Three Days

~~~~~ THREE DAYS: Four ~~~~~


Dean watches as Luthar slouches his way over to the bar.

The really odd thing is that no one...not a single other person in the place...looks at him. At all. Aside from Trini and the bar guy, that is.

Luthar says something to Sam, who immediately looks up and over to Dean. Luthar says a bit more, Sam nods, and Luthar moves behind the bar and disappears into what Dean guesses is the kitchen.

One thing for sure: Luthar's hiding far more that he's telling, and in Dean's experience, that's never a good sign. The guy's also into playing head games, which doesn't win him any points, either.

Sam ambles over to the table, apparently given permission to do so by Luthar. “Hey,” Sam says, looking over his shoulder toward the kitchen as he takes Luthar's seat.

“Over here,” Dean gestures, sliding across the bench make room. “I don't want creepo sittin' next to me.”

Sam slides in next to Dean, still looking toward the bar. “Quite the character.”

“Tell me about it. I don't like this, Sammy. Not one bit. That guy's bad news.”

“I know what you mean. Didja see how no one but the waitress and the bartender ever look at or speak to him?”

Dean nods. “Yeah. What do you think is up with that?”

“Dunno.” Sam swallows some of his beer. “He's definitely got the run of the place. And he's not local.”

“How do you mean?”

Sam looks toward the kitchen again. “His accent's all wrong. Not the same as the other natives we've talked to, anyway. I'd say he's definitely not Romanian.”

Dean nods, sipping his own beer. “I'm starting to wonder if he's even human.”

Sam throws him a quizzical look.

“It's just a feeling...like his eyes...his voice. They just don't jive with the package.”

“Like he's possessed?”

“Not possessed; but definitely somethin' in the meatsuit category.”

Sam thinks a moment. “He's not playing straight with us, I'm sure of that. And he, well, smells funny.”

Dean snorts. “He probably hasn't hosed off since the nineties.”

“That's not what I mean. It's...well, he smells...dangerous.”

“Dangerous?”

“Yeah...I know it sounds crazy, but that's the only way I can put it.”

Dean considers Sam's statement, trying to make sense of it. Smelling danger? Sort of like how animals sniff the air to determine if any predators...or prey...are nearby? Considering Sam's condition and increasingly shaggy appearance, it does seem logical that his senses are becoming more heightened, more sensitive.

And if that's really happening, then what other changes are going on with Sam, deep down inside?

“It's weird,” Sam says softly. “Like, with most of the people in here...I can sense, or almost feel their fear.” He faces Dean. “Of me.”

Dean takes a sip of his beer. Hell, if he didn't know Sam, he'd definitely give him a wide berth. “Well, can you blame 'em? I mean, considering...”

Sam nods. “Guess not. I'm sure I look pretty scary about now.”

“Not to me.” Dean nudges Sam's knee with his own. “Check it out. Trini and bar guy are starin' again.”

Sam leans back, taking a swallow of beer and scanning the bar, nodding to the bar guy before turning back to Dean. “Sentries?”

“How about familiars, then?”

Sam nods. “A witch? Maybe. With all the wards on this place, that fits. So what about Luthar's voice?”

“He'd take on this tone, this sorta commanding quality or something. Not like I fell under a spell, but it was creepy as hell. I don't like it, man.”

“Neither do I. This place is...wrong. And the people...they're nothing like everyone else we've run into, in Bucharest or Slatina. This bunch, aside from how they feel about me, they're sorta-”

“Zombified?”

Sam shrugs. “Dazed, more like. Enthralled, maybe.”

“Like they're under a spell?”

“Either that, or they're just plain scared of Luthar.”

Dean shakes his head. “So why do they all come in here, then? The food's not that great. It doesn't add up.”

“Dunno. I need to do some digging to get real answers.” Sam nods to the flat screen. “Even though they've got satellite, I doubt they've got wi-fi.”

“We're way out in the rough here,” Dean murmurs, glancing around the bar again. “And where's creepo? What'd he say to you?”

“Nothing much. Just that you'd had a good talk, and that if all went okay, I'd be fine.”

“That's it?”

“That's it.” Sam pauses a moment, almost as if he's waiting for something. “So?”

“So what?”

“What'd he say to you?”

Dean swallows the last of his beer. “Stupid shit. The same thing over and over. I have to trust him. Can't do anything without trust. That sort of thing.”

“Makes sense.”

Dean snorts. “No, there was more to it than that. He kept at me, hounding me, until I said exactly what he wanted me to say.” He looks at Sam. “Like I said, man, it was weird.”

Sam nods and stares at his beer mug.

Dean knows that look when he sees it. “What? Out with it, Sam.”

“This isn't going to work, is it?” He meets Dean's gaze for only a moment before looking back at his beer. “We're in over our heads.”

“Hey, when has that ever stopped us before?” Dean leans in, his shoulder touching Sam's. “We've come this far-”

“But Dean, I...” Sam stammers, still avoiding looking in Dean's direction. “I don't want to drag you down with me. I'm tryin' to keep positive, but, shit, man, look at this place! We're runnin' blind.”

Dean leans back and sucks in a deep breath. His head's about ready to explode. And Sam's right, they are in over their heads. But they can't stop now...he won't stop now.

“But we'll figure it out. We always do.”

Sam stares at the flat screen, the soccer match still in progress. “While you were talking with Luthar, I did some thinking.”

“Sam...”

“No, let me get this out, okay? It's just that, well, no matter how things turn out, whether Luthar can help, or if this alchemist is bogus or doesn't even exist, it doesn't really matter.”

Dean shakes his head, wanting nothing more than to shut Sam down, but he knows from experience that when Sam's on a roll, the best thing to do is just let him go. No matter how wild or screwed up it is.

“I want to be cured, I really do. But if I'm not, and you have to do what you have to do, then I'm okay with it. I think I've made peace with it, Dean. I'm not giving up, it's just that I'm, well, sorta accepting the possibilities. And it's like a huge weight's been lifted away, ya know? I appreciate everything you're doing, you and Bobby. And I don't even know what to say or how to thank you for it...for everything.”

“All I need...” Dean pauses, struggling to find the right words. “I need you to hang in there, okay? I'm kinda on the ragged edge here, so I need to know that I can count on you. Got it?”

“Dean, you can, but...”

“So let's work the problem. We're Hunters, man. Let's act like it.”

Sam nods but says nothing.

“We should to talk to Bobby about creepo. I've got questions that we need answered.”

Sam checks his watch. “It's only 5:30 in the morning there.”

“He's a light sleeper. Do it.”

Sam pulls out the bulky satellite phone. “We've got to be outside for this to work.”

Dean smacks his forehead. “Damn...right, right.”

“Be right back.”

“No way, Sasquatch. I'm not lettin' you outta my sight. We'll both go.”

“What about Luthar?”

“Fuck him.”

Sam holds up his hands. “Let's go, then.”

Dean grabs Sam's mug and drains the last of the beer from it. “Let's move.” Dean notes that all heads turn in their direction as they head toward the door. He flips Trini a hearty salute, and she frowns in return. Bar guy's nowhere in sight.

Once outside, Sam flips up the satphone's antenna and powers it up.

Dean scans the area, drawing his Glock. “Dial, dude.”

“I can't.”

“What?”

“No signal.”

Dean's heart skips a beat. The satphone was supposed to work everywhere, all around the world. Sam'd done tons of research to find the best phone and provider, plus they'd coughed up a shitload of money for the thing. And it'd tested out fine back in Bucharest. “Is it on?”

Sam shots him a withering stare. “Yeah, it's on and fully charged. There's just...nothing.”

“That's impossible.”

Sam holds the phone so Dean can see. “Nothing. No sat lock.” He lifts the phone over his head, slowly turning in a small circle. “No dice, Dean.”

“Fuck.” Dean backs up to Sam, struggling to keep calm. Every sense had told that the place had been all wrong. Every sense had warned him that Luthar couldn't be trusted. And now, it was all coming down on them.

He scans the open parking area and the short stretch of road that can be seen from where they're standing. The nearly full moon is barely visible through the dense canopy of branches, even more diffused due to the overcast skies. Pale moonlight illuminates the multitude of trunks surrounding them.

Dean hears Sam release the safety on his gun. Other than that, it's dead quiet.

Too quiet.

“Sam...listen.”

“What? I don't-”

“Exactly.”

“Shit.”

A chill shoots up Dean's spine; is it just the adrenaline, or did it suddenly get really cold? He glimpses a roiling wave of mist approaching from the road. “Sam! Ten o'clock!”

“Got it,” Sam replies, his back to Dean's.

Dean whirls around, confused. Head for the car, or go back inside? He glances toward the door of the inn and stares as some of the runes carved into the entrance way begin to glow.

“Jesus!”

“Where to?” Sam calls out, moving to cover Dean's back again.

Dean's brain locks up. He watches as the mist rolls over itself, closer and closer, thick and smooth, like oil mixed with water.

“Dean!”

He can't think; he can't process anything.

The mist flows closer, sinews of pale yellow amongst the swirling black-grey. It's almost beautiful, really, and the more he stares at it, the more Dean can almost hear it, a multitude of thin whispers, meandering, ravenous.

The mist continues its approach, and Dean's shoved sideways. Sam's voice intrudes from somewhere far away; Dean feels numb, detached.

“C'mon!”

He can't take his eyes from the mist and the drone of its murmurs. It can't be so bad, not if it's so beautiful. He reaches for it, but strong hands pull him in the opposite direction.

The keys! Gimme the keys!

Is it Sam yelling at him? He can't be sure, because he's focusing on the whispers. If he tries hard enough, he can almost hear them clearly...

He slams against something cold and hard; something slips through his fingers, and he watches a gun fall, slowly tumbling over and over to the dirt.

Dean! What the fuck!

Sam again? He glances away from the mist for a moment, locking eyes with Sam, who's totally wild, totally freaked. It doesn't make sense. The whispers are so soothing, so calm.

Sam jams a hand into the pocket of his jacket and pulls out a set of keys. He watches with an odd detachment as Sam points the fob thing at the shape behind him...

Oh yeah, their BMW.

It's not working!

Sam's voice again, even further away now as he bends down to pick up the gun Dean dropped. The mist is almost upon them now, the yellow threads moving faster, stronger, thrumming from yellow to orange to red.

No longer whispering, it's speaking now, talking right to him, beckoning for him.

Sam stands in front of him, a gun in each hand, aiming at the mist as it surrounds them, surging higher and higher. He feels Sam press against him, and both guns fire, bright flashes momentarily blinding him.

I'm sorry, Dean

More gunfire, and the mist whirls around them, shapes forming in the maelstrom. A multitude of voices rising as one, a shrill scream calling to him, assuring him, reaching for him, ready to take him into their arms and swallow him whole...

Their glacial fingers entwine around his legs, piercing talons of iciness clawing their way upward, grasping him ever tighter.

The gun noises cease, and Sam falls quiet, also succumbing to the cold fire.

His mind slows even more, every worry and concern eroding away, gradually settling to rest.

Imperturbable hands caress his face as the whorls of red, gray and black blot out all else.

And from very far away, something faint, something familiar: Dean, no...

It's good.

It's fine.

He's about to release the final bit of himself to the mist when something stirs.

Something's interfering with the blessed mist...

Something's there... it approaches.

The something blasts through the precious coolness...

...wintry digits release him, withdrawing in haste, fleeing in fear at the onslaught of the something, of the light.

He turns away as the light grows brighter, stronger, eradicating the dark coldness.

He feels Sam crush against him as the light engulfs them both, wrapping itself around them, snatching them away from the retreating mist.

And the light enters his mind, brighter than a thousand suns...


~~~~~~~ *~* ~~~~~~~~


...Dean...

Darkness to light, silence to a wailing chorus of screams from the damned in a flash...

“Sam!?”

Dean scrambles to hoist himself out of the bed, his head too light, his legs refusing to cooperate. His body tingles all over, and as he stands up far too fast, the room tilts and threatens to turn upside down.

He stumbles toward the closest wall, thumping against it as his head clears. The room rights itself enough for him to stand on his own, and he looks around, momentarily confused.

“Sam?”

He's back at the hostel, the same cramped, run-down room, the same walls peeling paint...

“No way...”

He moves to the window, brushing the tattered curtains aside...

...a familiar featureless grey sky, swept with darker bruises of purple and redblack, smoke and billowing plumes of flame spewing from the bare earth. A few twisted trees, jagged lightning bolts shooting upward into the roiling clouds...

“Man, you really are a piece of work, Dean.”

Dean spins around, and he's outside, on the edge of that wasted plain, the turbulent cloud cover so low that he almost feels the need to duck down. Sam stands before him, taller and shaggier than ever.

Nightmare Theater again.

Great.

“Just get it over with,” he says, finding a nearby rock and sitting down. “And in the interests of saving time, you can just fast forward to the new material.”

Sam smiles, displaying a mouthful of inhumanly large teeth. “Fine. It's your dream.”

“If it really were mine, there'd be strippers.”

Sam nods and steps closer. “Funny. Always quick with the snappy comeback. Piss poor defense mechanism. You're not fooling anyone, Dean.”

Dean looks away, and the hulk of the wrecked Impala now sits just a few feet away.

Sam laughs. “You're in over your head. "Can't you see it? You're fumbling around in the dark, lost. You're on the ragged edge, man, and you're gonna lose.”

Dean stands and walks toward the Impala. “Nah. I've always seen the glass as half-full.” He runs his fingers over a tiny section of un-ruined fender.

Sam's right there beside him. “You're not strong enough, Dean. You can't do it alone. That's why you really came to Stanford and begged me to join you. Because you couldn't hack it by yourself. Because you're weak.”

The ground rumbles and shakes as lightning arcs just over their heads. Thunder rattles loose trim around the Impala's windshield.

“You dragged me back into the life because you so totally sucked as a Hunter on your own. You know it's true.”

“This is getting old already.” Dean's chest feels way too tight, and he turns away from Sam, but Sam's right there again, towering over him.

“Why don't you ever talk about all the hunts you went solo on, Dean? After you abandoned dad and before you came crawling to me? If you're such the awesome Hunter, why haven't you ever told me about the vampire in Chattanooga? Or the poltergeist in Savannah?” Sam inches closer. “How many people died because you fucked up? Face it, Dean. You were worthless without me, and now, you're terrified that you're gonna be alone again. 'Cause you're not gonna get lucky this time. And without me, what will you be?”

Dean closes his eyes and concentrates on...anything. Anything at all other than the past. Maybe he can shake himself out of the dream...

He feels hands grip his shoulders.

“Man up, Dean. It's okay to be afraid.”

Dean looks up into Sam's eyes...his yellow eyes. “You're not my brother, freak...”

“Not yet. But real soon.” Sam flicks the fingers of his right hand, already long fingernails growing into sharp claws. “When the moon rises, this'll be me,” Sam murmurs, his incisors stretching into fangs. “It's okay, really. I don't blame you for letting me down.” Sam moves in close. “I always knew that you didn't have it in you.”

Sam caresses Dean's cheek, sharp claws raking open skin. “It'll all be over, soon.” Sam opens his mouth, razor sharp teeth fully barred. He rears his head back, ready to strike...

“Dean! No more!”

Dean jerks his head just enough to catch a glimpse of Luthar standing on a rock, a cigarette dangling from his mouth. “No more,” he repeats, snapping his fingers...

Darkness to light, silence to wailing chorus of screams from the damned in a flash...

“Holy fuck,” Dean breathes, scrambling to the edge of the bed. His head's pounding and his legs are all pins and needles. He catches his breath, almost hesitant to get his bearings.

I always knew you didn't have it in you.

He rubs his eyes, hoping that the doing of it will somehow erase the most recent adventures in nightmareville. Now was not the time to analyze his fucked up visions.

“Definitely not the hostel again,” he murmurs, slowly standing on unsteady legs.

He finds his boots next to the bed, his jacket and flannel folded over the foot rail.

And no Sam, either.

Not a surprise.

He scans the strange room, running through a series of stretches to work out the kinks. A pretty standard bedroom, by the looks of things, Romanian rustic, of course. Big bed, night table, a chair, a huge wardrobe, and that's about it. Rough plaster walls, big beams on the ceiling, plank flooring. Back home, someone could get a pretty penny renting it out as a primitive bed and breakfast thing.

The house is nearly silent; the only sounds are from the gusty winds outside.

A few embers glow in a small fireplace on the far wall. Moving to one of the two windows that flank it, he finds the first window securely nailed shut with bars on the outside, just like the inn. The second window's the same as the first.

Daylight, maybe morning, maybe noon, as there aren't any shadows and the tiny bit of sky visible through a break in the surrounding trees is flat grey. Luthar's station wagon and the BMW sit just below, and a narrow drive winds away into the dense pack of trees. No other buildings or a road are in sight.

He automatically glances at his watch to find it missing. “Great.”

He finds the wardrobe empty, as are all the pockets in his jacket and flannel. He feels for his ankle holster, and that's gone too. No gun, no knife, nothing.

Since the BMW's outside, it means that Sam is somewhere nearby.

Padding to the only door, he carefully twists the doorknob. The striker slides easily, so he pulls on the door...but it doesn't budge. He pulls harder; still no dice. Definitely locked from the outside. He presses his shoulder against the vertical planks to test the door's strength, finding it disappointingly solid.

Fucking hand craftsmanship.

What he really needed about now was a cheap, American hollow-core door.

No such luck.

“Dammit.” He paces the room a few times before sitting on the bed and pulling on his boots.

The start of the encounter with the mist was pretty clear in his mind, but after that, next to nothing. It'd definitely been bad news, and Dean recalls that somehow, something bright had gotten him away from it. Whatever either of the things had been, he hadn't a clue. That'd have to wait. For now, his first priority is to get the hell out of this room, and then to find Sam.

He just finishes lacing his second boot when the sound of approaching footsteps comes to him from outside the door. He jumps up, hesitating for only a second before throwing open the wardrobe and wrenching the wooden hanger rod loose.

He positions himself next to the door as the heavy steps come closer, creaking floorboards giving way to sharp metal clinks and clanks as a shitload of dead bolts are thrown.

Dean raises the hanger rod as the door clicks open and swings wide; a form steps through the doorway, pausing a moment before completely clearing the door...

He lets loose, swinging the rod for all it's worth, snapping the rod in half and sending the person...Trini...to the floor. A bowl skids toward the fireplace, trailing what looks like oatmeal behind it.

Dean rushes over to her, quickly patting her down but finding nothing.

Trini moans, but stays put on the floor.

Dean moves fast, adrenaline shooting though his veins. He shrugs into his flannel and jacket, and with his trusty broken hanger rod in hand, rushes for the open door. At least now he'll be able to find...

“Dean? What the hell?”

...Sam!

Dean plows right into his brother in the doorway. “Sammy!" It was nearly too good to be true, but when fate decides to favor him, Dean's not one to argue. "Great. I was hoping you weren't locked up too. They took everything; you're packin' right?”

Sam just stares down at him, his brow furrowed. “It's okay. Don't worry.”

Dean glares at Sam, desperately trying to ignore the longer hair, the super thick stubble on his face and neck. “It's definitely not okay, here. Since when is it okay to lock someone up like a prisoner? We need to go.”

Sam nods, but steps further into the room, pushing Dean backward. “We locked you up for your own safety. You were delirious, Dean. Luthar says it's completely normal, especially after running into spiritele suparat.” He gently brushes his fingers across Dean's cheek. “We were really worried about you.”

“We? We?” Dean throws his arms wide. “Are you high? Since when have you and creepo become butt buddies?”

“You're still a bit out of it,” Sam says with a shake of his head. “But after the number those roving spirits did on you, I'm not surprised.”

“Sam, this doesn't make sense. What the fuck's happened to you?”

“Nothing. I'm fine. Like I told you last night, I've made peace with myself. And after a long talk with Luthar, I understand. Everything.” He smiles and glances down to Trini. “You need to eat something, though.”

This was not good...not good at all. Dean turns Sam to face him. “What I need...is for you to snap out of...of whatever kinda trance you're in. If these spirit things haven't done a number on you, then Luthar has.”

Trini groans and sits up, holding the back of her head. She glowers at Dean, mumbling something in Romanian.

Sam helps her to her feet. “E okay. Eu yoi cuarta asta.”

She nods, sparing Dean one last sneer before trudging from the room.

Dean's stomach twists into knots. “What...” he trails off, barely believing what he's seeing and hearing. It's almost like one of his nightmares, but worse, as he's sure that he's wide awake.

Sam picks up the empty bowl and spoon. “I'm not in a trance, Dean. The spirits didn't affect me. They can't. And Luthar's not what you think he is. He really can help. But only if you trust him.” He turns toward the door, pausing a moment. “I'll be back in a minute to clean that up.” He holds up the bowl. “And with some more oatmeal. Relax, Dean. Get your head on straight, okay? When you're ready, you can see Luthar.” He smiles again, which sends shivers down Dean's spine.

Sam closes the door, and as the deadbolts slide into place, one after the other, Dean drops onto the bed, the broken hanger rod slipping from his hand.

The walls close in, and for the first time, Dean's really, truly afraid.


~~~~~ tbc ~~~~~~