Part 18: ...Everything falls silent. Everything around. Everything but.
The air around him seems to freeze. Figuratively and literally, so thick now you could cut it with a knife if you wanted to.
It’s not just his imagination. Emily’s hand flies to the amulet resting upon her heaving chest, fingers letting loose of the knife, in its place gripping the small piece of jewelry. Dean can’t make out the words she’s whispering, holding a gun to Justin’s head, but they wrap in shapes around him, mouthing their meaning into his skin. A meaning that has his skin breaking in goose bumps under it. She’s calling in the cavalry. It’s that back alley behind Babylon all over again. Not gonna happen, sweetheart.
He feels the flutter of lashes on his skin when Emily closes her eyes.
Everything falls silent. Everything around him. Everything but the cry of NOW that echoes in his bones, his mind, his blood. Everything moves. He doesn’t see, but he feels Sam dive for the bedroom stairs, feels him scramble for the shotgun. He feels the floor under his feet as he moves, doesn’t remember ever starting to. Emily doesn’t move, silent words tumbling from her red lips. She doesn’t notice. Somewhere to his right something explodes. He sees, he feels, he knows, but he doesn’t hear.
Emily does.
She jerks around, hand still wrapped tightly around the pendant, lips never faltering on the chanting.
Dean launches himself head first over the sofa, like diving into a shallow pool, pulling Justin from the stool onto the floor. For a moment or two there’s nothing but silence. Real silence this time. White noises in the back, maybe yelling or the screeching of a door. It’s hard to tell. Another loud bang snaps him out of the whiteness, the feeling of MOVE engraved into his mind and bones. Default setting.
Then he is moving, pulling himself up and away from where he’s lying half on top of Justin. The pain stabbing him feels like a faint echo from far away, nothing more, dizziness overcoming him, a wet, heavy blanket of disorientation.
“Dean?”
Just for a moment.
“Move.”
He is following the order before the word is fully out of his mouth, one hand going around Justin’s arm, dragging him away and around the two chairs in front of the TV, toppling them over. He pushes the blond down, following suit to take cover. It’s not ideal, not while faced with a gun, a gun pointed at their head, but they had worse, and it has to do. For now. As soon as he gets his bearing, they make a run for the bedroom. Anyway, it’s safer there. He feels movement around him, air pressing in waves against his side, tickling the back of his neck, the ripple of something familiar against his chest.
Dean has no notice of ever closing his eyes until he opens them, blinking stupidly down at the polished floor. One hand is still gripping Justin’s arm while bile is trying to crawl up his raw-feeling throat. Fuck. Definitely head hitting involved. And looking down isn’t doing it for him right now, nothing good at the least, so he carefully, slowly turns around, blinking rapidly into the assault of light. Justin looks down at him, worry shining bright, lips moving restlessly.
The rushing in his ears is too loud to let him make out the words, too distracting, but he feels the waves of concern crashing into him like a truck, the implication of the words shaping itself once more around and into his skin. Are you okay? they say, say something, and please.
His ears get back to him after a moment, same for his voice. His brain. “You okay?” he grits out, not wanting the kid to panic even more. A ripple of air curls around him in a familiar caress. Sam, he thinks. He doesn’t know how or why or who, but he knows that. Everything stopped making sense the moment the freaking wind didn’t disturb the salt lines, so he won’t try to make sense of this now. It’s just going to give him a headache. A headache worse than the one already pestering him and--is that blood on his sleeve? Why yes, yes it is. Groaning, he pushes himself up a bit. Gonna be a bitch to get that out.
Justin looks at him like Dean has gone mad. “You’re asking me?! She fucking shot you!” he hisses, helping Dean sit up despite the glare it earns him.
She did? he wants to ask. It certainly doesn’t feel that way. But he doesn’t remember, either, not that part.
“I’m fine,” Dean murmurs, and come on, he’s pretty sure he is. Minus the dizziness and the blood. He grimaces at the sight of his arm. Or the sleeve, mostly. There really is a lot of blood, but he’s one hundred percent sure he’s not been shot. He knows that feeling. It’s not fun, and it’s not this. Moving his arm and shoulder is not a good idea one way or another, as he finds out. Doesn’t matter. He needs to get the arm out of the jacket, take a look at what the hell this is if not the bullet. Justin flinches when he covers Dean’s shaking hand with his own, assisting in getting the zipper and buttons undone. “I’m plenty sure she didn’t hit me. What about you?”
“She fucking shot at you! She could have--”
“Justin. She could have done a lot of things. Point is she didn’t. I think some of the stitches ripped open.” Together, and with much grinding of teeth, they managed to get his arm free. And hello, he was right: the reopened cuts are bleeding like whoa. In the background he can feel his brother talking, feel his voice dancing in his head. He can’t concentrate enough on their meaning, not just yet. All your good work for nothing Sammy.
It takes him a second too long to realize what’s bothering him so much about Justin helping him take his jacket off is that the kid’s favoring his left hand. “What’s wrong with your hand?”
“What? Oh.” He looks at it like he’s seeing it for the first time. “I twisted it when... when she came here and dragged me out of bed. I think.”
Blue eyes flicker nervously all over the place, never staying long in one place. He’s pale as hell, even paler than usual. Dean can’t blame him. Reaching out, he gently cups the young man’s cheek, lifting his head so he can catch his eyes. It’s a little awkward from the position. “It’s all right, Justin. Don’t freak on me now,” he says, soothingly stroking his thumb along a pale, cool cheek. “She won’t hurt you again, I promise. I promise. I know this is scary as hell, but I need you to be calm. Take a deep breath. Can you do that for me?”
A pale throat bobbles as he swallows, hard. Long eyelashes flutter as he reaches for the hand on his face. The kid’s fingers are as cold as his cheek, closing desperately over Dean’s wrist. “Okay,” he murmurs, swallowing a few more times before his blue gaze meets Dean’s again, “okay.” The grip on Dean’s hand is so tight that it almost hurts, as if he’s afraid Dean will disappear as soon as he lets go. He doesn’t comment on it. If something to hold onto is keeping him from freaking out, who’s he to deny him that? This might be perfectly normal for him, but it’s not exactly business as usual for Justin. Or Brian.
“Dean? You okay over there?”
Dean jumps a little at that voice. At hearing that voice again, not just feeling it. “Yeah, Sammy. We’re okay.” And it’s even mostly the truth. Hitting his head and ripping out a few stitches? Isn’t that important. Justin let’s go of his hand as soon as Dean rolls himself onto his knees, carefully sitting up to spy over the edge of the chairs.
Emily no longer has the gun. She’s rubbing her right wrist, the one which she held the gun with, like it’s hurting. Like someone--something--maybe twisted the gun away from her. He can’t see the gun from where he cowers, but apparently his brother can. As soon as the chick makes to take a step forward, Sam’s voice floats over him again: “I said, stay back.” It sounds like he’s said it before. Like, many, many times before. “Don’t you dare move.”
“You said that already. What if I did? You’ll shoot me?” Oh, thank God. “In front of them?”
“It’s called fucking self-defense, you ignorant cunt,” Brian snaps, and Dean feels the pressure of laughter bubbling up his throat, the deep relief leaves him reeling a bit more than is good for him. Good for them all. Crashing over him like an ebbing rush of adrenaline. Still alive, he thinks, Thankyouthankyouthankyou.
“But would they believe him?” Emily challenges, taking a step forward. Just one. Dean’s hand involuntarily makes a move for the knife concealed in his boot. “A poor, innocent girl against four guys? Alone. Helpless.” There are tears in her voice, eyes unnaturally bright, and he’s got to hand it back to her. Damn. She can act after all. Bitch. “I would think not.”
“You are fucking crazy.”
“Oh, you keep repeating yourself there, Brian honey. You all do. But I like your blond friend. What do you think I would have to do to--”
Sam cuts her off. “Shut it, Emily. I don’t want to hurt you, I really don’t, but I will if you take another step or so much breathe in the wrong direction.”
Hand going to her amulet, her teary-eyed smile turns wicked as she cuts a glance in their direction. Downright nasty. Justin tenses beside him. Not good. “Hesitating, ain’t you? And why should I keep silent? Justin is a pretty thing, is he not?”
“Don’t you fucking dare--”
“Enough,” Sam bellows, and they--Brian and Emily-–fall silent. Dean can’t help the smirk. You go, Sammy!
“Ah, I see. But you wouldn’t do that, would you Sammy?” She taunts, almost gentle, and again, all he wants to do is strangle her. With his bare hands. Or her hair. “Shoot me with a shotgun? A poor girl like me? Unarmed?”
“You think so?” She takes another step forward, when nothing happens, a second and third one. Sammy... Fuck... “Think again.” And pulls the trigger.
The clicking of the weapon is abnormally loud in his ears. Dean swears he even feels it deep down to his bones as the mass of rock salt hits Emily’s chest. He just barely stifles a wince of sympathy. That hurts like a bitch, oh yeah. The shock of being shot, of actually being shot causes her to stumble backwards, tumbling over her own feet. She hits the edge of Brian’s desk with a sickening thud, dropping to the floor like a ragdoll. Ouch! Now that knock to the head might even have hurt worse than the salt to the chest. Maybe.
Rubbing his chest, well, maybe not. But it will give her a killer headache as soon as she returns to the here and now.
The feeling of ‘It’s-over-and-we’re-still-alive!-Yay!’ hits him like a race car at full speed, stealing away the last crumbs of resolve he has left. He pulls an Emily and drops like a sack of potatoes--minus the unconscious part, thank you very much. Or maybe he isn’t that lucky, for the next thing he knows, Brian is already kneeling beside them, cursing hell and heaven--well, mostly hell and Emily--and throwing insults left and right, all the time looking them both over for injuries. Duh. Shouldn’t be that hard, right?
Brian’s laughter startles him a little. “No it’s not.”
Huh?
“You’re talking out loud,” Justin tells him quietly whilst leaning over him. One hand is fisted into the fabric of Dean’s bloodied jeans, holding on.
O-kay. So, probably got knocked out, too. “Hm. ‘M good.”
“Sure you are. Justin said you hit your head?”
Did he? Oh yeah, right. That’s where the headache’s coming from.
“Yeah...”
“How many fingers?”
Oh, come on. “Oh, come on!”
Brian pets his leg. “Humor me.”
“Three. I’m not seeing double.” Not anymore. Which is helping a great deal with keeping the nausea at bay. “And I didn’t get shot, so go take care of your sweetheart, and leave me the hell alone.” I have Nurse Sammy for that, he doesn’t say.
It’s almost cute how Brian’s face twists with a mixture of annoyance and amusement at the word sweetheart. Justin merely laughs, a little hysterically, mind you, but he doesn’t resist when Brian pulls him into his arms, kissing him. Forehead, temple and lips--to make sure he’s still in one piece, maybe, his hand moving a bit frantically over the blond’s body. Dean knows that impulse better than he knows himself. Aww, shit, Sammy.
He ignores the lovebirds to drag himself around the chairs so they are no longer blocking his view. Dean’s more than a little surprised when he sees an elderly lady kneeling beside Emily’s motionless form instead of his brother. Emily’s amulet dangles from her finger. Dean frowns. Now, where the hell did she come from? And where’s--oh there he is, shotgun still in hand as Sam walks over to both women, quietly talking to the lady. He doesn’t look half as surprised and confused as Dean feels at her presence. Poking his head for a clue, he comes up with, well, nothing. Less than nothing, and he doesn’t like that at all.
So, obviously he did miss something. Dude. Unconsciousness will do that to you! Straightening a little, because this is his brother after all, there’s one way to find out. “Who’s your friend, Sammy?”
Sam’s whirls around like he forgot he’s there. And is so damn shocked that he did. “Shit, Dean. Are you all right?”
“Yeah, Sammy,” he drawls, waving away the look of concern at the blood on his clothes, “just trashed your artwork a little. Now talk.”
It’s not him who answers the question, though, it’s the lady. She offers him a fond smile, explaining that she’s the owner of the store his brother visited earlier today. And, oh right, there’s that light bulb finally coming on in his head. Miss--what's her name?--oh, right, Miss Deborah. Dean snorts silently. Apparently no date coming up on that end, then. Like she knows exactly what he’s thinking--and hell, for all he knows, she does--she winks, imparting the same fond smile on his brother. Smiling back, because everyone who looks at Sammy that way deserves a freaking smile, he shrugs, which is not a good idea. That’s why I freaking hate injured shoulders. Ouch. Damn.
“It’s awfully nice meeting you, ma’am,” he tells her.
“Same here, Dean Winchester.”
When he asks about what exactly went down in here after the door opened, Deborah admits that, yes, it was her doing. The “magic” she has practiced since she was a young child, and yes, Dean truly hears the quotation marks around the word, it’s not just his fucked-up brain. To give them an out, she says, and that’s really all he needs to know. Gently prying Justin’s finger from his pants, he forces himself to his feet-–to almost collapse.
Sam’s worried frown deepens, about ready to jump to his aid. “Dean?”
Dean stops him with an annoyed hand wave. “I’m okay, Sam! Christ! What about her?” he asks, nodding to Emily’s unresponsive body.
“Who the fuck cares.” Brian grumbles. Dean ignores him, but he gets it. He really gets it. That bitch had a knife at Justin’s throat a minute ago, let alone everything else she’s been doing.
“No, not right now, but she will be. Do not concern yourself with that, my boy. For weeks the cards tell me something terrible will happen today, and I’ve seen it in my dreams as well last night. So sad...,” she whispers, eyeing every single one of them. One after another, after another. It’s... creepy.
“What the fuck does that mean?”
Seeing the look in the woman’s eyes, Dean’s almost sure he doesn’t want to know. It promises nothing good. Looking down and back at Brian, still holding onto a pale Justin, hands clenched to fists where they grip fabric, Dean’s thinks he is, in fact, better off not knowing.
“You do not want to know,” a female, quiet voice tells. Figured.
“The fuck I don’t.”
Dean chuckles darkly. “Fine,” he says, matter-of-factly. “Then let’s say you don’t need to know, so leave it the fuck alone.”
*-*-*
By the time Sam had dragged up their first aid kit, Miss Deborah and Sam had persuaded him to let the woman look him over. Despite his protests that he was fine, just fine, really and assuring her–-and Sammy-–that it was just a knock on the head and he was more than capable of treating a concussion himself, she still insisted. She had shaken her head at him, patiently like a mother dealing with her difficult child, and had him sit at Brian’s dining table with him straddling a chair.
Sam had helped him out of the shirt, inspecting the re-opened cuts with an angry grimace on his face. It had not been bleeding by then anymore, but Sam was Sam, and Sam worried. “Just to be on the safe side,” Deborah had said as she started. And with Sam turning that patented kicked-puppy-dog expression on him, the familiar look of naked worry shining in his eyes, yeah, fine. He’d caved, like he did way too often. And even if that look wasn’t as patented as he thought anymore, it still worked. And talk about puppy dog eyes.
Brian had ushered Justin into the bedroom simultaneously, providing Deborah with the towels she had requested while asking if Dean was going to fucking bleed all over his fucking floor again so he could call his fucking cleaning lady before disappearing himself. After the nightmarish encounter with one Emily McNamara? Dean could hardly blame the guy for being pissed. Hell, he’d have been gladly telling anybody who dared to come closer than a five mile radius to fuck off and leave him alone if he’d been in Brian’s shoes.
He’s still straddling the chair, though, waiting for his personal nurse maid to finish stitching him up. “You should leave as soon as I am done. The police will be here very soon.” True. She had Brian make that call, telling them a story of a crazy admirer talking about ghosts and her dead father. The story was a damn good cover when he thought about it, and he was almost jealous he hadn’t thought of it himself. But credit where credit is due, and it’s here and belonged to Deborah. “It would be better if they would not find you here. They would not understand,” she continues, finally cutting the string and putting the needle away.
She dresses the wound like a pro, every pull and turn practiced and precise and perfect, and he wonders. Something must show on his face, because the next thing he hears from her is, “I was a nurse for a long time, boy. I know a thing or two about this.”
“Do you read minds, too?” He’s only half joking. Come on, they already had that happen, and it wasn’t really funny.
She smiles. “No, I do not, but I know what I would have thought in your place. And I can read people well. It comes with my profession.”
He bets it does. Nodding, he gets up as soon as she’s done, grasping the shirt Sam got for him, shoves his gun in the back of his pants in the same breath. “The shotgun...?”
“Do not worry. I’ll take care of all of it. They will not find a thing, not a trace of you.”
“What about Emily?”
“She will be dealt with. And she will get the help she so desperately needs,” Deborah assures, a soft look entering her dark, warm eyes. “Do not worry about it, my boy. There is rest for the wicked yet. All you have to do is burn the amulet by midnight, recite the spell I gave your brother while you do, and all of their unfortunate souls can rest as well.”
“Will do,” Sam agrees from over the breakfast bar. A quick glance toward Dean, and he asks, “Is he going to be okay?”
“He will be soon. It is nothing to take lightly, but it will not kill him.” Sammy drops his eyes and Dean rolls his. Oh please, not this again. “Samuel, that brother of yours is perfectly fine. There is nothing wrong with him.”
Dean watches Sam swallow. Hard. “He was dying...”
“...And he was saved.” The old woman is smiling, the smile lightening her face, crinkling the corner of her bright eyes. It makes her appear so much younger than the lines indicate, placing a soothing hand on his brother’s arm as he steps closer. “Was he not? In a way that should never have happened, possibly, but it did, and even though the man was a fraud, the act was not.” Her eyes gaze his way for a second before they flicker away once more. “He got a second chance, Sam. You got one, too. In keeping him for a little while longer. My big sister, she died decades ago. I grieved for a long, long time. I still do. Sometimes. Be glad you still have him. Do not be afraid of losing him all the time.”
“But...”
“You love your big brother,” she says. From the tone of her voice, she’s not just saying it, she knows, and it’s Dean’s turn to swallow. Back of his neck heating up. They don’t say these things to each other. Not really. “And you’re worried. That is normal. But it does not mean that it is necessary. We are only human, child. There is always an end.”
“Sammy...” He waits for his kid brother’s eyes to meet his before going on. “I’m telling you now, I’m okay. I might not be too thrilled about what went down in Nebraska, but dude, I’m not about to off myself out of misplaced guilt or anything like that. Just... Just give me a bit of time to... to deal. Okay? I swear I’m going to be okay.”
Sam’s head jerks up and down, like an overacting Jack-in-the-box. Voice hoarse, he whispers, “Okay...”
“Uh, I didn’t get that. Repeat that for me.”
“Okay.”
“Good.” He grins and claps his brother’s shoulder compassionately before he rubs his hands, welcoming the chance to get out of this without drifting too deep into chick-flick zone. “Now, help this pretty lady to get things in order for us to pull our disappearing act. I’m gonna check on Blondie and Brian.”
Leaving his brother and Deborah, he quietly walks up the stairs, two quiet voices drifting away as he enters through a nonexistent door. He finds Justin flat on his back on the bed, Brian’s head resting on his chest. Brian has his back to him, arms wrapped tightly around Justin like a kid’s around his favorite teddy bear, their favorite doll. They don’t notice him at first. Justin’s too busy patting and stroking the older man’s hair and not falling asleep as the fluttering lashes seem to indicate. When he finally does notice, head turning lazily, those blue eyes lack the panic and terror from before. Thank God.
Dean returns the soft smile he’s granted, walks quietly and slowly further into the room, close enough to see that Brian has his eyes closed, probably still oblivious to his presence. He looks so tired like this, so still. Dean doubts there are a lot of times when the man let’s himself be vulnerable, let alone in the presence of others to witness. When he stills, Justin beckons him closer, patting the space beside he and his lover. “How are you?” the blond wants to know as Dean takes the offered seat.
Brian’s eyes snap open like blinds in the morning, wide and abrupt, only Justin’s hands keeping him from moving. Away and in any way at all. “I’m good,” he says. “All new. How about you?”
“Good. Alive. Thanks to Sam and you. Is... Is he okay, too?”
Dean nods, smirking. “Yeah, don’t worry, Blondie. We’re gonna be just fine.”
“What... What about her?”
“Emily?” Justin nods.
“Who the fuck cares. Fucking cunt.”
Dean agrees in a way, but he gives Justin his answer. “She’s gonna get hardcore therapy somewhere, I guess. There’s no way the police can tie her to the cases of the murders here or anywhere else, but she’ll get some time in a, uh, mental institution. That’s for sure.”
“So it’s over?”
“Yes. It’s over. Sammy and I are gonna burn the amulet tonight, and then it’s definitely finished.”
“Thank you.”
Dean frowns. “For what?”
“Saving my life.”
“Don’t mention it,” he says, petting his hand. “Besides, that’s what we do...” He trails off as a soft hand curls around his good shoulder, pulling him around and down into a soft, chaste kiss. There’s nothing sexual about this, just another way to say ‘thank you.’ Dean lets Justin hug him, now both arms wrapped so tightly around his neck that he has trouble breathing, his shoulder screaming in protest. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t protest. Doesn’t say a word. Maybe Justin needs it. Needs this, so he can move on. Upon hearing sniffling, he pulls away some, looking down into blue, watery eyes.
“Aww, come on kiddo, it’s okay. No need to cry,” he whispers, wiping the tears away.
“I’m sorry...”
“Sorry’s bullshit,” Brian oh-so-eloquently provides, mumbling the words into the teen’s stomach. It sounds listless, lazy, like he’s reading a line from an old script. A line he said a million times before.
Dean decides to ignore it, too, stroking Justin’s hair out of his eyes. “It’s okay and you had a pretty sucky day, huh?” Justin nods, still sniffling as a few more tears make their way down his temple, vanishing into flaxen hair. “And you’re tired...”
Clearing his throat, Brian moves to look up so he can see the kid’s face. “Allergies acting up again.”
Why he says that, Dean has no idea. It’s an excuse, the lamest of them all, but it makes the blond smile under the tears, so that’s okay. He’s looking like he might fall asleep any second now. Good. “Dean?” His brother’s voice reminds him that they have to get out of here, and freakin’ soon.
“Coming.” He brushes a brotherly kiss to Justin’s forehead. “Sleep well, Blondie.”
“Hmmm...”
Sharing a smile with Brian, they both get out of the bed as soon as they’re sure Justin’s out. Miss Deborah and Sam both turn to them when they walk in. The woman’s kind eyes settle on the man beside him. “That boy of yours, he is a very tough kid. He’s going to be okay.”
Brian snorts, rubbing a hand over his face. “I don’t need a fucking psychic to tell me that.”
“Of course you don’t, honey,” she murmurs softly, eyeing the brunette for a long time, watching him as he lights a cigarette and settles for breathing smoke circles. Her warm eyes meet Dean’s when she finally looks away. “It is time for you to go.”
Dean nods, already reaching for his jacket. “All right. You’re a lifesaver Miss Deborah.” He says it with a smirk and a wink, but he’s meaning it, too, and as he leans down to kiss her pale cheek. She must know this, too.
“You’re not gonna take off just like that, are you?” Brian asks around the cigarette bouncing between his lips as they shape the words. He’s trying to look as nonchalant as possible, and it almost makes Dean laugh.
“No we are not,” Sam answers, and the smile he bestows on them both startles him a little more than he wants to admit. Gut twisting around itself. He offers Deborah another bright smile before he walks out of the door, never looking back. Shaking his head, Dean provides the older man with a grin of his own and a wave of his hand before following his brother out and down the stairs. It takes about five seconds to catch up.
They are two floors down when Sam eventually speaks up. “So, motel room?”
“Yup.”
Sam sighs. “Great. Could have gotten used to this.”
Dean starts laughing.
-- TBC
