Warnings: To be safe, I'll say spoilers for the whole season. And lots of Dean angst and DeanWhumping in later chapters. I might up the rating for the next chapter – depends if our boys feel like having such strong potty mouths this time round ;) And you'd do well to presume violence.
Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural in any way shape or form.
CHOICESCHAPTER ONE
Dean's black Impala swerved around the corner, tires squealing and skidding on the frozen road as his foot pressed down on the accelerator.
Come on, Sam…Dean willed his brother, shooting a glance into his review mirror and almost blinded by the giant headlights shining into his car. He pressed down harder on the accelerator, even though he knew his car was driving as fast as it could.His eyes widened and his heart rattled in its cage as he saw the huge black truck jerk itself closer to his Impala. He breathed in quickly and shook his head, cursing Sam's slow rescue plan.
Killed on Route 666 by a racist phantom truck, Dean thought dryly, fan-fucking-tastic. Just the way I always imagined it.
The two black vehicles zoomed down the dark, abandoned road. So dark, in fact, that the frantic chase would have blended into the night if it weren't for the unnatural light surrounding the giant, clunky truck, and the way that light wrapped itself around Dean's car, glinting off every metal surface so that the Impala almost sparkled in the cold, dark night.
His phone finally rang. Dean quickly grabbed it, and incredulously answered Sam's inquiry into his exact whereabouts. But his head suddenly whipped back and his body arched forward. That son-of-a-bitch truck had sped up and rammed into his bumper. Dean felt his fingers slip from the wheel for a second, felt the car spin, felt his tires screech in protest, felt his heart beat desperately against his ribcage.
He quickly tightened his grip on the wheel, though, and forced the Impala back onto the road, frustration teaming up with his fear to pump out more adrenaline and sharpen his instincts. "Son-of-bitch," he muttered angrily. But all frustration was instantly replaced by shock when Sam told him what he wanted him to do. Find the road, turn left, stop at seven tenths of a mile, and wait. Bring it to him.
Ignoring his disbelief, Dean did was Sam told him. He turned left, watched his speed, and stopped. And waited. Staring down at the large, looming, truck - its black coat glinting in the mist – Dean became lost in a temporary stupor, but the phantom truck revved up challengingly and brought Dean back to the present. He lifted his eyes in time to see the truck jerk forward and speed down the road, straight towards him.
At a loss for words, Dean chucked the phone down. He clenched his jaw in determination – or to keep his fear at bay, he wasn't too sure which himself – and gripped the wheel tightly, ignoring the instincts screaming at him to twist the wheel and get them out of the way.
The truck's engine grew louder, its lights brighter, its black coat more visible. It was mere seconds away from reaching Dean. No backing out now. His life was in Sam's hands.
So close now that Dean could've seen every detail of its bumper if the headlights weren't so blinding; he shut his eyes and turned away, anticipating the impact.
And then it came. The truck smashed into Dean's car with such force that his head flung backwards as his body arched out of the seat and his ears rung with the sound of metal colliding with metal. With the grating noise of one car scraping against the other as windows shattered and doors flung open, of dashboards breaking apart and metal groaning and creaking as it was forced to fold in on itself. It was a loud, fast, overwhelming cacophony of destruction. So loud, so invasive, so persistent that Dean was forced to let it soak into his consciousness as his body was flung backwards, as something smashed against his head, as something rammed into his stomach, as something snagged his wrist. He heard a snap, and another, a tear, a cry, a whimper, but it all flew into that deafening cacophony, swirling into his head until he couldn't tell the sounds of the car from his own body, until he couldn't tell what was hurting where. Only that he was flying and that his body felt engulfed by fire.
Sam held the phone close to his ear, straining to hear more. Had that been the sound of a crash? It was so muffled, it could've been anything.
"Dean?" Sam asked fearfully. "You still there?"
No answer. Panic began to clutch at Sam's chest. "Dean?"
Still no answer. "Dean!" Sam yelled. A silence – thick, dense, complete – answered him. And the panic broke through.
"Oh god," Sam whispered, twisting around to look at the road Dean had driven down. It was dark – a long, winding street; an unlit, silent witness to an untold number of deaths. Had he just made a terrible mistake – would he find his brother at the end of the street, crushed in just another mangled carwreck?
Sam twisted back around to look at the farm truck that they'd borrowed. It was the only transport he had. It'd have to do. He ran up to it and quickly unhooked it from the truck they'd dragged out from the lake. He jumped in and, ignoring how ridiculous this should have felt, put it into gear and felt his body bounce on the seat as he pushed down on the accelerator. He prayed he would find Dean sitting in his car, smirking at Sam's concern. That his phone had gone flat. Telling Sam that his plan was stupid, risky, but that it had worked.
Those hopes were dashed the instant Sam saw the wrangled, black heap that used to be Dean's Impala. It sat so still it was almost a part of the night. Even the moon refused to glint off its mangled surface. Sam's foot absently lifted off the accelerator as his body grew cold – a cold unlike one he'd ever felt before. It was a cold – a shock - that absorbed all the other emotions crying for his attention. A cold that prevented him from feeling his own body as it robotically lowered itself off the farm truck and as his legs slowly walked towards the car. This scratched, dented, folded, crushed car. This broken car.
Shattered glass sprinkled the old road. Bits of it glistening with drops of red. But it was only somewhere in the distance did Sam hear the crinkling beneath his steps. He was too focused on the glistening red web that had weaved itself onto the car's windshield. On the limp hand resting on the steering wheel. On the slumped body hanging from his safetybelt.
Tears sprung, unbidden, to Sam's eyes as his numb fingers grabbed onto the hanging door frame and he fell to his knees. "No," he whispered weakly, "Dean." Kneeling this close, he could see Dean's blue lips, the lines of red running from his head, painting his face, dripping from his chin. He slowly reached out a shaky to feel for a pulse. To feel for life in his bloodied, cut, limp, bruised brother. In this broken boy.
There wasn't one.
"No!" Sam yelled, springing back up and running his hands through his hair, staring at Dean's still form in panic and frustration and disbelief.
"No!" he yelled again, something nagging at his memory. Something clawing at his chest, prodding for his attention. He scrunched up his brow, racking his head.
"This isn't how it's meant to happen!" Was it? No, something was wrong. Very wrong!
"Sammy," a low, weak voice drifted out from the car. From his brother's cracked lips. Sam's eyes widened and he dropped back to his knees. Dean's eyelids slid open to reveal pained eyes silently imploring Sam.
"Think," Dean mumbled. "Think, Sam."
Sam frowned, confusion hijacking his voice and strangling it so that only an unintelligible squeak escaped. But Dean's eyes were probing his in a silent, unwavering gaze. A plea. So Sam forced himself to breathe, to banish the panic and let in this nagging feeling instead. And a memory flashed across his mind. And then another, and another.
Sam's eyes widened further and his mouth slid open. "This has already happened!" he practically yelled. "I remember this. You didn't die, Dean. The plan worked. You're alive. You're meant to be alive!"
Dean, still slumped over and deadly still, let his lips curve into a relieved smile. "Atta boy, Sammy."
And then everything disappeared.
Sam's eyes flew open. He found himself staring at a stained motel ceiling through a row of dust glittering in the morning sunlight. Then instant black as something fell onto his face. Sam sprang up in his bed and ripped the jacket from his face, throwing it back at Dean with an annoyed glare.
"Stop doing that," he said sternly.
Dean caught the jacket with one hand and grinned innocently. "You were awake," he excused, lightly throwing the jacket on the end of Sam's bed and continuing to pack his duffle bag.
"Yeah, I just opened my eyes," Sam said, throwing off his sheets and checking the bedside clock. He frowned when he saw the time; it was almost 11.
"You're right, you sure did some serious sleeping there, Sammy. Late night with the Discovery channel?" Dean teased, plugging in the laptop and chuckling at his own joke as he turned it on, deciding to browse the local news while he waited for Sam to get dressed and packed.
Sam ignored Dean and swung his legs off the bed, leaning his elbows on his knees as he ran his hands through his hair. That dream was still clinging onto him, refusing to fade.
"What was that about," Sam mumbled to himself.
"Talking to yourself, Sunshine?" Dean asked absently, his eyes scanning over the daily headlines.
Sam frowned and shook his head, trying to dislodge the image of Dean's limp form. "Stranger things have happened," he answered quietly, finally standing up and pulling out some clothes from the bedside drawer.
Dean stopped scanning the digital news and looked up, finally noticing the deep frown etched into his brother's face. "What's got you all pseudo-philosophical?" he asked, watching Sam carefully.
Sam just frowned again and scratched his head, looking more than a bit confused. "Just a strange dream. I can't really shake it."
Dean partially closed the laptop, eyes slightly widening. "Like one of your…you know," he waved his hands up near his head.
Sam arched an eyebrow and stared at Dean blankly. "What the hell does this mean, Dean?" Sam said, mimicking Dean's unintelligible hand gesture, an amused smile tugging at his lips.
"You know," Dean replied impatiently, not happy at being made fun of. "Your whole, telekinetic, crystal ball thing."
Sam rolled his eyes at the definition, but let it slide. "No, I don't thing so. I mean, it felt…important. But…it was about something that's already happened, so it couldn't have meant anything. It just… felt so real."
Dean watched Sam carefully as his brother's face scrunched up into that frown again. Dean closed the laptop completely and gave Sam his full attention. "What thing in the past?"
"Hmm?" Sam said, looking back at Dean absently. "Oh, um, that chase with the phantom truck back on Route 666. Only it ended…different."
"Like a 'Choose Your Own Ending' book?" Dean asked, interested.
Sam smiled at this; Dean never ceased to surprise him with the bits of reference he had stored in his brain. "Sort of, I guess."
Sam looked up to find Dean staring at him expectantly. Not worried, or alert. Just curious. And waiting stubbornly for more detail. Sam sighed and decided just to tell him. It was a meaningless dream, after all.
"Well, in this…version…my plan didn't work. And the truck kind of, you know, plowed in to you." Sam look up at Dean with a shrug.
Dean frowned at this, sitting back in his chair. "It plowed into me?" he repeated incredulously. "Geez, man, Freud would have a field day with this one."
Sam rolled his eyes, and pulled on a clean shirt.
"So how'd you know it plowed into me?" Dean asked, a teasing smile trying to escape onto his face. "You weren't driving the truck that was doing the plowing, now were you Sammy boy? Maybe you have some hidden murderous tendencies that I should know about."
Sam chuckled, pulling on some paints and reaching for his shoes. "No," he said. "I drove up to you in the farm truck."
"You lumbered to my rescue?" Dean smirked.
Sam grabbed the jacket and chucked it at Dean, who caught it easily and threw it back. Dean then opened the laptop again, and continued to scroll down, reading the headlines as Sam tied up his shoes.
Sam paused and glanced over at Dean. "So, you don't think there's anything more to it?" he asked tentatively.
Dean just shrugged a little, his interest already waning as his eye caught their next potential case. "Nah. You can't stop something that happened in the past and that, you know, didn't happen. All dreams don't come true, Sam. Too bad, 'cause I had this great one last night about Aniston and-"
Sam coughed.
Dean smirked self-consciously. "Yeah, yeah, too much information."
Sam nodded at the laptop. "Find anything?" he asked, pushing away the dream as best he could and ignoring any lingering concern and confusion it left.
It had been a few weeks since Chicago, and while both still bore faint scars on their faces from the Davar attacks, the physical marks were fading fast. Though, they'd been taking on cases – hunting – almost nonstop since then. Since they'd finally found their dad and made the decision to let him go again. To withdraw from the family's fight against whatever had killed their mom and Jessica until it was time for them to stop being liabilities and start being assets. Now wasn't that time. Dean had come to that realization. It had been his choice to break up the Winchester family again so that it could remain whole in the future. So now Dean needed to keep himself occupied – with the hunt – to keep moving and fighting – so that he wasn't forced to dwell on his decision. To regret it. And Sam understand that – the need to avenge Jessica was so strong, so present, that he too needed the constant hunt, the constant distraction.
"One thing in the local news," Dean answered. "Might be our kind of thing."
"What's it say?"
"Five missing people have all turned up dead now, each dumped at the side of Edmund forest. And, according to the initial police reports, each bearing a 'strange symbol' that faded within hours of the victims being found. They can't work out what caused three of the victims to die, while the other two were cut up pretty badly."
Sam nodded, absorbing the information. "Okay, we should definitely check it out. Probably try to work out what that symbol means." Sam stood up and grabbed his bag. "Why don't you see what more information you can dig up. Find out what the symbol means – and what it looks like, first."
"What are going to do?" Dean asked.
"Check out the crime scene. Where they found the bodies. See if there's anything there." Sam hitched up his bag and headed for the door, but Dean quickly jumped in front of him, stopping him with an outstretched arm.
"Whoa, whoa, hang on a second," Dean said, incredulity shining in his eyes. "Why do you get the good job?"
Sam returned Dean's look with a raised eyebrow and with a small frown that pursed his lips. "I'm checking out the scene where five dead people were found, Dean. It's not exactly the donut run."
"Better than being cooped up here doing the research. It's a nice day outside, a guy like me isn't meant to be cooped up on a day like this. That's your job."
Sam frowned, his weight shifting onto his other foot as he tried to understand his brother's logic. "Oh yeah, and why's that?"
"'Cause you're the college geek," Dean said matter-o-factly.
Sam rolled his eyes and glanced at the open, waiting laptop. He really didn't want to stay in this room – that dream still lingered here, mixing with the room's humid air and clinging to him unabashedly. And, despite his rational reassurances, and Dean's flippant ones, Sam still found it unsettling. He didn't want to be in this room longer than he had to, didn't want to dwell on how real that 'alternative ending' had felt. And ever since Chicago, Dean was stubbornly refusing to sit still for too long. If there was something to find, something to fight, he was there, guns blazing.
So Sam shrugged. "Okay, we'll both go check it out then. See what we can find and then do some research afterwards."
Dean nodded. "Over beer and hot bartenders," he added, waggling his eyebrows.
Sam snorted, and shoved Dean towards the front door. Dean smirked and reached out to open it, his sleeve pulling up at the movement, revealing his wrist. Sam froze, his insides shriveling in a sudden wave of shock and…deja vu. Sam grabbed Dean's arm and pulled it closer, inspecting it.
"Dude!" Dean exclaimed, wringing his arm away. "What the hell are you doing?"
Sam looked up at Dean with wide, startled eyes. "How'd you get that?" he said, pointed to the cut he'd noticed on Dean's hand. It was a small web of glistening red cuts sitting on the top of his hand, followed by the beginnings of a bruise that would end up circling Dean's wrist. The shape of the cuts, the position of the bruise, it looked startlingly like the hand that Sam had seen resting limply against the steering wheel, obviously having caught on the wheel after smashing against the windshield.
Dean looked down at his hand, turning it around to follow the bruise's path around his wrist.
"Huh," he said, frowning slightly. He then shrugged and looked back at Sam, no trace of concern on his face. "I don't know," he said, heading back towards the door.
"Wait, Dean," Sam said, pressing his palm against the front door and closing it, stepping between it and Dean. "What do you mean, you don't know? Think, something must have caused it."
Dean raised his eyebrow at the panic lacing Sam's voice. "Dude, who cares? It's nothing. Move."
"It's not nothing, Dean," Sam said, refusing to move.
Dean looked back at the miniscule web of cuts and the slight bruising, then back up at Sam and the worried expression marring his face. "You're right, take me to the emergency room now. I'm in desperate need of a Band-Aid. Maybe they have the ones with the Flintstones pattern."
Sam didn't look impressed. Dean sighed. "What is it, Sam?" he asked, letting the bag slide from his shoulder as he waited.
Sam opened his mouth, but quickly shut it again, looking away, realizing how ridiculous he was being. "It's just…my dream. The mysterious cut appearing after my dream about you in a wreck. I mean…"
"Yeah?" Dean prompted.
Sam shook his head. "I don't know what I mean."
"That's right," Dean said, grabbing his bag's strap and lifting it back up onto his shoulder. "'Cause you're talking crazy talk. It was dream. It meant nothing. You said it yourself – it was about something that happened months ago. Unless you have a time machine hidden in that mop of hair of yours, there's nothing to freak out about."
Sam automatically ran a hand through his hair. "It isn't mop-like."
"Whatever Fabio, let's go," Dean said, moving past Dean and out the door.
Sam let himself be reassured. Let himself follow Dean. He ignored the nagging feeling in his stomach – he locked it behind the motel door as he closed it. Locked it away without a second thought. The one that was shouting at him – trying to tell him that he and Dean were too overeager to distract themselves, too ready to immerse themselves in the hunt. They weren't being as cautious or prepared as they were taught to be. As they'd usually be. That their desires to escape their decision in Chicago – letting go off the chase, of their family, even if just for the time being - was just as deadly as the threat of the shadow demon had been.
Sam let the shouts fade into the distance as Dean drove the Impala down the long, winding road. It was quiet and felt almost abandoned. And Sam caught one last snippet from that nagging voice – Maybe even more deadly.
TBC