Three Days

~~~~~ THREE DAYS: Five ~~~~~


Dean remembers when his dad told him that the things in the dark were real. He was eight.

They'd still been in Lawrence then, living in a tiny house not two blocks from the one where his mom had been killed.

He'd had the usual nightmares just like any kid, mostly from watching horror movies on television.

But the thing under his bed was different.

Because he'd heard it rustling around when he was awake.

Even though he'd searched under his bed during the day with his dad's heavy mag light, he'd found nothing but dust bunnies. After a month of dealing with whatever it was, Dean decided to take action.

One night, he'd pretended to be asleep, breathing deeply and evenly, one eye barely cracked open, determined to catch a glimpse of whatever it was. He'd heard the usual scrabbles, muffled tappings against the floor, and it'd been all he could do to keep up his fake front.

Eventually, he saw something, a paw with claws, appear at the edge of his mattress. He'd held his breath as another paw appeared, and then two pointed ears, and then...the eyes. They'd been firebright, redorange with rectangular pupils. Then the thing pulled itself onto his blanket, and Dean saw the barred fangs, flashing in the moonlight from the window.

He'd screamed for his dad then, swinging at the thing blindly and fumbling to snap on his bedside lamp. He'd sent the thing sailing, right across Sam's bed, which was right next to his. The thing had smacked against the wall on the other side of Sam's bed, and by the time Dean had been able to get his light on, it had fallen between Sam's bed and the wall.

Of course Sam was screaming bloody murder by then, tearing from his bed and jumping into Dean's, as Sam always did when he was scared. He'd held Sam tight, rocking him to soothe the sobs when their dad had burst in, wild eyed, sawed-off at the ready. Dean could tell his dad had been drinking; his dad almost always put away some booze. He'd pointed to the green spot on the wall where the thing had hit, and his dad had shoved Sam's bed aside, bending down and picking the thing up by its tail.

Dean never got a really good look at whatever it was, but it was a little smaller than a house cat, with big paws, claws, and horns.

He'd caught holy hell from his dad for not talking about the thing sooner: no TV for a week and a month of doing dishes.

What'd pissed off his Dad the most was that Dean had let his fear get the best of him. He'd just lashed out at the thing, and it was sheer luck that it hadn't landed right on top of Sam instead of barely missing his brother and hitting the wall.

It was right after that when Dean's life changed for good. When his dad told him all about what had happened to his mom.

And all the other things that lived in the shadows.

That's when Dean first learned about the 'family business'.

His dad had said then that he was old enough to know, old enough to learn how to defend himself. Old enough to protect Sam.

One of the first lessons Dean's dad had pounded into his head was simple: keep cool. To put a lid on his emotions...especially fear...and keep them in check.

There were other prime directives, of course, like know your enemy and work the problem, not the other way around.

But emotional detachment was key.

And any Hunter that didn't do this, didn't keep frosty and focused, was a dead Hunter. His dad had story after story about Hunters that'd met gruesome ends because they'd failed to follow any one of the basic rules.

They'd been hard lessons for an eight year old to learn, but Dean'd somehow managed it.

And some pretty scary shit had gone down on those first hunts with his father, so maybe that's why he'd been such a quick study. He'd had to learn fast, or else.

If his dad had felt even the smallest bit of fear or anxiety, he never showed it. Definitely not during the hunts, anyway.

So he'd seen his dad walk the walk, and besides, he'd lived for his father's approval; what son didn't?

Failure was not an option.

Those experiences had changed him, and Dean knew it.

And back then, the prospect of being a Hunter, a hero, saving regular schmoes from everything that crawled around in the dark, had held far more appeal than becoming just another mechanic at some run-down garage.

Dean never knew if his ability to shut down his emotions was because he'd been surrounded by the supernatural his whole life, and therefore used to it, or whether he was just good at shoving his feelings into some dark corner and looking the other way. He'd never really thought about it, especially when he was a kid; it was just the way he was, and then, what he'd become.

It worked. For the most part.

He can still hear his dad's voice in his head, running over those unbreakable rules, the Winchester Code.

Especially rule number one: stay frosty.

It echoes around his brain, over and over, an endless loop.

Dean closes his eyes and takes deep breaths, employing the techniques his dad had drilled into him so long ago. Slowly, gradually, the fear diminishes, and he manages to shove it aside and lock it away.

How many other of those rules had he ignored over the last few days?

He had no idea of who he was dealing with, who he was depending on. He didn't have a sound plan. He didn't have back-up. He never should have left the States without knowing all there is to know about Luthar.

Had Bobby tried to hammer that point into his thick skull? Probably.

But he'd let his emotions get in the way...he'd grabbed at anything, no matter how far-fetched, in order to save Sam.

And there was another big fucking problem. He'd let his feelings...his love...for Sam override everything, to obliterate the very code he'd been raised on. That he'd lived and survived on for his entire adult life.

Dean can easily imagine what his dad would have to say about the mess they're in. He'd be totally pissed, sure, but worst of all, he'd be...disappointed.

And probably more than a little nauseated to find that his sons were fucking each other.

Flying in the face of all logic, reason and good taste, it'd happened. He'd fallen for Sam. And Dean didn't give two shits about society's judgment of his relationship with Sam.

Fuck 'em.

No one else knew...no one understood. No one could.

No one but Sam, that is.

Dean knows that all they're ever going to be able to have is each other; neither of them will ever have anything close to a real life. No split level ranch, no two and a half kids, no wife, no 401K.

And after he'd finally accepted it, how he and Sam were so different and apart from everyone and everything else, then all the scrambled pieces of the puzzle fell into place.

So he'd made the decision to accept what little happiness life threw at him, to go sorta Zen and enjoy the moment.

He'd stopped fighting it, he'd let Sam in; he'd grabbed onto his brother, vowing to never let go.

And he's never regretted that decision. Ever.

Dean holds no illusions about how things will go for them. He's seen what happens to Hunters. People in his line of work don't grow old gracefully, retiring to some rest home to collect Social Security and build birdhouses.

Most Hunters don't even make it to fifty. Eventually, the dark shit catches up, and that's it. Roll credits.

Dean'd rather die young and leave a behind a good looking corpse than get old and weak, to shuffle and stumble around until his heart gives out or his mind goes on permanent vacation.

He's pretty sure Sam feels the same way. Sam's probably thought all this out, too. That's his way.

It's a no brainer that he'll do anything to save Sam. There's no price too high, no sacrifice too large.

And Dean's sure that Sam would do the same for him.

It's always been a possibility that one or both of them might buy it...on every single hunt.

They both know it. They've talked about it. It's part of the job.

So why is it so hard to deal with the idea of Sam not making it?

He knows how he should be handling it; he knows that he's got to step outside of his emotions and do what needs to be done.

But it's totally different now.

If things don't go right, and Sam isn't saved, then it won't be some random thing, some spirit or demon killing Sam...it'll be him.

He'll have to pull the trigger that sends a silver bullet into Sam's heart.

And he'll have to look into Sam's eyes when he does it. There's no way that he couldn't.

How the fuck is he supposed to be unemotional about something like that? How is he supposed to turn off his feelings...his everything...in order to kill his own brother?

What would he become afterward? Some kind of dead husk, empty and blank? A hollow, emotionless zombie, forever haunted by that last glimpse into Sam's eyes?

When it came right down to it, their dad never had to face anything like this: a no win scenario.

How far would his dad have gone to save him, if it'd ever come down to that? Or Sam? And if he'd had the chance, what would his dad have done to save their mother?

So maybe his dad didn't have all the answers. How could he?

Maybe, there's more to it than just sticking to the same code, the same patented Winchester formula that'd worked time and time again. Maybe, just maybe, this is Dean's chance to move beyond it, to step out of the shadow of the late, great John Winchester, to find his own way.

To make his own mark.

To face his own Kobayashi Maru...

...and win the game bending...or totally ignoring...the rules.


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


Some time passes after Sam's departure before Dean hears the deadbolts slide again.

He watches from the bed as Bar Guy whips open the door, strutting into the room and brandishing a club. Hell, it really looks like an overgrown Shelaliegh.

Trini wobbles in and quickly cleans up the cold oatmeal, glaring at Dean all the while.

He's disappointed to not see Sam, but not exactly surprised. “So, does Luthar give you guys a nice benefits package? Major Medical and Retirement?” Dean flashes his best smile.

She growls in response before lumbering from the room. Bar Guy grunts menacingly, thwacking the club into the palm of his free hand.

Trini bustles back into the room and sets a fresh bowl of steaming oatmeal onto the bedside table.

“Ya think I can get a mimosa with that?”

“Hmpf.” Trini whirls about and stomps from the room. Before Bar Guy can follow, Dean hops from the bed.

“Hey, tell your fearless leader that I'm ready to see him now, would ya? And I'd really like an upgrade. This room sucks.”

Bar Guy pauses, and Dean can almost hear the gears grinding. He nods, and with another vaguely expressive grunt he's gone, slamming the door behind him.

Dean dumps the oatmeal onto the remaining embers in the fireplace. He verifies that both vehicles are still parked outside before flopping back onto the bed.

At this point, he's pretty much fucked.

Sam's clearly too far gone to count on. Either the impending Change has him fried, or Luthar's done something to scramble his head. So no help there.

The door's too sturdy to break down, and no locking mechanism on the inside. Both windows are nailed shut and barred on the outside. And the fireplace flue is way too small to even think about.

He's fairly certain that he could bust out one of the windows, and given enough time, that he could jimmy the bars enough to slip through. But there's no way he could do it quietly enough to keep the Dynamic Duo from busting in and stopping him.

And they'd probably just bring him some more fucking oatmeal.

But they'd be expecting that kind of thing, wouldn't they?

A totally pointless escape attempt?

Maybe just the thing to get the head cheese's attention.

“Give the people what they want,” he mutters, sliding from the bed and hefting the wooden chair high over his head.

Dean smashes the chair to the floor, and it breaks apart nicely.

He grabs a splintered chair leg, moving toward the nearest window and smashing out the bottom pane. He smiles as he hears heavy footsteps approach his door; he takes out the top window, smashing out both sashes and jamming the chair leg between the bars and the window sill.

Keeping the broken chair leg in hand, he kicks at the bars as best he can, the sounds of agitated Romanian just outside his door.

The deadbolts slide and the door bursts open; Dean spares a glance over his shoulder as Bar Guy stumbles in, shelaleigh waving like crazy. Trini's right behind him, brandishing a frying pan.

Dean whirls around, dropping his chair leg as he throws both arms wide. “Just tryin' to get some air.”

Bar Guy advances, Trini just a step behind, frying pan at the ready.

“You can put all this on my bill, ya know,” Dean says, slowly backing away. Maybe he'd overestimated the brain power of his captors...

“Aducetil in jos, te rog!” a voice yells from somewhere downstairs.

The Dynamic Duo stop their advance; Trini lowers her pan and Bar Guy points his club at Dean.

“You...come.”

“Whatever you say, Lurch.” Dean keeps his arms raised, hands wide. “Bet you've got an awesome singing voice.”

Trini moves aside, gesturing with her pan toward the door.

Dean heads down a narrow hall, past two other doors before encountering a steep, curving stairway. The stairs end in a small entryway, a large door straight ahead and wider, open doorways on either side. Dean's pretty sure the closed door leads outside, and that both cars are parked just beyond it. The door's every bit as heavy as the door to his room, and it's also fitted with a large lockset, which dollars to doughnuts says is locked.

“Dean. In here, please.”

Luthar's voice wafts from the left doorway; Dean feels Trini's pan poke the small of his back, urging him forward.

Dean steps into a large room, some sort of rustic kitchen, maybe. He quickly scans the space, trying to make sense of it. Every window's covered...boarded over. The only illumination emanates from a large fireplace on the right wall, and several oil lamps scattered about on large workbenches.

As his eyes adjust to the gloom, Dean finally spots Luthar in a far corner, bent over a table crammed full of glass jars of every size and shape.

“Be with you in a moment, Dean.”

Trini shoves Dean further into the workspace, Bar Guy glued to his side.

Luthar stands and turns, moving toward them. “Asta e tot, multumesc. Poti sa pleci.”

Bar Guy grunts and leaves, Trini not far behind.

“You must forgive my assistants. They are...well, adequate, at best.” Luthar gestures to a nearby table. “I think you'll find this a far better alternative to Trini's oatmeal.” He smiles, moving back to his original workspace. “She really does mean well, and I haven't the heart to tell her that it's better suited to bricklaying than breakfast.”

Dean sniffs deeply, the delicious aroma of sausage unmistakable. “What the hell? Sausage and gravy? Are you kidding?”

“It's a favorite, is it not?” Luthar says, still working away.

Dean can barely resist the temptation to dig in with full force. “What the fuck's going on?”

“How do you feel?” Luthar asks without looking up.

“Pretty pissed off.”

“Understandable. But honestly, how are you feeling?”

Dean steps over to Luthar. “Aside from totally stressed, annoyed and generally confused, I'm just tits, thanks.”

Luthar laughs. “I have always enjoyed your Americanisms. Like that 'tits', for example. Very amusing, I must say.”

“Great. Glad to give your day a lift.” Dean stands directly behind Luthar. “Where's Sam?”

Luthar stands and turns around, a bemused expression on his face. “Out, somewhere. I'm not really sure, as he didn't say exactly where he was going.”

Dean can barely believe what he's hearing. Last night, the guy could barely string a sentence together. Now, he sounds like low-rent Denholm Elliott. “You let him go?”

Luthar shrugs. “Of course. He's free to do as he pleases. As are you, Dean.” He points to a dark corner of the room. “You'll find all your weapons over there, as well as the satphone and the keys to your rental car. As for Sam, he has a great deal of excess energy that needs to be dealt with, especially now, so close to the Change. I shouldn't worry, as he's most capable of defending himself should the need arise.”

Dean snorts, grabbing his Glock and checking the magazine. “You really expect me to believe that you'd just let us walk right out of here?” He shoves the gun into the waistband of his jeans, scrambling to collect the rest of his possessions.

Luthar stares at him, clearly amused. “If that is what you really want to do, I will not stop you. But since you've gone to all this trouble to find me, I highly doubt that you are serious.”

The guy had a point, but Dean's still having trouble wrapping his head around it. “So if I decide to put my gun to your head-”

“You won't.” Luthar shrugs. “Clearly, you are feeling much like yourself again. Which is good, as you'll need your strength for what is to come.” He holds Dean's gaze a moment before returning to his work.

“Man, you're something else. Listen-”

Luthar cuts him off. “You were most definitely out of sorts last night. You'd been reduced to a near delusional state. We really had no choice but to remove any and all possible dangerous items from your person and wait for you to recover.”

“And that's why you locked me up.”

“Yes. For your own safety. You may still be experiencing some minor side effects. Headache, difficultly concentrating. This is normal.”

“I really don't like being screwed with,” Dean spits out.

Luthar feigns confusion. “You came here to find me, yes?”

“I'm here to save my brother.”

“Indeed.” Luthar pushes past him. “I must apologize for the being so cautious. I've a certain facade that I must keep in place when in public, and it doesn't allow me to be entirely forthcoming.”

Dean watches as he crushes some dried leaves into a jar of brown liquid.

“For awhile there, I wasn't at all certain that I'd be able to convince you that I was, as you say, on the level. But then you and Sam foolishly ventured outside, and the roving spirits intervened.”

The liquid in the jar bubbles vigorously, instantly going clear.

“Ah, just so.” Luthar sits on a nearby stool, swiveling around to face Dean. “You're full of questions, I'd imagine.”

Dean rubs his forehead as he backs against the nearest worktable. “So all that crap last night...it was just an act?”

“No, not entirely. The broken English? Yes. The discussion of trust? Most definitely not.”

“We don't...Sam doesn't have time for games like this.”

Luthar takes a deep breath. “You are correct that time is short. I would like nothing more than to explain everything in great detail, to assuage each and every one of your concerns and fears.” Luthar scratches the back of his neck and runs his index finger around the mouth of the jar of liquid; the stuff reverts back to its original brown color. “You are incredibly stubborn, Dean, and understandably skeptical. My situation here is rather tenuous, and I must tread carefully. An extremely minor slip on my part resulted in the recent and entirely necessary relocation of operations from Bucharest to here. The advancement of technology is a wonderful thing, but it also complicates matters immensely should one desire to preserve their anonymity.”

Luthar stands and lays a hand on Dean's shoulder. “I was well aware that I was failing to gain your confidence last night, so I'd left you and your brother at the table in an attempt to contact Bobby in the hopes that he could reassure you as to my validity. Fate, as she often does, intervened, and you were nearly overcome by one of the local nuisances.”

“You call that mist stuff a nuisance? Pretty serious shit, in my book.”

“Compared to the multitude of dangerous entities that inhabit the area, I stand by my assessment. I'm simply relieved that I was able to intercede in time.”

Dean shakes his head. “Are you trying to say that you...you kept that mist from doing...whatever it was doing?”

Luthar nods. “Yes. I have had many encounters with Spiritele Suparat, so temporarily cleansing an area of their presence is no problem for me.”

Dean shivers at the memory of the coldness, the oddly calming whispers. “The light...I can sorta remember...”

Luthar nods. “A meager counterattack, I assure you. Effective, though.”

Dean stares at Luthar, and aside from the lack of a cigarette and a different shirt, Motley Crue this time, he looks exactly the same as he did last night.

And his eyes...those incredibly bright, knowing eyes...those are exactly the same, too. “Can you help us? Can you help...save...Sam?”

Hey, why not go for broke.

Luthar nods. “Yes. There is a very good chance that your brother can be spared the Change.”

Dean studies Luthar's face, his eyes ablaze, almost as if they're capturing every bit of light cast from the lamps and the fireplace.

“You're the alchemist.”

“At your service,” Luthar replies softly.

The room suddenly turns cool, goose flesh rising up all over Dean's skin. “I shoulda guessed.”

“I walk a fine line, Dean,” Luthar says, folding his arms across his chest. “I have survived by keeping to the shadows, yet walking a tightrope between the dark and the light. I do not expect you to understand...”

Dean waves a hand. “Save it. It's cool. At this stage of the game, I've no choice. I've gotta trust you.”

Luthar actually bows slightly. “I am in Bobby Singer's debt. And he has instructed me to satisfy that debt by doing everything in my power to prevent the Change from overtaking your brother. And I have the means and power to do so...” He tails off, shrugging.

Dean studies Luthar, still more questions presenting themselves. What exactly was he? How much did Bobby really know, after all? He could ask, but he probably wouldn't get a straight answer. And at this point of the game, it didn't matter. He'd just have to trust the guy.

For once, Sam's life was in someone else's hands.

Someone else's other than Dean's.

“Yeah, you've the power...and,” Dean says, stepping a bit closer.

Luthar chuckles. “Again, I have had some experiences with werewolves. Werebears, werefoxes, even wereowls, if you can imagine. I have what I consider to be a sound plan of action concerning your brother's condition. It is untried, and with any new process, there are no guarantees. Make no mistake, Dean, it will be an immensely difficult undertaking. And as I said last night, the rest...” He closes the distance to Dean, pointing a finger to the center of Dean's chest. “Is up to you.” He smiles, a crooked, knowing smile, trailing his fingers up to Dean's chin and along his jawline.

Dean backs away into the nearest table, jars clinking and rattling against each other. The dim room is nearly silent, save for the low crackle of flame from the fireplace.

Luthar tilts his head to one side. “I believe that your brother has returned.” He returns to his stool, studying the jar of clear liquid for a moment before reaching for a another, seemingly at random.

From the entry hall, the lock clicks loudly and the front door swings open. Dean turns toward the hall, momentarily blinded by the relative brightness from outside. He instinctively throws a hand up, squinting as a huge shape fills the doorway.

“Dean!”

“Sammy?” Dean rushes to the open door.

The shadow bears down on him, picking him up and twirling him around as if he were a rag doll.

“Man, I'm glad you're finally feeling okay!” Sam hugs him so tightly Dean can barely breathe. “I was worried that those things had really messed you up.” He releases Dean, turning to slam the door.

Dean catches his breath, watching as Sam moves past him into Luthar's workshop. His eyes readjust after the burst of outside light; from the hug, he knows that Sam's shirtless, apparently wearing nothing but his jeans and boots.

“Did you explain everything to him?” Sam asks, obviously of Luthar.

“As much as he needs to know,” Luthar says, intent on his work. “For now.”

“Great,” Sam says, brushing long strands of hair away from his face.

Dean stares at his brother, who's almost unrecognizable. Sam's chest and torso is now heavily furred; and even the new covering of hair can't hide Sam's definitely larger chest and shoulder muscles. The jeans that they'd purchased for him only yesterday are trashed, full of rips and covered in mud.

And where only an hour or so earlier he'd looked like he'd just really needed a shave, Sam now had a full beard. “Holy shit, Sam.”

Sam chuckles. “Yeah, it's moving pretty fast now.” He notes Dean's distressed expression. “But it's so cool. I had to blow off some steam, so I went running...out in the forest...and it's amazing!” He steps closer, leaning down, his eyes afire. “I've never felt so alive, so free. And so in sync with everything.”

“Oh, man,” Dean murmurs, his fingers tracing a path down Sam's forearm. He winces at the multitude of scrapes and scratches to Sam's chest and arms, and the bits of leaves and dirt stuck to his sweat-slicked skin. He looks up, sucking in a breath at what can only be stains of blood on Sam's chin.

Sam shrugs and then places both hands on Dean's shoulders. “It's okay. Don't worry.”

“Sam, go and get cleaned up, yes? You must prepare yourself. Remember what we spoke of.” Luthar spares Dean a slight glance before rising and moving to another table. “Serghei is waiting for you.”

“Yeah, sure.” He hugs Dean again. “I'm glad you're okay.”

Dean watches Sam leave, who has to duck slightly to clear the header of the doorway.

“I know what you are thinking,” Luthar says, moving to another table and lighting a small burner.

“Do you, really?” Dean steps up behind Luthar. “How are we gonna be able to fix him? He's changed so much...and the blood.”

“It is what it is. The lycan within him is stirring, pacing, anxious to be born. Fortunately, at this stage, his hunger is sated by common game. I know it is difficult for you to watch, to be helpless to prevent it. And feeling helpless is something that you detest. But at the risk of sounding extremely repetitive, you must trust in my knowledge and experience.” He looks up to Dean, nodding slightly. “What has been done can be undone.”

“And you've told Sam your plan, then?”

“All that he needs to know.”

“Just like you'll tell me what I need to know when I need to know it.”

Luthar smiles. “Just so. Allow me to bear the burden, Dean. There are many things that you, and Sam, are better off not knowing.” He returns to his stool, gathering more jars. “You should eat now, as it will be a rather long and arduous afternoon and evening. And I still have much preparation to attend to.”

Dean watches Luthar for a moment before sitting at a nearby table. He pokes at the plate of sausage and biscuits, still hot and smelling far too delicious.

He wonders what his dad would do in this situation...would he take the reins and force Luthar to be more open? Would he possibly hold him prisoner until he coughed up the process?

Maybe something along those lines. Probably.

One thing he's sure of: whatever 'process' Luthar has in mind has got to be pretty serious. Anything powerful enough to reverse what's happened to Sam will definitely carry a heavy price.

As Luthar works, Dean begins to eat, determined that whatever the price may be, he'll pay it.


~~~~~ tbc ~~~~~