Issues
By Mellaithwen
Rating: T
Genre: Angst
Summary: AU Asylum. Both of them hold their emotions locked away, and by a twist of fate, Dr Ellicott decides to unlock Dean's and not Sam.
This is in response to a challenge set by some idiot fifteen year old who didn't think it through before suggesting it, in the Supernatural Fanfiction Challenges forum :)
It scared him almost, he had walked around in search of his brother, in search of life among what seemed to be a magnet to the dead with their unfinished business, but up until that point he had found nothing but bare walls, and a sixth sense kicking in; making the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end as he squared his jaw and refused to look behind him.
Apparently his lanky shadow had scared the girl, and he had narrowly avoided being shot as he ducked down in a hurry, and the bullets took chunks out of the nearby wall. He was half glad that she had a lousy shot, but then he dared wonder what would have happened had it not been he or Dean coming around the corner...
His greeting had been short lived, as had their apologies, they hadn't known, and it was a fair statement but Sam couldn't understand why they were alone. His phone shook from the effort of ringing in his pocket, and he flipped it open without a second glance at the caller ID. The voice was frantic and jumbled, asking for help, something Dean seldom did willingly. His response had been immediate, "I'm on my way."
"Dean, help!" His brother cries once more, and now he's frantic, running through rooms without a clue, flying blind in a panic, as more screams reach his ears, leaving them raw from the ordeal. "Sammy!" He cries. He had heard them only a few moments ago, as he cleared the room, leaving Dr Feel-Good's office, shuddering at the experiments listed in there. He had walked for mere seconds when he felt it.
Dread.
Stronger than ever, though whether it was of his own predicaments or Sam's he didn't know, all he knew was the voice that called out to him.
"Dean! Please!"
"Sammy! Where are you?" He cried back, though the echoing made him wonder how much his brother's voice had projected. How far they were from each other. He ran blindly, calling again, but found nothing.
Nothing.
No one, but a bitter cold filtering into his bones.
The voices died away to a deathly silence that left him wondering if the voices had ever been there in the first place.
His teeth chatter as he holds himself, keeping warm. His breath fogs in front of him, and as he stares almost dumbfounded at the sudden freeze, something jumps out at him from the fog, something from the darkness that wasn't there before.
"Don't be afraid, I'm going to make you all better."
He had wanted the other, the younger one, more angry, but this, he had issues too. And if he tried hard enough they could manifest into something more. True, it was risky, having led both to the same place, and the other holding enough power to sense his prey, but it was worth the risk, if it would only lead them to each other, and his enemies would destroy each other, once and for all…
"Dean?" Sam's voice echoes as it reverberates off of every wall, and leads back to himself, the call having led him down to the basement, his brothers distorted tone asking for help, asking for him to hurry and yet here he was, cautiously sifting through a room filled with shower curtains, his gun held high, ready to defend himself against whatever it was his brother couldn't handle.
"Dean!" He cries louder, booming through the rooms, and he's half surprised dust doesn't fall from the ceilings as he himself is shaking.
"Dean?" His voice is quieter once more, almost fearful at the lack of response. He spins around, brandishing his flashlight and his gun at the ready, his light shining on something. Eyes staring as though in a daze.
"Jesus, Dean!" He cried in surprise at his brother's statue-like appearance. "What the hell?"
The sudden arrival tilted his head to the side, in a question to his brother's response, but Sam merely looks around, casing the surroundings, while Dean only looks on and stares.
The dark is thick, and inky. Not wet, but not dry, cold, and maybe even damp, but it isn't warm, it isn't welcoming, and he doesn't like it. The only way out is to scream, to shout, to fight, and he has to, because he has to get out, he has to find the light, but there isn't one, even his eyes are clouded by rage. All he sees is red, and in the centre is Sam.
Sammy.
The red envelopes him, and like a bull being drawn out of its cage, he storms forward. Growling, ignore the feeble cries of the simpleton. Of his brother
Not a simpleton, he's smart.
Smart, maybe, but not smarter. There's only so much a book can teach, life is a constant lesson, and he chose to leave his life. The life shared with a brother and father. He left, he ran. That's all he ever does is abandon.
He's a coward. He's only here because of Jessica. He wanted to stay in Stanford, go into Law School; if Jessica hadn't died he never would have gotten back into the car.
Iknow.
"Dean? Are you okay, man?"
He would have left you to fight whatever bumped in the night. Left you alone to bump back and hope it would be enough.
"No, Sammy, I'm not."
"It's Sam." He's staring too, so inquisitive, so curious. Always sticking his nose where it isn't wanted. Anger fuelled, Dean circles his prey.
A normal life he says, that's all he wants, well what about the rest of the world living in the ruins the Supernatural have left in their wake, destruction caused by benevolent spirits, and demonic entities. Who's there to save them? No one, that's who, they don't beg for normalcy, they beg for mercy. Make him beg. Make him suffer.
He suffers everyday, we both do.
You suffer more, you're all alone, and he had Jess-
And I had dad.
Oh of course, John Winchester, who left without saying a word.
He's missing...
No he isn't. You've felt it, haven't you? You felt the danger, but it was not imminent, it was slow and steady, you grabbed Sam knowing how hard it would be to find him, knowing how futile-
No!
And Sam doesn't care, he just bitches day in day out, constantly, he doesn't care that you're always protecting him, that you'd give anything for him. All he cares about is vengeance and getting back to his fantasy of a white picket fence. He hates you, and he holds you back, he's everything you'll never get to be. He went to college, he made a stand when you thought such a thing was impossible, and your father still held his pride, still loved him, and kicked you to the curb.
He doesn't care about your mother's death, only Jessica, because of his own guilt, that's the only reason he stays. He couldn't give a damn if you found your mothers killer...
He never had a mother, he missed out, and it's understandable-
You can't miss what you never had. You had her, you were held in her arms as she sang sweet lullabies, and you twirled her hair with your fingers. She loved you and left you, just like everyone always does. Everyone always leaves you, and they always will, unless you make them leave first, push them away, and then the pain will be gone, the abandonment and the sting of loneliness will fade away and nothing will matter. No one will know.
I'll know
He doesn't care; he never cares about anyone but himself! He's so selfish he couldn't even stay with you, you promised him you would never leave him, and then he turned around and threw it in your face. He made you promise every time he was ill or hurt, because he didn't understand his father, but you were his family. You were his rock, and he couldn't even say no to college to preserve that.
"Dean, what's wrong with you?"
"Shut-up, Sammy."
He can't tell, though they are his words, why he says it. Maybe he's provoking the other, saying it to spite the rebellious attitude, or maybe it's the part of him that's unaffected, the only thing that's left, clinging onto what it knows. And that's Sam. Sammy.
"Excuse me?" His eyebrows are raised, and he looks Dean up and down, searching for something, that he then finds when the shotgun is raised in his face.
"Dean, put the gun down."
Patronising asshole.
"No."
An agonizing silence, and the stretched out tension that's all around them etching itself into Sam's mind, as he searches for clues to his homicidal brother.
Homicidal, that's it! He thinks as he figures out his brother's strange behaviour, but then the revelation doesn't make Dean lower his hand or the raised gun.
"Dean, this isn't you, this is Ellicott, just fight it."
Fight it, not me.
But it isn't seen as a plea from a brother to his hero. Nor a command worth listening to. It's a whine, a predictable childish demand from the youngest Winchester. Always asking, never giving.
"Fight it! Who do you think you are, Sam? Always thinking you're better, always thinking you know what's best."
"Funny, I could say the same thing about you." Sam replied bitterly, a distant part of his mind wondering if baiting his brother was the best option at present.
"I'm protecting you! Saving you, again and again!"
"I don't need you to protect me!"
"No? Sure doesn't look like that from where I'm standing!"
"And where's that? Between me and dad!"
"Better there than always looking for the greener grass!"
"At least I'm looking for something, Dean."
And it was said, it was implied, that Dean had no aim in life, that Dean had nothing. And the older seethed.
Dean's foot came hurtling toward Sam, who ducked within a second, and Dean growled as his own foot then went through the wall, leaving a hole, and a strong draft to flow through. He pulled Sam to his feet by his collar, ignoring the feeble cries of the confused youngster. And glared further as the so-called-weakling grabbed his brother's shirt in return, both on sturdy feet, tried to push the other down, to gain the upper hand, but neither achieved, instead, Sam pulled to the side, just as Dean had tried pushing him away.
"You left what the hell would you know about what I'm looking for?" He said, his face flushed with anger.
"Yes Dean, I left, I left you and I left Dad, and you're not exactly convincing me it was the wrong decision!"
Both tugged and both pulled, trying to better their own attacks and both landed hard against the wall, and its remains fell around them as they landed with a heavy thud in the other room.
Sam was up in a flash, the hurtling having loosened his brother's grip on him considerably as he darted backwards, brandishing his own shot-gun that until now had simply been tucked away in the loop of his jeans by the belt.
Dean got up too, and he took no notice of the warnings as he grabbed his own weapon.
"Dean, I'm serious, stay right there!" He said, as once again Dean makes for the shot-gun. His brother would never shoot him, he was too impressionable and naïve. Too young.
"What are you gonna do, Sam?" He taunted, more Ellicott than Winchester. More spirit than hunter.
Bang.
Ringing in his ears, the shot herald in the asylum. Shaking Sam to his core at what he had just done.
You warned him...
He tried to convince himself.
Yeah, you warned your brother, you'd shoot him if he moved, and you did!
Dean fell backwards from the blast, flying for a moment, and landing for much longer. He hit the floor, and had no time to grunt as his body was winded and pinned from the pain.
He choked and coughed, his hands flying to his chest where the salt chips burn into his skin. He shot me! Bastard shot me!
Sam's coming forward, walking on crouched legs, and though the murderous instinct begins to take force, a single prickle of fear runs up Dean's spine.
Stay back, Sammy.
But now there's only one voice, strange, though spoken as one timid, yet gentle. A reassuring voice, speaking of cruelties in any other state, Dean would have never even heard.
Kill him, pull the trigger, and end it.
Dean aimed the gun, and threw it towards Sam's head with a sudden ferocity, knocking him out instantly, and as the crumbled form of the young Winchester fell, something broke in Dean, something that needed to be fixed. This was his brother, and he loved him no matter how Sam felt, he would always love him.
Destroy the pain. Destroy him.
Dean ignored the voice, the nagging and the almost completely in control entity that was trying so desperately to hold on. He began searching around himself. The voice was screaming, He hates you, he left you, kill him!
That was the whole point of having a brother, to hate him so much that you love him even more. A pain in the ass, he may be, but Dean just didn't have it in him, he didn't have the courage to kill Sam, he didn't have the cowardice either so he played the ignorant six-year old, ignoring it would make it go away, and so would burning the crap out of the bones...
He grabbed his head suddenly as a strange headache overcame him, though he knew the cause was far from normal. He gritted his teeth; bared from the pain, his eyes alight with a new fire, a light shining through the hazel, intent on ending this. He began stumbling forward on unsteady feet when another slice of pain washed over him, bringing him to his knees. His nose bled profusely and he hadn't the energy to wipe it away, letting the blood drip down past his chin, able to taste the metallic liquid on his tongue through his lips. He began crawling, already grabbing the forgotten bag that had never left his shoulders.
Zipping it open he took hold of the salt, and began looking once more. He was hurrying, he had to, he wasn't sure how long he could hold out against Ellicott's endless strength over his mind, and he didn't want Sam to be involved, especially as he had knocked the man out for his own safety. And partly because he couldn't bear to see the anguish on his little brother's features. This wasn't like in St Louis, Sam had wanted to fight then, because that thing had not been Dean, but now, he had struggled, yes, but feebly, never leaving an impression on the skin.
Dean sighed, getting up and pulling back curtains, and scanning the floor for any trap doors. He shone his flashlight once more, and saw the tiniest pieces of hair sticking out from the hinges of a cupboard. He edged over to it gingerly and as the smell assaulted his nose he half wished he'd never opened the thing. It was putrid, the smell of death that left him thankful for the embalming of bodies before burial. The body itself was enough to make him gag, and push down the sick that rose up in his throat at the sight.
He clutched the salt tighter, tossing a load on top of it as quickly as possible, the flicked of his flashlight so akin to that of a candle leaving dancing shadows on the walls, and he then proceeding to do the same with the lighter fluid as he had the salt. He threw it on, squeezing the container and allowing the sprayed fluid to land on the body and its surroundings.
There was a creaking, and he looked up in time to see a piece of furniture hurtling toward him on old wheels. He tried to get out of the way, but was hit in his midsection half way through rising from the crouched position he had been in. His body raised in the air, then landed harshly on the metal contraption and before he could process the pain something was on top of him, grasping his head in its hands and the pain was back full force. Tiny electrodes rushing through his brain, waves of agony rushed through his head again, and his nose continued to bleed.
The Doctor was gritting his teeth too, searching the mind for the resentment that would help him, but Dean was leaving his blank, only too aware of Dr Ellicott's intentions. "No!" He managed to cry out, as he tried to grab the thing's wrists to no avail. He then reached into his pocket for the lighter he had kept there, hoping, and feeling the relief as he fingered the metal for a moment, before taking it out, and opening it out of Ellicott's eye line.
He felt the slight heat, and knew it was alight. He tossed it as carefully as he could and heard the fizz as it landed on the rotting corpse and reacted with the lighter fluid and salt. Ellicott didn't let go, he growled and pressed harder and harder, as though he were trying to crush Dean's head indefinitely.
His eyes stung and the sides of his face seemed to be burning beneath thevengeful spirit's touch. He felt someone grab him, and pull him away from the pain. He looked up with tired eyes, and found Sam looking down on him, gasping slightly at the effort it had taken him to pull his brother to safety. Dean half wondered if the younger Winchester would take advantage of the situation, of Dean lying there weapon-less, but he didn't. He got to his own feet, sighing, and he held out a hand for Dean to take.
As he was pulled to stand and face his sibling, he felt the sudden need to explain himself. "Sam-."
"You're such an ass-hole, this-." He indicated the both of them, "Is what happens when you don't talk, Dean, so from now on, any issues are being put out in the open."
"You start." Dean said grinning, able to discern his brother's mood from the tone of voice, something he had long perfected since their childhood when little Sammy would get riled up at the smallest of nudges from his older brother.
"You can be a complete insensitive jerk sometimes." Sam didn't hesitate either, the words had been waiting for their chance to take a breath of oxygen, and Sam had prepared his mind for a battle of wit in response to his brother's no doubt return offence, which left him almost shell shocked at the simply reply he received.
"I know."
For a second Sam thought that was it, but then he continued.
"And you're an ungrateful bitch,"
Sam merely nodded, their feelings, though hidden in their defence mechanism of mocking, were clear and for a second only silence passed between them, broken by Dean as he began to leave the room, grabbing his bag and dusting off his trousers. "Now don't we all feel better?" Sam snorted in his brother's direction, aiming a soft punch to Dean's shoulder. "Gotta love sharing." Sam muttered as he did so, following.
"Yeah sure," Dean said lightly, before he span around on his brother, making the lackey stop in his tracks as he stared at the end of his brothers pointed finger, and fought back a laugh at the sudden serious tone Dean was using. "Now, let's never speak of it again."
Please Review