Yeah, sooooo, I kinda bluffed. I had every intention of writing a sequel to Weston House. Most of you probably already had that figured out, but in case you didn't - yes, I'm writing another story. This is it. This goes in a whole different direction, which is why I'm starting a new story instead of adding to the old one. For those of you who are new to this story, you might want to read Weston House first in order to fully understand what's going on. You can read this as stand alone if you so choose, but some stuff will make more sense if you read that story first. This is actually the last chapter of that story (as well as the first of this one). I know this got some mixed reviews from people, but stick with me. I guarantee you'll be substantially rewarded at the end. Anyway, here's the beginning...
"Nooooo! Sammmmmmeeeeeeeeee!" Dean's eyes shot open wide in panic. His lungs burned with desperation as he tried unsuccessfully to pull in air. Sweat poured down his face and his body trembled with fear. Hyperventilation took effect. Greyish spots danced mockingly in front of his eyes. The images hung fresh in his mind; fighting the brain creature, Sam being thrown across the room, Sam in a wheelchair, Sam fighting every day to regain use of his legs, and then succeeding only to be killed by that damn Devils Elbow destroyer. His little brother was dead. He'd failed him.
But then he heard it. That voice. "Dean. It's OK. Calm down. You're OK. You're fine." The voice wasn't real. It couldn't be real. Sam was dead. He'd died in Dean's arms. Dean looked up as Sam's concerned face loomed over him. This was a dream. It had to be a dream. "Dean, I'm here. It's me. It's Sam. Breathe. You have to breathe."
"S– S...am?" Dean's voice quavered, barely able to form the single word. He blinked in rapid succession. His eyes just wouldn't' focus. It couldn't be Sam. It had to be a trick. "But you...you died. You're gone. I watched you d– die. I held you i– in my arms."
Confusion joined concern in Sam's face as he stared into his older brother's eyes. "Dean, what are you talking about? Nothing happened to me. I've been here ever since Mom called me."
"M...om?" What? Mom called Sam? But how? When? "Sam, you're confused. Mom's not here. She died too." Wait, maybe that's it. Am I dead too? Is this heaven? Or...or hell? That's it. That has to be it. I'm dead. OK. I can deal with this. Now that I know, I can handle this.
Dean heard a door open and more footsteps rushed in. Another familiar voice asked anxiously, "He woke up?" He knew that voice, too. It was that prick who'd convinced them that Sam would never get better. But Sammy'd shown him. Sammy walked again.
"Yes, Dr. Reynolds. Just a couple minutes ago. But he's not coherent. He's just rambling. Talking about his brother and me being...dead." What the hell is going on! Dean hadn't heard that voice in 22 years. But it rang loud and clear in his mind as though he'd heard it just minutes ago. That soft, gentle voice that always made everything alright. His mother's voice. This isn't possible. This can't be happening.
A light was beamed into Dean's eyes as he connected the familiar voice with the familiar face now looking down on him with worry. Yup, definitely him. Right down to that cocky, know-it-all grin. "It's probably a result of the morphine," the doctor explained to the rest of the room. "It can induce some very weird dreams."
Dreams! This isn't a dream. It was real. The ghosts and the demons and Mom and ...Sam. The whole thing was real. I was there. I should know.
"Just keep reassuring him that he's alright. Take things slow." The doctor disappeared from Dean's sight and was replaced by another face. It looked like his mother. And sounded like his mother. But it wasn't his mother. Couldn't be. Someone had gone to a lot of trouble to become her, but they had failed miserably. He knew her face. Knew every dimple and crease and freckle. He saw her face in his dreams, that same face he'd seen when he was a kid. The face in front of him had similar features, but this one had aged. This one was in its early fifties. There were wrinkles around the corners of her eyes and streaks of grey in her hair.
"Dean, honey, you need to focus. It's mom. Look at me. I'm right here. I'm OK. And Sam's OK." Sam reappeared in Dean's line of vision too. And then another face.
"Dad? You're here too?" But how can Dad be here? Dad's not dead. MIA, maybe, but certainly not dead. At least not the last I knew.
"Of course I'm here, son. Where else would I be?" Warm. His father's voice was warm, ...and caring. He hadn't heard those emotions in his father in years. It had always been orders, demands, anger.
"But..." This is all too weird. This doesn't make any sense. How can they all be–
"Dean, do you remember anything that happened?" Sam was talking again.
Rolling his eyes at the ghosts of his family, Dean nodded his head. "Of course I remember what happened. I remember all of it. What I don't understand is how you can be here. You shouldn't be here."
"It's alright," Sam assured him. "My classes can wait. There will always be other semesters. But you, big brother, well there's only one of you. I'll stay here as long as you need me."
"What the hell are you talking about?" Questions swam through Dean's head demanding answers. "Classes? What classes? You haven't been in school in months!"
"It's been less than two months," Sam answered defensively, still looking at his brother with curiosity. "You've been in a coma for six and a half weeks."
"A coma!" Dean's eyes bugged out, hyperventilation threatening to attack again. "No. You're wrong. That's not possible. I– "
His mother's gentle voice interrupted him again. "Sweetie, you and a couple of your friends were in a car accident on the way home from a football game."
Humor played across Dean's face, as he searched for the cameras. He could feel himself fighting hysterics, as he contemplated the crap these people were feeding him. What the hell are they talking about? Friends? No. I don't have friends. I've never had time for friends. And a football game? Me? Never in my life have I been to a football game. I don't even know how the hell the game is played. If morphine is to blame then this is the result. Whatever the hell this is, it must be a dream. I have to escape. I've got to get out of this nightmare! "Ineed to get out of here. This is just too weird. I don't know who you people are, but you're not my family. This isn't my life. I need to go." Dean pulled the covers off roughly and attempted to sit up, but was stopped by a firm hand on each of his shoulders.
"I'm afraid you won't be going anywhere just yet, son." His father's voice had become firm, but pain and sorrow laced itself in there, too.
"Just let me go!" Dean growled. "This isn't right. Something's not right!"
"That's the first thing you've gotten correct all day," Sam agreed, sorrowful. "Something's definitely not right. Dean, you got hurt in the accident. More than just your head."
"Sam, save it for later. He's not thinking straight right now. You'll only upset him more." There she was, talking again. Her kindness and concern the same as it had always been. But Mary Winchester's charm hadn't effected the Winchester men in years. Her kind nature had long ago ceased to exist within their own demeanor's. And sugar coating situations hadn't been an option for years.
"Just tell me what's happened to me. Tell me what's wrong." Dean smirked, amusement plastered all over his face. This should be good. Whoever these people are...whatever these people are, they are really playing this thing up. It's like they truly believe what they're saying to me. What the hell kind of demons are these?
John Winchester, or rather - as Dean believed - the demon disguised as John Winchester,
leaned over his son, his face contorted with despair. Son, I don't know how to tell you this. I never wanted– you have to understand that I would do anything to take this pain from you–"
"Just say it!" Dean snapped at the figures. The suspense was killing him. This dream was too surreal.