THE KAMELIONWRITER

Here There Be Dragons

kamelionwriter — Sun, 06 Feb 2011 19:21:46 GMT

Title: Here There Be Dragons
Fandom: Merlin
Author: kamelion
Rating: k+
Summary: The Great Dragon may not be the last of his kind....
Word Count: somewhat over 8,000

Sometimes, the chants came unbidden, a secret knowledge hidden deep within Merlin’s soul. He had little doubt that this knowledge was the source of his power, handed down for many generations and settling into his chest, his head, and his heart. An inkling of destiny roused him every morning, and settled him to sleep every night.

It unnerved him. He saw Gaius watching him from the table, and bent over his work.

He’d been unsettled for some days. He couldn’t explain why he felt the odd sensation; the prickling at the back of his neck, his tendency to spin on his heel with no provocation, yet expecting an attack. Eventually the prickling settled between his shoulder blades like tiny needles. Arthur had teased him just that morning of being scatter-brained. Merlin knew he couldn’t focus on his jobs, but truth be told it wasn’t as though his chores required a lot of focus. Gathering laundry, polishing mail or boots, these things were second nature to him and allowed his thoughts to reach out to more important matters, like the prickling sensation that did not bode well.

“Your mind is wandering, boy.” Gaius was frowning as he glared at Merlin.

“I’m sorry,” Merlin muttered, giving his head a shake to rid himself of unwanted thoughts. He bent over his book, but the words blurred before his eyes. Wiping at them in disgust, the young wizard tried once more to read.

He heard the old man rise and shuffle across the small room, and tensed as he stopped directly behind him. Merlin did not turn. His eyes rose from the dancing print to the edge of the scuffed wooden table, and stayed there. The man’s presence behind him exacerbated the nervousness Merlin already felt. It was bad enough to believe he was being watched, but to have a man stand behind him and solidify the sensation was enough to drive him mad.

He slammed the book closed. “Perhaps I shouldn’t take lessons today,” he said, polite yet firm.

“Bah!” Gaius turned sharply and returned to his seat. “You young people are all the same. You seem to think everything will just come to you, out of the blue. You are in a position, Merlin, where you cannot afford to neglect your lessons, any lessons. Medicines. Warfare. Potions. And yes, even this magic you must hide from the world.”

“I’m not able to concentrate,” Merlin countered. “What is the point, if I cannot absorb what I’m reading? This isn’t learning, it’s a study in futility.”

“So I see.” Gaius leaned back and folded his arms. “And what is on your mind?”

Merlin’s mouth opened, but he wasn’t sure how to tell his mentor and friend what he felt. “I’m out of sorts,” he started, but that did not even begin to cover the confusing emotions. “Gaius, have you ever felt like something awful was going to happen to you?”

“To me or to you?”

“Well, me.”

Gaius frowned. “What is going on, boy?”

What to say? Merlin fidgeted. “I feel as though something is watching me,” he said slowly. “Here. In Camelot.”

Gaius leaned forward, folding his hands on the table. “A person?”

If there was one thing Merlin appreciated about his mentor, it was that the older man knew when to take him seriously. “I don’t know. I sense it when no one is around. When I’m alone, or when I’m falling asleep or waking, I feel it. It knows me.”

“I see.” Old eyes narrowed, but he didn’t dismiss what Merlin was saying. “And how long have you been feeling this sensation?”

“For several days now. I sense it in the streets. I’m. . .” he picked at his fingers. “I’m nervous to go out.” He looked up, sheepishly. “Sometimes.”

“And yet you’ve been going out. You’ve been seeing to Arthur’s needs.”

Merlin nodded. “Yes. Under cover. I do not dare step into the open.”

Gaius frowned. “This isn’t like you, Merlin.”

“I know.”

“Have you told anyone else about these feelings of yours?”

Merlin barked out a laugh. “Who would I tell, other than you?” And it was hard enough doing that. He gave Gaius an insecure glance.

“You can tell Arthur.”

Again, Merlin laughed. “I’d sooner tell the dogs in the kennel! Arthur would just label it paranoia and give me an extra chore to prove his point. Out in the open, with my luck.”

Gaius was silent for a time, and Merlin suddenly wondered if he’d said too much. “Perhaps,” Gaius said solemnly, “I could talk to Arthur myself.”

Merlin grew alarmed. “And say what to him?”

“That you are being watched.”

“No. Gaius, that is a bad idea.”

“But surely he would believe me. Do you not think so?”

Merlin steeled his jaw. “He would question you. And he would discover you’ve heard this from me, and he would think me mad. And then he would give me chores out in the town square just to prove to us that nothing is going on.”

“And this would be a bad thing?”

“Yes! It would!”

“Why?”

“Because something is going on!” Merlin shouted, slamming his fist onto the cover of the book. He closed his eyes, but not before seeing the look of surprise cross his mentor’s face. “Sorry. I’m sorry.”

Gaius snorted. “You are right about one thing. You are distracted. Very well, then. Set the book aside and lay down for a while before Arthur has need of you again. You would do well to present a better mood to him than you have to me.”

“Gaius…”

“Go.” Gaius waved him away and turned to his bottles.

Merlin pursed his lips then climbed the stone steps to his small room.

__________________________________________________________________

It didn’t take long for the summons to come. And when it came, it was urgent. Merlin found himself in Arthur’s chambers hastily securing a leather strap that held Arthur’s armored breastplate in place. “Are you sure?” he asked. “Going out to kill this beast may not be such a good idea.” He stepped back quickly and surveyed his work.

“Your faith in me is touching, Merlin,” Arthur quipped as he rolled his shoulders. “I glad I don’t have to rely on you for moral support.”

“Where is this beast?” Merlin crossed the room for the prince’s sword.

“Not far from here.”

“That’s not very precise.”

“It flies about, Merlin! As such I do not know precisely where it is! They say it is fast as lightning, and about as bright.”

Merlin hesitated before handing the sword to Arthur. “As bright?”

Arthur sheathed his sword. “I figure it must have scales. Perhaps the sunlight is reflecting off them. It’s already attacked two villages. We must ward it off before it reaches Camelot.”

“Just another day, then, is it?” Merlin offered a small smile.

Arthur cursed lightly then took a moment to brace himself on the table, looking despondent. “Monsters, magic, and angry knights. Why is it that one battle seems like the next? Is this to be my lot when I become king?”

Merlin was taken by surprise. If he didn’t know better, he’d say the prince was depressed. “Are you all right?”

“Of course! What sort of question is that?” Arthur straightened and made to tug at his tunic, which wasn’t effective underneath the chain mail. He rolled his shoulders uncomfortably.

Was he nervous? Bored? Merlin couldn’t tell.

Arthur often hid himself. His teasing and brusque manner was obviously a mask, and Arthur well knew what he was doing. It was such an effective mask that Merlin had a hard time getting a sense of the man beneath. Prince Arthur was truly an enigma, which was how it should be if he were to become the most celebrated king who ever lived. Merlin had started to catch glimpses of this future king, and what he saw surprised him. Then, in true Arthurian style, the mask would slip back on and the king-to-be would become the spoiled, demanding son of Uther. No charisma, no loyalty, only a walking irritation with good hair and white teeth.

It made Merlin glad he had his magic to fall back on. “I should come with you.” Protect you, was what he really meant.

“Merlin, I believe you’ve grown over a foot in the past month. My horse can no longer hide you.”

“Funny. Has it never occurred to you that maybe I’m your good luck charm?”

Arthur had been striding toward the door; now he turned in shock. “My what? What did you say?”

“I’m your good luck charm.” Merlin smiled widely. “You do realize every time you’ve battled a creature and I’ve been at your side, you’ve come away undefeated. Well, with the possible exception of the Questing Beast, but that was taken care of, was it not?”

Arthur looked uncertain. “I thought maybe you were teasing me, but you may have a point.”

“Great! I’ll get my things.”

“No.”

“What?” Merlin balked. “Why not?”

“Because it’s too dangerous.”

Merlin’s brows raised. “Too dangerous? Since when has anything been too dangerous?”

“Since now.” And Arthur looked uncomfortable, which was disconcerting at best.

Merlin shook his head slightly, feeling puzzled. “I don’t understand. Has something happened?”

But his friend had turned his back, and was heading for the door.

“Arthur! Blast it all.” Merlin grabbed his bag and darted between the closing door and the wall.

__________________________________________________________________

Whatever misgivings Arthur may have had about Merlin’s company, they were never voiced. The men rode underneath the dappled cover of sunlight for a full day with no sign of the beast. The summer green closed in around them, and had a large creature been anywhere in the vicinity, Merlin felt sure they would see it with advance warning. The trees were thick; there was no possible way a large creature could not be heard, at the least.

Despite the beauty, Arthur was in a foul mood. He sent a messenger back to the castle with word that they had yet to track the creature; indeed, to see sign of anything afoot. The villages which were said to have been ransacked were intact, and the residents looked puzzled when asked about an attack. After the third village proved to be unharmed, nearly a full day’s journey from the castle, Arthur halted his men and ordered they set up camp in the forest beyond.

Merlin tended his horse and watched the young prince as he sulked by the fire, cup of ale in his hands. Merlin knew Arthur hated his time being wasted. So as the prince sat, Merlin saw that his horse was fed and watered then hesitantly joined Arthur on the log he had pulled close to the flames. He sat beside his friend in silence for some time before asking, “What now?”

“We head back tomorrow,” Arthur said, and gulped down the rest of his ale. He made a face, and belched loudly, inserting both his manhood and his vile opinion of events for all the world to hear. A couple of nearby knights smirked, then returned to their own talk.

Merlin took the empty cup from him, and made no offer to refill it. “Do you think someone was playing with us?”

“I’d like to get my hands on that messenger, that’s what I think. He was an excellent actor, I’ll give him credit where it is due. Then I’ll lop off his head.”

The corner of Merlin’s mouth quirked then turned down in seriousness. “But why would someone lie about a creature like this? To lure us away from the castle?”

It was evident by the pain on Arthur’s face that the thought had occurred to him. “The King is well protected,” he said in a low voice. “I’ve brought only a handful of knights with us. If the kingdom were to come under attack, odds are very strongly in my father’s favor. It would make no sense to lure us away.”

“Unless you are the one they want.”

Arthur studied his hands, and said nothing until Merlin’s stomach erupted in a loud growl. “Haven’t you eaten?” Arthur asked him.

“Not yet. I wanted to make certain there was enough for everyone.”

“Oh, really.” Arthur sighed, and reached for a wooden bowl which held some broth. He handed it to Merlin then tore off a hunk of bread from the half-loaf which sat in his own bowl. “Here. I can’t stand to see hungry men. You need more meat on those bones, Merlin. I can’t have you falling out while scrubbing my floors.”

Merlin noticed the deflection from the conversation, and took the bowl. “You’re all heart,” he said with a half-smile.

“Why are you so thin, anyway? Is Gaius not feeding you? Or is he that bad a cook?”

“Actually, I do a lot of the cooking.”

“Oh! I see. That explains much.” Arthur smirked, then leaned his elbows on his knees, staring into the fire.

But Merlin recognized the same troubled look on the prince’s face that he’d seen earlier. He was further alarmed by the fact that he hadn’t been dismissed, but was allowed to sit beside the prince as he ate. He wondered if Arthur felt he needed the company. Or reassurance. “I’m sure there is a good explanation for what has happened,” he offered.

“Sure. Someone getting their humor on, making a fool out of me.” Arthur rested his chin on his hand, looking like a young boy.

“Oh, I could see how that would be tempting.” Merlin ducked a cuff, and threw his head back, laughing. Then he dropped his bowl and stood quickly.

Large yellow eyes were watching him from high above. And they were coming closer.

“Merlin!” Arthur had jumped up as well, wiping Merlin’s spilled broth from his breeches. “Have you taken leave of your senses?”

The eyes were gone. Merlin spun, his own gaze on the limbs high above them. Had it been in the trees? Was it above the trees? Was it that creature? “Arthur, take your sword!”

The sword was unsheathed with a musical scrape without question, and the other knights, now all at attention, followed suit.

“I saw something. Up there. It was looking down at me. The eyes were -- huge. I’ve never seen anything like it!” Merlin pointed above them. “They were glowing yellow, almost cat-like, but they were so big!”

“Anything that big, and we should have known it was there,” Arthur argued, scanning the trees, his sword ready.

“Yes, I know! But I saw it, I swear I did.” And the pinpricks were back, chilling the area between his shoulder blades. His breath quickened. This was the thing that had been watching him. But why? “Arthur, it’s still here. I can feel it, it hasn’t gone anywhere.”

“I don’t see anything!”

“Trust me!”

Arthur looked like he didn’t want to, but he ordered his men to fan out and search the area. His sword pointed towards the darkness, his free hand extended and ready. Merlin took an instinctive step behind him.

The growl was unlike anything they’d ever heard, and they spun as one when a man cried out in terror. A bloodied body flew through the air and landed with a heavy thump a few feet away from the fire. Both men stared at the body, then jumped as a loud screech filled the night sky.

Yellow eyes hurled out of the darkness, followed by a massive, scaly body. Large teeth flashed in the firelight. Merlin hardly had time to shove Arthur to the side before he was snatched up in one immense claw and pulled into the sky.

He heard Arthur shout his name, but couldn’t see him. The stench of the creature was overwhelming. The claw that held him was dirty and scaled. He couldn’t see enough of the creature to make out what it was, but he could see the campfire fading beneath him as they soared upwards. Trying to release the creature’s grip would only mean falling to his death, so he dangled and held on.

With a dizzying dip the creature turned and was diving again, this time aiming for Arthur. Merlin could only panic as the ground rushed up at him. He threw his arms across his face, hearing Arthur yell as he was snatched up, his sword falling to the ground.

Merlin’s stomach churned. He grabbed the claw that held him as the beast launched upwards once more. “Still think I was seeing things?” he yelled out. “Arthur, stop fighting it! Do you really want it to let you go?”

Arthur eased his struggles and looked down, breathing heavily. “I see your point.”

The wings beat above them with a hearty rhythm. The creature’s grip was tight, and strangely enough Merlin found himself relaxing into it. Arthur had stopped trying to work his way free, keeping kept his arms in a death-lock around one large toe.

They flew for some time. The air grew colder, and thinner. Merlin’s breaths deepened, and he realized each one was harder to take.

Arthur was having trouble as well. “What’s happening?”

But Merlin could only shake his head as the atmosphere thinned, then darkened with Arthur’s nervous calls ringing in his ears.

____________________________________________________________________________

The wind whistled around him. It was a frigid breeze, and brought Merlin to consciousness with a start. He instantly started to shiver, each limb tightening and curling into his body. He was lying in snow, his clothes covered with it, and wet. He tried to blow hot breath onto his fingers, but only felt spasms of pain.

He huffed loudly, forcing air in and out of his lungs. His surroundings were bleak, nothing but grey stone, white snow, black sky. White moonlight, which darted in and out of the partial cloud cover. He had to move. He would die there if he didn’t move.

He forced his stiff limbs to push into a crouched position, squinting through a snowy fury. In the distance he could just make out a glint of metal glint of armor. Arthur.

Merlin half-crawled, half stumbled to the fallen figure and turned him over. Arthur’s eyes were closed, his cheeks red and chapped. Merlin did his best to clear snow from the man with frigid fingers. He blew on them, clapped them together then laid his fingers along Arthur’s neck, feeling for the heartbeat that he sometimes saw when the prince exerted himself on the battlefield. He could just feel it. Good.

First things first, though. Merlin winced and took in his surroundings. The best he could tell, they were on a mountain top. He vaguely remembered flying over mountain tops before passing out, so there was no doubt they were either very high up, or a very long way away. Neither thought pleased him.

He stood, clapping his hands against his arms, forcing his legs to move, dancing a jig to keep himself warm in his threadbare clothes. He wondered idly if Arthur’s armor would make him warmer, or if the chill would penetrate the metal and make things worse for him. With slippery steps Merlin braved the elements and walked away from the wind. A rock wall revealed itself, and a large hole. A cave.

Merlin quickly doubled back and grabbed Arthur’s arms, and tugged. His body rebelled, planting him back in the snow. He yelled out in anger, slapping his hand flat against the drifts which of course did absolutely no good, and grabbed his friend’s arms once more. He tried to drag the limp body through the snow, slipping on the ice. His numb fingers fought to free the man of his heavy armor, but to no avail. Merlin gritted his teeth, and pulled with all his might, his mind too frozen to conjure a spell to literally lighten his load. The words weren’t coming to him. All he could think of was motion, just keep moving. Do not stop. You will die if you stop.

The mantra continued until he had pulled Arthur into the mouth of the cave, and there he let himself collapse. He rested, then took Arthur’s arms once more and pulled him farther in, leaving the bitterness outside. He conjured a small flame between the two men. Feeling tingled back into his numb fingers. He slowly freed Arthur from his cold armor and set it to the side, shaking out small clumps of snow which the wind had forced through the kinks. His clothes were soaked through from the snow that had melted inside the armor.

Merlin raised the flame to a small fire. He positioned Arthur beside it then lay back, hearing the eerie wind howling just outside like a dog who had lost its prey.

___________________________________________________________________________

His eyes opened to see the dragon towering over them. He gasped and rolled, then stood quickly, backing away. The prince had moved little during his sleep, and the dragon was watching him intently. “Arthur! Arthur, wake up! Oh, Gods, take it all! Arthur! Open your eyes!”

The prince groaned and moved. Blue eyes could just been seen through slits, then were wide and determined and ready as he bolted to his feet, instantly joining Merlin’s side, one arm out to keep the wizard back behind him. Arthur instinctively reached for his sword, cursing when he realized he no longer carried it. He was defenseless.

This dragon was much larger than the one Merlin had freed. The scales shone silver as moonlight, the eyes were golden and angry and aimed at them. “You,” the dragon growled, “you are to blame. You released my foe, my enemy. I had delivered him to the Pendragon, and you set him free!” Teeth gnashed at him, and Merlin jumped back.

Arthur grabbed Merlin’s arm, pulling him away from the gaping jaws. “What is it talking about?”

Merlin didn’t take his eyes from the silver dragon. “I-I don’t know!”

“You do not know?” the silver one bellowed. “All the time you spent in the caves below the castle has lost its influence, has it? Is your memory so shallow? You bargained with the beast. You released it.” The massive head thrust forward, forcing Merlin and Arthur back against the rock wall. “I should kill you where you stand, but I must know where he’s gone.”

“We don’t understand! What beast?” Arthur yelled up.

But Merlin knew exactly what the dragon was talking about. Oh no. This wasn’t good, not at all. He should have known this would come back to haunt him. Merlin looked at Arthur, and saw the confusion on his face, mingling with fear.

Arthur seemed to realize what the silver dragon meant right as Merlin was ready to voice it.
“Our dragon? You’re talking about the one that was underneath the castle.”

“Your dragon?” The silver one laughed. “Your dragon! That dragon belongs to only one man, and it isn’t the likes of you!” It laughed again, the sound bouncing along the walls, loosening rocks. Small stones rained down, and the two men shrank back, trying to stay out of the debris.

“Why do you want him?” Merlin asked, against his better judgment.

“So I may destroy him and rid the world of this plague!” The silver dragon reared angrily, brushing the ceiling of the cave and raining more small stones down on the men.

Merlin shook his head in disbelief, and was surprised when Arthur stood his ground. “You are mistaken!” the prince shouted at the beast. “The Great Dragon escaped. Merlin had nothing to do with it!”

“No, you are mistaken, boy!” the silver one roared down at him, and the rock walls trembled. “The Great Dragon did not escape! He was set free! He now comes at the bidding of his dragon lord.” The massive head leaned down, leering at Merlin. “Call him, dragon lord, so that I may finish him!”

Arthur actually laughed. “What, Merlin? A dragon lord? You’ve got the wrong person, you. . .” he trailed off, losing his words, and glanced at Merlin. Again, Merlin could see Arthur lining up events in his mind. “The dragon lord was killed,” he said quietly.

“It is you who are mistaken! The dragon lord stands before you! Summon the Great One!”

“No,” Merlin said quietly, “I won’t.” His face tightened; he dared not look at Arthur.

But Arthur dared looked at him. Merlin could feel the tension as Arthur continued to piece together the accusation with the events at the castle, with their ride out to find the dragon lord, with everything that Merlin had tried to hide from him. He could feel the anger mingling with confusion and disappointment, all dripping off the man. And why not? He had betrayed them. The king, the kingdom, and his friend. He had betrayed all of them.

“Merlin, for the love of Camelot, tell me you did not let that dragon go free. Tell me you are not to blame for those deaths. Please, please, tell me you had nothing to do with any of this.” Arthur wanted so much to believe Merlin was innocent. Merlin wanted to believe it himself.

But he couldn’t. “I’m sorry,” Merlin breathed, his voice barely above a whisper. He glared at the silver one, his heart racing, dread consuming him. He dared a glance at his future king. He’d never seen Arthur look so somber, so regretful. “I did not know, I swear it! He was my friend. I trusted him.”

“And I trusted you!” Arthur yelled.

“I’m sorry! I had no choice! Camelot would have fallen. I couldn’t let that happen!”

“And why not, hmm?” the dragon asked. “You were not born there. What loyalty have you toward that particular kingdom? I suppose The Great Dragon mentioned your destiny?” The dragon raised its head. “That’s right! I suppose it told you that the two of you, together, are destined to do great things. It is a typical ploy of his. He has spoken this same story many times before.”

“How do you know this?” Merlin asked in a low voice.

“He filled your head with nonsense, boy! Do you not realize that! Destiny! HA!” Laughter filled the cave, and it was terrible. “There is no destiny! There was only a creature who was desperate to escape.” It sneered down at them, flipping its long tail. “So desperate he would tell a lonely boy anything he wanted to hear.”

“That’s not true,” Merlin said, his voice breaking. Because it wasn’t true. Was it? “He wouldn’t lie to me.”

“Merlin, what is that thing talking about?” Arthur asked, his eyes on the dragon but darting quickly to the young wizard.

“We are talking about you, Arthur Pendragon,” the silver one said, dipping its head low to gaze directly at Arthur. “We are talking about becoming the king of Camelot and Albion once your father perishes, ruling the land with Merlin, of all people, at your side! Well! What else would a poor lad want, but to befriend a king and secure his own place in history?”

“No, it’s not like that!” Merlin insisted.

“Are you sure, young Merlin?”

Merlin shook his head rapidly, turning to Arthur. “I swear it. You know it’s not like that.”

Arthur seemed to think about it for a moment. He slowly met the dragon’s golden stare. His shoulders squared. “No. You’ve got it wrong. Merlin is the least ambitious person I know.” He glanced at Merlin, and took a deep breath. “I do not feel he would betray me. I know he would not.”

“Hhmm. Your slave puts on a good show. See how he has already taken you in? Do you forget he released the Great One? Did he put on a good show for you then? Did he allow you to try and kill the dragon? Even now he can summon it. He can bring it back whenever he likes, to destroy you, Arthur, and your kingdom.” The golden eyes narrowed. “Perhaps so he may lay claim for himself? Rule the kingdom with his dragon at his side, striking fear into the hearts of the people?”

“NO!” Merlin shouted. His eyes blurred in frustration, his hands balled into fists. He suddenly felt like a child being taken to task when he had done nothing wrong.

The silver one laughed once more. “Oh, good! Go ahead, young Merlin! Show your prince your other secret! Let all be revealed!”

Merlin restrained himself, and unclenched his fists. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. It seems you are the one who puts on a good show.”

The silver one made a heavy sound, like a sigh. “A pity,” he said. “Oh, we can debate who is right and who is lying, but in the end it is all words. Only action may speak in cases such as this. Let us see just where your loyalty lies.” His eyes sparked and he growled deep in his throat. “Who shall it be, then? Your dragon. . .or your future king?”

One claw lashed forward and grabbed Arthur. Arthur yelled in surprise and Merlin reached out, but not quickly enough.

Arthur lay on his back beneath the dragon, looking up at the massive scales. He started to sit up and backpedal, but gasped out as he was slammed back to ground, the dragon’s paw resting heavily on top of him, long toes curling over his shoulders. The dragon sneered, and pressed hard. Arthur grunted in pain, his face contorting.

“What now, young Merlin?” the silver one asked. “Should I take care of your future king for you?” The large teeth gnashed. “Give me the Great Dragon, and he lives. Deny me and I crush the very breath from his lungs like the insect he is!” His words were punctuated by another pained grunt as the creature bore down on Arthur.

“Stop this!” Merlin shouted.

“Then you must summon the Great One! If you believe in your destiny, boy, you will call upon him so that you may save your so-called king!”

“Merlin. . .” Arthur grunted out. The dragon pressed harder, and Arthur cried out, then quickly clamped his mouth closed. His head rose, but it was the only part of his body he could move. It thumped back hard against the ground, his struggles minute and useless.

Merlin felt his rage grow, and with it, his power. He aimed his hand at the dragon, feeling the chant form in his mouth before he could think to speak it. But seeing the satisfaction on the dragon’s face halted him, and he pulled back. He couldn’t do it, not even to save Arthur. Not now. Arthur would know, and as much as he valued their friendship he did not know if Arthur would keep his secret. Well, that was a stupid thought. Arthur was slowly being crushed right before his eyes, what else was he to do?

He was supposed to protect the future king at all cost…unless the silver one was telling the truth. Had the Great Dragon lied to gain its freedom? Had he been played for a fool?

His glance drifted down to Arthur. The prince had gone still, his eyes closed, his lips pinched tightly together. Merlin realized Arthur was trying not to move, trying not to make a sound, trying to remain under control. Putting his life in Merlin’s hands. Trusting him.

No. Prophecy or not, Arthur was his friend. At the same time, he couldn’t do it this way. He couldn’t magic them out of this. He had to let these dragons take care of their own affairs. This wasn’t his battle to fight. “Okay, I’ll do it. I’ll summon him.” Merlin’s eyes caught were on Arthur’s disciplined form.

The silver one let up, just enough for Arthur to force out a hacking cough and roll over, but wouldn’t release him. The paw planted itself firmly on his lower back and legs. Arthur managed to raise his head and barely lift to his elbows, but could go no further as the dragon pressed once more. He struggled to breathe, and watched Merlin. Was he worried for Merlin, or for himself? The wizard didn’t know, nor did he know what to do next. If he summoned the dragon, it would reveal himself as a dragon lord, and Arthur would be saved, but all trust between he and Arthur would be lost. If he didn’t summon it, Arthur would be lost.

“Well, boy? I’m waiting.”

“Merlin, don’t do it.” Arthur coughed around his words.

Merlin looked at Arthur in surprise. “What? Why not?”

But Arthur was caught in another coughing fit and could not answer. He tried to pull himself from under the claw. He pounded his fist on the ground in frustration, and rested his head on it, fighting for breath.

Why did Arthur not want him to summon the Great Dragon? Merlin had to stall for time. “If I summon him, you must answer me this,” he said quickly. “Why do you wish the Great Dragon harm?”

“Because he was responsible for the destruction of our kind!”

Merlin shook his head. “That’s not true.”

“And I suppose you know this because you were there? Is that what he told you, boy? Did he tell you the Pendragon was responsible? He was the one who made himself known to the Pendragon, at a time when we had sworn to leave humankind to destroy themselves. He deceived the Pendragon. Of course the Pendragon killed all of the dragons! My kind!” The silver one raised his massive head and gave a mournful howl. Arthur pressed his head to the ground as the dragon shifted dangerously above him. When he looked up, his face was pained.

“Merlin,” he muttered barely above a whisper, “this Great Dragon of yours…how strong is it?”

Merlin’s breath caught. His eyes were tearing as his head pounded with indecision. “Strong.”

“Strong enough?”

Merlin suddenly knew what he was asking. “Yes.”

“Then call him.”

“Arthur…”

“If he is on your side, then he is on my side.” Arthur winced and then gasped in pain as the paw on his back settled heavily. “Call him!” he forced out.

“Yes!” the silver one cried out. “Call him so that I may destroy him!”

Once more, anger was growing inside Merlin. He was tired of being threatened, tired of not knowing who to trust, tired of being toyed with and deceived. His gaze fell from the terrible beast to Arthur, looking at him with such determination that he knew where his loyalties lay. Their eyes locked, and suddenly Merlin knew what it would be for Arthur to become king. And he wanted that with all his might.

He felt the power growing within him, a white-hot flame that started in his gut then consumed him. He waited until he could stand it no longer, until he felt the burn in his eyes, and the voice growing deep within the hollow of his soul, a place that frightened him. “Ddraig aur!Yr wyf yn galw ti!”

The chamber echoed with the Old Power. The very rocks rumbled, the words soared out of the mouth of the cave. With a roar, the silver one followed it, releasing Arthur and lumbering out into the cold air.

Arthur gasped loudly and rolled onto his back, then his side, looking as though he were trying to find proper air or free himself from the pain. Merlin was instantly beside him, bracing him, not sure if he should urge him to stand or let him rest. The continued rumbling of the cave made his decision for him. “We’ve got to go. Arthur! We must leave now!” Arthur merely nodded and stood with Merlin’s help, holding one sore arm close to his chest. Merlin braced him, and was surprised to feel an arm loop behind his back, bracing him in return. Together they rushed out of the cave as the rocks started to fall around them.

Outside, there was nothing but howling wind, frigid air, and a very long drop to oblivion.

_________________________________________________________________________

They stumbled together. Snow caked on their clothes, in their hair. Exhausted, Merlin couldn’t feel his arms or legs but he knew they were there, propelling him forward as though he didn’t know how to stop. Arthur pushed him along, his limbs jerking from exposure but his stubborn streak showing. Every time Merlin tried to stop, Arthur goaded him, poked him, called him names, threatened the worst punishment if he so much as slowed his pace. When time had come where no punishment could match what he was going through, Merlin finally collapsed in a heap and refused to move.

“Oh, no, noono. No, you do not get to quit on me now, do you understand?” Arthur was yelling in his face, but Merlin wasn’t sure he could hear the words. He wasn’t even sure he could see Arthur’s face, it was a blur against a white backdrop that was slowly brightening as the sun rose. “Training, Merlin, that’s what you need and when we get back to Camelot, training is exactly what you’ll get. Do you see me? I’m still moving, because I train.” But Merlin knew the prince was barely able to move himself. In fact, it seemed that his determination to see Merlin out of this mess was the one thing that pressed him onward.

“You -- do not fight in snow --- Arthur.”

“I have done!”

Merlin wanted to smile but managed only to raise his eyebrows. “Not in this.”

“Merlin, I am ordering you!”

He gave a faint smile. “Order all you like. I’m not moving.” In fact, he felt surprisingly calm, for one who was dying. But he could feel the desperation pouring off Arthur, and he didn’t like it. “You go ahead.”

“You’re out of your mind.” Arthur growled and pushed to his knees, pulling Merlin up by his arm, cursing as Merlin’s head tilted back in fatigue.

“You are not about to carry me,” Merlin protested, but knew it was useless, especially once his world flipped upside down and he found himself facing the snow-covered ground with a sharp shoulder planted in his gut..

“Training and food,” Arthur continued, staggering. “You weigh as much as my cat.”

“You don’t have a cat,” Merlin mumbled into his back.

“If I had a cat, it would weigh as much as you.” Arthur stumbled then regained his balance.

“You can’t do this,” Merlin slurred, and was rewarded with a loud curse and cry, and landed face-first in the snow.

He felt himself being pushed onto his back, felt freezing fingers try to clear the snow from his eyes and nose. The world was bright white now, and Arthur was a frigid statue before him, one day’s growth of beard coated with ice, his hair platinum and soaked. Even his eyebrows were white. Merlin slowly raised a hand to his own face, but he couldn’t feel anything. He wasn’t even sure he moved his arm.

Arthur collapsed right beside him. “Destiny?” he asked, barely above a whisper. “Is that what your dragon said to you? It seems you are destined to freeze by my side, Merlin.”

“Not dead yet,” Merlin muttered.

“No,” Arthur agreed, but his voice was weak, weaker than Merlin had ever heard. He wanted to tell Arthur not to give up, to carry on, but he couldn’t manage.

“Why did you set the dragon free, Merlin?” Arthur asked breathlessly. “Just tell me that.”

“I trusted him,” Merlin forced out.

Arthur managed a single laugh. “It seems your trust was misplaced.”

Merlin forced his head around to see Arthur’s face within inches of his own, his eyes vivid. “My trust is never misplaced,” he insisted, and it was proven by the shadow which suddenly hovered over them. The snow spun in a frenzied whirlwind as two large, familiar claws gently lifted him and Arthur from the frozen wasteland towards the sun.

____________________________________________________________________________

Warm.

It was the first thing he noticed. He was warm, he wasn’t trembling. But he was hurting. Oh…gods…he was hurting! Swords were stabbing him, he was on fire! His breath quickened, gasping, and he whimpered then cried out, his head twisting against the pain. He felt hands on his arms; warm, steadying hands that gripped him carefully and matched an equally steadying, familiar voice which told him to rest easy, that he was safe, that it would hurt for a while but if he drank this draught, he would sleep through most of it. He managed to mutter a name, heard something that may have been reassurance, felt something press to his lips then a liquid burned his throat….

He woke, and his eyes opened.

Gaius was there, elbows on his knees, staring at him. Such was the intensity of the gaze that Merlin startled and sat up, only to be pressed back down. “Easy, my boy! I didn’t mean to frighten you. Do you know who I am?”

“Of course,” Merlin gasped. “You’re Gaius.”

The old man looked pleased, and nodded. “Very good. I see the cold hasn’t completely numbed your brain.” But the worry persisted.

Merlin looked around him. He was covered head to toe in several blankets, and a fire was going, but he could see the green trees outside. Gaius looked very uncomfortable in his robe. It was wet. He was sweating.

The blankets were suddenly flung to the floor despite Gaius’ protestations. Merlin stumbled to the window. Warm air flowed in from a summer’s day. “Gaius! Put that fire out. You’ll give yourself a stroke.”

“You were ill, frozen near to death,” Gaius argued, but he sounded all too happy to concede to Merlin’s request. “You --- needed to be warmed. I thought we would lose you.”

Merlin turned from the window. “What happened?”

Gaius stifled the fire, but didn’t turn to face him. “You and Arthur were found in the town square. Both frozen solid, completely covered in snow and ice.” He spun. “What happened to you, boy? The knights had returned and said the two of you had gone missing. They said it was a great winged beast that carried the two of you away. So many have searched for you…” his voice trailed off.

“How is he?”

“Arthur? Same as you, getting warm in his room.”

Anxiety filled Merlin. “I must see him.”

“You must rest!”

“I’m fine.”

“Merlin!”

“Later, Gaius!” Merlin whipped his sleep shirt over his head. He stumbled as he searched for the rest of his clothing.

“This is insanity!” Gaius offered no help. He stood in Merlin’s way, but Merlin dodged him, finding his shirt and breeches and pulling them on. His boots were under the bed, and still damp. “Arthur needs his rest as well! If nothing else, think of that!” Gaius insisted.

“Gaius, I must go to him. It is important.”

“As your physician, I order you---”

“And as my friend?” Merlin pleaded with his eyes.

Gaius glowered but relented. “Very well. But be quick about it. The last thing you need, and the last he needs, is to fall ill because you refuse to let your bodies recover. I don’t care how young those bodies may be, neither of you are indestructible!”

“I know. And Gaius. . .thank you. ” Merlin flashed a smile, and hurried out.

__________________________________________________________________________

Merlin hesitated outside Arthur’s room, then knocked. He heard a deep mumble which he assumed was an invitation to enter.

Arthur was sitting on the edge of his bed, wearing his day clothes. He didn’t seem surprised to find Merlin walking in. “Are you well?”

Merlin was taken aback by the concern in his voice. “Yes. And you?”

Arthur gave his boot a final tug and muttered, “I’ll live.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” Merlin smiled. It faded as he took in the serious expression on Arthur’s face. He fidgeted.

Arthur pushed himself up from the bed and slowly walked to the window. He leaned against the stone wall, his arms crossed, looking down over the square. “You heard what happened?” he asked.

“Concerning us?”

“They found us frozen. Right down there.”

“Yes.”

“No mentions of dragons though.” Arthur glanced up at the sky.

Merlin swallowed heavily. “I should of…I mean I shouldn’t have ---”

“Many people died, Merlin!” Arthur spun to face him, his arms dropping to his sides. “We nearly lost Camelot! We could have lost Albion.”

“I know. I know, and I’m sorry.”

“Why did you do it?”

“He…he said he would help save Camelot.”

“Only to destroy it himself?”

“I -- didn’t know. At the time, I didn’t know what had happened. It wasn’t until after---”

Arthur threw out his hands. “Did you think it was a pet? Did you think we had him chained down there as some sort of attraction? The Great Dragon of Camelot? Tell me, did you think at all, Merlin?”

“He helped me!”

“Helped you? With what?”

Merlin bit his lip, and lowered his eyes. “When I came here, I had no one. No one at all. Of course you wouldn’t know what that’s like, would you?” Hot eyes met Arthur’s. “Your Highness.”

Arthur blinked a few times, then leaned against the wall once more. “You might be surprised,” he mumbled, folding his arms and studying Merlin. “So you befriended a dragon?” It was a genuine question. “What was all that the silver dragon said? About destiny? What did this Great Dragon tell you about us?”

Merlin sighed and ran his fingers through his hair. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Doesn’t it?”

“If it becomes the subject of your ridicule, no! It doesn’t!” Merlin spat out, and regretted it.

Arthur straightened. “I’m not that bad, am I?”

Merlin let his gaze fall. “No, sire.”

When he looked up again, Arthur seemed hurt. He turned and faced the square once more. “I should tell my father, you know. Was it your dragon that rescued us?”

“Yes. It was.”

“So it won the battle?”

Merlin had wondered that himself. He shrugged lightly. “I don’t know. We don’t know if there was a battle.”

“So…there could be two dragons out there. Two very angry dragons.”

Merlin said nothing.

Arthur hesitated. “Your dragon didn’t smite Camelot when it brought us back. We were defenseless. It could have easily burned down the kingdom.”

“I have its word that it will leave Camelot alone.”

“And this word is good?” Arthur faced him again.

“He’s saved my life twice now. His word is good.”

“And what if it isn’t?”

Merlin shrugged. “You said so yourself. It had a chance to destroy Camelot, and take revenge on the king. That did not happen.”

Arthur shouldered away from the wall. “The other one, it called you the dragon lord.”

Merlin managed a nod.

“Are you?”

He swallowed.

“Answer the question.”

He didn’t want to answer. It would raise too many other questions, too many painful…“I seem to be.”

The prince’s chin rose. “I see. So you command this dragon. Our dragon.”

Our dragon? Merlin checked. “It -- does my bidding, yes.”

“And it will protect Camelot.”

Merlin nodded, fixing uncertain eyes on Arthur.

Arthur sighed in turn. “Then it is a useful ally, and one I cannot risk losing. Therefore, I will keep it a secret.” He walked right up to Merlin, staring him in the eyes. “I trust you have no further secrets?”

Merlin swallowed hard. “No, sir.”

“The dragon said you have another.”

“Dragons lie.” Merlin gave a nervous laugh.

“But not yours?”

He was silent.

Arthur cut him a look from the corner of his eyes and headed back to the window.

“Arthur,” Merlin dared, “You are to be the one true king, the one king that will be remembered. The one who will unite all the land.” He stepped forward, emboldened by the truth within his soul. “You asked before if your lot as king will be to face the beasts and angry knights. It is. But you will be so much more. And that is why you must face all these foes, these beasts. You said you trained. This is a part of your training. There is a purpose.”

“Beast. Angry knights.” Arthur sighed. “And what of magic?”

Merlin couldn’t help it. He felt himself swell inside, and he smiled widely. “Oh, yes,” he promised. “There will be lots of magic. Yes.”

-END

Loaded 1/1

kamelionwriter — Thu, 21 Oct 2010 01:06:25 GMT

The hotel room was dark, the atmosphere heavy with ritual. The weapons were laid out on the tiny vintage café table, close together, all in order. Dean’s eyes narrowed as he meticulously studied each one.

Sam had realized the ritual was planned for that evening when Dean quickly unpacked the trunk of the Impala. Absolutely everything came out. Sam helped carry in the duffels, then helped to set the weapons on the table in a certain order, which was something their father had never done. He used to watch his father and brother cleaning the weapons. John would talk to Dean in a low voice, and Dean would nod. Sam would watch from his bed through half-closed eyes, taking in the motions and clicks and corrections and approvals. And while there was a military precision about it, John was never this fastidious.

When Dean randomly wiped down a weapon, he sat in a chair or on his bed and talked while he worked. But this was different. Absolutely every weapon was thoroughly scrutinized, taken apart, cleaned down to the nuts and bolts. If repairs were needed, they were made.

Oils, grease and lube sat on one corner of the table. The string on the crossbow was carefully waxed, the arrow track oiled. Bore rods sat on top of stained cloths beside newly cleaned shotguns. Bore brushes sat beside the flare guns. Their smaller handguns were at the far end, always last.

Sam sat on the side of his bed, his elbows propped on his knees, his hands clasped loosely in front of him, taking in the sight of nimble fingers sorting through the array of metal. The clicks were satisfying to hear. It sounded safe. He watched Dean standing before the array, assembling, disassembling, stroking each weapon with a cloth, gazing down the barrels before grabbing a brush. Dean’s gaze lingered on a precious few guns that probably held memories deep within that cocky, confident body. Sam wondered how often Dean thought of their father while cleaning.

His brother finally looked up and cocked his eyebrow. “Getting an eyeful there, Sammy?” he asked.

The corner of Sam’s mouth quirked. “I was thinking of Dad,” he admitted.

“You could help me, you know,” Dean muttered, bent back over the table, closing a chamber.

Sam gave a snort. “And take away your fun? Nah.”

“Lazy.” There was a smile in Dean’s voice.

Sam watched for another moment. The question was nagging at him, and he decided if he didn’t ask, he’d never know. “How come you don’t clean them like Dad taught you to?”

“What?” Dean glanced over his shoulder briefly, setting down a small handgun and picking up another.

“I used to watch you and Dad.”

“Cleaning is cleaning, Sam. Doesn’t matter as long as the things don’t blow up in your face.”

“That ever happen to you?”

He pointed to his face. “You see this? This is God’s gift to women. And here you think I’d risk fucking it up.” Dean slapped the dirty rag on his pants leg, then started back to work, picking up an air gun. “Besides, he’d blow my face off himself if I didn’t clean the guns right.”

Sam shifted. “He gave me shit once for using the wrong brush on the flare guns. Obsessive bastard.”

“That he was,” Dean responded in a low voice.

Sam winced in regret at his words, but Dean had rolled right over them “So, why do you lay the guns out like that? Dad never did.”

Dean darted another glance over his shoulder. “You’re not letting this go, are you? Dad’s not the one who taught me to do this.”

Sam blinked in astonishment. “I thought Dad taught you everything you know.”

Dean barked a laugh.

“So, who taught you?” Sam nodded at the table. “Bobby?”

Dean glanced up at Sam before looking behind him for a box of pellets. “Nope. Uncle Fred.”

There was a pause. “We have an Uncle Fred?”

“And an Aunt May. Sure do.” Dean found the pellets and tossed them on the table. With his upper body hunched over, he gave Sam the impression of a headless person wearing a denim shirt.

“Uncle Fred and Aunt May?”

“Out in Nebraska.” The voice was again muffled.

Sam tried to process this new information. “We have relatives I’ve never even heard of?”

“Not by blood, no. More like the friendly type, so we called them Aunt and Uncle. They were good friends of Dad’s.”

Sam thought back. “They’re not in Dad’s journal.”

“Yeah, well, they wouldn’t be.” Dean’s voice was still muffled against his chest as he loaded the weapon.

His shoulders were hunched. Granted, he was working in close quarters, but. . .“Why?”

Dean frowned at him. “You’re like a damn dog with a bone, you know that?” He tested the spring on the chamber, then rose and crossed the room to a smaller table, adding the weapon to a growing pile of clean and ready-to-use artillery. The rag darted over his grease-covered fingers.

“I’m just asking, Dean. You tell me someone I’ve never even heard of taught you to clean guns. Someone that’s not Dad. I mean, considering how we live that’s sort of significant, isn’t it?”

“Are you seriously that bored?.” Dean turned and sat back against the table, looking at Sam. “I guess now you want a bedtime story. God, you are so fucking four years old. You figure Dad’s the only one who should teach me about birds, bees and barrels?” He gave the brush a lewd thrust down the gun.

“Now who’s four?” Sam’s eyes rolled. “Listen, if you don’t wanna talk about it. . .”

“Fine. Whatever. Suits the hell outta me. I’m just aching to discuss something.” Dean grimaced and turned away.

Sam’s brow drew into a frown, and he stood. Dean’s back was tense, which spoke volumes about his past dealings with “Uncle Fred”. Sam suddenly felt tense himself, layered with misgiving. “This Uncle Fred,” he found himself saying, “he – do something to you or something?”

“Oh, fucking hell, Sam!” Dean spun to find himself literally face to face with his taller brother, and jerked back slightly. “No! No, I wasn’t abused, I wasn’t molested as a child. I wasn’t anything that your freaky, demented head just now came up with, okay?”

Sam backed off, feeling a little embarrassed. “Okay, Jesus! It was just a question, Dean! Forget it!”

“You better believe I’ll forget it.” And again, Dean turned to the table.

But Sam couldn’t let it go. His lips were pressed tight together. He swallowed back his sudden need to know, and returned to his bed. Flopped on it. Sulked. Waited. Because if he stared long enough, Dean would come around.

It took a while. Dean’s sigh finally floated over him. “Don’t suppose you wanna go out for a burger.”

“You’re in the middle of cleaning.”

“I meant you go out and bring me back one.”

“Dean. . .”

“Then stop staring at me.”

“Dean, I just. . .”

“Oh for Christ’s sake, Sam! There’s nothing to tell!” Dean turned, ready to go off, but stopped himself. He braced his hand against the table and leaned back. Silence followed. When he did speak, it was with a voice that was deep in memory. “Look. You were still a baby. Well, one, two maybe, I don’t know. Guess I was five, almost six. Dad left us with Fred and May for a few weeks while he went on a hunt. So, I learned some things while we were there. End of story.”

“What things?” Sam asked softly. He propped himself against the headboard and folded his arms across his torso.

“Like you were a pain in the ass when you needed a diaper change. Don’t even wanna go there. Damn legs’d take you right down the hallway. Aunt May just couldn’t understand why I had to tackle you.”

“I was one, and you tackled me?”

“Or two. Three, maybe. Don’t remember. Got shit all over me. Had to clean myself up, then clean you up. That was the last time I tried to stop you when you ran away with a load in your pants.”

Sam laughed. “What else happened?”

Dean sniffed and cleared his throat. He tossed the rag down and faced Sam. His face had softened, become more conversational, though reluctant. He scratched behind his ear. “Well, you know. She taught me how to make sandwiches and macaroni and cheese. She made me dust the place.” He cleared his throat again quickly. “And Uncle Fred – he, uh, told me more about the things that go bump in the night.”

“He was a hunter?”

Dean barked out a laugh. “Hell, no! But he knew things. Saw things. I always thought he was some kind of superhero in disguise and just didn’t say anything, cause man, the stories he’d come up with.” Dean was smiling, but his face fell. “Anyway, he showed me the ropes a bit. We’d talk, and Aunt May would take care of you. You were a damn brat. You’d scream bloody murder if she held you too long.”

Sam frowned. “She wasn’t nice?”

“Oh, she was nice enough.” He paused. “I think you wanted Mom.”

Sam’s gaze fell.

“You were weird about women for the longest time. Didn’t want them touching you too much. Probably explains why you can’t get laid now.” He tried a smile, but it sank. “No, really. I got that, because Mom, man, she had a touch like an angel, you know? Just all soft and instantly made you feel better. And she always smelled so clean, or like she’d just been baking. Don’t know why cause I can’t remember her ever making cookies. And friends would come over and I’d have to go upstairs to my room. I was so pissed when that happened.”

“Wish I’d known her.”

Dean waved the memory away with his hand. “Anyway, we were there for about a week when Uncle Fred decided to show me his gun collection.”

Sam’s eyes widened. “Just like that? Show it to a five year old?”

Dean’s mouth worked uncomfortably. “Almost six. I think. Well, I might’ve found it myself, actually. First time I’d held a gun. I’ll never forget it. I just stared at it, all shiny, so heavy in my hands.” He looked down at his upturned palms. “It wasn’t like anything I’d ever seen. And I was curious about it. I pointed it at my face so I could look down the barrel.”

Sam sat up. “You serious? Was it loaded?”

“Yep.”

“Jesus!”

“That’s what Uncle Fred said. Well, that and a few other choice words. He walked in and just froze, and his face went all white. I just said, ‘Hi Uncle Fred’ like nothing was up, ‘cause I didn’t really know what was going on. Man, talk about a nightmare. He ran to me and slowly took the gun away, talking all quiet. Then he yanked me up by my arm and gave me a beating Dad would have been proud of.”

For once, Sam was glad. He could remember their Dad going after Dean with a belt when they were little, and it always scared him. He hated it. But in this case, he hoped the mysterious Uncle Fred beat the living crap out of his brother. “Apparently it worked.”

“Why? ‘Cause I didn’t shoot my face off? Hell, I guess.” Dean slowly walked to his bed and sat on the side, across from Sam. “That damn bastard. After Dad came for us I told him I never wanted to go back there.”

“Why? Because of that?”

“No.” Dean shook his head. “It wasn’t that.” He sat up straight, rubbing his hands on the legs of his jeans and exhaled sharply. “Look, Uncle Fred, he taught me to shoot. Okay? Took me out back to this old barn he never used, and put things on a board for targets. Cans, old stuffed animals his grandkids had outgrown, that sort of thing. And he taught me how to aim and fire. Don’t know how many Teddy Rupskins I blew away out there.”

“That’s awful,” Sam laughed shortly.

“You kidding? Those things deserve every bit of it. Talk about demonic.” Dean smiled wryly. “Hell, I was a good shot, too. He’d help me aim, and I’d fire. The bigger guns he’d help me hold and I’d pull the trigger. Got to where I could shoot the smaller guns, and I wouldn’t waver. He said he’d never seen anything like it. I got all cocky, and he was all proud because I was blowing stuffing all out in his yard. Looked like fucking snow.” His voice grew bitter, and Sam slowly swung his legs over the side of the bed.

“We did this for the last two weeks we were there, shooting round after round. He showed me everything about those guns, how to lay them out, take them apart, clean them, put them back together. After a week I was helping him do it. And he showed me what bullets do to things. Even had a few ugly-ass dolls of his granddaughter’s he put up there, and I obliterated the suckers. Blew their fucking heads off.

He paused for a moment, then shifted slightly toward Sam, looking him in the eye. “See, the thing is. . . I still thought it was a game. He said these things killed people, and I took his word for it, but it was fun aiming and blowing away Barbies. And one day, I wasn’t thinking, and I aimed the gun at him. I was going to ask him something, and I turned and aimed the barrel right at his face. I wasn’t paying attention. I was aiming the gun, and I just turned.”

Sam held his breath. He waited as Dean licked his lips, then continued.

“That son of a bitch was damned fast. I mean, scary fast. He snatched that gun away from me and had me down in the dirt before I could blink. God, he looked like a monster, worse than anything I’d ever seen. He just stood over me, all tall and skinny and glaring down. Swear to god I thought his eyes were going to catch fire. I was crawling backwards as fast as I could and he followed me, walking with those damned long legs of his, and I hit something and stopped. No idea what it was, think it was just an old paint can we shot up, but it stopped me.

“He knelt over me, and I thought I was dead. He said, ‘Boy, have I taught you nothing?’ And like a damn fool I shook my head even though I knew it was the wrong thing to do.” Dean stared at a spot on the carpet. “I was scared, Sam. And he was standing over me and holding that gun and I couldn’t breathe.

“Then he yanked me up by the front of my shirt and dragged me over to the far side of the yard. There was a fence there, barely, just some old posts with some rusted wire stretched between them. He pointed to a lump of dirt and asked me if I knew what death meant. His voice was so loud and so angry. I just shook my head. He said people don’t come back from death, that they’re gone forever.”

Dean swallowed. “It was a grave he was pointing at, Sam. I don’t know whose it was, but it was a grave.”

Sam leaned forward between the close beds, his knees touching his brother’s.

Dean’s jaw clenched. He swallowed again, his eyes drifting to Sam’s legs. “He told me that people don’t come back. And he said, ‘Your momma’s dead, boy. She ain’t coming back.’ He said that, and then he said it again, and again. ‘Dead, just like your momma. She ain’t ever coming back.’ And I looked at that pile of dirt out there and I swear to god, Sam, I thought it was her grave. I thought it was Mom out there.”

Dean finally looked at Sam. “I was just a kid, Sammy. I know he was just trying to make a point, but I mean – Christ.”

Sam swallowed down the lump in his throat. He watched his brother, watched him drown in the pain of a memory. “Why would he say that to you?”

“I don’t know. Guess you weren’t the only one crying for Mom. After all that he was probably tired of having us around.” Dean hesitated, and cleared his throat. “So anyway, I never told Dad about it. I let Dad teach me about guns, how to aim them, clean them, and I never let on that I already knew how to do it. And every time we practiced, I pretended that asshole of a so-called Uncle was the target.”

“So, Dad didn’t really teach you everything you know.” It presented a whole new side to Dean Winchester. Had he been subservient to his father for all these years out of guilt? Did the resentment come from the fact that John Winchester thought he knew it all, when in reality someone knew it better? The last thing he needed was another Dean mystery on his hands.

Dean quickly wiped his nose on his sleeve in a self-conscious move, and stood. “I don’t know. This way of cleaning is solid. I like it. I wasn’t about to tell Dad that his old friend had a better system, so I did it Dad’s way for years.”

Sam followed Dean with his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly.

“Nothing you could’ve done, Sam.” Dean was back at the larger table, looking over the two guns that remained.

“No, I mean – you had so much going on. I was just a baby.”

“And that’s supposed to be your fault how?”

“I don’t know. Sometimes I just feel. . . kinda guilty.”

“You feel guilty that you missed out on Mom’s death.” Dean shook his head. “You’re full of shit.”

“No, I mean, I just. . .” Knowing he was taking his life into his own hands, he walked to his brother and stood at his shoulder. “Look, you’ve been through enough crap, okay? So I’m just saying if you ever need to talk about anything. . .”

“Oh, for the love of . . .” Dean’s shoulders fell as he sighed. “Look, I promise I’ll pull your toe. Okay?” He rose and returned to the table.

“Wh-What?” Sam sputtered.

“Something Aunt May used to say. ‘When I want a squeak from you, I’ll pull your toe’.”

Dean’s unexpected high-pitched imitation of a woman Sam had never met sent Sam over the edge into full-blown laughter. “What the hell?”

“She’d do it, too. Run down the hall after you, reaching for your toes like this,” he stretched out his arm and pinched his fingers together. “Seeing that woman try and run down the hall way bent over was a sight to behold, Sam. I’m telling you. You ever see a gorilla go for a mouse?”

“Dean!”

“Just sayin’ The lady was not built for physical exertion.” He shook his brush at Sam. “Don’t tell her I said that.”

“They still live in Nebraska?”

Dean looked thoughtful for a moment. “Don’t know.” His work quickly took his attention Two guns remained, Dean’s Colt 1911, and Sam’s Taurus.

Sam, still chuckling, edged him aside and picked up his gun. “Hey, go get a beer. I’ve got this. Maybe you can grab us some burgers like you wanted a minute ago.”

Dean looked like he wanted to argue. After all, this was his gig. Why it had come back up after his father’s death, Sam didn’t know. Maybe he was looking for precision, for comfort in a safe routine. Maybe he was looking for something “better”. But there was no way Sam was going to let Dean fall back into this painful memory. They had enough to deal with.

Dean finally slapped the cloth into Sam’s hand. “Don’t jam it.”

“Asshole.”

“Learned from the best,” Dean responded. “You want everything on yours?”

“Sure. Thanks.” Sam cleared his throat. “Hey, Dean?”

“Yeah?”

Sam looked up. “You know, cleaning usually went faster when you and Dad did it together. I know this way is different, but I guess I don’t mind stepping in next time.”

Dean blinked at him for a moment, then picked up his jacket and nodded. “Thanks, Sammy.”

“Don’t mention it.” The door closed, and Sam looked at his gun, and Dean’s. There was little doubt in his mind that the next time he used one, he too would picture blowing bullets through the face of Uncle Fred.

New Fic: All Good Things 1/1 genfic

kamelionwriter — Wed, 13 Oct 2010 20:21:30 GMT

The apocalypse will change everything. Castiel, Dean and Sam fic, rated T

Castiel wasn’t used to running. Not long distances, and definitely not in his long coat. He waited for the material to catch around his legs, tripping him, entangling him, possibly landing him flat on his face. Instead, the coat flapped behind him like angel’s wings, but did nothing to urge his flight on. His shoes smacked the pavement uncomfortably. He couldn’t transport himself from one spot to another in any other fashion. It was no longer an option to him. He had to run, and he had to run fast.

Dean was just behind him, huffing loudly, launching himself forward as though the hellhounds were once again on his tail. His face was strained, his arms pumping like pistons. His legs were churning beneath him, nearly a blur. And yet Castiel seemed to outdistance him with little more than a casual stride, though the stride taxed him.

Sam was standing on the corner in the distance. Castiel saw a long arm flagging them down, but they sped right past him. Only then did Castiel allow himself to pitch forward, his arms wind-milling wildly, his gait slowing. He braced his hands on his knees and doubled over. Dean collapsed beside him and lay on his back, right in the middle of the abandoned midnight road. Sam merely sauntered over to them with a mild smirk on his face, tucking his fingers into denim pockets.

“Score one for Team God,” Dean forced out between harsh breaths. “Next time I wear the coat. I swear you’re hiding something underneath it. Some sort of heavenly jet-pack.”

“So I’m not a -- punk-nosed ass-wiping angel-wannabe?” Castiel wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and frowned as he recalled Dean’s exact words.

“You may not be angelic anymore, but you sure as hell can run. I’ll give you that.” Dean rolled over and pushed to his knees. “They say when a bell chimes an angel gains his wings. What the hell had to chime to make you lose yours? Not that I think you’ve lost them. They probably just transferred to your damn shoes.”

Castiel felt his nostrils dilate as he tried to control his breathing. He straightened, aware of the odd pops in his back that hadn’t been there before. “Hell does not have a doorbell. Therefore, no chimes.”

Dean looked up at him. “You know, Pan’s a flute player. Maybe he hit a wrong note.”

“Pan’s not from Hell, Dean,” Sam corrected.

“Oh, come on. He’s got those little horns and hooves and everything.”

“So do goats.”

“And you’re going to try and convince me they’re not from hell?” Dean stood, arching his back, then clapped Castiel on the shoulder. “I lost , so looks like drinks are on me.”

Castiel was confused, but knew Dean wouldn’t bother to explain. Instead, the older Winchester pointed to the Impala parked half a block away, and signaled with a crooked finger for them to follow.

“I see no point to this running,” Castiel muttered as the three walked alongside each other.

Dean turned and blinked at him in astonishment. “Cas! Did you just complain about something?”

The former angel didn’t want to admit it. He put a hand to his lower back. “I’m experiencing a strange sensation, just here.”

“Yeah. It’s called getting older. I say it’s about time you felt your age. Just how old are you, anyway?”

Castiel thought about it. “To which calendar are you referring?”

Dean stared. “Just get in the damn car,“ he said, jerking at the door without looking at it.

Castiel conceded.

*************************

The truth was, he knew why Dean was making him run. He might be human now, but that didn’t quite make him a fool.

Unlike Anna, becoming human didn’t strip him of his heavenly knowledge. He could remember it all, and it was slowly driving him crazy. He didn’t know how these empty vessels survived. “We just do,” Dean had answered once, when questioned.

“But to lose that heavenly glory,” Castiel pressed. “To know what it was, and to not have it -- how do you cope with the pain?”

Dean’s reply had been stern. “Okay, Cas. Let me spell this out for you. What you’ve experienced, I’ve never had. I just take your word for it. There’s no halos or harps for me. There’s been hell. Oh, there’s been a lot of hell, both up here and in the pit. So don’t question me about what I know, or how I cope, because I really don’t think you want to go there.” The Winchester glare was in full force, and for the first time Castiel felt himself backing down. Dean couldn’t understand, and he couldn’t make him understand. It was stupid of him to think he could.

He wished he could. Even as a renegade angel, he never felt alone. Now, he was utterly alone.

Anna had come to him one time only, a physically painful vision, making him wonder how he’d originally appeared to Dean. But she was beautiful and she’d smiled at him sadly, not saying a word as she slowly vanished. It was only an acknowledgment of his idiocy. That was when he found himself was sitting on a curb, rain pissing down cold on his body, and all he could do was reach toward something that was forever lost to him. It had been a goodbye to his old life. A goodbye to the Angel Castiel.

That was the hardest part. They’d tossed him away, abandoned him. Kicked him out of the halo club, as Dean would say, these beings that he worshipped and fought alongside. His brethren. So much for infinite compassion.

It was funny, what these humans thought angels should be. Countless times he would walk past a store front window and see pictures or small statuettes of cherubs, little fats kids holding golden harps and wrapped in windblown sashes. “Why do humans need something to cuddle?” he’d griped at Sam during one of their long walks. If only they knew what the cherubim really looked like, he thought to himself, and what they really represented. These humans wouldn’t be so keen to idolize them.

“I think we need a way to identify with things we don‘t understand,” Sam said, after giving the question some thought. He’d been walking with his head down, listening to whatever the disgruntled former angel had to say. “Heaven and hell, angels, good and bad, it’s all too big for us. We have to sort of…” he paused.

“Dumb it down?” Castiel offered.

Sam grinned. “Nice one, Cas. Yeah, something like that.”

It made sense, but it was demeaning in the extreme. Much like the “training” he was undergoing, the running and fighting, though he proved time and time again that he was physically as fit as the Winchesters. Maybe a touch off-balance.

But he wasn’t invincible, and that was a hard lesson. Especially when it wasn’t an angel that kicked his ass.

******************************

How did the Winchesters discover he was human? It wasn’t through a radiant blast of ethereal light, or a self-sacrificing tearing of his wings. They’d found him beaten and bloody, laying in a back alley behind a convenience store.

There had been three men. Thugs, Sam had called them, cradling Castiel’s broken head in his lap. They had jumped him and demanded his wallet, which of course he didn’t own. They pummeled him into the spiny gravel. As an angel, he had been expected to watch over humans. Now, this wonderful sample of humanity tormented him, kicking him in the gut, spitting in his face, punching him in the jaw and slamming his head against the rough asphalt over and over again. His last thought before he passed out was, he was glad he was human now, just like these bastards. The revenge he sought would be sweet in coming.

He vaguely remembered being found by the brothers, hearing the confusion and panic in their joined voices as they poked at him like meat in a store, checking for injuries. They only had to look at him to see he was hurt! Sam held him, and Dean questioned him, his face carved in stone, his eyes bright with worry. It set off yet another unfamiliar feeling inside him, but one he liked. It was worth laying there for a moment more just to see the concern on their faces. Then he realized with a shocking jolt that he had no choice but to lay there. His new, injured body wouldn’t let him do any different.

************************

“Cas, do you still have faith?” Sam asked him several weeks later.

“That isn’t a fair question,” Castiel said. He was studying his hands. He’d taken no notice of them before. The lines were infinite, yet he knew they would last just a few years. Fingernails reflected the light above him. He could bend the knuckles and feel the stretch of skin, and wondered if that was normal.

“Sure it is,” Sam countered, leaning forward in his chair and resting his elbows on his knees. His dark eyes were probing, half-hidden by floppy hair.

Castiel gave it some thought. “Do you still believe in your father? Even with everything the two of you have been through? Do you still believe what you were told, what you know?” Thumbs were odd things. He flexed them.

The question stilled Sam. “He’s dead. You know that.”

“Yes.” Castiel raised his head and met Sam’s gaze evenly. “But, do you still believe in him?”

“That’s different. I’ve seen him. I knew him. He….he’s my dad.”

“And so for that reason alone, you have faith in him?”

“It’s obvious that he exists. Or -- did. ”

“That didn’t answer the question.”

“I’ve seen him. I’ve touched him. Have you seen God?”

“No.” Castiel glanced upwards. “But something gave birth to me. And some high power put me here, like this.” He spread his hands, his fingers. “So do I have faith? Yes.” The dark head shook ruefully. “But it does not mean I approve of his actions.”

Sam said nothing. Castiel continued to study his hands.

**************************

The angels were coming after Dean and Sam, and he could only watch.

As a once powerful being, the sudden feeling of utter helplessness was overwhelming to him. These weren’t even angels of the higher caste; they were lower forms, no more than orderlies, mere black-winged soldiers sent out to dispatch and clear the way for the coming troops. They were pawns, shovels. One choked Sam by the neck, while the other held a livid Dean by his upper arms as he strained to get to his brother. Castiel was laying on the ground on his stomach, slowly recovering from an unearthly bolt of energy that should have, by all rights, killed him. The third angel stood over him, looking like he was ready to deal a heavy boot to his back if he so much as moved. The angel choking Sam slowly raised him off the ground, so his lanky legs dangled over the dirt, his scuffed boots kicking in panic. It made Castiel realize just how huge these pawns were, to be able to hoist the grown man into the air like that. Sam was no guppy. Dean fought with everything he had, but was pressed down to his knees, his arms held tight behind him. The words he spat out were venomous, but no one cared. What was venom to a demon, or an angel? They were one in the same.

Sam’s eyed widened as his fingers wrapped desperately around the hands holding him, prying at the long grip that crushed his windpipe. The familiar eyes then darkened, the grimace of pain widened, and suddenly the angel’s hands were flung off of him. Sam landed hard on the ground in a quick puff of dust.

The angel pawn looked stunned, but instantly came back for Sam. Sam flung out his hand, yelling a word that Castiel had never heard before, one that stopped the angel in his tracks. Sam’s hand stayed up, his expression intense and frightening. The angel fought against an invisible barrier. Castiel tried to sit up, and could only watch in wonder.

The two that held Dean suddenly released him and he fell forward, then quickly pushed to his knees, his face contorted in fear at what Sam was doing. Castiel felt the angel who hovered over him take a step back. Sam yelled another incomprehensible word, and all four angels flocked away in a distorted flurry of black wings and shrieks.

The three men stared at each other, breathing heavily. No one asked if the other was okay, because they weren’t.

********************

Sam’s odd ability grew exponentially as their battles continued over the next several days.

“We lose our angel mojo, and gain some strange demon mojo. Nice. That’ll improve our standings with the higher ups. Now there’s definitely no question as to whose side we‘re on.” Dean shoved Sam in the back. They were suffering from yet another confrontation, beaten and bloodied but not down, though exhaustion was weighing heavily on the three of them.

It seemed Sam’s power was a double curse. They knew he could exorcise demons. And now, he could do the same to angels. After saving Castiel’s ass, again, by riding the celestial beings of their powers, they fled the scene.

They’d been fighting for days. The Impala was lost to them. It was sitting on the ground far behind them, crushed like a can, squashed between the two powers.

It had been a nightmare, even for Castiel. They’d started out in the car, just pulling up to the barren field. Dean had barely had time to yell out “son of a BITCH!” before he was caught in the crossfire, watching as the top of the car dented in over his head. Castiel was crawling out of the back window and had turned to tug at Sam’s tall frame as he forced himself out through the passenger side. Only when the car had been crushed to a height of fifteen inches did they know if Dean was safe, and that was when they saw his shocked face over the flattened metal.

Castiel had instantly focused his rage on the angels, only to be tossed helplessly aside, as usual. He landed with an enraged yell and punched at the ground before climbing to his feet. The angel facing him sneered and lunged for him, receiving a painful blow in his stomach which doubled him over, but not for long. Castiel was quickly on his back, the angel on top of him, hands at his throat, his airway constricted. He’d torn at the hands, seeing Dean laying near him in the same predicament, seeing him going limp under the attack.

Sam came alive in that moment, not with the righteousness of a brother seeing his sibling hurt, but with the full rage of justice. These weren’t angels in his mind, they were aligned with the demons. And he treated them as such.

Castiel had never heard such screams. The angel holding him down suddenly threw his head back and erupted into ethereal flame before the empty shell collapsed on top of him. He quickly shoved it off and watched as Sam’s face seemed to grow and expand before his eyes into something ugly, something that should never reveal itself on a human.

Now, as they fled the scene, the linger thought in his mind was -- maybe they should be fleeing Sam.

***********************

It led to a much needed heated discussion that night as they sat under the stars, each one nursing their hurts.

Sam was playing doctor, and it annoyed Castiel. He winced and shoved Sam away. In turn, Sam just yanked Castiel’s arm back around. “Hold still.”

“That stuff hurts me.” He tried to snatch away the tube of antiseptic.

“It stings, you mean. Welcome to our world.”

“I don’t like your world,” Castiel groused, snatching again.

“Then why the hell were you trying to defend it?” Dean asked grumpily. His wrist was bandaged. He wouldn’t let Sam care for the wound on his head.

“I honestly don’t know.” Castiel studied the gash in his upper arm before Sam could slap a white bandage on it. “I have to ask myself, is it worth it?”

There was no answer for a moment, prompting Castiel to look up. “Thanks for that,” Dean snapped at him. “You know, you can always go back to -- oh wait! You can’t, can you? You’re stuck here with the rest of us peons. So how does it feel, huh?” His sneer was ugly.

“This isn’t funny,” Castiel muttered.

“Oh, listen to mister comedy central, here! It’s not funny! Here’s a newsflash, buddy. If you hadn’t pissed them off we wouldn’t be in this mess!”

Castiel bristled. “They were pissed off before what happened to me, or don’t you remember? Does Hell ring a bell, Dean?”

Dean smirked. “Hell’s bells. So now you’re a poet. Nice.”

Castiel shook his head in frustration. “My situation makes no difference to what is happening.”

“Oh, don’t underestimate yourself, Cas!” Dean insisted sarcastically. “Sure it does! “ Dean leaned over him. “You know why it makes a difference? Because before, we had some sort of defense against these assholes! Now what do we have? Huh? A crushed car! MY crushed car!”

“Forget your car,” Castiel practically growled. “There’s much more at stake.”

“Which you can’t do anything about! So don’t tell me your situation makes no difference!” Dean rounded on Sam. “But you, suddenly you’re out there emptying angel cans!”

“Dean. . .”

“You promised me! You promised, Sam! And you broke that promise. But wait, it gets better! Because you promised again, and now look at you!”

“I promised once. I never promised you again.”

“Exactly. -- What?”

Sam looked up from bandaging Castiel’s arm. “Dean, I never said I wouldn’t do what was necessary.”

Dean sputtered. “Oh, so this is necessary?”

“Do you see Cas doing anything to help?”

“I do believe I’m still sitting here,” Castiel said in irritation. He couldn’t understand why they were suddenly talking around him. And they continued, ignoring his comment.

Sam stood and faced his brother. “What do you want from me? Do you want me to make this go away? Or do you want to bail? There’s no running from this, Dean. Not now.”

“Don’t I know it,” Dean muttered, but Sam stopped him by grabbing his arm.

“No, you don’t! Don’t turn from me. You have no idea what this is like for me! Are you going to become Lucifer’s vessel?”

Dean jabbed a finger at him. “No, and you’re not either!”

“But I will if he has his way about it! And who’s going to stop it? Cas? You? You want me to sit around and do nothing because I might go all dark side? I’ll go all dark side if I don’t, Dean! So what the hell do you want from me?”

Dean’s eyes darkened. “You son of a bitch.”

“Answer me!”

“I want things like they used to be, okay?”

“Like what? Hunting bad things? Isn’t that what we’re doing?”

Dean flung out his hands. “It wasn’t this big before, Sam!”

“And you can’t handle it,” Castiel filled in. He met Dean’s angered expression with an equally enraged one. “Admit it. You’ve told me once before that this was too big for you. Now it’s become much larger than anything you’ve ever imagined. Of course you want to run. It wouldn’t surprise me if you threw me to the wolves, and your brother as well, so you could leave.”

The comment stunned Dean. “What the hell, Cas? That’s not true.”

“Then prove it!” Castiel insisted. “Stop your whining about how it isn’t fair, and do something about it!”

“What am I supposed to do?” Dean yelled.

Castiel rose slowly. “For one, you can stop blaming everyone for every bad thing that’s happening. Shit happens, Dean. It always has, it always will. Get over it. I’m not much help right now. I know that. But I’m still trying. Are you?” He saw that his words stung. He stood beside Sam, both making a barrier which had the sole purpose of getting through to Dean. “You can help us. Your brother needs you, now more than ever. And as loathe as I am to admit it,” he rolled his eyes at the sky, “I am in need of assistance. We can’t do this individually. It has to be all of us. Together.”

Dean stepped forward, his body language screaming the tension he felt. “I thought we were doing this together. But when Sam holds something back like this - power, what am I supposed to think? Huh?”

“You did exactly what he expected you to do. I can see why he chose to keep this ability to himself.” He noticed a stressed look cross Sam’s face, and wondered at it. “Rather than figuring out this ability, you are demeaning it as a burden, because you don’t understand it. You’re not trying, Dean. Not remotely. This is what we have to work with. So work with it.”

Dean’s hands were on his hips, his gaze on the ground before him. He was silent for several moments. When he spoke, his voice was low. “Tell me this, Cas. Do you remember losing your abilities?”

“No.”

Dean looked up. “Ever wonder how it happened?”

Castiel swallowed. Of course he wondered. There wasn’t a time when he didn’t wonder, question, curse . . . “God -- was angry with me. Somehow I’ve dissatisfied him.”

“Uh-huh.” Dean took a single step closer to him, his head cocked in a particular tell-tale way which warned Castiel that a point was coming, something he wouldn’t like. “It’s funny how this happened right about the time Sam discovered these powers, isn’t it?”

The sentence stopped Castiel cold. He realized he had to consciously take a breath. It was an unnerving feeling. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying I think Sam knows more than he’s letting on. I’m saying it’s quite a coincidence that he can rip apart these angels, when you’ve lost your own power. I wonder who he practiced on? I wonder what Ruby managed to convince him to do? I wonder what he’s kept from you, and just how understanding you’ll be then.”

Sam stared silently at his brother. His chest was rose and fell heavily with each breath.

It was unthinkable, yet it made sense. Castiel looked at Sam, really looked at him. “What did you do?” he asked calmly.

“Nothing,” Sam denied, glaring at Dean.

Castiel stared at him, studied him, noticing the way Sam held himself like a coiled spring. “I don’t believe you.”

Sam glanced at him, then let his head drop. His shoulders curled in a admission of guilt that took Castiel’s breath away. He had to turn away from the brothers to compose himself. “You took my power from me,” he said stiffly. “You stripped me of everything I knew. Just like that.”

“Cas, I’m so sorry,” Sam whispered.

“You put me here, made me like this.” He looked down at his upturned palms. “You did this to me. I wasn’t wrong. . .” He turned back, seeing Dean now standing beside his brother. The realization that he wasn’t being punished, that he was a victim, sunk in deeply. It seeped into his scars. “I didn’t do anything wrong! I didn’t do anything to deserve this.”

“See? Now who’s placing blame?” Dean asked. “Hey, at least you didn’t die.”

“In this case, the blame is deserved!” Castiel eyebrow raised. He was surprised by depth of his own anger, and he relished in it.

“Oh, I see. He could keep this ability it from me, and I should understand. But he used it on you, and suddenly you’re questioning it?”

“He changed me!” Castiel flung out his hands. “He changed the essence of who I am!”

“The essence of who you are? You were a heavenly being living in a dead man!” Dean yelled. “What sort of essence is that?”

Castiel stared at his upturned palms, then shook his human hands at them. “It was a heavenly essence!”

Dean burst into laughter. “Sounds like a freakin’ perfume! ‘Heavenly Essence’. I gotta tell you, Cas for such heavenly essence you smell like shit! How are you keeping that body alive, anyway? If you’re human, now. Oh, right! Jimmy’s dead. So, if the original spirit died, does the body decompose faster? You know since you don’t have the heavenly energy to keep it going?”

Enough was enough. “You mock me,” Castiel said in a low voice that caught Dean’s attention. “And you mock God. I’ll neither tolerate it nor listen to it.” He gazed at his hands once more. “You’re right. I can do nothing for you. You’re on your own, both of you.” He turned away.

“Where are you going?” Sam asked softly.

“I don‘t know.” He eyed them both over his shoulder. “At this rate I can just as easily fight this battle on my own.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Cas,” Sam sighed.

Castiel spun. “Ridiculous? How? I’m tired of your questions. I’m tired of fielding your doubts. What you both need is a hard dose of reality. Thanks to you both, I’ve had mine.” He glared at Sam. “Now, I’m going to leave you and -- fix myself. Without interference.” He turned on his heel, and walked. It never occurred to him to ask Sam why he did this to Castiel, when other, worse angels were around to “practice“ on.

“I thought you said we needed to stick together!” Dean yelled out, but Castiel kept walking.

*********************

It wasn’t as easy as it should have been. He slept wherever he lay, be it on a park bench, under a tree, or in a bed of a hotel room that had been neglected and therefore was easy to enter. And he prayed. He prayed, and for the first time felt the frustration that humans did when their prayers went unheeded. Not that he’d spoken directly with God before, but there had been word from him through others. News, a message, something. Now, there was nothing but silence. He didn’t know what to do with that silence. It made no sense to him. If his Father created all this, if he wanted all of this defended, why didn’t he take part?

It was like the fishbowl he’d stared at one afternoon. The fish inside merely gazed back. It couldn’t comprehend this huge being staring in at him, even when food was provided. It just knew it had sustenance. The fish didn’t understand where this sustenance came from, that there was an intelligent being providing it. These humans, they were fish in a bowl, forever looking out but unable to make sense of the greater power looking in on them, providing them with sustenance. Now he could understand that view, and marveled at humanity’s ability to maintain their faith with no real guidance other than devout belief in a book which had been manipulated, and was more wrong than right.

And Sam? Innocent, naïve Sam? Sam had done this to him? He had stripped Castiel of his angelic power? What did he think he would do, strip Lucifer of his? It was a thought that took Castiel aback, and made him blink in surprise. He suddenly wondered if it were possible. Sam was killing angels left and right, Lucifer’s own brood, but could he take on the king of Hell himself? Such power would be needed, and it was power that Sam could get a hold of. But it would change him.

It would change him. Castiel held his human hands to his face, and decided in the best possible, vindictive, human terms that what was good for the goose…..

*************************

He was in a motel room. He had no idea where. Everything swam around him, all fuzzy around the edges. Different. He didn’t know how long he’d been there.

Ruby smirked at him, gloating. Her arms were folded across her chest, her raven hair falling starkly around her oval face. She was pleasant in human form, pleasant as he now saw her. “You said before that Sam was bad. But you! I had no idea.”

“We never talked.” Castiel’s words sounded slurred to his ears. He was confused by the woman in front of him.

“Are you sure we’re taking now?” She smiled. “Recreational drugs. Is this how you talk to God these days?”

“I -- do what is necessary to open my mind to the possibility.” Since God wasn’t answering him.

She knelt before him. “And where is your mind these days? You said Heaven doesn’t want you. Hell doesn’t need you. You’re useless. That’s why you’re doing this.”

His eyes fixated on her blurred image. “Sam needs more blood. But I need to know what it’ll do to him.”

She stood and looked down at him. “Why are you asking me this? Are so you high that you’ve lost control of your faculties?” She was frowning.

“Yes.”

“Do you care?”

“If it means killing Lucifer, no. I don’t care.”

Eyes widened. “Lucifer.” She snorted, then continued in a bored tone, “They won’t like you anymore.”

Castiel’s brows raised in irony. “They don’t like me now.”

“So you’re not doing this out of friendship.”

“Of course not.”

“This is for a God you can’t see, can’t feel, and who has abandoned you to your own fate.”

He sought out the hallucination as it faded in and out of view. “This is what’s right.”

“By who’s design?” Ruby leaned over his chair and plucked the small white stick from his fingers. She took a long drag, held her breath then slowly exhaled, and coughed. “Look, my hour’s about up. When’s this role play end?”

Castiel frowned. “What?”

Ruby Reinhold stood, jutting out one hip. “You’re too fucking metaphysical and religious for me. I just wanted to get high.” She took another puff and shook out her hair. “Either way, I hope you found your answers, Cas - whatever your name is. I won’t charge you since you brought the drugs, even if you do need to find the business side of a man’s ass. Obviously the ladies don’t do it for you.” She leaned over him, her breast inches from his mouth. “Take my advice. I’ll keep the joint. You go find you a sugar daddy, and get laid.” The prostitute ran a finger over his jawline and left the room in a tilted flourish.

Castiel let his drug-hazed stare linger on the door.

*******************

He had to dose Sam up. Somehow.

He watched them for several days. They had a rental car, a model that wasn’t familiar to him. Not that he knew much about cars, but the Impala was distinctive. Or had been. Either way, they were easy to find thanks to Anna, who had taken pity on him. She claimed it was her last favor, but he was willing to bet it wouldn’t be. Not with the little sidewise glance she gave him, almost cheeky in a heavenly way. He knew about the sex between her and Dean, and found himself wondering if the raven-haired girl was right, that he needed a good lay. He shoved the thought away and cursed his humanness. Not that angels never had desires, right? Well, it wasn’t the same. He’d noticed an uncomfortable…burning…when he saw Anna. An urge he didn’t appreciate, and one he wasn’t sure he could ignore.

The brothers were in another cheap motel. Castiel knew funds were low, but the cheap motel motif was redundant. If anyone wanted to find the Winchesters, they only needed to know the city then aim for the lowest, rat-bagged place on the map. With their combined ingenuity, conning their way into a more elaborate cover should have been standard practice.

They didn’t leave the room. Food was delivered in. Castiel walked around the parking lot of a gas station about half a mile down the flat road, his eyes on the car in the distance. He stayed and paced until the owner of the convenience store ran him off. So he pulled up in the motel lot and slumped down in the car, and waited.

Learning to drive the car had been an experience in itself. Anna hadn’t been very helpful, telling him what she thought she saw people do from time to time. It took a few angelic interventions to keep the car on the road. She finally left him, saying she didn’t wish to witness his demise. He understood. It was by the grace of the unseen God that he made it to his destination, and he wasn’t eager to try again. He could’ve been a bloody mass on the side of the road.

His head jerked up.

That was it.

***********************

The next evening the bait was set, and the trap worked. But the punch that laid him out was surprising. It shouldn’t have been, but it was getting harder for Castiel to see these things coming.

“What the hell did you do?” Dean was livid, standing over him. Sam was drenched in blood. His face was crimson. He was unconscious.

“I did nothing. He was protecting me.” A half-truth, something that was becoming easier for him. It had been easy to get Sam’s attention in the desperate state he was in. Sam, being the compassionate one, agreed to meet him to talk. When he walked in on a group of demons holding Castiel prisoner. . .

“You just happened to walk in on a bunch of demons?” Dean propped Sam’s head in his lap, patted his cheek, checked him for injuries.

“I didn’t know.”

“You’re a liar!”

Yes, Castiel thought. Congratulations. The strings are cut. I’m now completely human.

Dean was still looking at him. “You did this to him. You led him here, didn’t you?”

The former angel propped himself up on one elbow. “You’re very perceptive, Dean.”

“Why?”

“We need him. Like this.”

“Like what? A monster? You know what this stuff does to him?”

“Yes.”

“You -- stupid, arrogant son of a bitch! He’s my brother! Where do you get off? Are you that pissed that he took your wings?” Castiel pushed himself to a seated position and watched as Dean carefully manipulated his brother‘s limbs, raking his fingers through the unruly hair. The expression changed to relief, then disgust when he realized the blood that covered Sam’s face wasn’t his. He stood slowly. Castiel watched as he took a few steps backwards before steely eyes found his.

“Yes.” Castiel spoke the truth. “And it’s good for humanity. Now he can fight properly.”

“Don’t give me that. There is no good for humanity.” His eyes were drunk with anger. “You know that ultimately, we just care about getting what we want.”

“Yes,” Castiel agreed.

**********************

Sam was killing angels, and loving every minute of it.

Or that’s how it seemed. Castiel lifted a limp body and jerked it over to a pile of more limp bodies while Dean tried to talk Sam down from his wild state of mind. He was becoming harder to control, harder to pull back. Castiel could see the fear in Sam’s eyes when he snapped back into himself. More and more he saw Sam’s need to return to the powerful being who was single-handedly bringing the whole apocalypse to a pause. He didn’t want to come back. And it was killing him.

Dean could only watch. Castiel half-expected him to run sobbing into a corner and wring his hands, but he stood fast alongside Sam, using whatever useless weapon he had at hand until Sam could save him from the angel’s grip. Or the demon’s grip. Castiel was near useless as well in his human state, and could sympathize. But he couldn’t really understand the torment Dean was experiencing. He could only watch as the brothers fought side by side, and yet were ripped away from each other. Dean would physically catch Sam after each battle, easing him to the ground, wiping his sweaty hair back from his forehead and talking to him, urging him to hang in there.

Months later Sam was unrecognizable, and Dean had stopped talking. During one of their final battles, Castiel left them. For good.

He could no longer watch what he’d done.

**************************

At least the beach was calm. He would sit and wait for the end. He would have his answer in a matter of minutes, all of his answers. Sand puckered between his curled toes. The surf stopped. The world was suddenly silent, like his prayers.

and then. . . .

LODESTONE pt 18

kamelionwriter — Wed, 28 Oct 2009 22:01:26 GMT

The funeral was small. Gramma and Selma didn’t have a lot of family left, but they did have friends, some distant cousins, and visitors from Angel’s side. The cemetery was crude and uneven. The preacher was fulfilling her wishes of a Christian burial.

Odd planks of wood made up the coffin. Jensen wanted to arrange for a proper casket, but Selma wouldn’t have it. “Extravagance,” she said softly, and that was the only explanation she would give. The small gathering stood respectfully, their heads lowered, as the preacher spoke words of comfort in a deep, solemn voice. His shirt was long and black. His pants were slim, and draped slightly over his polished shoes. He had a cloth draped over his neck, and the cover of his bible was worn. Jensen wondered how many funerals that bible had seen. A shadow crossed over the sun, and Jensen lifted his eyes to the blue sky, watching the small cloud sail past. The sun re-emerged, and he winced, lowering his gaze. The smell of flowers sickened him, covering the stench of death in the heat. As the preacher talked, he cast his eyes about, not out of disrespect, but the need to get out, to get away from these people. To get back home. He saw Selma in the distance, and raised his chin. She was nailing a doll-figure to a tree, then placed a shoe underneath. One of Gramma’s. She would have a send-off from both worlds.

Back at the house, Jensen was ordered to cover all the mirrors with black cloth. Jared removed the crucifixes and wrapped them in the same black cloth, and put them in a drawer. Misha lit four candles and placed them in the corners of Gramma’s bedroom. Selma directed, and watched. Angel stood at the foot of the stairs and chanted in a low, musical voice. Four sentences, repeated over and over. Selma never explained the rituals.

A piece of paper sat on the kitchen counter, the writing in an arthritic scrawl that was almost unreadable. Almost.

“I’s an old woman.”

And that was the only explanation from Gramma they got.

******************************

They stayed for several days. Visitors came and left, some offering food with a quick bow of respect at the foot of the stairs, where Angel had said his verse. Jensen had come down one morning to baskets of fruit set on the lower four steps. He carefully arranged them where they could pass, but again, didn’t question.

No one said much. Misha was withdrawn, still pale, not able to do much. Jensen worried about him. He didn’t know if it was the fever, or a result of whatever thoughts that thing might have put into his head, but he found himself watching him, waiting for him to fall on his face, ready to catch him. He never did. Most of his time was spent sitting silently, or sleeping. Angel would show up for visits with Misha. They talked in the backyard, sitting in the half-painted, half-rusted wrought iron chairs that were placed underneath a canopy of an overgrown mangrove, leaning over the back fence from the bog behind it. A pitcher of lemonade would remain between them, with Angel raising his glass and apparently encouraging Misha to drink. He would come in only to refill the pitcher. Jensen wondered if there was magic in the brew. Mostly, the magic seemed to be in the talk.

Jensen grew brave one morning and ventured out, finding one of the insanely multicolored buses to take him further into town. He didn’t get far. The roads were bad from the rains. Many places were still closed off due to the hurricanes that had come through. The sites he saw now were even more pitiful than the neighborhoods he’d seen earlier. Depressed, he checked the signal on his cell phone. He had messages, mostly from Steve. But the signal faded again, and he pocketed the phone.

Two days later he woke to Selma shaking his shoulder. His bags were packed, and sitting at the foot of his bed. She was “kicking him out,” but said it with a smile. Jensen just blinked at her, knowing he should refuse, that he should stay and make certain she was okay. But of course she was. She knew they had to get back. She promised to send Angel their regards, and would see them to the airport. It was a dismissal that was as sudden as their arrival.

The airport hadn’t improved. It looked worse. The ruts had fallen into trenches. The land was muddy from rains that suddenly blanketed the island. And the airplane looked like it had been made from the same scraps that held up the shanty towns.

Jensen turned to Misha, who was seated in a busted plastic chair, one of three that served as the “terminal”. He didn’t say anything for a moment. “One more month, huh?” he asked, dubiously.

Misha gave a one-shouldered shrug. “Maybe less.”

Jensen nodded, letting his eyes fall. Misha’s healing was slow, too slow for his liking. “You’ll call?”

“Sure. Because the signal’s so strong out here.”

“Yeah.” Jensen smiled a little. He saw Jared grin.

Jared hadn’t spoken much. He had tended to things around the house that Selma needed. He looked after Misha, but mostly, he seemed to be looking after Jensen himself. Too many times their eyes would meet. Jared was always watching him now. Maybe he always had. Maybe now, Jensen was watching Jared as well.

Selma strolled up to them. He planted her hands on her hips, and regarded both of them evenly. “Well. You two take care, huh?”

“You coming back to L.A.?” Jared asked.

“Eventually. Angel’s going to take over the house.”

She wasn’t leaving Misha. And Misha leaving right now wasn’t a good idea. Jensen could understand that. Part of him wanted to stay, just because leaving seemed like the wrong thing to do. But they all knew he was about to jump out of his skin. So Jensen nodded as the pilot yelled out something in French, but the sounds of the engine revving was all he needed. He turned to Jared. “You ready?”

“Huh? Yeah.” Jared leaned over and gave Selma a hug. “You take care, okay?” he said. “Let us know when you’re back in town.”

“And which town’d that be?”she teased. Then she held him at arm’s length, her eyes serious. “You look out for yourselves.” Her face darkened. “You don’t know the half of it, boy. Neither of you. Don’t look at me like that. This is just the beginning for you two.” Jensen felt himself tense with questions, but she pulled him into a hug, not giving him a chance to voice them. “You three need to watch out for each other,” she said. “You’re connected. You ain’t gonna like it, but it’s so.” She pulled back. “Trust each other. If you need me, you call me. I’ll be back soon enough.” She nodded at the space behind her.

Misha was there. Jensen didn’t remember him moving, just knew that he and Jared were suddenly shaking hands. Misha looked at him, and took an almost imperceptible step back. Giving Jensen his distance.

“Oh, hell no,” Jensen muttered, and closed the distance to give Misha a fierce hug, wrapping an arm tightly around the back of his neck. “You get better,” he said in his ear. “We got a hell of a schedule ahead of us, costar.”

Misha gave a low, relieved laugh in his ear, and clutched the back of Jensen’s shirt. “You got it,” he said, giving Jensen a pat on the back. They released. Misha finally had a little color in his cheeks, and his eyes held some of his old mirth. Jensen grinned, shaking his hand.

The plane revved to a higher pitch, making further conversation impossible. Jensen felt Jared’s hand on his shoulder, and he followed him up the small steps, which were lifted and put inside by the door. They buckled into the tiny seats. The engine roared, the plane shook frighteningly, and they were suddenly taxing down the makeshift runway, hitting bumps and dips bad enough to make his teeth chatter. He braced himself.

The plane rose into the sky, over the rich green trees, and soared over the sparkling ocean.

***********************
Jensen slept. Then, once they were on a proper plane, he slept the sleep of the dead. He vaguely remembered waking once when Jared rose, blearily, to go to the bathroom, and that was only because his head had been on Jared’s shoulder. He didn’t remember Jared sitting back down.
He woke again as they were landing, and didn’t care how much time had passed. He buckled in, feeling ill from too much – everything.

They switched planes in LA. Jensen had been tempted to go to his apartment, but now more than ever he didn’t feel like being alone. This time it wasn’t fear. How would he explain all this to Steve? He wouldn’t. No one would know, and he couldn’t go out and pretend like nothing happened. Jared didn’t question him, he just automatically purchased two tickets.

Jensen slumped over his luggage, avoiding the eyes of those who recognized him. Jared signed a few autographs and smiled, but Jensen knew his heart wasn’t in it. He was appreciative, but after what they’d been through? He pulled his cap down low over his dark sunglasses, and silently thanked whoever was listening that he wasn’t approached. They ate, and had a drink. They didn’t talk much. Two hours later, they were back in the air.

The house was untouched. Jared knocked on his neighbor’s door, and Jensen realized he didn’t know their names. Jared talked with them for a moment as they handed back the key. The door was unlocked, and they walked in. The back door trembled under the weight of two dogs frantically yelping and pressing to get in to their master. Jared opened it, and was knocked to the floor, laughing. Jensen was tempted to jump onto the nearest chair. The dogs were in hysterics, puppy-fitting through all of the rooms, jumping on each man in turn until Jared finally opened the back door again. Then they wouldn’t go out. It took a half hour for them to settle, exhausted.

******************

Jensen rubbed the back of his neck. “Surreal, isn’t it?” He was looking in his bedroom, where the walls were still blackened. He half-expected to see a set of eyes glaring at him, but the feeling was gone. The fear was gone. The despair. But he could remember it, like the morning fringes of a nightmare.

Jared peeked in, putting a hand on his shoulder. “Yeah. Guess you could try washing those walls before you paint.”

Jensen blinked at him. “Me?”

“Well, yeah?”

“Right, cause this is all my fault,” Jensen teased. “You could just have a black room.”

“Nah. What color do you want?”

This time, Jensen turned to face him. “What’ve I got to do with this?”

“It’s your room.” Jared vanished, then reappeared to throw Jensen’s duffle at him. “For God’s sake, just pick something reasonable. Something that fits in with the rest of the place.”

Jensen held the bag. His room? And a slow, huge smile crept over his face. He gave it a semi-critical eye, and started unpacking.

-END

LODESTONE pt 17

kamelionwriter — Wed, 28 Oct 2009 21:41:39 GMT

Misha tossed in his bed. The storm was keeping him awake. Not that he felt like sleeping. He didn’t feel like doing anything. Just restless, but still too weak to do anything about it. And when he closed his eyes, the old man was there, looking at him. Speaking words he didn’t understand, with that damn finger in his face. He flung the covers off him, sat up. The moment his feet touched the warm wood, he realized he wanted to lay back down. But then he’d just want to get up.

He walked down the stairs. Selma was in the sitting room with a book. She started to say something, but Misha held up his hand, not wanting conversation. He wanted to go back home. He turned and walked into Angel’s chest. His eyes slowly rose, and the old man looked back at him. He quickly backed away, upsetting the table Jared had put in front of his shoddy repair job. Angel’s arm snaked out and grabbed him before he fell, and he jerked away. “Don’t touch me.”

“Are you all right?” There was concern in the deep voice. The door opened, and Jared looked in, stepping aside so that Jensen could see around him.

Eyes. Looking at him. All the time, eyes looking at him. . .”leave me alone. Please. Just go, all of you.”

Angel’s eyes narrowed. Misha cringed under the gaze, and turned away only to bump into Jensen, who grabbed his arms tightly. “No,” he said, and gave Misha a shake. “Tell me you didn’t do it!”

“Do what?” Misha asked. He was confused. He tried to wring his arms away, but Jensen’s grip was like iron. He didn’t like to be held, he didn’t want to be touched. Jared appeared over his should. Protective. Always so fucking protective. And then Selma was standing, watching, and Gramma had come out of her small room. Misha just shook his head, tears smarting his eyes, then falling down over his cheeks. “No, just stop, please. God, make it stop!” His weakened legs gave way. He heard Jensen curse, the grip that held him tightening. Angel grabbed him from behind. Selma muttered something about the brain fever, and checked his forehead. But Jensen was looking at him, and wouldn’t look away. He knew.

Misha just smiled. “I’m supposed to be your guardian angel, aren’t I?” And he laughed through the sobs.

********************************

Misha was back in his bed with a sleeping herb. Jensen stood on the tiny sidewalk, in the rain. His shirt was soaked. His jeans hung heavily on his hips. The water felt great, and he craned his head back, opened his mouth.

“Dude. Bugs.”

Jensen spat. “D’you go and say that for?”

“You know insects are carried by rain. Get caught in the drops. Low-level clouds.”

“Didn’t you have any fun as a kid?”

“Not by eating bugs.”

“You’re depraved.”

“Is Misha okay?”

Jared probably knew, too. Or had an idea. It seemed they all knew, but no one was talking. “He did it for me. I don’t know how. I guess that man somehow put it in there.”

“Is that why they just left you and Angel on the island?”

“Doesn’t make sense, does it?”

Jared crossed in front of him, and looked at him. Stared. Uncomfortably. “All I know is, you’re back. You seem more like. . .”

“More like what?”

Jared cleared his throat. “More like the Jensen I know.”

“I could swear you were going to say something else. Thought I’d have to hit you.”

“Come back on the porch.”

“I like the rain.”

“I know. And you like standing out on the roof in thunderstorms. Now come on.”

“What are we gonna do? We can’t just leave it in him.”

Jared huffed. “I don’t know. I don’t know anymore now than I did before. But this has gone on for too long. If that old man could get it out of you and into Misha, then he can get it out of Misha.”

“And into what?”

“I don’t know. Kill it.”

“I don’t think it can be killed.”

“Exorcized? Is it really an evil spirit, or is it just – lost?”

“You think Misha can find out? He sort of has a way about him, you know?”

“He’s been so ill. God. Selma said he had a brain fever that night when he brought me back. He was sick for days, but I was out of it too.”

Jensen clapped his hand on Jared’s shoulder, and was surprised to have it knocked away. “What the hell? I’m trying to be supportive here!”

“I’m sorry, I. . .” Jared gritted his teeth. “It’s just – you told him to get me out. You willingly put yourself in that situation back there.” His eyes glowed with anger. He shuffled his feet in the puddles.

Jensen barked a disbelieving laugh. “Jared, you were close to gutted!”

“It wasn’t that bad! It was a shallow cut.”

“How was I supposed to know that? Huh? You had your gut sliced opened! You screamed, and nearly passed out! They were getting the goddamn blood! And you thought I was gonna just leave you to that?” He stood toe to toe. “Is that all you think of me? You seriously think I don’t care more than that?”

“So you think your staying behind wasn’t going to drive me crazy? I was worried sick about you! I was pissed off and scared, and – damn you!” He shoved, and Jensen took a surprised stumble back. “You’re my fucking best friend, don’t you dare think for a moment that I don’t care just as much as you do!”

They fell silent. Jared was scraping his shoes against the pavement. Jensen breathed heavily, the revelations running through his head. “Wow,” he finally said.

“Yeah.”

“So, I guess that’s settled.”

“What is?”

“We can’t stand being out of each other’s back pockets.”

Jared looked surprised, then laughed, throwing his head back, and catching the raindrops in the sound.

***********************
The storm lasted through the night. Dawn forced it way through threatening clouds, casting an ill light over trees still dripping rain onto the roof of a bustling house.

Selma and Gramma were busily cooking up a brew, putting Jared in mind of witches around their pot. Gramma was steadily instructing Selma. Jared noticed with a smirk that the crucifix, which hung over the back door, had a small white handkerchief draped over it. So he couldn’t see, of course. Angel had gone out in the height of the storm, with no word.

Misha was holed up in his room, covers tight underneath his chin despite the humidity. Jared had dared to peek in on occasion to see Jensen sitting vigil, reading a book, seemingly calm. It was strange how the two men had switched places. Almost disconcerting. And it sent a warmth through him when Jensen would lean over and lightly dab at the man’s sweaty brow with a cool cloth. The fever had returned, thus Angel’s hasty departure. Jared had offered to sit, but Jensen just waved him away. He knew his friend well enough to know he felt the weight of responsibility. Misha did this for him. For Jared. So they’d be able to rest. But now, it looked like it was killing him. Angel said although he had accepted it into him, he was fighting it. Having been a victim before, his will was in a state of panic, and his body was suffering.

Jared busied himself by fixing everyone drinks. In the blinding heat, they were chugging water at a rate that would empty the sea beyond. With Selma and Gramma over a hot stove, and Jensen holed up in the airless room above, the glasses were emptied almost as quickly as he could make the rounds. He was guzzling glasses himself from the effort alone. Misha’s was untouched. Jared would empty it and refill it, asking how he was. Jensen would reply “no change” in a monotone that meant he was either involved with his book, or tired of the question. But Jared asked, every half hour, on the hour. Jensen rose one time only, to go to the bathroom.

Once Jared caught him leaning forward, just watching the man in his fitful sleep. Part of him felt a tug of envy, and he wondered if Jensen would sit vigil like that for him. When Jensen glanced over his shoulder at Jared, that question was answered. Of course he would.

Angel arrived just before evening with a surprising guest in tow. The old man was forced inside the house, livid at being abducted. Angel thrust him into the center of the sitting room. He pointed to a chair that sat in the corner, which Selma quickly brought over to him. The man was forced to sit. He looked up at Angel with angry eyes. “Why is this?”

“You tell me, old man.”

“I have name! Called Yahna!” He beat at his chest with his fist.

“Yahna. What the hell kind of name is that?”

“Family came here. Father’s name. Why is this?” His light eyes looked eerie in his dark face.

“You know what that thing is, don’t you?”

“What ting?”

Angel’s lips curled back in anger. “The thing you tried to get rid of. The thing that ended up from one friend’s soul into another.”

“That is not my doing. It asked me.”

“Asked you what?”

“To let it go.”

Jared frowned. “How did you hear it?”

The man, Yahna, shot him a poisonous glare. His gut curled. “Do you not hear it? It is talking. Always.”

“It is killing a man. He’s upstairs.” Angel leaned over him. “You got it out once before. You get it out again.”

“It chose! Was not me!”

“Get it out of him!” Angel yelled, pushing up. “Jared, get them down here. We’re ending this, once and for all.”

Anxiety flooded Jared as he ran up the stairs to see Jensen peeking out into the hall. “What the hell’s going on down there?” Jensen asked, his brows pulled tight in irritation.

“That old man’s here. Angel got him. Help me.” Jared quickly crossed the room and whipped the blankets off Misha’s – naked form – “WHOA!” He quickly turned. “Dude!”

“The guy was roasting! Hell, I didn’t look at nothing!” Jensen angrily snatched up Misha’s shorts. “His underwear’s on, for pete’s sake!”

Okay, it was. He was just expecting clothes, or something. “Christ, just get those things on him. Hurry up.”

“Help me, huh? Get his leg. This man needs a hospital, but I’m scared to put him in one around here.” Jared lifted one leg, then the other. They carefully shifted the drowsy man until he leaned against Jensen’s chest, then raised him and pulled the shorts up.

“How humiliating,” Jared muttered.

“How’d you think he’d feel? Hold him up.” Jensen asked. He sat Misha back on the mattress and patted his cheek as Jared braced him. “Come on, man. Work with me. Open your eyes, I can’t carry you down those stairs.”

It took a while for Misha to blink blurrily at them. “S’going on?”

“He’s too damn weak,” Jensen muttered, and took Misha’s head in his hands. “We’re gonna get you better. But you gotta try and walk, okay? No wussing out on us.” Jensen threaded his arm underneath Misha’s. Jared took his left, and together they hoisted the man up. He wavered, then seemed to find his balance. Jensen wrapped his other arm over his shoulders. He managed two steps, then slumped and was dragged to the top of the steep stairs, where they paused.
There was no way they were getting down there bracing him, and carrying him down those steep stairs wasn’t an option. “Angel! Little help here!” Jensen called down.

He appeared quickly. Angered at Misha’s weakening state, he aimed a glowering stare to his right where Yahna sat, then bounded up the stairs. “Come now,” he said gently, and Misha raised his head. “One step at a time, like everything else, yes? Let’s go.” And slowly, painfully slowly, they eased the sick man down. Misha threatened to fall twice, and Jared was glad that Angel was bracing him in the front. Once down, they quickly lowered him to one of two large stuffed chairs, the only comfortable ones in the house, chairs that Gramma normally let no one touch. Misha’s eyes closed, his breathing erratic.

Yahna watched, dispassionately. Angel rose, and pointed. “There. Get it out of him.”

“And do what with it?” Yahna exclaimed.

“Can you exorcize it?” Jared asked.

Yahna cackled. He actually cackled, a terrifying, high-pitched sound that made him seem as mad as he looked. “You can’t do that! Doesn’t work.”

“Why?”

Yahna’s gaze was disconcerting. “It is not from hell,” he said, slowly and factually. His eyes glowed with mirth.

Jared swallowed hard and looked at Angel. A long sigh made him snap his head back around, and he hurried to Misha’s slumped figure. “Oh God. . .”

“Misha? Nononono. . .” Jensen rushed alongside him and forced the man up. Slapped his face. “Misha! Shit, is he breathing?” He quickly planted his hand against Misha’s chest and snapped his head around. “SELMA?”

“Move over,” she said urgently, and lay the pale man back against the cushions. His eyes were open and unseeing. His face was like paste. “Don’t you do this to me boy, you hear me?” She smoothed his hair back and leaned her ear over his lips. “Not breathing.” Her two hands instantly folded over his heart, and she started compressions.

“Misha!” Jared yelled. He grabbed the man’s shoulder, touched his neck, his head, wanted to slap him. He felt himself being pulled back, but kept his gaze on Misha. Something touched his mind.

Selma muttered and continued to work on Misha as everyone watched. He lay still, eyes unfocused, mouth slack, skin nearly translucent. Jared tugged towards him, his eyes filling with tears of disbelief. Then the room was swirling. Was he fainting? How the hell would that help? He heard Selma yell out in frustration, her hands on Misha’s cheeks as his eyes faded.

“No!” He tried to reach for him, but hit the floor instead. So damn dizzy. . .

“Let her work!” Jensen was grabbing his arms, but Jared was gone. His legs buckled and he lay back. Reality faded around him. He heard a voice yelling, telling him to focus, to let go. He blinked rapidly and found himself on his knees, Jensen’s face leaning right in his. “Let him go!” Jensen was yelling. “He’s pulling you down with him!”

Jared blinked, and tried to look over at Misha, but Jensen grabbed his head in a vise-like grip, forcing their eyes to meet. Jared instantly clamped his own hands over Jensen’s, prying.

“Let him go, Jared! Stop trying to save him.”

“No. . .no one was supposed to die,” he forced from his aching throat. His chest constricted.

Jensen was on his knees in front of him. He squeezed his eyes tight shut and leaned his forehead against Jared’s, muttering words under his breath that Jared couldn’t hear. He knew Jensen was sharing his own fear, that he was barely holding it together himself. Jared put his hands to Jensen’s head. They stayed that way, drawing strength from the other. “You have to let him go,” Jensen whispered, and his voice choked. “I just know you have to let him go.”

Jared wilted, falling back on his heels as he released Jensen. His eyes found the ceiling and he stared at it for several moments before coming back to the activity before him. He could still feel the pull, feel Misha going under. He slumped, defeated, watching.

Jensen had risen and backed away. Selma was still working on Misha. It was as if time sped back up and re-involved them in the scene. Jensen was staring at the floor, and Jared recognized the look of concentration. He’d seen it when the tech crew was having camera trouble. Jensen would stand behind them, his arms folded against his chest, his concentration intense as he watched, and learned, while the cameraman worked on the problem. He was trying to solve the problem himself. “What if we put it back?” he asked slowly.

“What?” Angel asked from Misha’s side.

Jensen turned to Yahna. “If you get it out of him, will it come back to me?”

Yahna rubbed his chin thoughtfully, then nodded. “Maybe.”

“Then do it. Put it back.”

Jared couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “What? No! Are you insane?”

“Listen to me. This thing is intelligent. Maybe I can talk with it.”

“While it’s in you,” Jared muttered in disbelief.

“Sure. Or you can. I’ll – I’ll let it talk through me.”

“NO!” Jared was on his feet. But Yahna was nodding.

“He’s going,” Selma said, continuing compressions. “If you’re doing something, do it already!”

“Can be done,” Yahna said. “He must be tied.”

“What? Tied?” Jensen snapped to attention.

“Get a chair and rope.”

“Are you fucking serious?” Jared asked.

“Do you wish for Misha to die?” Angel yelled angrily.

“Son of a bitch!” Jared rushed to the kitchen and grabbed a straight backed chair. “Where the hell’s the rope?”

“Out back,” Selma called over her shoulder, still working on Misha.

Out back. Of course it was out back. He tripped down the rickety stairs. The air was sticky. Thunder clapped, and Jared wanted to drown in it. He found the rope coiled like a snake near the back shed. It was thick and filthy. A quick shake loosened some dirt, but not enough. No time. He slapped it against his thigh as he rushed inside.

He nearly ran into Angel. “We’re out of time,” he said hastily, steering Jared to where Jensen was sitting in the chair. He looked determined, but Jared could feel the fear rolling off him. “Tie him,” Angel said, crossing the room back to Misha. “Hands behind him.”

Jared froze.

“Come on, dude,” Jensen urged. “Whatever it takes, just do it. Think tv.” He crossed his wrists behind him.

Jared wrapped the rope firmly around his friend’s torso, then around his wrists. “You okay?” he asked.

“Tighter,” Angel responded before Jensen could answer. “Trust me.”

He hated Angel right now. Jensen gave a consenting nod, and Jared wrapped the rope tighter, seeing the barbs cut into his friend’s wrists. He knotted it off, then swung in front of Jensen and squatted down before him. “You sure about this?” he asked.

The response was a nod. Which meant hell no he wasn’t sure, but he wasn’t going to let Misha die for him. Jared had a thought “Is it gonna do the same thing to you that it’s doing to him?” He turned to Angel. “Is it?”

“It has not been out of him long. I don’t know. He might not react.”

“Stop talking!” Selma yelled. “Do it now!”

Gramma entered with a bowl. Jared clenched his jaw and turned back to Jensen. “You listen to me. You promise me something. No matter how bad you feel, you gotta talk to me. We’re not gonna let this thing win. Got it?” He felt an odd shiver as Jensen’s green gaze met his, and he nodded firmly.

He was taking it rather well, considering.

The bowl was placed beside Jensen. A pungent smell wafted through the air. He winced. “Don’t you have anything sweet-smelling around here?”

“Many same plants. All bitter.” Gramma rose from her crouch, hesitating at a catch in her back. Her dark eye glinted as they fell on Yahna. “So. Do what you do, then. Go on.”

The heady scent from the pot made Jared dizzy. He closed his eyes and clasped the arms of Jensen’s chair. A presence filled the space behind him. “Back away, son,” Angel said, softly, putting his hands on Jared’s shoulders.

“No,” Jared practically growled, his eyes meeting Jensen’s.

“It isn’t safe,” Angel tried again.

Jared shouldered him back. “I said no!”

“Yahna, do it now!” Selma yelled from beside Misha, and Jared never heard her so afraid.

Yahna raised his hands, and chanted.

Misha’s eyes flew open in a spasm. He gasped loudly.

“What’s happening?” Jared asked, alarmed.

“It’s leaving him,” Angel answered.

Selma jerked her hands away, then rose and rushed backwards as Misha came to life. He rolled to his stomach and grabbed his head, whimpering, then screaming out in agony. He slammed his head to the floor, his body trying to curl in on itself. His faced was angled toward the center of the room, and Jared could see the tracks of tears on his cheeks. Angel held the man as he railed, then he fell limp, his eyes confused. They sought Jared’s, then drifted to Jensen. His mouth opened, but no words came out.

Yahna shoved Jared out of the way and planted his hands on Jensen’s head. Jensen gritted his teeth, fighting. Then he gave a short scream.

Jared stopped breathing. He lurched forward, but Selma stopped him, dragging him back to the corner of the room. Misha rose to his elbows and watched, pale and wide-eyed. Yahna was trembling, his head down. Jensen was fighting the ropes.

After an eternity, Yahna looked up. “‘Tis done,” he said roughly, and released Jensen.

Jensen’s head fell back, then sank to his chest. He let out a single sob, and muttered in a small, broken voice, “Son of a bitch.”

“Jensen?” Jared carefully loosened Selma’s hold on him. Cautiously, he crossed the room and knelt down. “Talk to me.”

“God – this hurts.” His soft voice cracked. “I didn’t know – how much it hurts.”

Jared braced his knees, then put a hand on Jensen’s shoulder. He couldn’t stop the hurt. He didn’t know how. “Listen to me. We can fix this. What does it want? Ask it. You can do it. We can fix this, just talk to it.”

Jensen’s chest heaved with the effort of breathing. “No.”

Jared squeezed his shoulder. “Please, come on, man! You said you’d do this. Just ask what it wants.”

“He’s scared of the answer,” Selma said carefully, walking forward. “‘Cause he already knows the answer. Don’t you?”

Jensen’s face screwed into a sob, like he was carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders.
“I didn’t realize it was this bad,” he said as the sob broke. “Oh God, it’s. . .” his mouth opened, but he said nothing, like words couldn’t describe what he was feeling.

Jared shifted closer and brought both hands up, massaging his shoulders. “I know. I know, man. Let’s fix it, okay?”

“It wants to die.”

Jared felt his brows raise. “It wants to die?”

He was breathing heavily. “It’s too tormented.” He hesitated in a cry. “Just kill it. Kill me.”

Jared slowly shook his head. “No. No way in hell.”

“Jared, please,” he whispered.

“NO!”

“Oh lord,” Selma exclaimed. “We were wrong. It’s just a spirit that wants to stop wandering.”

“The eyes,” Misha said weakly, and all turned to him. “His room, all the darkness. . .”

“It was looking for a way to end it. The more people it possessed, the darker it became, because of the victims,” Selma concluded.

“God, can we stop the talking?” Jensen pleaded. He jerked forward in the chair, nearly toppling it. “It doesn’t matter! Anything, just get a damn knife! Please!”

And this would be the reason he was bound. He tugged at the rope, his eyes livid, crazed. “Jared. Let me go.”

“No.”

“Dammit unite me! Now! It’ll just find someone else! Don’t you get it?” He pulled, struggled, then threw his head back, teeth gritted, obviously in pain.

“What is it?” Jared spun, looking at the people in the room in turn. “What’s happening to him?”

“I think it’s trying to do the job for you,” Angel said.

It took a second for him to realize what Angel meant. “No. NO!” Jared again grabbed Jensen by the shoulders. “Jensen, look at me. Look at me! Just hold on a little longer, we’ll figure this out I swear to god, I promise you . . .”

But Jensen screamed out at him, spat at him, and head-butted. Jared fell backwards, stunned. Selma was at his side in an instant, and together they looked at Jensen in shock.

His eyes were black. His face was reddened and contorted in rage and sorrow. He was crying and laughing at the same time, his features screwed up in agony as he fought the ropes binding him. Jared knew if he broke free, he’d drive that knife into his chest himself. But god, those eyes! And they weren’t black like the effects he’d seen. His eyes were – gone. “Jensen!”

“It’s taking him,” Yahna said, his voice calm.

Jared pushed at Selma.“You knew what would happen, didn’t you?” he yelled at Yahna. “You knew what it wanted. Dammit, fix it!”

“I’ve done all I can,” Yahna said over Jensen’s barely contained scream.

Oh God, he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t take this. Misha was sitting up, half supported by Angel, and his weak eyes looked as lost as Jared felt. Jensen cried out in rage and struggled against the chair, pulling at his wrists, twisting his torso to loosen the ropes. He had to stay tied. But like this, the thing would kill him. Jensen released a scream that made Jared throw his hands over his ears. “Somebody DO SOMETHING!” Jared shouted angrily, no longer trying to hold in a sob.

Gramma appeared from the corner. She creaked downwards as much as her old joints would let her, took the bowl in her bony hands, and raised it to her lips.

Jared’s eyes widened. The frenzy continued, but Gramma was calm, quiet. She offered the bowl to Jensen. He leaned his head forward, and took a sip, his black eyes fixed on Gramma as she drank the rest of the brew. She let the bowl drop. “It is done,” she said, and turned to the small group.

Jared looked at Jensen. His eyes were green, his expression horrified. He slowly sat back, trembling, staring at the older lady, who turned to them. Gramma’s eyes were black.

“No. . .” Selma pleaded, and Angel muttered her name.

She smiled a terrifying grin, and fell to the floor.

“Gramma?” Selma cried out, rushing to her side. She wrapped her arms around the old lady’s frail, thin shoulders and pulled her into her lap. “Gramma,” she wailed, and embraced her limp shape, rocking her. “Oh, Lord!” Angel helped Misha stand, and they shakily joined the two women. Yahna looked on.

“Jared.” His name was a whisper, but it brought him back. As Selma rocked Gramma’s still form in her lap, he crawled respectfully around them and behind Jensen’s chair. Jensen’s wrists were chaffed. But Jared had done his job well. Immobilized, there was no way to injure himself other than the chaffing. No cuts, no bruises. The hands were swollen slightly, the circulation restricted. Jared worked quickly, biting at the knot, spitting out the threads, and finally unwinding the coils from his friend. He fisted Jensen’s shirt and helped him to stand, guiding him away from the chair, to the side of the grieving woman.

Thunder rumbled in the distance. And the room was quiet.

LODESTONE pt 16

kamelionwriter — Wed, 28 Oct 2009 21:38:51 GMT

Misha bolted upwards with a yell. Gramma placed her hand on his sweaty forehead, and looked at Selma. “Again?”

“He’s been having them all night. Whatever he saw, it did him a good one.” Selma wrung out a cloth and placed it on his forehead.

“Angel’s not back.”

“No ma’am.”

Gramma nodded and walked out, going to see Dr. Richard, who was still in Jared’s room.

Selma soothed Misha’s fevered brow with the cloth. “You put my back out good, trying to get you up here. Could’a waited to fall out, but no, you had to go do it on the porch. Should’a kept you downstairs. No cushions down there, though.” She blotted at his forehead. He winced slightly, still caught in his dream. “Someone put the hoodoo on you, for sure. Now, I don’t know what’s going on. Maybe you was right. Maybe we should all just go, leave this place.”

“Leave again?” A small shadow stood in the doorway.

“It’s probably for the best, Gramma.” Selma didn’t want to open old wounds. She knew her visits seemed to hurt Gramma more than helped.

“You brought them to get help. You let them go?”

“And how is this helping them, Gramma?”

“You knew,” the old woman said, sitting in a straight-backed chair near the bed table. “You knew. And Angel asked if they was ready. But you knew they wasn’t. You knew that, and you still come here.”

She was chastened. “I didn’t know what else to do.”

“You could’a left them ‘lone!”

“How could I do that? Jensen could’a died if I did that. You want that?”

“No. But you always go meddlin’! Ain’t your business, Selma! One day you’ll hear me!”

“Let me tend to Misha,” Selma said. She didn’t feel like talking. These boys were taking a beating, and they hadn’t even got down to trying to rid them of the spirit.

“You look after that one like he your own.”

“Like knows like, Gramma.”

“Scares me.” Gramma shook her head and slowly stood. “Jared-boy’s good. Stitched up. Looked worse than was. They just wanted blood.”

She didn’t want to ask, but she had to. “Gramma. What do you know about that ritual?”

“I tole you. . .”

“Yes, you tole me, now tell me about this!”

Gramma wasn’t happy. She shooed her hands at Selma as though to dismiss the question, and shifted in her chair. “They knows something here. Won’t be long others know it too. Those boys not safe here. Angel can’t do nothing. This group loses, another one’ll come up. They either want the power or want it gone. Sounds like these want it free. They thought they’d cut Jared, free the trapped soul.”

“From his stomach.”

“Not meant to kill. Just loose the spirit. He’s fine.”

“And Misha?”

Gramma shook her grey head. “I don’t know. Someone put the mojo there. I don’t know what it is.”

“He’ll wake up?”

“Of course.” But her tone made it sound like he would regret waking.

Selma wetted the cloth once more. “Do you really think I did bad, Gramma?”

The withered features softened. “You didn’t think. But no. Not bad. Good heart.”

“I don’t think a good heart’s gonna get them outta this.”

“No. Not unless it’s theirs.” Gramma again stood slowly, shaking until she found her balance. “Fever will break. Use the cloth.”

“You need help going back down?”

“I’m not cripple. I’ll manage.” Gramma shuffled out of the room, her socked feet catching on the rough floor.

Selma placed the cloth on Misha’s forehead, and waited.

****************

The sunlight filtered through Jared’s window, slicing into thin lines across his bed. He stared at it until they faded from his eyes. He blinked, and they were back. The pain pills were terrific. Jensen needed these things for his back.

No one was saying anything, and it annoyed him. He’d asked about Misha, only to be told he was resting. He asked about Jensen, to be told he needed to hush and get his own rest, to heal. Then the room would fade.

When he woke again, it was night. This time, the moonlight sliced across his bed. He blinked at it until it became one thick line, then let his eyes drift. He was vaguely aware of water, and more pills. His stomach was sore, but he wasn’t hurting. He liked the drugs, loved the floating feeling and the delicious numbness of not caring. Wherever Misha and Jensen were, they could take care of themselves. He surrendered to the soft blanket and the warm, welcoming arms of slumber.

On the third day since his capture, he was more alert, and no longer content with the lack of answers. He pressed gently at his stitches, then rose gently and checked them out in the mirror. There weren’t many. Some of the wound was held together with butterfly bandages. He figured the deeper areas were the ones stitched. He was still fuzzy on how they got there. His head hurt, the room swerved, and he reached out, knocking his glass from the table. It shattered at his bare feet. He let himself fall back to the bed and waited for Selma to come up and scold him. She did, promptly, and pills pulled him back under.

Day four. He rose, checked his wound, and walked out of the room. Misha was in his bed, sleeping, pale. That wasn’t right. He couldn’t remember anything happening to him. Was he sick? Was Jensen sick? He turned and headed to the room next to his, but it was empty. The bed was made. Selma heard him walking and scolded him, raising a hand to feel his forehead. He was tired. He went back to bed and slept...

And was wide awake that evening. Clear as a bell.

This was when Jensen’s absence alarmed him. When he opened his eyes to see Misha seated in a nearby chair, watching him intently. He was still pale, but looked better. “Hey.”

“You back whole again?” Misha asked, the area around his eyes crinkling slightly.

Jared inhaled deeply but cautiously, checking his stitches. “What happened?”

“What do you remember?”

He thought. Images were hazy. “Mm. Lots of people.” He let the memories fight through the haze. “We were all there, but I don’t know what was going on.” He smiled wryly. “Selma’s been on my ass.”

“That can’t have been comfortable.”

“Up yours.” He sat up, wincing more out of habit than pain. “Where’s Jensen?”

Misha’s expression turned serious. His eyes darted to the window. “He’s not here.”

Jared tried to think back. “He hasn’t been here, has he? What’s going on?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t – Misha, where the hell is Jensen?” He flung the covers off and stood. His wound protested, and he stifled a gasp. Okay, no sudden movements. Check.

“Jared, wait.”

He wasn’t waiting. He hurried to Jensen’s room to find the bed was still unslept in. He jabbed a finger at it. “What’s that? Huh? Where the hell is he?”

Misha was smaller than Jared. At that moment, he looked like a child. “We had to leave him behind.”

Jared’s eyes widened. “Excuse me?”

“They’d just slashed you across the gut! He said to get you out, so I did.”

It was coming back to him. Walking off the hangover. Being grabbed, a filthy sack pulled tight over his head. He’d yelled out, kicked out, but was carried by several men to a place where a crowd waited. No one spoke English. He hadn’t known at the time if they could, or just wouldn’t. “They took me,” he said. “They took me to this place, and you both showed up. Did they get you too?”

“No.”

“How’d you know where to find me?”

“Angel went looking for you when Jensen woke. He was told to wait for me. We both left together. Jensen remembered Angel mentioning a lake, and we found it, then saw the firelight.”

It was coming back to him. He nodded quickly. “Those people Angel warned us about. What were they doing?”

“They thought the spirit was inside you. They tried to free it by bleeding you.”

“But it wasn’t in me.”

“They know that now.”

He remembered. He rubbed his wrists, then a hand went to his stomach. He walked into Jensen’s room as Misha spoke behind him. “You’ve been fevered. I was too. Seems the old man put a hex on me, or something. I don’t think he wanted us to make it back. I got pretty sick for a while.”

“And Jensen never got out.”

Misha slowly walked in, and stood at Jared’s shoulder. “Jared – I am so sorry. I wanted to go back, but I couldn’t. Neither could you.”

“And Angel?”

“Haven’t seen him. I’m hoping he’s still with Jensen.”

“And they’ve got him. And the spirit’s in him.” Jared spun, regretting the motion as it pulled at his wound. “How much do they bleed someone?”

“I don’t know.”

“Selma!” Jared pushed past Misha and bolted down the stairs, nearly colliding with the older lady.

“Boy, you best watch out! You’ve no business running around like that!” Her eyes swept over him. “Glad you’re up, though. Sure am.”

“How much do they bleed a person?” Jared asked urgently.

He saw Selma glance at Misha as he walked around. “I don’t know,” she answered, honestly. “It depends on what’s wrong. If it’s doing any good.”

“Would they bleed him out?”

“It’s possible.”

“SHIT. And no one’s done anything?” His voice rose to a near screech.

Selma set one thick fist on her hip. “Boy, you been too sick to move! So’s Misha here! He had a brain fever, he tell you that? Went up to a hundred and four for over a day! I thought we’d lose him. And you was in no condition to go nowhere, so don’t go talking to me like I could do something! I had my hands full! And a lot of thanks I get for it!”

He felt like crap. Despair flooded him, and he sank into the nearest chair. “Shit. I’m sorry, Selma.” Defeated, he let his head fall into his hands.

He felt hands on his shoulders. She squeezed gently. “Boy, don’t you think I know you’re worried? I’m so scared I’m about to shit without a pot. Now come get some food, and we’ll figure out what to do.”

“After that invitation how can anyone say no?” Misha asked wryly.

Selma slapped him with the towel. “Should’a left you in the bed, that’s what I should’a done.”

******************

Jared needed to see the ocean. He had to get his head on straight. His lunch had been light, a soup and some crackers. He wanted more, but Selma cautioned him against it. Misha spent most of his time spooning at his soup and crumbling crackers. He looked thinner. He was as slim as Jensen and himself, and couldn’t afford to lose anything. Once the muscles started going, there was little left. His wan face would gaze towards the window. His lips would move almost imperceptibly. It was unsettling to see Misha so – unsettled. He was a pillar. He was a rock. Selma glanced at him, at his full bowl, and said nothing. So that afternoon they struck out for the water, Jared feeling that Misha needed the healing as much as he did.

He hated being stuck. Selma insisted that the place where the gathering was held would be abandoned. They constantly moved, so as not to be traced. But someone had to know where they were, only no one openly talked about the group. It was frustrating to pass people on the street and wonder what they knew.

This walk wasn’t a carefree venture like the first time. Both Jared and Misha kept an eye open for signs of violence. They passed the charred buildings from the previous riot. People still rode on mopeds, children played in the streets. Dogs barked at them, then backed off. Teens looked at them, pointed, and laughed as they lounged against the worn buildings. What had started out as charming now looked dangerous. Jared was waiting for someone to rush him and throw another bag over his head. He didn’t know what Misha was thinking, but the man never once let his guard down.

When the ocean yawned before them, it was like none of the past events ever happened. They didn’t get into the water, but stared out over the grey-blue vista. The waves crashed onto the shore. The sky was darkening over the horizon. Selma had said before that a storm was brewing, yet it never came. Jared wondered if she was being metaphorical. But now, he could see the dark clouds. Like a sign.

“I shouldn’t have left him. I should’ve put you under a tree somewhere and gone back.” Misha’s hands were tucked deep into the pockets of his shorts. He looked unhealthy.

“They would’ve got you. And I’d still be under that tree, or lost.”

“There was a path. You could’ve found your way back.”

Jared sighed. “Stop blaming yourself,” he muttered in annoyance, turning his attention back to the water. “I have.”

“He knew you were in trouble. He sensed it. That’s why we were looking.”

Jared let that sink in. Tried to imagine Jensen being scared for him. “What’d he say?”

“Not much. Just wanted to get to you.” His eyes drifted down to the sand, though he held his chin high. It was a proud gesture, something Jared had always like about Misha. Just the way he held himself was different from anything he’d seen. “Can you do that?”

“Do what?”

Misha’s blue eyes fixed on his. “Sense him.”

He looked so tired. “You wanna head back?”

“I want you to answer my question.”

“I don’t know. I’ve never tried.”

“But you know when he’s distressed. Uncomfortable.”

“Yeah.”

The other man turned to him. “Then sit down. Close your eyes. Listen to the waves, and think about Jensen.”

Was he serious? Jared opened his mouth, then decided he wasn’t about to argue with a man who was obviously recovering from illness. Or still sick. He gently lowered himself to the sand, and crossed his long legs. Misha joined him. “I’ll guide you,” he said. “You just listen to the waves, but don’t tune me out.”

He was pretty sure Misha didn’t need to be guiding him anywhere. “You sure you’re up for this?”

“Guided meditation. I’ll be doing this with you. We both need it.” He crossed his own legs easily. “Close your eyes.”

He was afraid Misha would fall out if he closed his eyes. But he did. He heard Misha tell him to straighten his back, and did so. The stitches pulled, then eased. Hopefully they’d come out soon.

“Focus,” Misha criticized.

How’d he know? Jared did his best to clear his head, and listen to the waves. The sun burned on his shoulders. The sand warmed beneath him. It wasn’t comfortable.

“Listen to the waves,” Misha said gently. “Breathe with them. As the tide comes in, breath in. As it goes out, breathe out.” He paused, then talked very gently, easing Jared into a natural rhythm that he’d never noticed before. Soon, the sun and sand didn’t matter. His ache didn’t matter. All he was aware of, was the voice and the waves. He could sleep, but he didn’t. As Misha spoke, he relaxed from head to toe, the voice guiding him through releasing each body part. Even his mind felt loose and free. When Jensen’s name came up, it was a shock, and he tensed. They went through the process again. He was told to let his mind wander, and he did.

A brightly lit hallway. Jensen was there, holding a sheet of paper. Lines. Jared smiled at him, asked him what part he was reading for. Jensen smiled, and instead asked where Jared was from. They fell into easy conversation, both jumping when it was time to read. They agreed to audition together, work together, play off each other. Use each other. The audition went well, and they parted. Later he realized they hadn’t even exchanged names, like it didn’t matter. He remembered how ecstatic he was to get the part, and how big Jensen’s smile was when they met again. “Dude, we’ve so got this,” he’d said, shaking Jared’s hand and clapping him on the shoulder.

He remembered the first time they went out for steaks, and how Jensen looked at his stacked plate and teased him about his appetite. But the man had devoured his steak before Jared was half through his, and footed the bill.

And there were times when Jensen didn’t want to be bothered. One huge blow-up on the set, one that had the crew shocked and put Jared sulking in his trailer. Jensen had knocked, and apologized. From that moment, Jared was more aware of his moods. He chalked it up as just Jensen.

Like the way he’d freeze when there were crowds around him. He’d visibly relax when Jared walked up to him. People noticed. At that point, rumors were already started to spread about the two of them. It was funny at first. As the years passed, it grew more annoying. They became too aware of how they acted around each other in public. It wasn’t until after they’d got drunk that they decided screw the media and fans, they could say what they wanted. It was one of those open-hearted, sobbing drunken episodes that they both claimed not to remember, because real men did cry, but they sure as hell didn’t admit to it. That was when he first started expressing doubts about Sandy. She’d wanted them to buy a house together. He wasn’t so sure he was ready for that. Jensen had given him good advice that night. He always gave good advice.

When he hurt his back, Jared was there. He remembered the panic he felt when Jensen didn’t instantly stand from the stunt, when he didn’t give his usual “I’m okay” thumbs up. When the question was asked, he just closed his eyes and exhaled harshly. Jared was instantly at his side, and when those green eyes opened, he knew to yell out for a medic. It was a replay of when Jared had hurt his wrist, and Jensen teased him but never left his side. Only this time there was no teasing, just real pain, and Jared could feel each twinge.

When Jensen was taking too many pain pills, Jared intervened. When he was told to shove off, he didn’t.

Then the other behavior slowly came into play. That’s why he hadn’t seen it. He thought it was the damn pills.

So maybe he wasn’t completely at fault. But if he could sense him, why didn’t he know? Why didn’t he realize the trouble Jensen was getting into? Did he not want to see it? You were distracted, said a voice within him. You just broke up with Sandy. You pulled in.

Oh, yeah.

Jensen had stayed with him, but in his own misery, he hadn’t realized how his friend no longer really responded to him. Now he could remember how he’d phase out while Jared was talking, and Jared would apologize, saying he was acting like a boring, jilted boyfriend. Jensen would snap back. It hadn’t occurred to him at the time that Jensen was going through his own deal with Danneel. That he was losing what confidence he had.

They used to really talk. They used to let each other in, know what the other was thinking. Like one body.

He knew when Jared was in trouble. He hadn’t lost his own ability. Instead, it had expanded, taking in those around him, driving him mad. Calling things to him that needed to be left alone. Jared was the one who had walled up. Ever since Sandy, and the following year. He’d been the one to put up the barriers. Even towards his best friend. His brother.

He had to tear those walls back down. He had to forgive himself for putting them up in the first place. Then he had to properly care for himself and his friends again. He had to bridge this gap. Damn, he’d told Jensen to build walls, hadn’t he?

Jensen. Where are you, man? I’m sorry. I’m so damn sorry. This isn’t all on you.

Nothing.

Talk to me.

He waited.

Look, I’m here. We’re gonna find you, but you gotta tell me where you are. Trying too hard. This wasn’t how to do it. Frustration made him open his eyes. Misha had long since stopped talking, and moved to sit down towards the water. Jared eyed the man’s straight back, the loose way his palms sat curved upwards in his lap. His face was deathly pale, but relaxed. Jared wondered if it was the fever, or something else. It was like something tapped his strength. He knew fevers could wear a person out, but he just – felt – like something more was going on.

Jared?

Oh shit. Jensen? Frantically, he reached out. “Jensen!” His eyes flew open. He saw Misha jump, his own meditation disturbed.

But the voice was gone, and he couldn’t find it again.

**********************

“I heard him! I’m telling you!” Jared followed Selma around the kitchen as she prepared their dinner.

“Did you find out where he is?”

“No.”

“Then what am I supposed to do about it?” She fixed him with a stare, hand on her hip.

He made a fist. She noticed. “And what’cha gonna do with that? Huh?”

Jared yelled, and swung.

**********************

Misha set the heavy tub of plaster beside Jared’s feet. “Unbelievable.” He knelt to pry off the lid.

“I said, I’m sorry.” Jared winced, working his fingers. Nothing was broken, but he was having trouble. Not to mention the ache in his already-damaged wrist.

Misha handed him a metal spatula. “You ever repair a hole?”

“You just sorta stick this stuff in there, right?”

“God. Gimme that.” Misha rose with a sigh.

“Riiight. You built your house and all your own furniture.”

“Don’t put this off on me. You put the damn hole in the wall.” He shouldered Jared aside, and started to work.

So now Jared felt three kinds of stupid on top of four kinds of ache. He backed away until he found a chair, and fell into it. Tried to mentally count on his fingers how many injuries they’d had since their arrival. A day on the set doing stunts would be child’s play after this. “Why’d you do that, anyway?”

“Do what?”

“Try to get me to. . .dammit, I feel like shit! Now I know he’s out there and I can’t do anything! Why’d you do that to me? What the hell were you trying to prove?”

Misha turned slowly. His eyes burned in his pale face. “Prove? I wasn’t trying to prove a damn thing.” His voice was eerily calm. He shoved the spatula into the plaster. “Fix the damn wall yourself. Asshole.”

Jared’s voice caught in his throat. He felt his mouth open, but to no avail. Misha sulked past him and headed up the stairs. Jared heard the foot falls all the way to his room. The door closed, not a good idea in this heat.

He swallowed hard. The tub was waiting for him.

An hour later, he was staring at a glob on the once smooth wall. The crap was molding faster than he could manipulate it. “What is this stuff?” he wondered, looking at the tub. It was large, white, and unmarked. Surely Misha didn’t grab the wrong thing. Selma just walked by, and shook her head without saying a word.

That was when the idea of minor redecorating came to mind. He glanced around, then thrust the spatula into the tub, shoving it out of the way. Grabbed the nearest end table and placed it against the wall. Looked around, spied a tall lamp, and placed it on the table. The cord dangled behind with no outlet to plug into. He stepped back, then tilted the shade towards the wall. There. Good as new. Of course now the spatula was stuck in the tub.

Selma walked back by, and laughed. “God, I miss having men around,” she said, and returned toward the kitchen. “Come eat.” She stopped at pounding on the door, a sound that spun Jared around in fear.

He held up a hand, keeping her from answering. Cautiously, he walked toward the front door, glancing back once. Gramma was standing at Selma’s shoulder. Good. The person on the other side pounded again. “SelMA!”

“Angel?” Selma asked, her eyes growing wide.

Jared flung open the door. “Angel. . .Jensen? Oh my god!” Jared instantly grabbed the limp man that was bundled underneath Angel’s arm, and Angel willingly let him go. Selma ushered the exhausted man into the sitting room as Jared eased Jensen to the floor. Gramma quickly closed the door behind them. Misha was on the stairs, and he practically tumbled down them to join the new arrivals.

Jared cradled Jensen’s head to him, trying to convince himself that he was really there. He didn’t care who saw or what they thought. He slowly lowered Jensen’s head to the floor, and studied his friend. His eyes opened, and he smiled faintly. “Hey.”

“Hey yourself! What the hell happened? Are you okay? Did they do anything to you?”

He raised a lazy finger. “One – question – at a time.”

Jensen looked exhausted. Jared gave him a quick examination, but couldn’t see any injuries on him, no new ones, rather. The old ones were healing. He didn’t look ill. Angel appeared the same. Just exhausted.

“Lord above,” Selma whispered. She had backed away, and Jared didn’t understand why. Even Gramma was staring.

“It’s a long story,” Angel said weakly. “We’ve not eaten. Do I smell food?” Jensen chuckled from the floor, and Jared grinned. He looked up at Misha, who seemed as stunned as Selma and Gramma. He was missing something. He didn’t understand.

“Of course,” Selma said, regaining her composure. She helped Angel to his feet and steadied him. Misha helped Jared raise Jensen. The man wavered, and leaned heavily on Jared. For his part, Jared was all too glad to let him, and took assurance in the man’s heavy weight, his solidity. In those familiar eyes that met his.

“I heard you, you know,” Jensen said quietly. “I tried to tell you I was coming.”

Now he sensed it. His head jerked back like he caught a bad scent. But there wasn’t anything bad about it, just very different. It put him in mind of something metallic, and he started searching again for wounds, thinking of blood.

Jensen suddenly pulled his arm from around Jared’s shoulder, and leaned back against Misha. “No, wait. They cut you open. Shit, you’re okay!” He reached out, but Jared intercepted the hand.

“It’s stitched up. I’m fine.” He didn’t mention Misha’s odd illness. He wanted to do that in private, when he could wrap his mind around the fact that somehow, they’d escaped.

Jensen and Angel ate like they hadn’t eaten in days, and judging by the state of their bodies, they probably hadn’t. Angel laid out the story as they shoveled potatoes into their mouths.

They had been detained. In fact, they had been transported to Tortuga, the large island across the bay. There they were locked in a hut with one window, one bowl of water, and one bowl of fruit. Angel had thought they were being set up for something. “At first I thought it was a last feast,” he said, and there was no smile on his face. “I thought we’d been brought there to die. I was trying to prepare Jensen for it.” Jensen said nothing, but he stopped chewing. Jared’s stomach turned. “The day passed, and then the next. There were no noises, other than the birds and creatures outside. I realized then that we had been abandoned. The water was gone. We were foolish. We drank it all. It was hot, and we thought they would refill the bowl.”

“All I know is,” Jensen said softly, “I was about ready to go out of my mind. We tried to break out of the hut, but it was made of these heavy logs. So was the door, and it was wired shut. We didn’t have anything inside. Couldn’t break out. And it was hot in there, god, there was no breeze, no air, nothing.”

“Wasn’t long before we were both in a dark corner like babies,” Angel smiled.

“Speak for yourself.” Jensen raised his fork to his lips. Jared saw the tremor in his hand.

“How did you get out?” Misha asked quietly.

Angel raised his brows at Jensen. “He got desperate. Kept talking about Jared being hurt.” Jensen set his fork down, looking embarrassed. “He ended up knocking the door down.”

“Physically?”

Angel raised both brows.

“Wow,” Jared said, and looked at Jensen. Met his gaze. That’s what was different about him. He no longer seemed to shrink away. He was – powerful. “Getting a pair of tights anytime soon?”

“Can it, Jarhead.” Jensen bent over his plate.

“We found a boat. Lay it in and just hoped it would set us where we needed to go. Saw the clouds getting dark.”

“Oh my god.” Jared let out a laugh. “We were at the ocean. Hell, if we’d stayed there, we could’ve walked you home.”

Angel smiled, and scooped up meat with his fingers.

“Manners,” Selma chided, slapping at his arm. “Misha, doll, you’re not eating.”

Misha hadn’t touched his food. He smiled in apology. “Not hungry. I think I got too hot today.”

“You need to eat.”

“I’m fine. I’m gonna lay down.” He set his napkin on the table, and gave a smile and nod to Angel. He clapped Jensen on the back. “Good to see you again.” And he walked out, just missing the wall as he rounded the corner.

“What’s wrong with him?” Jensen asked.

“He’s been ill.” Selma was watching Angel. “Sure wish you’d been here.”

“Dr. Richards just fine,” Gramma insisted.

“Dr. Richards gave him a pill and hasn’t been back. He hasn’t even looked at Jared-boy’s stitches, here.”

“Jared-boy?” Jensen grinned.

Jared scratched the bridge of his nose with his bird-finger.

“I’ll look when we’re finished,” Angel said, right as a powerful roar of thunder jolted the house.

Selma looked pleased. “Lord. It’s about time.”

************************

The rain blew in sheets, but Jared didn’t care. He and Jensen sat on the porch, alone, watching the lightning, wincing at the thunder. Their chairs were close together, huddled under the eave of the house that was least likely to get wet unless the wind shifted. They both sat forwards, elbows on knees, knees touching. Together, just the two of them. The dynamic duo. The superhero thing was getting to him.

“What’d Angel say about those stitches?” Jensen asked over the rain.

“It’s healing fine. Another day or so and they can come out.”

“He gonna do it?”

“Says he has rum and everything if I’m chicken.”

Jensen chuckled.

Jared watched the rain pelting the hood of the truck beside the porch. “You really heard me out there?”

“I answered you, didn’t I?”

He smiled. “Yeah. You did.”

“Weirdest thing, too. I thought I was dreaming. Thought maybe I was delusional. Stress and no food and no water. But you said you were out on the beach. So yeah, I heard you. Cause that’s where I knew you were.”

“Dude,” Jared shook his head. “This is starting to seriously freak me out.”

“I know.” Jensen reached into his pocket and pulled out the stone. He handed it to Jared. “I’ll tell you something else. I haven’t felt this good in a long time.”

“Yeah?” Jared took the stone from him and studied it. “Just looks like a rock.”

“Been wondering if it’s one of those sugar pill things. You know, they give you something but it’s your own belief that makes you well.”

“You think that’s what happened?”

“You ever try to break down a door by looking at it?”

“You seriously did that?”

“All I know is, the door opened. And Angel carried me through it. Dragged me, really.”

“Could the wire have snapped? Maybe if you kicked at it, you loosened it.”

“Thought of that too. Could have been a freaky timing thing.”

“But you heard me, when you were out on the water.”

“Yeah.”

“Hallucination?”

He looked at Jared intently. “Did you hear me?”

He nodded. “Yeah. I did.”

“Then we both hallucinated the same thing at the same time in two places far from each other.”

Jared just nodded, and stared back out into the rain. “I wanted to go down there. To clear my head.”

“Maybe you did.” Jared looked back, and was startled by the clarity in Jensen’s green eyes.

“Jensen, what’s happened to you?” he asked quietly.

He didn’t dispute it. He just shook his head. “I don’t know. But I wish it could happen to everyone.”

Jared’s lips quirked. “You get touched by an Angel out there?”

Jensen shoved him out of his chair.

LODESTONE pt 15

kamelionwriter — Wed, 28 Oct 2009 21:34:58 GMT

His mouth tasted like someone took a shit in it.

Misha winced and rolled onto his stomach, sliding his arms underneath the flat pillow. With a faint groan he pulled the pillow over his head. The bed moved under him. Shouldn’t that sensation be gone by now? He was on the waves, his bed was floating and wouldn’t stay still. He choked down bile, realizing he didn’t have the strength to stand and make it to the bathroom. Hell, he wasn’t even sure where the bathroom was. Aw...shit.

He dragged the pillow from over his face and winced painfully into the daylight. Smacked his lips a few times. No, the taste was still there, and worse than before. But at least he could focus on the wall, keep the bed from moving. Dizzy wasn’t the word for this. This was his brain oozing from his ears and spitting lazy droplets down to the floor. Or soaking into the mattress, whatever. Even his late nights in Washington, with rumors fueled by drinks, had nothing on this. The parties he went to, god. Nothing like this. He wasn’t a heavy drinker. The past few weeks he’d probably had more than he’d consumed in – ever. This was death tapping him on the shoulder and inviting him for a sight-seeing tour.

He fell on the way to the bathroom. Damn floor tilted out from underneath him.

The toilet rim was as hot as the air around him, and he was trying not to attribute that to body heat. Sticking his nose where someone just crapped...how fucked was that? He was killing everyone in the house and flying back to the states, once he could stand.

Jensen didn’t even knock. He barged in, hand over his mouth. “Aw, fuck,” he barely drawled out. It was all Misha could do to shove back out of the way, cursing, as Jensen flung himself over the rim and hurled. He rolled to his hands and knees and crawled pitifully back out into the hallway. He didn’t even make it to his room, just stopped in the middle of the hall, his forehead to the rough floorboards, resting on his elbows and knees. Behind him, Jensen coughed and hurled again. His stomach rolled. He wondered idly if Jared had died in his sleep.

Angel was going to hate them.

He lost track of time, jut enjoyed the coolness of the boards beneath his head. He hadn’t realized he was laying prone until he felt a hand on his back, and forced his eyes open. “You okay?” a rough voice asked. “Didn’t get poisoned, did ya?”

“Think I did,” Misha mumbled into the floor.

“Can you stand? Not carrying your heavy ass again.”

“All heart.” Misha wasn’t about to move.

He heard a grunt. Jensen had a hand on the wall, and was sliding down to sit on the floor. “Does seem cooler right here,” he said gruffly.

“Mmm.” His eyes closed.

“You seen Jared?”

Was he serious? Misha tried to shake his head, but he couldn’t move.

“I’ll check on him,” Jensen said. He didn’t move, either.

“He’ll come out eventually,” Misha managed to say.

“Mm hm.”

They fell asleep in the hall.

*************************

When Misha woke, he was back in his bed, and the room was dark. He blinked several times, testing the state of his vision, his hearing, his body. All in working order. A glass of water sat on the tiny table beside him. He slowly reached for it, raised up to his elbows, and took a slow, hesitant drink. His stomach didn’t rebel. He seemed okay. Funny, his head didn’t even hurt. He thought back, and faintly remembered large hands lifting him, and a deep voice laughing. Something hard and bitter being shoved in his mouth. Forced to chew without spitting. And he slept like the dead.

Now, he wanted to market the odd hangover remedy. Make millions.

He rose and reached for his kakhi shorts, and reluctantly, his shirt. His window was open, letting in an imaginary breeze.

Jensen was at the small wooden table in the kitchen, his head balanced on the palm of his hand. Weary eyes met his. “Still living?”

“I don’t think I’d get off that easy. You okay?”

“Fit as a fiddle.” But he looked distressed. He shoved a mug toward him.

Misha eyed the mug, and sat. “What’s going on?”

“Apparently Jared took off. Went for a walk.”

“What do you mean, took off? How?”

Jensen shrugged. “The guy’s big. He recovers pretty quick. Said he was gonna walk it off. He does that.”

“And Angel let him?”

“I don’t know. He wasn’t happy when I got up. Left me here with this,” he turned the pot of coffee to face Misha, “told me not to go anywhere.”

“How long ago was this?”

“A hour.”

“No wonder you look like you’re about to jump out of your skin.” Misha poured, thinking.

Jensen echoed his thoughts. “I’ve been out front, calling,” he said. “But this place is in the fucking middle of nowhere. And I can’t find a damn flashlight. Think Angel took it.”

“Still. I’m surprised you’re here, and not out there.” Very surprised.

Jensen waved his words away. “Angel’s out looking. Couldn’t leave you here alone.”

He certainly didn’t sound happy about it, and Misha wondered what threats Angel put upon him to keep him in that chair. They’d all seen how – persuasive – the man could be. Misha took it for what it was. “I’m up now. You ready to go?” He took a quick gulp of coffee, and waited. All good. He took another gulp.

Jensen was already standing, showing how hard it had been for him to sit and wait for news. “We can’t see. There’s no moon. No lights, nothing.” He spoke rapidly, turning in an agitated circle.

“So we’ll walk carefully.” Misha rose and looked around the kitchen for anything useful. But Jensen was right, there wasn’t a light to be had. “Listen, forget it. Our eyes will adjust. I’ve been out in the woods at night. You can see if you’re careful.”

“Woods, sure. But here? Have you seen the monster leaves on these trees?” Jensen slammed a drawer closed. “You know what, I don’t care. I’m not waiting.”

Misha led the way outside, into the yard, and under the black leaf canopy. Jensen was right. It was pitch. He halted, feeling Jensen bump his shoulder. “Shit.”

“Told ya.”

“Just stay close.”

“I’m right on your heels, buddy.” His voice was impatient.

Together they stumbled through the dense growth. Misha lost count of the number of webs he walked into, and once he was certain he batted away a large spider. His skin crawled, and he was about to own up and put Jensen in front of him. “Where the hell would he have walked?”

“Here.” He felt Jensen steer him around. The sense of space around him opened as a path unfolded before them, wide enough to walk comfortably. “Angel said there was a trail. He said he told Jared to go to a lake, then come back. Said the lake had healing waters.”

“You sure Jared didn’t mishear him? Angel could’ve have told him to go jump in a lake.”

“Funny.”

“I assume the sun was still up?”

“I was asleep when Jared left, but yeah. Angel was pacing around when I went into the kitchen because he was already overdue. Now they both should’ve been back, unless this place is miles off.”

It seemed miles off. Misha could just see where to put his feet now, as his eyes adjusted. The going was slow. His ears pricked at each sound. Jensen walked beside him, hurrying as best he could, his eyes darting through the growth like he could see something. Maybe he could. Maybe his eyesight was better. Some people had better night vision than others. Or maybe it was a sense of desperation that urged him forward. Misha tapped his arm. “Hey. Is there something you’re not sharing?”

“Like what?”

“Like your growing sense of urgency?”

Jensen shook him off. “Just keep moving.”

“You think something’s happened.”

“Dammit, if you don’t shut up and move I’m leaving your ass here!”

“Hey!” Misha grabbed his arm and jerked him to a stop. “I don’t deserve that. And we’re not walking into anything blind!” He hesitated, and rolled his eyes at the obvious. “Look, just tell me what you. . .”

“What I what? Feel? What do I feel right now? AGAIN?”

“YES.” Misha stared. “Right now.”

“He’s scared.” Jensen snapped, and yanked his arm away. “Something’s happening. He’s not at the damn lake. I don’t even know where the damn lake is!”

“All right! All right. What about Angel?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think he’s found him.” Jensen cupped his hands over his head. “If he did, Jared wouldn’t feel like this, right?”

“Have you been able to sense him before?” Misha asked, intrigued in spite of himself.

“What? No!” Jensen started back on the path. “I mean, sometimes we know what the other’s thinking, but what do you expect? We live in each other’s back pockets.”

“Still. . .”

“Look, there’s no big mystery here. No hocus-pocus. Let’s just go, okay?”

Misha nodded and let Jensen take the lead.

He followed his friend for what seemed like hours. A quick check of the display on his watch showed forty minutes had passed when they found the lake. “Healing waters,” Jensen said, his nose wrinkling in the faint moonlight that was just starting to peek through the thick leaves. “I really hope the leaves are making the color like that.”

“You can’t smell the algae?”

“Dude. I smell a cesspool.” Jensen touched his arm. “He’s not here.”

“Probably been carried off by a giant hormonal mosquito.” He checked himself as Jensen rushed back into the trees, suddenly realizing why his friend was nervous. Of course, he could have been taken. Here, it was commonplace. He paused as an odd light off in the distance caught his eye. He wasn’t sure he’d seen it, probably just from trying too hard to see, but no – there! He swallowed heavily, then quickly reached out for empty air.

“Jensen! Wait, no wait! Stop!” He hear a nearby rustle, and pointed. “There. You see it?” Orange firelight flickered through the dark trees, so faint it was almost an illusion. He took Jensen’s elbow and half-steered, half guided him towards the flickering, keeping a tight hold in case the man suddenly decided to go all hero. He did this because Jensen had suddenly tensed, and Misha knew enough to follow the man’s gut instinct. But that didn’t mean he was going to just let him run off into danger.

It was another ten minutes of downhill twists and turns before the ground leveled and brightened. The tree bark reflected the light as they came quickly closer, looking like lines of fire rather than the cold rods he’d viewed from a distance. They picked up the pace, then ran as fast as they could. They slowed just outside a group of people gathered in a small clearing. The fire was centered in the middle of their circle, and roaring. The small crowd was quiet, paying careful attention yet shifting impatiently. Misha and Jensen threaded their way through, and stopped just inside the group. Misha instantly darted his hands out to grab Jensen’s arms, stopping him from running forward. His breath caught in his throat. These people, they had to of come for the ones in the middle. The Anya Lihai. And Jared.

He was standing with them, just in front of the bonfire. His arms were pinned tightly behind him by two large men. There was no wonder Jensen could sense the fear coming off the man. His body was rigid, his eyes darting quickly from one set of eyes to another. The gag in his mouth prevented him from making a noise, but when he saw Misha and Jensen standing at the edge of the crowd, his eyes widened. He jerked forward.

“What the hell’s going on?” Jensen angrily asked Misha over his shoulder. Misha just shook his head, not daring to release him. “Where’s Angel?”

“I don’t know! Be quiet.”

A man stepped into the center of the circle. His eyes were white and wild; his thin, dark body wrinkled and bent with age. He held long fingers to the sky and started a chant. Another man approached him and set a bowl within his interlocked fingers. The old man slowly brought the down bowl before his chest and huddled over it, stepping in rhythm in a slow circle, his muttering low and personal. Slowly he turned, and eyed the men holding Jared.

Jensen started forwards, but Misha held him back. “Dammit, this isn’t a tv show,” he hissed. “This is the real thing. You go in there, you better know what you’re doing!” People were turning to look at them. He dug his fingers deep into Jensen’s arm. “Shit. Doesn’t matter. They know we’re here.”

“Then you better come up with a plan damned fast!” Jensen said, and yanked away. He stepped inside the circle. Misha cursed silently, torn between following him and staying put. The commotion ceased within the circle. Jared watched them, his startled gaze drifting from one to the other. Fear poured off the man, a fear that was compounded by Jensen’s bull-headedness. He looked frantically for Angel, but the man was nowhere to be seen. Gritting his teeth, he could only wait.

Jensen didn’t stride into the circle with a hero’s gait. He walked slowly, looking at the people, at the old man, and at Jared. “What the hell’s going on?” he demanded. Misha heard the slight tremor in his voice and again looked for Angel.

A man darted out and grabbed Jensen’s arm, but he quickly jerked it back. His gaze locked on the man holding the bowl.

Jared again pulled toward him, more like a warning than anything. At this point, it was all Misha could do to keep still. He thought of what he’d told Jensen. This wasn’t a show. This wasn’t scripted. This was real. That splintered pole beside Jared was real. At a signal they led Jared to it, bypassing the nearby fire. The people crowded in, shouldering Misha forwards, sucking Jensen back in beside him. Desperation filled him. Oh God, they were in over their heads! He watched as they pushed Jared back against the pole.

Jared’s chin was raised. His eyes closed, and Misha could see his chest pump with fear as his arms were wrenched behind him, his wrists tied securely. His eyes followed every wrap the rope made, saw Jared tried to pull against it. He winced at the tight knot. Jared was looking at him down the bridge of his nose, keeping his head high in defiance, but his nostrils were dilated, his eyes bright.

“Misha!” Jensen snapped, one hand on his shoulder, looking as desperate and out of place as he felt. And he decided, to hell with it. He met Jensen’s eyes, and nodded. Together, they boldly stepped out into the circle, with Jensen heading right for Jared.

It wouldn’t have worked, of course. Misha instantly felt hands grab him. His shoulders screamed in agony as his arms were wrenched up behind him and he was forced down onto his knees. He didn’t utter a sound, but Jensen knew. He turned, looking like a wild animal that was cornered. Misha kept his chin up, not letting Jensen sense his discomfort. At least they were a distraction. At least they were buying time.

Jensen turned back to Jared, but stopped. There was a knife at Jared’s throat. Jared was stone still.

Misha gave his body an aggravated twist, to no avail.

It seemed forever before the old man approached Misha, his eyes wild with drugs and visions. Misha twisted again. This was another country. This was shit he didn’t want to read about, much less mess with. Should’ve fucking stayed home! Shouldn’t have stepped foot in this damned place. They could’ve figured things out back there.

And Jensen could only lock eyes with his, trying to ease the man though he was just as scared. He could feel his own heart pounding in his chest. He felt dizzy with adrenaline. But something about Jensen’s gaze seemed reassuring at the same time. Maybe it was the fact that Jensen bothered to look back at him at all. But with the older man’s attention on Misha, he noticed Jensen slowly backing his way to Jared. He didn’t dare nod encouragement. Besides, it wasn’t like Jensen could free him. There were too many people watching.

Misha was raised to his feet, and released. The old man shoved his face forward, forcing Misha to jerk his head back. The man instantly took another step, encroaching on Misha’s personal space, challenging him. The glazed eyes were wide and terrifying, and Misha had no idea what he saw through them. The man broke out into a strange, quick language. He jerked his head up and down as he spoke, jabbing his finger at Misha’s chest, giving him a “what for” that he couldn’t understand. It was oddly mesmerizing. He had nowhere to go, and could only watch. The finger waved in his face, and he swatted it away, annoyed. His arms were instantly wrenched behind him once more as the man bellowed in offense. Terrific. They were screwed.

At that moment the crowd parted, and Angel rushed in; a roaring, dark apparition coming from a darker void. The men holding Misha tugged him roughly to the side, making him stumble then dragging him across the ground. Angel paid them no attention as he lurched right up to the man that had been in his face, all the while shooting out language that made no sense. The drugged man shoved him back, yelling, countering everything Angel said. He turned and waved a hand. Jensen was grabbed and jerked backwards away from Jared, his arms held tightly. One hand held his hair. He cursed and kicked, struggled. Jared was fighting with his bonds again.

Angel and the old man continued to yell. Misha looked over his shoulder. The men that had held his arms looked confused, their eyes darting from one arguing form to the other. The old man yelled out and pointed at Jared.

The man beside Jared moved. A knife flashed through the air.

Misha followed it with his eyes as Jensen yelled out. The knife was held by a small man, and he crouched down by Jared’s legs, deftly dodging a kick. Two other men held his legs still. He could hear Jared grunting and cursing through his gag, see him try to wrestle away. Jensen was struggling, ready to bring his captors down with him. A third man closed in, and threw a gag over his mouth, then stood behind him and pulled tightly, not tying the gag, but using it to hold his head still. He was forced back to where Misha stood, and shoved toward him, released. Jensen was ready to launch himself forward again, but Misha stopped him with two words. “The knife,” he said quickly.

Angel took several steps away from the enraged old man. “Enough!” he boomed, his ire directed towards Jared. The man with the knife looked up. Angel stared at him, stared at the old man, turned and stared at everyone. He crossed to stand with Misha and Jensen. The men holding Misha let him go, and slowly took a step back.

The man, the Shaman, jabbed his finger in Angel’s face. “Yoooou brought this ‘ere!” he said in an odd sing-song voice. “Yoooou did tis to us!”

Angel’s face looked aged, but with power, not years. “I didn’t bring them. They came on their own.”

“We must protect! Destroy tis ting!”

“Shit, they’re gonna kill him,” Jensen muttered in a low voice. “They’re gonna kill him!”

“No. They want to bleed him,” Angel corrected stiffly. “To get rid of the evil.”

“Bleed him?” Jensen exclaimed, incredulous. “There’s nothing in him! Let him go!”

“It is their way,” Angel said, his eyes not leaving the Shaman’s.

“It’s not our way,” Misha interjected frantically. “Tell them to stop.”

“I can’t.”

“Then what the hell have you been saying to him?” Jensen demanded. Good. The longer they kept talking, the longer the knife would stay away from Jared.

“Word is out about all of you,” Angel said. “They wish to get rid of the evil, just as you do.”

Jensen raged. “It’s not in him! It’s in me, you assholes! You want to bleed someone, you bleed me. You’ve got the wrong person!”

But the man made a sharp motion. Hands grabbed both Misha and Jensen as the knife rose to slice through Jared’s abdomen. He cried out through the gag, his eyes wide, then slammed his head back against the post.

“No!” Angel yelled out, his anger dampening Misha and Jensen’s own yells. “What are you doing? You bleed them from the ankle!”

“This is none of your business!” The man spat on the ground.

Tears dripped from Jared’s eyes, mingling with the sweat. The blood streamed from his wound in small rivulets. The man pressed his hand against Jared’s stomach, opening the wound, spattering blood into the bowl the old man had blessed. The small man caught it greedily as Jared let out a sob of pain.

He didn’t know what to do. Misha tugged against the men holding him. “White flash,” he said suddenly, looking at Jensen. “That’s you.”

“What?”

“Back at Angel’s house! Lodestone! Use it! Get fucking pissed, or something!”

“I am pissed!”

“THEN DO SOMETHING!” Misha yelled.

And the man bleeding Jared cried out in agony, then fell to the ground. Jared looked down, stunned, still gasping in pain through his gag. His eyes closed, then opened faintly.

“Again!” Misha yelled out.

Jensen looked terrified. He glanced at the man holding him, and he fell, as he did other. People started to scream, and scatter. The old man rounded on him, and Jensen froze in place.

Misha felt himself being released as his own captors fell. He hurried toward Jared, whipping off his shirt. The wound was shallow, but painful. Jared whimpered at him, shaking his head, and Misha turned to see a fist aimed at him. He threw up his palm to catch the blow, then twisted the man’s arm down, feeling the shoulder joint pop. “Son of a bitch!” His wrist was strained. He tried to shake it out and pressed the shirt against Jared’s abdomen with his good hand. A quick glance showed Jensen backing away from the old man, with Angel speaking rapidly. He had no clue why Angel didn’t just intervene. He looked around and saw the bloodied knife on the ground. One slash and Jared’s wrists were cut free. The injured man slumped forward, then held his own weight and pressed Misha’s shirt to his wound with one hand while trying to untie the gag with the other. Misha braced him. “Jensen!”

He was being held, and was yelling out at them to go on, to move their asses. Angel was in a powerful shouting match, surrounded by men. Misha met Jensen’s eyes, and the meaning was clear. “We should’ve fucking stayed home!” he responded in an angry yell, and hauled Jared out of there.

The last he saw of Jensen was his panic as the crowd closed in.

********************

Jared’s fingers continued to pry at the gag. Misha stopped just long enough to untie it and fling it aside, then urged him on. “We have to go back,” Jared gasped.

“I know,” Misha replied, pressing them towards the house.

He stumbled back through the trees, Jared’s weight an unwelcome anchor. The taller man was doing his best to hold his own, but his large feet caught on the ground. They fell together several times, and it wasn’t until he landed hard on Misha that he seemed to come to his senses and make more of an effort to move. Probably had something to do with Misha, half crushed, cursing up a storm from underneath him.

Somehow he’d turned wrong. Or right. The path diverged, and he followed it, not able to remember the way back. It had been dark when they launched out. Now, with the moon high above, everything looked different. He no longer cared. He just had to get them away. Ages passed before the path emptied onto a dirt road, and he had a clue where to go. The ocean was to his left.

It was an hour’s hard trek before they landed on Selma’s wooden porch in a loud heap. Misha lay gasping, hearing the voices inside, then the exclamations as the yellow porch light came on. He just pointed to Jared, and let his eyes close. He could hear Selma fussing, encouraging Jared to stand, and heard the grunts of pain as he did so. Misha’s head lolled to the side in exhaustion. “Gotta get Jensen,” he muttered, wanting to move, but he couldn’t. Not yet. In a minute. Visions of the old man swam behind his lids, jabbing his finger into his face, uttering words he couldn’t understand.

He heard Selma fussing, and Jared’s constant insistence that Jensen was “back there”, that he needed help. Misha wanted to reassure him, to say Angel was with him, but he couldn’t speak. A leathered hand stroked his cheek, and his eyes opened to see Gramma kneeling beside him, her skirt tucked self-consciously around bony knobs that served as knees. She held up a small glass of a vile looking substance. “You drink,” she insisted.

Not another one. “I can’t.” His eyes closed. The old man dance before him, holding the bowl, jabbing his finger in his face. He felt a dribble over his lips, and faded.

She urged him to sit up. “You drink, you go back.” She nodded emphatically, and pressed the glass to his lips.

What he swallowed tasted like it came from her ass. He choked, ready to hurl, but a dry hand closed tight over his mouth as the other pressed to the back of his head. He fought it, but had no choice but to swallow. It was that or break her arm. He rolled and gagged, coughed, spat repeatedly. “The hell is that shit?” he demanded in a gruff voice, hacking like he had a furball in his throat.

“You go. Get him now.”

“What about Jared?”

“Is good here.”

Misha nodded faintly. His stomach churned. “There’s no way I’m going to keep this down,” he insisted, and forced out an unwelcome belch.

“It settles. Give you strength.”

“What is it?” Then he knew. His exhaustion suddenly peeled away like the skin of a fruit, leaving nothing but energy exposed. Raw caffeine?

“Go. Get him. Get them both.” She waved him away with a skeletal hand, her eyes golden and wild. Mystical.

He wasn’t about to question it. Misha rose, trying to push the superhero complex out of his head, and ran.

*************
“Jensen. . .”

“Shhh. Hush now. You boys ain’t nothing but trouble but that’s okay, as I’ve taken a liking to you. But you’s trouble, no doubt.” Gramma’s voice was firm, determined.

“Gramma,” Selma started.

“Get the doctor. Angel not here. Get Richard.”

“Gramma. . .”

Bright eyes turned. “Go.”

The room faded from his view.

**************

Misha ran. He found the path and charged down it, heading back for the lake, for the fire. He didn’t know how much time had passed. He didn’t know if they’d still be there, or on their way back, or held hostage, or – things he didn’t want to think about. There were fewer webs this time. The trees were probably full of pissed-off spiders waiting to wage war on him. He’d have to dig a bunker when he got back to Gramma’s. He could just see himself explaining that one to her.

He was scared. He was scared for Jared, who should by all right have been trying to hold his guts in. A scratch. Right. Scratches don’t bleed like that. But he’d moved like it wasn’t a big deal, so maybe he was blowing everything out of proportion. Wouldn’t be the first time. But leaving Jensen behind with that mass of people, seeing him held back, seeing those eyes, that was something that chewed him up even more that Jared’s injury. He knew Jared wouldn’t forgive him for it.

He slipped on a patch of leaves and stumbled, then fell hard to his knees. His heart felt like it would burst from his chest, it thumped so heavily. He was panting, sweating. This wasn’t natural. Even if he found the other two, he didn’t know what he could do other than run circles around them. Maybe he could get them to follow him, run around and around in a circle around that pole until they churned themselves into butter. Crap. Wrong myth. Wrong country.

He looked up, then pushed to his feet, wavering unsteadily. How long would the effects last? Would he get there and collapse at their feet? He ran on, feeling the energy feeding through him like a parasite, sucking on his reserves and spitting them back out threefold. He was at the cess-pool lake before he knew it, and saw the light beyond. He charged, skidding down the hill, tempted to beak into the circle of people with a warrior’s cry that would hopefully be enough to scatter them. Then he could swirl his magnificent cape around his shoulders, pick up both Jensen and Angel, and fly off over the trees.

As it was, the circle of people were gone. The place was empty, but for Angel holding a still Jensen in the center.

Misha doubled over and vomited. The vile substance came back up. He was light-headed, and ill, but still felt the nervous energy. He saw Angel’s tears. His eyes then fell to Jensen’s open stare, seeing nothing. “No.” It took forever to summon the strength to say that one word. Saying it just confirmed what he saw.

“He was brave,” Angel said. “He took his punishment.”

“NO!” Misha ran to him, fell to his knees. He yanked the body away from Angel, and clutched it to him. The once vivid green stare was now glassy. It was a shell. There was no sparkle, no impish grin, no sorrow. He shook his friend, then looked up at Angel, ready to tear into him, ready to demand why Jensen wasn’t protected.

But Angel turned into a huge beast, and devoured them both.

LODESTONE pt 14

kamelionwriter — Wed, 28 Oct 2009 21:32:17 GMT

(There's a lot to this chapter. Read carefully.)

Angel’s small, one-level house was as dark as Gramma’s. Candles were set in the rooms he’d seen. Bare light bulbs hung from the ceiling and sat in fixtures, but most were grey, burnt out. The small refrigerator in the kitchen was powered, and as far as he could tell, that was it. The stove looked electric rather than gas. There was no sign of air conditioning. Judging by the places they passed on the way, he was lucky to have all this.

Figurines were placed on counters and tables in a tasteful, uncluttered manner. Old masks hung on the walls, most looked homemade. Sticks were piled in one corner of the main room, near a fireplace that was probably used more for cooking than heat. Jared again eyed the stove, and saw a small ring of crust where a pot had boiled over, and left. Unshuttered windows let the natural light in, throwing shadows throughout the place, leaving him to wonder what hid in the corners.
“We make a great pair,” he muttered, trying to fill the void with words. He held a cold cloth to the lump on the back of his head. Misha just grunted, and fidgeted with his own bandage. “Leave that alone.”

“I’m not wearing this, I don’t care what Selma says,” Misha grumbled in distaste and gingerly touched the wound. “It isn’t bleeding anymore.”

“You look like Achmed the Dead Terrorist.” Jared grinned.

Misha just snorted and rose from the table. He peered into the reflective surface of the shaded window and started unrolling the gauze wrap.

Jared rubbed his forefinger along the grooves of the worn table. “Tell me again why Jensen isn’t here?”

“Angel just says he’s coming later.”

This troubled him. He shook his head, wincing at the slight pain, and shifted the cloth. “But it wasn’t his fault.”

“Maybe not. But you were hurt.” Misha looked confused. “That shouldn’t have happened.”

Jared lowered the cloth and studied it. Not bleeding. “What are you talking about?”

“That was an attack. On you.”

“That didn’t answer my question.”

“He’s saying you are as much a part of it as Jensen is,” Angel said, coming around the corner.

“Whoa, wait. I’m not a part of anything. Neither is Jensen, okay?” Jared leaned forward. “He’s in trouble. Don’t you get it? Didn’t you see what happened? There’s something in him. How do we know he’s not gonna try and off himself while we’re gone? Huh? How do we know that damn thing doesn’t have him right now?”

“It does.”

He sat for a moment, incredulous. “Then what the hell are we sitting around for?”

“What do you propose to do? It attacked you.”

“It attacked you too!”

“I was caught in it. Nothing more.”

“But you were the one hurting him,” Misha said, and raised his hands apologetically. “No, listen to me. I’m saying, if Jared was trying to help him, then why was he thrown with such force?”

“You forget. I was helping too,” Angel said.

“But your help was hurting him physically. Right? I heard him from upstairs. Selma said you were working on him. I was already on my way down. What on earth were you doing to him that made the thing react that way?”

“Healing his back.”

“Some healing.”

“It worked. He’s moving.” Angel sounded defensive. His brow furrowed. “But you are right. It flung Jared away first. I don’t have an answer for you.”

“Maybe he was thinking about me or something,” Jared said with a sigh. “God knows. None of this makes any sense.”

“It makes perfect sense, actually,” Angel said as his phone rang. It was an old-fashioned sound, a high pitched, loud bell that pointed to an old land line. He left to answer.

Misha shook his head. “If he was looking at you, then maybe.” He looked troubled. Jared wanted to question him, but something made him stop. Misha had that look, just like the one he had when he was immersing himself in his Castiel role. The look that Jensen teased him about, that ultra-serious gaze that had no doubt secured the part for him. The look that said there was more going on than meets the eye, but he wasn’t talking.

“Do you think he’s okay?” Jared finally asked after several moments of silence.

Misha’s look scared him.

Angel came back in, his movements rushed. “That was Selma,” he said briskly, picking up the small leather pouch he usually carried, and slinging the thin strap over his shoulder. “He’s gone.”

Misha’s attention snapped around, and Jared scraped his chair back. He leaned forward urgently, his fear mounting. “What do you mean, gone?”

“You ask questions with obvious answers,” Angel responded testily. “I mean he is no longer at Selma’s home. He has gone. Climbed out of his window.”

“Climbed out?” Jared was at a sudden loss. “Why?”

“To get out, I’d think,” Angel snapped. “You will stay here while I search.”

Jared jumped up. “I’ll be damned! I’m coming with you.” Images rushed through his head. Jensen zoned out in the car. The jack. The board. High places.

Angel strode across the room.“You would do better to stay here,” he said, stern and uncompromising. “I can’t look for all of you. Selma will send word should he return. Some one needs to be here for the phone.”

“Angel. . .”

“Jared, you will sit, and be here for the phone! Misha will join you!”

Jared was sitting before he realized it. Misha had done the same, and looked just as surprised.

“You will listen, and take what I say to heart. You will stay here while I find your friend. It is vital. Can you do that?”

His voice was mesmerizing. Jared found himself agreeing without realizing it. The space where Angel stood was empty, and he wasn’t sure the man had waited for a response.

********************

Jensen panted and leaned back against a tree. He was lost. Fucking lost! He thought he knew the way back to the road, but of course he was wrong. Of course he’d forgotten the sneaky twists and turns they’d taken to get to Gramma’s place. He knew to head away from the distant surf, but that was it. Now the sun was setting, and he realized just how fucking stupid he’d been. He swallowed hard and closed his eyes, leaning his head back against the bark, then opened them. What the hell? He couldn’t let his guard down. Not here.

He was surrounded by – huts. No, not even huts. Just random pieces of rotted boards and cardboard propped together and ill-secured by whatever else was laying in the road. The street was rancid. Kids watched him, all barely clothed, some proudly wearing one flayed shoe. The neighborhood had to be the poorest thing he’d ever seen, and he was mortified by it. More and more heads poked out of poor excuses for housing. Small dark eyes found his. Shadows lengthened, obscuring their bodies as they followed him, darting from trees to hovels like small ghouls. He was spooked enough without them sneaking around. He pushed from the tree, quickened his pace, then was running, hearing the small feet pattering behind him. Ridiculous. They were children, for god’s sake, small kids with freaky, wandering eyes that bored into him like insects into a tree. They were running, staring, pleading, and he couldn’t shake them.

Straight backed, he adopted a runner’s stance and tore off down the street, and up the next hill. He didn’t stop until his legs gave out, nearly sending him crashing to the pebble-covered dirt. He slapped chest first against a rough brick wall and stayed there, heaving, wondering what the hell he was going to do. He didn’t have it in him to go on. Shouldn’t have left his damn bedroom. His back prickled, then started a slow, dull ache.

Another set of eyes found him, much lower to the ground. Threatening.

Jensen slowly rolled his body until his back was to the wall. A mangy dog stared at him, head lowered, teeth bared. It was big, damned big, but bone thin. He probably looked like a fine, juicy steak to this starved animal. Jensen eased out a leg, and the growl intensified. He slowly dragged his leg back. Fuck. Fuck, fuck fuck! Without moving his head, he let his eyes dart frantically for a way out. Just his luck to be taken out by a dog.

A distraction came in the form of a gunshot, which had him trying to dig back into the brick, covering his head with his arms. The ground between him and the dog spat, and the dog yelped, not hit, but running off with an old limp.

He looked up, and saw five men approaching quickly. They slowed once they saw him. He exhaled, relieved that the dog was gone, and trying not to think about the bullet that had sent him scurrying. “Thanks,” he said, not knowing if they’d understand him, hoping to sound non-threatening. “Looks like I was running out of luck..” They were walking toward him. Maybe they could tell him how to get back to a familiar street. But one man still held a gun visible in his hand.

His eyes fell to the glinting metal. His stomach knotted in foreboding. Suddenly they rushed him and were on him, nothing but a mass of dark arms and hands yanking him away from the wall, pushing him into the circle they formed. They quickly shoved him back and forth until he lost his balance and fell, dizzy, his defensive blows hitting nothing. Hands grabbed his arms and snatched him up, others thrust unmercifully into his pockets. His wallet was fished out and emptied by one man, then taken by another.

A man shoved aside two ruffians and leered into Jensen’s face. He didn’t have time to wonder if this was a rescue before the man dealt him a powerful blow to the stomach that threatened to double him over. His head snapped from a punch. Another to the gut finally had him down, released, ready to vomit. A kick to his head had him reeling. He fought back, flinging his arms and legs, trying to beat them away. His arms were held again, pulled over his head, and he was kicked in the ribs. His breath left him, and wouldn’t return.

Then there was nothing but yelling and pain. A kick to the back undid all Angel’s efforts. He cried out loudly at that one, and they laughed, and all closed in, kicking and punching until he was certain he was dying. He glanced though a swelling eye to see the glint of metal, and the barrel of the gun pointed at him. They still held his arms over his head. He could only close his eyes.

A gun fired, but not the one pointed at him. He was released, and coughed and curled in on himself as the men broke from over him, scattering. Cowards. Served them right. He tried to raise his head, and caught sight of a furious dark man dressed in white, charging towards him, both salvation, and damnation in those steps.

He felt his body spasm in pain. He kept his arms tucked close to him, and stared up though his good eye at the figure that hovered over him. Then he vomited. The man knelt beside him.

Angel. Jensen gave a grateful nod and passed out.

*************************

He woke with a cough. Someone was pouring water into him, and he didn’t want it. He gagged and spat it out, hearing a curse. Jensen sat up, bracing his hands on the sofa, countering the swirling in his head. Someone tried to force him back down, but he batted them away and stood, only to fall back against a body, taking them back down on the sofa with him. There was another curse, this time a different voice, and a deeper one over that, speaking in soothing tones. His head started to clear, and he saw Jared looking at him, Angel over his shoulder. He was sitting in Misha’s lap.

He quickly pushed away, then fell to the floor. Jared’s arms wrapped around him, and Jensen allowed it as he took sudden notice of his hurts, oh holy shit, he hurt! His back was in agony. There wasn’t a part of him that didn’t feel battered beyond recognition.

“I said take it easy!” Jared muttered into his ear. “Dammit, hold still!”

“Shit. Where am I? Where am I?” Jensen demanded uneasily, realizing he didn’t recognize a damn thing he laid his eyes upon.

“Easy! You’re in Angel’s place!”

Angel’s place? He wanted to laugh. It sounded so...absurd. He’d died, hadn’t he? Angel’s place. “Huh. Got here after all.” He felt his eyes drift.

“What you did was foolish!” Angel bellowed, and Jensen’s eyes snapped open once more. “I should beat you myself!”

At this point it probably wouldn’t make a difference. “Why not? You left me with that damn thing in my head. So go ahead. Be my guest.” He felt Jared’s grip tighten on him. He’d slumped again, and hadn’t realized it. Angel knelt in front of him. “How’d you find me, anyway?”

“If you must know,” he answered slowly, “I followed the dogs.”

That didn’t sound good. “What dogs?”

“The ones that were tailing you. The ones that would have been happy to eat your entrails!”

Jensen winced at the image. “Damn, shut up!”

“You are the one who left! Do you live here? No! Do you know what you were walking into? No!”

“All right, I get it! Lay off!”

Angel grabbed his shirt. Jensen felt Jared’s arms tighten, and he pushed at him, but it wasn’t like he could go anywhere. “From now on, you listen to me. Do you understand? You stay where I tell you! I have my reasons, as you have found out!”

“What good was it to keep me there by myself?” Jensen yelled angrily. “What if that thing had come back?”

“I needed time to think. Which I didn’t get, thanks to your prank!” He shoved Jensen back.

“Okay, hey.” Misha took Angel by the arm. “He’s got it. We all got it.”

Angel didn’t seem to mind Misha’s forward manner. He just nodded and walked a few paces away, his back to them while he regained his temper. Jensen gently pushed Jared away and sat up on his own, his arms close to his aching body. “Would they have shot me?” he asked.

“No. They would have killed you.” Angel’s back was still facing him. His voice was softer, and floated over his shoulder.

Jensen swallowed. “Good thing you came when you did,” he offered as an apology. “Were you trying to shoot them?”

“No. But a far-off gunshot does not attract attention. It happens too often. A close one, and people run.”

“Even if they have a gun.”

“For all we know, they may have been out of bullets. You are very lucky.”

Jensen closed his eyes as the room spun. Arms grabbed him from behind, and he let himself fall as limp as he could manage against Jared’s chest. He felt Misha’s hands on his shins as he crouched, and knew they wouldn’t leave him. A pungent aroma filled the air, and a small cup pressed against his lips. He sipped, then choked. He was fucking awake now! “ – the hell is that shit?”

He saw Jared take the cup and sniff it, then felt him jerk. “Ahh, God! What is it with you people and the foul smelling stuff?” he asked, quickly handing it back.

“You know this? Did Selma give this to you?” Angel asked, taking the cup. The edge was gone from his voice. Jensen wondered if his sudden weakness had unnerved the man.

“I burned the crap outta my back. Got sun poisoning. She gave it to me then.”

“It is a potent healing medicine. She has it because I gave it to her. Did you sleep?”

“Like the dead.”

“This is without the sleeping herb.”

Jensen sat up against the sofa, his body screaming at him. “So, you’re saying if we survive the taste test we’re good?” he managed to ask.

Angel grinned. “That is an excellent observation.”

“This is payback. This is your kind of revenge.”

“Would rum help?”

Rum? Jensen rolled his head to look at Angel, and gave a tired smile. “Now you’re talking.”

The room revealed itself through his good eye as he was helped to his feet. He was surprised to see lush fabrics on the chairs and sofas. Two paintings hung on the walls, both with black backgrounds and colorful streaks. He shuffled behind Angel, passing a small room loaded with canvases and paints. Similar paintings lined the walls. “You an artist?”

“We are all artists. I happen to paint.” He stepped back and gestured for them to enter the kitchen. Jensen let Misha and Jared go ahead of him, and noticed Angel give a slight bow before entering himself. “It is a place of nourishment,” he explained simply. “Always give thanks for that which nourishes.”

“You consider rum nourishment?”

He grinned brightly. “I consider it the best kind.” He walked to a small refrigerator and pulled out a round of beef. “For your eye.”

“I’ve never found steak to work,” Jensen mused, sitting at the crooked, wooden kitchen table. “Not unless it’s on the grill.”

“It is not steak.”

“Oh. Well. No worries then.” He gave a mild snort and put the package to his swollen eye. Jared gave him a sympathetic glance.

Then Jensen remembered. His back. Both Jared and Angel being flung to the corners of the room. His eyes widened, and he lowered his pack. “What the hell happened back there? I just – I don’t know what. . .to say about it.”

“We are fine,” Angel reassured him, setting a kettle on the stove. “Herbal tea,” he said. “To put your rum into.”

“More healing, huh?”

“Of course. I am a healer. It would make sense.” He leaned back against the counter. “The tea is for you all. I expect each one to drink it.”

Of course he did. Because it looked like dirt, and probably tasted the same. “You’re a healer,” Jensen muttered dubiously, then looked up. “That’s why Selma wanted us here.”

“So it would seem.”

Hope filled him. “Wait! Can you fix this?” he asked urgently, gesturing to the three of them.

“I assume you do not speak of physical injuries.” He shrugged. “I don’t know.”

Jensen blinked in disbelief. “What do you mean you don’t know?”

“I own a dictionary, should you need it.”

Jensen winced, and fell silent. Pompous medicine – person.

“Why are you called Angel? Is that your given name?” Misha asked. Both Jared and Jensen smirked.

Angel raised a brow. “Is it a funny name?”

Jared thumbed towards Misha. “Nah. He just plays one on tv.”

“Enough,” Misha muttered behind a smile.

Angel’s mouth quirked. He turned to watch the kettle. “Selma’s grandmother did not like her moving away to pursue this career of hers.”

“She’s very good,” Misha offered.

“She abandoned her family. What’s so good about that?” For a moment, Angel darkened. “Left her grandmother to be cared for by others.”

“Where’s her parents?” Jensen was almost afraid to ask.

“That is not for me to say,” Angel remarked, and caught the kettle as it started to whistle. “And this is a subject best not discussed. I’m sorry to mention it.”

“How do you know her?”

Angel gave a smirk of his own. “We share a mother.”

But not a father. This was news. Jensen’s brows raised, and he shifted in his seat.

“Back to your name, then?” Misha suggested.

“I am called so for my healing methods. The sick see me as an angel. It is simple enough.”

“Healing methods,” Jared muttered. “Hey, do you know someone named Jean? Big man, probably about your age. He was with Gramma during the riots. Red house. She went to see him for some medicine.”

He looked troubled. “I know him. Yes.”

“Why is she going to him and not you?”

He paused. “We see the healing arts – differently.”

Jensen took in the bags of roots, the drying leaves. “You’re old school. He’s not.”

Angel gave him a wink of acknowledgment. “Just as she denounces voodoo, she’s denouncing the old ways as well. I believe she thinks she will live longer that way.”

“Seems like she’d try to keep the old ways alive,” Jared said. “Why is she fighting it?”

Angel set down the wooden spoon he was using to stir the tea. “It didn’t work for her when she most needed it. And that’s all I will say on the matter.”

Jared nodded in understanding, then continued to tote the conversation. “Jean said a word to me. Something like – sounded kinda like parasite.”

“Parazit?”

“Yeah.”

“You got the meaning of it.” He stared at the pot.

“What about, what was the other one – apwa – z something.”

Angel thought for a moment. “Anpwazonnen.” His voice was tight. “Poison.”

Jensen turned to Jared. “He said this to you?” he asked.

“Yeah.” Jared nodded in response.

Angel folded his arms. “It means he knows. This isn’t good.”

Jensen suddenly felt very cold. “He knows – about our situation?”

“Yes.”

“He a part of that thing you mentioned on the porch that night?”

“The Anya Lihai. He is, yes.”

“This is bad, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” Angel resumed stirring. “He recognized it in Jared. It is well you weren’t with him.” His head darted up. “Were you?”

“No. I was with Misha. Jared went to check on Gramma alone.”

“Still. Others would have seen you.” He set the kettle on a round wooden trivet in the center of the table, and took a bottle of rum from a cabinet.

“Meaning what?” Misha asked carefully.

“Meaning you both should have stayed as I told you! All of you should have!” Angel thumped the bottle on the table angrily. “You have complicated things now, because you don’t listen! Probably why you have this thing in the first place.”

“Hey, now wait a minute!” Jensen exclaimed, scraping his chair back to stand, but his back gave. He barely stifled a gasp, clutched the back of his chair, easing down, glaring at Angel’s knowing expression. “Forget it. You’re not walking on my back again.”

“Did it help before?”

Jensen gritted his teeth and took the mug of tea handed to him. He added a liberal amount of rum.

“If you’d brought him here in the first place, this wouldn’t have happened,” Jared said in Jensen’s defense.

“If he had trusted someone, this wouldn’t have happened,” Angel countered.

“I trust people!” Jensen insisted.

“Who?”

Jensen instinctively turned to Jared, who flushed. He exhaled at the reddening face, and looked down.

“If you trust them, why push them away?”

The mood suddenly shifted. This was going to get really uncomfortable, really fast. “That’s none of your business,” he responded testily. Oh, great. Now Jared was hurt, his eyes all brown and sad, and wasn’t that just peachy? It was one thing that irritated the crap out of him about his friend.

“What you have,” Angel continued, “came to you. You didn’t call it. But it was able to get through because of the delicate state you were already in.”

“Hey, there is nothing on me that’s in a delicate state.” He shifted, and cursed as his back again betrayed him.

“Selma says you were depressed before?” Angel fired at him.

Oh, this was SO not the time, just – don’t go there. Jensen glanced uneasily around the table. “Okay, look,” he said, suddenly pleading, “let’s drop this.”

“And when will you see fit to talk about it? When this thing has destroyed those that matter to you?”

He remembered Jared being flung across the room, and how it seemed to be watching Misha. “I thought. . .” he hesitated. Angel prompted him with his hand. Okay, this was going to sound stupid. “I thought it was protecting me.” He ran his fingers over the table, refusing to meet anyone’s eyes.

“Protecting you?” Jared exploded.

“Well, yeah. It was. . .”

“It’s driving you to. . .” Jared said over his words, but he didn’t voice his thought. “How is it protecting you? It’s scaring the shit out of you, man! I’ve seen it!”

No, he definitely didn’t want to go there. He’d be admitting to them what he didn’t even want to admit to himself. He hid his face in his hand, wanting to just disappear.

“It’s not from the spirit, is it?” a voice asked gently. “You’ve had suicidal thoughts before.”

Jensen swallowed, and looked up at the speaker, meeting his gaze firmly. Misha. Ever-knowing. He always knew, from the day they first met and started filming. He knew how Jensen seemed so secure for so long, but was tearing up on the inside. How this thing found him, and wouldn’t let him go. Of course he knew, that’s why he stared, why he always seemed to be there. Why he talked with Selma.

He kept his eyes locked with that blue gaze, and said nothing. He didn’t want to see the look on Jared’s face. His silence was his admission, and everyone there knew it.

“My god,” Jared finally breathed. “And I’ve seen it. I’ve been there all along, even before this, but. . .” he heard a chair scrap back with a frustrated huff, heard Jared start to pace.

He closed his eyes, and covered his face. “Jared, listen. . .” he said into his hand.

“No! I mean, god! That’s not helping. I never have listened, have I?”

“Of course you have.” This was drifting beyond uncomfortable. This was approaching the “do not fucking cross or I’ll kick your ass” zone.

“If I’d been there for you, you wouldn’t feel like this.” His back was turned.

“It’s not your fucking fault! Okay?” Jensen yelled out, taking his hand away but still not looking up.

“Why not?” Angel broke in with a question that startled them all.

Jensen stared. “What the hell? You’re saying it’s his fault I feel like this?”

“Isn’t it?”

“NO!” Jensen stood, and paused as he winced in pain. “God.” But that just made him angrier, and he pounded his fist on the table, then braced himself against it. “How the hell is it his fault?”

“Was he there for you?”

“He was. . .” Jensen pressed his lips together and looked at his friend. His brother. Who still had his back turned to him. “Of course he was!”

“Apparently not.”

Jensen pushed up. “Okay, that’s it. You listen to me, you son of a bitch,” he growled in a low voice. He walked around the table and jabbed his forefinger on it, making his point.“You have no idea. You got that? No idea! He was there. Always! I’m the one that wasn’t fucking there! I wasn’t there!”

Angel listened, his eyes calm. He nodded slowly. “Good. Then I suggest you stop blaming everyone else for your own loneliness.” He gestured with one hand to Jensen’s body. “Look what it has done to you. To all of you. And it has just started. This is on you, Jensen. You can fix this.”

Jensen balked. Angel watched, dispassionately.

He wasn’t there. Jensen shook his head and tried to make sense of his own words, of Angel’s words, of everything that was going on. He wasn’t there. Shit. So many times, he ran. So many times when he needed to be there, to pay attention, he let himself drift. He hid. Even from his friends, he started hiding. He turned a small, distressed circle, lowering his head, grabbing it with his hands. Emotions floored him. Despair flooded him. Why would someone bring this on themselves? Why did people choose to be miserable? Was it conscious? Of course not. And he couldn’t help how he felt, could he? And what about all this – other? His own feelings were hard enough to deal with, forget taking on something that just – he couldn’t do it. This weight, he couldn’t take it. And suddenly, he couldn’t think. He couldn’t breathe. The room was no longer there, nothing was there, nothing but staring eyes, always staring, and this need to get away.

Why couldn’t he just end it? Part of him had tried since the spirit got hold of him. But before that? He thought about it sure. About taking his life, because he was numb. Because nothing mattered, then he’d suddenly be bombarded with everything and it was making him crazy. All the thoughts, the energies, the issues that pressed in over his own. He’d leave work and pause on a bridge, hovering over the edge until reason crept back in. He’d drive recklessly, or get too drunk. Take a few too many medications for his back, but all that did was make him sick. Like his body knew what he was doing, and wouldn’t let him. Ultimately, he was too chickenshit to do anything, which sent him further into his despair. He held his head like he could hold the thoughts in, but he knew his friends weren’t fooled. They were witnessing his downfall. And he was bringing them down with him.

Unless he had the guts to do the unthinkable. He hadn’t even realized until that moment that he’d been silently crying. He swallowed painfully, wondering how long he’d been lost in his tumultuous thoughts, how long they’d let him. All three men were seated quietly. He’d been the one pacing. He could do this. He could do this. He could get rid of the thing. He could get rid of the pain.

The room was darker. He realized he’d been setting himself up for the inevitable, preparing himself for the scariest trip a person would ever take. It made him realize that, deep down, he really didn’t want to die.

He raised his head. Jared took one look at his teary expression and started shaking his head vehemently, rushing forward to grab Jensen by the shirt. It amazed him how Jared could read his expressions. “No. Don’t you even.” His voice was low, threatening, his fists clenched in his shirt like he would never let go.

“If I do it, it’s gone,” Jensen said. “This is over.” And it was stupid, of course it was stupid, but in the back of his mind it made so much sense.

“YOU’RE over.” Jared shoved him back against the counter, fists still firm in his shirt. “Is that what you want?”

“It would end.”

“You selfish bastard!” Jared yelled, jabbing his fists painfully into Jensen’s chest. “You’re such a fucking asshole!”

“You’d be out of this too!” Jensen yelled back, tearing his hands away and shoving him backwards. “What the hell am I supposed to do?”

“You think killing yourself is the answer?” Jared looked like he was about to explode. He didn’t know what to do with his hands. Misha was standing, watching, and looked ready to jump in should Jensen do something idiotic.

“It is not the answer, though I admire your courage,” Angel said. “It could move on. It could simply find another host. I do not think it would pass with you.”

Jensen stared, and felt his adrenaline ebb. “Are you shitting me?” The metallic tang faded, leaving him ill.

“I am not.”

He was shaking. His emotions pinwheeled. “So there’s nothing to do.” Jensen wilted as the room spun around him. He felt himself being guided to the chair, where another shot of rum waited, minus the tea. He drained it.

“There is always something to do,” Angel countered gently.

Misha had taken his seat once more. Now he leaned forward. “Why don’t you fill us in on the details? The things you’re not telling us.”

Angel rested his elbows on the table. “First thing first. Jensen, look at me. You are not alone in this. You are not alone, period. You have to accept that, above all else. You have to trust in it, and believe it. Do you?”

He rubbed at his face. “Boy, that’s a loaded question.”

“I know you can not turn off your insecurities. But you must accept this statement. Do you?”

He didn’t know. He couldn’t speak. So, of course, Jared spoke for him. “Steve,” he said softly, making Jensen raise his eyes. “Chris. Jason. Phil. Kathy. Danneel. Your family. Misha. Me. We’ve got your back, man. You know this. Tell me you know this.”

The sides of his throat stuck together.

“Tell us,” Misha added, and his face was as intense as ever.

Jensen blinked at him. “You’re creepy as shit when you look at me like that, you know it?” he finally said.

Misha smiled.

“You have my support as well,” Angel said. “That also goes for Selma. Do you accept this?”

He felt so tired. “Yeah. I guess. Sure.”

“NO!” Angel’s fist slammed onto the table. He rose quickly, and advanced on Jensen, who pushed his chair back and stood quickly, back into the meager cabinetry as Angel bared down on him. “You accept or not. You die or not. Do you want to die?”

“Why do you people keep asking me that?”

“Do you?” He grabbed Jensen in a choke hold, dark fingers curling around his throat, pressing deep, pushing him back.

“NO!” Jensen forced out, his hands going to Angel’s wrist. He saw Misha directly behind Angel, saw Jared trying to pry the grip away. He didn’t remember either of them getting up.

“Then FIGHT IT!”

He was trying. Angel’s grip was like iron.

“I said FIGHT IT!” His snarl turned into a yell, and he squeezed tighter.

And the room erupted in a white light, flinging everyone to the floor.

Jensen gasped raggedly as he fell. He immediately dug his heels into the floor and pushed back against the counter where he’d landed. He saw Jared slowly rising to his elbows and knees, his head bowed. Misha was still. And Angel was laying on his side, chuckling. “Good,” he said mildly, as Misha finally turned his head and winced. “That was very good.”

“– the hell was that?” Jensen asked.

Angel’s face was lit from within, purely gleeful. “That, my friend, was you finally taking control. That was the Lodestone in action.”

Jensen crawled to Jared, cursing his injuries, and put a hand on his shoulder. Jared nodded. “What are you talking about?” he croaked out, inching his way to Misha, bracing him. His head was bleeding again from the fall, but not too bad.

“Selma gave you the stone, did she not? Is it on you?”

He was confused. A stone? Oh, right. “I think so. Yeah.” Jensen thumbed in his pocket and pulled it out. He stretched and passed it to Angel. “She said to keep it. What the hell is it?”

Angel’s lips pursed wryly. He rose and disappeared around the corner, then returned with a piece of metal and a shaving tool. As the men slowly picked themselves up off the floor, he set the nondescript rock on the table, and shaved at the metal. Tiny splinters fell to the table. He set down the tool and passed the rock over the small pile, then passed it back to Jensen.

He studied the rock, now covered in shavings, then looked up in surprise. “It’s a magnet!”

“Magnetite. Yes, it has natural magnetic properties. As do you.”

Jensen fumbled for his chair. “Come again?” He pointed wearily to a rag on the counter, and Jared snatched it up, pressed it to Misha’s head, and slapped Misha’s hand there to hold it. They both sat, each looking as exhausted as Jensen felt.

Angel leaned forward. “That stone you hold is used in many ways. It can align energies. It lessens fear, confusion, depression. It increases energy and endurance.” He leaned back. “It is said to have been used to make soldiers invulnerable. It attracts energy that attracts power. We use it to increase power. Some use it to ground themselves, or as protection from evil spells.”

The stone looked like it belonged at the bottom of a quarry. Jensen held it between his fingers and looked at it, dubiously. “This thing is supposed to do all that?”

“Yes.”

“I need another drink,” Misha muttered, and reached for the bottle.

“The Lodestone is you,” Angel continued. “You attract people. You pull them in with your charisma and charm. You pull in their positive energies. But you also pull in the negative ones. You are not suicidal, Jensen. Not really. You’ve merely lost your voice within those that you hear.”

That was debatable. “But – there’s days when it’s not worth getting up,” he said softly. “You know?”

“Name one person who is true to themselves, who has murder themselves. Only the lost take their own life, because they think it is no longer theirs to protect.”

It made a certain amount of sense. He realized he was going to have to trust this man, even if he didn’t fully agree with him. “What just happened?”

“You were desperate. You gathered the positive, pulled it in to you, and lashed out at what was harming you.”

Jensen angled his ear toward Angel, like he couldn’t hear correctly. And he wasn’t sure he had. “Wait. You’re saying I have – superpowers?”

Angel threw his head back and laughed. Disconcerted, Jensen pulled his head back and gave both Misha and Jared a weary glance.

“I’m saying, there is more to you than meets the eye.” Angel’s eyes glittered with mirth. His body relaxed, his teeth flashed against dark skin. “It would be a shame to lose that.”

Jensen nodded slowly. He raised his shot glass to his lips, and downed it.

Angel threaded his fingers together and regarded each man. “This affects all of you,” he said. “Not just Jensen, here. Jared, you’ve had your own occurrences. And Misha, I believe you’ve dealt with something similar yourself.” Misha’s head snapped up, but Angel just grinned “Like knows like. You may not be an angel, but you know your stuff.”

“I’ve no idea what you’re talking about,” Misha muttered into his glass.

Angel raised his chin. “Have it your way, then.”

Misha glared at him. It was the first time Jensen had seen the man show any signs of real anger. Acting, sure. He’s been angry. Cursing when messing up a line. A glow emanated from the depths of his eyes, and Jensen realized not only was this a man not to mess with, but he was glad Misha was on his side. And he filed the info away for later.

“So what do we do now?” Jared asked. “If he attracts this stuff, how do we stop it?”

Angel pursed his lips. “You can’t. Not so much. But you can block it from happening again.”

Jensen turned to Jared. “You mentioned something about that. Building walls.”

“Yeah, but this?” Jared smiled ruefully. “I mean tuning out the energy in a convention, sure. But this. . .” he gave a rueful laugh. “This is big.”

“It can be done.” Angel rose. “Excuse me for a moment.” He left the room. The three remaining men looked at each other, then down at their glasses. A long arm reached for the bottle and refilled the emptiness.

Jensen watched Misha as gave Jared a smile of thanks when he took his glass. “You’ve always known more than you’re telling us.” It wasn’t quite an accusation, but it was close. “You mind filling us in?”

“It’s really none of your business,” Misha said calmly.

Jensen’s brows rose. “Oh, excuse me? And since when was any of this shit yours? You’re the one that tagged along, buddy!”

“I’m here because Selma asked me to come. I stayed with Jared because he asked me. I don’t have anything to bring to the table.”

“Yeah? That’s how it is? Then go the fuck home. ‘Cause I sure as hell don’t need to be down here worrying about you, too.” He downed his shot, and the room gave a small tilt. He reached for the bottle, realizing it was more full than it should be. Had they already gone through one? When did Angel pull out another?

“The only person you need to worry about is yourself,” Misha said.

“And how can I do that if you’re distracting me? Huh?”

“How am I distracting you?”

“Get hit on the head with a bottle recently?”

“Then send Jared home too. He’s a victim as well. Come on, Jensen. It’s not about that.”

Jensen winced at him. “You’re just – you!” Misha’s eyes narrowed, and he shook his head in incomprehension. “You act like there’s some huge secret to life that we don’t know about and you do and you’re gloating. You have this freaky-ass stare when you look at people.” The rum had hit. Or he was just at the point of no longer caring what people thought. Probably both.

“And I’m around you and Jared. A lot.”

Jensen swallowed his rum.

Misha shrugged. “Look. The dynamic’s been tampered with. I get it. I can back off, no problem.”

Jensen slammed his glass down. “Shit, that’s not what I meant.”

“It’s what you said, and it’s how you look. It’s how you always look.” Misha rose, taking a final gulp. He braced his hand on the back of his chair. “That’s fine. I’ll head back to Selma’s, and when the chance comes I’ll take the first flight out. Since I’m a distraction.”

“Oh, God, now you’re acting like a fucking five-year-old,” Jensen groused.

“No.” Misha shook his head. “I’m not. I didn’t want to come down here in the first damn place! Now you’ve given me a good reason to leave.” He met Jared’s gaze steadily, and left the room.

Jensen gripped his glass tightly, his thoughts drifting over everything he’d heard, seen, experienced. Fucking hell. He rose quickly, rushed in a tilt through the den, and stopped Misha at the door, grabbing his shoulder and jerking him back. Misha looked startled for a moment, then knocked away his grip.“Listen, you can’t go,” Jensen said. “You’re targeted by this thing.”

“And when I leave, it’ll stay here with you!” Misha sneered into his face.

Jensen grabbed for his arm, and was again pushed away. He snatched Misha’s shirt, pulling him close. “Dammit, listen to me! We don’t know that. Look, right now you’re the angriest one here. How do we know it’s not gonna latch onto that, huh? Leave me and get into you?”

“Because I’ve. . .” he shoved, “done this before, and I know what I have to do about it!”

Jensen’s brows met his hairline. “Oh, you’ve done this before? Well, thanks for sharing! What the hell are you talking about?”

Misha glared at him, his vivid blue eyes burning. Jensen stubbornly planted himself right in the way of the glare, not budging, his presence pinning Misha to the door without touching him. He couldn’t let him leave. Not like this. Not at all. Hell, he liked the guy. It was more a surprise to him than it should have been. He didn’t just tolerate the man because he was a co-worker, or because he and Jared got along. At some point, he started considering Misha almost a friend. When the hell did that happen? Either way, he wasn’t letting the man go. Not like this.

The tense shoulders slumped, and Misha looked away.

“I can’t believe I’m telling you this.” He seemed to ground himself, then continued. “I was in my early twenties,” he said. “Impressionable. I got in with some people I shouldn’t have. You don’t need to know who they are. But it was a bad year, and I left it with only my name intact.” His eyes met Jensen’s squarely. “We’re a lot alike. Our reactions are alike. I bet if we knew each other we’d find that we think alike. We both have our insecurities. That asylum you filmed in? I used to live near there. For a month. I went through that place, and I had it happen to me. It wasn’t as bad as you, and we got rid of it real quick.” He sighed and pushed his hair back. “Why do you think I got into meditation? I’m not some guru! I’m not some spiritual nutcase! I’m a man trying to keep my head. That’s all.” He stepped forward, forcing Jensen back. “Yeah, I go on retreats. I’m very aware.” He practically spat the word at him. “But you need to stop trying to put me in a corner where I don’t fit. Stop being intimidated by something that doesn’t even exist.”

Jensen’s mind whirled. He let himself take it all in, then nodded. “Cool. Can you teach me how to do all that?”

Misha exhaled. His eyes roamed up and down Jensen’s body, probably searching for that ulterior motive, or a quip. Jensen had none for him. He hoped his sincerity showed. He never felt so exposed before someone, and it was the most uncomfortable experience he’d ever had. “Sure I can,” Misha responded quietly. “I can help.”

“Good. I mean, thanks for that.”

“Sure, sure.” Misha said again, just as quietly, looking away in discomfort.

“Show him too.” Jensen jerked his thumb over his shoulder at Jared, knowing he was there without looking back.

Misha lowered his head and chuckled. “Sure. Okay.” He stayed like that for a moment. When he raised it again, he looked more himself.

How did he do that? Just completely compose himself. Would Jensen himself be able to do that?

“Now that’s finally sorted,” Angel said from the shadows, “let’s eat.”

They started. “You’re a real son of a bitch, you know that?” Jensen exclaimed, pressing his hand against his chest.

“Some things you need to learn for yourselves. That’s one of them. Come on.”

LODESTONE pt 13

kamelionwriter — Wed, 28 Oct 2009 21:29:30 GMT

The noises grew as they came closer, each one out of breath but pressing on out of fear for Gramma. A mass of bodies clogged the streets, and they plunged right in, all arms and elbows. Jensen felt someone grab his shoulder and yell in his ear, and he shoved the person away, grabbing Misha’s sleeve and pushing Jared towards the line of buildings where a sidewalk should be. They were jostled and crushed. Angry voices punched the air like weapons. At one point Jensen couldn’t move, such was the crush of bodies around him. He threaded his arms through and up, saw a large hand clasp his, and was tugged through. They emerged on the other side and was instantly grabbed by Misha, who hurled them bodily onto the sidewalk and against a building, where they watched, gasping for air.

People were pouring into the street from all areas. Fists were raised. The helicopter circled overhead, dipping as low as the tree line would allow. Objects were thrown into windows of abandoned buildings, breaking what little glass was left. It was dangerous and out of control. One man ended the face-to-face argument he was having by raising a thick stick and bringing it down on the other man’s head. He crumpled, and the man with the stick was jumped. Uniformed officers were arriving, but they were too few.

Jared inched his way in a near-seated crouch to the corner of the building, and glanced up the hill. “They’re not going to the residential areas,” he said loudly. “I think they’re keeping it to the streets.”

“And she’s not out here?”

It was impossible to tell. The main crush of people were nothing more than a mass of bodies with reaching arms. Jensen had no idea what they were reaching for. More people joined in as others peeled away, and the street was quickly hidden. They pushed to their feet, flattening against the building as the mob drifted onto the sidewalk.

Jensen shoved away from the wall and plunged into the street, yelling for Gramma, but seeing mostly men around his age. He spotted the grocery store two buildings down from where Jared and Misha stood, and tried signaling to Jared to head that way.

The people suddenly scattered.

Jensen looked around quickly, and heard a car approaching. It was the one that has passed in front of their house, filled with yelling Haitians, teens by the look of it. Jensen felt himself being jerked aside as the car swerved at them. It stopped, and something sailed through the air and crashed through the one remaining window of the grocery store. Another followed, then a third, and the car peeled away. And the store instantly went up in flames. The angry roars turned into cheers and screams.

People were running. Jensen was pulled back, trapped in the mob, realizing he’d lost both Misha and Jared in the crush of people. A chant started. Bottles were thrown. The helicopter pounded overhead before once again disappearing over the trees. Then the gunfire started.

Jensen cursed loudly and fell. He screamed out Jared’s name, yelling blindly for him to hit the ground. He cried out for Misha. Someone trod over his back, and he groaned loudly, feeling the pop of his vertebrae. He pushed himself up, only to hit the deck again, throwing his hands over his head as more gunfire filled the air. He stayed on the ground, even after it ended, not sure if it was safe to rise. The people thinned from around him.

Hands grabbed him, and a voice spoke urgently. “Jensen! You hit? You okay?”

Jensen rolled to his side and looked up and over his shoulder, and he grabbed the man’s shirt. “Jared! Oh, thank god.” His eyes closed briefly, but opened again as he was tugged to his feet. His back twinged as he was herded to the other side of the street. Once there, they braced each other and looked for Misha.

They saw him right as he saw them. Right as a man appeared behind him, and a bottle crashed down on his head.

“Misha!” Jared was already on the move. Jensen faltered as Jared released him, but regained his footing and reached the collapsed man. They hauled him out of the crush of people, cowering in the doorway of yet another abandoned building. His head was already bleeding severely, but he was conscious.

Jensen quickly checked for glass then pressed his hand flat to the wound. “I’m okay,” Misha insisted, trying to push Jensen’s hand away, but he was dazed.

“Yeah, you’re just peachy,” Jensen muttered, batting Misha’s arm down. He saw the unfocused gaze try to take in their surrounds. “Stay with me. We’re good right here, just relax, okay?” Misha nodded, but his eyes still searched like a man who had suddenly lost his sight.

They huddled together as the helicopter made another pass, and something was shouted down to the people. Some shouted back, raising their fists. Glass broke. More gunfire sounded in the distance, but they threw their arms around each other and stayed low. And eventually, the people moved their protest further down the street. Some stayed and watched the fire, lacking the initiative to put it out.

Jensen raised his head, and his hand. He winced at his bloody palm, then put it back against Misha’s head. “Gramma,” he said.

“I still don’t think they went up that street,” Jared said. “You stay here.”

“Hey, you’re not going up there by yourself!” Jensen snapped, grabbing Jared’s sleeve, forgetting the blood on his hand. He quickly let go and reapplied pressure.

“You gonna leave Misha here by himself? Or you wanna drag him along?”

“I said I’m okay.” Misha tried to push Jensen’s hand away, but the attempt was weak.

“For all you know I’m pressing glass into your damn skull,” Jensen said hotly, and looked up. “Go on then. For fuck’s sake watch your back!”

Jared nodded and pushed to his feet. He took off toward the red house in a flash.

*******************

The hill was steeper than he expected. Jared huffed as he climbed, tension taking it’s toll on a normally healthy body. He maintained a steady jog, thankful he kept up his running regime, but he was seriously about to fall out. And there were several red houses on the street, in varying, peeling shades.

He knocked on each one in turn, asking for Gramma, gesturing a shorter lady. Doors slammed in his face. Finally one lady took pity and pointed to a house at the top of the hill before shutting him out. The noises from the riot floated up. He was surprised they opened their doors at all.

The house at the top of the hill was half-covered with vines and green growth. He warily knocked on the door, eyeing a huge spider that was spread in its web on the odd ivy. The web was far enough away not to be bothered, unless you wanted to sit on the porch. It was obvious they didn’t use the porch. He jumped at the sound of distant gunfire, and shook himself, urging whoever lived there to open up. He was surprised when a man answered. The wide eyes took him in, then narrowed in suspicion. He barked out words in Creole, advancing on Jared, his intimidating bulk pushing Jared back onto the concrete stairs without touching him.

Jared quickly raised his hands. “Gramma,” he said loudly. “Selma Nadal’s worried. Is she here?” He’d realized when he knocked on the first house that he had no clue what Gramma’s given name was. He kept his hands raised, and ducked his head slightly to make his height less noticeable. Less offending.

The man grunted and shouted into the house. Gramma slowly appeared from the shadows. “Jared?” she asked, surprised. “Why you here? Guns out there.”

“Selma was worried,” he replied, slowly lowering his hands and giving an inward sigh of relief.

“She worry too much. You get back. Jean’s here. He drive me back.”

This was Jean? Jared felt his brows raise.

Gramma noticed. She grinned and barked a laugh. “He’s got medicines. You have creative mind. Tame it.”

Jared smiled and dipped his head. “I’ll tell her you’ll be back soon,” he said. After a moment’s hesitation, he held out his hand for Jean to shake. Jean took it, with more hesitation. His eyes were dark, and not in a good way. The man gripped Jared’s hand tightly, his eyes quickly noticing the blood stain on Jared’s shirt. He shifted to hide the sight from Gramma. Jared darted his eyes up to the man’s face, then back down at the grip that was now grinding his bones together. He winced, trying to bear it. His lips pressed tight together until he was certain they were white. When he was finally released, it took everything he had not to shake out the pain.

“Go now,” Gramma said. “Jean drives me.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Jared replied courteously, but his eyes didn’t leave Jean’s. He felt like a bug about to be squashed. Something dangerous lurked there. Something very dangerous.

Gramma nodded, and walked back inside. The man leaned forward. “Anpwazonnen,” he spat out. “Parazit.”

The words were hostile, and he had no idea what it meant. He quirked an uncomfortable smile, and backed down the stairs. The eyes followed him all the way, and out into the street.

Jared had no problem running back down the hill.

***************************

Misha struggled against the grip. Jensen just held him more tightly. As the clamor died down, he removed his hand again, checking for glass. There were a few tiny fragments in Misha’s hair. “I feel like a monkey checking for fleas,” he said.

Blue eyes rolled up to look at him. “Nice. Thanks for that.”

“Anytime, man.” He winced over the injury. “You okay everywhere else? Nothing broken or busted?”

He gestured mildly at his head, which Jensen took as a no. “You?”

“Still in one piece.” If he ignored the growing pain in his back.

Misha tried to shake his head against Jensen’s grip. “Mistake, coming here. Selma’s used to the place, but this is Haiti. Never been that safe for tourists.” He cleared his throat. “So much civil unrest here. Country’s so damned poor, and no one cares. Paradise one day, the next one pure hell.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t talk right now,” Jensen cautioned. The bleeding hadn’t slowed. People glanced their way, but no one stopped to help. He saw three bodies laying in the street, one on his side, the other two face down. These too were glanced at. One policeman walked among them, but left them alone.

Misha was blinking, and seemed to be regaining his senses. “You think you can stand?” Jensen asked him. He started to rise as Misha grunted and tried to push to his feet without answering. He swayed for a moment, bracing his hand against the wall, then gave a nod. Jensen hovered, finally looping an arm over his shoulders. “Try walking. I don’t wanna hang around here longer than we have to. Let’s get you back where you can lay down.”

“What about Jared?”

“You know I’m not leaving without him.”

“Course not.” Misha looked ready to pass out.

“I’m not leaving you either, asshole. But you gotta help me out, okay?”

“Huh. You called me an asshole. Things are looking up.” Misha smiled, and stumbled.

Jared was running back. He joined them and instantly took Misha’s other arm, stooping to loop it over his shoulder. “They’re fine. She’s staying put until they’re certain the people aren’t coming back. Misha, you okay?”

He looked at Jared blurrily. “I’m standing.” Glanced around. “I think.”

“Get walking,” Jensen gently prodded.

Selma was relieved to hear the news about Gramma, and mortified by Misha’s injury. She instantly took over and escorted him to his room, demanding wet towels. By the time Jensen and Jared had supplied them, Misha was on his bed, bloodied shirt wadded on the wooden floor, with Selma checking for glass. She thanked them, then dismissed them.

Jensen managed to make it down the stairs before one leg gave out. A shard of pain lanced up his back, and he cursed. Jared was at his side, and as much as he hated it, he accepted the help. They eased their way to a chair, where Jensen sat gingerly.

“Fucking back,” he admitted with a grimace as he tried to adjust his body against the pain.

“Where?”

“Down low.”

“Turn and show me.”

“Son of a bitch!”

“So do it carefully!”

“You a chiropractor now?” Jensen snapped, but he did as he was told, holding his breath and angling himself sideways in the seat. He carefully reached back to tap at the soreness. Jared pressed the heel of his hand to the injury, and rubbed gently. “Damn it, that hurts!” But it helped. Somewhat. Not that he would be able to hold that position for long.

Neither were prepared for the large presence that filled the room. Angel was just suddenly there, startling them both. Jensen gritted his teeth. “Don’t you fucking knock?” His back had jolted, and now he wasn’t sure he could move at all. He tired to shift, but couldn’t. His eyes pricked with tears. “Christ!” Pain stole his breath away. He should’ve stayed still.

“I came to check on you. I saw your friend, he was injured?” The deep voice was filled with concern.

“Selma’s got him upstairs,” Jared said quickly, his hands having flown to brace Jensen against the pain he was feeling.

“Let me see that.” Angel strode toward them soundlessly. He crouched down and raised his hand, gently urging Jared’s away. “Where?”

Jensen still couldn’t breathe. His eyes smarted, and he was dead certain he didn’t want this man touching him. “Fucking everywhere, okay?”

“Here, I think.” Jensen felt the pressure of Jared’s hand, and cursed. Tried to breathe through the agony.

Another hand was felt, and Jared’s pulled back. Jensen closed his eyes. The hand warmed, like a heating pad had been pressed to him. He was vaguely aware of Jared kneeling before him. He lowered his head and concentrated on the heat of Angel’s palm as it poured through him, targeting his injury. Soon the pain faded to something tolerable and less sanity-threatening. “What are you doing?” he asked cautiously. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answer. Maybe asking would make the heat go away. He’d be a cripple for life.

“What happened to you?” Angel asked him.

He hesitated before speaking. “Old injury. Hurt it again in the riot down there. Someone landed on it when we were dodging those damn bullets.” He saw Jared’s quick glance of sympathy.

“I see.” He pressed the sensitive area once more, prodding the muscles and spinal column, the rose. “Get on the floor. On your stomach.”

On his stomach? Was he kidding? Jensen looked up at Angel fearfully. “Please tell me you’re not going to do what I think you’re going to do.”

But Angel was already removing his sandals. “That depends on what you think I’m going to do.”

Jensen tried to shake his head, and choked as the pain returned. “Okay, that makes it obvious. Uh-uh. No way.”

“It will help.”

He cringed. “No! It’s – stupid.” He groused. “And it’s gonna hurt.”

“It hurts already. Tell me. Were I an attractive lady, would you think different?”

Hell, yeah. “Maybe. Get one of those oriental massage therapist people down here.”

“They are in short supply. Besides, I learned from one. Lay down. Let me help you.”

“I can’t move.” It was more an excuse than anything.

“Would you rather I put you on the floor myself?”

No. But he sure as hell didn’t want a man of Jared’s stature walking on his back. “This is embarrassing as hell.” His back twinged in reply. “Shit. Jared, so help me god if you ever tell anyone about this. . .”

Jared’s hand flew up. “Hey, scout’s honor, man.”

“This is insane.” But he groaned loudly as he was helped from the chair, and carefully arranged on the floor. “I’m gonna wish I’d been shot back there on that street, aren’t I?”

“Shut up,” Jared said, and he sounded as tense as Jensen felt. “Shit, just don’t joke about that.”

“Who says I’m joking?”

“Take his hands,” Angel instructed, and Jensen definitely didn’t like the sound of that. “Pull his arms in front of him. Carefully.”

Jared sat in front of Jensen, crossing his legs, his knees poking up at odd angels. Jensen raised his head. His friend had a determined look on his face. He was taking this very seriously. It made Jensen feel a little better, but not much. “I think I know what he’s gonna do,” Jared said quietly. “It’ll hurt, but not for long.” He opened his hand, palms up.

“Great. Nice pep talk there, thanks.” Jensen struggled to work his arms in front of him, grasping Jared’s hands. He sighed and lay his head down, but it shot up again as he felt the pressure of a foot on his lower back.

“Pull,” was all Angel said. And Jared did. And Jensen groaned loudly, overwhelmed by the sudden pain. There was unimaginable pressure as Angel stood on the sore spot, all the weight crushing his pelvis into the floor. He gritted his teeth. A pop sounded like a shotgun, and Jensen just knew his back was broken. This time he cried out loud, not caring who heard, it fucking hurt! Quick words floated over his head and Jared release the pull, easing his arms down. Jensen lay his face against the worn wood, his hands curling into fists as he fought the flame that raced up his spine. He wanted to curl into a ball, but he couldn’t, not with that pressure still on his back. Dammit, Angel had broken him.

The weight eased slightly, and Angel slowly worked his way half-way up Jensen’s back, stepping carefully. One more pop had Jensen ready to declare mutiny. Jesus Christ already!

Jared was suddenly snatched away from him and flung back against the wall. Angel followed, hitting the wood with a loud crack. He slumped to the floor.

It happened quickly, and took Jensen a moment to catch up. “NO!” Jensen started to push up, but instead felt himself flipped over. His back popped again, and he was unable to move. Tears stung his eyes. He blinked them away, then found himself staring right into the most vile, terrifying eyes he’d ever seen.

His breath froze. “No!” he yelled again, his arms flinging up as the huge eyes fell towards him, into him. Then they were gone.

His back ached, but whatever Angel had done, worked, despite the abuse. Jensen lay gasping for breath. Angel immediately rose and limped over to him, but all Jensen could ask of him was to check on Jared. The man vanished from his sight. He managed to roll back to his stomach with a groan and watched as Angel checked on his - unconscious - friend. Jared? Oh...shit. He managed to push to his hands and knees, ready to crawl over there.

But Selma hovered over Jensen, having come storming down the stairs. He let her help him up, and saw a bandaged Misha push past them both and hunch over Jared, putting one hand to his head. Angel had two hands on his chest. Jensen pushed at Selma, tried to join them, but Angel spat out, “Get him out of here!” and Selma promptly herded him into the kitchen, plunking him down in a chair and quickly setting a pot of cold tea in front of him.

Jensen could only stare at it, his mind reeling. He looked up at Selma with wide eyes. “Is he okay?”

“I think so, honey.” She glanced into the living area. “Yes. He’s coming around. Angel’s trying to sit him up.”

He forced himself to breathe as he stared at the polished pot in front of him. “What’d I do to him?” he asked. “God, I did that, didn’t I?” Or that thing did. Same difference.

“You didn’t do it.”

Yeah, yeah. Same difference. He cast his eyes around. “I gotta. . .” Gotta do what? He didn’t know. He was lost.

“You gotta sit right there, is what you gotta do,” she said sternly, and walked out.

His heart sank. He was being black-balled. How long before no one wanted him around anymore? He fidgeted, ran his fingers through his hair, stood and paced. He didn’t dare look past the door. He was scared that thing would come back.

After several minutes, Angel peeked his head in. “Your friend is fine,” he said curtly. “Tonight I take him to my place.” The dark head retracted.

“Hey, wait!” Jensen took only two steps, then slumped. He was afraid to see Jared. And they were afraid for him to see Jared.

Well. That was it, then.

*********************

He was sent to his room. Like a fucking baby! And to add insult to injury, they’d locked him in.

He sat on his bed, head in his hands. With a sigh that seemed to come from his toes, he let himself look up, but there was nothing to catch his attention in the bare room. He knew why the locked him away, and didn’t blame them. If that thing was on the attack, he was dangerous. But what if it attacked him? Did they think of that? What if he was stuck in that room with that thing in his head, and they opened the door to find him bleeding on the floor? He stood quickly and paced the small area, flapping his shirt in the growing heat. He’d gone after Gramma. He helped Misha. And this was the thanks he got? “You know what? Screw you!” he yelled out, flinging his fist at nothing. “Screw the fuck outta all ya’ll, you here me?” This time he aimed a fist at the door, pulling back right before he punched a hole it in. Gramma didn’t deserve him wrecking her home. He groaned and knelt down, putting his head in his hands. It wasn’t fair. He never asked for anything, why the hell was this happening to him?

He could still feel the emotion of the crowd in the streets. The anger, the rage, the confusion, all awakening something within him that shouldn’t be there. Something that finally lashed out. He didn’t even know what it was anymore, if it was that damned spirit that had latched onto him, or something deeper. Of course he was locked in his room. But not for long.

He stood and studied the shutters which had been closed against him. Surely they didn’t think the fragile wood could keep him in. He’d get out. And when he did, he’d get a fucking plane and fly to fucking Miami. Steve would wire him the money. And then what? Hell, maybe the plane would crash.

He snatched his phone off the small bureau. No signal. Probably would explain why he hadn’t heard from anyone. So much going on, he hadn’t even thought about his phone since he first set it up there the night of their arrival. He wondered if Jared or Misha carried theirs. If they had signal. Damn, his head hurt. He slammed the phone back down, and turned his attention to the window.

He jimmied at the latch and swung the shutters free, then looked to the ground far below. Freakin’ two-story house. The truck he’d stood on earlier was parked toward the front of the house, too far to provide a landing. All he had was the dirt to cushion his fall. Oh, his back would love that.

He pushed away from the sill with a curse. Kill his back, or stay there? What would it be? Angel was gone. Jared and Misha had gone with him. Gramma was back. She and Selma were in the kitchen, ignoring his angry yells the way one tolerated a victim of withdrawal. Maybe that was it. Maybe he was going through withdrawals. But didn’t that mean something would have to leave? Shit, this was nuts. This was insane. He lay back on his bed, folded his hands over his chest, and tried to relax. Then stood once more and crossed to the window. Eyed the ground. Within moments he was ripping the sheets from the bed, tearing it into strips, muttering an apology to Gamma with each parting thread. The ends were knotted together and flung out of the window. He glanced back, and climbed onto the flaking sill, then lowered himself hand-under-hand until he was on the ground. It looked ridiculous, that white rope betraying his escape. He ducked as he heard a particularly loud clatter from the kitchen, and took to the street in a crouch, ignoring the alarm raised by neighboring dogs.

LODESTONE pt 12

kamelionwriter — Wed, 28 Oct 2009 21:28:17 GMT

The eyes were watching him. He stood in the center of the room, turning slowly, seeing the eyes follow him, gliding along the walls, keeping him in his sights. He knew what it was. It knew what he was. Neither was a good thing.

He couldn’t go out of the room, it hovered over the door. He couldn’t get to the window, it blocked his way. He was trapped. And it knew him, it knew he wanted to destroy it, and it wasn’t going to let that happen. The eyes turned down, angry, and glared with the menace of a thousand demons of hell.

Misha woke with a scream. The eyes continued to stare.

***************************

Jensen bolted upright in his bed, one hand flying to his chest, feeling his heart thump erratically, trying to burst its way out. The other hand was gripping the fitted sheet on the bed, popping the elastic corner from the mattress. Then his feet was on the floor and he was ready to run. All this happened before he realized the scream that had woken him, wasn’t his.

A figure was standing in his doorway.

He scrambled back, nearly falling to the floor. “Jesus!”

“God!” Misha grabbed the doorframe with both hands, then let himself sag against it, his eyes closing. In the faint light, he looked as scared as Jensen felt.

Jensen was still trying to breathe. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Having a fucking heart-attack!” Misha leaned back against the frame, eyes closing. He breathed heavily.

“Same here, dude.” The scream echoed in Jensen’s head, and thoughts of Jared crept in around it. His eyes snapped back to the door to see Jared’s hulking form now standing behind Misha, giving both himself and Misha another start. He groaned and dropped his head to his hand as Misha backed into the room, looking like he was about to fall to his knees. He’d never seen the other man so unnerved.

“What’s going on?” Gramma’s crackling voice asked, barely floating up the stairs. Selma could be heard hushing her, and the stairs creaked heavily as she came up.

Misha paced in a small circle, running his hand through his hair. He said nothing until Selma was in the doorway. “What the devil’s going on up here?” she asked in concern.

Jensen remained on his bed, but watched Misha. He knew suddenly where the scream had come from. He resisted the urge to pull the man down, to sit beside him.

Misha’s attempt to calm himself was apparent in his gestures. “God, I don’t know,” he answered. “It seems stupid now.”

“Bad dream?” Jensen asked.

Misha nodded. “I thought so. Then I realized I was awake.” He paused. “That – thing – it was in my room. It was looking down at me.” He rubbed his forehead and started to pace again. His hand carved a nervous circle as he spoke more rapidly. “I was dreaming, then I woke, and I saw it. And then it vanished. But it was right there in front of me. Over me. I’ve never felt anything so. . .vile.” He turned to Selma. “It knows what we’re here to do. It doesn’t like it, at all. And it’s being very protective.” He shot a look at Jensen. “We’re fools if we think this thing is going to leave easily. It won’t. Not unless there’s bigger game around.”

Bigger game? “You mean this thing could latch onto someone else?” Jensen asked.

“I don’t know. Possibly.”

Jared’s lips were pressed tight in concern. Jensen tried to take it all in. “Did it threaten you?”

Misha didn’t respond.

Jensen flung off his sheet and stood, crossing the room to him. “Answer me,” he demanded in a low voice. “It did, didn’t?” No answer was required. Jensen knew. They all knew.

“There’s something else,” Misha continued, his voice pitched low. “It knows we want to destroy it. Don’t think it won’t try to take you, and the rest of us, down with it.” He let the words linger, and his eyes rose to meet Jensen’s pointedly.

“Well,” Selma said softly. “ Didn’t think it would happen this fast, but I guess we’d better get this show on the road.”

“Selma? What’s up there? You know I can’t do these stairs.” The voice rose again, slightly closer, old and urgent.

Take the rest of us, Misha had said. Jensen was already targeted. Jared. Misha. What of Selma? Or. . . “Is Gramma in danger here?” Jensen asked, walking to Selma. “Did we bring this on her? Can it hurt her?”

“I don’t know. But she’s damn well gonna break her neck, trying those stairs.” Selma’s answer was terse, and she returned to ease Gramma’s fears, leaving the three men standing in the center of the room.

Jensen could see Misha was still shaken. Jared walked to them, closing the circle. “You okay?” he asked Misha.

Misha nodded, faintly, and glanced at Jared. “You still feeling sick?”

“Nah, I’m good. Just tired,” Jared admitted. But Jensen knew him well enough to see the worry there. And he was getting to where he could recognize it in Misha as well, and there the fear ran deep. It seemed the man knew more than he was letting on.

The room was lighter, growing from mostly darkness into a blue dawn. Jensen noticed the change and broke from the group to walk to his window. The budding light dimmed the stars that remained overhead. Downstairs, he could hear Selma and Gramma talking, and hear cabinet doors clicking open and slamming closed. Metal hit metal, probably a pan being set on the ancient stove top. Such a normal, homely sound.

The spell was broken. Suddenly they were just three men standing in a bedroom. He glanced down at his boxers. His brows raised, and he tugged at his shirt. “I’m gonna test the shower,” he said.

“I’ve gotta get dressed,” Misha chimed in, almost immediately.

“Yeah, I’ll go see if Gramma needs any help,” Jared offered quickly.

Jensen nodded and followed the men out. He noticed Misha hesitated for a moment before walking into his room.

He couldn’t blame him.

***************************

The day was sultry. Jared was out back, helping Selma hand wash the old stained curtains that used to hang in the front windows. They were made of old cloth, too heavy for Gramma to wash and handle. He had stripped down to his jeans, which were soaked. His burn was healed, but he worked in the shade.

Gramma had left them to the task and went to visit a friend. Misha spent a lot of time on the front porch, tea on the small iron table beside him, book in hand. He wore a pair of dark shorts and a short-sleeved shirt. His sandals were beside his chair. His feet were propped on the railing. He looked at ease, like he belonged there.

But Jensen was about to jump out of his skin. “How do you do that?” he asked from the door.

Misha looked up. “Do what?”

“Just sit there. Like nothing’s going on.”

Misha squinted out into the small yard. “Nothing is.” He smiled. “Actually, that’s a lie. There’s always something going on.”

“And that’s the problem.” Jensen sighed heavily and sat in the chair that was tucked into the corner of the porch. He found out why when it tilted alarmingly. Misha’s brows raised, and he gestured to the seat beside him.

“Right.” Jensen cleared his throat and sat. “Whatcha reading?”

Misha turned the cover of a crime novel to him.

“Right,” he said again, studying his hands.

He wished he could explain the tension in the air. Misha didn’t seem to feel it, but to Jensen it was whip-sharp. He straightened and rubbed his palms on his jeans. “Listen. We gotta talk.” He couldn’t take it anymore.

Misha glanced at him and slowly dog-eared the page he was reading. “What about?”

What about? How about the tension that reminded him of kids on a first date. That he wasn’t comfortable with the Supernatural Twosome becoming a threesome. Or how about that Misha intimidated the crap out of him and he couldn’t figure the guy out. “I have no idea.” And that admission made him grin sheepishly.

Misha regarded him evenly, then broke into laughter. The laughter turned into a full-on attack, and he hid his face, guffaws threatening to break him in half. Jensen laughed too, but at Misha, because the man breaking up like that was hilarious. It was worse when Misha slid out of his chair and onto the floor, prompting Jensen to choke out, “What?” before he lost his breath. His ribs were cracking. He hadn’t laughed like that in ages. Through tear-filled eyes he saw Jared come out, his puzzled expression erupting into an ear-splitting grin as he watched the antics. He happily crossed his arms and leaned against the house. “‘Bout time,” he said.

“Shut up,” Jensen forced out in a high squeak, which sent Misha into rolls again. Now he was on his stomach on the floor, and Jensen was certain if he didn’t take a breath soon he was a goner.

“I’m not even gonna ask.” Jared waved his hand at them and took the third seat, waiting for them to calm down.

“Oh God, that was as good as sex,” Jensen sighed, and fell into laugher again, though weaker this time. “Crap, I hurt!” He glanced at Misha. “What the hell was so funny?”

Misha rolled onto his back, grinning up at the peeling porch roof. “I’ve no idea.” He made a gleeful noise and continued to grin.

“You’re both stoned, and you didn’t invite me,” Jared groused. Misha raised his head, then sat up. “Some friends you are.”

Jensen looked at Misha. It was the first time he’d shared something with the man, something that Jared couldn’t be a part of. Misha smirked and shook his head, picking up his book. “Lost my place,” he muttered with a smile. He eased back into his chair as if nothing had happened, but Jensen saw the gleam in his eye. He wondered about it. It went past mirth. And it hit him. Empathic. He’d been picking up on Misha’s uncertainty, and calling it his own. And of course he was uncertain. Look at the situation he walked in on. New job. Third wheel to two best friends. Sudden, insane fan reaction. And that was before this other crap started happening. But now he felt, as Jensen did, that something had finally been shared, that part of a wall had crumbled. Misha felt as insecure as Jensen.

Well, damn.

Jared was watching him with a knowing smile. Jensen shot him a subtle bird, distracted by an odd noise in the distance. He held up a hand. “You hear that?”

Jared turned his head to listen. Misha set down his book and stood slowly, then pointed to a thin, dark wisp rising into the air from the shanty towns in the distance. The noises finally carried up the hill. “That’s smoke,” he said.

“Is it a house on fire?” Jared asked, his head whipping as Jensen passed behind him and jumped over the few steps into the yard. He climbed into the back of Gramma’s old, broken-down pickup, parked beside the house, then leapt onto the roof, thereby having a better view than the porch. “I can’t tell. But there’s a lot of smoke going up.”

“Should we go down there?” Jared asked.

Jensen wasn’t sure. It could be a fire. It could be someone burning something in their yard. A growing sound disturbed his thoughts. He winced, then looked up as a helicopter suddenly appeared over the house. It beat over their heads, chopping through the air, hovering so low Jensen felt he could reach up and grab the runners. He heard Jared yell his name, and crouched down as the helicopter flew lower. He braced himself flat on the truck’s roof, his eyes fixed on the hunk of metal flying right over his head. The trees lashed about in the gale.

Jared and Misha were hunched in the yard, trying to watch, their hands raised to block the sun. Selma rushed out onto the porch, yelling something, but they couldn’t hear her over the noise. A car roared in front of the house, filled with yelling people. It skidded around a corner and peeled off down the street. Another plume of smoke rose, this one closer to them. The helicopter leaned to the right, and followed.

Jensen jumped from the truck. “What the hell’s going on?”

Selma rushed down to them, hiking up her skirt. “Gramma’s down there,” she said breathlessly. “That’s where Jean is.”

Okay. Smoke, yelling, helicopters, this wasn’t a good combination. “You stay here,” Jensen said instantly. “Close your door. Don’t let anyone in.”

“It’s a riot, boy! You’ve no business down there!”

“And she had no business taking us in! Is she safe down there?”

Selma’s pained expression was all he needed to see. “Look for a red house, similar to this one,” she said. “The street’s not marked, but it’s straight down the road. Go right at the old grocery store.”

Jensen remember the ugly green building with fruit painted on the side. It was long since abandoned. He’d noticed it on their walk to the beach. “We’ll keep her inside till this is over,” he reassured her.

Misha grabbed his arm. “You do realize we’re about to run into a riot?”

“So I heard.”

“Have you been in a riot?”

“Have you?”

“I’m well traveled.” Misha’s face was cautious, and determined.

“We owe it to her.”

“She might be safe where she is. Which is more than we’ll be!”

“She might not. What if she’s on her way back up here, huh?”

Misha gave a nod. It occurred to Jensen that he didn’t have a problem with the plan. He just wanted to make sure Jensen knew what he was getting into. He turned to Jared. “You stay with Selma.”

“Bullshit. You’re not going down there alone.”

“I’ve got Misha here.”

His face darkened. “No.”

“We’re wasting time!” Misha called out, heading for the street. Jensen glared at Jared, but clapped him on the arm, pulling him into a run. After all, he wouldn’t have let Jared go down there alone, either.

LODESTONE pt 11

kamelionwriter — Wed, 28 Oct 2009 21:26:53 GMT

The wooden door in the back of the kitchen was open. Misha peered through the screen door, examining the backyard. It looked unused. The grass was grown over, at least in the places where grass bothered to grow. Bald patches of dirt gave the yard an ill feeling. Foliage grew high along the edges of the property, obscuring the neighboring yards, such as they were. Still, he knew enough about the land to know that this run-down, ripped up neighborhood was considered elite compared to most of the nearby places. He eyed a large mangrove. “Is there water back there?”

“Bogland,” Selma said, setting a pot of tea on the small, white Formica table behind him. Hearing the small thump, he turned, and joined her at the table. “Keep telling Gramma one day that land’s gonna rise up and take this place. She won’t listen.” She sat. “So. What are you thinking?”

Misha sat silently. What he thought, was he should have gone to L.A. But this was – this was pretty big. He turned the warm mug of tea in his hands, not the least bit tempted by the aroma. Not in this heat. “I’m not sure.”

His tone must have caught her attention. She leaned forward and placed her hand on his, stopping his fidgeting. “Misha. You can’t let your doubt get the better of you. Not now. They need you.”

It surprised him. It was bad enough he and Selma got along like they’d known each other forever. He still couldn’t wrap his head around that, the way she just seemed to know things about him. “I can’t believe they came here.”

She shrugged, and leaned back. “They saw what they saw. And I think after that Jensen was all too glad to get away from that house.”

The blackened room. “Wish I’d seen it.”

“I think you’ve seen something like it before.”

And again with the ESP. Misha gave her a sharp look. “Why do you say that?”

She shrugged lightly. “I could be wrong,” and raised her own mug to her lips.

“I think you all crazy,” Gramma said, sitting down with her own mug. “Tole you I gave up that stuff. Imma Christian now. Don’t need it brought back here. Crazy people ‘bout here. No telling what they do.”

“Gramma, you know good as I do that being a Christian means nothing around here. You just said so. So don’t get on your high horse.” Misha raised a brow, expecting Gramma to take Selma to task for the attitude.

She just waved her gnarled hand in a dismissive way. “Fine. Go hook up with Angel. Leave me out.”

“Who’s Angel?” Misha asked, looking from one to the other. He was trying hard not to make the obvious connection of his tv role to the word. Funny how the world worked.

“He’s a priest.”

“He’s voodoo,” Gramma clarified sharply. She glanced over the back door leading outside, where a small wooden cross hung.

Misha followed her glance. “I would think,” he said carefully, “that someone with your – life experience – would stick with the ways you are accustomed to.”

“I do no voodoo! Ever!”she barked at him. “Been a Christian woman.” She jabbed a finger at Selma. “You not careful bringing folk into this house! Don’t know who t’ey are!” She pushed up from the table and shuffled out of the kitchen.

“I’m sorry,” Misha started, but she was gone around the corner.

Selma reached out to him once more. “She was brought up a Christian. But she knows the other ways. You’ve just jammed yourself into a life-long battle in her soul.”

“It wasn’t intentional.” He stared down at the tepid brew.

Selma sighed deeply. “She was born and raised in Africa. Seen so much in her eighty-five years. So she’s going with what comforts her.”

“As she should,” Misha agreed. “Sure.”

“She has a quick temper that’s just as easy too cool. Drink your tea.” She gave his wrist a quick squeeze, and released him.

Misha did. He would have preferred something much cooler in this heat, but he took what he could get. The taste was bitter on his tongue. There was a faint rustle of leaves through the windows, and for the first time he caught a hint of sea air. No doubt the other two would be heading for the water. “How far is the ocean from here?”

“Farther than it looks. If those boys are headed that way, they’ve got quite a walk.”

“They need the time together.” Misha sipped once more, concealing his thoughts.

Selma leaned in. “You’re not meant to have what they do. Your path lies in a different direction.”

Misha set down his mug in annoyance. “And what is that supposed to mean?” he asked quickly.

“Did you really think they would just open their arms and take you in?”

“I never. . .” he checked himself. Because part of him did expect it, especially when it was announced he would be a regular. Jared had grinned when he heard the news, and patted him on the back. Jensen said, “Good, maybe we’ll get less of a work load” until Misha reminded him that, so far, most of his scenes had involved Jensen. That had brought a frown to his face, something Misha instantly misinterpreted. Jensen had caught himself, and the frown gave way to an apology and a “No, I don’t mean that,” but the damage had been done. He wasn’t a person to hold grudges, or judge. At least, he tried not to. But ever since, he felt like he was in the way.
“I’ve been there a year. They still act like I’m a guest star.”

“That’s because you were a guest star.”

“No, that’s not. . .” he exhaled roughly and straightened in his chair, casting his eyes aside. “I expected more from them.”

“And you were wrong to.”

Well, that hurt. But he knew it was true. And it wasn’t like he didn’t keep them at arm’s length himself. “I don’t know what’s expected of me.”

“You’ll know, when the time comes.”

When the times comes. Misha slapped his hands against the table and pushed back. “Okay. Good. I’m going for a walk. Do you need anything?”

She regarded him steadily. “No, thank you.”

“Okay.” He drained the rest of his tea, and walked out.

*************************

“So you think it’s here?” Jensen walked down the street, his hands tucked into the front pockets of his jeans. As far as Jared knew, they were on their third day of wear. He wasn’t sure it had occurred to Jensen to wash them.

“That spirit thing? I don’t know.”

“God, I hope not.”

“If it feeds on negativity, all we have to do is have fun. Right?”

Jensen kicked at a can. “You really believe in the sunshine and rainbows theory?”

“I know it sounds corny. But it makes sense.”

“Yeah, it does.” He winced up at the sun. “Wish I’d packed some loose shirts.”

“You mean on top of what Selma already had packed?”

“Hey, you’re right! I can blame her for this! I can blame her for all this. How far is this freakin beach, anyway? It like a damn mirage.”

“I don’t know. ‘Bout ready to get one of those mules.”

Jensen laughed out loud. “Dude, you’d kill it. You need to ride it on your back!”

It was good to hear him laugh.

They had quite a following. As they walked down the dirt road, children poured out of the worst housing Jared had ever seen, and trailed them, staring at them, grinning and making him uncomfortable. They spoke rapidly, and he had no clue what they were saying, but he smiled, and it seemed to be enough. One kid stopped right in front of him and jumped, his arm outstretched, trying to reach Jared’s head. That sent Jensen into a fit of laughter, and Jared grinned, the scooped the boy up, holding him at eye level so he could see what it was like to soar over six feet. Soon they were both scooping up the kids and holding them tall, grinning at their delighted squeals and kicking feet. A man came out and yelled at them, but not in a mean way. The kids clattered and waved and coughed their way back to the houses. The man waved in a friendly manner, but it was to wave them on more than a greeting. Behind them, a horn sounded.

Jared turned, then nearly doubled over in laughter himself to see Misha on a moped. “You’ll never make it walking,” Misha yelled out, and swerved the bike to stop beside them, the engine putting. “Probably too dangerous to walk that far, anyway.”

“There’s no way we’re all gonna fit on this thing,” Jared laughed, giving the poor machine a study once-over. “Where did you get it?”

“Gramma’s yard. Her nephew uses it on occasion. She said you’d kill yourselves walking in this heat. I’m more worried about who we might see.”

“I’ll take my chances,” Jensen said dubiously.

“It’s okay, I saw some boys with one near the house. One of you sit behind me, and the other stands on these.” He kicked his heel back at two-inch pegs that jutted from the wheel. “Course he was barefoot.”

“You’ve got to be kidding.” Jensen shook his head.

“I’ll be swimming while you’re walking.”

“I’ll take that chance.”

“Just get on.” Misha sighed and braced the moped, waiting. Jared shoved Jensen toward him.

Jensen balked. “You serious? You get on the seat. No way are your big-ass feet are gonna fit on those pegs.”

“My big-ass tennis shoes have better traction that your slick ass boots. Now get on.” He gave Jensen another playful shove, and watched in amusement as his friend climbed behind Misha and hesitantly put his arms around him.

“I’m not gonna bite,” Misha chuckled over his shoulder. “You on, Jared?”

“As much as I’m gonna be.” Oh, this was gonna suck rocks. He debated wrapping his arms around Jensen’s throat in a death grip. As it was, once Misha took off he felt his balance give, and the gentle grip on Jensen’s shoulders turned into a curse and a slumped over, tight wrap around his friend’s chest. Shit, he was gonna die.

Misha swerved left and right, avoiding as many bumps as possible. Jared just knew he would slide off and land on the tire. He felt Jensen try to scoot up on the seat, saw Misha make a slight adjustment as he steered, but there just wasn’t enough room for him. His ass would be like a plastic card in a kid’s spokes.

But it was so worth it when he saw the water.

Misha slowed the bike to a near crawl as he skidded onto the sand. Jared jumped off and stumbled, then ran to the water. He hesitated only a moment, just long enough to tear off his shoes and socks, then plunged head-first into the waves.

The temperature was perfect. He held his breath and dove under, then emerged and shook the water from his head. Looking back to land, he could see the bike, but not his friends. Not until Jensen emerged near him, and Misha popped up not far behind. Both had followed his example. Jensen was laughing again, and Misha was beaming. Jensen wiped his hair back from his face and started swimming with long, sure strokes. Jared noticed how in his element he looked, a natural outdoorsman. He was content to float and enjoy himself.

When the wind drifted over him just right, he could hear the sounds of the people. Not enough to make out words, just a cacophony of voices, some yelling, all passionate. Enough to remind him, even when he closed his eyes, that he was adrift in another world. The sun beat hot on his head and his shoulders. He reopened his eyes and squinted against the glare, suddenly uncomfortable. He wanted his sunglasses.

Jensen had drifted off. Jared watched as he treaded the water, then ducked underneath the waves. Jared thought for a moment about swimming towards him, and stopped when he saw Misha approach his friend. A wave slapped him in the face. He coughed, decided he had enough, and headed back for land.

There was nothing to lay on. They hadn’t prepared to go into the water. It was stupid, because at the last moment he did pack a suit, just in case. But they’d struck out without much thought, and now he sat on the shore, sanding sticking to everything, the sun burning through his shirt. No sunglasses. He saw two figures bobbing in the surf, but couldn’t focus on them. Blinking didn’t help. Drowsiness filled his eyes, and he closed them for a moment, then rolled over onto his stomach, and fell asleep, his arms crossed beneath his head.

***********

That night, he was a surly bastard.

“Boy, I can’t believe you.” Selma shook her head in dismay as she spread some foul-smelling ointment onto her palms. “And with a wet shirt on!”

“Yeah.” Jared was holding his breath, hunched over the bathroom sink. Selma pressed her hand to his inflamed back and he hissed loudly, stifling a curse.

“You’re gonna have to sleep on your stomach. Keep the shutters open.”

“Yeah.”

“You gonna say something besides ‘yeah’ to me?”

“Yeah,” he practically choked.

“What?”

“Stop flaying me with your hands!” And he yelped as she rubbed the ointment hard into his shoulder blade.

Jensen and Misha were downstairs eating, knowing not to bother him. Jared had been in so much pain, he could only pace to try and get some air moving on his scorched back. The ceiling fans weren’t doing crap to cool the house, but Gramma still wore her long skirt and long sleeved shirt over her bones, like the heat didn’t matter. The sight made him feel ill, then he was ill, retching into the rusted toilet bowl upstairs. Sun-sickness, Selma had called it, then disappeared and returned with a fat tube. He’d been suffering under her touch ever since.

“I said, this’ll help you.” Her voice was short, but hiding a touch of sympathy as she rubbed the ointment in.

His nose wrinkled. “It smells like seaweed.”

“Made from it.”

“Great.” He straightened carefully, and turned to examine his back in the cracked mirror. It was filmy green, with pockets of electric pink flesh showing through. “Christ.”

“You’ll be surprised how much better you feel in the morning. You go lay down on your bed. I’ll get some tea that’ll help you sleep.”

“Is it made of seaweed?”

“I ain’t telling!” she insisted, and shoo’ed him to his room.

The tea tasted worse than the ointment smelled. But he was out within ten minutes, his back lathered and healing.

****************

Jensen hadn’t meant to laugh, but he did. The visual scolding from Selma forced him to clamp his lips shut. But Misha looked amused as well. It wasn’t until Jared was barely heard throwing up his bones upstairs that he became alarmed, and followed Selma up. She walked in, and he could hear her voice over Jared’s. Then she shooed him away.

His own skin was pink, but not to the same degree as Jared’s. “Just cause he fell asleep,” Jensen said to Misha. “Usually I’m the one gettin’ burnt.”

Misha nodded, and swirled the drink Selma had supplied him with. Some kind of rum. Jensen couldn’t remember the name, but it was dark and burned like holy hell, lighting him up four ways to Tuesday. He had to take it slow.

They were seated on the front porch outside. Even the ocean breeze felt hot. The moon forced it’s way through cloud cover, only to be obscured once more. In the distance, a faint silver strip of ocean was visible, then disappeared.

“Gonna storm tomorrow,” Selma said, joining them on the porch with the bottle of rum. She let the screen door close gently.

“Gramma gone to bed?” Jensen asked.

“Yep.”

“She’s an interesting lady,” Misha offered.

“She’s gonna outlive us all by sheer stubbornness,” Selma said, arranging her ample frame on the worn wicker chair as it creaked beneath her. She set the bottle on a small iron table beside her. “You boys get this when you want it.”

“How long has this place been in the family?” Misha asked her, helping himself to more rum.

Selma reclined thoughtfully in the chair. Jensen feared the back would give, but it didn’t. “Lord, who knows? Been since my gramma was a child. She grew up here, mostly. It was in better shape then. She won’t let nobody touch the place. Say’s it’ll run the spirits out.”

“Run the spirits out?” Jensen asked. “I thought she didn’t believe in that stuff.”

“She doesn’t practice voodoo. She sure knows about these spirits, though.” Selma sipped at the rum.

“Good witch or bad witch?” Jensen asked, and hated how hesitant he sounded. And the fact that he was asking in the first place.

“Good. So far.”

“Okay.” Jensen swirled his own drink, leaning against a column. His gaze turned to the street, and paused. His breath caught.“Selma? Do you know that man that’s over there watching us?”

“Over where?” She straightened and arched her body to look around the column. “I don’t see no one.”

Jensen rolled his back against the column until he faced her, and was no longer visible to him. “Brown house, across the street, three down. He’s standing in front.”

“You got some good eyes, I’ll tell you what.” She stood and walked to the front stairs. Put on hand on her hip. “Angel? That you out there?”

Jensen peeked around the column, and saw a flash of teeth in the darkness. The man crossed the street and jogged up to the house, clearing the stairs in one leap and instantly taking Selma’s hand in his. Jensen involuntarily took several steps back, so sudden was his appearance.

“Selma, my dear,” he said, and his voice was the deepest Jensen had ever heard. Musical. Laughing. He kissed the top of her hand, oozing with charm, putting on a show that he probably felt was expected of him.

“You devil. Stop that.” She yanked her hand back. “You go find yourself a girl to put that on.”

“I prefer a woman,” he said richly.

“I ain’t playing! I’ll smack you where you stand,” she said, but there was no malice in her words. She took her seat as the man leaned against the column behind him. His eyes slowly turned to Jensen.

“This is Jensen, and Misha.” Selma threw her pointed finger in their general direction. “They’re my guest, so treat them as such, hear?”

“Don’t I always?”

“No.” She huffed and arranged herself in the chair. Her eyes drifted away.

Jensen was sensing an interesting history, here. He saw the dark, glittering eyes of the man staring at him. Locked with his. Not moving. He swallowed, slowly feeling like the energy was being sucked from him, flowing in thick streams into those dark irises. Draining him. Vampiric. As casually as he could manage, he walked to the chair beside Misha and sank into it. Misha was leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, nursing his drink, and he looked at Jensen questioningly.

Then man was standing directly in front of him. Jensen’s eyes widened, and he quickly looked him up and down. He didn’t remember the man moving. He never saw it. “My name is Angel,” he said, and offered a hand. Again, Jensen was drawn in by his eyes.

He shook the hand. “Good to meet you,” he said, watching as Misha firmly shook his hand as well. He found himself watching Misha, who seemed totally at ease. Flashed back to Angel, who was back against the column, looking at him. Enjoying his discomfort.

Jensen hid in his drink, then signaled to Misha for the bottle.

“So I hear we may have a little problem,” Angel said, his eyes still on Jensen.

“Piggyback,” Selma said, as if it explained everything.

“Where is the other one?”

“He’s ill.”

“Can I see him?”

“Not today.” She gave him a curt look.

“You wanted help. I am here to help.” He opened his hands in a giving gesture. The lightness of his palms surprised Jensen.

“I didn’t even call you. Not yet.”

“I heard you were here.”

“You know too much for your own damn good,” Selma muttered.

Angel laughed, a deep, full bodied expression of glee. He would have slapped his knee if his otherwise restrained personality allowed it.

“What can you do for us?” Misha asked. Jensen had to admire the boldness.

Angel seemed to really notice him for the first time. He stared at him as he had Jensen, but there was no real scrutiny behind it, only acknowledgment. Misha met his stare. “That would depend.”

“On?”

“A lot of things.” His eyes drifted to Jensen. “How far are you willing to go?”

“Okay, hang on.” Jensen raised his hand, his stomach churning uneasily. “Just how much do you know about all this?”

“I can see it.” He pushed away from the column once more, and walked to him, like a predator slowly stalking his prey. Jensen realized he was afraid of this man. He flinched slightly as Angel raised his hand, turning the back to face him. “You see this? You are as black as my skin. It covers you. It is in you. It is a cancer in the brain. I had to come see for myself. I hate that you brought this here.” His eyes darkened, and the hand slowly lowered.

“We had no choice,” Selma said, but her voice was weary, defeated.

“And I am a last resort. Is that right?” Angel shook his head. “You’ve waited too late.”

“Angel. . .”

“Others will see it. I will be able to do nothing, then.”

Misha slowly stood. He set his shot glass on the table separating him and Selma. Two steps, and he was looking the man in the eyes, half blocking Jensen from him. Angel had to be Jared’s height, or taller, but Misha seemed to grow into this. “You will help us,” he said solidly, leaving no room for argument. “You will do everything you can. If there is danger, you will tell us.”

“And why would I do this?”

“Because it’s who you are.”

He smiled. “That is a line from a movie. But you are correct. And there is danger. For all of you.” He looked at each one. “Are you ready for this?”

“I’m always ready,” Jensen said, firmly, bringing his acting experience to the forefront, because in truth he was scared shitless. And the darkness was closing in around him.

“Then I will return tomorrow, if the Anya Lihai do not get to you first.”

“The who?” Jensen asked.

“Never mind,” Selma said calmly, her eyes on Angel. “Thank you.”

“We must be quick about this. I’m not the only one who knows, or sees. From the moment he stepped foot off the plane, there was talk.” He walked down the stairs, then turned back. “I would stay close, if I were you. Do not wander off.”

“We’ll be here,” Selma assured him.

Jensen thought he’d go stir-crazy staying there all day, but he nodded.

And the figure vanished into the night.

LODESTONE pt 10

kamelionwriter — Wed, 28 Oct 2009 21:25:31 GMT

Jared didn’t start cleaning until nearly three. He kicked aside a cardboard box that once held beer cans, and wondered how they’d managed to navigate through the mess the night before.

Jensen had stomped down the stairs, showered and dressed, about twenty minutes after Misha left. He waved away Jared’s attempt to relay Misha’s farewell. Coffee beckoned, and Jensen finished the pot, sitting morosely at the kitchen table. When he finally started to clean, he discovered the empty box of garbage bags. “We’ll need more of these,” was all he said, and left. Jared shrugged off the mood and continued to fill the bag he was working on.

The doorbell rang. Jared looked up, puzzled, and dragged the loaded garbage bag to the door. He swung it open and stumbled back as Selma charged in. “I’ve been thinking,” she said brusquely. “We’re going to see my Gramma.”

“We’re doing what?” Jared stood in his open doorway.

“Going to see my gramma.”

He was still trying to wrap his brain around the fact that she was here, and not on a plane. “She’s in Vancouver?”

“Now what do you think?”

Jared was dumbfounded. He knew he looked the part. “In Haiti?”

“That’s right. Now pack your bags. I already booked the flight, and you boys’ll owe me for it but don’t worry about that right now.” She pushed past him and walked into the house, her small yet stout frame filling the room with a determined energy. She glanced around, then aimed for Jensen’s room.

“No, wait!” Jared ever so gently, and respectfully, grabbed the freaking insane woman by the arm and spun her to a stop. “Haiti?”

“The eyes, Jared.”

“There’s a flight this late?”

“Several connecting. It’ll take a while. Now hurry up.”

“Wait, wait, hang on!” Jared laughed and stretched out his arms to illustrate the neglected mess. “I can’t leave all this!”

“Gimme that, then.” She snatched the bag from him. “You go pack. Where’s Jensen?”

“He’s not here.”

She looked at him like he’d lost the younger brother he was supposed to watch out for. “Explain yourself!”

Explain? “He went to get trash bags. And I’m beginning to wonder if I’m still asleep.”

“When’s he coming back?”

Truth be told, he was due back, and Jared was trying not to think about it. “Soon.”

“Boy, you’re just a bundle of useful information, aren’t you?” She grabbed plastic cups and fed them to the bag.

“You’re one to talk! What makes you think we can just drop everything and fly off to Haiti?”

“You’ll be flying to Chicago, Miami, then Haiti.”

“Selma. Get real.”

She glared at him. “All this going on not real enough for you?”

He had to wonder. “Are you sure about this?”

“Yes. And I’ll show you why when he gets back.”

*******************

Misha started from his doze as his phone buzzed. He blinked rapidly and fished it out of his pocket, quickly checking the board for his delayed flight. He shut the alarm off, and sighed. Waited. Watched the plane finally come in for a landing, and went to the boarding gate, staggering with fatigue.

His phone buzzed again, this time with a text message. He cursed lightly and flipped it open, shouldering his bag. Change flight. Go to Haiti. Selma.

Haiti? Misha glanced up at the flight board and shifted his bag again. She had to be nuts. She was nuts. And how the hell did she know he wasn’t already hovering over L.A.? He shook his head and kept his place in line, only to be buzzed again with a message to call her.

Oh, come on! He glanced up the security line, then eased out, waving his phone at the attendant as explanation, knowing the delay would probably make him miss his flight. Phone to his ear, he quickly skidded on the slick floor while shuffling his two bags, and rounded a column, pressed his back flat against it, and dropped his bags to the tile. Her voice was tinny. “Hello?”

“Selma? What the hell’s all this about Haiti?”

“Change your flight. I’ll text you the details. Just get there as quick as you can and wait for us.”

“Switch flights?” His head swung around to check on the rapidly disappearing line of people. “I’m due back in L.A.! I have a guest spot lined up on ABC! I can’t go to Haiti!”

“Misha, I need you. And you know why.”

“No, I don’t! Not really! Listen, I’m about to miss my flight. . .”

“You’re gonna let your friend go through this alone?”

Misha closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead patiently. “Selma, I really don’t think he wants our help.”

“And you’re okay with that? Is he your friend or not?”

Was Jensen his friend? “Well. . .” Misha wasn’t sure what to say. “I mean I know the guy.” Sort of. Not really.

“But you won’t help him?”

“Okay, it was one thing when I was there? You know? And this was going on in front of me.”

“And it’s different now?”

Well. Yeah. He wasn’t there, for one.

“You know what’s happening, Misha.”

“I can’t help with this.” His voice lowered, and he glanced around. “I’m way out of my league here, and you know it.”

“What I know is, they need a stable presence, and you’re it.”

“Then you don’t know me very well.”

“Don’t down yourself like that! It’s not like you. Why are you scared?”

“I told you! I’m out of my depths, here.”

“So that’s it then? You’re gonna forget about it? It’s not gonna go away just because you did.”

“Ah, God.” He sighed heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose and wincing. “It’s complicated.”

“Everything is complicated. Now get your ass on that plane!” And she hung up.

His lips pressed tight together as he glared at the phone. He made a motion to fling it though the glass window overlooking the hanger, then hung up, catching the eye of a security guard. He gave him a quick smile and picked up his bags. He knew good and well if he didn’t board that plane, he wouldn’t hear it from her. She wasn’t slated to return to the show. He could ignore all this and get back to L.A.. But what if Jensen or Jared gave him hell all next season? Or if they didn’t survive this– he cursed and dialed Jared’s cell, but it went to voicemail. Same with Jensen’s. He sighed and leaned his head back against the column, and breathed deeply. The line was gone. A voice was calling his name over the intercom.

A grounding point. He was the one that would brace them. After years of trying to stabilize himself, he now was going to be responsible for keeping two guys, whom he didn’t really know, from the brink of destruction. The voice of reason. A voice with a temper, sure, and he knew that would come out. But there were times when he had to fight to keep it together himself. How was he going to hold them in one piece? He needed to get to L.A.. He had a job. He couldn’t risk this. But then...he had another longer job to come back to, and that was only if he went to Haiti.

Dammit! He turned a few times in place, a focal point of indecision, then hurried to the flight clerk.

*********************

Jared had sent Jensen a text saying Selma was back, but didn’t say why. “We’re going where?” Jensen slowly set his bag of groceries on the counter.

Jared was leaning forward on the table, his head lowered. He peered up from underneath his brows. “Haiti,” he answered without enthusiasm.

After a moment, Jensen nodded. “I bought bananas,” he said in a low, calm voice.

“Pack ‘em I guess.”

“If we’re going to Haiti, we won’t need them.” Jensen was confused. Hell, all he wanted was to get out of the house, sure, but this? “She does know I’m going back to L.A. for a bit, right? That we have jobs, right?”

“I don’t think she cares.”

“No, of course not! Why the hell would she care!” He randomly aimed his voice behind Jared. “She’s back there, isn’t she?”

“Yes, and I heard you come in, so shut up and get in here.” Selma peeked around the corner, and disappeared again.

Jensen gave Jared a steady look. “This is crazy.”

“I think it’s about to get crazier.” Jared pushed from the table, and Jensen followed him.

They found Selma in the den, folding Jensen’s shirts, stuffing them into a travel bag. “Whoa whoa hold on!” Jensen stormed up to her and snatched a shirt away. “I didn’t say I was going anywhere!”

She snatched it back. “You don’t have to. This is my decision. Now you want a reason for it? Go look in your room.”

“Why?”

“Now, Jensen. You too, Jared.”

“Fucking insane,” Jensen muttered. His boots fell heavily against the floor, showing his irritation. He flung open his door, and stopped dead still. Then he slowly stepped inside, but just within the doorway. He heard Jared gasp over his shoulder. “My god,” he breathed. “How?”

“I don’t think it liked having all the people in the house,” Selma said.

The room was dark, the walls sooted, but ingrained into the drywall rather than dusting the surface. “It looks like one of those demons from the show exploded in here,” Jensen said quietly.

“If you had been in here when it happened. . .” she shook her head.

He looked at her sharply. “What? What if I’d been in here?”

“I don’t know. Does it look like it would be something good?” The harsh tone was gone. Sympathetic eyes met his.

Jensen slowly stepped into the room. He glanced at Selma, and walked fully in, coming to a halt right in the center, his knees almost brushing the foot of his bed. Even the sheets, the wood of his dresser, everything was darker, sooted, ruined. He pictured himself lying on the bed, frozen, open eyes staring at the ceiling from a charred face, and had to close his eyes. He swallowed hard. “It feels different in here,” he said.

“Residual energy.” Selma crept in behind him.

“Like I can’t breathe.” His eyes opened. “I can’t. . .” he gasped, his chest suddenly tightening in a band around his panic.

Selma turned him to her. “Look at me. Now do you understand? There is something going on here. Something’s latched onto you, and we have to get rid of it.”

Shit. Shitshitshit. Jensen breathed heavily, his eyes wildly glancing in all directions at the walls, the dresser, the sheets, his reflection in the mirror, showing a small, study woman holding his arms. He saw his own eyes, read the fear in there, and another pair of eyes melted into view over his, carved into the soot in the wall behind him, right over the doorframe. Right over Jared.

He didn’t think. He tore himself away from Selma, yelling for her to get out, and launched himself at his friend. They fell through the doorway, slamming against the opposite wall in the hallway and landing sideways on the floor. Jared was making noises but he couldn’t understand them, he just crawled over his friend and yelled for Selma to shut the door, lock it, burn the room, anything, and the whole time he tried to hide Jared, to shield him. He slapped furiously at the hands that grabbed his arms, and felt his body being tugged away. He was thrown down, held down, and fought back, thrashing. The voices were just noises to him. Word were misunderstood sounds that hurt his ears. He managed to push the bodies away and roll, standing, falling against the wall, running into the den where he came to a stop. A body collided into his from behind and they landed on the sofa. Jensen didn’t move, he just gasped as his mind cleared.

“What the hell? Fuck! Say something! Come on, man!”

Jensen focused on the face in front of his. Vibrant eyes stared into his own, dark brows pulled down in worry. He was okay. Jared was okay. There was nothing after them, nothing there. Jensen reached out and patted his cheek, then let his body fall limp as he sighed.

Selma staggered into the den. She leaned heavily against the wall. “Whatcha’ll think about taking that trip now?” she asked tiredly.

Jared collapsed on the sofa beside him. Jensen looked up with yielding eyes. “When’s the flight?”

*****************

Port de Paix didn’t even have an airport. It had a hut.

Jensen climbed out of the plane and looked around. “Are you serious?” he asked for the fourth time, shaking his leg. The first time was when they landed in Miami and boarded a plane that fit twelve people. The second was with more delight as they hovered over Tortuga Island. The third was when he realized the building he thought was an outhouse was actually the “airport terminal”. The fourth time confirmed his suspicions as he stepped out of the plane and into a puddle.

“There, now.” Selma climbed out, smiling. Her face fell sightly when she took in Jensen’s expression. “Well, what did you expect?”

“I don’t know. An airport, maybe?”

“We have those.” She was already breathing heavily in the moist air. “Just not here.” She looked around.

“Please say someone’s gonna meet us,” Jensen said.

“Lots of places are shut cause of the hurricanes. And there’s places you don’t wanna go. Got demonstrations and all that going on here.” She pointed. “Don’t you two go off by yourselves, you hear me? You ain’t girls, but they don’t care. They’ll rob you blind and throw you in an alley.”

“And you though this would help?” Jared asked, incredulous.

“I know people here. They can help.” She glanced down the road. She frowned, then dug in the pocket of her dark jeans, and pulled out a stone. “Oh, here. Hold this for me.”

Jensen took the stone and studied it. “What is it?”

“It’s a Lodestone. You like it?”

Jensen angled the stone in the light. “Huh. Yeah, I guess. I mean, it’s a rock.” He started to hand it back.

“Put it in your pocket.”

“What for?”

“It’s a gift. You gonna question me on a gift?”

Out here? She’d probably stab him and throw him to the jackals, or whatever the hell hid in the bush. “No ma’am. Thanks.” Jensen stuck the stone into the front pocket of his jeans. He turned his back to her and looked around, talking to Jared over his shoulder. “Ever get the feeling this is a bad idea?”

“The minute we stepped off the plane,” he agreed.

“I heard that,” Selma said, and waved at an old shell of a car that bounced towards them on the pitted, rain-filled roads. Jensen bent over and squinted, trying to see the driver through the grimy windshield. Jared’s expression was as dubious and questionable as his own.

The car skidded to a messy stop in front of them, and Selma ducked her head down. The man inside smiled and shouted something Creole, there was no way Jensen could follow it. Selma laughed and replied in kind, then signaled for them to get in the back.. “He’s already taken Misha. Poor boy looked as struck as you two. Took forever to convince him it was safe to get in the car and go.” She laughed again.

Jensen would never admit it, and neither would Jared, but they sat closer to each other in the backseat than the situation strictly warranted.

The road wasn’t paved, and the driver didn’t care. Soon they were all bracing their hands against the roof, the seats, whatever would keep them from flinging out of the open windows that served as air conditioning. Hot air conditioning. It’s only benefit was the illusion that the air was moving. The road narrowed, and the land closed in around them. It was more pitted, turning the stomachs of the two men in back. Selma and the driver kept up a loud dialog in a language they couldn’t catch. He glanced back at the men, then shot more words at Selma. His eyes drifted to the rearview mirror and met Jensen’s.

“How safe is this place?” he asked, wondering what the locals thought.

He was surprised when the man answered in broken English. “Is safe enough. Places in de Port, you need guide. Village safe.”

It took a moment for Jensen to comprehend what was being said. The accent seemed to be heavily African influenced, and was very thick. “Is it far?”

“Not far.” It came out more as “Knot fa” and again he had to adjust his skills. He leaned back, seeing his friend’s glance at him, before he looked ahead over the front seat, trying to anticipate the jolts. The next one cause Jensen to close his eyes and wonder in what part of his lower anatomy that spring went. A half-hour later they emerged from the trees onto a white cobbled road, and bounced into a shanty town. They drove through, back onto a dirt road, though not as pitted, and headed into the hills. A smaller town revealed itself. Jensen instantly gravitated to the window.

The town would be a relative of New Orleans if New Orleans had a bastard. The buildings stood majestically, each begging to reveal stories of their fall into such a dilapidated state. Romanesque columns mingled with wrought-iron railing and lacy archways. Plants and flowers climbed up the sides of the buildings. But the buildings themselves looked sickly, desperately in need of a paint job and possible mold removal. A man passed by on a two-wheeler that was larger than a moped, but not really a motorcycle. Several more casually walked the streets, their long, dark arms swinging loosely by their sides. They glanced at the taxi, but moved on. It seemed dogs were everywhere; thin, angst-ridden creatures that pulled a whine of sympathy from Jared’s throat.

They took a right and drove up yet another hill, behind what might have been the town square. There, perched atop the flattening land, sat a large, two-story house. The taxi slowed to a stop in front.

The house was dirty white with slate blue shutters. Black wrought iron curved from one support beam of the porch to the next, the elaborate flower pattern flaking with rusted age and ill-care. The exterior paint was cracked and peeling; the sienna-colored roof, pale and weathered. The shutters were open along the sides of the house, giving in to the hot air. The front door was open as well, and a thin old lady stood there, braced by her bony shoulder against the door frame.

Selma wiggled out of the taxi, and grinned. “Gramma,” she beamed, and walked up to her, arms outstretched, her purse dangling from her elbow. Jensen followed Jared out of the backseat and unloaded their bags while watching.

“Thought I got rida you,” the old lady croaked. She moved her delicate body to be embraced, accepting the hug with a feather-light touch. “Didn’t say you coming back. Didn’t say you was sending a boy to me!”

“Is he here?” Selma looked around, and called out, “Misha, honey?”

“I’m here.”

Misha emerged from the semi-dark of the ill-lit house, stepping onto the porch. Jensen sighed with relief, seeing him. Thank god he wasn’t kidnapped off the side of the road, or left for the dogs. He nudged Jared to take his bags and listening to the exchange.

“I came to see Angel, Gramma,” Selma said.

“Angel?” Cloudy eyes narrow suspiciously. “Whatever for? Who these people?” The old lady squinted past Selma, appraising the strangers that appeared just behind her granddaughter.

“Hi, ma’am.” Jared took the initiative, and Jensen was glad to let him. “My name’s Jared. This is Jensen, and I guess you’ve met Misha. We all work with your granddaughter, here.” He slowly extended his hand, bowing so he at least looked courteous, but Jensen knew he didn’t want to intimidate the frail lady with his height.

She took his hand with a detached air that showed she wouldn’t be taken in by the charm he was putting on. “I see. Selma could’ve told me we havin’ company. Could’ve told me you comin’!”

“It was spur of the moment, Gramma.” Selma defended herself gently.

“How many hours til you get here? That ain’t spur of nothin’. And Angel? He comin’? Or no?”

“I’ll explain later, Gramma. May we enter?”

“You may.” The lady replied smartly and stepped aside, watching the men like a hawk with her sharp eyes as they walked in, tugging their bags with them. The taxi honked once and pulled away. Like it or not, Jensen realized he was committed. He eased past the lady with the sharp eyes and sharper bones, giving her a gentlemanly nod. She didn’t budge, and he had to force his bags around her.

Gramma followed them into the large, mostly bare living area. A heavy table made of dark wood sat in the corner next to a large, open double window. It would seat them all with room to spare. Several worn, covered chairs were scattered throughout the room. The other side revealed what looked to be a long kitchen that stretched from the front of the house, and down the side to the rear. Before him, wood stairs led to the second floor, set far enough back in the house to keep from dividing the main floor, which in turn made them steep as hell. They disappeared into the ceiling, meaning the rooms were on either side, front and back. Misha’s bags were still at the bottom.

Misha smiled at Jensen’s questioning glance. “I wanted to make sure I was in the right place. Gramma here wasn’t convinced. I’ve been sitting at that table over there.” He leaned in, and Jensen caught a quick hint of aftershave. “I’m surprised she let me in the house,” he whispered.

“Go on,” Gramma said, as Jensen’s eyes trailed up the stairway. “Git your rooms. Was no ready to feed you.”

“We’ll help with dinner, Gramma.” Selma reassured her. Jensen tugged at his bag, his eyes still wandering, and wondered what else they could do to repair the run-down house. If she was taking them in, it seemed the least they could do. She obviously didn’t have much help.

The blocky stairs somehow managed to shuffle and creak beneath them like they were nothing more than slats between two rails. Upstairs felt like a sauna. Misha actually leaned against the wall and waved the other two by him while he rested, setting down his bags. “You okay, man?” Jensen asked, not sure if teasing him would be welcome.

“I get head-rushes. No big deal. Go on. I haven’t even looked in these rooms, yet, just pick something.” He waved at them again, and caught his breath. Jared walked into one of the rooms.

Jensen glanced at the door, then paused. He turned to Misha. “Wait. Didn’t you have a tv spot or something?”

“Key word being did,” Misha said. The recline of his head meant he had to look down his nose at Jensen, but it wasn’t snobby. Actually, the expression was open, almost vulnerable. His eyes were almost too bright in the dim hallway.

He gave up a job? To do this? Jensen paused again. “Ah. . .right. It’s - good to see you here, man.” He opened his mouth once more, but thanks didn’t seem to cover it.

The corners of Misha’s mouth twitched into a slight grin. “You too. I was pretty damned uncomfortable here by myself.”

“Yeah, I bet.” Jensen tweaked at his nose uncomfortably as Misha shouldered from the wall and grabbed his bags.

One room was empty. One had two beds, the other two had one bed each. Jensen and Jared chose the side-by-side rooms, giving Misha the one opposite them, the one with two beds. “I guess they’re cleaning the other room,” Misha called out. “You guys are missing the view.”

“What view?” Jensen walked into Misha’s room and looked out. All he saw were green banana trees and...holy crap. “The ocean?” He braced his hands on the window sill and leaned out. “We’re this close to the ocean? How come we can’t smell it?”

“You probably could, if a breeze would blow through here.” Misha was pulling off his sweaty t-shirt.

As was his habit from youth, Jensen looked him over quickly for an athletic build. Sports discussion was a good ice-breaker back then, maybe it would work now. He saw a slight frame that was more health-conscious than bulked. He stopped himself quickly, remembering how he was teased by Amber, a PA who knew how to get under his skin. Saying things like how “the balance of testosterone was about to be upset”, or some bullshit like that. Claiming Jensen marked his turf every time he saw the man that was to become his new co-star. He suddenly realized he had done just that, by putting Misha on the other end of their rooms. He and Jared had claimed their spaces, and in doing so, their allegiance to each other. Misha would just have to prove himself.

He turned away, troubled by his thoughts, and went to unpack.

They eventually drifted downstairs. Jared too had shed his shirt, opting for a loose button-down which he left mostly unbuttoned. The sleeves were rolled. Misha was dressed in a similar way, looking relaxed in a bright, plain white shirt, kakhis and sandals. Jensen pulled at his tight t-shirt, worn-out jeans and boots, and wondered what the hell he’d been thinking.

“Hey.” Jared smiled at him like a kid. “You wanna explore?”

“I dunno, is it safe?” Jensen pulled at his shirt again.

Gramma looked at him. “Is so. For now.”

Jared gestured to the dark-haired man. “Misha? You coming?”

Misha looked up, and his mouth opened to cover the hesitation in his words. “Ahhh, I think I’ll stay here, see if I can help in the kitchen.”

Jensen’s brow quirked. “The kitchen?”

“Yeah. I’ll catch up.”

Well. He wasn’t exactly making it a point to fit in with them. Fine. “Sure, man. Have fun doing dishes.”

“Don’t go swimming alone,” Misha countered, but his eyes held something deeper.

Jensen found he was held by that gaze. He was pulling that damned Castiel trick, the son of a bitch. Teasing him. He cleared his throat, grabbed Jared’s arm, and hauled ass outta there.

LODESTONE pt 9

kamelionwriter — Wed, 28 Oct 2009 21:23:55 GMT

As it turned out, this time Jensen wasn’t getting off that easy. He should of jumped off the roof when he had a chance.

The crew members that had children were out by ten. Others dwindled out slowly, the last guest leaving at about 2am. So of course it was time to sleep, and of course that wasn’t happening. “Talk. Now,” Selma had said, and ushered Jensen into the den where an anxious Jared and a drowsy Misha waited.

So he knew he was in trouble, especially when he was pushed into a chair.

“Now,” Selma said, and glared at the men sprawled on the sofa. “Sit up!” They did so.

He was being interrogated. He resented the hell out of that. “What’s going on now?”

“We’re going to finish the conversation we didn’t get to finish the other day. But first things first. Why were you on the roof?”

“How did you know about that?”

“I have ears. I listen to what I’m told.” She stood over him. “Why were you on the roof?”

All he needed was caged windows and a single swinging bulb hanging down over his head. “I don’t know.”

“What?”

“I don’t know! I just, I didn’t want to. . .” he winced and gave his head a dismayed shake. “I’m not crazy.”

“No.”

“I’m not!”

Selma knelt and placed her hands on his knees. “Jensen,” she said softly. “We want to help you. You have to let us help you. You’re not crazy.”

“You’ll zip me up in a jacket,” he muttered. “God, I’ll get fired. Kripke’ll have my ass.”

Her eyes were bright. “That won’t happen. I promise you. But you have got to face what’s going on.”

He was stuck. He needed to talk, so bad, so damn bad, but he couldn’t get the words out. They caught in his chest. Didn’t need to put his problems out there, anyway. They had enough going on. “No,” he said, and made to move, but Selma placed a firm hand on his shoulder.

“Uh-uh. You’re not standing up until you talk to me.”

“Fine. I’ll go to sleep in this chair.”

“And I’ll do all I can to keep those two awake.” She nodded back towards Jared and Misha. “They’ll hate you in the morning.”

“It is morning.”

“Dammit, Jensen!” Jared rose. Selma stepped aside, and Jensen found himself confronted by a six-four, pissed off, fatigued and slightly drunken mass of humanity that he did NOT want to tangle with. “For once, for ONCE, just – say something! You had a knife on Misha! You remember that?” His nostrils flared as he breathed, and forced himself to calm down. He turned away, fingers carding through his thick, unruly hair. Misha was leaning forward, elbows on his knees, his eyes first intent on Jared, then Jensen.

Jensen felt the rage coming, the fear of being alone, the sheer desperateness of the situation. “What the hell do you want to know? I’m just a fuck-up that can’t remember his lines or doesn’t show up for work or freaks out in a car or dangles over a rail on the freakin’ set! Why the hell would you want to work with me? I don’t want to work with me!” Jensen stood quickly. He walked to the window, looked out, then turned to see three sets of eyes on his. Jared was blocking the only exit unless he wanted to jump over the sofa, and he was fairly certain at this point that Misha would tackle him. He turned back to the window, knowing this was it. This was the end game, and he was stuck. There was no turning back. He was trapped. He clenched his fists and raged, growling out sounds of anger, but it didn’t help. He was going to explode. Inside, he already had. He lowered his head and pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, bending over, wanting to sob. His hands rose and braced against the window. He could jump through. Punch his way out. But his rational mind caught up with him, the one small part he clung to. He had to turn it over to them. He was out of his league.

He let the words take air. “I don’t know what I’m feeling,” he admitted in a low, careful voice. “I’ve been depressed before. This ain’t it. This is,” he breathed loudly around a dazed smile. His head dropped back. His hands fell from the pane. “This is so much more.” He swallowed and let his eyes drift to the floor. “I go out of my head. Part of me is scared of it, but the rest of me just wants to – end it. God. It’s so intense. I feel – small.” He stopped.

“When did it start?” The voice wasn’t Selma’s, but Jared’s.

He shrugged. “I don’t know. Been going on for a little while. The panic, I just, that’s been for a year, maybe. Longer. But this is new.”

“Does the panic ease when Jared’s around?” Selma asked.

He turned, tucking his hands into his front pockets. “Christ. The speculation on the internet not enough for you?”

“Jensen.”

“Sometimes, okay? Yes. A lot, actually.” Jared’s eyes were on him. He turned away.

“How?”

“How? Hell, I don’t know! There’s times when it seems like things are rushing at me. He blocks it. That sounds stupid.”

“Not so much.”

He snorted. “If you say so.”

“Do you remember the last time we tried to talk about this?”

“I remember you feeding me some bullshit.” He continued to stare out of the window. A moment later, he felt her presence behind him, small but powerful.

“Listen to me,” she said quietly. “And you really listen this time. You will die if you don’t. This thing will eat at you until you can’t control your actions. For all I know, you’ll bring Jared down with you. Or Misha. Is that what you want?”

Fuck no. But he didn’t know what to do. All Jensen could see was darkness. He knew at this rate he wouldn’t be back next year. He wouldn’t survive the summer. “What’s happening to me?” he asked, barely above a whisper.

She exhaled loudly though her nose, as though centering herself. “This’ll be hard for you to hear. Keep looking outside, you don’t have to look at me.” She hesitated, then continued, slowly and precisely, her speech almost hypnotic. “There are people out there that can sense things that others can’t. Don’t mean these particular people are strange, or special. Just more in tune with the way things are. They got lots of names. Empaths, psychics, some call them Indigo people. Nothing mystical or magical about it. Some people can manipulate the world. Other people can see it being manipulated. You’re someone that can see it.

“What you have, it’s a part of you. You’ve always had this. It’s normal for a person to realize their abilities as they get older, because they become more in tuned with who they are. They shed everything on the outside, and start looking inside themselves. It’s confusing, I know. Your senses will sharpen. Dreams will mean something. Your priorities change. Your friends, change. It’s like adolescence all over again, but more powerful and fulfilling. Jared over there, he’s an old soul. He’s already been through this transition. You’re going through it now, and he’s been helping you. Neither of you knew it. The two of you, you share something. I don’t know what it is. You felt it when you first met, and it will get you through this. Karma, soul mates, however you want to look at it. But you are here, now, for a reason.”

He tried to take it all in, out of sheer desperation. “And what reason is that?” Jensen asked, hoarsely.

“For the moment, to acknowledge the power that’s in you. Accept it.”

“Accept that I’m a freak?”

“Accept that you have this, and you don’t know how to control it. But there’s more than that.” Her tone shifted to something more grave. “I think you have a piggy-back.”

Jensen glanced over his shoulder. The word didn’t fit her tone. “Excuse me?”

“A spirit has tagged itself to you. And it’s not a pretty one.”

Now he turned fully, and looked at Selma, all-too ready to shove her away and tell her off. “What the hell are you talking about now?”

“You’re open, and vulnerable. Something’s latched onto you. Something’s putting you through the emotional wringer. Like you needed help with that in the first place.”

He tried to tell her to piss off, that this was all insane, but two words came out and startled him. “The eyes.”

“Yes. Misha’s seen them as well.”

“The eyes.” He felt boneless.

“Yes.”

“Being watched, all the time. . .” He didn’t feel like talking anymore. It was too much to take in. He slumped down to the floor, hearing a slight buzzing in his ears. It made no sense. It made perfect sense.

She knelt before him. “You were already scared, because of these changes. Your mind, that part that likes to sort through problems? It didn’t know what to do with this. You started feeling anxious, scared, alone. Like people were crowding you. Like they were all looking at you.”

“Yeah.”

“You were more aware of them. That’s all it is. But you didn’t know what was happening, did you? And this thing picked up on it. Your desperation drew it to you. Now, I’m gonna ask you again. When did you start feeling this way? Not the tension, not the people. I’m talking about this despair you’re carrying with you.”

“Jensen,” Jared said softly. “The asylum.”

“What?” He couldn’t think. What about the asylum?

“That place you were filming at?” Selma asked Jared.

“We first filmed there about a month ago. Then we had to go back to finish a scene.”

Jensen’s mouth opened, and he started talking, thinking through what he’d known in the back of his mind all along. “I was alone. I was walking the floors, trying to get a feel for the place. Get an idea of what Dean would be fighting. Kept thinking I heard noises. Then Jared showed up and scared the shit out of me. He went back down, and I was alone again, but it was okay.”

“Are you sure?” Selma asked.

He paused, then shook his head. “No. We argued. I was tense that day. I wanted to shake it. I was fooling around. Went exploring. Jared wanted me to come back down, get back on set, and we argued. I stayed where I was.” He shook his head, the regret taking hold. “I should of gone back down.” He looked at Jared. “You knew, didn’t you? Why didn’t you make me go back down?”

“What?” Jared asked.

Jensen rose, and Selma rose with him. “You knew something would happen. You let this happen!”

“How the hell would I know?”

“Because you wanted me to leave!”

“In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not Sam! I can’t see this shit coming!”

“Oh, but you can do all that other crap that you do!”

“What other crap?”

“Getting all up in my head! Why is it you can block all this shit and I can’t? Why did it choose me and not you? What did you do to me?”

“I haven’t done a damn thing to you!” Jared roared.

“Someone did something! This isn’t normal! None of this is normal!” He clutched his head between his hands. “How can any of this be normal?”

“It’s normal for me!” Jared bellowed. “You calling me a freak?”

“And it’s normal for me,” Misha admitted, receiving surprised looks from both Jared and Jensen.

“Oh, this – this sucks,” Jensen muttered, and turned away, waving his hand at them irritably.

“Tell me what happened when Jared left you up there,” Selma pressed.

Jensen forced himself to gather his thoughts, though it was the last thing he wanted to do. “I felt cold. I pictured all these people, scared and angry, or sick, all these voices crying out, people dying in their cells, or running over others trying to get free. You know, if they were strong enough when their cell doors opened. Then I could hear them, I– I heard them, and I felt them like I was one of them. And I wanted to end it. I felt so alone. . .” he looked up suddenly. “I’ve had this ache ever since.” His voice filled with wonder as he realized, yes, he had been depressed before, but that was when it had really started. “That was it.”

“I went back up and found him standing on the wrong side of the rail,” Jared added. “It’s like it wasn’t even him. I just knew he was gonna let go. When I pulled him back, he didn’t know what had happened.”

“I didn’t know,” Jensen confirmed. “I – blacked out. Like in the car, I felt like I wanted to just run it off the road, off the bridge. . .I pulled over, scared to move, and they found me.” God, it felt good to talk, to finally just talk.

“What about the car jack?” Misha asked. “The light exploding in the kitchen? Is that the spirit?”

“No,” Selma sighed. “That’s Jared.”

Jared had taken a seat with his chin on his hand, his eyes fixed firmly on Jensen. Now he looked up. “What?”

“Well, it’s indirect.” Selma paced.

“You’re saying I. . .”

“One thing at a time, Jared. I sensed the anger in this spirit. Despite the origin, I think I know what it wants.”

“Me?” Jensen asked cautiously.

“In a sense. I don’t know you that well, but I’m beginning to. You keep your feelings right next to you. Inside of you. Jared, you are more outgoing. You talk to people. So it would stand to reason that this spirit would manifest itself inwardly though Jensen, and outwardly through Jared.”

Jared stood slowly, his eyes now glued to Selma. Jensen felt his stomach drop as the same realization hit him. “So this house isn’t haunted,” Jared said. “We are. Both of us.”

“The jack, the light, even that two-by-four on the set, that was all you,” Selma said quietly. “You didn’t mean it. That spirit was acting through you, feeding on your anger at the time.”

“But the beam, I wasn’t angry that day on the set.”

“Are you sure? You had intense emotions pouring through you. It don’t have to be just anger. It can be fear, or worry. Anything negative.”

“So this thing’s attacked Jensen, and worrying about it is making it worse?” Jared threaded his fingers through his hair, pulled his head down.

“It feeds off emotion. Jensen is emotionally vulnerable. You’re close to him, so it feeds off you as well. But get too close, and it lashes out.”

“Is it protecting Jensen?”

“I wouldn’t call it that.”

“How do we stop it?” Jensen asked sharply.

Selma’s lips pressed tight. “Think happy thoughts?”

Jensen blinked. “Rainbows and unicorns?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?” Jensen took a few steps towards her.

“Look, we just figured out what’s going on! And you’re just now talking. You want me to pull a rabbit out of my hat? This stuff takes time.”

“Time. Fine. You take your time then, while I go INSANE!” And he walked out, heading for Jared’s room. Time. That one word sounded like an eternity.

He was in trouble. He knew he was. All the bad thoughts, the insecurities, the words that were spoken weighed him down with a pressure that was devastating. He was angry and scared and annoyed and just. . .spinning out of control on the inside. No one could help him. He was pretty sure no one cared to. He knew people were generally out for themselves, that these days they helped others only if it suited them.

And since it seemed no one was particularly suited to anything, he was screwed.

**********************************

Jared rolled out of bed and instantly headed for the bathroom without looking at a clock. It was daylight, that was good enough for him. His head throbbed. He heard Jensen’s snores, which didn’t help his headache, but reassured him just the same.

He braced himself against the tiled wall of the shower, letting the hot water beat at his back, inhaling the steam. His dreams had been so distorted, going over recent events to the point where he wasn’t sure if he was dreaming it or reliving it. The conversation replayed, speakers switching roles until he was the one being interrogated for not taking this seriously in the first place. How much of Jensen’s state was this thing, and how much was really Jensen? He turned and let the water beat his face, opened his mouth, swished and spat. Grabbed the soap. Ten minutes later he was freshly scrubbed and towel-wrapped, and looking down at Jensen. His friend was again rolled into a blanket burrito. Jared let him sleep.

He grabbed a pair of jeans and slid them on, then lazily took the stairs down into the den. Misha was up, packing his things. One bag was already by the door. A garbage bag was beside it, more than likely filled with cups and such from the party. “I cleaned up a little,” he said, straightening. “I’d stay and help out more, but I’ve got a flight.”

“You need a ride?” Jared asked casually, tugging at his low-slung jeans.

“You need a belt?” Misha asked. Jared grinned at him. “No, I’m good,” Misha continued. “I’ve already called a taxi out here.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

“So you were just going to leave without saying anything?”

Misha looked uncomfortable. “Not the best manners, granted. But I sure as hell didn’t want to wake you two after last night.”

Jared picked up his watch from the side table. Almost one? “Christ. You should have.”

“You’re up now.”

“Yeah. Look, you want some coffee? I’ve got a travel mug.”

Misha grinned. “I’m good, really.”

“Yeah,” Jared said again, scratching his head.

“It doesn’t have to be this awkward,” Misha said, and held out his hand to shake. “You watch out for him. I’ll see you in two months or so.”

“Right! Yeah, sure. You take care.” Jared instantly took his hand and shook it firmly. He had no clue what to say. Don’t go? We need you here? Jared was terrified at the thought of taking this on himself. But Misha had a life, and a job.

“Keep in touch. You’ve got my cell number.” He pointed to a paper sitting on a now-cleared end table.

“Thanks, man. Save mine when I call.”

“Sure.” Outside, a horn blew. “That’s me. Tell Jensen I’ll be seeing him.”

“I will.” Jared walked Misha to the door, and saw him to the taxi. He gave a brief wave as it pulled away.

The house seemed oddly empty, now. He contemplated cleaning, and went to make coffee instead.

LODESTONE pt 8

kamelionwriter — Wed, 28 Oct 2009 21:22:20 GMT

Jared turned over and shivered. Half-asleep, he blindly reached for his bed sheet, only to find it was already drawn tight underneath his chin. The air wasn’t cold by any means, but it was cooler than it should be. No, it wasn’t that. The air was moving. He blinked a few times. A t-shirt that hung on the doorknob of his closet swung slightly, the cloth-covered hanger bumping the wood. Jared rolled over. His curtains billowed inwards in a gust of refreshing wind. He could hear thunder rumble loudly in the distance.

He winced and sat up on his elbows. He hadn’t opened that window. Even on warm nights he kept the window closed, well, maybe cracked an inch, because he kept the air on. But never full open. A shadow passed before him, momentarily blocking the streetlight, and he cursed, quickly flinging off the blanket and nearly falling out of his bed. He stood in a slight crouch for a moment, watching warily, his hands planted on his thighs as he peeked from a distance through the billowing curtains. Downstairs, the dogs were quiet. But surely he’d seen, yeah! There it was. As reluctant as he was to leave the room, there was nothing in it he could use to defend himself with, other than the lamp.

His mind raced. He should wake everyone. Call the cops on the cell. Or call first and then wake them? The shadow shifted once more, and he lost his nerve. Quickly, yet quietly, he backed out of his room and rushed down the stairs.

“Misha! Wake up!” Jared hurried into the den and looked around, then grabbed an iron poker. “Shit, wake up!”

“Hmm?”

“Someone’s in the fucking house, get up!”

“What?” His voice more clear, Misha rolled over, then sat up.

“I said someone’s in the house! I mean on the roof.”

“On the roof?”

“Get up!”

Misha stood slowly, but woke quickly. He eyed the poker. “Seems to be the weapon of choice around here.”

“What?”

“Nothing.” The word floated over Jared as he headed for Jensen’s room. Which was empty.

He felt Misha bump his shoulder as he looked in. Both exchanged a glance, then rushed to Jared’s room.

The window opened from the second half-story to a gently sloped roof. In the distance, white lightning illuminated a ghostly thunderhead. And against it, dressed in a dark t-shirt and grey sweat pants, stood Jensen.

His back was turned to them. He rocked slightly, fighting the increasing wind, or maybe whatever was going on in his head, Jared didn’t know. He glanced back at Misha and saw the worry etched on his face. Jared cleared his throat against rising panic. “Jensen?”

Jensen made no move.

Not good not good. . .Jared moved the fabric panel aside and eased a leg out though the open window. “Hey, buddy. You come out here to look at the storm? I bet you can see it from the carport.”

Still nothing.

The tree that usually shaded that end of the house swayed, its leaves rustling in a dangerous whisper. The street looked far away, and way further down than he cared for. “Dude. I really don’t want to come out there, okay? So why don’t you just come back this way.” He took a deep breath and eased the other leg out, then slowly stood, one hand curled over the window frame. The slope wasn’t great, but it was enough to make him dizzy.

“Easy,” Misha cautioned, putting his hand on Jared’s arm.

“You think he’s sleepwalking?” He knew not to wake someone who was sleepwalking. But Jensen was on the edge – literally. Again.

“I don’t know. Why don’t you let me out there?”

He wanted to solve this himself. He felt a sudden jealousy that Misha seemed to know more than him, but Jensen needed it. Jared helped Misha climb out and steady himself. Jared noticed he dug his toes into the tile, like that was gonna help, but Jared had done the same thing. He kept a hand out, in case Misha slipped. There passed a sudden odd feeling of looking out for his younger brother, even though Misha was older than both of them.

Jensen hadn’t moved, which was a good thing, considering he was standing at the edge of the roof, right over the cars. If he stepped off, or slipped, it wouldn’t be pretty. Misha approached him from the side, stepping carefully. Jared suddenly wondered about loose tiles, or exposed tacks. Be a hell of a way to find out the roof needed repair.

“Jensen?” he heard the man say softly. “Can you look at me?” He held up a hand as Jared tried to approach. “Just turn your head towards my voice.”

Jensen’s head jerked slightly, like he wanted to turn it, but couldn’t.

“Misha?” Jared asked.

“I don’t know,” was all Misha would say, and he took a step closer. “Jensen, look at me. Just turn your head. That’s all I’m asking for.”

This time, he did, and Jared saw Misha’s chin raise at the same time he inhaled. Like he was bracing himself against what he saw. “Do you know where you are?”

“I want out.” Jensen’s voice was ragged, filled with sleep, and strangely not his. Yet it was all Jensen.

“I think you are out, buddy. Do you know where you are?”

Jensen shook his head, but Jared had the awful feeling that his friend was awake, and totally aware of what was going on. “I can’t go anywhere.”

“No, you can’t. Not up here,” Misha agreed. “Inside’s nice, though, if you want to come back in. Or we can just go out in the backyard.”

“Can’t see the cloud back there.”

“Then we’ll sit out front. But not up here. It isn’t safe.”

Jared’s heart jumped into his throat as Jensen walked two steps to the very edge and casually leaned over. “We could just jump down there.”

“You’d dent the car,” Misha cautioned lightly.

He’d dent his head! Despite Misha’s warning, Jared crept closer.

“Probably.” Jensen shrugged and turned away from the carport. He saw Jared behind him. He quickly stepped back, and wavered.

Misha dove for him the same time Jared did.

Jensen should have fallen. He should have cracked his skull open on the way down. But somehow Jared fought his stopped heart and instinctively grabbed Jensen’s shirt and arm, throwing his weight back to the roof as his heels slid out from under him. All he could do was pray he didn’t roll as lightning blinded him. Misha had wrapped his arms around Jensen’s torso, but the leverage Jared used to pull back just swung him around. Jared and Jensen both hit the roof flat, but Misha was slipping off, his legs dangling, his arms sliding down to wrap around Jensen’s waist. “Shit!” was all the startled man could manage over the angry roar of thunder, his body a shadow against the next instant flash of lightning.

Crap! Jared lunged over Jensen and grabbed Misha’s hands, jumping at the loud clap of thunder while simultaneously yelling at Jensen to pull himself up, and finally they were all laying on the roof, relatively safe. Jared had one hand fisted in Jensen’s shirt, his other tight on Misha’s arm. Misha was breathing heavily and gave Jared a grateful look, but said nothing. His head fell back as he closed his eyes. Rain started to splash against the pebble tiles.

Jensen blinked, and glanced around. His breath quickened. “Shit. Not again. Fuck.” His eyes widened, and he reached out for anything. “Shit!”

“Hey, hey! Calm down! Just get inside, okay?” Jared took Jensen by the arm and carefully raised him while keeping an eye on Misha. They eased their way in a crouch back to the window, and climbed through.

The minute Jensen’s feet hit carpet he headed downstairs, saying nothing, just moving. Jared and Misha climbed in and followed him down the stairs, pausing together as Jensen paced at the bottom, running agitated fingers through his hair countless times until Jared wanted to grab him. He muttered unintelligibly, turned on his heel, and bolted for the kitchen.

Misha rounded the corner just before Jared, and pulled up short. Jared bumped into him, and stared at the knife that was now pointed at Misha’s chest.

Time stopped.

“Jensen,” Jared barely breathed. This was a living nightmare.

“Leave me alone,” Jensen growled, knife still pointed, one hand out to ward them off. His eyes were dark.

“Jensen, god, what are you . . .put the knife down!” Jared insisted.

“No. No, I’m tired of this. I can’t – I can’t keep doing this.”

Suicidal. Oh god, he really was suicidal, or homicidal, or – dammit, he couldn’t think! He forced himself to clear his head. “Can’t keep doing what?” Jared carefully eased forward around until he stood beside Misha. His hands were ready to grab Misha away, grab Jensen’s wrist, grab the knife, anything to stop this insanity.

“This!” He slammed his open palm against the side of his head. “The fading in and out, the people looking at me, shoving their goddamn thoughts in my goddamn head. Too much anger and – and hate and dark. I can’t do it!”

“Whoa, wait. Calm down.” Misha held both hands up as the knife glinted, still pointed at him. “What anger?”

“This!” Jensen again pounded a fist against the side of his head, then grabbed his hair as though to pull it out. “This shit! This goddamn crap I can’t get rid of!”

Jared had no idea what to do. How to help. He sent a desperate look to Misha, but it went unheeded. Misha’s eyes were glued to Jensen. “Look. Just. . .”

Jensen reached out and grabbed him. He turned them, pressing Misha back against the counter, shoving the tip of the knife right under his chin. Misha’s skin dented from the pressure. “You wanna tell me what to do? You’re so smart. You think you know me? HUH? You don’t know shit!”

“Jensen, for god’s sake, stop it!” Jared yelled.

“You think you know what’s going on in my head? I said I want out. This is out.” He slowly backed away. “This is out.” He extended the knife, letting it make his point for him. Now his eyes were wild, like a spooked mare. “I can’t do it,” he whispered. “I want to, but I can’t do it. But then I don’t want to and I’m scared I can.”

He desperately needed help. That was clear now, so clear, and Jared kicked himself a thousand times in the blink of an eye for not seeing the extremity of the situation. He slowly eased Misha behind him and approached his friend, one hand out, fighting to keep his voice steady. “Okay. Look at me. Come on, man, it’s me. Look me in my eyes and tell me you really want to do this. I bet you can’t.” He ventured a daring, threatening smile. “And you know I won’t let you.”

“It won’t stop. . .”

“It will stop. I promise.”

“No. It’s looking at me and I can’t take that.”

“What’s looking at you?” Misha asked suddenly.

“The eyes. Everyone. Always looking at me, like they expect something. I can’t give them anything, I can’t be that thing they want me to be – god I’m going nuts, aren’t I?” His voice fell to a desperate whisper. His hand lowered, just a little, the tip of the knife slipping towards the floor as his fingers loosened. He noticed the knife for the first time. “Shit, what am I doing?” His shoulders sagged.

Jared took the opportunity and pounced, hoping to hell that Misha would follow his lead.    He slammed Jensen back against the island, actually feeling the other man’s breath exit over his shoulder in a whoosh. Jensen cursed right in his ear, shoving him away with his left hand while his right was forced down. Jared leaned on him, pinning him against the island’s edge. Misha was there, forcing open the sudden death grip which held the knife. He managed to pull it away and threw it aside, stepping back quickly, chest heaving.

Jared straightened. His head whipped around before he could register the smacking fist that slammed against his jaw. He stumbled back, then let his gaze slowly turn to his friend as he fingered the injury. Jensen was livid. His nostrils were flared, his eyes glowing in rage. “I said I wouldn’t let you do it,” Jared told him quietly.

Jensen just worked his jaw, looking from Jared to Misha and back. He said nothing, just turned and walked out. Jared didn’t follow, but collapsed forward over the island.

Misha walked just past the doorway, then returned. “He’s gone in his room, no, wait. . .” he glanced back and watched for a moment, then cocked his head and looked at Jared. “He got his blanket. He’s headed for your room.”

He looked up. “Seriously?”

“I think he’s pretty spooked.”

“Spooked? Is that what you call this? He shouldn’t be alone.”

“Maybe we should all share the bed.”

“Oh, yeah right. Not funny. God.” He turned, still breathing hard. “We should call somebody. Should we call somebody?”

Misha rubbed at his face, hard. “And say what?”

Jared had no clue. “He needs help,” he said weakly.

“I don’t think a padded room will help in this case,” Misha sighed, and eyed Jared’s jaw. “You need some ice?”

Jared’s mind was stuck on the padded room. “What? No, I’m good. How’s your chin?”

“No harm, no foul.” Misha glanced towards the door, then back. “Now what?”

“Let’s just. . .I don’t know. This is fucked up. I’m going up. I guess you can have his bed.”

“Pretty used to the sofa, actually.” Misha jumped as thunder rocked the house. “Damn, that was close.”

Jared palmed his chin and jaw. “Wonder if we should check the tv?”

“Nah. It’s just a storm. Go on, make sure he’s not cowering in a corner somewhere, or out there trying to get electrocuted.”

Jared nodded. Small talk. Act like nothing just happened, like his friend didn’t just threaten his other friend with a knife, with the intention of turning it on himself.

“I’ll tell you this,” Misha said over his shoulder. “After the party, we talk. Once and for all. And you yell if you need me.”

Party. How the hell was he going to host a party after this? Again Jared nodded, and climbed the stairs.

Jensen was on the floor in front of the closed rain-battered window, wrapped in his blanket. Jared didn’t want to make a big deal out of it, but hell, he was fucking freaked. He reached out and touched Jensen’s shoulder, jumping as his head shot up. “Sorry. You sure you want to sleep right there?”

Only his profile showed. He had a way of glaring with one eye, lit from within. “I’m not bailing out the window, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

Jared paused. “It crossed my mind.”

“I just don’t want to be alone right now. And I’m sure as hell not sharing your bed.”

“I can sleep on the floor. Don’t wanna listen to you bitch about a stiff back in the morning.”

“My back needs the floor. Leave me alone. Go the fuck to sleep.” He huffed and re-wrapped himself into a blue flannel burrito.

It was a small relief that Jensen was there with him, and not alone in his room. And also that he chose to sleep on the floor here, rather than in a chair downstairs. Their level of trust hadn’t been breeched. And yet it was such an obvious cry for help, it made Jared swallow hard. He lay back, watching the lightning play against the odd lump on the floor that never took his eyes from the window.

******************************

He wanted to cancel the cookout, but there was no good way to do it.

Jared watched the people gather in groups in the backyard, laughing, drinking beer, playing a few yard games that seemed lame unless drunk. At first they stayed with their own kind; makeup and wardrobe in a clump near the swing, all the various techies (he had to lump them together) on set and off hovering around the grill, and guest actors that lived in town milling about. Eventually people mingled from one group to another. Misha had pretty much taken over as host for the huge crowd, handling the grill, filling the drink coolers. More stacks of contributed meat were waiting to be thrown on the fire. Beer cans filled the garbage. Misha was a gracious host, using his attention and skill to keep everyone happy and comfortable.

This allowed Jared to roam freely in and out of the house, keeping watch. The afternoon activities faded into more drinking, lit tiki torches, and a wonderful smelling, smoky yard that pulled the neighbors in with their own packaged meats. Jared had a huge grill, but at this rate he was wondering if he should con a neighbor out of one.

Jensen made an appearance every half hour or so. He spent the rest of the time in Jared’s room. Not his own. Jared’s. He wouldn’t go into his room. Jared warned him that once the food was gone (not likely at this point) and people were munching, they’d probably come upstairs to hit the game station, since the one downstairs was already taken by Scott and a few key grips. Jensen just shrugged it off.

“He still up there?” Selma’s arrival broke his thoughts. She leaned against the outer wall of the house, thick arms folded across her chest. Her voice was firm, but sympathetic.

“Yeah.”

Her eyes followed the shape of a young actor as he walked nearby. Jared tried to hide his smirk. If there was one thing Selma did, it was appreciate the male body. It amused him. “He’s married.”

“I ain’t looking. Not like that. Mmm, mmm.” She tilted her head appreciatively as he bent over to pick up his napkin, then disappeared around the corner of the house towards the front gate, and garbage cans.

“You flying out tomorrow?”

“That’s the plan.” Her dark eyes drifted over the yard. “Look. We left things on a bad note the other day. . .”

“Don’t worry about it.” He let his gaze wander the yard behind hers.

“Can I look in his room?”

“Look in– what? Why?”

“Ask Misha about it.”

Jared glanced at the back bent over the grill. “Misha’s kinda busy.”

“Misha can take a break. These people ain’t gonna starve.”

“Have you worked with these people?”

“You know good and well if you stick a man in front of a grill he’s gonna barbeque.”

He was about to argue that point, but she was already walking to Misha. She whispered something into Misha’s ear, and he nodded. Said something that looked like “okay”, and handed a spatula to one of the camera men he’d been talking to, circling a finger over the chicken.

Jared followed them inside through the crush people that crowded the kitchen. “You know he’s pretty private about his space,” he warned. “That’s why we have it closed off.”

“So we won’t tell him,” Selma said over her shoulder.

Jared clamped his lips shut.

They dodged bodies and walked down the small hallway, stepping aside as a man left the bathroom. Jared shuffled past them and put his hand on the doorknob. He gave them a pointed look that said he was not happy about his friend’s privacy being violated. Jensen’s comment about people watching him played in his mind as he turned the knob and pushed the door open.

Selma walked in, looking around. She raised a finger. “Close the door,”she instructed. “Keep the light off.” Jared did so, and waited for his eyes to adjust. The waning light filtered in through slatted blinds, striping the floor. It was almost pitch, but not quite. Sort of a sickly light, like taking a nap too long and waking with a yellow headache.

“Why are we in here?” he asked quietly.

She stood in the center of the room, turning slowly, her eyes on the ceiling and walls, her body twisting as though she was expecting something to come out at her. “I don’t like this room,” she said carefully. “There’s a bad energy here. Very bad.”

“Meaning what?” Jared asked, his eyes darting, trying to see what Selma felt.

Selma pointed to Misha, then continued her survey. Misha blinked a few times, gathering his thoughts. “Jared,” he said, “when Jensen said there were eyes watching him, I think he meant that literally. In here.”

“In here?”

“In this room. I’ve seen them myself.”

Jared had an awful feeling that a bad week was about to get a whole lot worse. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“You remember when you were in the hospital, and Jensen stayed in the room with you? I came back here to get some of his things and feed the dogs. That night, I saw eyes in here.”

Jared knew his mouth was open, but he didn’t know how to close it. “Selma?”

“There’s something here. That’s for sure. I told Jensen not to come here that night. I didn’t know why, I just knew he needed to stay away. Misha didn’t tell me about the eyes right away, neither. I already chastised him about that so you needn’t bother.”

“My house is haunted?” He couldn’t wrap his brain around it. The more he tried, the more ridiculous it seemed. “My house is haunted?” An incredulous laugh escaped. “Oh, god– this is– you people are nuts.”

Misha spun in surprise, his brows raised. “I beg your pardon?”

“You are! Haunted? Jensen’s on the edge of committing fucking suicide and the best you can come up with is a haunted house? The show’s gone to your fucking heads! I thought I was the one spinning around when I heard a strange noise, but this? This is – sad!”

“Jared, listen to me,” Misha started.

“No! Bullshit! No! This is fucking nuts!” Jared jabbed his beer bottle toward them. “You two forget it. I’ll deal with this. I’ll deal with him. God, I’m sorry I even asked you for help! Just forget it!”

“When did this start with Jensen?” Jared flung his hand at Misha’s voice, but heard it grow in volume as he stormed out of the room. “When did it start?”

When did what start? The craziness? He didn’t know, he just had a sudden desire to leave that room, to know Jensen was okay. He ignored their calls and took the stairs two at a time, shouldering past a couple coming down. People were starting to come in and spread through the house. He heard the basement door open, and didn’t care. His head was ringing, and it had nothing to do with the beer.

Jensen was sitting on Jared’s bed, game control in hand. Their eyes met as he entered. “Hey,” he said calmly.

Jared tried not to look as relieved as he felt. “Hey.” The mattress sank beneath his weight. “Need another beer?”

“Nah, I’m good.”

Jared nodded. He watched Jensen blow away soldiers, debating picking up the other console. Instead he watched the violence on the screen, heads blowing apart, bodies falling to the ground. Misha’s question nagged at him, and he found himself searching his memory. He had to know. “Jensen, do you remember when you started,” he searched for the words, “I guess when you started feeling this way?”

“Oh, god, Jared, come on. Not now. Not with all these people here. They’ll be coming up any minute now, the sun’s setting.”

“No, no, it’s just – ”

Jensen glanced at him. His eyes drifted back to the screen. “Don’t worry about me. Worry about your damn house. Freakin’ haunted, man.”

Jared swallowed. “What did you say?”

“Those damn eyes. Why do you think I don’t want to go back down there?”

He sounded perfectly serious, and it threw Jared off. “What. . .what eyes?”

“You thought I was dreaming, didn’t you? So did I. But I saw them, and I’m not going back in there. You can call me a girl, pansy, pussy, whatever. I don’t give a shit. I’m not going in there.”

Was he the only sane one? “What did they – what did the eyes look like?”

“They were square, Jared. What do you think?” He slammed the console to the mattress and watched it bounce. “I don’t know. Just bad. Evil. Like something you’d see on the show, but worse. Can’t get it out of my damn head.”

This didn’t sound like Jensen. While his experiences were rather varied, he didn’t just succumb to fear or hallucinations “Okay. Well– you’ve been stressed. You talk about people watching you, you just had a thing. You know?”

Jensen’s fingers laced loosely together. He studied them. “A figment of my imagination, huh? My imagination’s not that good.” He sighed and looked up. “Not to make something that real.”

At least he was talking. And hell, this was actually the most he’d let Jared in to his state of mind in a while. “Are you serious?”

Jensen’s head snapped around, incredulous. “Of course I’m not serious! Shit. You’re so fucking gullible.” His jaw set as his static pixel body was blown away by a pop-out soldier. He picked up the control.

No. No way was he letting this go. “Misha said something about them too. He said he saw eyes in the room.”

“Yeah, well, Misha’s full of crap. It’s his idea of trying out a prank before he leaves, and it’s weak.”

Jared snatched the control from his hands. “You know something? I told him that too, and I believed it until I came up here.” He felt the anger coming on, and quickly rose to close his door. He turned the knob to lock it.

Jensen was watching him, incredulous. He spread his palms open, his brows raised over widened, annoyed eye. “Dude, what?”

“No one’s said anything about eyes in your room but Misha. Apparently he only told Selma. So you’re the one that’s full of crap.” Jared crossed his arms and leaned against the door. “Tell me when you started feeling this way.”

“What the hell, man!”

“Tell me!”

“I don’t know! It just happened.”

“You slept in my room, Jensen. On the floor. In what universe is that even remotely normal for you?”

His eyes flared dangerously. “You want to drop this. Now.”

“Not really, no. Now tell me what the fuck is going on with you!”

“Anyone in there?” Someone pounded on the door.

Jared rolled his eyes and sent Jensen an annoyed look, which was ignored.

LODESTONE pt 7

kamelionwriter — Wed, 28 Oct 2009 21:20:32 GMT

Misha was decked out in his long overcoat, which he was growing to despise. Never, ever, would he have purchased a coat this long. Short jackets, something that didn’t hinder movement, that was more his style. These coats were a crock. And on top of that he was wet, misted down for the scene where he was supposed to be out in the rain at a construction site. He had no idea what the mist was for, because he was about to be doused by the rainmaker overhead. There was no way he was leaving this scene feeling like anything less than a drowned cat in a burlap sack.

And the crew was pissed. They were pissed that they had to work this scene, of all scenes. They were pissed at Jensen, who was doing his best to placate people but was starting to seriously fold in on himself. Maybe it was deserved, maybe not.

He thought back to the previous night. Everything had been glossed over, like they didn’t know how to cope with the situation. Maybe they didn’t. Conversations started, then ebbed. Then came the drink, and half-explanations. He still had no clue why Jensen took a skip-day. And he never really got to say anything. Selma tried to steer things, but her tongue seemed tied as well. Just not much there. Maybe it wasn’t the time after all, meaning they’d have to try again, and he wasn’t looking forward to it.

Jared joined him, newly misted himself, nodding at a form tucked into a corner of the room. “He’s doing it again.”

“What?”

“He told me everyone is angry. He can’t take it.”

Misha was alarmed. “When did he tell you this?”

“Just now.”

Yes, it was touched upon. That Jensen was “sensitive”. Empathic was the actual word, and it looked like he was getting the brunt of it now. And to his surprise, Jared understood exactly how he felt. It turned out he experienced the overwhelming floods of emotions himself. “I tried telling him how to block it. He just asked how the hell would I know?”

“So, you’re saying he doesn’t remember last night.”

“Dude, I hardly remember last night. But what if it’s true?”

“That he’s empathic?”

“He’s always been shy, I mean painfully shy. I talked him into opening up. What if I caused all this? What if he already had these natural walls and I ruined that?”

Misha glanced at him. “You serious?”

“I mean – look. I can deal with it. He can’t. I don’t know how to teach him.”

For Jared, it was a natural thing. He hadn’t even realized he had a gift until Selma told him. He honestly thought everyone felt as he did, and he couldn’t understand why Jensen was having trouble. “He has to learn.”

“Does it look like he’s learning to you?”

Misha had to admit that it didn’t. In fact, it looked like Jensen was in pain. His tight expression drew Misha to him before he even realized he was walking.

Jensen was trying to become one with the corner. Misha took his arm. “Hey. You in there?”

Jensen cut his eyes down. “What do you want?”

“You look – pissed.” He wasn’t going to say “scared”.

Jensen took a deep breath, and exhaled slowly. “Something’s happening,” he said in a soft voice. “It’s like I’m not really here.”

Misha knew that was a bold admission for him. “That’s the hangover.”

“I’m not hungover.”

“Then you’re a lucky ass, cause my head’s still reeling.” Misha glanced around. “What are you feeling?”

“What?”

“Right now. What are you feeling?” It was a repeat of the question he’d asked Jared the other day, but it was necessary.

Jensen glanced around as well. “Like I wanna run screaming from this place,” he admitted in a low tone. “Like I’m stuck and I wanna get out. Get away from all these people. They’re pissed at me, man, can’t you tell? Can’t you feel it?”

“I don’t need to feel it, I can see it.” Misha released him. “Let’s shoot this scene, and we’re done. We can go home, relax.”

“Nope. Gotta get ready for the cookout tomorrow. If anyone’s still coming.”

Cookout? “What cookout? Didn’t we just have one of those?”

“That was a cookout. This is Jared hosting the end of the year party. Twice the people.”

Misha’s shoulders sagged. “You’re kidding me.” He watched as a large crane lowered a two-by-four swinging by two thin cables, a piece of wood that was supposed to fly at Sam’s head, then Dean’s. It was the last shot of the day, and of the season. The stunt doubles were in place, and ready. The rain machines switched on with a whir. He saw the doubles jump slightly as the water hit them. It was unnatural. They were inside, for God’s sake.

Jared joined them, watching the action. “I think they’re gonna try this in two takes,” he said loudly over the noise. “Then we’re up.”

“Another barbeque, huh?” Misha asked him. “Nice of you to let me know.”

“You want me to man the grill?”

“Not even. But give me a head’s up next time, huh?”

Instead, Jared gave a one-shouldered shrug. Silence was called for, and the only sound was the liquid sheet of rain falling. After the cue, the board dipped and swung at the men. Sam’s double jumped to the side, and Dean’s double hit the dirt as the board sailed over him.

“Cut!” The crew gathered, talking. After a moment, one of the PA’s approached them.

“One shot, huh?” Jared asked.

“Looks like.” She turned, thumbing through the pages on her clipboard. “He says to take your places. Jensen, you need to see Linda again.”

His shirt had dried out. She misted Jensen down as he slowly turned, his arms straight out to the side. It took quite a bit. Misha’s attention returned to the set.

Okay, so the constant misting had nothing to do with making them look wet. It had everything to do with slowly adjusting them to the icy cold water that dripped from the machines overhead. Misha took his place and cursed as random drips rolled down his back. The machines weren’t full on, and he was already cold. Jared stood about ten feet in front of Jensen, and Misha to the right of them. The camera was set in place, and it rushed at them as though from the board’s point of view, forcing them down. Misha reacted in the periphery, watching the “board” sail by.

“And once more with the two-by-four. Raise it higher.”

The board was set level with Jared’s head, then raised another two feet. Jared was asked to take two steps forward, and Jensen took one back. Misha stayed where he was. The board was stabilized, and it was very slowly swung at their heads, and missed them with plenty of room to spare.

“Crank it up.” The rain machine poured on them, and Misha looked up miserably. Jared was hunching. Jensen was swinging his arms, cracking his neck, looking unnerved. But when Jared glanced over his shoulder, Jensen gave him a thumbs up. They waited for several moments. Misha watched from the side, drenched and not happy.

“Rolling.”

“Go.”

The board swung.

For Misha, it happened in slow motion. He saw one end suddenly dip, heard someone call out. Saw Jared leap to the side before he was supposed to. Saw Jensen standing still, watching the board rush towards him. Not moving. Just staring at the end, swinging in a rushed arc directly towards his head.

Jared turned, but Misha was already jumping.

He hit Jensen in a tackle. Rolled with him, slid painfully onto his back, and felt the weight shift off his chest. He rolled again, onto his elbows. Men were yelling out in anger. Others were surrounding them, ignoring the artificial rain.

And Jensen looked frantic, trying to shove them all away.

******************************

“The board was too wet. It wasn’t secure enough.” Jared, said., newly dried and in a different set of clothes. He took a sip of cola.

“They didn’t secure it?” Misha, likewise dry and comfortable, was glancing at Joe. The big man smirked, and move on.

Jared noticed. “Dude, what is it with you and that guy?”

“Nothing. I’ve worked with him before, that’s all.”

“And?”

“And. . .there’s accidents when he’s around.”

“Here, or when you worked with him before?”

“Here. Look, it’s nothing. We don’t get along.”

Jared studied him. “You think he’s responsible for this stuff?”

“I did. Now I don’t know.” Misha glanced around. “Where’s Jensen?”

“Still in his trailer. I think we’re cleared for the day.”

“God, I hope so.” His eyes found Joe once more.

Jared followed his glance. “If it helps, his contract’s up with this scene.”

“Yeah. It helps.”

“Okay, boys. You’re done.” Eric walked to them, flipping through his papers. “Dallies look good. That’s it.”

“You coming tomorrow?” Jared asked.

“Wouldn’t miss it. How’s Jensen?”

“Holed up. I’m about to get him, take him home.”

“Okay. Hey. You look after him.” He didn’t say anything else. He didn’t have to. His intent gaze said it all.

“He’ll be in one piece for next year. Promise.”

“Just get him through the next twenty-four hours.” Eric gave Jared a light punch on the arm. “See you tomorrow.”

“Right. See ya.”

“I’m gonna get back,” Misha sighed, watching Eric leave. “Start the meat marinating. Is Selma coming tomorrow?”

“She was invited. Hope so.”

“Me too.” Misha smiled and clapped Jared on the arm.

*****************************

It wasn’t right that the sky should be lightening as Jensen went to bed, but the faint strip of blue on the horizon showed he stayed up way too late. Or early.

He’d stopped drinking shortly after midnight, but couldn’t settle enough to lay down. Misha had a shoulder slow-cooking in the smoker, and they’d stayed up talking, inhaling the aroma, drinking beer and wine. Jared had coasted, and all evening Jensen noticed his eyes kept drifting to him. He’d felt the pinpricks along his back, and would turn to see Jared watching him from across the room.

Always being watched.

Now, he was in his room. Alone. Silent. Dark. Standing beside his bed, knowing he should climb in, but feeling oddly reluctant to do so. But it wasn’t so bad as he drew back the covers and slid between the sheets, absorbing the coolness through his bare legs and feet, feeling his body warm the mattress underneath him. He gently lay his head back with a surprisingly grateful sigh, and closed his eyes. His body unfolded from tension, and he breathed deeply. Opened his eyes once more.

Large brilliant eyes met his, hovering just a foot over him.

Jensen yelled out in shock, pressing back into the pillow, but the eyes were gone. He scurried back against the headboard, then swept off the blankets and tumbled to the floor, laying low, not wanting to rise to the level where the thing had been floating. His head bumped against the bed table as he shoved back with his heels, trying to find a way to put space between himself and the mattress.

He searched the air with frightened eyes that jerked towards the closet, then underneath his bed. Looking for monsters. He suddenly felt five, but he didn’t care. He wanted to leave the room, but couldn’t make himself move. Instead he sat on the floor, breathing heavily until his rational brain caught up with him.

Dreaming. He was so tired, he’d already started to dream. That was it.

Eyes stared at him from the doorway. He yelled out again, and fumbled to turn on the light, wincing in the glare but standing and spinning round nonetheless.

Misha instantly threw his hand up to cover his face. “Dammit!” he exclaimed, and squinted. “Was that you?” he asked urgently, trying to walk into the room through his sudden blindness. “You okay?”

Jensen reached out for the mattress but crumpled back to the floor in relief as Jared careened around the corner of the doorway. “Jensen! What is it?”

It seemed so stupid now, in the light. He tried to catch his breath. “It, uh. . .” he swallowed. “Nothing. I was dreaming.”

Misha didn’t look convinced. Jared looked less convinced than Misha. “You sure?” he asked.

Was he sure? Hell, he wasn’t sure about anything anymore. “Yeah. Shit. Go back to bed.” He rubbed his face. “Sorry about that.”

Misha hadn’t moved, and he looked like he wasn’t about to. “Must’ve been a hell of a dream,” he said, carefully.

“Yes, Mr. Freud, it was. You wanna analyze it? Just too much drink, not enough rest.” He offered a half-smile and waved them off. “Go on.” He grunted and pushed himself from the floor. “I’m good.”

“You sure?” Jared asked.

Annoying as hell. “Yes,” he answered curtly, and arranged the blanket before sitting on the side of the bed. He looked up expectantly, waiting for them to leave.

Misha eyed him up and down. “Okay.” Jared was herded from the door. Jensen half expected Jared to curl his fingers around the frame and refuse to go. It gave him a warm feeling he’d never admit to. He turned out the light. Goddamn drink.

But they all knew he’d stopped drinking hours ago.

He spent the next hour staring at the ceiling. Daring the thing to come back. Wondering in the back of his mind what his alter-ego Dean Winchester would do in this situation. He slept with a fat-assed knife under his pillow. He had teased the writers on countless occasions about Dean bringing a girl into the hotel, and having to use Sam’s bed because sex in Dean’s was too damn dangerous. And what the hell, really? It wasn’t like he could slice up a ghost. The knife did nothing to demons. What was Dean waiting for, a zombie attack? The thought made him smile. Then he realized he was lying in bed thinking about Dean Winchester, and backtracked.

But the humor helped.

Hell. He was probably just going nuts. Like those damn blackouts, or whatever the hell they were. He was an over-sensitive guy. Fucking terrific, and so fucking not true. But it could explain why he felt so overwhelmed at the conventions. Too many people, everything too damn intense. And to hear Jared talk, he felt the same way, so wasn’t that normal? He’d said certain questions made him want to get up and run. He’d said certain fans did the same thing, but that was all a part of it, and for the most part people were going to these things with a good heart. And he should think about that when he was feeling overwhelmed.

But it wasn’t even that. It was the nervous energy. It was so many eyes on him. It was the expectation, and the vibes. He could almost see the thought waves coming at him from the audience, and there were plenty of times when he had to just duck his head and scratch at his nose, or fiddle with the mic just to avoid it. Or walk around on the stage. That helped. Then he could physically avoid the streams rushing at him.

But it happened, even on the streets. People always looking, or thinking. Feeling. It was the feeling that was the worse, especially when he was near heated conversations. It was a physical pain in his chest, almost akin to fear. Panic, that’s what it was. He felt panic attacks when there was a large, unpredictable, energetic group of people around.

And he was in the fucking entertainment industry. This wasn’t good. Jared had said, back when the show started, to sit back and enjoy the ride.

Not so enjoyable, right now.

Drinking helped. He’d knock back before going on stage at the conventions. Not too much, just enough to dull the sensation a touch. Then – maybe a little more beyond that.

He shifted hard on the bed, raising his head and planting it back into the pillow, huffing, pulling the blankets tight over him. Snuggled his head in, arranged his body, exhaled loudly. Tried to relax. Tried to ignore the thoughts of the day that had kept him awake through the morning hours.

The crew was pissed at him. They weren’t concerned about him, they were angry. They stared at him with angry eyes. Their answers had been short. One or two gave him a sympathetic glance, but that was it. Eventually amends had been made, it was end-of-season after all, but he still felt tense. He still felt like he’d fucked up. Like he always just fucked up. Like the way he couldn’t go to a bar without getting shit-faced to cope with the activity. Or the cons, or at times, even the set. Sadness filled him. Hell, he’d nearly had his block knocked off because he was zoning out, feeling that odd thing inside him that made him tune out everything on the outside and pull inwards, trying to figure out what was going on.

Maybe he needed to quit. He couldn’t focus on anything. Half the time he felt like he was floating. Or he felt just – in the way. The show probably was better off without him. Jared sure was. What the hell, he was shacking up with his best friend because he was too chicken to stay in his own place? Scared of what he might do to himself? He really was hopeless. Stupid. Insane.

Nuts.

He ached with a pain he couldn’t identify. Selma didn’t seem to like him too much. He could have a friend in Misha, but wasn’t banking on that. He was making Jared miserable, he was sure of it. His friend had become a fucking babysitter. He couldn’t do his job. And outside of that, there wasn’t anything useful going on. There were Steve’s concerts, which meant a lot, but seemed like songs he’d heard a million times before. There was Danneel, and he still wasn’t sure what that was about. His family, well, they were close, but not close enough.

He suddenly felt very, very alone.

Telling himself to stop the thoughts made things worse, because it was admitting that something was wrong, that he wasn’t strong enough to cope. But something was wrong and he wasn’t strong enough to cope. Which meant he was weak, which made things worse in triplicate. He blinked rapidly, his throat tight. He was disgusted to feel a single hot tear slide from his eye towards his ear. Oh, so crying now? Seriously? That was fucked.

He sat up, infuriated, livid, hurling the covers off and walking to the closet in the dim light. Flung open the door. He’d asked to stay here like a fool, and was welcomed in. So stupid! He should’ve – should’ve – he didn’t even know anymore. He fisted his hair. He didn’t know. Should’ve gone away. He grabbed his suitcase and started flinging clothes in, hangers and all. Crumpled, half hanging out, he didn’t care. How the hell he was going to crank his car without waking anyone? It didn’t matter. He needed out. To go where? To his dark apartment? He’d turned in the key. It was over. What the fuck did he do that for? “Dammit!” he practically hissed out, ready to fling the suitcase into the hall, but that would have Misha back in his room. He stared at it, then flung them through the air and spun, running his fingers through his hair, trying to ease his thoughts. But he was getting angrier.

Maybe he should talk to Jared. Maybe he really should. Like the pussy he was. Go running to the big guy. He gritted his teeth and walked out of his room.

Misha was laying on the sofa, one arm crossed over his eyes, once more deep in slumber. He’d be gone the day after tomorrow. Back for next season. Maybe Jensen would get to know him better then. He suddenly wondered if he’d be around then. If Misha would take his place and somehow become the new Winchester prodigy.

He slowly climbed the stairs, mindful of the odd, deep creaks. Jared’s door was half-closed. He pondered that for a moment, then slowly opened it, and watched his sleeping friend. A flash from outside lit the room with frightening silhouettes, showing Jared’s lanky form looking deathly skeletal under the single sheet. His breath caught. He had to get rid of that light. He walked to the flimsy curtains, but they were already drawn closed. He adjusted them as another flash showed a towering thunderhead in the distance, a demon of the atmosphere.

He stared, unblinking.

LODESTONE pt 6

kamelionwriter — Wed, 28 Oct 2009 19:45:12 GMT

Jensen eyed the car and fingered the keys he’d snatched up from the table by the door, but he knew he shouldn’t drive. He’d wreck the thing, drive off a bridge, who the hell knew what would happen? He sure as hell didn’t, not anymore. He headed off down the street, letting the brisk pace force air into his lungs as he tried to calm himself. The rage ebbed, and his mind flooded with thoughts. Where the hell did she get off? The fucking jack slipped. It happened. Why the hell would he want to – the goddamn tires were on the goddamn car! If he’d wanted to – and where did she get off – and what the fuck was she talking about, anyway?

“Dude! Wait up!”

Shit, not this. Jensen groaned angrily and waved his hand, not bothering to look back from his brisk stride. “Not now, Jared,” he gritted.

“Just hang on!”

“I’m not going back in there!” He jabbed a finger behind him towards the house, again without looking back. “If that bitch is still in that house, I’m not going back! I’ll get a fucking hotel! Should'a done that anyway!”

He felt himself being jerked to a stop, and raised his fist. “I don’t know what the hell’s going on,” his friend said in a low voice, “but it’s scaring the shit out of me, okay?”

“Christ, Jared!” Jensen rolled his eyes and pulled away, only to be caught once more.

“No, listen to me! You’re not gonna get to be selfish and walk away again! I need answers! And I swear to god, if you don’t go back in there where we can figure this out, that’s it. You can go get that damn hotel room, because I’m sick of coming home wondering if I’m gonna find you dead on the carpet!” Jared’s eyes burned with rage, and he shoved Jensen away.

Off-balance, he snatched at Jared’s arm to keep from falling. Oh, he was so ready to deck him one! But a red mark on his friend’s face stopped him. Jensen paused, then frowned. “The hell’s wrong with your face?”

Jared looked away, sighing angrily, tucking his hands into his back pockets. “Nothing.”

But Jensen was angling, trying to see. “Dude – did someone hit you?”

“Can we just go back now, please?”

Jensen was confused. Did Selma hit him? Misha? Insane. “What the hell, man?”

“I got up in Selma’s face, okay? Now, please, let’s just get this over with. Get your ass in there and talk to them.”

“You did – what? No!” It didn’t matter. He still didn’t want to go back, he didn’t care how angry Jared was, or how annoyed Misha looked coming at them from down the street. Terrific.

He still didn’t know Misha that well. The man had a habit of doing his work and going home. He wasn’t one to linger after filming. They’d eaten out once or twice, but other than that his surprise stay at Jared’s house was the most he’d seen of him off set. But it was all enough to realize that fiery look in his eyes was one he didn’t want to see again. “Sure you don’t wanna try out for that demon role?” he asked as Misha stopped before him, hands coming to rest on his hips. “You’ve got the knack.”

“Sure you don’t want to can the attitude?” Misha asked sternly.

At least he didn’t snap. “What do you people want from me? Huh?”

“I want you to come back inside and sit down, and listen to what Selma has to say.” His eyes bore into Jensen’s. Dammit, he was in Jensen’s space, forcing him to take a defensive step back.

“Why?”

“She knows things.”

“About what? Huh? What does she know? She’s been here, how many days? Four? What the hell does she know!”

“Jensen. . .”

“I’m not interested in going in there so you three can gang up on me like some sort of intervention!”

“Intervention to what?”

“I don’t know!” Jensen yelled. “Telling me I’m crazy or something!” Oh god. The minute the words flew out of his mouth, he desperately wanted to reel them back in. But there it was.

Misha’s brows drew tight. “Why would we think you’re crazy?”

Dammit! Jensen gritted his teeth and tried to turn away, but again Jared caught his arm. Jensen flung him off. “Stop that!”

“Talk to us!” Jared demanded.

“There isn’t anything to say!”

Jared fumed. “Fine. Fine! Deal with it yourself, then, you selfish son of a bitch. I’m done with this crap.”

“Jared – ” Misha warned.

“I’m not kidding!” Jared backed down the street, hands raised as though he were pushing Jensen away. “He can just pack his shit and get out. I’m done with this!”

Jensen pinched the bridge of his nose. “Oh, Jesus Christ. Jared, wait!”

“Fuck you!”

“I blank out!” he yelled. “Okay? I can’t focus on a damn thing!”

Jared slowed, then turned, his head slightly turned as though he didn’t hear right. “What are you saying?”

Jensen’s hand dropped. This was it, then. One white jacket coming up, size large. “I-I think I hear things. I – people stare at me, you know? I’m so damn tired of being watched all the time. And if they stare too long it’s like I can. . .” he shook his head and raised it. Stupid, too stupid. This was all stupid.

“Like you can what?” Misha pressed, stepping closer.

Jensen kept shaking his head. Jarring loose the thoughts, denying them, hell he didn’t even know anymore. “I can feel them. What they’re feeling. At least I think I can.” He forced himself to meet Jared’s eyes. “You think I don’t know you’re worried about me? It scares the shit outta me, man. It’s this heavy weight. And on the set – there’s times when I don’t want to go there. It’s too much. The noise, the voices, all of it. I couldn’t do it today, I couldn’t make myself go.” He allowed himself a small laugh. “I’m getting a phobia about my own job. What the hell am I supposed to do about it?”

Jared looked like he didn’t know what to say, but for the first time Jensen could see his own emotion reflected in his friend’s eyes. It made him wonder if maybe Jared understood him after all.

***********************

Like with all meaningful conversations, it seemed the best they could do was dance around the topic and get drunk. “They just get to me, you know? The people, the looks, its like this energy is just pouring from them and they just stare at me and I can’t stop it.” Jensen didn’t even know what he was saying anymore.

“You have to build walls,” Jared replied, or tried to. Jensen’s head was swimming by this point, and he didn’t know if Jared’s mouth was stuck or if his ears were clogged.

“Build walls. . .” he muttered, and took another drink of lord knows how many. Selma was right, sometimes conversations like these were easier to stomach when drinking. And she was staring at him like a hawk, heavy-lidded, which made him toss back the shots even faster.

“Yeah,” Jared said, holding back a belch, then giving it up.

“Brick and mortar.”

“Psychic,” Misha said, knocking back his own glass. He looked half-asleep.

“That’s his turf.” Jensen gestured to Jared with his glass, and set it down. “Damn show’s getting to him. He thinks he’s Sam now.”

“Go screw yourself.”

“It’s both ya’lls turf,” Selma said in a low, drunken voice. “Don’t know what it is about you men that you can’t see what’s in front’a your faces, and then you gotta get a woman drunk to explain it to you.”

Jensen winced at the shadows on the wall. “So I’m super-sensitive?”

“Empathic,” Selma corrected.

“Why don’t you pop my balls while you’re at it.”

“Nothing wrong with it. Men.” Selma rolled her head along the back of the armchair. “Can’t convince you that it’s fine to emote.”

“Again. That’s all him.” Jensen pointed to Jared, and closed his eyes.

“Uh-uh! No sleeping. We’re not done yet.” She raised her head. “Open your damn eyes.”

Jensen groaned and forced himself up out of the chair. “With respect, shut your damn mouth. I gotta go to bed.”

“We’re not done!”

“Oh, we’re done. Goodnight, all.” Jared raised his hand in a farewell that looked permanent as he continued to slump. Misha managed a forefinger.

“Pussies, all of you,” Selma huffed. “Guess I better call a cab.”

“No,” Jared insisted in a voice that forced itself from his chest. “You take my room, I’ll sleep down here.”

“You’d be surprised how clean it is,” Misha teased in a soft voice.

She pushed from her chair like she was ready to argue, and thought better of it. “Don’t expect me to cook in the morning.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Jared slurred.

********************

And yet, Jared woke in the morning to the smell of sausage. His stomach turned ungratefully, and he rolled off the sofa onto the floor. Misha was tucked into the chair next to him, his body contorted into a near-impossible position. A pan clattered, and his hand flew to his head as he moaned. He hoped he was smelling coffee over the grease.

He managed to pull himself up and stagger towards the downstairs bath. Peeking into Jensen’s room revealed a crumpled form underneath the sheets, one leg dangling off the side of the bed, his face mashed sideways on the pillow, his mouth slack. Jared resisted the urge to run grab his phone for a quick snapshot. Didn’t really want to move that fast. He scrubbed at his head, then his chest, and walked into the door frame of the bathroom before navigating his way through the opening, closing the door behind him with a soft click.

Moments later he emerged, having relieved his pained bladder and washed his face. His stomach rolled, then rumbled. Food would help. This wasn’t the drunken “what the fuck did I do to myself” blackout nausea, this was more a “take it easy next time” warning. His head felt stuffed with cotton, and yet aware of every movement of air that passed him. A tiny noise came from the den, sounding disturbingly like his cell. Groaning, he walked to the coffee table and stooped down, then answered gruffly. Misha shifted.

The voice on the other end yelled in his ear. He jerked back. “Jared! You were supposed to call me, what happened?”

“Shit. Eric.” He was suddenly more alert. “Sorry, man, I don’t know. Things got kinda crazy, I guess.” He’d forgot to call. How the hell could he forget to call? Not like Eric called him last night or anything.

“We’ve been over here wearing a whole in the floor! Is he okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, he’s good. He’s asleep.”

“Asleep, huh? You couldn’t call someone and tell them?”

“Man, really, I’m so sorry. I wasn’t thinking.”

“Get him up. You’ve both got a day’s filming to catch up on, and don’t think the crew’s happy with this little stunt! You sure he’s not in the hospital?”

“No, like I said, he’s here. God, I’d of called you if he was in the hospital.”

“You sure about that?”

“Yes!”

“You better hope he doesn’t end up in the ER when he gets here. Got fathers bitching about missing their son’s night games if we go over. Wives are cussing me out. I’m not even gonna mention what Marsha said to me.”

“Eric, I. . .”

“We were supposed to have today off. Remember? To make up for the crazy work week where we finally got things back on schedule? Get your asses down here and explain this to them yourselves.”

“I’m sorry.” He was frantically looking for his watch. Eight am.

“I’m glad you’re okay, I’m glad he’s okay, and I don’t wanna hear anymore about it.” He hung up.

Misha stirred and squinted through one vivid blue eye. “We in trouble?” he asked.

“You better hit the shower while I tell Selma this meal’s to go,” Jared muttered. “Eric’s raving, and with good reason. Wouldn’t want to be in Jensen’s shoes right now.”

Jared walked into the bedroom. Jensen hadn’t budged, of course. He thought about slapping at his foot in their usual routine, but smirked instead. With all this damn drama going on, it was time for some fun. He turned to see Misha standing at his shoulder, and flashed him an evil grin.

He hovered at the foot of the bed, then carefully crawled over Jensen’s body, paused to make sure he wasn’t waking, and leaned over his ear. He blew on it gently, waiting until Jensen flinched subtly. “Was it good for you?” he asked in a low, sultry voice.

Jensen’s hand flicked and swatted at him. Jared pulled his face back just in time to avoid the strike, then leaned to his ear once more. “We’ve got time for one more, you know.”

“Hhhgh?” Jensen winced and lifted his head, turning it to squint up at Jared, who hovered over right his shoulder. “The hell?”

Jared chuckled and sat back on Jensen’s hip. “Come on, man, don’t be like that. You know you wanna.”

“Dude, what the – get the fuck off me!” Jensen’s gruff morning-voice rose in annoyance as he tried to twist his body to blurrily glare at Jared.

Jared lifted his weight enough for Jensen to roll onto his back, then planted himself on Jensen’s stomach, laughing at the sudden horror on the man’s face. “You were playing hard to get last night, too. But I guess you don’t remember that.”

“No!” He had the deer-in-headlights look, like he didn’t know what to say, and wasn’t totally sure he was awake. His expression was enough to put Jared over the edge, but he fought to maintain his cool.

“Misha says we woke him up. All that banging. I really think you should apologize to him.”

Jensen craned his head around Jared’s body to see Misha standing in the doorway with a full smile on his face. He waved.

“You might wanna shower first.”

“Jesus Christ. You’re both full of shit. Now get off!” Jensen angrily punched-shoved at Jared’s chest with both hands, but it didn’t dislodge him.

He carried on, pressing his hands on Jensen’s shoulders, holding him to the mattress, leaning over his ear to whisper again, and finally cackled as Jensen yelled in his face for him to get the fuck off if he wanted to keep his nuts.

He quickly swung from the bed. Jensen sat bolt-upright, rubbing his chest and the back of his neck. “Fucking asshole!”

“Eric wants us on set,” Jared said, sobering a little. “Get up and go do your thing, and don’t be all day about it. Misha’s gonna shower upstairs.”

“What about you?” Jensen groused. “Couldn’t help but notice, man. You reek.”

“You’re not exactly a rose, Mr. Night Sweats. Whoever finishes first, I’m next.”

“Kinky.”

“You wish,” Misha cut in with a smirk, and vanished into the hallway.

“Just leave some hot water, for god’s sake. And Selma’s cooking, so if you wanna eat make it fast.”

“Yeah?” Jensen’s eyes lit up at the mention of breakfast. He wasn’t much of an eater, but he enjoyed the first meal of the day, provided he was awake enough to be aware of it.

“Bacon, sausage, eggs, the works. Forgot I had all that food. You won’t get it if you don’t hurry. Eric’s pissed, man. Get your ass up.” He watched Jensen sigh and whip the sheet off, swinging sweat-pants covered legs to the floor, closing his eyes for a moment. “You good?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.” He didn’t look it, but at least he hadn’t vomited on the floor yet.

“Coffee?”

“Of course.” Jensen grunted and stood.

“You’re welcome,” Jared muttered, and caught sight of Misha heading upstair. He slid in socked feet to the kitchen.

Selma was dressed and domesticated. Jared eyed the bacon, wondering if his stomach could handle it. The aroma alone was worth the risk. For several minutes he watched it spit as it cooked until she removed it from the pan to lay on doubled paper-towels.

“I know Eric’s inflamed so you best eat this food and let’s go,” she finally mumbled. “Serves you right if you get sick from it.” She opened and closed cabinet doors until she found a thin stack of plates. “I ain’t doing your washing up, either. Serves you right.”

“Look, last night. . .”

“Shut up and eat.” She shoved a plate at him. “Never had a job with all this trouble, I’ll tell you that. Don’t get paid enough for this. Sure don’t. But it beats home, so don’t know what I’m complaining about.”

He reached for the plate, but hesitated before taking it. “Thanks for the breakfast,” he said, sincerely.

“You’re welcome,” she replied after a moment, her head raised so she could appraise him down the bridge of her nose. He took the plate, and she turned to wipe her hands. “I assume that car of Jensen’s will fit us all?”

“Sure.”

“He driving?”

“Uh, yeah. I guess.” Jared quickly loaded his plate and poured a mug of coffee. He sampled a piece of bacon, then shoved the rest into his mouth.

“He sick?”

“Hope not,” he said around his mouthful, and set his plate at his traditional spot at the table. The coffee mug he carried out.

Misha was at the foot of the stairs, dressed only in jeans, toweling his hair. Jared checked. “That was fast.”

“Cold shower. In and out. Needed it.”

“Physically anxious?”

“Hangover remedy.” He raised a hopeful brow at the coffee as Jared carried it by him, not stopping. He knocked on the bathroom door. A few seconds later it opened in a puff of steam, and a hand snaked out to take the coffee, nearly closing the door on his fingers. “You used all the hot, asshat!” Jared yelled at the wood.

“You deserved it” was shot back, muffled by the wood.

“You two are so married,” Misha muttered. He shook his head and walked back into the kitchen.

*******************************

Jensen, now showered, fed, and chagrined, stood outside Eric’s office, one hand poised to knock. He couldn’t make himself do it. His gut churned. The fisted hand raised and lowered several times before he committed himself. He heard a light voice on the other side, and waited. The door swung open to reveal a young, yet balding man, shorter than him, with vicious eyes glaring holes through him. Eric stepped to the side, and Jensen walked in.

Eric was a smaller man, but he had a big heart. And a temper to match it, one that was hidden beneath a rather nerdy exterior. Initially, he didn’t come across as someone to be wary of but Jensen knew better. His own tall figure and Jared’s hulking one both bent double underneath Eric’s steam on more than one occasion. Jensen took the chair across from the paper-strewn desk, and waited, fingers laced in his lap, his thumbs twiddling. He felt nervous. He usually saw Eric on set, or in the writer’s room. Not here, but for one other instance. Before that Eric’s office was a place of myth.

Eric sat in his desk chair. It squeaked faintly. He looked at Jensen. Just looked at him. Didn’t say a word, which was obviously designed to force Jensen to take the upper hand. After gazing for something, anything, to distract him, he gave in.

He spread his palms open, fingers still interlaced. “I fucked up. I’m sorry.” He didn’t offer anything else. There wasn’t anything else to put on the table.

Eric finally sighed and slowly leaned forward over the desk onto his elbows, his eyes on paper clutter. “Jensen, we’ve been in here before. We’ve had this discussion before. You remember?”
His eyes raised to meet Jensen’s.

“Yes sir.” Eric hated being called “sir”, but Jensen figure the situation warranted it. To show how serious he was.

“I’m going to tell you now what I told you then. Get your act together. I don’t mean it figuratively. This is it. I can put out a casting call so fast your head’ll spin like that lady’s in Eastwick. We can write Dean out.”

“I know.”

“I don’t want to do that. This show hinges on Sam and Dean. Dammit, it hinges on you and Jared. You know good and damned well bringing in someone else would probably ruin it.”

“I know.”

“Never do that to me again. Ever. Are we clear?”

Jensen nodded and looked up, then let his eyes track towards the window. “Yes, sir.”

“Then get to work. And don’t expect favors from anyone. You better bring it, you got that? I’ll be on set shortly.”

Jensen nodded, and stood. God, today was going to be HELL.

LODESTONE pt 5

kamelionwriter — Fri, 04 Sep 2009 01:20:54 GMT

I so forgot to put this behind a cut.

Misha had traded Castiel’s Columbo outfit for jeans and a loose-fitting t-shirt. He was slumped in the back seat of the taxi, having refused offers of rides. His hair was half-flattened to his head, falling from the gelled pompadour-wanna be back to the soft layers he preferred. He was exhausted.

His watch read eight-fifty, which was an early night for the crew. The streets were oddly deserted. He leaned his head against the window and watched sparks of streetlight reflect rhythmically against the glass. His eyes fluttered, mesmerized by their rocking pattern.

“Sir?”

Misha sniffed loudly and sat up, blinking. “Oh. We’re here? Thank you.” He tried to clear the roughness from his throat and grabbed the handles of his day bag with one hand as he opened the door with the other. The bag dropped onto the curb. His wallet was fished out, the fee was paid. The taxi waited to pull away until Misha was at the door, key in the lock.

A chill crossed his shoulder blades. He turned. The taxi was gone. Haloed lights showed the trees were perfectly still. There was no breeze whatsoever. But something didn’t feel right, and it wasn’t the thin metal between his fingers. He glanced over his shoulder once more, then slowly turned the key and walked in.

The keys landed with a tinny clatter on the table beside the door. The lamp clicked on, replacing the darkness with shadowed, yellow light. He listened. The dogs were outside the kitchen door, pawing at the wood and begging in muffled, high-pitched yelps and whines, knowing someone was home and wanting food. He eyed the living room, then walked into the kitchen.

Dishes from the morning lay on the table, untouched. Misha opened to door leading to the back yard, jumping aside with a small laugh as Sadie and Harley pounced on him, backed away, then decided he was safe and pounced on him once more. He rubbed their heads, talking to them in a low, soothing voice as he poured kibbles into a large bowl. They instantly went at the food, slurping and chomping, punctuated by the occasional snort.

He still didn’t feel right.

Upstairs was empty. But as Misha came back down the stairs, he heard a bump in Jensen’s bedroom. The dogs were still eating, he could hear the crunching in the otherwise silent house. So no one could be inside, they’d be going nuts. He grabbed a fireplace poker anyway. Holding it firmly, he slowly opened the bedroom door.

Nothing.

He should have felt relieved, but the chill was back, creeping along his spine and settling at the base of his neck. He walked to the middle of the room, eyeing the bed Jensen slept in. It was hastily made. The blankets were pulled up to the crushed pillow, but not smoothed down. A pair of jeans lay crumpled on the end. He reached out to finger the material.

A large shadow crossed the wall.

Misha turned quickly, wide-eyed, his ears perking as he heard the car pass outside on the street. His heart pounded, and he closed his eyes. Of course. The headlights were reflecting off something. He didn’t know the house well enough to understand its shadows. He inhaled deeply. Behind him, he heard a bark. Then a growl.

He turned away from the room to come face to face with a pair of sharp eyes.

Misha yelled out and stumbled back onto the bed, fumbling for then raising the poker in self-defense. But in a blink, the eyes were gone.

*********************

He didn’t hang around the house. The dogs had responded to his yell with a few barks, then licks, but didn’t seem to find anything amiss. Misha played with them in the backyard, trying to settle his nerves. After half an hour total he was on the road, then at the hospital.

He was glad to find Jared awake. The younger man turned his head to see Misha walk into his room. He smiled and glanced at the clock. “Hey! How’d you get in here? They did good to let Jensen stay.” He raised his chin at the sleeping form in the recliner beside him. Right beside him, Misha noted in amusement. The room was small. It was either pull the chair next to the bed to recline it, or sit upright in the corner. Drawing the footstool out in that direction planted it against the IV line. So they turned it where the head was by Jared, with the footstool aimed for the wall.

“He okay like that?” Misha whispered.

“He had to roll his eyes up to talk to me,” Jared grinned. “He wasn’t awake long enough for it to matter.”

“I told them I had to bring Jensen’s car here.” Misha reached out and set a bag of cookies on Jared’s chest. “You feeling better?”

“Man, you rock! Don’t let them see these.” Jared quietly opened the paper bag, pulled out a cookie, then quickly tucked the bag underneath his blanket. “I’m forbidden to eat crap in between the good stuff for a while.” He made a small gestured to the hidden stash, offering.

Misha declined with a slight press of his lips and head shake. “High sugar?”

“High everything. Can’t convince them I need the sugar. It helps.”

Misha crossed to the foot of the bed. “Helps what?”

Jared shrugged. “I don’t know,” he said around a mouthful. “Me. I need the high. Got a lot of energy to burn.”

Misha didn’t doubt that. Jared was nothing more than a huge powerhorse. He rarely stayed still, unless he was playing video games, and then his brain was so active it practically became a light source. On set, he paced, played pranks, talked, laughed, ate. The best way to describe him was motion in action. He’d pick at Jensen, literally, poking him in the sides, slapping the back of his head, anything to get a rise out of him so he would retaliate, especially if the scene they were filming had a lot of talking and little action. So much energy to burn. It hadn’t occurred to Misha that maybe he wasn’t burning off a sugar high, that maybe the sugar was necessary to keep him going. Extra-quick fuel. Well, one certainly fed the other. “How long have you been addicted to sweets?”

“I’m not addicted,” Jared answered with a low chuckle. “Just like it. But I don’t know. Seem to eat more filming this show than I have before.”

“Must be hitting a growth spurt. You’re finally becoming a man.”

“Bitch.”

“I’ve seen season one. You look like a baby.” He took a seat at the foot of the mattress. “This headache you had. Does it happen often?”

Jared expression grew serious, which told Misha one crucial thing. He wasn’t playing this off. This had scared him. “No. Well, some. But not like that.”

“The headache come first? Or the nosebleed?”

“Headache.” He subconsciously rubbed his forehead. “I’m turning into Sam. Talk about method acting.”

“When you start exorcizing demons, let me know.”

“Ha.”

Misha smiled, then nodded towards Jensen. “How long’s he been asleep?”

“Almost since he got here. Talked a little, then conked out.”

“Have you slept?”

“I’m not tired. I just wanna get out of here, get back to work.” He gave a frustrated sigh.

“You know, it’s a good sign that he’s here.”

“How?”

Misha raised his brows. “He cares. That’s always a good sign.”

Jared looked at him, then let his eyes drift back to his friend. “He cares more about other people than himself a lot of the time.”

Misha wanted to question him so badly. Ask if he noticed anything unusual. Ask if he sensed anything, knew anything. Had dreams. But Jared kept his eyes on Jensen, and further questioning would seem like an intrusion on their privacy. He didn’t know them well enough for that.

What he did know, was these two shared a rare bond. They got along just that well, even when they didn’t. It would help. In fact, it was crucial.

He must have sighed out loud, because Jared turned to him. “You okay?”

“Hmm? Oh. Sure. I’m just tired.”

“I can turn off the tv and we can all get some sleep. Doubt the nurse would shove you out, unless you snore.” He gestured to the small, straight-backed chair on the other side of his bed.

Misha frowned at the chair dubiously. “Don’t know if I snore or not, to be honest.”

“I’ll let you know.” Jared eyed the two thin blankets on his bed.

“I’m fine. Give that extra one to Jensen.”

“I’m scared I’ll wake him. If you need it, grab it.”

“Kinky.” Misha yawned. “You serious about sleep?”

“Hey, the sooner I close my eyes, the sooner I’m outta here.”

He sure as hell wasn’t eager to go back to Jared’s house. Not alone. He side-stepped his way between the bed and the wall, to the chair. “Cut that light out, then.”

“Yes sir.” Jared switched off the overhead fluorescent. The room plunged into semi-darkness, which was enough.

Misha decided not to tell him about Jensen’s room. Not until he talked to Selma. He managed to find a position that didn’t make his back protest, and closed his eyes. He was asleep in a matter of minutes.

*********************

The rest of the week passed without incident. Both Jared and Jensen were more cautious on set, something that bothered Phil as he insisted that each one “give a little, huh?” Eric made an appearance the last two days, handing out his own style of direction. Both men knew some of the scenes would be weak. They agreed to knock the last few out of the park, make up for their lack. Not that the finished product would be bad, by any means. But both agreed they needed to do better. Just get the crap out of their heads, and get the job done.

That weekend followed with an informal Sunday barbecue hosted by Jared, with the cast and crew packing the small house. He had sent out a notice to his immediate neighbors, warning them that if they didn’t want to come to the party, they may want to stay with a friend since he couldn’t guarantee they wouldn’t be noisy or late. It wasn’t the official wrap-up party, meaning for all he knew people would be sleeping in his backyard, passed out from drink. The weather was warm enough. Those that didn’t have families to go home to, stayed. This included a drunk-off-his-ass Jensen, who was downing the beer and wine, and Misha, who preferred the hard liquor, and proved it.

Monday was filled with fatigued remnants of hangovers, and attempts to film past it. Tuesday and Wednesday passed without incident. Thursday was chancy. Friday, was hell.

It started with Jensen not showing for work.

He was gone that morning, and never arrived on set. Jensen wasn’t a no-show type of person. Ever. He was late on the rare occasion, and made up for it. He worked through illness. Injury. Everything. Not showing was inexcusable, not to mention damned frightening.

Jared’s time off the set was spent trying to reach him on his cell phone. Misha was driven back to Jared’s house to find his SUV there, but no sign of the man. He returned to the set grimly. Eric was livid, and worried, and Jared was about to pull his hair out. Lunch rolled around, and still there was no word. Jared shot a solo scene, distracted.

“All his things are still at your house?” Eric asked via his cell.

“Yes!” Jared insisted. “If he flew to L.A., he either got a cab or walked empty-handed to the damn airport!”

“He’ll be lucky to have a job when he gets back. You be sure to tell him that!”

Jared wanted to say it wasn’t Jensen’s fault, but he didn’t know that. He didn’t know what was going on. He was worried enough to call the cops, but maybe that was foolish. On the other hand, maybe it wasn’t. The hours were agonizing. He was restless, clueless.

Even Selma looked worried, and that wasn’t good. “That boy oughta be strung up for pulling a stunt like this,” she said, and Misha just shook his head and walked away. Jared saw her eyes follow him, and felt like they both knew something they weren’t sharing.

It was five o’clock when Jared received the desperate call.

*********************

Jared rushed home to find Jensen sitting out front. He slammed the car door closed and approached him, full of rage. “Are you okay?” he demanded hotly.

Jensen looked up at him, then back to the street. His expression was one of a lost child. “I think so,” he said in a soft voice.

“You think so? Where the hell have you been? You wanna get fired? What the fuck, man?”

Jensen’s mouth opened, and closed as he just shook his head in confusion. His face was tight, like he was holding back tears.

Jared knelt in front of him, putting his hands on Jensen’s knees. “Look at me. You said on the phone I needed to get home. I’m here.”

“I can’t find my key,” Jensen whispered.

Jared’s brows rose. “What?”

“I lost my key. I think. I can’t get in.”

Now he stood, his hand swiping through his hair in exasperation. “You lost your fucking key? That’s it? That’s why I’m here, cause you fucking needed to get in the house?”

“Didn’t want to break a window. Your dogs’d chew my ass up.”

“I left work to. . .you never. . .” he turned away and walked down the driveway. A voice sounded behind him, “You gonna give me your key, or not?”

Jared had his phone out. “Misha? Where are you? Yeah, he’s here. I don’t know, just get your ass down here before I kill him.” He let his eyes roll upward before he sighed, “Something’s really wrong.”

**********************

Misha showed an hour later. He had Selma with him.

Jared gave her a confused, but polite glance. He raised his brows as Misha walked in behind her, but he just raised a hand, stopping Jared’s question. “Where is he?” Selma asked, and Jared pointed to the den, where his friend was perched on the sofa, mindlessly watching tv. He looked up at her only when she reached for the remote, and turned it off. He didn’t seem surprised to see her, just surprised that she’d taken control of the set.

Misha pulled Jared into the kitchen. “We need to leave them alone for a minute,” he said, sitting Jared down in a chair

He felt like a puppet being pulled by the strings. “What’s she doing here?”

“You ever step in front of a freight train? She insisted on coming. I think you know more about that part of her personality than I do.” Misha helped himself to a glass and filled it with water. He drank thirstily.

Jared glanced over his shoulder, then back at Misha as he set down the empty glass. “I don’t know, you two seem to be getting on for two people that just met.”

“It happens. I could say the same about you and Jensen.”

“That’s different.”

“Is it?”

“We’re from Texas. We have things in common.”

“And Selma and I don’t, why? Because she’s older and Haitian? I don’t fit the profile?” Misha shook his head. “You know better than that,” he admonished.

“Dammit, Misha, that’s not what I mean and you know it. You two exchange these looks like you both have these secrets or something.” He suddenly felt confused, unsure of the point he was trying to make.

“Maybe we do.” Blue eyes bore into his. “Tell me what you’re feeling.”

Jared pulled back, puzzled. “What?”

“Right now. Tell me what you’re feeling.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Tell me!”

“I’m about to be pissed!” He couldn’t sit any longer. He stood and paced. “What does it matter what I’m feeling?”

“Trust me. It matters. What else?”

“What – just pissed! I’m pissed off that I don’t know what’s going on! I’m pissed that he’s. . .” Jared flung his hand towards the den, “whatever he is! I’m just pissed!”

“And?”

His chest started to swell with anger. He clenched his jaw, trying to ease it, but his blood was boiling. “What the hell do you want from me? I don’t get what you’re asking!”

Misha leaned forward. “What do you feel?”

“I feel – betrayed! Alright? I feel like I could explode, like I should just. . .” his fists clenched tightly. Rage burned in him. Anger at Jensen, at Misha, at Selma, at the whole damn thing. “I’m pissed!”

But Misha leaned in closer. “What. Do. You. Feel?”

“I’M FUCKING TERRIFIED, ALL RIGHT?” Jared yelled hoarsely. And the triple-bulb kitchen light above them exploded.

Jared and Misha immediately ducked down, covering their heads and turning their bodies from the falling glass. The room fell into darkness. Jared slowly raised his head from his arms to look at Misha, who was caught in a wide beam of light coming from the den. Shadows crossed over him, and Selma and Jensen appeared.

“What’s going on?” Jensen shot out. “What happened?”

“Don’t come in here,” Misha warned from a slightly doubled position, glancing down at Jensen’s bare feet. “Go back in the den. You too, Jared.”

Jared found himself obeying the order, and carefully stepped to join his friend, who immediately took his arm and looked him up and down. Like Dean, checking Sam over for injuries. The realization warmed him to no end, and he looked into Jensen’s eyes and held the gaze for the first time in what seemed like weeks. There was more clarity in that gaze. He wondered what Selma had said to him.

Misha slowly straightened and shook small shards of glass from his hair. “I think we’re at that point.”

Selma’s sigh scared Jared even more.

*************************
The den was silent. They all had drinks. The real stuff, not beers. Jared watched Misha and Selma intently, not sipping his. Jensen was leaning back against the sofa cushions, his eyes downcast.

Selma sat deep in the armchair and studied her dark liquor, then took a small sip. She winced. “Remind me to bring you the good stuff. Went to see my gramma a month ago. I got a bottle of Tia Maria just itchin’ for an occasion like this.”

“An occasion like what?” Jared asked, his eyes pinned to hers.

Selma’s dark eyes slowly met his. It put a knot in his stomach. “A good drink goes a long way,” she drawled. “Opens your mind. Gets rid of the trash. Course you gotta be able to hold your mind, and your drink, or the effort is sure wasted.”

“What’s so bad that we gotta get drunk to hear it?” Jensen asked.

She gestured with her shot glass. “Uh-uh. No, sir. You get drunk, on your own head be it. I’m just relaxing you.” She glanced at the glass, and downed it. Swallowed hard. Waited. “Nope. Need another one. That didn’t help a bit.”

“Selma, for god’s sake just say what’s on your mind!” Jensen exclaimed.

She was pouring another shot. The bottle thumped back against the table, and her eyes seemed to glow over the top of it. “You’re right.” She leaned forward, pointing a finger at Jensen. “Here it is. You in some big trouble, boy, I’m talkin’ ‘bout stuff you ain’t ready for.” She sat back, speaking quickly. “You ain’t! You ain’t ready! But you know what? It’s not my problem. Nope, not my problem.”

She waved her hand at him and looked away, obviously frustrated, then exhaled heavily and continued. “Only it is. I see things. I was see’in things when you was in diapers. Madame Joanne taught me, and she knows her craft.” Her eyes drifted, and she chanted in a low voice, “I sees it in da bones, I sees it in da clouds. I sees it in da eyes of da peeps in da crowds.” She cut her gaze across to Jensen. “You’ve no idea what I’m sayin’ to you. You listen up, boy. Things are going on. Things are gonna happen, and they gonna happen right around you.”

But Jensen was smirking, amused at her antics. “Really. And since when were you so into your roots?”

“Dude, she’s always been,” Jared muttered. “You just never paid attention before.”

“Most my scenes were with you last time, Jared. Truth is, I don’t know much about your boy here, either.”

“And yet here you are, trying to get us drunk,” Jensen quipped.

“With this? Boy, you want drunk, I can get you drunk. Sure can.” She reached for her bag and pulled out a small glass bottle. “Gimme that glass. Down it first.”

“What is that? Poison?” Jensen gulped his shot and handed the glass over.

“You keep that tone up with me, it might well be.”

Jensen smirked again and shook his head. He accepted the glass, sniffed, and swallowed. Gave her a Dean look, and choked.

“And here I thought you were a man,” she said calmly, and leaned back with her new pour. “Now, you wanna tell me why just looking at a glass has you stinging at people worse than a wasp with an itch?”

That pulled a smile from Jensen, and he studied his shot glass, then leaned forward and passed it to her. “Just been a hell of a week.”

“You could call it that. From what I gather, you’ve been depressed, accident-prone, catatonic, and nearly crushed.”

“Karma’s a bitch.”

“And you’re gonna sit there and tell me nothing’s going on.”

Jensen accepted the newly filled glass. “Nothing’s. Going. On.”
Selma stared at him. “Fine. I’ll come out with it. Do you want to die?”

“What the hell kind of question is that?” His voice deepened in shock. Jared held his tongue, felt his eyes widen.

“Seems like a pretty legit one!”

“Look. I’ve had a crappy week and a lot of bad luck. That’s all. I’m stuck in Mr. Accident Prone’s aura over here.”

“Nice!” Jared retorted.

“What about that jack, huh?” Selma’s eyes glinted. “You kicked at it with your foot. He was angry with you, and you couldn’t take it. So like a child you threw a tantrum and kicked out at it.”

“You shut your mouth,” Jensen demanded lowly.

“You couldn’t take it on top of everything else, could you? Him telling you what you’re doing and all. That you’re only hurting yourself.”

“He never said that to me.”

“He didn’t have to! You know it! But he is pointing out that you’re being an asshole. I bet you wanted that car on you so you could end it.”

“No.” His sudden calm was frightening.

“Don’t lie to me.”

“The damn tires were on the – the fucking jack slipped! Where do you get off?”

“I said, don’t lie to me!”

Jensen flung his arms out, his expression caught between rage and incredulous. “I’m not lying!”

“Tell me why!”

“Why what?”

“Tell me why you did it! Tell me what’s going on in that head’a yours!”

“Nothing!”

“Ordinarily I’d say ‘that I can believe’, only I don’t.”

Jensen’s eyes were watering, he was so livid. His mouth pressed tight, his fists clenched. “You know what? I don’t have to listen to this.”

“Jensen. . .” Misha started, and Jared’s gaze swung to him.

“No.” Jensen stood.

“We want to help you.”

“NO!” He backed away. “I don’t want your help. I want you to leave me alone. You got that?” He pointed angrily at each one. “I’ll go through my lines with you, you, and you, and that’s it. Let me do my goddamn job and leave me the fuck alone!”

This had all gone too far, this was nuts. . . “Yeah? You gotta show up for work, first!” Jared yelled at his back. The door slammed, and he turned angrily to Selma. “What the hell was all that about? Why did you say that?”

“Because it’s true.” Selma’s arms were crossed, and she looked annoyed.

“We better go after him,” Misha said, but stopped as Selma said, “No.”

Jared rounded on her. “Why the hell not? He’s already on the edge! What was that supposed to do for him, push him over?”

She gave a shrug. “The truth hurts, honey.”

Jared took a step towards her. “You know something? You’re a bitch.”

And she reached out, and slapped him.

Jared jerked back, stunned, palming his cheek. He was almost too surprised to hold his anger.
“Selma!” Misha said sharply, and turned to Jared. “Go. Get him back here.”

He nodded, glared at Selma, and hurried out.

LODESTONE pt 4

kamelionwriter — Mon, 17 Aug 2009 04:00:48 GMT

Jared took Misha back to his house that evening, after collecting his bags from the hotel. He drove the streets with a tight grip on the steering wheel. “He just got all pissy, man! And then he starts in on how I’m not ‘intoning’ correctly. I mean, what the hell? ‘Intoning’? I didn’t think he even knew what that word meant, and he sure as hell didn’t know what he was talking about.” He cursed at the odd popping sound his car made. “Never had trouble with this damn car until now.”

“You might have more if you keep cursing at it,” Misha said lightly. His elbow was propped on the open window, his fingers danced along the door frame.

Jared shook his head. “He made us reshoot the same scene five times, because he wasn’t satisfied! And I mean with my performance, not his! Where the hell does he get off? He had Phil all up my ass saying Jensen couldn’t work with me ‘like this’.”

“Did you just finger-quote?”

Jared rolled his eyes, and pressed his lips tight. Sure, he and Jensen had their issues on occasion. They’d call each other out if they knew the other was capable of a better performance. But this was just stupid, and he was growing more and more angry as he thought back. “It’s one thing to call me out if I’m not trying. But what the hell does he want? You’d think he was directing the damn episode! But I’ll tell you this.” Jared pointed at Misha. Misha’s hand darted towards the wheel, and Jared returned his attention to the road. “By the end of the day? Even Phil was fed up with him. Said a few comments were fine, but who was the damn director, anyway? If he’s gonna get that big a head cause he’s got a movie role, fine. He can have the damn thing. I got things to do, too.” He was ranting like a girl. He knew it. He couldn’t help it.

“He’s got a movie role?”

“He was offered one, yeah. I guess the details are ironed out. I don’t know. He hasn’t said. He hasn’t said much anything lately.” His anger was fading into hurt. “We used to talk, you know?”

“You need some time apart,” Misha offered. “All day on set, now coming back to the house together. It’s a wonder you two don’t kill each other.”

But Jared shook his head quickly. “No. Not now. You know that’s not a good idea.”

“Then you’re gonna have to figure out how to put up with his attitude.” Misha looked out of his window as he talked.

“Terrific,” Jared muttered. Fifteen minutes passed, and he pulled into his driveway. The popping was worse, and Jared let loose a string of curses as he turned off the engine. He climbed out, slammed the door, and eyed the car. “Gonna start calling you Judas,” he accused the vehicle.

“Cars break, Jared,” Misha laughed, running a hand over the hood as he passed around the front.

The porch light flickered on, and a form filled the doorway. “That your car making that noise?”

“You heard it in there?” Jared asked, sullenly.

Jensen walked across the driveway. “Sounds bad.”

“Guess we’ll be carpooling in yours tomorrow.”

“Nah. Grab a jack.”

“Are you serious? You can’t see out here.”

“That’s what flashlights are for. Look, gimme the keys. I got it.”

Jared handed them over, and Jensen opened the trunk. The jack was tucked into the corner. He pulled it out, and slammed the back end. “Where’s the sound coming from?”

“Under my seat,” Jared muttered. Misha watched them, his hands in his pockets.

“Get something to brace those tires with.” Jensen set the emergency brake, then felt under the frame for a notch. He place the jack, and started to crank. “Just start today?”

Jared walked into the garage. “Yeah. Just tonight,” he called out.

“Does it change when you go faster?”

“Don’t think so.”

“Mmm.” Jensen had been crouching, now he stood and gave the jack a few more cranks. He glanced as Misha. “Look in that drawer beside the fridge, see if you can find a flashlight.”

“Sure,” Misha said, untucking his hands. He glanced at Jared before going inside.

They braced the tires, and Jensen crawled underneath the car. “Thought you’d left the studio earlier.” His voice was obscured by metal.

“And you didn’t exactly tell anyone you were leaving,” Jared said. “Phil wanted to talk to you.”

“Yeah? About what?”

“I don’t know.” Jared could feel his anger bristling again. “Probably about your damn attitude today.”

The heel of Jensen’s sneaker dug into the concrete, then disappeared under the car as he shifted half from under it and arched his body to eye Jared. “Come again?”

“You know what I’m talking about.”

Jensen sighed heavily. “Whatever dude.” He started to wriggle back underneath the car, but Jared nudged his arm with the toe of his boot.

“Don’t ignore me!”

Jensen glared up at him. “You want me to look at your damn car or not?”

“I never asked you to fix the car!”

“Yeah, well I’m trying to do you a favor here, okay?”

“The hell!” Jared suddenly yelled. “Don’t go around not talking to me then suddenly do me a damn favor!”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“You know god damn well what I’m talking about! I’m talking about your head going off in fucking space! I’m talking about you clearing out your apartment and coming here! Steve said you stayed on the couch all fucking weekend, now what the hell’s up with you?”

“Nothing!”

“Bullshit! Don’t fix the damn car! You need to fix whatever’s wrong with you!”

The jack shivered, tilted, then fell. The car landed loudly on its tires.

It took a second to process what had happened. Once he did, Jared flew into action. “Jensen!” One hand pressed flat against the side of the car, the other grabbed Jensen’s arm. “Fuck! Misha!” He heard the door slam, heard Misha’s stomps as he ran to join him.

Jared was already pulling a stunned Jensen from beneath the car. Misha bent and took Jensen’s right arm, and together they hauled him backwards. “Shit! Did it hit you? You okay?” Jared’s hands hovered.

Jensen’s eyes were wide. He raised his head and stared at the car, gasping. “Fuck.” He swallowed hard, letting his head fall back, closing his eyes.

“Jensen?” Jared’s hands flew to his friend’s chest, braced his shoulders, relayed his panic. “Come on, say you’re okay!”

Jensen’s face twisted in pain. “Stop! Hurts. . .car bounced.”

“Thank god those wheels were on,” Misha said, his fingers gently probing Jensen’s ribs. “Breathe in. Carefully.” Jensen did, and it hitched, but it was a full breath. He exhaled shakily. “Good. Try it again.” Jensen inhaled, and gave a quick nod after having to hold his breath against pain.

“I’m okay,” he said quietly.

“Christ, I – Christ.” Jared sat back on his heels and ran his fingers through his hair, then raised his eyes to the stars. He closed them, and sat still as Misha took Jensen’s arm and carefully hauled him to his feet, bracing him, looking him up and down as Jensen gazed down in concern at Jared.

“You okay?” Jensen asked, half slumped, his brows pulling tight.

Jared opened his eyes. “What? Yeah. Jesus. Let’s get inside.”

“I think we could use a drink,” Misha said, giving Jensen a pat on the shoulder. He held onto his arm and waited as Jared took his other.

Once inside, Jensen pointed to the bathroom. “I’m gonna just. . .”

“Sure, go ahead. You sure you’re okay?” Jared asked.

“Yeah. Just gimme a minute.”

Probably had to go hurl out his fear. Jared watched Jensen slowly walk to the bathroom, then followed Misha into the kitchen. He sat on the bar stool, and he breathed out harshly. “Christ that scared the living shit out of me. If he’d been changing a tire. . .”

“Jensen pancake,” Misha said. “What happened?”

“The damn jack fell!”

Misha didn’t blink. “I saw the jack. It wasn’t budging. The car’s on flat ground, the back tires were set. It looked like he knew what he was doing.”

“I’m telling you. We were arguing, and the thing suddenly shook and fell. Shit – he could’a been crushed.” He rubbed his face hard with his hands. Nightmare scenarios were already pouring through his mind. He wouldn’t get much sleep at this rate.

Misha pressed his palms to the counter top, took a deep breath, then exhaled loudly. “Let’s change the subject when he comes in, okay?”

“And act like it didn’t happen?”

“He might not want to talk about it. Where do you keep it?”

“In the cabinet over the sink,” Jared muttered, and rose to grab three shot glasses.

Misha reached up and opened the wooden door. “Did I hear you two arguing out there?”

“Probably.”

“Okay.” He turned with bottle in hands. “Then answer me this. Just how angry were you?”

“I don’t know. Pretty damn angry. Think I’ve got a right to be.” It was a strange question. Jared took the bottle that was handed to him. He set it down, and picked up a shot glass, rubbing at a filmy spot. “I mean, we. . .wait” He froze, then looked up slowly, his stomach clenching. “What are you asking me?”

“I’m asking if you were fighting when this happened.”

“ – you think I did something?” He stared at Misha, and felt his anger brewing again. “You son of a bitch! You think I got pissed and kicked that jack or something? You think I tried to hurt him?”

“No,” Misha answered calmly, but that made Jared angrier.

“Then what the fuck, man? What the hell are you accusing me of? I didn’t do a goddamn thing! That scared the shit out of me, you asshole!”

The shot glass shattered in his hand.

Jared cursed and jerked his hand back. The shards seemed to fall in slow motion, each one landing in silence, the sound following. It happened so quickly, yet took forever.

He raised a shocked face. “I didn’t do anything. I-I wasn’t even squeezing it, I was barely holding it.”

Misha met his gaze. “I know.”

*************************

“Selma?”

“Misha? That you?”

“I’m sorry to bother you. You said I could call.”

“I sure did, honey. But what’s the matter? You sound tense, and I know that’s not like you.”

Misha smiled as he paced a small circle in Jared’s backyard. Sadie and Harley tagged along behind him like going in a circle was the most fascinating thing on earth. “What makes you say that?”

“Who you think you’re talking to?”

True. Misha glanced back towards the house. “There was an – incident.”

“Incident?”

“An accident, then.”

“Was anyone hurt?”

“A little. Not bad.”

“How bad is not bad?”

“Jensen was underneath a jacked up car.”

“Oh, lord, honey!”

“No, no, the wheels were on, it wasn’t jacked high, and it was braced. The edge caught him on the chest. Apparently he was laying half out from under it, talking to Jared. It just bounced on the tires and hit him hard. Bent the jack. He’s gonna be bruised up for a while. Nothing broken.”

“You get him checked out?”

“We’re keeping an eye on him. He can get around, as long as he’s cautious. He’s taking some pretty shallow breaths right now. Actually, I’m pretty sure he’s gone to bed, he was making noises about it before I came out here to call you. Jared had some pain pills. And Jared managed to shatter a shot glass, but that could be anything.”

“I’m just as sorry to hear that, but what does this have to do with me?”

Misha swallowed hard. “Understand, I’m not accusing him.”

“Accusing who?”

“They were arguing. Fighting.” He waited through her silence, then added, “Jared didn’t mean to. These two, you know what they’re like. They’ll tease and fight and die for each other. They really are like brothers.”

“Makes it hard, doesn’t it?”

“Should make it easier.” Misha rubbed his face. “If they don’t kill each other first.”

“You sure he’s okay?”

“Yeah, he’s fine.” Misha raised his chin and sighed into the phone. “I just keep thinking. Wondering. I don’t know where this is going.”

“You told him?” she asked.

“I hinted. He’s not convinced, which is fine. That may not be what happened. But the flea’s in his ear. Look, the reason I called is, we have to tell them what’s happening. Now.”

“It’s not time.”

Misha clenched his jaw. A noise sounded behind him, and he spun to look, then ducked his head. “Make it time,” he continued in a low voice.

“Darling, you know I can’t do that!”

“Selma, dammit,” Misha glanced back at the house, and lowered his voice further. “If you don’t, then they’re going to end up hurting each other. Bad. And what good is that, huh?”

“They can’t hurt each other. It’s not possible.”

“Did you not hear what happened tonight?”

“You have to trust me. This takes delicate timing. They’re not ready. Almost, but not quite.”

“So you’re saying Jensen’s gotta keep going through this crap he’s carrying in his head? What about Jared?”

“If you tell him now, there’ll be more to tote. I’m telling you, he’s not ready.”

“And I’m telling you we’re running out of time!” Again, he made a conscious effort to lower his voice. “Selma, you’ve got to give me something to work with, here.”

“Either way, we have to finish this job. Get them through this week of filming. Concentrate on that for now, okay?”

He didn’t like it. Not a bit. “And that’s it?”

“That’s it.”

Misha thought back to the stunt man. To Jensen in the car. To the jack. “Okay. You better be right.”

“Have I ever let you down before?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“Yes, you would.”

He could hear her smile. “Go play tarot or something.”

“I’ll do a reading on you if you’re not careful.”

“I’m inscrutable.”

“Not according to what I’ve seen.”

He frowned. “What have you seen? Selma?”

“Goodnight, dear.”

“Selma? What have you seen? Hello?”

****************************

Jensen felt like shit.

It was three days since the accident, and his ribs were still sore. The fact that he had an intense physical schedule for this episode didn’t help, but he refused to let the stunt double do anything he couldn’t. The skin bruising had intensified, but fortunately he didn’t have a shirtless scene. He’d spend that entire night trying to figure out what he’d done wrong. If the jack was tilted, if he hadn’t braced something. Then he pushed it from his mind, as much as he could.

He ran, jumped, and ducked and rolled to emerge fighting, swinging at the “invisible” predator who, at the moment, was a stand-in wearing a black suit. He watched his costar hover. Saw Misha watching him from the background. Even Selma had her eagle eyes on him.

Yet again, everyone watching him. Always being scrutinized.

It was getting on his nerves. He tightened his jaw, and said little. Forced himself to work through the distraction. Finally he had to say something. “Is my underwear showing? Huh? Something hanging out my nose? Or am I just that good looking?”

“What?” asked Jared, clearly lost.

“Put your eyes somewhere else for a change.” He sent out a glare that included both Selma and Misha.

Misha raised his hands and his eyebrows, and turned away. Selma just looked unhappy at being called out, and waved him down, turning to head for the craft table.

Jensen sighed and lowered his head, bending to brace himself on his knees. He ached. Today sucked.

When he had a break, he walked to the far end of the lot where the trailers stood. Hurried inside, locked the door, and pulled out his punching bag. It was small, the trailer wasn’t nearly sturdy enough to house a large version, but it was sufficient. After four minutes of fierce punching, the bag flew off its mount and bounced hard against the wall.

His ribs protested, and still he spent a few minutes punching at the air, then doubled over as he had earlier. What the hell was wrong with him? Why was he so pissed? He reached a gloved hand out for the wall braced himself, wincing. Okay. Enough was enough. Maybe he did need to talk to someone. This was insane.

Jensen’s sore chest heaved, and his eyes drooped. He shook his head in disdain, cursed, pulled off his gloves and went outside.

He decided later that it was a sort of fate that drove him towards Jared’s trailer. He was knocking before he fully realized what was going on. He knocked again, then finally pulled open the thin door and walked in.

Clothes were strewn about. Not many, there was a shirt slung over a chair and some socks shoved in the corner. Jeans were crumpled in opposite corner. Extra things brought from home. A nice shirt hung on the door knob of a small closet. The mirror on the door reflected the one in the bathroom, and in it Jensen could see Jared bent over the sink, his elbows braced on the porcelain sides, head held tightly in both hands.

“Jared? Hey. You okay?” Jensen walked in, and put a hand on his friend’s back. “Hey. Hey!” He quickly turned Jared to face him, his eyes widening at the blood trickling from Jared’s nose, at the pained, unfocused look in his eyes. “What is this? What’s wrong? You walk into a wall again?” He reached out and tore a wad of toilet paper from the roll, trying to steady his friend as he did so. Jared took it and pressed the paper to his nose, his eyes blinking hazily. “You get punched? Someone jump you?” It wouldn’t happen on set, but he couldn’t think of anything else.

Jared just shook his head. He sucked in air and pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes before slumping to the floor.

Jensen had his cell phone whipped out and dialing before he felt the panic set in. He called the on-set medic, then called Eric, called Misha, called whoever was in the top listing on his phone that happened to be on set. He dropped the phone to the floor as Jared’s body lilted. Heavy lids closed over the confused eyes, and Jensen could only hold his arms tightly and call to him. By the time Mike was there, he was shaking Jared, cursing him, unable to wake him.

“What’s going on?” Mike crouched, instantly feeling for his pulse.

“He’s out. Nosebleed. Think his head was hurting,” Jensen said quickly. “Now this.”

“Let me see him. Jared? Can you hear me?”

Jensen scooted aside, keeping a one-handed grip on Jared’s arm. “What’s going on?” he asked urgently.

“I don’t know, yet. Jared?” A penlight whipped out. Mike carefully opened each of Jared’s eyes, checking for pupil dilation.

Jensen’s grip slipped as he was pulled out of the bathroom by two more people crowding his friend. He was shoved further back as a large bag was brought in, then felt two more hands grip him and haul him to the side. By now he was sick of being manhandled, and jerked his arms, spinning, ready for a confrontation. Concerned blue eyes regarded his.

“Misha.” Jensen let himself slump, bracing himself with his hand on the counter. The move- the- fuck -outta- the- way assembly line had put him in the kitchenette.

“What’s happened?” Misha’s head dipped, searching Jensen’s face. One hand soothed his back, the other pressed against his shoulder.

“Jared’s – I don’t know. He’s out. His nose was bleeding. He was holding his head like it was about to explode.” Nervous fingers raked through spiked hair.

He felt Misha’s hands take hold of his arms once more, and didn’t resist as he was guided to a wooden chair, angled conveniently out from the small table which divided the kitchen and the den. A glass of water was pressed into his hand. He could hear Mike saying Jared’s name again, trying to wake him as he worked.

“Does he have a history of migraines?” Misha asked, sitting across from Jensen.

Jensen was intent on the action. “Hm? Oh. Not that I know of.”

“And no unexplained headaches lately?”

“Just me.” He smiled ruefully. “Shouldn’t they be asking these questions?” Jensen watched the men who were telling him absolutely nothing.

“They have his medical history. I don’t.”

“Why do you need it? You’re not a set medic. Mike is. Mike the medic. Jesus. I call him Mike the Medic, teasing him, you know, but right now I’m glad he’s a medic and I’m glad his fucking name is Mike even if Mike isn’t telling me anything!”

“Jensen, calm down.”

“He’s unconscious and bleeding! You calm down!”

Misha just stared at him, until he felt himself shrinking back like a struck child. He turned to look out of the window to his left, drumming his fingers on the table, trying to collect himself.

Jared didn’t get stressed. He got angry. He’d clench his fists to keep from throwing punches. One way or another, he’d calm, apologize or accept the apology, whichever, then things would be fine. He didn’t hold grudges. He felt deeply, and reacted on those feelings. Nothing was happening that would stress him like this, not where a freakin headache came bleeding out of his nose. But he hoped to god it was stress, because the alternatives that flashed through his head didn’t bear thinking about. He fretted and pondered until his attention was caught by red lights flashing through the curtains. “Oh god. They’ve called an ambulance.”

“Hey, wait, wait.” Misha had jumped up when Jensen did, and pulled him back to his seat. “Mike probably called them on his way here. Let them work.”

To Jensen’s relief, he said nothing else as more medics came in to work on his friend. After what felt like years, he saw Jared’s boot twitch, and a knee raise as he moved his leg. Heard a faint, recognizable mutter. He quickly stood and navigated his way through darkly colored medical bags and bodies to look over several shoulders.

Jared’s eyes were open, barely. He looked exhausted. His t-shirt was raised, and a stethoscope lay on his chest. A blood pressure cuff tightened on his arm. His nose had been cleaned.

Mike picked up the stethoscope and placed the rounded end underneath the armcuff, then listened. He nodded and released the pressure, then noticed Jensen. “He eat anything today?”

“You’re kidding, right?” Jared was known for eating habits that matched his size. “I don’t know, though. I found him in the bathroom.” Jensen glanced behind him at the kitchenette. “Don’t look like it, unless he already ditched the trash.”

“We’re gonna take him in for observation. Think he just had an episode of hypertension, which I’m hoping is an isolated occurrence. We’ll do an MRI. He’s never had this happen before?”

“Not that I know of.” Jensen was finally able to squat beside Jared. He patted the long, demin-clad leg.

Jared turned his head, blurrily. “Hey.”

“Hey yourself. What the hell, man? You skipping out on me today?”

Jared’s mouth quirked, and his eyes closed.

Jensen poked Mike in the arm. “Is that normal?”

“Yes and no.” Mike shoved the rest of his equipment into his bag. “You coming?”

“Yeah, no, wait. Damn. Haven’t heard from Eric.” Jensen glanced around for his phone, and found it had skittered underneath the bottom lip of the sink cabinet. He pulled it out and saw a missed call. Not Eric.

“We’re loading him now.” Mike stood.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m coming.” Jensen had the phone to his ear, but Misha pulled his hand back down.

“I’ll find him. You go on.”

“Right. Okay, thanks, man.”

It turned out Jensen needn’t have worried. Eric was at the hospital, waiting for them.

*****************************

“They’re calling this an isolated incident since he’s had no problems before. Says he’s been stressed.” Eric shifted the phone on his shoulder. “Yeah. Yeah, he’ll be good. Gonna get him out of here soon, give him a day off to make sure. He’ll have to finish up, but it’s light stuff and we can work around it. Sure. Yeah, he’s here. I know, he’ll be heading back with me. Would you like it if you had to leave your friend here and go back to work? If he doesn’t we’ll be too far behind. I know. Get the shoot ready, we’ll be there. Yeah, I’ll call.” He hung up, and looked at Jensen.

“I know, I know,” he muttered.

“It’s just one scene. I’ll drive you back here myself. But we can’t put this off. Still got Selma and Misha’s parts to do, and they can’t wait.”

“I said I got it,” Jensen replied sternly, and sighed. He rubbed his face. “Sorry. Man, our luck sucks this week.”

“You two definitely have to work on your timing. You going back in there before we leave?”

“Yeah, just give me a minute. I’ll be right back..” Kripke just nodded and made another call.

It wasn’t that the man didn’t care. He’d hovered at the door when Jared was brought in, and paced impatiently until he was settled into his room for the night. Then he stayed by Jared’s bed until he could pull a genuine smile from the young man, and left him to Jensen. But there was still a schedule to follow, and they were already behind.

Jared was sitting up when Jensen walked back into the room. The television was high in the corner. It flickered as he roamed the channels. He looked pale, but face brightened when he saw Jensen. “Hey.”

“Hey. The Krip’s making me go back. Looks like I get to do your job, too.” Jared’s smile was faint, and Jensen instantly felt guilty. He rubbed the back of his neck. “Listen. This is all my fault. I haven’t been pulling my share on the set. Been putting it all on you, and that’s not. . .you should’ve said something, man.”

Now Jared looked confused, and he set down the remote and shifted further up on the mattress. “About what?”

“That it was getting to you. That you were stressed.”

Jared chuckled. “I’m not stressed. And the job isn’t getting to me.” He shifted again. “And it sure as hell isn’t your fault.”

“Jared. . .”

“I said, not your fault. You got that? You sure? Good. Don’t suppose you want to grab me a beer on the way out.”

Jensen laughed.

“Don’t see why I have to stay here,” Jared groused. “I feel fine.”

“Oh sure. Headache, nose bleed, loss of consciousness, and your blood pressure was sky high. You’re right as rain.”

“I am! I don’t want to stay here. Tell them you’ll watch out for me at home or something.”

“No can do.” Jensen gestured to the door. “Look, I gotta get going. We get much more behind and Eric’ll be admitted before long. Besides, all goes well you’ll be wheeled outta here first thing tomorrow morning.”

“I guess,” Jared groused, and sank down on his pillow.

“Now you do like the good nurses tell you. I’ll call you.”

“You promise?” And Jared was looking at him so intently, like his life depended on it.

“You know I will.” Jensen gave him a friendly wink and wave, and walked out.

The drive back to the studio was silent, except for Eric’s chatter on the phone. Jensen stared out of his window, and wondered why he was hurting his friends.

************************

“Get any more accident prone around here and they’ll start saying we’re cursed,” Selma teased him that evening.

Jensen glanced up at her, then smiled back at the script. “Hell, I guess.”

“When’s that boy getting out?”

“That boy should be getting out about eleven a.m.”

“You good to do this? You’re not distracted or anything?”

Jensen set his script on his director’s chair. “Give me some credit for being a professional.”

“I always do, honey. Now where’s Misha, ain’t he in this scene?”

“Oh, lord. Not you too.”

“What? He better not be putting the charms on someone else?” she muttered as Phil walked up to them.

“Jared’s okay?” he asked.

“He’s pissed that he’s missing out on this shoot.”

“I bet. You guys ready?”

“Sure.” Jensen eyed the set.

“Okay.” He pointed. “Jensen, you’re coming into her house there. Selma, you stand over here.” Phil continued to block the scene, running through the dialog, filming test shots, then finally delcared them ready. “And. . .go!”

“Hey, Rosa.” Jensen walked in, scuffing his feet slightly.

“And where have you been? Sit down, I’ve got news for you.”

“That crystal ball spit at you again?” Jensen asked as “Dean” took a seat.

“Only images. No psychic threads this time, thank goodness.” Selma rubbed her left eye as “Rosa” took her seat across from him. “But these signs, there’s not good ones. You need to be on the lookout.”

“For what?”

“Something coming after your brother.” Selma looked up, but all she saw was Dean.

“That’s par for the course, lady.”

“Not this time. You know where he is now?”

“Yeah, he’s checking out some leads, why?”

“You better go to him. Now.”

“What’s going on?”

Selma stood quickly. “Now, you hear me? NOW!”

“And cut!” Phil said, and nodded. “Excellent. Hang tight for a minute, you two.”

“You have to go to him,” Selma said, taking Jensen by the arm. Her eyes were wide.

Jensen jumped, then gave a little laugh. “Whoa, scene’s over, Selma! Didn’t you hear him?”

“I know that, you fool. Listen to what I’m saying to you.”

“You’re saying what you just were saying.”

“You can’t go home. Not tonight. Stay in your trailer. Stay at the hospital, if it suits you.”

Jensen frowned at her. “Selma, what the hell are you talking about?”

“Love, you can sleep on a cot, sleep on the floor for all I care, but don’t you go to that house. Not tonight.”

He shook his head lightly, not understanding. “You think something’s gonna happen to the house?”

“I just think you don’t need to be in it.”

Jensen studied her, noting the insistence in her eyes. “Okay,” he agreed. “Eric said he’d take me back to the hospital.” And looked up as Misha appeared, nearly swallowed by his overcoat.

“How’s Jared?” he asked.

“Good,” Jensen replied, shaking off the odd feeling Selma’s words had placed on him, and he gave the woman a pointed look. “Gonna go check up on him when I leave here, I think.”

“Okay,” Phil said, joining them. “Let’s cover the scene between Rosa and Castiel. Jensen, you sit out for a few, then we’ve got a couple of shots for you. That should wrap it up.”

Jensen nodded. He grabbed Misha’s arm as he walked past. “Listen, can you check things out at the house when you’re done? Run with the dogs or something. I don’t know when I’ll get back there.” Well, Selma said he shouldn’t go back there, whatever the hell that meant. She didn’t say anything about Misha.

Misha gave a slight smile. “Sure. Jared gave me a set of keys. He decided I was stupid for staying in a hotel when there’s a perfectly good sofa available.”

“Oh yeah?” Keys, huh? He wasn’t sure how to take this new information. He decided the best thing to do, would just be to accept it. Jared was like that. Heck, even Genevieve was known to stay over on occasion. He had a sudden misgiving about sending Misha to the house when he’d been warned away. “Well, sure. Good. And uh, if you want to come up to the hospital I’m sure Jarhead’ll be glad to see you. You can just make sure the dogs are okay and come on out.”

“We’ll see.”

“I mean, don’t feel like you’ve gotta stay there by yourself.”

Misha grinned. He leaned in. “I’m a big boy,” he muttered. “I think I can handle it.”

Jensen suddenly felt embarrassed. “Well, yeah? Shit. Just. . .whatever, dude. Call me if you’re coming, okay?” Misha’s name was called, but he clapped Jensen on the arm in answer.

He watched Misha join Phil and Selma, then headed for the craft table to see what was left.

LODESTONE pt 3

kamelionwriter — Mon, 17 Aug 2009 02:41:40 GMT

Misha had a definite knack with the grill, something his dad apparently taught him. All men should know how to grill a good steak, he said with a wink, and promised cheekily to teach Jared sometime. That earned him a swat across the back of the head which he took with good graces and probably more glee than the situation called for. To Jared, Misha was an enigma. He’d never seen someone so settled, so childlike, and so mature at the same time. It was like he drifted in whichever direction the wind blew, but knew precisely where he was going. He even set the table. When Jensen would come over, they’d cook then randomly grab plates and utensils and sit in front of the tv. But Misha had plates on the kitchen table. Napkins. They were even folded, for Christ’s sake, and in a flash, too. It made Jared feel very lazy.

They ate hungrily at first. Perfect steak, medium rare - barely- and potatoes loaded with butter and sour cream. Misha even prepared bacon to sprinkle over the tops. They each had a beer. Only one. Because the ticking minutes were longer than the conversation, and Jared knew that even with a delayed flight or car issues or no car or anything, he’d of heard something from someone. The small talk drifted as troublesome scenarios played over in his mind.

Jensen’s plate was getting cold.

The tip ends of the steaks remained on the bones. The potatoes weren’t scraped down from the inner skins. One beer each. The sun had set.

There was no talk as they loaded up in Jared’s car, and headed towards the airport, driving the roads that Jensen was likely to take on his route back. They were ten miles out when they saw Jensen’s dark SUV, pulled off to the side of the road, it’s nose aimed for the house. “Shit, there he is!” Jared quickly glanced over his shoulder, checking for traffic behind him.

“You sure?” Misha asked, straightening to look at the vehicle.

“No, I’m not sure. I don’t know my best friend’s car.” Jared muttered sarcastically. He swerved across the road and pulled up in front of the car. His headlights shone briefly though the front windshield and reflected off Jensen’s blanched face. That open-eyed stare was the scariest thing he’d seen in a long time. His heart thudded painfully as he shoved the gear into park.

Misha was out in a flash, leaving his door open. Jared was right behind him, banging his knee on the front end of the car in his haste, wanting to push Misha aside. As he took in Jensen’s shell-shocked stare, he decided Misha’s calm demeanor would be better for him. He didn’t move as Misha slowly opened the driver’s side door. Jared was thankful, and worried, that it was unlocked. He peered in over Misha’s shoulder.

“Hey,” Misha said, softly, bending down to look into Jensen’s face as he rested a steady hand on his arm. “Fancy meeting you here. Jensen? Look at me.”

Jensen’s knuckles were white. He was breathing hard, as though trying to calm himself. Jared crouched beside Misha, who shifted to give him room, and laid his hand on Jensen’s lower leg. “Hey, man.” He wanted to ask what the hell was going on, but found himself at a loss for words. He just kept his hand on Jensen’s leg, until he was ready to face them.

He did turn to look at Misha. Then his eyes drifted down and met Jared’s. He was in there, this wasn’t a catatonic state. There was instant recognition, and embarrassment. “Hey,” he finally responded after a swallow. His voice sounded rough.

Misha reached up and gently removed Jensen’s fingers from the steering wheel. Jensen let him, then looked at his fingers like he just discovered he had them. He rubbed the imprints from them. “I – uh,” he started, then shook his head slightly, wincing, as though uncertain what to say himself.

“You’re tired from your flight,” Misha supplied. “Let’s get you home. We can talk in the morning, after you get yourself ready for work.”

The mention of work had an affect. Jensen sent each of them a clear gaze, then looked to the street again. He took a deep breath, and exhaled forcefully. “How’d you find me?”

“Pure luck. That, and I know your route,” Jared said. “You – know where you are?”

Jensen blinked and slowly glanced at his surroundings. “Yeah. Close to home, right?”

The way he said ‘home’, filled with such longing, tore at Jared’s heart. “That’s right. You want me to drive?”

Jensen again looked around, took in his position, the two men watching him. Like waking from a bad dream, he nodded. “Sure, man,” he said on an exhale.

“Okay.” Jared stood and stepped back, expecting Jensen to climb out of his SUV, but instead he pressed his palms to the seat and shifted over, his movements careful, like he wasn’t sure where he was and didn’t trust the leather surface. He plopped himself in the passenger’s seat, put his elbow on the small window sill, and closed his eyes, pinching at and rubbing his forehead.

“Straight home?” Misha asked, quietly.

“Yeah,” Jared confirmed, climbing in. “I’m gonna go kinda slow, will you. . ?” he handed Misha the house keys.

“Sure. I’ll get his bed ready.”

“Thanks.”

Jensen said nothing during the drive, just kept rubbing his head, staring out of the window. But he wasn’t ignoring Jared. He seemed lost, like he’d forgotten the art of communication and was wondering what the hell he was doing there. Jared didn’t ask any questions, just kept darting glances at him.

When they entered the house, Misha was coming down the stairs with an armload of sheets. Jared stepped aside as Jensen walked in, looking around the house like it was the first time he’d seen it. “Welcome home,” he said, his keys rattling onto the small table beside the door.

“Thanks,” Jensen muttered. He looked uncertainly at his bags. Misha’s brow raised, and he walked into the downstairs bedroom Jensen would occupy.

Jared clamped his hand on Jensen’s shoulder. “You want a drink?”

“Um. Sure. Just water.”

Jared led him into the kitchen. Jensen cleared his throat as he leaned over, bracing himself on the small kitchen island as he pulled out a glass and put in a few cubes of ice, then filled it with tap water. “You’ve got a steak there, if you want it.”

“Save it. Can have steak and eggs in the morning.” He accepted the water, and drank it down. Gave a satisfied sigh and set the glass down, still leaning over the island. His next comment was almost comic. “Wait a minute. That was Misha? Misha’s here?”

Jared grinned. “Boy, you don’t miss much! I don’t guess you’ve seen the synopsis for this week.. Misha’s back, obviously. So’s Selma.”

“Selma?” Jensen head snapped up. “Really? Gonna be one of those episodes, huh?”

“Looks fun, actually. We get to play stunt men again.”

“Not a good idea in your case” But there was a glint of humor in his eyes that was more like his old self.

Jared breathed more easily. “You’re one to talk, lately. Look, you can read over it in the morning. You look beat. Did you sleep at all in L.A.?”

And suddenly he swore he could see a wall go up. Like Jensen’s face wasn’t as clear as it was a moment before. “Yeah, I slept.”

Anything but convinced, Jared nodded towards the bedroom. “I think Misha’s got some clean blankets in there for you. He’s all housey like that.”

“I don’t need a manservant, especially one called Meee-sha.”

“Like your name’s so masculine.” Nothing was said for a moment, as Jensen regarded him evenly. Great. The tension was back, full swing. “Well. It’s ready when you are.”

Jensen nodded and pushed off the island. “Guess I am beat,” he admitted. He started to walk off. His head dropped to his chest, and he turned. “You know, I probably would have been in that damn car all night.” It was a subtle thanks.

“Sure thing,” Jared said softly, and watched as Jensen exited the kitchen. When he rounded the corner, Jared sighed heavily and raised his eyes to the ceiling, then stared out into the backyard.

He heard a mumble in the hallway, then Misha entered. His eyes met Jared’s before glancing back toward the hall. “So, he’s off to bed?” he asked quietly.

“Yeah, think so. Listen, thanks for doing that.”

“No problem.” Misha leaned his elbows on the island and studied him. “You really were scared he wasn’t coming back here, weren’t you?”

“Why?”

“You had the bed stripped.”

“I don’t know. I don’t know what I was thinking. Easy thing to put sheets on a bed, man.” He shook his head. “What the hell happened in his car?”

Misha shrugged. Again with the steady gaze.

This was ridiculous. Jared braced his hands in the air. “Okay, look. We don’t know each other that well. But you’re right. Something’s going on. He’s fine, then he’s just – distracted or something. Or angry. Or – scared.” Or worse.

“We’ll just have to keep an eye on him, then,” Misha said, pushing himself up. “Starting tomorrow morning.”

“How about starting now?” Jared ventured. “I’ll sleep on the couch. You can have my bed.”

Misha shook his head quickly, but with a faint grin as he looked down, like Jared had made a joke. “No.”

“Come on.”

“Jared. . .”

“It’s late. And you were going to a hotel, right?”

“I’m in a hotel.”

“Cancel it. Get your stuff out, bring it here.” Jared glanced at the wall, surprised to feel a pinprick of wetness in his eyes. A sudden heat. Was he that desperate for things to work out? “I-I just don’t feel good about this, okay?” he admitted in a low voice. “I’ve been trying to figure this out for weeks. I need help. He needs it.” He was embarrassed, but something about Misha just – he didn’t feel stupid opening up to him.

Misha kept looking at him. Then he nodded. “Okay. But I’m sleeping on the sofa. I’m not kicking a man out of his own bed.”

He wasn’t about to argue with that stare. Jared nodded. “Good. Okay, thanks.” He let out a relieved sigh. “You want a beer real quick? We can sit outside. The dogs are probably asleep out there.”

“It’d be a shame to wake them, then.” Misha reached into the refrigerator and pulled out two bottles. They sat on the lounge chairs, looking at the lawn, and the way the neighbor’s yard light poured over it in thick stripes. They sat in silence, drinking several beers until the light blinked out, the lawn was dark, and they went to bed.

******************

The set was ready for filming when they arrived the next morning. Since Jared wasn’t needed just yet he hung back and watched as the lights were adjusted, camera angles were discussed, and Jensen and Misha looked over their scripts. A happy exclamation caught his attention.

“You boys have got to stop growing!” Selma laughed as she walked up to the man, her arms outstretched.

“Selma,” Jared replied happily, dipping to give the short Haitian woman a huge hug. He grinned as Jensen instantly came over and did the same, beaming. “You doing okay?”

“I’m doing better now, looking at you two fine men. And who’s that over there?” She nodded in the direction of the dark-haired man, now bent over a script with the director. “I’ve been eyeing him since I first walked in here.” She set her hands on her hips, as she was apt to do, craning to peer around Jared.

“That’s Misha Collins. Castiel?”

“That’s Misha? Boy, this show’s gonna kill me.” She patted her head wrap. “He married?”

“I thought you weren’t looking,” Jensen said.

“Honey, I always look. I just have to be careful where I touch, you hear what I’m saying?” She laughed loudly, her whole body shaking.

“You’ll make me jealous, stop.” Jared hugged her by the shoulders. “How’s Annie?”

“Driving me up the wall! She’s gone back to her daddy now. You get to where you have a teenager, you let me know. We’ll exchange tales.”

“You’re good to that girl.”

“Her mom needs to be there. I do what I can. You know she still has her eyes on you.”

“Tell her to grow a little,” Jared said pleasantly. Jensen eased to the side, talking to one of the newer PA’s that just couldn’t get enough of him. She flushed every time he looked her way, and it was obvious Jensen enjoyed it. Not because he liked her like that. He just thought it was cute, the way she blushed. Jared accused him of leading her on, but she didn’t seem to mind the attention and apparently held no false hopes.

The set grew quiet as Misha took his mark, and blocked the scene. After a moment, Jensen joined him. And a moment later, they were joined by a large man in jeans and a t-shirt.

“Okay.” Phil referred to his sheet, then passed it aside. “Joe, you ready?”

The man in denim nodded, and took his place behind Jensen. Jensen shook out his arms, and leaned his head back. Joe wrapped his thick arm loosely around Jensen’s neck. He didn’t increase his hold, but instead let his hand rest on Jensen’s left shoulder, like an embrace.

“Misha, you’re in front of them. You get right in their face, okay? Go through the line.”

“If you aren’t careful, you’ll have more to do with heaven and hell than you ever dreamed of,” Misha said instantly, and his eyes glinted. It bothered Jared that he could see that intense emotion from afar. But what bothered him more, was the man holding Jensen. And it wasn’t even that Jensen was being held in that way. It happened often enough in the show, though usually Sam was the one getting the short end of the stick. But poor Dean was taking a beating this season.

He walked close to them, as close as he could without interfering. He could see the intensity on Misha’s face, and sense Jensen’s sudden tension. Joe looked calm as a fucking cucumber, and Jared felt even more on edge. Phil checked the script, then corrected Misha on his words. Which never happened. Misha was a machine.

Jared realized why. Joe had looked at Misha in the scene, not at Castiel. They were talking to each other though that look, and Jensen was in the middle of it. He watched stiffly as Jensen’s hands raised to the arm around his neck, and he shifted again, ready to take the scene to the next level. He didn’t look too happy.

On a whim, Jared glanced over his shoulder. Selma was watching as well, and she looked as unhappy as Jensen.

“Keep going. Full block,” Phil said.

Misha stepped closer, his face just inches from Jensen’s and Joe’s. The words were hardly out before Joe spun and threw Jensen to the floor. He landed on his back, winded, blinking. A single cough forced its way out.

It was something that would happen in the scene, only there was something different to it here. Joe’s boot raised over him right as Misha grabbed Joe from behind and spun him around, then put two fingers to his forehead. Joe crumpled.

“Good.” Phil nodded and walked back to his chair, accepting the paper that was handed to him, calling over a cameraman.

“Sorry, man. Lost my balance.” Joe stood, then reached down a hand for Jensen to grab.

“I got it,” Misha said, stepping in front of Joe. The burly man backed off, smirking. Misha pulled Jensen to his feet, and looked up at him. It was the first time Jared really noted that Jensen was taller than his co-star. Must be the boots. “You okay?” Misha asked.

Jensen looked surprised, but not at the question. It was procedure to check on the actors after a stunt. What Jensen was responding to was the same intensity Jared felt. “Yeah, I’m fine,” he said, brushing off the back of his shoulder. “Thanks.”

Misha gave him a pat on the arm, then walked to Phil.

Jensen rolled his shoulders and joined Jared. He cast a glance at Misha’s back, then angled himself away from him. “What was that all about?” he asked in a low voice. “I get banged up all the time. That was nothing. Dude needs to hang out on the set more often.”

Jared wasn’t sure what to say. His mouth moved with the need to give his friend a what-for. “Joe threw you kinda hard for a rehearsal, that’s all.”

“He said he lost his balance.”

“Mm hmm.” Jared’s mind was racing. It flittered back to the previous week, and Jensen’s failed stunts. Joe had been around then, too.

Damn. He was feeling like a freaking Hardy Boy. And wasn’t Joe was one of those names? Insane. He remembered with a sigh that one of the cameramen was Frank. Nice fucking, stupid, brain-fried coincidence.

With a rustle, Jensen produced a small bag of grapes and popped one in his mouth. He blinked at Jared. “What?” he asked.

Jared’s mood wasn’t improving. “What’s with the grapes? They’ve got biscuits over there.”

“I ate a lot of crap over the weekend,” he said around his chewing, and popped in another one.

The weekend. Shit. That was another thing Jared meant to do, and there was no time like the present. He needed to get away anyhow. “Hang on a minute, my phone. . .” Jensen was already returning to the set, so it was easy for Jared to whip out his cell and scurry off like he was answering a call. Instead, he quickly thumbed down to Steve’s number.

The cell rang. And rang. But oddly enough it wasn’t going to voicemail. Still, he was about to hang up when a thin voice answered. “Yeah.”

“Yeah? That’s how you answer these days? Did I wake you?”

“Naw, man,” Steve said in a tired drawl. “It’s only, what, nine am.”

For Steve, nine in the morning was like him rising at four. “Dude. Sorry.”

Steve cleared his throat quickly. “Whatever. What’dya need?” he asked, not quite as raspy as before. “Things okay?”

“What did Jensen do over the weekend?”

“You’re a fucking stalker, man. Leave the guy alone. He probably came down here to avoid your ass.”

“Or suck up to yours. Tell me.”

Steve gave a light chuckle. “He stayed on the sofa,” he said gruffly. “Read a few books, watched some tv. Slept. Said he was tired and needed to get away. I left him alone. He was boring as shit.” There was a pause as he groaned himself into wakefulness. “God I hate mornings. I’ll tell you this. He usually cleans me out of my good stuff. Don’t think he ate a damn thing. My cabinets are still full.”

Jared glanced at the set. Jensen was handing his bag of grapes over to a PA. “He didn’t eat?”

“If he did, he went back out and bought more stuff. He’s done that before, so it’s not saying anything. The hell’s going on?”

Jensen was a light eater, to be honest. Unlike Jared, he was very careful about what went into his body. So to say he didn’t eat much, well, that was proof of nothing. But for him to lie about it and say he ate a lot of crap? That was weird, especially when he could have dismissed it with a heath statement, or by teasing Jared about the mass quantities of candy sticking his insides together. To which Jared would reply that it was obvious Jensen was perfectly lubed, and there better be a good reason for it. He glanced behind him once more, seeing the men take their marks. “Thanks, Steve. Go back to sleep.”

“. . .fucking awake now. . .gotta catch that damn plane.”

“Have a good morning, then.” He hung up, and watched the action.

Again, Joe was behind Jensen, with Misha in their faces. Joe flung Jensen to the floor on cue, raised his boot over him, and Misha spun him, knocking him to the floor with his “angel dust”. There was a hesitation, and the two men on the floor rose, neither the worse for wear. Jensen seemed perfectly content, and had in fact landed more softly than the last time.

Maybe Jared was crazy. But after seeing the unhappy glance Misha cast him, he wasn’t so sure.

************************

Selma was outside, her arms folded across her chest, dark eyes gazing up at the sky. Cloud watching, she called it. Something her gramma taught her to do. It was a way to clear the tangled thoughts in her head.

She sensed trouble the minute she walked into that room and saw those boys, though her instinct was to hover close to Jared. He was confused, and scared. What she didn’t know, was what the hell she was expected to do about it.

As usual, the timing was fortuitous. Things were being arranged again, that’s what was happening. She knew enough to know that. It was enough that the boys were together, such forces paired, and in this setting? It was a prep school, and they didn’t even know it. And then there was the new arrival, the young man who looked at her like he was reading her soul, and he probably was. She’d never seen such an intense expression on anyone. Something huge was there, and it was no wonder he was cast in the role he held. But then, they were all cast in appropriate roles. That was as it should be. That was the purpose. These other people putting on makeup and running cameras had no clue what their stars were really being groomed for.

She popped tension from her neck. Her skirt brushed the edge of a puddle. Her head wrap was loosening, but she didn’t move. She stared at the clouds, looking for an answer.

Blasted things were stubborn, as usual.

“Excuse me. You’re Selma, right?”

The woman turned to see the dark haired man looking at her. His head was cocked inquisitively, and he was smiling. His eyes were as vivid as the spots of blue that peeked through the ripped clouds.

“Honey, I’m whoever you want me to be,” she drawled out, pulling herself as tall as she could (which put her up to five-three), fists on her hips. She let herself appreciate the specimen of man standing before her.

He didn’t seem to mind at all. He grinned, extending a hand. “Misha Collins. Looks like we’re gonna have a few confrontational scenes together.”

“Then please accept my apology now,” she said, taking his hand in hers, looking him up and down. Such vivid blue eyes, yet so calm.

Misha laughed. “Are you always this charming?”

“Boy, you ain’t seen nothing yet.” She pulled her hand back, fists on hips again, and raised her chin. She could practically feel her own eyes sparkling. And the power in that handshake was unmistakable. Something in his expression prompted her to ask, “You ready for this?”

He tucked his hands into the front pockets of his jeans, his eyes not leaving her face. “Truthfully? No.”

She was right about him, then. Selma nodded, all business. “Isn’t it strange, though?” she asked him pleasantly. “This whole circumstance. I’ve seen a lot of things, and I’ve had a lot of things work in my favor. But this? This is very unusual.”

“From what I understand, the circumstances are unusual,” Misha offered, taking a step closer.

She frowned at him, eyeing him up and down. Challenging him. “Just what do you know?”

“Not much. That’s why I was hoping you’d have coffee with me.” His gaze never wavered. He wasn’t threatened by her.

She raised her chin again, amused. “Come on, then. Not about to pass up a chance to be seen with a hot young man, not at my age.”

Misha almost blushed. He leaned over her, his gaze probing. “Play your cards right and I might even call it a date.”

“Don’t get an old woman’s hopes up.” She grabbed his arm and pulled him to walk along side her. “Where’s this coffee at?”

“You’re nothing like old,” Misha chided as they headed to a small stand where various crew members were holding cardboard cups. “Don’t play that with me.”

“Boy, I could be your mama.”

“Then you would’ve had me when you were twelve. Cream and sugar?”

“Just sugar. Three.” She listened as Misha ordered their cups, noticing he gave the man the same attention he gave her. All eyes, slight cock of the head, his focus on the young man handing him the cups so intense it was as though they were the only two people in the world. She carefully accepted her steaming cup, lifted the plastic lid, and blew. Misha took his own coffee and packet of sugar, and they set everything on the small sidebar. She noticed Misha tasted his, winced, but added nothing to it. “Well, don’t punish yourself. If you’re gonna drink it, might as well enjoy it.” She shoved a packet of sugar at him.

Misha chuckled. He grabbed a few more sugar packets, then pushed Selma’s back to her. “There’s a bench where we can talk. It isn’t the most romantic setting.”

“We’re on a studio set. Ain’t nothing romantic here that not being filmed in.” She looked up, and put a hand on Misha’s arm, stilling him, seeing his gaze rise. Jared was walking a little ways off, presumably heading for his trailer. She watched until she was certain her wouldn’t look back and see them together. “That boy needs help. We gotta talk to him.”

Misha picked up both coffees. “And soon. I think it’s already started. Jensen’s zoning out.”

She was startled. “When did this happen?”

“Yesterday, that I know of. I helped Jared take care of him. If it’s happened before that, I don’t know about it.” They sat together, and he passed the coffee to her. “I haven’t discussed things with Jared yet. I’ve let him talk. Jensen closed down his apartment despite the fact that we have two more weeks of shooting. Now he’s staying with Jared in his house, in the downstairs bedroom. Jared thinks. . .” Misha paused, and took a sip of his coffee.

Selma suddenly got the impression that such a pause was unusual for this man. “What does Jared think, honey?”

Misha swallowed. He balanced the cup between his hands. “He’s scared. He thinks Jensen might be suicidal. Not actively. He’s not consciously out to take his life. But he takes unnecessary risks. He’s injured himself twice on stunts that he wouldn’t let the double perform. He lingers on the edges of high places, literally. But he’s not aware of what’s happening to him. He doesn’t see it.” Misha angled himself on the bench to face her. “I think Jared’s wrong,” he said frankly. “Jensen knows something’s happening. He feels it, and he’s confused by it. His brain is trying to sort this out, and he’s reacting the only way he knows how.”

“By literally balancing on the precipice?”

“If that’s how his mind is interpreting it, yes.”

Her eyes narrowed at him. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re speaking from experience, here.”

“And you would know what that feels like.”

The man was smart, and perceptive. “What about Jared? Is he affected by this?”

“No. Not so far. Only by watching Jensen. I think Jared’s more open, or he has something we don’t know about. Could be it’s only a matter of time for him.”

“You know,” Selma said, “I once read in an article that Jensen’s girlfriend apparently accuses him of being psychic.”

Misha grinned.

“Wonder if he knows Jared’s the trigger.”

“And that he’s a gun waiting to explode.” Misha sighed and sat back. His eyes drifted over their surroundings. “As much as I appreciate the work, this job is getting in the way.”

“No.” Selma said, slowly. “This job is preparing them. It’s opening their eyes.”

“I suppose,” Misha said. “But to what?”

LODESTONE pt 2

kamelionwriter — Mon, 17 Aug 2009 01:17:14 GMT

When the dark times hit, they hit hard, and he didn’t talk to anyone.

It wasn’t that he didn’t care. Well, maybe that was it, but he felt that he didn’t need to burden other people with his shit. They had more important things to do. Definitely had more crucial things to think about, their own baggage to deal with. Of course on set it was hard to hide, so he would take his bottled water and stare at the monitor, pretending to listen to critiques, pointing out details and following the conversation with half an ear. If he was good, he would get really involved and use the tech speech as a distraction, because tech speech meant nothing other than– tech. It was talking shop. There was no room for emotion, or the fear that there was no emotion left.

Then there the were times when he hovered over the rails of bridges. Or stared too long at the pavement far below him. Once Jared had grabbed his shoulder, jerking him from his thoughts. He saw concern in his friend’s face, saw Jared’s eyes trace a silent path from Jensen’s thoughts to the concrete below. But he said nothing. Nothing needed to be said.

Maybe that was the problem.

*******************

They were falling behind schedule. Still, they had a weekend off, and Jensen intended to make full use of it. He’d packed his bags quickly, not calling anyone, just bailing. And of course in that irritating ESP manner he had, Jared showed up.

“So. You going to L.A.?” Jared was standing beside him. He casually drawled out the city’s name, “ELLay”. But he made it sound like a curse.

Jensen just looked at him, blinking several times, bringing his mind back and smacking it firmly into his skull where it belonged. “Uh, yeah. You?”

“Nah. Hanging out here.” His head cocked inquisitively. “Sure you don’t wanna stick around?”

Two more weeks of filming before the season’s wrap, and Jensen was glad. He was tired, he was so damn tired, to the point where he was dozing between scenes. Snapping at people. Snapping at Jared. Eric wasn’t happy with him, or the performance he was putting in. But he couldn’t seem to do any better. He couldn’t make himself. He didn’t care. Lately he was doing good to focus on his lines with all the damn people staring at him. Thinking at him.

“Danneel gonna be there?” Jared pressed.

“What do you care?”

There was the snap again, and he saw Jared recoil angrily. “I was just asking, man.”

Jensen picked up a bag and paused, looking at him. “Yeah. She’ll be there.” Not that he was planning on seeing her. Hell, he didn’t know what he was planning. He shouldered Jared aside, moving bags he didn’t remember packing.

“You are coming back, right?” Jared too, was looking at the load.

Jensen stopped and planted his hands on his hips. Damn. He’d packed a lot of shit. What the hell? “Two weeks left. Thought I’d start moving things back to L.A..” The answer was automatic, like that was really what was going on, when actually he had no freakin’ clue.

Jared wasn’t happy. At all. His eyes were dark, his mouth tight. His jaw clenched. It was a Sam look, only on Jared it was more aggressive and not so puppy-like. Sam was emerging from innocence and letting his darkness show. Jared was fun-loving, over-protective, and always had a darkness in him. And a damned big temper to match it. “So, you’re not sticking around,” he said.

He was also exasperating as crap. “Dude, we’ve been together all year! Don’t you have some project or something going on?”

“Yeah. Here. And I thought you were gonna work up here, too.”

“Nah.” Jensen rubbed the back of his neck. “Gonna bag this movie stateside. Five weeks of shooting.”

“Oh, yeah? What’s Connie say?”

“It’s set up. Just going over the details.” He shrugged it off. “I’ve got it if I want it, but I have to let them know tomorrow.” Truth was, he hadn’t heard from Connie. But he had to say something.

“Must be nice,” Jared responded, lightly.

“Nice?” Jensen had no clue where Jared was coming from. People were shoving left and right to get a hold of the upcoming star. Jensen was the one struggling a little. Okay, maybe not, he had his share of offers but it felt like struggling. Like wading through muck. He gave his head a shake. “I’ll text you when I get to L.A.,” he said, leaning over to pick up a bag. His back twinged, and he winced, pausing mid-bend, his breath held until he could exhale sharply.

“Here.” Jared reached down and gathered the straps to the duffles. “You know you have a stunt guy for a reason.”

“He couldn’t jump the car,” Jensen said tightly.

“And neither could you.”

“I did just fine!”

“Sure. Looked great, until the part where you couldn’t get up. Again. You got a chiropractor in L.A.?”

Jensen shook his head with a disgruntled sigh and opened the door for Jared. “Allow me,” he muttered.

“Such a gentlemen,” Jared teased, but there was a layer of wrath in his voice. Tension with no real source, and nothing to do but deal with it.

Jensen was expecting Jared to put the bags in the back of Jensen’s black SUV, but instead he put them in his own car. “Thought I’d drive you there,” he said simply, and closed the back hatch.

“Not really necessary,” Jensen mumbled, but he was surprised. And trying to decide if he was glad or not.

“You’re welcome, and don’t look so damn happy about it.” Jared hovered at the driver’s door, waiting for Jensen to get in.

The door didn’t squeak like the Impala. Heck, even his own SUV door was getting a bit of a squeak to it. The utter lack of noise in Jared car’s made him uncomfortable. He closed the door. Nothing but a slam, then pure silence.

Jared was still. He pursed his lips, then decisively put the key in the ignition. The car came to life with a calm chime and a smooth engine. The interior smelled new and clean, even though Jared had been driving it for two years. Jensen knew he wiped down the leather religiously. He used to tease him about it, saying he was listening to his inner Dean Winchester. He was anal about the car.

They pulled out slowly. The seat was edged back as far as it would go to allow for Jared’s long legs. Jensen couldn’t help but let his mouth quirk a bit, then focused his energy on the tan dashboard. “All right,” he relented, “why’d you really want to drive me to the airport?”

Jared took a moment to answer. “Why am I just now finding out you’re leaving?”

“Apparently you already knew. You showed up, didn’t you ?”

“Eric said something. The point is, you didn’t tell me.”

“Do I have to tell you all my business? It’s just for two days.”

“You packed half of what you own.”

“I told you. . .”

“Dude, I was watching you in there. I don’t think you even noticed what you’ve done.” Jared chewed his lip, then pulled over. They’d driven only four blocks from Jensen’s apartment.

Jensen frowned and looked behind him. “What the hell are you doing?”

Jared turned, bracing his arm on the back of his seat. “You’ve disconnected everything.”

“So?”

“Your cable, your land line, everything but the power.”

“Yeah, and?” Jensen gestured with his hand, wanting to speed the conversation along.

“What were you planning on doing when you got back? Live in your trailer?”

“The season’s almost up.”

“Yeah. In two weeks.”

“So? I spend more time in that damn trailer than the apartment anyway.” Jensen could see his response wasn’t pleasing Jared. “I was just getting ready, okay? Sometimes it takes a while for them to shut things down. I didn’t wanna get charged for it.”

“No, it takes them a while to hook it back up when you haven’t paid your bill. So what you’re really getting ready for is to come back to a near empty place, with no television or phone. I bet you arranged to have the power cut off, too.”

Jensen said nothing.

Jared nodded and slowly turned back in his seat. “What were you going to do? Stay with me?”

That was the million dollar question. “You’d let me, right?” Hypothetically.

Jared gripped the wheel tightly. He glanced at Jensen, and pulled out into the street. “You know I will,” he said softly.

Jensen’s head bobbed slightly. It was the answer he wanted. But it was awkward as hell.

********************

Steve Carlson didn’t like surprises. He was a planner. A carefree planner, meaning basically that he didn’t plan shit, but he didn’t like surprises. Seriously did not like them, even in the guise of an old friend standing at his door, large duffle bags gripped tightly in his hands. Steve took a step back and blinked. His mouth opened, then he closed it and took Jensen by the arm, leading him inside.

“What the hell? I thought you were still working.” Steve looked at Jensen and shook his head. “You usually look better when you’re ass-deep in work. You really that bored or something? Shit. Did they fire you?”

“Yeah, right.” Jensen walked into Steve’s apartment and set his bags down beside Steve’s concert gear. “Where’s the gig?”

“The usual.” He eyed Jensen’s luggage. “Your place being fumigated?”

“Didn’t feel like being alone all night.” Jensen picked up a random CD and studied the cover before setting it back down.

Steve tried to think of a response to that. The only one that came to mind was, “Want a beer?”

“Sure.” As if it hadn’t been half a year since they’d seen each other. It was scary how easily they fell into their old routine.

Steve’s place was a catch-all of Americana, but not cluttered or tasteless. Still, it looked like a bachelor’s pad. Rock posters covered the walls of his bedroom, which he knew Jensen found amusing. He saw Jensen peek into the large rec room, with the cd’s on the floor, and instruments all over the place. “Guess the money’s coming in if you got this place,” he said.

Steve snorted. “Sure. I’m trying it out.” He passed a beer bottle over Jensen’s shoulder. “A man needs his space.”

“Yeah, you needed that years ago, you big baby.” Jensen took a swig of his beer, then gestured with the bottle towards the ‘rock room’. “Too bad you can’t ditch those posters.”

It was the usual banter, and Steve played in. “Hey man, that’s history!”

“Dude.” Jensen pointed through the open door to a particularly hideous-looking shot of a hair band that Steve knew he didn’t recognize. “That’s lame.”

“Then get the hell out of my room.” He clutched his friend’s shoulder and steered him back into the living area, which was oddly zen with a sort of beach motif. The floor was pine. Sea shells sat along various shelves. Books were neatly stacked. Sliding glass doors let in ample light. The furniture was clean, everything was dusted. Everything was in its place, and yet it was free. A bit like himself, he liked to think.

Steve settled in his favorite chair and slung a leg over the arm. His bare foot swung back and forth. He despised shoes. He’d go on stage without them if he could, only he was scared what would be on it. Jensen sat forward in a papasan chair near the tv and concentrated on his beer.

“How’s the love life?” Steve asked, and swigged from the bottle.

Jensen smirked with a bob of his head, studying the bottle he turned in his hands. “Lovely.”

“Okay. How’s the other one?”

He leaned back. “Asshole.”

“What’s Jared done now?”

“Not him.” Green eyes met his. “You.”

“Hey, you’re the one in denial.”

“And I call a redundancy on the asshole statement. Saw you had your luggage out in your room, you got plans?”

“Got a trip.”

“Where to?”

“Europe. Good crowds there. They get the music.”

“Not much to compare it to.” Jensen shook his head. “Man, that came out fucked. Sorry.”

“I was leaving tomorrow. I can wait a day or so.”

“No, man, you do what you gotta do.”

Steve’s keen eyes settled on Jensen. “Okay. What’s really going on?” He could see it, the redness in Jensen’s own eyes. Hear the fatigue in his voice. He’d known Jensen too long, and hell, wasn’t that why Jensen had come over in the first place?

“Shit, I don’t know. Just stuff.”

“Vague.”

“The stuff’s vague.” Jensen wiped a hand over his face, and took another swallow of beer.

“So get it off your chest. You can’t go back to work looking like shit.”

“That’s what makeup artists are for.”

“At this rate you’d pass for those things on the show you’re supposed to kill.” Steve raised his bottle, but his eyes didn’t leave Jensen’s.

He clammed up. Steve could see it, a wall that froze his face. “Aw, man.” Jensen sighed and rolled his back in his chair, scratching at his chest. “It’s nothing. Really. Just feeling sorry for myself. You know how it is.” He settled.

“Sure I do. Sexy chicks staring at me all the time, a permanent gig, friends all over me, I can see how it’d be rough.”

“Look, just forget it.”

“Then there’s that face. You know I have a thing about that face.” Steve winked.

Jensen laughed. “You make it sound so. . .superficial.”

“Well, it is. It’s other people’s thoughts, it has nothing to do with you.”

“I guess.”

“Wish you’d called first, bud. I’ve gotta get the gear to the club. You wanna come?”

“Nah. I’ll catch you live. What time?”

“Nine-thirty.”

“Cool.” Jensen polished off the beer, stood, and swayed.

Steve was at his side in an instant. “Whoa, easy! What’s wrong?”

“Stood up too fast.” Jensen tried to give Steve a smile. He closed his eyes, opened them, like he was willing the vertigo to ease. “I’m good.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

“Look, I don’t think you should drive to your place.” He looked unsteady, and it sure as hell wasn’t the one beer that did it.

“Maybe I could crash here until the show?” His eyes looked hopeful.

Steve didn’t like it. At all. “Mi casa, su casa and all that. I’m putting my cell on vibrate.”

“Kinky.”

“You know I won’t hear shit if it rings. You call me.”

“Steve, I’m fine.”

Steve’s eyes pierced his. “Call. Me.”

“Yes, sir.”

Steve studied him for a moment. He suddenly wasn’t comfortable with leaving him. But he put on his sandals, eyeing Jensen as he planted himself on the sofa like he was ready to sprout roots and grow there. He waved, and walked out.

He wasn’t surprised to hear his phone ring once he closed the door. Steve whipped it out of his pocket and answered quickly.“Yeah?”

“Is he with you?” Jared’s deep voice demanded.

Steve paused on the stairs, letting his exasperation show in his sigh. “You two on a timer? Yes, he’s here. What the hell’s going on?”

“Nothing. Just - watch him, will ya? Don’t let him outta your sight.”

“Uh-uh, Jared. You gotta give me more than that, man. The guy looks like death warmed over. What’s up?”

“I don’t know. But it’s pretty bad. Just watch him, okay? And don’t tell him I called, he’ll just get pissed.”

“I’m not interesting in diving into a lover’s spat between you two.”

“Did he tell you you’re an asshole?”

“As a matter of fact. . . “

“Steve, I’m serious, man.”

He did sound serious. There was nothing even remotely humored in his manner. “Fine. Should I call you if he has a nightmare or something? Give him warm milk before bedtime?”

“Just keep him grounded. Okay?”

“Literally? Or figuratively?”

“Both.”

“You do know he flew down here.”

“Steve, come on!”

“And you know I’m supposed to be flying out tomorrow?”

“Can you postpone?”

“You didn’t even ask where I was going, asshole!”

“Where are you going, asshole?”

“None of your business.”

“Steve, please. Delay it a day. Can you do that?”

“If I have to pay more for the next flight out, you’re paying the difference.”

“Fine. No problem.”

“You owe me one.”

“He’s your friend. That not enough for you?”

“Keyword there buddy: friend. Not someone I need to babysit.” Steve sighed. “Look, if I don’t kick his ass back to Canada, you promise to fill me in?”

“Once he’s back. Sure.”

God, it really was a lover’s spat. “Fine. See ya.”

“Thanks, dude.”

Steve clicked the phone closed. “Thanks dude,” he muttered. “You so owe me.”

***************

Sunday was gorgeous. Jared opened the back door to his house and let the dogs run out onto the grassy lawn. They ran in circles, panting excitedly and jumping over each other, grabbing toys and tossing them in the air. Jared smiled and sat on the end of a woven lounge chair, flipping through the next script. It looked like the first of a two-parter. Both Selma Nadal and Misha Collins were slated for it. The inclusion of their characters was enough to make Jared’s brows raise, and he settled back with a can of cola, reading over the synopsis. He wouldn’t get his lines until Monday morning. He grinned as he read further. Jensen was going to hate this one. A flake of worry caught in his chest, and he flicked it away. Anxiety then flooded him, making him look up.

The dogs were barking, their tails straight, noses pointed toward the gate that divided the backyard from the shaded side of the house. It was a defending-territory bark, but fell into playful yelps as they ran to the gate. Probably Marge walking her Pomeranian down the street. He started to rise and see when his phone rang.

“Dammit.” He picked up the cordless he’d brought out with him. “Hello?” He stood and leaned around the corner of the patio, glancing at the gate, but saw nothing. He turned and surveyed the yard, with the dogs barking up a storm around him.

“What are you doing to those poor animals?”

“Misha?” Jared smiled. “What’s up, man? I was just thinking about you.”

“Uh-oh.”

“No, I was reading the synopsis.”

“Yeah, I start filming tomorrow. You home?”

“I’m the backyard. Where are you?”

“Looking at you.”

Jared spun and jumped as he saw Misha grinning, standing on the other side of the fence, just to the side of the bush that sat at the opposite corner of the house. Jared laughed and hung up. “I was wondering what the hell was wrong with my dogs!” he called out.

Misha laughed and hung up his cell, walking towards him. He leaned against the fence. “You trained them well.”

“Not if you were standing at the gate a minute ago. They should’ve climbed it and ripped your throat out. Shouldn’t ya, girl?” He rubbed Sadie’s head lovingly. Harley bumped his hand, jealous.

Misha braced his hands on the bar and nimbly jumped the fence, grinning as the dogs leaped at him. “Down, heathen creatures!” he laughed, raising his arms, then relenting and succumbing to wet noses and licking tongues. “You ever pet these dogs?”

“Please. They live like kings, and they know it.”

“You know they’ve got their own fan club on the internet?”

“You serious?”

“No.” Misha walked to the chaise lounge and lay back, making himself at home. It was perfectly normal for him to do so, he seemed to relax anywhere he was. Not to the point of taking advantage; he kept his shoes on whereas Jensen would have kicked them off. “You heard from your better half?”

“Not today.”

“He’s still staying here, right?”

“Where’d you hear that?” Misha just blinked at him. “Yeah, he’s gonna stay here. He went back to L.A. again, but his flight should have arrived by now.”

“And you’re not picking him up?”

“He said not to.”

“He said not to.” Misha gave a small nod, and let his eyes wander calmly to the yard. “So, what? A cab?”

“He arranged to have his car dropped at the airport. What’s with the questions?”

“And he’s coming back here?”

“Hope so. His clothes are in my hamper.” Jared lay back on a second lounge, separated from Misha’s by a small table. “You want a beer?”

“Bit early. Got a soda?”

“Sure.” Jared sat back up and walked through the patio doors into the kitchen. He returned with a can. “You can stay for dinner if you want. Sunday’s the only day I have time to fire up the grill.”

Misha’s eyes widened. “You finally learned how to use the grill?”

“Sure. As backup in case my cook doesn’t show,” Jared grinned. “Besides, you’re here.”

“Ah. Right.” Misha nodded in understanding. “In other words, you just happen to have a few steaks ready and thought since I was back up here filming again. . .”

“Well, yeah!”

“And since I’m here now. . .”

Jared shrugged, and smiled.

“I’ll choose to be flattered,” Misha chuckled. “Am I cooking for three?”

“You do know where Jensen’s from, right?”

Misha stood and eyed the grill. “Guess I need to heat this up, then. Jensen better get his butt over here.”

“He’ll be here.” He knew he sounded uncertain. The truth was, until Jensen was parked with bags in tow in his living room, he was going to feel uneasy.

Misha glanced over his shoulder. “He didn’t call when he landed?”

“His flight was due in a half hour ago. There’s probably a delay.” Jared’s voice fell. He glanced at Misha, then watched the dogs, who had already given up their playful activities and were sunning themselves.

“Is he okay?”

Misha wasn’t one for beating around the bush, but the question itself surprised Jared. “Yeah, sure. Why wouldn’t he be?” he asked lightly.

“Did you hear from him at all this weekend?”

“No.”

“Where was he?”

He was growing more and more uncomfortable. “At his place, I guess.”

“But you don’t know, because you haven’t talked.”

“What’s with you? We’re not joined at the fuckin hip! And I’m not his babysitter.” Jared’s sudden anger took him by surprise.

Misha raised his hands. “Hey, not accusing you! But you are worried about him. It’s obvious, man.”

There were times when he didn’t like Misha, only because the guy could get right into his head. He knew his reaction was probably enough to show he was worried, but that wasn’t it. The guy was looking at him with that unblinking stare, the one that probably got him the role of Castiel in the first damn place. It made him cringe on the set, and it made him cringe now. “Yeah. But most of me says fuck it, I can’t be bothered worrying about him twenty-four seven.”

“I don’t know, Jared. In this case, I’d say you have reason to worry.” He didn’t look away. That was another thing about Misha. He’d look away to collect his thoughts, but his speech, his meaning, never drifted. Now he watched Jared, intent and focused, waiting for a response.

“Misha – what the hell are you talking about? What are you not telling me? You talked to him, didn’t you?” Jared asked quietly. He gave Misha the same stare he was receiving.

Misha exhaled loudly though his nose and looked at the concrete, gathering his thoughts. “It’s not so much what I know, but what I feel.” He looked up. “You care about him?”

“What?”

Misha said nothing, just waited.

“Well, yeah. He annoys the crap out of me, but – yeah.” Jared ran his fingers through his hair, “I mean I – I don’t know. You seriously want to talk about this? Shouldn’t we be talking about football or something?”

“You’re right. Why the hell would we talk about anything important?” He still had that intent look on his face.

“Dude, you’re making feel like a school kid. Lower the ruler and just talk to me, huh?”

Misha’s mouth quirked, and his eyes softened. He turned to the grill, raised the lid, and examined the ashes left inside. “I don’t know much. Just been having some dreams.”

“Dreams?” Jared scoffed. “Are you serious? What kind of dreams?”

And now Misha wasn’t looking at him as he talked, and oddly enough, that made him more nervous. “I’m not sure. Images. Feelings. I wake up, and his name is on my mind. It isn’t in a good way.”

He knew Misha had “feelings” about things. He also knew they were darned accurate. He light-heartedly blamed it on the meditation his co-star immersed himself in, saying he was ‘too-in tuned.’ with the nature of things. “So, what happens in these dreams?”

“Like I said. They’re images. Sensations.”

“I mean, what kind?”

Misha shrugged. “Fear. Overwhelming sadness. And something else that’s different, like something waking up. He doesn’t like it.”

Hell, Jared didn’t like it! Something waking up, what the fuck? “Misha – what the hell are you talking about?” Cause this was starting to sound nuts.

“I don’t know.” Misha sighed. “I hope he gets here soon.”

LODESTONE pt 1

kamelionwriter — Sun, 16 Aug 2009 23:12:21 GMT

Title: Lodestone
Author: kamelion
Fandom: Supernatural/real person fic
Rating: PG13, teen, whatever passes these days. Language, some violence.
Characters: Jensen, Jared, Misha, OFC, OMC
Word count: 77,569. Yes, it's a novel-ish thing. Complete.
Summary: Jensen isn't himself. His erratic behavior leads him and his friends to a new ally, a new country, and the realization that the supernatural isn't just fiction.
Author's notes: This is a genfic, but I suppose you can read into it what you will. I'm looking for a permanent home for this story, so suggestions are welcome. Reviews are greatly welcome, as this story has a special place. So I'd love some feedback : )

And let it be known that I'm not in the habit of writing RPF. . .but I did. Cause this idea caught me and wouldn't let go. This isn't really beta'd, and I've been told there are a few errors. I apologize for that in advance. If any are very disruptive and glaring, please let me know and I'll correct them (for instance, I apparently typed "Dean" in place of "Jensen" once....D'OH!! That' what I get for sticking to SPN fics!)

Jensen hurried to his trailer, head down, shoulders hunched underneath his dark jacket, his whole demeanor closed in around him. The drizzle was damned cold. It had been raining for three days, the precipitation ranging from pinpricks of ice to full-on downpours, and showing no signs of stopping any time soon. He stomped across small streams rippling over the pavement and through half-inch puddles before climbing the metal stairs. He fumbled for his key, unlocked the door, stepped down to swing it open, climbed inside, and thankfully slammed it against the world that kept staring at him.

Once inside, his jacket was shrugged off in irritated jerks and hurled into the seat of a light wooden chair. His button-down shirt followed, fairly damp, and this he flung to the floor. His t-shirt he kept on, but more because by that point he didn’t have the strength to flip it over his head. He didn’t want to raise his arms. Instead, he sank bonelessly onto his sofa and stared at the small television. Didn’t even want to turn the damn thing on. Didn’t want to take off his boots, but his socks were soaked. With an annoyed huff, he bent forward and tugged at the laces before forcing the boots over his heels. He peeled off his clingy socks in disgust and wiggled his toes. A shower. He needed a shower. A warm, dark room, nothing but the steam and his thoughts. Only, a warm shower wasn’t exactly an option in the small trailer. Did good to have a damn toilet.

He lay back with a heavy sigh, letting his eyes drift to the bland ceiling above him. He knew he hadn’t made his escape quickly enough. In a matter of minutes he’d hear a pounding on the thin door, hell, he’d probably hear Jared breathing through it. And he’d have to open the door, and let him in, and try to explain, blah blah blah, except he wasn’t going to do it. He was tired of trying to explain. He was tired of having people look at him, watching him, wondering about him. Above all else, he was just tired.

The pounding came right as he was curling onto his side on the sofa, his head cradled in the crook of his elbow. Bam bam bam! “Jensen?” Not really angry, but definitely pissed. Pissed was better than angry on Jared. Pissed was a quick emotion he could get over. Angry took a while.

Jensen winced and reached behind him to grab the back cushion of the sofa and dragged it down over his face. The pounding continued, more insistent. “God, what?” Jensen muffled out.

“You okay?”

That was it? Was he okay? Answering was a struggle. He’d heard the expression ‘word sticking in your throat’ but this was the first time he felt it. “I’m fine,” he managed to force out.

“Let in me, then!”

It sounded like Jared was already standing right in front of him. Goddamn thin-assed piece of shit door in a thin-assed piece of shit trailer. . . “I’m resting!”

“Bullshit! It’s raining, dude, come on!”

Jared was making a piss-poor attempt to be quiet. Jensen practically growled as he shoved off the sofa and stormed to the door. He unlocked it and threw it open, revealing a body that looked freakishly big in the small opening. Jared wasn’t even standing on the fucking stairs. “Get in here before security gets curious,” Jensen snapped at him. “God, bet they can hear your ass back on the damn set.”

“Like you’d care about that.” Jared climbed the stairs and pushed off the hood to his character Sam’s pullover. “Where’d you go?”

Jensen had been heading back to the sofa. He turned, incredulous, eyed the space around him, then gestured with outstretched hands. “Here?”

“No, I mean when you left the set.”

“I came here, Jared.”

“I check here earlier. You weren’t here.”

“I took the long way.”

“There is no long way.”

Okay. He was genuinely upset, not just pissed. Jensen wasn’t in the mood to be placating. “What do you want?”

His co-star, his friend, stared at him. Even though his question had been more a demand that an inquiry, Jared was treating it with less venom. “I wanted to make sure you were okay after that fall you shrugged off.” He was standing with his hands in his pocket, and almost looked uncomfortable.

Jensen rolled his shoulders and tried to shove down his irritation. “Yeah,” he shrugged, not liking the way his voice was pitched high with dismissal. “I’m fine. Looked worse that it was.”

“Well, you just lay there for a minute like you were stunned or something. Just wanted to make sure.”

“Hovering over me on set didn’t do that for you? It knocked the wind out of me. That’s all.” Jensen was back at the couch. He adjusted the cushions, keeping his back to Jared. “We done for the day?”

Jared tensed during the pause. “What, you mean the filming, or me and you?” he finally asked.

“Either. Both.” Jensen straightened, but he didn’t turn. Instead, he cut his eyes sideways to the reflection on the small, blank television screen, seeing Jared’s form there, watching to see what he would do. He didn’t know why he cared. Hell. Of course he cared. He didn’t know what he was doing half the time, what was wrong with him, why he was punishing himself. He didn’t even know which he wanted more, for Jared to leave, or to insist on staying with him. Because if he left, well, there was no beer and all sorts of way for him to sit and feel sorry for himself.

He held his breath as Jared made his decision. “We’re done for the day. I’ll leave you alone, then. Glad you’re in one piece.” It was a dismissal, and this time he did sound pissed. Jensen nodded, still not looking at Jared, and finally heard him take a step back. “Guess I’ll see you Monday.”

“Yeah. Monday.” He darted a quick glance back, not meeting Jared’s eyes, but acknowledging him all the same.

“Yeah.” The floor creaked as Jared made his way to the door, which was only a few steps away. It opened with the odd squeak that was unique to trailers. There was a hesitation, then Jensen heard the door close.

He sighed and let the tension fall from his shoulders. His head hung to his chest. Breathing was all he concentrated on for several moments, and he gave a single nod and turned, then jumped out of his skin as Jared stared at him.

“Son of a bitch!” Jensen braced himself on the back of the sofa, then closed his eyes and let himself fall onto it. “Thought you fucking walked outta here!”

“Nope.” Jared took off his jacket and slung it over the back of the chair that held Jensen’s. “Changed my mind.”

Jensen steadied his breathing. “You suck at taking a hint.”

“You suck at giving one. Got any beer?”

“No.” Jensen glared at him.

“Hm. Okay. I do. I’ll leave, but only to get it and come back. Locking me out isn’t recommended. Damn doors are like paper thin. I can get back in here.”

“Dude, what’s your deal?”

“What’s yours?” Jared regarded Jensen easily.

Jensen gave up with a defeated sigh. “Fine. Get the damn beer. But don’t expect any conversation.”

“From you? Pfft.”

“You gonna get your jacket?”

“I’ll dodge the drops.” And he was outside in an instant, slamming the door closed behind him.

There was no way a mass of that size was going to dodge anything. Jensen shook his head and trudged into the small bathroom, snatching a towel from the rack. Hot shower. Maybe he’d get lucky.

He thought back to the day on set. Stupid accident. He was over-aggressive in a stunt and landed hard on his back. His old injury had twinged, and it was all he could do to pull in a breath over the pain. He remembered laying there longer than he should have, Phil yelling cut, Jared kneeling over him, his expression torn between teasing and pure concern. At that point he had just closed his eyes until he could breath calmly, then excused himself to his trailer after a reshoot. He braced his hands against the shower wall and slowly curled his spine into the spray.

By the time he got out, the rain sounded like it was about to beat through the roof. Jared was as wet as Jensen when they met up in the den area, Jensen’s towel slung low around his hips, Jared’s clothes making a puddle on the floor. “Raining harder,” was all he’d say as he pushed past Jensen and into the small closet-like bathroom. Jensen saw him pull spare clothes from inside his jacket just before the door shut.

He smirked and walked to the counter, eyeing the twenty-four count box of beer. The cardboard was soggy, barely holding the cans in place. It made sense to stock the small refrigerator with them, and toss the cardboard away. If they didn’t drink them all, and please, like they wouldn’t, Jared could take the remainder back to his own place. Provided Jensen could get him out of here. He realized he wanted the beer much more than he wanted company. He grabbed a can and popped the top. Took several long, refreshing swallows.

Jared emerged wearing a white undershirt and jeans. He set his shoes and socks near the floor vent to dry, and padded over to help himself to a beer. “So, talk.”

Jensen blinked at him a few times. “Excuse me?”

“Talk.” Jared threw himself back on the sofa.

“I was thinking more like a nap.”

Jared twisted and stretched himself longways on the sofa, his bare feet hanging far over the edge. He casually popped the tab on the can.

“Bastard.”

“Takes one and all that.” Jared drank carefully, watching Jensen.

Always watching. Everyone always staring at him like he had something to offer. He wiped at his dripping hair. “I gotta get dressed.”

“Cool. I’ll wait.”

And he would, too. Jensen heaved a sigh and shook his head, denting his own can with his thumb and walking to his closet.

Fortunately, nothing came of it. They ended up watching television, feet propped on the tiny coffee table, while Jensen dozed. And if he was leaning, just a little, into his friend while he did, well.

He wasn’t saying anything.

*************

There were times when Jensen knew he was good. When he could feel it. When he was on top, when the world was spinning in his direction. When the people looking at him didn’t nettle him, because he wanted to be looked at. Because he was good. He was worthy, deserving, confident, in control.

And then there were times when no cave was dark enough, no corner deep enough.

It was stupid. He knew he was nothing more than himself and he never pretended to be any different, but there were times when he just felt this thing, this special something that said he was so much more than the sum of his parts. So much more than a face and a name and blood and flesh. Something out there, something spiritual, all-encompassing. Like he had a purpose. Then he’d crash back down to earth, usually with someone yelling in his ear to get his head out of the clouds. Which was pretty damned effective.

And annoying as hell.

He remembered watching a travel show late one night. Someone going through Africa. And he saw all the poor people grinning with electric smiles and glowing teeth and wondered if it was only in America that he could be so screwed up. Because those people didn’t need a purpose. They just were.

******************

“You’re looking good today.”

Jensen turned and saw Jared grinning at him. He couldn’t help but grin back, eyes shining. He felt good. He felt right. “Filming in this place? Heck yeah. Can’t believe we got to come back here.” He looked up at the busted windows and crumbling walls of the old asylum. “Bet we could just set the cameras up and let ‘em run, see if we can start our own Ghost Hunters series.”

“That’d be kinda cool, you know? Hosting our own ghost show.”

Jensen chuckled. “That’d be awesome.”

“Problem is,” Jared added, “all our fan letters would involve salt-and-burns.”

“And they’d line the streets, shining lights all up inside the houses. Totally mess up our case.”

“Hide in the closets, drag us in there. . .”

“Tie us up. . .”

“We could hire fans that are models for that.” Jared nudged him with a wicked grin.

“Kinky bastard. So you’re saying you don’t want to be rescued, huh?” Jensen laughed at him fondly. “We’d need a code word.”

“Yeah, like ‘get me the fuck outta here’.”

“That’s a code sentence. Besides, I might just leave you tied up in there with them and get the camera. Instant internet porn.”

Jared hit his arm. “You sadistic – sexual – voyeur!” he laughed. “I don’t wanna know what gets you off!”

“What? Seeing women climbing you like a tree? You think that gets me off?”

“TMI, dude. Keep it in your pants.”

“You know you like it,” Jensen said playfully, and ran ahead to take a duffle bag from one of the camera operators. He felt something soft hit him in the back, probably Jared’s cap, but he didn’t turn to look.

They had filmed at the asylum two weeks before. But some of the footage, well, he didn’t really know what happened, but they had to come back and reshoot a scene. It was a scene that could have been cut, in his opinion, but Eric had insisted. And so it was arranged. The scene was expanded, and it turned out to be a pretty intense one that required some readjusting on the cutter’s part, as in he was told to take out a chunk and put this new bit in. Like Eric suddenly figured out how to make the episode work, or something. So there they were, one scene, one day to block and film and get the action sequences in.

Jensen looked up at the asylum, and couldn’t wait. He was rearing to go.

The crews were already setting up on the ground floor. Lights were arranged, the floor was checked one last time for harmful shards of glass or wood, preferably without disturbing the littered, abandoned look. Wires were run and secured with tape, cameras were in place. The tech van was just outside, looking like Medusa’s head with all the coils of wires snaking in. It was a lot of work for a skeleton crew.

Jensen set the duffle beside a camera and looked up. The whole area was grey with dust and sickly-lit. They were in an atrium on the ground floor. Above them, the building towered a good six floors up, cutting a square hole all the way to the ceiling. Each floor was ribbed with dark rails that looked useless. He could almost see the ghosts leaning out over those rails, peering down at them. “How long you guys gonna be?” he asked the camera man, Lennon. So called because of the tiny round glasses he wore.

“Dunno. About an hour, little less.”

“Think they’d care if I look around? There wasn’t time before.”

“Hell yeah, they’d care,” Lennon huffed. “You insane? I don’t even want to film in this place.” He pointed upwards to the rickety-looking ceiling. “You see that? Now picture it crashing down on these cameras.”

“If it wasn’t safe, we wouldn’t be here.”

“Tell it to the tech crew,” Lennon muttered. He started pulling out sheets of clear plastic. At Jensen’s incredulous look, he said simply, “Debris.”

Jensen just grinned. He glanced around, spotted a door that led to a stairwell, and backed towards it, stooping briefly to grab a flashlight from the prop bag. When he was far enough, he turned and jogged to the door, knowing Lennon wouldn’t call him back. It wasn’t his job.

He felt like a little kid exploring a forbidden area. His boots clomped on the metal stairs. Tiny, wired-covered windows let the sun in, providing just enough light to keep him from stumbling. He jogged up to a door that led to the first landing, considered, then kept going up. He didn’t want to be seen and called back. He’d just look for a few minutes, then head back down. They were on a tight schedule, he really didn’t need to fuck that up.

Four floors up, the rusty metal door was shoved open. It scraped and creaked over the floor, opening to an empty hallway. Broken yellowed glass crunched underneath his heel. His beam swung round in the dim, dusty air. The silence was complete. His eyes adjusted to the dimness, and he switched off his light. Listened.

In this place, people had been imprisoned. The building held several thousand people in it’s heyday. Several thousand ill, crazy people, all yelling, calling out, screaming, crying, cursing.

Dying.

Rooms that had served as barricades against these people were now open to him, inviting him in, ready to share their misery. He cautiously pressed forward, peeking into one, seeing the bedframe with the thin, moldy mattress. Someone had slept there. Possibly died there. If he stood still, closed his eyes, he could imagine the cries of the ill. He could hear the pleas for help from the desperate, and the fights amongst the inmates. The staff were probably unable, or unwilling, to do anything. And they heard this crap first hand, day after day after day. Torment. Wailing. Smelling the filth.

A hand gripped his shoulder.

Jensen yelped and spun, then let his body sag against the peeling wall. “Dammit! Will you stop doing that?”

“Hey, whoa! Sorry!” Jared laughed, grabbing Jensen’s arms as his eyes closed. “I saw you coming up here.”

He swallowed hard and tried to steady his breathing, then glared. “You’re gonna kill me one day, you know that?”

“What were you doing?”

Jensen straightened, noticing that Jared released only one arm at first, then slowly let loose of the other. “I don’t know. I’m just taking it all in. Wondering what it was like here.”

“Creepy as shit, that’s what it was like.”

“No, that’s what it is now. Back then – I mean can you imagine it? Dying here?”

Jared looked around. Jensen followed his eyes, watching him take in the rooms. He saw the shudder his tall friend tried to hide. “Why would you want to?”

“Because I crap daisies outta my ass. Come on. Let’s go down here a bit.” He started down the hallway.

“And see what?” Jared questioned, though he followed willingly.

“Broken glass, probably.”

“Huge-ass splinters.”

“Spiders.”

“I’m going back down.”

Jensen grabbed his arm. “Is Sasquatch afraid of tiny spiders?” he teased, like talking to a baby.

“Sasquatch has a lot of body for those tiny spiders to crawl on,” Jared groused.

Jensen chuckled and pulled Jared along. “Absolutely no sense of adventure.” Then just as quickly, he stopped him. A chill climbed his spine. “Wait, hang on. You hear that?”

Jared listened. “Probably Eric showing up and calling for our asses.”

“No, wait. Shh.” He held up his index finger, and both men froze. They could hear it, and it was coming from the room in front of them. Jensen glanced back at Jared, questioning, then allowed a devilish smile to cross his face. “Ghosts!” he teased with a whisper.

“Shut up,” Jared whispered back with a smile. He stepped past Jensen, his hand reaching back slightly and almost protectively. He peeked around the corner of the abandoned room. A rat scurried out over the toe of his shoe. He yelled and jumped back, plowing Jensen into the wall.

Jared immediately spun and grabbed his shirt. “That’s it. We’re going back down.”

But Jensen was laughing. “And I thought I screamed like a girl!”

“Let’s go.”

“Oh, come on, man! You’re usually up for shit like this!”

“Not today.”

“Come on!” Jensen knew he was pleading, whining like a child.

“I said, no.” Jared pinned him with a look.

Jensen couldn’t place the expression. It wasn’t anger, or fear, but something he’d never seen on Jared’s face. Usually, he was the enthusiastic one ready to plunge head-first into situations like this, and Jensen was the one who tagged along. But today, Jensen was reckless. Heedless. And willing to go on without his friend. He gave his head a shake. “Fine. You go back, then. Tell ‘em I’ll be there in a minute.” He headed down the narrow catwalk.

“You’re coming, too.”

Jensen spun. “Dammit, I’ve got a pretty intense scene to film, now how about letting me get a feel for the place? Huh? That okay with you?”

Jared’s eyes narrowed. He waved Jensen away. “Shit, yeah. Go for it. Don’t let me interrupt the master at work.” And he turned away, scuffing through the fragments down the hall, and to the stairs.

Unbelievable. Jensen shook his head and walked the other way. The adventurous mood was gone, but he wasn’t going to let Jared know it. What the hell, anyway? Who was he to dictate how Jensen should prepare for a scene, especially one where we was fighting off a spirit of a crazed man? What better way to prepare than to get crazed? Dean was supposed to have compassion for the poor bastards that were doomed to live here. He had to try and experience it, feel it. His jovial explorer mood plummeted.

He wanted to change his approach to his work. He’d been wanting to for a while. Hell, he was good, sure, but he could be better. He could really dig into the role, dig into the scene, become it. And to do that, he had to feel it. Maybe it was better that Jared had left him up there. He’d just make comments, run his mouth, yap yap yap all the damn time, and Jensen wouldn’t be able to concentrate on anything. No help. He stormed down the catwalk, then paused and shoved that aside, letting himself concentrate. Allowing himself to dip into the anger and despair of everyone that had been left in that place to die. With his own irritation in place, it was easy to feel.

Criminals. The crazed. The sick. The meaningless. All of them hurting, and no one cared. Tortured souls. Blackness. Death. Bodies shredded by pain, by other inmates, by disease. Cures that were worse than the ailments. Chutes that the bodies were dumped into, sliding down to a large room where the smell of decay rose through the vents, and reminded the people above that they were never getting out. But that was his imagination. Too many horror movies. Body chutes were a misconception. He sure as hell could picture one in this place.

He gingerly stepped over the debris on the opposite side of the atrium, crossing from room to room, wondering how many people had slept on those very cots. Only the metal skins remained, but real people had slept there. Real people had inhabited the claustrophobic rooms, clawed at the walls. People had huddled in the peeling corners, spouting nonsense at the single tiny window high above them. In one room there was a piece of cloth on the floor, discolored and frayed, and he wondered if it came from an inmate, a visitor, or a worker. It could have been a year old, or fifty years old. He didn’t know, but it unnerved him. He stared at it, imagining the cloth being torn into pieces by frantic hands desperate to do something other than sit mindlessly in that room. Overwhelmed by the images, and the unseen voices, he left the rooms, and took a right turn, concerned by the fact that he had to brace himself against the wall before doing it. The floor looked as uncertain as he felt.

The atrium lay before him like an open field. He pitched forward and grabbed the railing, breathing heavily, letting his eyes gently fall the distance to the rubble-covered ground four floors below. He pictured bodies tearing away from their guards and flinging themselves over that rail in desperation, landing at the bottom, dying right where the cameras were now being prepped. Broken, bloodied bodies, mouths and eyes gaping open, their brains a congealed mess on the concrete floor. He could see the dark stains, large stains, possibly hundreds of people flinging themselves to their deaths, making one huge smear, a permanent dark smudge that marked their release.

He couldn’t breathe. Too much dust in the air.

Most of the doors in the hallway were open, but he could imagine them closed. He could see hands pressing at the small windows, the thick wire digging into their palms. He could hear the glass shattering around him as people tried to get out. He could hear the startled cries of the workers as they were pushed aside as the ailing people ran at him, right where he was standing, and launched themselves over the railing to their deaths. Becoming one with that huge smudge below, right where Lennon’s cameras were standing. Just climb over, and jump.

And it would have been so easy to do. It wasn’t that far down. Not when you were falling.

“Jensen?”

The voice was small. Jensen glanced over his shoulder and saw Jared standing there, one hand cautiously stretched out to him, his eyes terrified. The lips had pinched closed. His nostrils were dilated in fear as he breathed heavily.

“Damn, dude. You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” Jensen smiled at him, and looked back down. He was over the rail.

He was over the fucking rail. His heels were balanced precariously on the ledge, and he was leaning forward. His hands clutched the railing behind his back. And yawning in front of him, underneath the toes of his boots – open air.

His mouth flew open. He stopped breathing, then started gasping in fear, his fingers tightening into a death grip on the metal behind him, the only thing that kept him from plummeting to the ground far below. He wanted to leap back over the rail, but was frozen. Wide eyes met Jared’s, and his body started to tremble. He couldn’t open his mouth to ask for help. He was four fucking floors up.

“Okay, whoa, look. Easy. Just – don’t move.” Jared voice was calm. “I’m gonna grab your arms, okay?” Both hands were now out, and they carefully grabbed hold of his biceps. Jensen felt Jared’s chest against his back. “It’s okay, man. I’ve got you. Don’t look down.”

Jensen shook like he’d never shaken in his life. It terrified him. His sweaty grip dampened the rail. If the grip slipped, there would be no way Jared could stop it.

“I’m gonna just – here. Okay?” Jared carefully threaded his long arms beneath Jensen’s, wrapping around his torso, gripping him tightly. “You gotta trust me. Lean back. Just lean back, and I’m gonna lean back and lift up and pull you over. You just get your legs over the rail.”

Jensen nodded quickly, feeling light-headed.

“Ready?”

Another nod.

With a vice grip wrapped around his torso, Jared quickly leaned back and twisted, allowing Jensen to get a leg up over the railing. They swung around, off-balance, both fell heavily to their sides.

Jared instantly rose to his knees and pivoted, putting his hand on Jensen’s back. The sensation grounded him, and Jensen found he was concentrating on the warmth of his palm, even as he felt the bile rising in his throat. “I came back for you,” he heard Jared say, but they were just words. His own hands pressed hard against the ground. His shoulders shook. Then everything was shaking, trembling, and he lowered his head and let out one, single choked sob as confusion took over. He felt Jared’s arms around him again, hugging him, then lifting him to his feet, soft words of “getting the fuck out of here” muttered into his ear.

“‘M light’s gone,” Jensen replied mournfully, feeling as though the world took a nose dive and landed on his chest.

“Shhh.”

He let himself be guided back to the stairwell.

kamelionwriter — Thu, 06 Mar 2008 20:07:57 GMT

Title: Soul - The Earthbound (final)
Author: kamelion
Rating: T

And we don’t.

I wake in darkness, no, more like Darkness, to someone prodding me in my side. I gasp and straighten, sit bolt upright, and dart my right hand out to grab whomever is poking me. “Who’s there?”

“It’s Sam.” He sounds breathy, like he is recovering from sex, or running. I feel for his face, and he pushes my hand down. A light flickers before my eyes, and I wince away from it. “The hell d’you get a match?” I drawl, disoriented, and am ashamed. My vision clears, and I see a look of exasperation cross Sam’s face. “Oh. Of course. Silly of me.”

“Where’s Dean?”

As it is, I’m not certain of my own name. I reach and feel the back of my head, trying to remember the last time I had a lump. Anger fuels me, and I can sense Sam backing away. “What?” I ask, irritably.

“Your eyes.”

So, have I snapped back to Yellow Eyes now that I was in the pit? I wave Sam away. “Forget it. Play of the light.”

“Do you seriously think I’d forget something like that?” He’s against the wall, and for the first time I realize he’s weaponless. He’s one hundred percent on the defense, with only a tiny flame to save him, one that’s about to burn his fingers.

“Hope you have a full box of those,” I say as the fire flickers and dies.

“I don’t. Dean!” He’s shouting into the Dark, waiting for an answer. That sound is the only thing we can hope for from the Dark.

I stand. “Thomas?” I ask, not quite up to Sam’s level of bellowing just yet. I clear my throat and raise my voice. “Thomas!”

“How did we get here?”

“The same way as last time. They just showed up and grabbed us.”

“But I don’t remember it. Why aren’t we. . .”

“Prisoners? Good question.” I pick a direction and pull Sam close to me, feeling his body tense. I sigh and look over my shoulder at him. “I could have killed you so many times, Sam. Can you just trust me for a minute?” I blink at the second match he’s lit, and we look at the limitless passageway yawning ahead. “Okay,” I amend. “You’ll have to trust me for an hour. Maybe two.” The Dark is swallowing the light, and there is no way to move at a speed that doesn’t resemble a drugged snail.

We creep along the wall, lighting matches that seem to burn only seconds. Of course that means after about a minute we’re in trouble, because Sam was correct about not having a full box on him. We resort to shuffling, plastered against the wall, his hand on my shoulder and my left hand reaching back for him, while our right hands scour the earthen wall. Roots snag us, making me wonder where the hell we are. It isn’t the pit.

“Where are we?” Sam asks.

“Funny. I was just wondering that.”

“Sam?”

I hesitate. The Dark has answered Sam’s call.

“Dean?” Filled with hope, Sam pushes by me.

I grab hold of his arm, grinding his movement to a halt. “Wait,” I practically hiss at him. “It could be a trick.”

“That’s my brother!” Sam insists, yanking away from me. We can’t see each other, but we can feel the anxiety flowing between us like molten lava.

I fumble in the Dark and manage to catch hold of his arm again. “Just wait! Let him come to you.”

“Sam, you down here?”

“I’m over here!” Sam calls out, and to his credit he does as I say, and stays put. After several moments a red glow lights the end of the tunnel, and Dean, lo and behold it is Dean, walks towards us carrying a lit torch.

He glances at me, but his face softens into relief for a moment when he sees Sam, before he snaps it back up to all-business-mode. “You okay?” It is a demand.

“I’m fine.” Sam hovers around the light like a moth.

I huff and cross my arms. “I’m fine, too,” I say.

I barely get a glance from him. “I can see that.”

I don’t care for his attitude. “Be careful, Dean. No telling what vile creatures may be lurking around here.” It is a veiled threat.

“Oddly enough, the appearance of monsters is the one thing I can count on,” Dean says, almost amiably.

“I hope that’s not a personal remark,” I say drily.

“Your call, not mine.” And Dean dismisses me, looking around for a way out.

He dismisses me! I refuse to believe it. Even after what I’ve done, what I’ve told them, what I’ve shared with them, they do not trust me. So be it. I sigh heavily and lean back against the earthen wall.

Arms punch through it. Grey, flaking, putrid arms. They grab me, pull at me, so many limbs wrapping around my body. . .

“Zach!” Sam cries out, and I’m almost more stunned by his reaction than I am at being sucked into an earthen wall. Not Yellow-Eyes. Not Azazel.

Zach. He called me Zach.

I see both of them come for me, trying to peel away the decaying limbs. I’m being sucked back into the wall, and if I never really remembered before what fear feels like, I remember it now in startling, disturbing clarity. Panic overwhelms me, and I choke.

I turn frantic eyes to Dean, to Sam. “Don’t let them take me!” I cry out. “Please!” Because once down there, I’m there for good. There will be no escape for me. I cry out as the splintered hands that tip the gruesome arms grab at my hair, pulling my head back into the dirt. “Sam! I’m begging you!”

Sam is yelling, pulling with all his might as Dean beats away the limbs, clawing at the dirt, trying his hardest to release me. Trying. He’s actually trying to save me, they both are, and I’ve underestimated them so much. But it isn’t enough. It never is. “Thank you,” I whisper, looking at them like a wild mare, and hear my name screamed out as I vanish into Darkness.

**************************

This is the true lair. I don’t know why I never realized it before. Everything before, the dark figures, even that pit, is a mere shadow of this. All around me the Earthbound watch me, their eyes like stunted moss, their limbs like gnarled roots. They are spirits forever trapped, their thoughts soiled, their very being nothing more than mere grains shifting from place to place.

I am bound, like them. Roots hold me down, and they come from the dirt walls and stand over me, hover, dripping on my face, chattering like cracked bark. They touch me, watch me, shift to stand over me from a different place, and they drip. And I realize the drip is sap, streaming down in long, amber lines, and it burns my skin. It hardens, paralyzing me.

I strain to rise. Roots are wrapped around my arms, my legs, thighs, neck. I can’t raise my head to see the figure approaching me, I have to look down the bridge of my nose. The form emerges, and I stop breathing.

Never before has the phrase “Et tu, Brute” meant so much to me.

Thomas walks toward me slowly. His grip tightens on the machete. “You asked before if I resent you,” he says in a low voice. “Always, Zach. I always resent you.”

“Thomas! Get me out of here. Please. I can’t do this again.”

“No.”

I frown at him, at his eyes, at the large blade. “What are you doing?”

He says nothing.

I pull at the roots binding me. “Look, if this is about what I’ve done to you, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” I don’t know if the machete is meant to free me, or kill me. “I didn’t mean to,” I continue softly. “You know I would never hurt you.”

“Oh, the things you’ll say when you’re in danger of being caught,” Thomas says. “The many ways you’ll twist and bend just to save your worthless ass. You did hurt me.” He hovers, but such is his presence that I’m not certain if he’s actually near me or not. His voice floats, then sinks into the walls. “You hurt me when we were young, with your eyes and lips and promises. You hurt me when you didn’t know I was sick, when I practically died in your arms. And you hurt me when you brought me back to a living hell, because you couldn’t bear to live without me. It never occurred to you that I could do without you.”

He finally comes into full view. He looks drawn, haunted. “Do you think people want to live forever, Zach? Did you ask if I wanted this? Do you care? I will be around until the universe ends, and then I will live in empty limbo. I will be here when there is nothing left but God, and that thought scares the shit out of me because it bores me to tears. Did you think you were saving a good person, Zach? Did you love our friendship so much that it blinded you to who I am?”

“You are a good person, Thomas!” I strain against the roots, unable to understand what is happening. “You always have been.”

“I watched you for centuries,” he says. “Hovering just far enough behind you to get into your head. And I can tell you, you are not a good person, Zach. You never have been. And don’t give me your ‘levels of degree’ speech. I heard that wasted on your wonderful Winchester friends.”

I tug again at the restraints. “Thomas, fight it. It’s the Earthbound,” I insist. “They’ve got to you.”

“Do you forget who put you in that pit in the first place?” he spits at me. “I didn’t rescue you, Azazel. I merely grew tired of your company, and booted you back out.”

“I am not Azazel!” I yell at him.

“You will always be Azazel, no matter how many times you try to redeem yourself, no matter what you rename yourself.”

I shake my head slowly. “No.” Images race back, memories that I had repressed started to flood my senses. A familiar figure hovering over me, reaching for me. “I was mad, delirious. It wasn’t you.”

“I put you down there. I watched you fall from a god to a human to nothing. I saw what you were doing, and I wanted to stop you. This was your torment, your punishment.”

“It wasn’t you!” I yelled. “The Earthbound aren’t yours. They can’t be.”

“What? The beings of darkness, of despair, devised from a discarded need? Brought about from selfish desires that were lost? Do you think I can’t understand that? My life was destroyed by you, Zachariah.” He spat out my chosen name as one would spit out bile. “I became a monster. I had to leave everything I ever loved behind me.”

“Don’t say this.”

“And you let that boy make a deal for his brother. You wanted that to happen, because once Dean is gone, Sam will fall into such despair that he will join us. And you wanted that. You want him to take your place.”

“No.”

“I lead the Earthbound. I am Earthbound — and so are you.”

“No!”

“You can’t die, Zach.”

“NO!”

“You’re stuck here in limbo, just like we are.” And his eyes darken, turn black, and I suddenly see him for what he has become. “And after this limbo comes another. Death is the relief of life. It is the living that is to be feared.”

I look around me. The shadowed Earthbound are coming for me, bleeding out from the walls in black wisps, long fingers curling around the rocks like lichen.

“Do you want to live forever, Zach?”

“I denounce you,” I say, then yell as they converge on me, “I DENOUNCE YOU!”

“You and what god?” Thomas snarls, and shoves the huge blade through me.

A light explodes into the cavern. The roots shrink back and I fall to my knees.

I look up to see a pyrotechnic display. Flares bathe the area in blood. More lights burst on, halogen, blinding, each one with an explosion of sound that tears my eardrums. I hear a chant, no, two chants, two voices in unison, and see two shadows walk out from the whiteness, holding one large book.

All around me the Earthbound are screaming shrilly, and shriveling. They try to scatter, long, thin hands covering their faces, hiding their sensitive eyes. One by one they burst into flame and squeal in torment as they slowly burn alive. Everywhere, squeals, cries, shrieks, pure fear. And I suddenly feel pain, intense pain, unlike anything I’ve ever felt.

A hand grabs mine. I’m pulled to my feet, crying in pain, and look into the eyes of a friend I haven’t seen for so long, that friend I’d so loved when we were young. I look up, tears of pain and ecstacy dripping over my cheeks. My One, only he never knew.

He grips me tightly. “I was only trying to save you,” he insists. “I do love you.”

“Thomas!” I cry out in anguish as his face alights. I try to pull my grip back, but he holds it firmly, his skin cracking and peeling from his skull, which blackens almost immediately. I’m frantic, yanking away, feeling the hot bone crush my fingers. His eyes are gone, the sockets glow into mine, his mouth is open in a gruesome smile, and he crumbles. His grip disappears, and I’m left holding dust.

The pain intensifies. I can’t breathe, I can’t see. The smell is unlike anything I’ve ever experienced. All motion freezes, and I collapse.


***************************

I — feel.

I look around, scared. Sam is holding me, Dean leaning over me. Everything looks so dark, so grey, so unnatural. My eyes desperately search for the vibrancy that I remember from a lifetime ago. “It looks so cold. I don’t understand.” I’m shivering.

“What does?” Sam asks with a frown, but I’m barely able to comprehend it.

“It’s so dark. . .” I can’t begin to explain it, “so dead. It isn’t supposed to be like this.” I gasp as pain wracks my body, but this time it isn’t a memory. It is all too real.

I grasp Sam’s shoulder, and feel his free hand clench around mine. He’s telling me to be still. Dean’s hands brace my shoulders, his face close. Sam’s hovers beside his, so that their hair is mingling, and blocking the sight of all the ugliness in the world, everything that the world has become; treacherous, unloving, uncaring, self-centered.

Everything I was, and still am.

I am a part of this. It is my nature. But I had forgotten how truly awful it is.

“I’m so sorry you must live in this,” I say, realizing that for centuries, I’ve been seeing things through the rose-colored glasses of memory, and what is memory but what we want it to be? When something is bad enough, we make it better, either through denial or fantasy. This realization comes to me in a flash, and I suddenly want to let it go. Let it all go. The fantasy, the thoughts. I no longer belong here.

It is all I can do to look at them now. I reach out and wrap my fingers around the back of Dean’s neck, pulling him close. “Don’t – mess up,” I gasp. “You can fix this. The Earthbound – they’re not gone. They’re waiting. Don’t let the greed control you. Sam was fine when he died. Your greed has killed your soul, and his.” I feel Dean tense, and he’s blinking rapidly. “Fix this, both of you,” I demand. “I couldn’t do it. Thomas is gone, I’m gone. . .they’ll come for you. . .if you don’t fix this.”

And in the blissful darkness, I feel them. I see their frantic faces peering down at me, their heads almost touching.

This world – fades – finally – and I wish them well in it.

END</div>

"Soul" pt 5

kamelionwriter — Mon, 25 Feb 2008 01:07:55 GMT

Title: Soul: The Earthbound pt 5
Author: kamelion
Rating: T/M (this chapter contains questionable material)

We can’t stay here. Thomas is already making plans to leave, scouring his maps for appropriate hiding places out of the state. We both know it is useless. The Earthbound not only lie beneath this city, they lie beneath every city, and deep in the hearts of men. There is no escaping them, and running will only kill you faster.

I look at the brothers. They are in a corner of the room, heads bowed together, deep in conversation. This is the first time I’ve seen them talk so much without arguing. They are making a plan, or hiding in the guise of one. But I already said what little good hiding does for a soul, so I figure they’re reassuring each other. That Dean is caring for his little brother, and for once, Sam is letting him.

Sam can feel that cold grip still. He’s scared, he needs what every person needs at various points in their stressful, lonely lives: for someone to say that everything is going to be just fine. Dean pats Sam’s knee, and Sam gives a little smile decorated with a smaller laugh.

Thomas is sitting in his chair. He flings his papers to the floor. His hands scrub through his hair, not as thick as it once was, the illness took care of that. He looks at me, and we lock gazes, and for a moment, I’m back in those younger years, watching as he follows my lead. “We could hunt them out,” I say to the room, shrugging. “Find out exactly what they want.”

“And then what? Just give it to them?” Dean stands, wincing slightly. His boots are on, and those stiff things can’t be comfortable on his injury.

“If need be.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“Look at my face, Dean. I’m deadly serious.” I walk to the busted window. The spare sheets do little to cover the hole.

I hear him come behind me, and know that I’ve proved nothing to him. He would just as soon push me out of the window as listen to me. “They want Sam,” he mutters hotly.

“I know.”

“I don’t get it.” He’s right in my ear, his voice still hot with anger, and I can feel his heat, his breath, and it is all I can do not to respond to it. “You took me down to that lair to save Sam. Why?”

“To take their attention from me.”

Dean steps closer to me, leaning into my personal space. “Wait a minute. You’re the one they want?”

“Ultimately? Yes.”

He nods. His brows raise over sharp eyes. “Then you’re right. They can have you.” He turns and walks back to his brother, mutters to him, and picks up his jacket.

“You won’t get out of the city.” I haven’t turned. “They’ll still come after you.”

“Why?” Dean yells. “You’re what they want! Why the hell didn’t they just take you when they had the chance?”

“They can’t.”

Dean throws his jacket to the floor. “Okay, you know what? I am sick and tired of these fucking games!” I hear a click, and know a gun has been pulled. “Now tell us what the hell is going on, or I swear to god your brains will land on the street!”

I raise a hand to stop Thomas, who advances toward him. “You want to leave here? Fine. We all leave. Together.” I pin him with my eyes, and he lowers the gun. He’s not happy, but the gun goes down.

“No,” Thomas says. It surprises me, and I turn to him. He’s wincing at the floor, as though the process of thought hurts him. “We stay here. If we leave, they’ll look for us. I think they’re expecting us to leave. We’ll never get out of the city.” He sighs heavily, and I feel the burden of a thousand years on his shoulders. “Besides, I’ve already put in a call to have the windows repaired. They’re on the way now.”

“Reinforced steel?” I remark wryly. “Like your priorities?”

“Unpack your bags,” Thomas continues, looking at Dean. “I’ll fix us something to eat.” And he walks into the kitchen and starts rummaging around as though nothing happened, as though we weren’t half-freezing from the air blowing in at fifteen stories up, as if we’d not been attacked by the Earthbound. For once, Sam, Dean and I share the same look of astonishment on our faces.

Sam opens his mouth to say something, then shakes his head. He sits in one of the overstuffed chairs, his back to the window. “Pass me my jacket, will ya?” he asks Dean, and catches it as it is tossed to him, draping it over him to guard against the chill. Dean, for his part, scratches behind his ear and looks around, then meanders over to Thomas’ CD collection. He flits through, pursing his lips as a cover catches his eye, and ejects Thomas’ current music of choice. After a moment, a grinding beat fills the air, and Dean eases down the volume. Sam nods at the selection, the corner of his mouth twitching in amusement, and he leans forward to take a mug-braced magazine from the table.

Like nothing happened. I watch the scene in amazement, then turn and look at the shards of glass covering the floor underneath the windows. The hell with it.

I retire to their bedroom to think.

************

It turns out I’m not the only one thinking.

Thomas stays out from work for a day, overseeing the window repairs. He returns to his job with strict orders that I’m not to do anything stupid. What he means by this, I can not hazzard a guess. I make use of his telephone, calling the office and arranging meetings that I can miss due to more pressing matters. It may seem to piss off a client, to have a meeting cancelled on them at the last minute, but I’ve found the tactic to in fact be very productive. If a client is serious about working with me, and they almost always are, the meeting will be rescheduled. It is a way to weed out the trash and prevent me wasting away the hours. It also puts on the air of running a successful industry that demands my attention on a constant basis, so that the clients have to battle for my precious time. It is a front. I spend a lot of time in the office playing mini-golf on my carpet.

Sam and Dean had talked deep into the morning hours after the attack. The mending of the windows prevented daytime napping. No one slept well that night either, though the suite was much warmer.

So I’m up with coffee at five am, have bacon and eggs on at five-thirty, and shove Thomas out the door at six like a scolding housewife. The boys, bleary-eyed and exhausted, shuffle in after trying in vain to ‘catch a few z’s’ as Dean puts it. I’m suddenly reminded why it’s called beauty sleep. They need it.

They eat, meander about, then disappear into showers and light conversation. Sam ends up on his laptop, and Dean on the sofa with a mechanics magazine. Why Thomas has a mechanics magazine, I have no idea. Maybe because it’s red with silver trim.

Can’t have been interesting, as Dean is out like a light within ten minutes.

Sam has always had a habit of watching Dean, looking up to him as a younger brother should. But there is something sad in the way he watches him now. A younger brother’s devotion doesn’t usually involve counting breaths. I watch as Sam’s eyes glide over the lean figure. I can’t see Dean from my seat, but I can see Sam. He brings his hands together underneath his chin and watches with a sorrowful expression that kicks me in the gut. He’s planning, thinking, debating, and I know this goes on every night, every day, every waking moment when they are not on a case, or running for their lives. I know it annoys Dean, not because of the attention, but because of the pain on Sam’s face, knowing he’s the one that causes it. I know Dean suffers a load of regret, because this is the only way he’s discovered the depth of feeling his brother has for him. Dean honestly never knew. And now it is something that is fleeting, and I bet he wishes he’d known it sooner.

We haven’t talked about this. I just know Dean Winchester.

Sam finally decides to take a walk, to clear his head. He needs air, he needs to get out. I can’t blame him, and instruct him to go no farther than the front of the building. Dean’s napping on the sofa is the only way Sam is able to go out alone, and I admit I don’t care for it. I tell him if he isn’t back in fifteen minutes, the hellhounds will be sent for him. He doesn’t think this is funny.

And I stand, and watch from the newly repaired window as he paces below me. If he smoked, he would be lit and flaming.

I’m five minutes into the fifteen when I hear a snort and grunt behind me. I turn to see a disheveled head peering above the back of the sofa. It’s startling, to say the least, to suddenly see a face there. “Sleep well?”

“Any sleep is good,” he coughs, and sits up with a moan. The cuts on his face are healing nicely. He’s walking normally. And he didn’t argue with Sam earlier when Sam insisted on keeping his arms unwrapped, though he did insist on inspecting them before agreeing. So the brothers are healing. “What about you?”

I turn back to the window.

“You don’t sleep, do you?”

I choose not to answer.

“Freak.” Dean stands, and shuffles to the kitchen for some coffee.

“Your insults used to amuse me. Now they’re just irritating.”

Dean peeks around the corner at me with a smile. “Good.” He frowns suddenly. “Where’s Sam?”

“Down there.” I nod at the street. Dean joins me at the window, empty mug in hand.

“What’s he doing?”

“Gosh, Dean, looks like he’s walking to me, but you’re the expert.”

“And you’re an ass. He shouldn’t be down there.”

“He’s a big boy.” I raise my brows appreciatively. “Very big.”

“You’re disturbing, you know that?”

“It’s a part of my charm.”

“Whatever.” Dean returns to the kitchen.

I can’t let go of Dean’s presence just yet. There is something so innocent about him when he first wakes. His eyes are still heavy with sleep, making him vulnerable and young. The hardness is gone, just for a while. His mussed hair begs to be fixed, his lazy stumble brings out the protective streak in me. I watch as he sets more coffee to brew, still holding his cup. I half expect him to put the cup underneath the drip, rather than the pot. “You’ve been talking a lot, you and Sam.”

“So?” His voice is muffled, as his head is all the way into the refrigerator.

“Resolve anything?”

Dean pulls back and gives me a confused, and slightly disgusted, look. “About what?”

“Anything.”

“Are you that desperate for conversation?”

“Maybe.”

He ponders this. “Okay. Fine. Tell me this, then.” He closes the door and braces himself on the counter beside it. “I want to know who you are. I want to know how you know so much about me and my brother, and I want to know why you care about what happens to us. That enough conversation for you?”

I think about it. “Actually, I have a question for you. It’s something I’ve wondered for a while now. Why do you care what happens to you?” He stares at me, and I continue. “I mean, you don’t believe in God. The only reason you believe in hell is because you’ve seen it. I don’t know where the line between good and evil goes with you, Dean. It’s fascinating.” I select a mug for myself. “What is it you’re fighting for? You don’t believe in the pearly gates. Everything you’ve ever seen in your tiny life is bad, and yet you insist on fighting for purity. Nothing turns you, nothing phases you. So what is it?”

“You make me sound like Luke Skywalker decked out in white or something. I prefer Han Solo.”

“Oh, you’re not pure, Dean. Not by a long shot. But you try so hard. Why is that?”

He’s uncomfortable. His face is serious as he mulls his answer over in his head. “I don’t know. ‘Cause I’m scared not to.”

“Because your father drilled it into you.”

“You don’t know nothing about my Dad.” His defenses rise.

“I know. I know about all of it, Dean. I know things that Sam doesn’t know, and never will.”

He looks alarmed, then eases slightly at my silent promise. “You bug the shit out of me,” he mutters. “Can’t wait until this crap’s over with.”

“You haven’t answered my question. Do you do this because it’s all you know?”

“Who else is gonna look out for Sammy? Huh?” He’s getting pissed, like I’m backing him into a corner, and I am.

“That’s not the point. This goes way back, Dean, back before you knew about your brother’s plight. You were always a hunter. Sam walked away from it. What kept you here? Did your father’s grip hurt that much? Did you love the pain that much?”

I’m taunting him. I’m being cruel. I’m angry because he won’t be up front with me.

He faces me, nose to nose, or as close as our difference in height allows. “I swear to god, you need to back the fuck off. You got that?”

“You swear to god. You keep saying things like that. Why?”

“What the hell does it matter?” he yells.

“It matters,” I say calmly, and take his mug from him. I pour his coffee, and hand it to him.

He knows I’m not going to let him out of the conversation. He sips cautiously, angrily, and sighs. “I just, I don’t know. I want to believe. I want someone to prove it to me.”

“Prove what?”

“That there’s got to be a reason for all this shit. There’s got to be more than this.”

I grin. “Oh, come on. This isn’t you talking, Dean. This is your brother. His innocence has tainted you. I bet he forced these words into your mouth.”

He shakes his head. “Do you know how many churches I’ve been in? It ain’t to pray. It ain’t to look for something good. There’s always something bad in there, something evil, something that needs to be destroyed. And I destroy it. The one time we thought there was something good, it was as fake as everything else. So how the hell do I know, huh? How do I know Heaven exists, when all I see are demons and possessed things and cursed objects all floating around these churches? Preacher’s wives calling on reapers. Crosses being used to bind people. People killing in the name of angels. You tell me where the good is? I mean, with all this, there’s got to be something out there, something that God and this so-called religion can’t even touch.”

I frown as I approach him. “Do you seriously believe there is more than God? He created the universe, everything in existence. That includes parallel worlds, other dimensions, things you can’t even begin to comprehend. He is many names, but one divine power, one Being.”

He winces at me. “Dude, you going on a holy crusade?”

“You’re not hearing me. There is one good, and one evil. It is the same. One can’t exist without the other, you know that. You destroy all the evil, the good goes with it. You destroy Hell, and Heaven becomes it.”

His eyes lower as I continue. “Quite a paradox, isn’t it? Killing evil, and calling it doing good. Killing is killing. By doing that you’re not bringing more good into the world, you’re creating more evil. Either way upsets the balance.”

He glares at me. “Did you not hear anything I just said? You think the scales aren’t already tilted?”

“And bad begets bad? I think you’re not helping the problem.”

“Oh, so now I’m evil?”

I lean into him. “Yes.”

“Go to hell.” Dean scowls, and turns away.

Okay, that pisses me off. I’ve had enough of his attitude. Enough of his arrogance. Enough of his presence, his confusion, his scent, and of how his scent confuses me.   I want to pull him from behind this wall he’s building. He’s so stubborn, I want to claim him. Break him. Or maybe I want to prove that he is the real thing, and can’t be broken.

His coffee mug breaks on the floor as I reach out and grab him by both arms, and pull them roughly behind his back. He yells out in angry surprise and squirms, trying to turn, trying to get to me. I ignore him, holding him tightly, and force him into Thomas’ bedroom, slamming the door behind me with the heel of my boot. I throw him towards the bed, quickly reaching behind me to lock us in.

Dean spins and looks at me, incredulous. “What the – you son of a bitch!” He charges, and I grab him again, wrestling him back towards the bed. He notices, and panic flashes across his face before I tilt him back onto the mattress. He fights, and he’s strong, so strong, and my senses are overwhelmed with everything Dean. I quickly straddle his waist, holding his wrists firmly. I try to ignore the way he moves beneath me. I can remember too much, and to have this arrogant bastard beneath me like this is almost more than I can bear. His eyes are angry, his face is red, and there is so much uncertainty there. I lean over him, putting my weight on his wrists, pinning them against his chest. He can’t do a damn thing once I shift and plant a knee just above his groin.

“Do you need a demonstration?” I ask right into his face. “Tell me, Dean. Let’s continue this little conversation. What are your views on love?”

“What?” If it were possible to elicit a deep squeak, I did it then. He continues to squirm, to try and buck me off, but his limited movement proves useless.

I press down harder. “Answer me!”

“If you want a consult, call Dr. Fucking Ruth!”

“What would you say if I tell you that you’re more than my senses can handle? That I want nothing more than to experience you? Would you call that love?”

It takes a moment for my words to register. When they do, Dean’s eyes widen, and his struggles renew, his face twisting in desperation. “You sick bastard!” he spits out.

“Is this kind of love a good thing, Dean?”

“You don’t love me!”

“I do.” I move my knee and sit back on him, releasing his wrists, but not letting him up. “Who says that love has to be reciprocated, in order to be called love?”

He presses up with his elbows. “Get off me,” he growls. “Now!” He tries to push up, but I outweigh him by a good thirty pounds, and sitting on his stomach on the soft mattress gives me the advantage.

“You tell me this, Dean Winchester. If I were to take you, right here, right now – would my love be a good thing?”

“No! Get the fuck off!” The panic is back. I throw my weight forward on him, laying whole on his body, pinning his arms. I can feel his heart pounding against my chest, feel that he is not the least bit aroused by my confession to him. He is aroused by the adrenaline from his struggle against it.

“I could take you now, Dean,” I say into his neck, and feel him shiver as my breath rakes his flesh. “I could show my love to you. I feel secure in this emotion. I feel real. I feel alive, I feel good. So does that make my love wrong?”

“Rape is wrong!” he says forcefully, in a low voice, and tries to shove at me. “Taking what isn’t yours, is wrong! You know this, you’re not an idiot!”

“And neither are you.” I sit back again, but keep hold of his arms. “Which is why I’m not going to rape you, Dean. I can’t believe you’d think that of me. I said I wanted to experience you. It’s a different thing.”

“Then get off me!” He’s confused, and scared. Always a man of action, my words throw him into a state of frenzy.

“Not until you hear me out.” I hear the front door close, hear Sam call Dean’s name, and know I’m running out of time. I continue quickly. “There is a thin line between good and evil, Dean. Morality is that line, and even that differs from being to being. So we can say to harm one is to harm another, when really it is all the same thing. When you destroy, you destroy yourself. You remove a life, and damage your soul in the process. You kill yourself. So you can say what you want about churches and crosses and good and evil. In the end, all that matters is what you chose to do. That is why you’re fighting. You want the same thing I do.”

“And what’s that?” Dean grits.

“You want everything to be just fine, right Now.” I hear a knock, and Sam’s voice. I lean forward. “Now is all that matters. Don’t think about anything else. Don’t question, don’t ask, don’t wonder. Right now, there is no good, no evil.”

The threat is gone, leaving him incredulous. “You had to sit on me to tell me this?”

“No. I just found it pleasant to do so.”

“Bastard!” He yanks at my grip. He still doesn’t trust me.

I lean forward, again pressing his wrists again to the mattress. “I could do it, Dean. I could take pleasure in you. It’s all subjective.” I pin his eyes with my own. “Think about it. No absolute good. No absolute evil. Only degrees. It depends on the moment. You remember that.” There is banging on the door, and a threat to break it down. I stay where I am, because I want to see if Sam is serious.

He is.

He bursts in, sees me on top of his brother, and lunges.

I jump aside at the last minute, leaving them entangled on the bed. Rage has nothing on the younger Winchester as he pushes off his brother and faces me.

“Relax, Sam,” I soothe. “Don’t be so quick to judge. I was merely making a point.” Sam stares at me, his chest heaving, and sends a questioning look to a livid, but completely unharmed Dean.   I straighten my clothes and walk out, leaving both boys to talk.

It starts immediately, with Sam asking, “Are you okay?” then yelling out, “What the hell is going on?”

I force myself not to eavesdrop on that particular conversation.

It doesn’t last long. Sam explodes from the bedroom with Dean behind him. “All right,” he says, “I want to know who the hell you are, what you were doing to my brother, and why the hell we’re still here!”

I don’t answer right away. Instead, I sigh. The time has come. I can sense it, I’ve known it for a while. Since they can’t work out the story in their own heads, they’ll have to be told, and this isn’t going to be pleasant. I see them looking at me, burning with righteous fury, and I’m suddenly furious myself. How dare they judge me? They have no idea what my life has been like. And I love them? These hypocritical bastards? They look at me like I’ve crawled out of the sewer and ruined their own love-fest, rather than saving their lives. How dare they? My anger grows. I’ll show them. I’ll show them who I am, in the manner they are used to seeing. Sam circles me, so that I stand between him and his brother.

I flash Sam a deliberate smile, and turn towards Dean. It is reminiscent of the night the hell gate opened, and I know it. My memory serves well. And I know Sam will remember the night his enemy calmly walked towards his brother to kill him.

Sam is in front of Dean in a flash, his arm shooting out across his brother’s chest, protecting him. It surprises Dean. It greatly pleases me. “Stay away from him,” he warns me in a low growl. “I mean it. Stay the fuck away from him.”

The memory does indeed serve, and in his gut he knows who I am without realizing it. “Such words! You two are killing me with your kindness. It would almost be nauseating, if it weren’t so damn hot.” I grin at the shock on their faces. “I feel things to the tenth degree that either of you do,” I explain, “and yet I feel nothing. I rely on humans like you to feed me, to make me remember.” I let my words sink into their startled expressions as I step towards them, my need overriding, well, everything. “I am a memory. My actions are remembered, my senses are remembered. Everything I think I experience, is just a memory. I live through the two of you. I always have.”

“What do you mean, always?” Sam asks. He’s still in front of Dean. Protective. Dean is tense, ready to pull Sam back and away from me. It’s too much. I once had a protector like that, and I ache for it again.

My body sags. “I mean what I say. You two have always affected me.”

“You’re insane,” Dean mutters.

“Yes,” I agree softly.

I shouldn’t have let down my guard. I don’t know how it happens, but the room spins, and I black out.

************

My head hurts like a mother, which is a new sensation for me. I groan loudly, just to give the boys the proper pleasure before I tear from my bindings and rip their lungs out, the cocky, self-serving sons of bitches. My eyes open, and despite the pain, my brows raise slightly. I’m tied to one of the dining room chairs, my arms and legs bound by rope, presumably from their Impala, because I doubt Thomas is kinky enough to have such an item on hand. Pity he’s not here. He would pay good money to see this. A devil’s trap has been hastily scrawled on the floor around me. Yeah, that would piss Thomas off.

“You’re up.” Dean walks toward me, stopping just a few feet away. “Good. I want you to be conscious for this.” He hold up a small book.

“What is that?” I suddenly feel like I could explode, like sensations are pouring into my ears and killing my brain.

“This, my so-called friend, is your one-way ticket home.” Dean replies smartly, and smirks. He opens the book.

“Hell? You’re sending me to hell?” I can only blink at him. “You’re joking.”

“Now, come on. Would I kid you?”

No. I’m not going back there. Fury rises in me. “Can’t you take me there yourself?”

“Cute.” Dean winks with false enthusiasm, and starts to flip through the pages.

I look at him. Then I break into deep laugher that surprises even me. I see how it affects them. Dean looks surprised, then pissed. Sam, now at his brother’s side, looks ready to explode. “What’s so funny?” he demands.

It’s such a childish request. I laugh harder, doubling over as best as my bound frame will let me. Side-splitting.

“I find it ironic, that’s all,” I say once I manage to breathe.

Dean leans over me. “Ironic that you’re the one who had Sam kidnaped and taken down there? That’s how you knew where to go. You knew.”

“No, that isn’t true. I have been captive there, myself.”

“Demons lie,” he says simply, and waves the book at me. “You see this? Now you start talking, or I’m tossing your glamour-gal ass right back to the pit.”

“But I don’t want to go to hell, Dean,” I say, annoyingly calm. “I don’t want it any more than you do.”

“Oh, really? Did you think about that when you kidnaped my brother?”

“Look, I told you, I – do you seriously think I’m going to just sit here and take being tossed back into hell?”

“You were there for a reason,” he says.

“Oh really?” I mimic Dean’s earlier tone, because I’m growing uncomfortable. “And just what have you done that’s so bad that you deserve to go, huh?” Dean says nothing. I press on. “I can help you.”

“I’ve got that covered,” Sam cuts in smartly. “But thanks.”

I merely blink at Sam. “You’ve done nothing. Dean still has a one-way ticket and a first-class seat. I can fix that.”

“Forget it,” Dean says sharply.

“Why send me back?”

“Because you’re a fucking demon!”

“And you’re a fucking whore!” I spit out, enraged. “Dean Winchester, resident male sex-god wanna-be. Do you seriously think your moral standards are any better than mine, you bastard?”

Dean growls and lunges, only to be pulled back by Sam. “Cool it,” he says to Dean, “he’s just yanking your chain.”

“I’m gonna yank his. . .”

“Oh, please say it. I haven’t had a good yank in centuries.” My lips curl suggestively.

Dean looks disgusted. “You demons all the same.”

“Just like you, Mr. Womanizer. Annoying, isn’t it? Sharing a trait with a ‘demon’.”

He smirks. “And yet, somehow I don’t think it’s the ladies you’re after.”

“I’m not human. Therefore I’m not partial.”

“Yeah, well — that’s just disturbing,” Dean mutters.

“Either way, wouldn’t it be fair to hear my side of things before you condemn me?”

“I don’t play fair.”

“I’ve noticed.”

“So, what, you want to convince us you’re some innocent being? That you’re not some freak of nature inhabiting someone else’s body?”

“I assure you, this body is mine.”

“Meaning the original owner’s dead.”

Interesting way to put it. “Yes. It’s what I am.”

“All the more reason to send you back to hell,” he growls, and flips pages in the book with fervor.

“Hear me out first. Please.”

Dean visibly struggles with the decision.

“I did save your life,” I say to Sam. “End result. I saved you.”

Got ya.

Dean grits his teeth, then slams down the book on a table. “Fine. Shoot. But make it quick. ADD has nothing on me, and if this isn’t a good story? You won’t have time to fake the ending.”

“Just sit down,” I say calmly, and start speaking.

***********************

I can’t remember being born. I figure I was, surely at one time or another I had to be human. My memories are more sensation now than actual fact. It has occurred to me that I am unique in this way, because I’ve never heard of anyone who was – dead – being able to experience the fullness of life through memories as I do. Perhaps I’ve lived too long.

I remember snow. Long, cold winters that never melt away. Siberia, maybe. Was that my birthplace? There is no way to know. I could have been born in hell when it was nothing more than an icy core inside a planet of rock, before God grew angry and set it aflame. What? God has a temper. You think I blaspheme? I was there, at some point, at his right hand. I was cast away to serve the Underlord, then spat back out. You’ve never felt loneliness until you realize even immortality does not want you.

You smirk. I’ll allow it.

But I am being honest when I say that I have been human, and then I was a god. It is the in-between I am fuzzy on.

The earliest sensation I can remember is one of peace. The most vivid memory is pain. So much pain, for years, millennia. Forever. It never faded. I never grew used to it. Dean, you think you have an idea of what hell is? You have no clue, and if you did, you would have let your brother go on to his resting place and left it alone.

I realize I’m being ambiguous. It isn’t intentional, this is honestly how my mind works. I am nothing more than random snapshots in an old album.

I do remember this. I committed a crime. I loved another.

This other person was my mentor, my soul, my guide, my best friend. We talked together, ate together, lay together. It was symbiosis. We were a part of each other, and yet we didn’t complete each other, the way one would think of a soul mate. We merely pushed each other onwards. We were forced to better ourselves. We evolved.

But there were those around us who did not evolve as we did. And I tried to show them the beauty that I felt for myself and my friend. I am of a creative mind. I was stupid enough to believe I would be in His image if I were to create something wonderful. It was such a simple thing. A treat, really. An ambition that went horribly wrong.

So I showed these beings around us how to make use of the metals and colors of His world. I showed them how to adorn themselves, how to make themselves feel as wonderful and beautiful as I felt in my love. I gave them riches, hoping they would see what it is like to be generous, to be loved, and at the same time to praise the Glory Which Created All.

But they abused it. They fell. They became vain. They started to bicker and squabble like the petty things they turned out to be, and I grew tired of it. My objects of beauty were no longer used to join people together, but to rip them apart. And since they were so determined, I showed them how to sharpen these jewels into knives. I decorated these weapons into a romantic sense of irony, physically demonstrating what their lust had become. And they used them heartily. What they coveted, they took by force, one jewel cruelly carving out another. The beauty became a curse of nations. There was no love.

I was blamed by all those around me. I was accused of corrupting these poor people, and as a result cast out into a desolate ruin where I lay for what seemed a thousand years. The swirling sands withered me. The fierce heat baked me. People walked over me as I crumbled into dust, the very same people that I had decorated in finery, yet they never looked at each other. Instead they stared at the riches I created, and only had eyes for the prestige it would bestow upon them.

I felt ill. I had lost love, and therefore my life, my purpose. All I could do was lay and watch as the human race evolved into a way contrary to what I had tried to show them. I had created havoc. I sank deep into the earth, and into despair.

Lucifer found me. I was teetering on the edge of Hell, feeling bitter, angered, and wanted nothing more than to destroy what had put me there in the first place. There is no beauty, I thought. There is only pain. And Lucifer fed that pain. He rewarded me for my crime, and made me an Underlord like himself, renaming me, and taking me under his dark wing. I was a young fool, and set out to destroy what I had created, with the intention of going back to Him and destroying Him too.

Funny how I remember more, talking to you.

For hundreds of years we created chaos, Lucifer and I. We helped to invent the bomb. When people fought for peace, we sent floods to wipe them out. Hellfire rained from volcanoes. Leaders of nations went mad, and committed genocide in the name of physical perfection. We slowly tore the human race apart.

We’re still tearing it apart. That is – they are. You see, I found something that stopped me from wanting to continue the fight. Someone that restored my faith in humanity, and reminded me of that bond that I once shared with another. So where once I rebelled against the heavens, I now rebelled against Hell.

Again I was imprisoned as a traitor, and this time accused of plotting against Lucifer, to try and take control of Hell. I was thrust into the same pit that held you, Sam. But the truth is, I didn’t want Hell. I didn’t want Heaven. I wanted that simple beauty back, that time when all I had to do was lose myself in someone’s eyes to find glory. But I couldn’t go back, and if there was one thing I learned in my time in Heaven and Hell, it was that there is only one time to make things happen. I wanted Now.

When I was freed, I was enraged, consumed by revenge to the point where the last bit of good sense left me. I needed an army, and was willing to do anything to create one. An army of my own to control, to take back my realm. I found soldiers. I found you, both so young, both so protected. Too protected, and therefore inaccessible. So I killed your guardian. I threw the hellfire at her while she watched me from above. Because she had what I coveted. She had the two of you. Pure symbols of what I had lost. Re-emergences. You’ve been here before, dozens of times, but never like this. Yes, it was cruel and selfish, but I had my reasons. Trust me, if I’d not done what I. . .if I’d not. . .your lives would have become much more miserable. I know the master plan. Well, what the plan was before I stepped in.

This is your time. This is your Now. And I am here to help you. Dean, I’ll not have you cast into the fires of Hell. Sam, you will not take my place at Lucifer’s side. But neither is there a heaven for you. Trust me, I’ve fought both sides, and I want neither. I just want to end.

So if you think you can kill me, then do so. But I hold the key to stopping this war, once and for all. I hold the key to redemption.

Just don’t cast me back to Hell. That I do not deserve.

************

I watch their faces. They both look a little ill, and more than mystified.

Sam looks the most disturbed. I can see him sorting the facts through that magnificent mind of his, and I watch as his face falls into disbelief. I have given them one clue, one vital clue as to who I am, and of course Sam is the one who discovers it. He slumps back into the chair he had risen from.

Dean notices, and though he’s afraid to take his eyes of me, he questions, “Sam?”

Sam is shaking in disbelief. He’s put the pieces together, and come to a conclusion he can’t live with. “No. You can’t be.”

I allow myself a smile, because I love to amaze.

“Can’t be what, Sam?” Dean asks with urgency. He was never that good at verbal symbolism.

“It’s him,” Sam says quietly.

“Him who?” Dean’s face tilts toward his brother, though his eyes are fixed on mine.

“Him.” Sam’s voice is a whisper, and he’s gone another shade pale. He can’t bring himself to voice my name over the swallow in his throat.

“No, I don’t, who. . .”

I sigh at Dean’s stubbornness, and let the yellow-gold in my eyes flash at him briefly.

Dean nearly falls. I feel pity for him, and make to stand from my chair to catch him, ignoring my bindings. He reaches for the table beside him and allows it to guide him heavily to a chair.
“Son of a bitch!”

“I’ve told you. My past I honestly can’t remember, so I’m not so sure about the SOB thing.”

“I killed you.” Dean’s voice is low.

“Apparently not.”

His nose wrinkles as he fights back a snarl. He sounds as though he can barely speak. “You son of a bitch! I killed you with the colt!” He bolts up out of the chair. “I shot you, you died!”

I merely turn my hands palm-upwards as though to say, ‘here I am’.

“You’re really him,” Sam says still dazed. “Azazel. I’ve read about you.”

“Seems I’m quite the celebrity.”

“Yellow-eyes,” Dean spits. “The Yellow-Eyed Demon.”

“Yes.”

“You.”

“Yes.”

His jaw works. “Well, Azazel — Zach, whoever the hell you are, this time you’re going to hell and you’re staying there.” He picks up his book, no if’s ands or buts.

“After what I just told you?”

“Damn straight. What you just told me is a freakin lie! Demons lie!”

“I’m not a demon, Dean. I never was. And I’m not now.”

“Then what the hell are you?” he asks, his voice deep and rough with emotion.

I shrug.

Dean turns on his heel away from me, breathing heavily. He turns again, and comes to stand over my bound form, his face pressing toward mine, his eyes bright. “You’re going back, you fucking bastard, and I hope you rot,” he says. “You killed my family. You killed everything I ever believed in!”

“Poor baby,” I say cruelly, and almost mean it.

His fist meets my face. I snap to the side, and slowly work my jaw. I clench my fists and look up at him through narrowed eyes. “I dare you to do that one more time.”

“Gladly.” He lets fly again.

I tear from my ropes and catch hold of his fist before it meets, slowly bending it backwards, twisting, forcing him to his knees before me as I rise. Sam yells and runs at me, and I fling him against the far wall with a flash of my eyes. He’s pinned like a butterfly on a board, open and beautiful.

I add pressure, seeing the pain in Dean’s face, seeing the strain as he fights to keep himself whole. I bend over him. “You should have kept your anger in check, Dean. You’ll never learn.” I release both him and Sam, who lets his breath out in surprise, then rushes to pull Dean to his feet and snatch him back. Dean’s attention is on me as he flexes his wrist.

“That pit made me what you saw,” I said. “It will do the same to Sam. How do you think the demons are going to turn him? That place changes you.”

“Because you were so good before!” Dean yells in disbelief.

“I didn’t say that. But I wasn’t Azazel before. I emerged as that being.”

“But the legends. . .”

“Are twisted.” I turn to Sam. “Azazel created this, Azazel caused that. It is distorted. Who has lived long enough to know the truth of it? You?”

I sigh heavily and sit in the chair, leaning to the side to rest my head against my hand. “Seriously. You boys wear me out.”

Dean’s right brow raises, and I laugh.

******************

We make an unsteady peace. Only because I didn’t kill them, and they aren’t sure how to kill me. Or what to do with me, for that matter.

I’m watching television as they speak in the corner. I try not to listen in, but I can’t help it.

“What are we going to do?” Sam asks.

Dean’s tilted back in his chair. He lets it down with a thump and leans forward. “You think he’s really ‘ole Yellow-Eyes?”

“I don’t know.” Sam shakes his head thoughtfully. “His story fits, but we killed that demon. I saw it, you saw it. The only thing we have to go on is what Casey told you.”

“Yeah, and she could’ve told us more if you hadn’t wasted her.”

“Dean! She was going to kill you!”

“No, she wasn’t. But you wouldn’t have known that, now would you?” Dean raises his hand. “Look, forget it. I’d of done the same thing if I were in your shoes.”

“Yeah. Not like you’ve never killed ruthlessly before.”

“Me, sure. But not you.” His eyes are fixed on Sam, wanting an explanation.

“Dean, not now. Not with. . .” Sam tilts his head toward me.

Dean glances at me, and pulls closer to Sam. “You get Bobby?”

“No, not yet. Not sure we should get him involved anyway.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t want him hurt, that’s why!”

“Sam, he might know how to send this thing back!”

“Why, because he knew that before?” Sam spits out sarcastically. “And what if this really is Yellow Eyes? You wanna blame yourself for Bobby’s death, too?”

“Whoa, wait, what do you mean too?”

“Because you blame yourself for not looking out for Dad! And for what happened to me! I know you, Dean, you’ll find a way to blame yourself for this.”

“Okay, you know what?” Dean starts in disgust.

“You know it’s true!” Sam cuts in angrily.

“Oh, come on!”

“It is.” Sam’s voice suddenly calms, and it infuriates Dean into silence.

“So no Bobby,” he grumbles, after a moment or two.

“No,” Sam says firmly.

I silently nod approval to myself. Good. That’ll make things much easier. I quietly rise and take my leave.

I find Thomas on the street at a newsstand. He’s looking at a paper, wondering if he should purchase it. I slap it down from his face. “Do you resent me?”

“For what?” He’s used to my moods. He reaches down and picks up the ripped paper, putting money into an upturned palm that he doesn’t even look at.

“You had died. I made you what you are.”

I get a glib look. “Don’t be ridiculous.” He folds the paper, and walks away from me.

*******************************

Two days pass before a decision is made. During this time, the boys are conspicuously absent. I follow them a little, then leave them alone. Their business is none of mine, and I do notice that Dean keeps a very watchful eye on his younger brother. Most of their time is spent in the huge libraries that seemed to weigh the city down with useless knowledge. Or in a bar, discussing the day’s research. At one point they go into an old man’s house, and emerge with a look of near revelation.

Okay, so I watch them more than I like to admit.

Thomas is gone as well, taking care of his business, and this seedy problem. I make a few calls to check in with my own affairs, and am convinced that everything is well. Other than financial support, I really serve no purpose in my own company. It is more than a well-oiled machine. It is the design itself in all its perfection at conception. Mistakes don’t even think about happening, as though the very notion doesn’t exist beyond the glass door. Would all companies be as fortunate.

Still, all their goings on leave me with nothing to do. So I grow nosy. Very nosy. And I start snooping. Now, I know everything there is to know about Thomas, and his stuff is boring. So I snoop in the boy’s belongings.

The laptop is gone with them. Most of Sam’s valued entries are password protected anyway, and though I could crack the code, I want to leave the man a little privacy. I am a decent soul, after all. And he still smells of innocence, even after everything that has happened to him, yet he isn’t naive. He’s the least naive person I’ve ever met. Oddly enough, if anyone is naive, it is Dean Winchester. He is a child in an adult’s body. A bred warrior with a heart of gold. The classic example of giving without taking, and he is frustratingly clueless of his worth.

Sam isn’t clueless, and I see the looks that he hides from his brother. I see him watching Dean sleep, I see the pain in his eyes. I feel the pain in his heart. I fear to touch him, for his longing reminds me so much of my own, which is why I want to end this for both of them, seeing as how I had a hand in it. Back when I was mad in my head. Not that I’m that much better now, mind you, but at least I think things through.

I’ve changed their destiny, and now they are living with the consequences. I’ve wondered time and time again if my own death would rectify things. Set them back on their original course of action. But the silver bullet that should have finished me, didn’t. Well, it finished Azazel. Maybe it would take a second one to finish off Zachariah.

As it is, our time is running out. I can hear the Earthbound. Never before has this happened to me, and I’m not sure why it is happening now. Why just last night I caught one watching me while the others slept.

I don’t remember what I was doing, but I had looked up and saw it peering at me. Leaning against the new window, peering in with a look of pure hatred, not moving, just staring at me with those huge eyes, one thin hand splayed on the glass at it watched. I remember I gasped and blinked, and it was gone. But to just glance up and see something so hideous had disarmed me, and I had been unable to sleep. Instead I turned on every light I could find, and turned the television up. Sam had come in, complaining, but I sent him back to bed with a glare that, I think, actually frightened him. Thomas decided to try and talk sense into me, and he sulked back as well. I woke the next morning to a velvet throw covering me, and an empty suite, with Paula Deen on the television drawling about how to make the best sour cream pound cake in the south.

Food Network. Good. For a moment I’d thought I’d found a lower level of Hell.

I’ve seen the Earthbound three other times. I’ve told no one. But I know when next they show, it will be to drag us all down with them, and there will be no way to stop it.

So, with these lovely thoughts parading in my head as I half-wonder if they’ve already got their thin claws on Sam and Dean, I sort through the Winchester baggage. And in Sam’s bag, I find a leather book, swollen with well-thumbed pages and added sheets of paper. Intriguing. I sit on the edge of the bed and open it.

It is a record keeper of sorts.   I read the first entry dubiously, then marvel at what I have found. I slowly lean back on the bed and read all of the accounts of the ruined life of one Jonathan Winchester.

Due to me. Of course.
</div>

"Soul: The Earthbound" ch 4

kamelionwriter — Mon, 11 Feb 2008 00:10:24 GMT

Category: Supernatural
Title: Soul: The Earthbound
Chapter: 4
Genre: Adventure/Angst
Rating: T for language and adult situations
Summary: A mysterious being is more than he claims, and much more than
Sam and Dean Winchester expect. Will his timely arrival save them, or
condemn them?

Dean walks a lot. He paces in the room when bored with the television. He toys with the computer, but again, grows bored easily. He watches Sam, and after determining the mood he’s in, invites him to a game of poker, which is about the dullest thing two people can do. But it is designed to pull Sam out of his slump, and after two evenings of watching them pass cards back and forth without saying anything, I’ve had enough. I excuse myself, and go outside.

My cell phone is in my pocket. I make a call, one I probably shouldn’t have. “Thomas?”

“Zach?” He sounds surprised. “Where the hell are you?”

“Funny you should phrase it that way.”

“Cellular phones don’t work in Hell.”

“Thomas, cellular phones were designed in Hell. Anyway, this is about as close as one can get.” I leaned against their car, daring Dean to peek out of the window to see me ‘scratching’ the Impala. “I’m with the Winchesters.”

“Who?”

I roll my eyes. “Does torching broads on the ceiling mean anything to you?”

“Only that you were on one hell of a trip at the time.”

“That wasn’t my fault.”

“So you say. You’ve always had a sadistic streak in you.”

“Their mother was the first.”

There was a moment, then a breath. “Aaaah. Now I remember. That’s when you really thought you were going places.”

I shift and fold one arm across my chest. “I don’t recall you making a move to stop me.”

“I seem to recall being imprisoned so I couldn’t stop you.”

I wince. I’d forgotten about that. “I got you out again.”

“After the fact.”

“Blame Lucifer. I do.”

“Sure. Anyone but yourself. When are you coming back?”

“Soon. Seems we have another Earthbound issue.”

He doesn’t say anything. I know what’s going through his mind. He’s the one that pulled me out of that cesspool, after all.

“I’m not asking for your help,” I reassure him. “I just want to let you know what’s happening.”

“Are they after you?” he asks.

“No. They want the younger Winchester. Sam.”

“Why? What’d he do?”

“I think it’s more like what he’s going to do.” I glance at the motel, then turn away, speaking more softly. “Seems even they know his destiny.”

“Which you had a hand in.”

“Not the point. These things — they’re even more desperate than when they had me. They didn’t do much to him, but I could sense it while I was down there.”

“Wait. Zach? You went down there?” I can feel his fury. “Are you insane?”

I roll my eyes. “Someone had to show Dean where Sam was being held. Seeing as there was no way he could find that place himself, I was the most likely candidate!”

“I don’t want to hear this.” Thomas’ voice fades, and I know he’s about to hang up.

“Wait!” I yell into the phone, and quickly glance back at the motel room. “Thomas!”

“What?” He’s annoyed.

“They weren’t there.”

“Who?”

“The Earthbound, you fool!”

There is a pause, and I know I have him. “What do you mean, they weren’t there?”

“The Earthbound weren’t there when we rescued Sam. We were able to just walk in and take him.”

There is another pause. “They didn’t come after you?”

“No.”

I can hear Thomas thinking. “Tell me how to find you.”

I throw on my best twenty-first century attitude. “GPS, dude. Learn how to use it.” And I hang up.

I walk back inside to a burning argument. Apparently Dean intentionally let a card drop to the floor in order to give Sam an advantage, to make him feel better. Sam’s yelling about being babied, Dean’s saying he didn’t realize the card had fallen, and I’ve had enough.

I sweep my hand over the table. The cards fly off in an audible flurry. Dean looks at me in wide-eyed astonishment, a sort of ‘what did I do?’ that just drives me to brace my head with my hands before heading off for a cold shower.

Men.

*******************

It’s three am. There is a pounding at the door. I merely raise my head from my propped position at the ‘dining table’, but it scares the shit out of Dean. He bolts upright, one hand pulling his outrageous testosterone-fueled knife from beneath his pillow. Sam’s pulled a gun from the duffle laying on the floor beside him, aiming bleary-eyed at the door. I sigh and rise from my chair and walk past him, pressing his weapon down. “Don’t bother. It’s just Thomas.”

“Who?” Dean asks in a breath, and Sam once again raises his gun.

“A friend.”

“You have a friend?”

I absently give Dean the middle finger before opening the door. Thomas blusters in, looks me over, then notices the two young men who have weapons trained on him. “Oh.”

“I didn’t mean you had to come here right away. You didn’t have to come at all.” I close the door behind him and lead the way to the middle of the small room. “Thomas, Sam and Dean Winchester. And vice-versa.” I fall back into my seat and rub my eyes.

“Pleasure. Which is which?” I peek through my fingers to see Thomas studying the men.

“Dean.” Dean points at himself with the tip of the knife, then gestures to his brother. “Sam.” Aims the blade at Thomas. “And who are you again?”

“Someone who desperately needs a seat, and a drink,” Thomas says, shrugging off his long coat and tossing it onto the bed at Dean’s feet.

Dean looks at the coat. “I don’t suppose we could have this meet and greet some other time? Preferably during daylight?”

“Oh, don’t mind me.” Thomas waves him away. “Finish your rest. I’m fine.”

The brothers exchange an incredulous look, and rise. “I’ll fix some coffee,” Sam mutters.

Thomas jerks his thumb toward him. “He the one?”

“Yep.”

Thomas studies him.

“Whoa, whoa, wait,” Dean says, standing slightly behind Thomas, oblivious to the fact that he’s wearing only his briefs. “The one what?”

“The one Zach told me about.”

“Oh, it is way too damn early for this,” Dean mutters crossly. “What the hell did he tell you?”

“Doesn’t matter. Thomas is up on events.” I glance back at Sam, who is setting the small coffee pot to brew. “Of course I didn’t expect him to show up here so early.”

“I almost decided not to come. I’ve about had it with saving your ass, but I have news you should probably hear.” Thomas leans forward and gestures for Dean to sit. Sam leans back against the kitchen counter as the pot starts to percolate behind him. “You said there were no Earthbound in the lair,” Thomas says to me.

“Right.”

“You’re wrong. They were there. They let you take Sam away.”

I have to let this information digest for a moment. A glance at Sam shows him unperturbed, for now. I’m allowed to think as a result. “Why?”

“They’re watching him. They’re watching all of you.”

“Don’t be absurd,” I say. “They don’t make that sort of effort. They’re purely reactionary.”

“No.” He leans forward, and I recognize the glint in his grey eyes. I’ve seen it a few times before, and it always pits my stomach. “They’ve become very pro-active.”

I lean forward as well, soaking in his words. Dean is at full attention. Sam listens from behind us. “They don’t know the meaning of the word,” I respond. “Everything about them, everything that has ever been about them, is based on lethargy and despair. That isn’t proactive.”

“It is when there is a war going on.”

“What do they expect to do?”

“Why do they want Sam?”

“He’s prime material for them.” I say it without thinking, and realize that Sam, delicate, tough Sam, still has no idea what’s going on. This isn’t the best way to break the news to him. “They can feed on him. They’re waiting for either Dean’s death, or the demon army to push him over the edge.”

“And why would they want that?” Thomas pins me with those mesmerizing eyes of his. “If they are not capable of any precognitive thought, then why are they setting Sam up? We can infer that they have a plan, and these creatures never make a plan.”

My mouth slowly drops open as realization dawns on me. I’ve been so blind.

“They want Sam,” Thomas continues. “It may be because of Dean, or this army, there is no telling. But they had him, and let him go, and there has to be a reason for it.”

Dean looks very tense. He meets my eyes as I meet his, then veers his stare towards Sam. I do the same. The young man looks just as tense, childlike, his jaw clenching and unclenching and working the vein in his neck. We stay silent for a time, until the coffee pot gurgles.

“Man, what is it about my brother?” Dean asks lightly, and sighs. “That coffee ready yet, Sammy?”

“Huh? Oh, yeah, sorry.” He reaches with that long arm of his for four mismatched mugs, which is all the motel room has, and fills them. He passes the mugs around the table, then returns with a few packets of sugar. He takes a seat beside Dean, gently blowing at his brew, not looking at his older brother, avoiding his concern.

“So,” Dean continues, addressing me, “how do we stop this?”

“I’m not sure we do.” I’m drumming my fingers against my leg. I’ve fallen to studying the opposite wall, like the vine pattern is a map out of this predicament.

“I’m not liking that answer. Try again.”

“I’m serious, Dean.” I face him. “I’ve never known them to do anything like this. I don’t know what their motives are. And as such, I don’t know how to stop them.”

“So I’ve got this hanging over my head as well?” Sam asks in annoyance. Poor man. I can’t blame him.

“That’s what you get for being the sensitive one,” Dean mutters into his mug.

“Yeah, well. It sucks.”

It is a gross understatement, and so Sam-like. I smile at him, and am surprised to see him smile a little in return. Dean raises a brow, and Sam vanishes into his mug.

Thomas clears his throat. “I suggest you lot all come back with me until we can figure this out.”

“Thomas, you old dog,” I tease. “You act like you care!”

“About you? I should’ve left your stupid ass in the pit. Saved us a lot of grief, having you there to distract them.”

“I’m touched,” I say lightly, and turn to the brothers. “How soon can you be ready to go?”

“Can I finish my coffee first?” Dean asks with perky sarcasm.

“Gulp it down. We leave in ten.”

“Pushy asshole,” Dean mutters, and I love him for it.

****************

Thomas’ place overlooks the city, much like mine. The drive isn’t too long, fortunately, because while I love my friend dearly, riding shotgun with him is an experience I would not wish on my worst enemy. Well, okay, I would, but I personally shouldn’t be subjected to it. Not everything I’ve done in life is bad enough to deserve this. He has no regard whatsoever for traffic laws. The axiom of ‘yellow means go very fast’ is lost on him; he flat prefers ‘survival of the fastest’ which basically means that traffic lights do not exist. I used to accuse him of testing Einstein’s theory, asking him if he really wanted to dart back to the beginning of the world before afternoon tea. His response would be a glare, right before flooring it.

We arrive at the basement garage in one piece and record time, and take the elevator to his suite on the top level of the fifteen-story building.

Once inside, I casually toss my coat onto the sofa and go to prepare myself a much-needed drink. After residing in humble abodes, I’m more than ready for posh living. Dean and Sam look so out of place here, all scuffed up and unkempt. I glance over them. “Thomas has a shower, should you care to use it.” Thomas merely grunts his approval, casting a wary eye over their appearance.

Dean inhales deeply, and turns to Sam. “Yeah. Sounds good.”

“You go first,” Sam says. “I want to talk with Zach.” Dean looks at him questioningly, but relents.

“Okay.” It sounds so dismissive, but I know he’s burning with curiosity. Thomas points, and Dean carries a large bag into the bathroom, presumably the one with clothes in it.

“Wouldn’t hurt to make use of the laundry facility either,” I say to Sam.

“Thanks,” he says softly, and takes the beer bottle I hand to him. He sits on a stool at the small island bar that divides the kitchen from the den area. Then he takes in the room.

Thomas is a simple person with simple needs. You would never guess it by looking at his suite. The rooms are decorated in reds and greys, metals and blacks. Bookshelves line one wall, filled with everything from oversized hardbacks on the occult, to spine-torn dog-eared novels by the Bronte sisters. The sofa and chairs are expensive, vibrant red and overstuffed, adorned with small black pillows. The end tables are made of metal bars and glass tops. The dining table sits in the corner, and is matching metal and glass, topped with red napkins and black dinnerware. Crystal goblets sit at each place. The paintings are modern and head-splitting. Small statues dot the room, some made of black onyx, other of stone, the only natural aspect of his dwellings. They add a much needed warmth to the room. I can’t think how many times I’ve wanted to walk in with a piece of wood and stick it someplace. For all the decor, the room is as stiff as Thomas is.

Sam rises and crosses the room to the large bay windows that make up one wall and overlook the city. Below, the lights blink and flash and dance, coming to life in the pollution. I join him, because I want to see his reaction.

He seems to know this. “It’s beautiful.”

“It’s artificial. Damned smog.”

His mouth quirks. “This isn’t smog. You need to go to LA for that.”

“You’ve been to LA?”

“Once or twice.” His tone is guarded, and he takes a swig of his beer.

I nod. “The pollution plays havoc with the senses. It’s strange that something so beautiful is created by something so impure.” I let the sentence linger, and look over him.

“Now Zach, keep your charms to yourself.” Thomas joins us at the window. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed the way you look at these young men.”

“I’ll gladly throw you out of this window and see how long it takes for you to land,” I respond lightly. It’s a game with us. I sip at my sherry.

“Cranky bastard.” Thomas turns away from the view and sits on one of the overstuffed sofas. He picks up a remote and flicks on the large screen plasma television that he’s become addicted to.

I turn to Sam. “You want to talk?”

“Yeah.” He rubs his thumb along the side of his bottle. Studying the city below. He finally turns and looks at me, and such is the pain in his expression that he needs to say little.

“I don’t know, Sam. I don’t know what to tell you.”

“Isn’t there some spell, some charm, something?”

“To do what? Rid you of yourself? Dean would just bring you back.”

“That’s not funny.”

“No. But it’s true.”

Sam frowns out of the window, watching as the sky starts to lighten.

I can feel his guilt, how everything seems to happen to him. And I feel his torment, his wonder. He was dead. Not just for a moment, not a near death experience. He was dead. And he can’t remember anything about it. It eats at him.

“It wasn’t long enough, son,” I say consolingly. “You weren’t dead long enough to know what’s out there.”

He looks startled, but continues the train of thought. “Do you know?” he asks.

“I’ve yet to die.” I sip again at my drink. It’s true. I may not be the classic ‘I’m alive!’ version, but I’m not exactly dead, either. As I’ve said before, I’m an abomination.

“Of course. Stupid question.”

“Not really. Trust me, I would love to find out. I’ve been alive for far too long as it is.”

“You can’t be much older than me,” he says, and I realize that Sam Winchester really knows nothing about me.

“I age well.”

His mouth quirks. But he must feel something, to ask that question of me.

“Can you die?” he asks bluntly.

“Oh, I want to, Sam. I really want to.”

Below us, the city twinkles, winking at us, keeping its underground secrets a mystery.

It’s a farce. All of it.

Dean comes out of the shower after a half hour or so. Sam hasn’t moved from the window. I’m seated at the dining table, after having asked permission to use Sam’s laptop. Thomas had merely pointed to his own clumsy machine, but I prefer to use Sam’s, simply because it’s Sam’s. Thomas is very up on anything technical, and we’re networked and online in the blink of an eye.

Dean smells nice, like a fresh bar of soap. His hair is damp and close to his head. He’s wearing clean jeans and a white t-shirt. He hasn’t bothered to put on shoes or socks, and he steps gingerly on the cold hard floor. I gladly let my eyes linger over his form as he walks to Sam, speaking quietly, looking at him with those expressive eyes that I can read so well. Sam nods, and heads for the shower.

I quickly turn my attention back to the screen as Dean walks over, and pulls a chair close. “Now what are you doing?” he asks, but not in annoyance. More like he’s teasing me.

“I’m not sure,” I confess.

“Oh.” Dean leans back. “You do that often?”

“More so than I care to admit.” I type in a search, and wait. Google is a wondrous thing, but at the moment, not so helpful.

“You know, I have a friend that might can help us out,” Dean says.

“That Bobby Singer of yours? No thanks.”

“Why not? The man’s an occult genius.”

“He’d be in over his head.”

“Bet you a nickle he’d surprise you.” Dean sounds offended.

“I know he’s a friend. But we can’t use him. We must keep this amongst ourselves.”

“Status quo, huh? Christ.” Dean sighs and pushes away from the table. He walks to the window to enjoy the same view Sam has been staring at, and I let my thoughts linger on his double image reflected in the glass.

“I am trying to help, Dean,” I insist.

“Yeah, yeah.” He waves me down.

It has to be hard for him, more so than Sam could ever imagine. Sure, thanks to this deal that Dean’s managed to mangle his life with, Sam is getting a taste of it. But to live day to day in fear for your brother’s life, having the constant burden of protecting him, it has to wear on a guy. And of course, me being me, I linger on this thought until the question asks itself. “Tell me, Dean. When Sam died, did you feel a moment of relief? Just for an instant?”

His eyes flash at me.

I don’t remember him moving. I feel myself lifted, turned, and flung back against one of the large windows. I can imaging it bowing under the pressure. His hand wraps around my throat, lifting me, strangling me. Thomas is suddenly at his back, gripping his shoulders, cursing, prying him away.

I gasp when the grip is released, and Thomas shoves Dean back. We stare each other down. “Truth hurts, doesn’t it, Dean?” I croak out.

He’s ready to explode again. God, how those eyes burn into me. Every part of him is tense, a piece of thin steel pulled back and ready to spring. But he doesn’t. “I’m tired. I’m going to bed,” he says instead, and quickly walks through a doorway.

“Wrong room!” Thomas calls out. Dean exits, glares, and walks into the next.

“Guess this means I have the couch,” I say roughly, rubbing my throat.

Thomas sighs and rubs his forehead. “The pit,” he says. “Remind me again why I got you out?” And he leaves me alone.

************

The boys sleep most of the day. They rise to eat and to watch a little television. And by night, they’ve fallen again, exhaustion and tension taking it’s toll. I watch over them, and let them sleep.

The Earthbound are not supposed to be unpredictable. They have no real capacity for thought. They act on impulse, but it is always the same impulse, which therefore encourages predictable behavior. They rarely come above ground, and when they do so, it is just long enough to take their victims down with them where they disappear for a good length of time, as though working up the nerve to reappear.

This is why I didn’t anticipate the attack.

A crash startles me from my sleep, and loud yells wake me fully. At first I think the sounds are from a nightmare, but there is something in the tone that drives me to my feet, whipping my robe about me. The air chills instantly. I try to turn on the lights, to no avail. Thomas bolts out of his room, looking disheveled in the moonlight and reflected city. We launch ourselves into the room Sam and Dean are sharing.

The place is crawling.

Everywhere there are eyes, beings of darkness, mere shadows, crawling over the walls, hanging from the ceiling, covering the floor. Four are on top of Sam. He’s the one screaming, as they tear at his arms.

I can’t see Dean.

I hurl myself at Sam, flinging the creatures away, and pull him off the bed, and to his feet. A slimy substance strings from him to me as he regains his senses and takes a fighting stance. “Where’s Dean?” he asks me quickly. He’s trembling and trying to regain his composure. I’m sure his memories are terrifying.

“I don’t know.” I swing my arms at two more that head for us. Thomas has a golf club, and anything within reach is fair game.

Sam takes in the darkness around him, and the overly large eyes that glow at him. “They’re like shadow creatures!” he says loudly over the screechings and scrabbling of the Earthbound. “Turn on the lights!”

“I can’t! They’re shut off!” I shout back, but have an idea. I pull at his arm.

We hurry to the kitchen. It’s then that I notice how cold the room is. A rough breeze is blowing through. One of the large bay windows is broken, leaving behind jagged teeth of glass. Sam starts for it as I fling open cabinets.

Thomas keeps cleaning supplies underneath the sink for his maid. I grab a lighter from the drawer next to it, and an aerosol can used for dusting. I rush back in to see Thomas half-buried beneath the Earthbound. Of course, he’s not one to make a scene. Sometimes I wish he would. I light up, and set flames shooting into the room.

The reaction is immediate. The screams are unbearable as they cover their sensitive eyes and release my friend. In a black wave they race out of the bedroom to crash back out of the second window.

“Don’t bother using the one you broke!” Thomas shouts from behind me. He’s limping, and holding his arm.

I turn to him, but a frantic cry sends my attention back to the window. With a stab of fear, I remember the crashing sound that woke me, and suddenly know where Dean is.

Sam has busted out the bottom shards of glass, and is leaning out, yelling. There’s no way, no way, Dean is there. There’s no balcony for him to fall to, nothing to grab hold of. Unless — I suddenly remember the narrow decorative ledge that runs between the floors. It is barely enough to cling to, yet I dare to hope.

I’m frozen to the spot, but Sam’s expression of panic as he looks over his shoulder at me startles me into movement. Dean’s on that ledge. Somehow, he’s hanging on.

I turn to Thomas, reaching for him, ready to bark out an order but he’s two steps ahead of me, snatching the sheet from his bed and rushing to the window. He throws one end out, leans over, calls down. I want to move toward them, but find I am again rooted to the spot. There is sudden tension on the sheet as Sam and Thomas both hold on, tilting back against the weight, yelling encouragement. And finally a hand appears, and Sam grabs on with a grip that looks to break it. He pulls, and another hand appears, then a pained, shocked face. Thomas leans over and grabs him by the waist, and the three of them tumble onto the floor.

Oh – crap. Oh – thank you.

I’m suddenly beside them. Thomas rises to get another towel. Dean is cut, and he’s holding his ankle. “Hit it on that damned ledge,” he says shakily. “That’s how I knew it was there.”

“You held onto that ledge?” I ask in amazement. “It’s barely four inches wide.”

“Better than falling fifteen stories. Managed to get an elbow up.” His bare feet are raw from where he had desperately tried to brace himself, to crawl back up. Sam braces him as he stands and limps to the sofa. He takes a seat beside him, his eyes never leaving his brother.

Thomas returns with damp towels. He hands me two, and I quickly press them to Sam’s bleeding arms. His cuts aren’t deep, but those creatures being what they are, I don’t want to risk anything. I start to clean them thoroughly, ignoring the hisses of pain.

Thomas checks Dean over. He can put weight on his left foot, though it is swelling slightly. His face is lined with cuts, as are his arms, where no doubt he used them to keep most of the glass from slicing his face as he flew through the window. I glance back. Dean had fallen through the lower half, shoved out of it more than likely, rather than thrown. If he had been thrown he would have missed the ledge. As it was, he would have rolled onto it and been able to grab hold. Damned luck. I glance back at him as Thomas dabs at the cuts on Dean’s face. He winces and pulls away.

Thomas then hands him a towel so he can tend to his feet. “You’re not going to want shoes for a while,” he says.

“Please. I have feet like leather.” Dean squeezes the towel around the sole of his left foot, and winces.

Thomas snorts. “I have antiseptic. I’ll be right back.”

“Put it on Sam!” Dean calls out to his back, and turns to his brother, taking in his injuries. “You doing okay there?” he asks, and I notice his voice goes from gruff to something almost tender.

“I’m fine.” Sam’s gritting his teeth, whether from the pain or against the whole situation, I’m not sure. I continue my ministrations, waiting for the ointment, seeing that the long scrapes will not require stitches.

Dean watches me with a critical eye as I doctor Sam, gently wiping down the wounds. Thomas returns with a white tube and some bandages. We easily use over half of it on Sam’s arms, and wrap them tightly.

Thomas then turns to Dean with the tube. Dean stiffens. “No, I’m fine. Really. Give me the tube and get some socks out of my bag, and I’m good to go.”

Thomas huffs slightly, but does as Dean requests. The tube is passed over, and Dean carefully dabs it on his wounds. He is annoyed as Thomas applies a butterfly bandage on a cut over his eye.

“How the hell did you end up out there?” Sam asks. The poor boy is half a mummy.

Dean looks like he doesn’t want to talk about it. “Couldn’t sleep,” he says to his feet. “So I got some water. I saw this shadow outside the window, which bothered me cause we’re like next to God up here, and I’m pretty sure what I saw wasn’t no angel.” He caps the tube. “Next thing I know, I have these – things – on me.” He shrugs off the rest of the explanation.

“And?” Sam’s not letting him off the hook that easily.

“And what? What else is there to know? You wanna know why I didn’t stop them getting to you? I tried, Sam. I saw them head for the door and I tried, but I couldn’t get there.” He leans over, elbows on knees, playing with the tube. He looks up as Thomas hands him his socks. “Thanks,” he mutters.

Thomas studies him for a moment, then kneels before him. “You did the best you could,” he says.

“You mind?” Dean gestures that Thomas is in his way, then gingerly slides a sock over his left foot.

“Did you hear me?” Thomas asks.

“Yeah, I heard. Enough with the pep talk already.” Dean winces as he carefully covers his other foot. The soles are scraped, but once cleaned are not as bad as I had thought, and he is able to put his weight on the floor.

“How did they get in here?” I ask, but no one answers.

“I’m just glad you caught that ledge,” Sam says softly.

Dean looks at him, and there is a mental exchange that only happens between brothers so close. “Yeah. Me too.” And so much more is said in that wordless exchange that I turn away, feeling voyeuristic.

Thomas is looking at the broken windows. He sighs heavily, and reaches for his phone.

************************

Thomas is an odd bird. The oldest memory I have of him, is how he would always follow me around we were young. I’ve no idea where it was, or when, but it snowed often. The snowdrifts were no obstacle for him. He would dance along the tops as light as a puff of dandelion on the wind, while my clumsy self would stagger and fall and sink, and yet he never took the lead. He always followed. He would tease me, saying that he was able to stay up top because I showed him where not to step, but the truth was, he wasn’t a natural leader. He felt better having someone’s directions to follow. Maybe he thought if he messed up, he could put the blame on someone other than himself, though I never heard him do it. Maybe he suffered from a lack of confidence. Maybe it simply never occurred to him to try to lead. I was the one out in front. I was the one that was beaten while he hid in the shadows, waiting for the bullies to back off so he could cart my broken body away. He was my brace, my rock, the one thing I could never live without. Every time I fell, he was there to catch me.

When the illness hit, it hit hard and without warning. One day we were throwing snowballs and eating the glassy flakes as they drifted in the chilled air; next he was on the ground, coughing up red, clotted blood, splattering the pristine innocence of childhood with impending death.

I was at his side, yelling at him to get up. He rolled and looked at me with those bright eyes of his. “I’m sick and tired of you bossing me around,” he said.

He died three days later.
</div>

kamelionwriter — Tue, 05 Feb 2008 22:26:12 GMT

Title: Consequences
Author: kamelion
Rating: K+
Spoilers: none
Fandom: Stargate Atlantis
Word count: small!

The gate opens and the team bursts through, looking over their shoulders, not stopping until the event horizon shuts down behind them, until the ring is dark. Only then do they breathe.

Lorne and his men are shell-shocked, and one man less. Teyla’s hands fall to her knees as she doubles over, her eyes wide with shock. Ronon turns in a slow circle, his eyes to the ceiling, his large hands running over his bound hair. John’s hand is still on his weapon. Rodney is shrinking from him. Angry. Hurt.

Sam doesn’t know what to think. “What the hell happened out there?” Okay, so it isn’t exactly protocol. Screw protocol.

“Genii,” John says in a slow drawl filled with fatigue. “Damned alliance. Had us right where they wanted us.”

“They attacked?”

“You could call it that.”

Sam shakes her head. “You mean the Genii are down there on that planet? Why?” It isn’t something she wants to think about. The Genii are turning into a plague, appearing in the most unlikely places, determined to pick off her people one by one until they get what they want. And to be truthful, she’s no longer sure what they want. The conflict between them has turned more into a game. Almost as though they’re pulling terrorists acts more out of habit than need. Still, they are a viable threat, as is made obvious by the lack of personnel that comes back through. She notices one man missing. “Where is Lt. Thrasher?”

John straightens, and she winces at the crack she hears. “He’s gone.”

“Taken hostage?”

John licks his lips slowly. “I think we should shower, get Rodney checked out. Then debrief.”

Sam recognizes the look in John’s eyes. She sees the defeat there, and as much as she needs to know what is going on, she lets him set the bar. “Very well. One hour.”

John gives her a nod of thanks, and reaches out for Rodney’s elbow. She’s surprised to see him jerk away again, and head off to the infirmary alone.

*******

“Well, looks like you did quite a number on your shoulder.” Dr. Keller clucks as she takes in the tender flesh. “What the hell is that?”

“That would be a physical manifestation of pain,” Rodney snaps. “And you probing at it isn’t helping!”

“I’m just trying to sort out what happened, Rodney, don’t get your panties all twisted.” Keller examines the wound closely. “What kind of weapons did they have?”

Rodney faces her with heavy eyes. “Cosmic ray guns,” he says sarcastically.

Keller sighs. “All right. Fine. If you’re not gonna tell me what happened, then be quiet so I can patch you up and get you out of my lab. Okay?”

It isn’t much of a threat, and she knows it. Still, Rodney turns back. His lips press tight together, his shoulders slump in defeat. Keller forces him to straighten, and ignores the sharp, annoyed intake of breath.

That, she has gotten good at.

“I probably should bind this. Keep you from moving it too much.”

“Just do whatever. I don’t care.” And the problem is, Rodney really sounds like he doesn’t give a crap.

Which, after hearing stories about Rodney’s passion for his own health, just isn’t right at all.

**********************

“Now what happened out there?” Sam clasps her hands together on her desk and gives John her full attention. He’s radiating uncertainty and tension, and that’s never a good sign. “I thought you were going to the planet for trade. You were gone only a few hours. There wasn’t enough time for anything to happen, not to this degree. Not unless it was premeditated.”

“You hit the nail on the head,” John says, and Sam leans back, letting her hands slide to her lap. “It was all a set-up from the get-go. There was no trade. We were ambushed a few miles from the gate.”

“I don’t understand. You’ve come through that gate hot plenty of times, John. What makes this time different?”

John looks skyward, though the sky is hidden from him. Like he’s searching. “I messed up. I went back. We should’ve kept running, but I stopped and went back. And someone died.”

“You went back into the line of fire? Why?”

“Haven’t you?” John asks.

*********

He’s looked for Rodney all evening. John finally sees him in an obscure corner overlooking the city. “You okay?” he asks gently.

The eyes that turn to him are not okay. Neither is his bandaged arm. “What do you want?” he asks.

“I want to know if you’re okay.” .

“I’m fine.” Rodney turns away.

“Yeah, I can see that.” He joins his friend. Tucks his hands in his pockets. In it for the long haul.

Rodney is incredulous. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Waiting for you.”

“For what?”

“I don’t know. To cry, cuss, bitch, moan, anything except give me the silent treatment.”

“I want to think,” Rodney says in a smaller voice, and looks away.

“About what?”

And like flipping a switch, he explodes. “About what? About that! Back there!” He gestures vaguely towards the gate room. “About. . .you leaving him behind.” The eyes are accusing, his voice cold.

And John’s heart freezes. “I didn’t have a choice.”

“You had a choice.”

“No . . .”

“You left him behind!”

“It wasn’t like that!” Sheppard has never heard such venom from his friend.

“Don’t tell me was it was like! I was there! You hardly looked back, and then you went through the gate!”

“He was dead!”

Rodney’s voice shakes. “He reached out for you, Colonel. Or did you miss that?”

Sheppard stares, then shakes his head. There’s no way. There’s no way in hell Rodney saw that soldier . . . “You’re lying.”

“Oh, really?” Rodney steps closer. “You think I’m making this up? I’ve seen people die too, you know. They’ve died right in front of me. Gaul blew his damn brains out in front of me, and did I do anything? No. Why? Because I couldn’t. Now you, on the other hand, all you had to do was look back. Just look back!”

“If I looked back, you would be dead!”

“YOU THINK I DON’T KNOW THAT?” Rodney spins on his heel, then backs Sheppard down once more. “You had no right!”

“I had every right!”

“He was still alive!”

“So were you!” John yelled. “And you were closer!”

Rodney’s voice catches, just for a moment. “He reached out for you,” he tries again.

Sheppard deflates. His eyes are pained. “So did you, Rodney,” he says quietly. “So did you.”</div>