"
Four years, three months and sixteen days. "Yes," Sam answered. He took a seat on the couch.
"Since then, five people in this area have died in unusual circumstances. They were all young girls, older than Rachel but still kids. A friend of mine, Ellie Fox, thought it was worth checking out. She came here a few months ago and she ran her car off the bridge in the same place I did. Her car rolled into the creek and she drowned. Me and Dad, we came to figure out what happened to her."
"Dean, are you really saying Rachel's spirit is killing people?"
"She killed Dad," Dean said bluntly.
"I don't believe that."
"I don't give a fuck what you believe! My dad is dead!" Dean shouted it, slamming his closed fist down onto the bed beside him. Almost at once, though, he quieted, taking a deep breath. "Sam, I need to figure this out and I can't do it unless you answer my questions."
Sam thought about arguing. He'd come here to help Dean remember, and in Sam's experience telling him the answers could interfere with that process. But somehow, in this setting, Dean was a different person. Someone you don't argue with. Sam shrugged. "What do you need to know?"
Dean nodded as if making a decision. "What's the significance of the white bridge? Why is Rachel's spirit there?"
It wasn't the question he expected. Sam closed his eyes. It hurt, so much, to remember. He cleared his throat to make sure his voice would stay even. "After Rachel was born, Jess reduced her hours at the Institute so she could take care of the baby. Every morning, if the weather was fine, she would drive out as far as the bridge with Rachel, to wait for me to come home. When Rachel learned to talk she...she called it 'Daddy's bridge'."
Something Sam couldn't read flashed across Dean's face then. "Crap, Sammy, you could have mentioned that earlier!" He shook his head. "She's waitin' for you, dude. Maybe she recognised me as the same blood...I don't know, but it's possible." He looked at Sam. "I know this ain't easy, Sam, but you've got to tell me what happened to her. Everything."
"Okay," Sam said, but his voice came in a mere whisper. "Okay," he said again. He rose and walked over to the window. "You haven't seen our house. It's about five miles upriver from Willow Creek. The house backs onto the river. The night we...lost...Rachel, Jess and I were having a little party. You know, a few friends, a few drinks. Rachel just vanished. She was supposed to be asleep in her bed. We don't know if she woke up and came looking for us or if Ryan took her from the nursery. She was just gone."
"When did you realise she was missing?" Dean asked.
It wasn't Dean's fault that Sam had answered that question a million times before, to a hundred different cops, all of whom seemed to want to make it his fault that Rachel was missing.
Sam answered the way he'd answered every other time. "Jess looked in on her every hour. She was in her bed at ten. When Jess checked on her at eleven, she was gone." The words didn't come close to describing it. Sam had been enjoying himself; he was a little drunk, laughing and joking with friends when Jess came running from the house, calling Rachel's name frantically. Sam held her, trying to calm her down even as fear filtered through the alcoholic haze in his own brain. They searched. All of them searched, the house, the grounds, even silly places where they knew she wouldn't be. Sam was sure Rachel hadn't been near the river because that's where he had been, and he - or someone - would have seen her. He searched there anyway, up to his chest in the cold water, fear turning to panic in the darkness. It was Jess who called the police.
Sam took a breath and was relieved to find he wasn't shaking. He didn't want to relive the next part but Dean needed to know.
"She was missing for a week," he went on reluctantly, "but she wasn't missing to me. I couldn't find her in reality, but I found her in my dreams, in hers. She couldn't tell me where she was, but I knew she was...being hurt."
Rachel clung to Sam in her dreams, crying. He cuddled her close, telling her it would be okay, that her daddy loved her. He tried, gently, to probe her memories, to find something, anything, that would help him find her. But Rachel was five years old. Her perceptions were those of a child and she couldn't put the clues together the way a grown-up mind would. She showed Sam her captor, but she showed him a deformed monster, huge and threatening. He saw a woman, chained, in flames. He saw his baby girl screaming in pain.
He thought that was the worst of it, but he was wrong.
It was worse when it stopped. When Sam couldn't find her any more.
Sam knew she was dead. Two days before her body was found in the river, he knew.
"What they pulled out of the river was unrecognisable, Dean. I couldn't identify my own daughter. We had to wait for DNA tests."
"Oh, god, Sammy."
The raw pain in Dean's voice made Sam turn around and look at him. Dean had said he didn't know how it felt to lose a child, but there was something in his voice, in his eyes. Empathy.
It helped.
Sam swallowed hard. "What you need to know...Rachel was found in the river, about a mile downstream from the white bridge. She didn't drown. Cause of death was blood loss."
"Shit. That's horrible."
"Yeah, it was." Sam raised his hand to the window frame, gripping it tightly. Splinters dug into his skin. He stared at the trees outside, their leaves moving in the breeze. He fixated on that small movement, trying to clear his head...and his heart.
Dean moved up to Sam's side, standing close but not touching him. Speaking as gently as he could, he asked, "You said Rachel showed you a woman in flames. Sam, what does that mean to you? Other than mom, I mean."
Sam leaned forward, pressing his forehead against the glass. "It's the Anima Sola," he said.
"Anima Sola?"
"It's a religious image, popular in South America. A woman chained in purgatory, praying as she burns. Ryan, the man who murdered Rachel; he had the Anima Sola tattooed across his chest."
That made the pieces of the jigsaw fall into place for the first time. Dean felt sick with the horror of it. What that poor child must have suffered. That image - a woman burning - the last thing she saw. Her restless spirit was obsessed with the image, it became a part of her. And she was still waiting for her daddy to come and save her.
The man who killed Rachel wore an Anima Sola tattoo. Dean had seen his face in the news clipping John left for him. But he'd seen the tattoo somewhere else, too. The spirit that raped Chloe. Dean saw it only for a second but he did remember tattoos.
But that meant...
Oh, god. Oh, no, Sam...
"Sam, what did you do?" Dean asked apprehensively.
Sam didn't move. "I buried my daughter."
Dean grabbed Sam's shoulder and spun him around, slamming him up against the wall beside the window. "You know that ain't what I mean. Ryan was caught but he never saw a trial. The article said he killed himself. What did you do, Sam?"
"What would you have done?" Sam asked, through clenched teeth.
That answered the question. Dean understood what Sam needed to hear. "Me? I would have blown the fucker away." He pushed at Sam's chest, holding him against the wall. "I'm not fucking stupid, Sam. I know you killed him. I need to know how."
"Alright! Let me go."
Dean stepped back, releasing Sam.
"Ryan was diagnosed schizophrenic. Because of that, he was committed to the Woodward Institute for an evaluation to determine if he could stand trial. Dean, I never planned to do it. I wanted the state to kill him for me. But when I touched his mind I knew it was never gonna happen."
"Sam, I don't care why. I'm on your side, okay, dude? I just need to know what you did."
Sam nodded. He raised a hand to his forehead, let it fall. "You know that story about the man who dreams he's about to be executed? He's marched up to the guillotine and just as the blade falls in his dream someone touches the back of his neck to wake him up and he dies of fright."
"I've heard that one, yeah." It's a dumb urban legend. If the guy died, how could anyone know what he'd been dreaming?
"It's bullshit," Sam said. "You can't kill a person with a dream. But you can drive them to it." Sam met Dean's eyes and his look was fierce. "I put him through everything he'd done to my baby. I yanked his worst fears out of his head and made him watch. In the end, I figured out how to keep it going when he was technically awake. He clawed his own eyes out and when that didn't help he smashed his own head against the wall until his died." Sam's look dared Dean to find fault with him for that.
Dean got it. He did. But revenge has a price, and you've got to make sure it won't be someone else paying it. Sam fucked up. "I don't blame you for wanting revenge, Sam. But don't you see what you've done?"
Sam stared at him.
"You just said this guy was schizo. That means he was probably an untrained psychic. And murder - no matter how much he deserved what you did, Sam - that's how vengeful spirits are made. As a spirit this guy is pissed off and powerful andyou taught him how to torture other people." Dean dug the obits out of his pocket and laid them on the bed one by one. "Look at these, Sam. Every one of these girls was connected to the Institute. Connected to you. Ryan's spirit hurt them because of what you did. That poor girl in the hospital... Jesus, Sammy, if you weren't my brother..." He grabbed Sam by the scruff of his neck, forcing him to look at the bloodstained newspaper. "Look, Sam. Look."
Sam picked up one of the obituaries. "You're saying this is my fault." He wrenched away from Dean, but staggered.
Dean guided him to the couch as Sam's strength gave out.
"No... Oh, god, Dean, I didn't know..." He looked up at Dean, his eyes full of horror. "Dad? Dad died because of me?"
And that went right to the heart of it, didn't it?
Dean turned away. He even half-reached for the gun.
But he was John Winchester's son. Revenge was in his blood, but there was one thing stronger than revenge. Blood. Family.
Hurtin' Sam won't bring John back. Nothing will.
Dean did his best to keep his expression neutral and turned back to face his brother. "Sam, it's too late for that. All we can do now is clean up the mess. Tell me you know where this son of a bitch is buried."
Sam nodded mutely.
"Where?"
Sam cleared his throat. "Hope Hill Cemetary, near the west road."
"Good. Better call in sick or something. You're comin' with me tonight."
Sam tripped over a gravestone in the darkness. He swore under his breath, dropping the heavy bag he was carrying for Dean.
Dean grabbed his arm and hauled him up. "Clumsy, Sammy."
"I work in my sleep. What do you expect?"
He had a point. Dean grinned. "Much further?"
"No. It's right here." Sam pointed out a plain headstone marked with a single name. Karl Ryan.
Dean was carrying a pair of shovels. He swung them down from his shoulder and offered one to Sam.
Sam didn't take it. "You seriously want me to dig up a grave?"
Dean remembered Sam doing this at ten years old, Dad standing over them both. "When did you get so squeamish?" he asked. "We used to do this all the time."
Sam was silent for a moment. Dean thought he saw a quick smile. "That was a long time ago, man. And the way I remember it, I did more holding the flashlight than digging."
"Fine. Flashlight's in the bag you're carrying." Dean stepped over the grave, set the shovel into the grass and broke ground. "Just keep it pointed down, dude. We don't want to get caught."
"Understatement," Sam said. He laid the bag beside the headstone and started digging.
It was, in the end, pretty routine. Digging up a grave would have taken Dean all night with his injured arm, but with Sam's help it went quickly. It was stil Dean who reached the coffin first. It was a cheap box, probably paid for by the state, and it crumbled when Dean's shovel hit it.
"Gotcha," he announced. "Sam, climb up and get me the salt." He waited for Sam to scramble out of the grave, then he cleared away the rest of the dirt and smashed the cheap coffin open.
Sam handed Dean the bag of salt. "I'll...uh...I'll hold the flashlight," he said uneasily.
Dean chuckled. "You really are getting squeamish in your old age. I don't need the light, dude, just the gasoline." He poured salt over the corpse, tossed the bag back up there, and reached up to take the gasoline can. He tossed in plenty of gasoline. He threw the shovel onto the grass then started to haul himself out of the big hole in the ground.
Sam helped him. Dean let him help, though he didn't need it.
Standing on the edge of the grave, he struck a match and dropped it. "Rest in peace," he said. He watched with satisfaction as the gasoline caught light with a soft whoosh.
Sam clicked the flashlight off. "So...that's it? His spirit is gone, now?"
"Should be," Dean confirmed, pocketing the matches. "We wait until there's nothing but ashes, then we fill it in. No more psycho ghost."
The flames lit Sam's face from below. He didn't look happy. "What about Rachel?" he asked quietly.
Dean thought about making Sam dig up his daughter's grave. No. No matter what, he couldn't go there. "Honestly, Sammy?"
Sam looked like he was getting ready for a punch in the gut. "Yeah. Honestly."
"This is the only sure way, Sam. But there's something else we can try, if you're up for it."
"What do you want to try?"
Dean met his brother's eyes. "When was the last time you crossed the white bridge?"
Sam stared at him for a moment. "Oh, no, Dean. No. I don't think I can do that."
Dean shrugged. "You don't have to. Where's she buried?"
"I'm not letting you..."
Dean interrupted harshly. "Those are the choices, dude. We dig her up, or we try the other way."
"Dean..." Sam began, clearly unhappy. "What's this other way? You want me to drive over the bridge?"
"I think Rachel's waiting for her daddy. If you meet her there, maybe she'll be able to rest."
"Maybe means you're not sure."
Dean looked down into the burning coffin. "What her spirit is doing is dangerous, but it's not malicious. She picked on me because I the closest she'd found to you: blood calls to blood. But Sam, she's not the little girl you knew. She's a spirit and they don't see things the way people do. She's been begging for my help, on the bridge, inside the Institute. Hurting me was the only way she could reach me."
"And Dad? How was she involved in that?"
"Dad was possessed by Ryan. Rachel was in me...I didn't realise it until it was too late. I don't think she even saw Dad. She saw the man who tortured her but this time instead of being a helpless kid she had," Dean thumped his chest, "this adult, strong body. So she fought back. My memory is still fuzzy, Sam, but that's how I think it went down."
The flames below were dying to a smoulder. Dean thought about doing this to Rachel. Part of him wanted to waste the bitch for what she'd used him to do. But there was Sam. Dean could give up revenge for his sake...but only if Sam would finish this tonight.
He picked up the shovel and started to fill in the grave.
Sam slowed the Mustang as they turned onto the west road to Willow Creek. He glanced across to Dean. "Are you sure you want to do this with me? I mean, every time you've run into her spirit..."
"I'll stay in the car," Dean said. "If this is gonna work, you need to meet her alone."
Sam swallowed. He couldn't quite believe they were really talking about this. "What do I have to do?"
"You said earlier that Jessica and Rachel used to wait for you on the bridge. Just do exactly what you used to do when you saw them there. If I'm right, Rachel will be waiting. You won't need instructions, Sam. You're her dad, right?"
"Yeah," Sam agreed. He was Rachel's dad, but Dean was the one who said spirits don't see things the way people do. Sam was scared. Scared of seeing her again, scared of not seeing her. Scared she would hate him for failing to save her; scared she might forgive him and he'd die of guilt. There was no forgiveness for this. He was her father; he should have protected her.
The white bridge was visible ahead. Sam turned into the side of the road where Jess used to park her little car. When the weather was good Jess would leave the car here and walk to the bridge with Rachel. They would play "Pooh sticks" or watch the ducks on the river while they waited for him.
"Go ahead, Sam," Dean said quietly.
Sam took a deep breath and climbed out of the car. He was vaguely aware of Dean reaching for the bag on the back seat, but he paid no attention. His mouth was dry, his legs a little unsteady as he walked. His eyes were fixed on the bridge. He saw nothing there. No one.
There was a waxing moon in the sky above the bridge, illuminating the whitewashed wood. Sam could hear the water flowing beneath and the wind hushing through the trees. Jessica loved this place. Before Rachel was born they used to come here together and take long walks beside the creek. They didn't come here any longer.
Sam blinked back the tears that threatened and saw through blurred vision the shimmering figure of a child appear in the road ahead. Rachel, dressed in her white nightgown, looking scared and forlorn. It hurt his heart to see her.
"Rachel," he whispered into the night. "Oh, baby."
There were no clouds in the sky but rain was falling around Rachel - and only around her. Sam kept moving toward her.
He thought about Jessica. Sitting with her on the couch at home, listening to her laugh. Laying his large hand on her stomach to feel the baby kick. Jess waking him in the early hours of the morning: "Sam, I think you need to drive me to the hospital now." Sam remembered the first time he held Rachel in his arms, this beautiful, tiny person and he'd wondered if he was ready for this, if he could ever be prepared for the responsibility of raising a child. He remembered so much: her first words, her first steps. The time he'd been changing her diaper and somehow dropped the dirty one on the floor: he'd muttered shit under his breath and Rachel repeated the word in her childish voice and Sam wondered what the hell Jess would say when she heard that. Sam mostly missed the being woken up at all hours by a hungry or wet baby, because he worked nights, but he'd done his share of the four o'clock feedings, of rocking her to sleep when she was teething and of washing spit-up out of his best shirts. He remembered bandaging her knees when she fell down (blue and red elastoplast with cartoon animals on them) and he remembered teaching her to swim (bright orange water wings and the blue, blue ocean of California).
Sam fell to his knees in the road. The memories couldn't distract him any longer. She was right here, his baby, and he couldn't avoid facing his failure. She should be nine years old now, wearing pigtails and burning cookies with Jess. He should have protected her.
"Rachel," he said again. He reached out to her, expecting his hand to go right through her - she was a ghost, after all - but his fingers seemed to touch her cold skin. She flinched as he touched her. The side of her face was bruised and bloody and she was crying, silently. "Rachel," he said softly, "Daddy's here."
It wasn't going to work. Whatever Dean thought was going to happen here...maybe he was wrong.
That was when Rachel looked at Sam.
Her eyes met his and she smiled. That smile, so like his own, melted his heart. Without thinking, he opened his arms to her.
"Daddy!" she cried, and ran into his arms.
"Baby," he whispered against her rain-wet hair. "You're safe now, I promise. Baby, I'm here." Hot tears filled his eyes, poured down his face.
"Daddy, you're crying," she said, touching his cheek curiously. Her tiny fingers were shivering in the cold.
"I know, sweetheart."
"Why?"
Why. She could drive him crazy with that question, but not on this night. He simply answered it. "Because I love you, darling."
She cuddled close to him, tucking her head beneath his chin. Sam held her close, willing to hold her forever if he had to. Anything to keep her safe and warm.
And she was gone.
Sam caught his breath. "Rachel?" he called. "Rachel?" He looked for her. Couldn't lose her again.
"She's gone, Sammy." Dean was there, holding a shotgun for heaven's sake!
Shakily, Sam rose to his feet. "She's gone?" he repeated.
"You did it, Sam. She's at rest now."
Whatever strength Sam had left in his body deserted him. Dean caught him as he fell. "Okay, dude. Let's get you home."
Dean bundled Sam into the passenger seat of the Mustang and took his keys. Sam didn't say a word as Dean drove him home. Lucky Dean knew where he lived.
Dean pulled into the driveway of Sam's house. Nice place. It looked like the kind of place you buy with children in mind. There were lights on inside the house.
Sam hadn't moved.
"Sammy?" Dean tried.
"No one calls me that," Sam said dully.
"Dad did."
"Yeah."
"You okay?"
Sam shook his head, looking up at the house. "It was all my fault, wasn't it? Everyone Ryan's spirit hurt or killed. He was after revenge."
There wasn't really a way to soften this one. Dean nodded.
"He killed Dad. Because of me."
"It wasn't your fault, Sam," Dean said. But he was lying. Sam committed murder, and in doing so he taught a vengeful spirit how to move from mind to mind, how to fuck with people's dreams. No matter how justified Sam might have been...yeah, it was his fault. Another hunter might even kill him for it.
The door of the house opened and Dean saw Jessica's silhouette against the light. He got out of the car, walked around to the passenger side and opened the door. "C'mon Sam." He hauled Sam out of the car and half-carried him up toward the house.
Jess ran down the steps toward them. "What happened?" she demanded. She moved to Sam's other side but her question was addressed to Dean.
"That's for Sam to tell you," Dean evaded. "He's fine, he just needs rest." He looked at her thoughtfully. "Is there some way he can rest properly? Sleep and not dream, I mean."
She looked surprised. "Yes, I can give him something. Let's get him inside."
"I can walk!" Sam protested, pushing Dean away. He kept his arm around Jessica's shoulders, though.
Dean slipped the Mustang's keys into Sam's pocket. "Fine. See ya, Sammy." He turned to go.
"Wait!" Jessica called.
Dean turned back. Sam glanced at him, swaying on his feet, then headed unsteadily into the house.
"You know the cops are looking for you?" Jess said, apparently concerned for him.
Dean smiled bitterly. "Sure. It ain't the first time. I've got a place I can lie low once I get my car back." He walked up to her. "Call 'em, if you need to. I won't hold it against you." He met her worried eyes. "Sam's okay. Really. He's just had a tough night."
"Thank you." Jessica smiled briefly. "I...er...I have no idea what you've done, but...thanks."
Dean grinned. "Tell Sammy I'll call when I can." He started walking and did not look back again. It was about ten miles to town from here: he could kike that distance before dawn. He would find out where his car was being held and steal it back, then he'd get the hell out of this state.
Sam tapped softly on the door and through the pane of glass he saw Chloe look up at the sound. She looked much better: her glossy long hair was washed and combed, and she wore a cotton blouse with a floral print over her hospital-issue t-shirt and pants. She was sitting on the bed with one leg tucked underneath her. Her feet were bare. She met his eyes through the glass and smiled uncertainly.
Sam opened the door and walked through, leaving it ajar behind him. "Hi, Chloe," he said nervously.
"Doctor..." she began.
"Sam. Please, call me Sam. How are you feeling?"
Her tentative smile vanished; perhaps his question reminded her of unpleasant things. "I think I'm better...Sam."
"May I sit down?"
"Of course." She shifted, sitting cross-legged on the bed, looking down so her hair fell across her face.
Sam lifted her only chair and moved it so he could sit facing her. "Chloe, do you know who I am?"
She giggled, brushing a lock of hair out of her eyes. "I'm crazy, but I can remember. You're the one who comes to my dreams."
Sam nodded. He should have said something like you're not crazy, he thought, but while crazy wasn't a helpful term, Chloe was some way from being sane.
He sat down. "I tried my best to help you, Chloe, but...I understand now that my best was pretty lousy. You tried to show me what was happening to you and I...I didn't listen. I came to tell you I'm very sorry and...I won't trouble you again." The speech wasn't rehearsed but Sam thought it sounded that way. Hell.
Chloe's dark eyes gazed at him. She was chewing on her index finger. Sam felt strange seeing her as an adult. Chloe was twenty six years old but her gestures were much younger and her dream-self was a little girl. In her own head, she was forever five years old and innocent, the person her abusive father had shattered.
Chloe was silent, just watching him.
Sam understood. He rose from the chair. "Okay. Well, I'm gonna go..."
"Don't go," she said quietly. Chloe jumped down from the bed, half-stumbled and took a step - just one - toward Sam.
He was halfway to the door. He turned back to Chloe and waited.
She looked wary and nervous. "I...I like you in my dreams. You were..." She looked down again.
Sam swallowed. "I was what, Chloe?" he asked gently.
She gazed down at her toes. "My angel," she whispered.
Oh, god...Way to make me feel even worse. "Oh, Chloe," Sam heard himself say. He took a step toward her and she ran into his arms. It was unprofessional, but Sam held her close for a moment, both comforting and taking comfort he knew he didn't deserve. He hugged her only for a moment, then he released her carefully.
"You want me to keep visiting your dreams, Chloe?"
She nodded, biting her lip.
Sam smiled. "Okay. Then I will, as long as you need me."
She tucked her hair behind her ear and smiled, a sunny, bright smile. It made Sam feel even worse. He was digging himself a hole here. As much as he saw her as the child she was inside, her body was that of a mature woman. She was behaving as if she had a crush; and that would be nothing but trouble.
But Sam was responsible for everything she'd been suffering for three years. He'd convinced himself he should take himself off her case, but he saw now that his motivation was partly selfish: he wanted to be off the hook. No. If his apology to her meant anything, he had to take responsibility. He had to help her, if he could.
"Thank you," Chloe whispered.
Ryan's spirit would not torment her any longer; Dean had promised him Ryan couldn't come back. Chloe had a long road to recovery ahead, but she could heal.
Sam was going to make sure of it.
Dean stood on the rock promontory, the Arizona sun warm on his face, a light breeze stirring his shirt and blowing dust around his sneakers. Below him stretched the magnificent landscape of the Grand Canyon. It was huge, humbling...and even in his dream, it seemed very real. Dean felt as if he were actually standing there: he could taste the acrid tang to the air, hear the skittering of some small creature near his feet, he could feel the gritty sand under his fingernails.
"You've really never been here?" Sam said. He was sitting on the edge of the cliff, his feet dangling over the precipice.
"What can I say? The one time Dad and I heard of anything weird happening around here, a local hunter took care of it before we even hit the road."
Sam looked up at him, shielding his eyes against the sun. "That's your life? One hunt after another, never a real vacation?"
Dean shook his head, not willing to accept Sam's pity. "There's always some evil son of a bitch needs wastin'." He sat down beside Sam. "You know, dude, I never asked you: why'd you change your name?"
Sam smiled. "Oh, that. The Psi Project advised me to do it."
"Why?" Dean frowned.
""Because my father was a hunter. They said my life would be in danger if he ever found me. I know that's not true," Sam added quickly as Dean started to protest, "but I was eighteen years old, and I was alone. I thought you and Dad wanted nothing to do with me and I trusted my Project mentor."
"That's bullshit, Sammy!"
Sam nodded. "Yeah, I know. I'm sorry. I wish...I wish I could tell Dad I'm sorry, too."
Dean turned away. He didn't want to talk about John. He was never getting over that. It was three weeks since that night and Dean knew he would never have a clear memory of what happened, but there must have been something he could have done, some way he could have fought Rachel's possession. She was a freaking ghost, not a demon.
Sam touched his shoulder; a gesture so like their father Dean pulled away.
"Dean..."
Dean looked down into the Canyon. "Yeah?"
"Something you said about the spirit of Karl Ryan...you implied that if a person has some psychic ability in life, their ghost is...I don't know...more than a regular spirit."
Dean nodded, glad for the change of subject. "Yeah, they tend to be more powerful in death. More dangerous. Dude, you saw that."
"Then you should know...Rachel was like me. Psychic, I mean, and she was powerful, even as a toddler. I don't think there was anything you could have done to stop her that night."
What are you readin' my mind now? Fuck, of course he was. This was a dream, and Sam was a dreamwalker. Dean picked up a pebble from the ground beside him and threw it, hard, into the Canyon below them.
Sam said nothing more.
Dean threw another pebble. "What did you tell Jessica?" he asked finally.
Sam grimaced. "The truth, or, some of it. I told her about Ryan. What I did."
"How'd she take that?"
"Not well," Sam admitted. "Why do you think I'm dreaming the Grand Canyon with you instead of Bali with my wife?"
"Ouch."
"Yeah. We'll get through it, I think. I hope. I might lose my job, but I don't think I'm gonna lose Jess." He sighed, tossing a pebble of his own. "Dean, are you okay? I mean..."
"I know what you mean," Dean interrupted before Sam could mention his dad again. The glitter was gone from the landscape of the dream. "I'm doin' okay," he lied.
"No, you're not. Maybe I can...hell, Dean, where are you? Do you have friends with you, or..."
"Dude, quit it," Dean snapped. "I'm in Nebraska, stayin' out of sight until I know how much heat there is over my prison break. And I'm doin' okay."
"Alright. But, if you need anything..."
"Like what? Sammy, go back to your safe life and your pretty girl. Just stay in touch. But use the phone next time."
Sam laughed. "Tell me your number and I will."
Dean told him. "Don't think you can't call me this way, too, though. I like the Grand Canyon. How about a strip club next time? Lots of girls, lots of beer, maybe a pole or two..."
"Don't you ever stop?"
Dean got to his feet. "What's a dream without a little fantasy?"
Sam grinned. "Whatever you say, Dean. Whatever you say."
But my dreams they aren't as empty
As my conscience seems to be
I have hours, only lonely
My love is vengeance
That's never free
Limp Bizkit - Behind Blue Eyes
(From the movie Gothika)
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I'm... I'm totally speechless.
It's dark and totally AU. It's so sad that Sam's daughter had to die. I feel like I have taken a rollar coaster ride, scary and exciting, and dazing/numbness/speechless when it's over. Words just can't justify how great this story is and I'm really impressed.
I wish I could comment more on the story, but I really can't talk anymore.
*Speechless again.*
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It certainly is dark...I'm glad you enjoyed the ride :-)
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Originally I was going to do a SPN/Gothika crossover: the movie has a lot of the elements of a SPN episode - vengeful spirit, creepy setting, the woman-in-flames motif, even the special effects are similar. But I couldn't make them fit together. So then I thought of putting Sam in the psychiatrist role...and it just all came together.
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Having pinched most of the plot from my 3rd favourite movie, I can't really take credit but...
Glad you enjoyed it :-)
(And look: No a-ha with this one!)
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LMAO! Believe me I looked, too! :D
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If I had the thought process to actually write a decent bit of feedback, I would, but seriously, you just blew me away with that!
Wonderfully written!
Thanks so much for sharing it with us.
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I've been through phases like that, too. The trick is to keep writing, even if it's only snippets of stuff you wouldn't show anyone, ever. Eventually something good will come out of it.
I'm glad you enjoyed the story :-) Thanks!
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Truly, Sam meeting Rachel at the bridge had me tearing up. I love the idea of the boys meeting up in dreams - I'd like to poke you into writing more of it :)
The overall atmosphere was quite dark, too. I'd have liked a little more fleshed out Jessica, personally...whereas John and Dean both being possessed and trying to kill each other made me shiver: powerful. I'm thankful that you left Dean mostly with very little memory of it, and that Sam didn't dig it up. Too painful for me, can't even imagine it for Dean!
Thank you. I hope you'll feel inspired to write more in this 'verse, it's very interesting.
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I love the idea of the boys meeting up in dreams - I'd like to poke you into writing more of it :)
I'm thinking about it. As a 'verse there are a few different directions I could take this; my original epilogue tied the fic a little more directly into the SPN mytharc but I ditched it in favour of something a bit more hopeful. I'm leaving the idea on my "backburner" - we'll see if it develops into anything :-)
I'd have liked a little more fleshed out Jessica, personally
Hm. Jess is a tough one for me as in the canon she basically has no personality. She's just a cipher, a "woman in refrigerator". Here I was trying to create a character who is a professional first, Sam's wife second. (Kind of, I guess, the character of Miranda in the movie, but if you haven't seen it...) I could have spent some time exploring Jess as a mother, but I thought that could detract from the Sam/Dean relationship. Maybe I was wrong.
Thanks again for the feedback!
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This was amazing. You've created and filled out the world beautifully and everything is fleshed out so well.
You feel for their pain.
Amazing job.
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You feel for their pain.
Yeah...I must admit I feel the need for some sweet, happy fic after this one!
Whoa *blinks*
(Anonymous) 2007-04-13 11:56 am (UTC)(link)Nicely done and thank you for writing.
-Labseraph
Re: Whoa *blinks*
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I agree - sometimes "closure" isn't needed. In this story the boys have essentially separate lives; I think to tie things up too neatly would spoil the fic.
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I'd love to see a sequel, where people find out that Dean and Sam are brothers, and then remember what happened when Dean escaped, and put two and two together (Bonus points if they get 5).
Very beautiful.
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I don't know about a sequel; I have thought about it but I don't really have any good ideas.
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Great job.
I also adored the "pooh sticks" reference.
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here from spn fic finders
(Anonymous) 2012-05-20 03:14 pm (UTC)(link)