SEVEN

Dean jerked violently from the shot and felt himself lose all muscle control in an unequivocal downward motion.

He realised three things in quick succession:

I can still feel something in my hands.

I can still feel my hands?

I’m still thinking!

He opened his eyes quickly, finding his face pressed to something cold and wooden.

“Dean!”

The cry came from somewhere above him, and he pushed his hands under himself, groaning in pain or confusion or just plain effort as he lifted himself up. His head collided with something unexpectedly soft as he did so.

Something grabbed his arms and hauled him backwards. He fought to keep his balance, then realised he was actually upright on his knees. His hands found a wide, soft shelf and his eyes focused on it.

His vision cleared and he made out the bed, the blankets all twisted up and the pillows missing.

“S- Sammy?” he dared, trying to turn.

“I got you,” Sam’s voice reassured him quickly.

It trickled into his muggy brain that the somethings supporting him while his hands found purchase on the bed were actually his brother’s hands.

“I’m not dead?” he blurted, surprised.

Sam didn’t comment and he just concentrated on letting his breathing slow. He tried to believe he wasn’t prolonging the moment, just because the feel of his brother’s fingers on his own skin reassured him that he was actually still alive. He waited until he could see properly before shaking his hands off him almost irritably and pulling on the bed to stand up.

“What the h-hell’s going on?” he demanded, feeling much more stable as he turned and looked around the motel room.

It was all exactly as they had left it, the night before they’d left for New Orleans. Dean’s jacket and beer-soaked shirt were hanging on the back of the rickety wooden chair by the mirror, the car keys and Sam’s laptop together on the table.

“What happened, you just fell out of bed?” Sam asked, spooked. “You alright, man? You look… spaced,” he judged.

Dean turned around in a full circle, looking around the room quickly and noting all the fine details. He lifted his hands to look at them quickly, noting his watch was still present but his amulet had gone from his wrist. He put both hands up quickly to his bare chest, finding it hanging back where it belonged.

He blew out a sigh and stumbled backwards, sitting on the bed heavily and leaning over, wiping his hands over his face.

“Sammy, what’s the last thing you remember?” he dared, looking up at him finally.

His younger brother was standing over him, his worried frown communicating his anxiety all too clearly.

“Me?” he demanded, “What about you? I’ve had to listen to you cursing in your sleep for the past hour.”

“So we’ve just left the bar, right? We checked in here, right? I washed the beer off then went to bed, right? Right?” he pressed.

“Yeah! Right!” Sam protested. “What’s with the twenty questions?”

“So you have no memory of chasing down Black Shucks, railroad engineers or Pool Guy?” he asked quickly.

“No!”

“Mafia Dude?”

“No, Dean!”

“You still pissed at me for hitting on that barmaid?”

“Barmaid?” he echoed, looking confused, “What barmaid? All I remember is you losing a darts match to some biker dude and him smacking you over the head with a beer bottle. I saved your ass, driving us here and letting you sleep off the hundreds of shots you’d had. You see what an awesome brother I am sometimes?” he said pointedly.

Dean sighed, shaking his head and looking around again slowly.

“Well what can I say, Sammy,” he said weakly, “it’s been a hell of a yesterday-that-never-was. When are you going out for coffee?”

“You are gonna explain this later,” he said archly, turning and heading for the table, where his wallet was currently sitting. “Jerk,” he added under his breath.

“Hey,” Dean said sternly, “don’t forget the doughnuts this time.” He paused, watching Sam walk to the door of the motel room. “Bitch.”

Sam almost smiled but hid it well, walking out and closing the door behind him.

Dean got up quickly, walking to his jacket and sorting through it hurriedly. He didn’t find what he wanted and turned to his jeans, pulling them on roughly before yanking his boots on his bare feet and up-ending his duffle, snatching the first clean t-shirt and unfurling it with a snap. He pulled it on over his head and hurried to the door, remembering to turn back and snatch up the car keys.

He went outside and found the Impala parked in the very first space. He felt some relief and crossed round to the boot. He unlocked it and lifted the lid impatiently, cracking the false floor up and shoving his hand underneath it.

His fingers connected with the holster and then the smooth handle on his favourite semi-automatic Colt. He pulled it free but kept it low in the boot where it would be hard for passers-by to see. He slid his fingers over the barrel and then took a shifty look round.

Making sure no-one was around, he leaned forward mostly into the boot and sniffed at the barrel.

“Recently fired,” he tutted. He unclipped the magazine and checked the stock: empty. He thought for a second, then put his hand to his jeans pocket and patted it.

He closed his eyes as he heard the unmistakeable tinkle of rounds. He slid his hand in his pocket and counted them against his fingers. Six. Just six.

He opened his eyes and leaned forward again, sliding the gun back under the shelving and into the holster. He locked it home and straightened, closing the boot soundly.

He put his hand up to his temple slowly, afraid of what he might find. What he did find was a slight roundish impression in his skin, almost like a pattern from a pillow he’d slept on.

He wiped his hands together thoughtfully then walked back inside the motel room, closing the door silently behind him. He sat on the bed and thought for a long time. Then he realised he’d need Sam, the smarter brother, and his take on this one.

--

Sam came back in to hear his brother in the shower. He ignored the husky singing and sounds of steadily pounding water as he sat on his bed, peeling the two lids off the steaming cups of coffee and digging into the closest paper bag and a savoury pastry.

The singing and the water stopped and it was quiet for a few minutes while Sam sat back against the headboard and thought about his morning so far.

Eventually a fully-clothed Dean emerged from the bathroom, not looking at Sam as he walked round and picked up the coffee nearest his own bed. He lifted it but paused suddenly, catching Sam’s attention.

“What?” he asked. “I didn’t put anything in it, if that’s what you’re worried about. I’m not that obvious,” he smiled.

Dean snorted with amusement. “No, I’m… I just don’t want to burn myself this time,” he said.

“This time?” Sam asked. “Are you alright, man? I mean, I’ve seen you tie one on a hundred times before, but you’ve never leapt out of bed and made like the Spanish Inquisition afterwards.”

Dean actually smiled, turning back to his bed and sitting down slowly. He looked at the coffee, then over at Sam.

“I’m sorry, Sam,” he said, slightly amused, but his eyes were anything but.

“What for?” he asked warily. “What did you do now?”

“I’m sorry for all the times I pissed you off, leaving you in the lurch cos there was some chick in it for me.”

“You arrogant bastard!” Sam laughed, putting his coffee down and slapping his hands together. He clapped as he laughed, and Dean just waited him out.

“What?” he asked, confused.

“It’s all you, you, you, isn’t it?” he grinned, and for a second Dean was warmed by the sight of his baby brother genuinely, sincerely amused. There was no dark shadow to the humour, no black edge, no grim attempt to laugh off the darkness; he was just happy.

Something made Dean put his hand up to his temple, letting his two fingers wander over the fading impression of the circular wound that never was. Sam noticed and his face fell slowly.

“What?” he asked quietly. Dean let his hand drop quickly before looking down at his coffee with a face full of guilt. Finally he looked up at him.

“I thought it was just the weirdest dream in the world,” he said gently, as if to himself. “But then I found the rounds in my jeans. And the mark on my head. And my amulet,” he said.

“What?” he asked, sitting forwards, lost and perturbed by it all. “What about your amulet?”

“It’s not back as it was before, it’s not untouched cos it never happened – it’s been fixed,” he said slowly. “So… everything really did happen. And you did what you did – even though you don’t seem to remember – and… and then I did what I did, and now we’re back here,” he said uneasily.

“Man, what are you talking about?” he asked earnestly.

Dean sighed, looked around, and then stood up.

“Come on, Sammy. Let’s get out of Louisiana,” he said quietly. “I’ll explain on the way.”

“On the way where?” Sam asked, already getting off the bed and picking up his cup and bag hastily.

“L.A.,” he said simply.

“Woah, woah, woah, Dean!” Sam protested, as he gathered up his belongings and threw them into his duffle bag. “Why L.A.?”

“Cos there’s this little theatre round the back of Grauman’s – they show old films right through the night. Right now I just want to get down there and make sure they’ve got an old favourite playing,” he said easily, pulling the duffle closed tightly.

“What old favourite?” Sam asked, sensing a greater purpose and deciding to go with it.

“A really cool old flick – you’ll love it,” he said, swinging his duffle onto his shoulder and looking at Sam as he patted his pockets for his car keys.

“It better not be ‘Revenge of the Zombie Nerds From Planet X’, or whatever shit you made me sit through last time,” Sam sighed, walking to the door and opening it.

Dean followed him but stopped to look out, not following him to the car.

The parking lot was nearly devoid of cars and people, but it was flanked by tall, green trees. The bushes were damp from the morning dew, birds flitted about chirping and being cheerful, and just for one second he appreciated the fact that it was daylight, there was nothing to fight standing in front of him, and his brother was waiting for him by the car.

He closed the motel room door behind him and walked over.

“Naw, it’s not some horror flick,” he said cheerfully, surprising Sam with his unaffected smile and bright eyes. “It’s ‘The Big Easy’.”

“Well whatever, man,” Sam said, uncertain, “I’m not buying tickets, you are. And if this movie sucks out loud, you’re buying dinner, too.”

“Fine,” Dean agreed affably, and Sam blinked.

“Ok,” he offered.

“Ok,” Dean nodded, opening the car and getting in. Sam slid into the passenger seat and watched him, a little warily, as he started the engine and revved it slightly for a full minute. “Would you listen to that,” he grinned, and Sam rolled his eyes.

“Yeah. Great. Can we go? You know, one day you’re going to try and start this thing and I’ll have jammed a banana up the tail-pipe.”

“ ‘If you do anything to my car, if you even get your fingerprints on the paintwork, I am gonna beat the ever-livin’ shit out of you’!” Dean chuckled suddenly in a pretty good approximation of a New Orleans Yat drawl.

Sam just sat, shaking his head in befuddlement, as Dean grinned at him.

“Dude, that makes me Remy!” he chuckled.

“Great,” Sam offered sarcastically.

“And you’re Bobby!” he continued.

“O-k. Freak,” Sam said slowly, reaching over and flicking his ear painfully.

“Hey!”

“Let’s just go, shall we?” Sam said deliberately clearly and Dean’s sunny side re-emerged.

“Fine.” He checked the position of the car in the lot before sliding it into reverse and backing round slowly. “If the chick on the ticket counter’s hot, I’m not making any apologies Sam,” he added happily.

“Yeah yeah,” Sam breathed. “Let’s just go. I’ve had about as much good cheer from you as I can take in one morning.”

“Oh, so I’m not allowed to be cheerful now?”

“I didn’t say th–“

“You want your older brother to be miserable, is that it?”

“Just go!”

“Alright dude, but when I start singing–“

“Just drive the goddamn car!”

THE END