Part 06: ...The drive to the motel is, well, blurry.
A/N: This is a mostly un-beta'd version of this chapter since I didn't want to let you all wait so long. I'm gonna replace this with the proofread version as soon as I get it back from my beta. ;) ETA: Done. Just replaced the former text with the beta'd version. Beta by LJ's wonderful mayalaen She's an angel. :)
*--*--*
Then, Sammy’s back at his side He’s even talking, only Dean thinks he’s not talking to him, since there are other voices interacting with Sam’s and it’s not his own. He’d know, right? Is he sleeping? Dead? Coma? Hm… well, can’t be, ‘cause he can still see the stars up there, so his eyes aren’t closed. Right? Certainly. And he wouldn’t be leaning on his car. Dead or not, there’s no way is he going to risk ruining his baby’s paint.
After some time the three voices around him start to sloooowlyyyyy blur into one, making it very hard to follow the conversation. Oh Christ, who’s he trying to kid?! Making it nearly impossible to follow the freakin’ conversation. And him fucking dizzy on top of it all. Maybe he shouldn’t have had that last drink. The… the… uh, the last one, the… Whateverthefuck it was called. Doesn’t matter anyway. Maybe. Just maybe.
And maybe it would be a good idea to sit down and not stare at the stars anymore. Right. Sit down. You know, like, right the fuck now.
“-nd he’s that bad-”
“-ke that--still managed to-”
So he does. Not that anyone notices him slipping to the floor.
“-shouldn’t even be-”
“-ng upright-”
No, they keep on making noises - shrill, buzzing noises - and he’s kinda switching from hearing to not hearing and something in between. Ugh. He presses is head harder against the car.
“-s not that bad-doesn’t bother-”
It’s cold and quiet and that’s bliss.
“-lone-ck out of-loft’s closer-”
“-on’t think-good idea-Dean-motel-”
“’M is still here,” he mumbles. Or he thinks he does. He isn't sure. His lips feel kinda numb. Like rubber. But then! Then three heads snap around to look at him. Or down at him. He gets even dizzier from watching them move so frackin’ fast, and his stomach seems to actually agree with his head on this one. Yuck. Dean feels like throwing up all over the pavement. Again. Double yuck. Usually I can ho—“ld my liquor better… mmm, strange…”
Sam stares at him some more, or no, maybe there are two Sams now. And wouldn’t that be cool? Nah probably not. Clenching his hands into fists, ripping at some weed growing in the gaps, he tries to force the drunken haze back. To push it away. “Dude----ottle of whisk----nd god knows wha—wonder you’re shitfaced.”
Shitfaced. Right. Only he’s not really. The 9--“11 call”, right. He had wanted--“to get drunk…” …because of the kid. Yeah, okay now I--“remember.” Somewhat. There’s this white noise again, and his head rolls forward and onto his knees. Hitting his nose on solid bone. Ouch.
“—ong drive’s not—motel and staying—getting sick on the way to—good idea-”
Huh?
Getting sick? Driving? Wait, wait, wait! What the fuck?! What the hell is he talking about. Oh hell! Now that thought makes the idea of throwing up a lot less welcoming. And… Oh hell no! “Dude! I’m not gonna puke in my car! I’d rather choke to death on it!” he snaps, receiving a small smile from his brother.
Who’s currently kneeling in front of him. When did that happen? He might have blacked out there for a moment somewhere. Oh well.
“See? He’s not gonna die,” Sam teases, and just then he realizes that the young blond is crouching right next to his brother and – in turn – him. Kid’s looking… worried? Yeah, worried. Huh. He’s used to his brother looking at him that way, even more so lately, but a stranger? Weird. Maybe it’s him being tipsy, or whatever.
Dean tries to smile. It might end up like a grimace. “’M good…”
A pale hand comes to lie on his arm, troubled blue eyes watching. “You don’t look good, Dean.”
“’M always looking good…”
From… somewhere, he hears Brian snort, saying, “He needs a fucking bed and a nap, that’s all. It’s not going to kill him, Justin.”
“Uhu.” He holds out a hand to his brother. “Up,” he orders. “He’s right.”
Sam sighs profoundly before he pulls Dean to his feet without a word, letting him get into the front seat all by his lonesome, drunk-but-not-really self. Thank you. Only… Fucking dizziness. He jumps when the door slams shut with a bang. “Dude. Not so loud…,” he mumbles, head lolling against the cold window. And oh, isn’t that nice? Coldcoldcold… Such precious, beautiful cold!
Dean smiles contently, patting the Impala’s dashboard. His baby always knows how to take care of him. And no, he doesn’t care that he’s talking about a car. Why the hell do you ask?
*--*--*
The drive to the motel is… well, blurry. Sounds and touches – not that kind of touches, come on! – and lights, and… Okay, okay, so it’s missing. Not. There. Completely nonexistent. Probably passed out for a minute or two again, or something. He has no idea. Next thing he knows, he’s standing in the middle of the street, and when the hell did he get out of his car anyway? He can't even remember stopping somewhere.
But they apparently did, because he’s not there. We’re not in Kan—“sas anymore…” Shit.
“Dean?”
That’s not his brother mumbling into his ear, is it? “Hm…?”
The voice sounds 12 different kinds of amused when it says, “Are you conscious?”
“Hm…”
Someone else chuckles.
“Your brother had to go and park the car”, the former voice explains, warm breath tickling his cheek. He sighs. The warmth in front of him is really not that bad, not bad at all. Sharp contrast to whatever it is that’s cold on his back. “We’ll just wait for him to go in.”
“…hmmm…”
“You look fucking stunning, all flushed like this, Dean,” the voice drawls, low and even and--
Heavy eyes snap open… to reveal awfully familiar hazel eyes. Pretty. And how can they be familiar after only one meeting? But… what is Brian doing here anyway? Hmm. And why doesn’t Sam park in front of their room? There’s fucking--“parking space enough right infr…”--ont of their freakin’ motel room, so why park so far away?
“You look fucking hot, Dean”, he whispers, lips against his ear. And why didn’t he notice the hand on his waist or another on his shoulder? Must be going numb… “If you could just see yourself,” the voice goes on, teeth nipping at his earlobe. One hand. “So fucking hot like this, I’d like to--”
“Brian!”
Ah, Blondie. Wow. What’d his brother do now? Hopefully nothing expensive. He’s so not going to pay that. Oh but hey, getting … by that pretty, er hot brunet isn't so bad if that how—Uh. Wait.
“What?”
“Don’t say shit like that. Fuck, he’s drunk he…”
“’M not drunk.”
“Fine.”, the kid snaps, “You’re tipsy then, better?”
He offers a grin, head bobbing in a messy nod. “Yeahhh…”
“O-kay, then.”
The blond stares at them until Brian sighs in defeat. “Fine Sunshine.” Dean feels him tightening his grip on him pulling them closer together. He’s sure he’s able to stay upright on his own, but why not just stay like this? It’s not like this is a particularly bad position to be in, you know. Someone snorts softly in his ear. “Hear that, Sonny Boy?” Brian murmurs moments later.
Talking out loud again. Great. Dean can see Justin rolling is eyes over the brunet’s shoulder, but he’s smiling, too. “Shut up, Bri.”
Lips touch his ear, warm breath tickling his neck, and he sucks in a shaky breath. Wow, that feels… great. Really, really great and… Oh shit! His knees buckle a little as Brian kisses the soft flesh, and that’s so not cool! Well not the kissing part, that’s actually mighty fine, but his knees feeling like Jell-O? Nope. Not cool. He’s not-- “Tell me to fuck off, and I will,” Brian whispers. Huh? Dean doesn’t say a thing.
Before he knows how to articulate that, however, Brian covers his lips with his own.
And shoves his tongue in Dean’s mouth.
It’s the last thing he remembers. Everything after that is hazy and blurred, but he remembers a hand on his face, another on his waist, hard body pressing him against what he thinks might have been a wall. He remembers feeling wonderful, just wonderful and… that’s it. If he passed out or just fell asleep, Dean has no memory of. The only thing he does know is the feeling of lips on his, the cold and hot shiver it sent down his spine. Ah well.
He comes out of his numb haze rather abruptly, jumping at a loud bang all too close to his ears. “Shh, Dean, you’re okay,” he hears, all too close to his ear. “It’s okay.”
And that is so not Brian, thus, it has to be Sam. Which begs the question of what the fuck?! “Dude. Hands off the merchandise!” he snarks, or at least that’s what he wanted to say. It comes out a little, well, let’s say slurred. One word tumbling into the next, but the soft laughter makes it clear that he got the massage across. Good!
“Sorry, dude, but you were kinda asleep,” it’s so nice that he doesn’t say passed out, he almost wants to hug him, “and nearly walked into a wall, there.”
Did I? Well, where the hell are they now anyway? “’s not that bad.”
“What? Walking into a wall?” Sam murmurs, clearly amused.
Then again, it looks like Brian actually managed to kiss him until he passed out, huh? His lips tingle at the thought, and he has to fight the impulse to touch them, run his fingers over them. “Hmmm.” Sammy wouldn’t understand, and-- Shit! Something clicks and… Oh. Shit! Sammy! That’s what his mind is trying to tell him with its frantic running a mile a minute. He forgot all about him again. Fucking shit!
“I disagree, so there. Just wake up for a second, Dean. You can go back to sleep in a minute, okay?” But Sammy doesn’t act out of the ordinary. In fact, he acts all motherly again, which is… quite normal these days.
And that fucking tone? Gets him every single time. Drunk or not. And ‘m not really drunk. Yeah, that too. “…hmmm…” Got him ever since the stupid kid uttered his first words. Opening his eyes – and hey, that’s probably the reason why everything is so dark in here! – he takes in the motel room and blinks. Blinks again. Shaking his head to clear his vision, because this can so not be. He blinks a third time, - which, all at once? Not a good idea – but nothing changes other than the room is now spinning like merry-go-round.
“I… could have sworn the motel didn’t have polished hardwood floor and a… naked guy on the wall when we left yesterday.”
“And you notice that now after we took an elevator up here?”
An elevator?! “I was… kinda napping on the way for a minute…?”
Sam chuckles. “That’s a good excuse as any. Come on, let’s get you back to sleep.” His little brother manipulates his body over to the white – Jesus, that’s not good – couch and him out of his jacket and—
A soft pillow hits him square in the head. Huh. Blinking a few more times, his vision clears to reveal a smirking… Brian.
Right. “Listen to your brother, sleeping beauty. Otherwise you’ll look like shit.”
Why, thank you! And that from the guy who kissed him like the devil moments ago. Or maybe an hour. He wouldn’t know the difference. Ah hell, he’s too sleepy to care right now, falling face down on the couch, and oh. Oh! Dreamland. That thing is comfy. Not that he particularly cares about that at this point, - he’d sleep on the floor right about now – but he slept in beds less comfortable than this couch. And all right.
He’ll find out where exactly they are when he’s sober. Now he’s going to sleep. He should sleep. Sleep off the alcohol. But there’s a hand on his calf, another on his ankle, and, “…fuckoff..hm…sam’y!”, he mumbles into the pillow, already half asleep.
“--can’t sleep in your boots, Dean…”
The fuck I can't. “…leave ‘em ‘lone…” Tomorrow he’s are gonna find out what’s going on here, why the motel is not the motel anymore and what the hell his brother did, and why this, this Brian is here, but now? He couldn’t give a rat’s ass. It’s warm and soft and it feels like heaven. He doesn’t want to move. And he won’t move.
He’ll deal with tomorrow, well, tomorrow.
“Let him be, it’s--”
And Brian’s voice is the last he hears before ‘sleep’ finally catches up to him.
In other words: He’s out like a light.
*--*--*
It’s a smothered scream that wakes him up, minutes, hours later, he can't tell. It’s still dark outside as well as inside. He’s so used to this by now – so used to waking to muffled screams – that the first thing that pops into his mind is Sammy. Only that it isn't Sam, and it’s not the ceiling of their motel room that he’s staring at. So yeah, it’s… really not Sam and it’s definitely, really so not their motel room. What it comes down to is that they didn’t go back to the motel. Thank you Sherlock. For whatever reason.
Before he can sit up to look around some more to figure out what’s going on, he hears muffled voices from somewhere close. Brian and Justin. That, however, is the only thing his poor, still somewhat scrambled brain can come up with. It’s familiar and that’s the point. Not that he actually understands a word of what they are saying, not really. But it’s okay, it’s none of his business anyway.
Yadda, yadda.
Since they are both sleeping here, this place might be their home. Now sitting up for real, there’s a soft glow coming from… the bedroom. Or he thinks it is, since he thinks it’s a bed he’s seeing in there. It’s all kinda blurry. The rest of the apartment, though, is open space. A loft. Nice. He drags his eyes away from huge windows to find his brother lying on a pretty comfortable-looking futon, more or less sleeping on the floor. And for once the nightmares and visions seem to leave him alone. He smiles. It’s about time.
Lying back down, he listens to the soft voices coming from the other room, whispered words soon turning into soft moaning and whimpers. Dean smiles softly. Let them have their privacy. Soon, the noises are lulling him back into a deep, peaceful slumber.
*--*--*
The second time he wakes that night, er, morning, whatever, he knows something is… off. Not right. And that? Wakes him up like a cold shower, throbbing head be damned. Energy’s buzzing in the air, he feels it crawling on his skin, in his bones, the air freakin’ vibrates with it. His fingers itch for his weapons. Any weapon. And then, without so much as a warning, the lamp on the far end of the cupboard explodes in a whirl of light, flying glass shards and sound. Before he knows what’s going on, he’s on his feet, his first glance going to his brother.
Sam’s awake, of course - how could he not be, - eyes wide but obviously not hurt. Thankyouthankyouthankyou. Dean knows what this is before the lights even start to flicker and the room gets chilly. They stare at each other, and in the next instant, they aren’t anymore. There, in the middle of the few feet separating them, two ghosts are hovering. Children, really. And if he isn't still drunk, he’d say those are the same two ghosts from a few hours ago. They must be, because how likely is it to find not two, but four ghosts that actually are not trying to kill them? Or not yet, anyway?
Yeah, not very. And he doesn’t have to be a math genius to figure that one out.
One of them, the little girl, can’t be much older then six, maybe seven. The boy is older by a few years at least. Both of them have their throats cut, dark red – black – blood gushing from the cuts like water from wrecked pipes dropping to the floor. Dropdropdrop. The girl’s head is hanging in an awfully unnatural angle. In other words, Dean’s pretty sure her delicate neck’s broken. Possibly what killed her, too. And damn. It just about hurts to look at them.
Their hair appears to be wet, drenched with water, possibly blood and god knows what else. Dean isn't even sure black is the natural color.
Shocked gasps from his left remind him yet again that Sam and he are not alone, that this is not their shared room at that shabby motel, that they have an audience. Fuck. However, they have to deal with their hosts later. Much later. First they have to get rid of their nightly visitors. When the kids suddenly move, again too fast to follow them with his eyes, he goes rigid like a brick wall.
Oh shit!
- TBC
