"Boy, you better watch yourself."
"Yeah, shut up and just give me the address."
"Hell of a lot of thanks I get.
"Yeah, yeah. You're a doll." Dean spat out sarcastically.
The speaker crackled and Dean jotted down Sam's address. He clipped the phone shut, but he could swear he still heard Bobby cursing on the other end. Dean put the cell away, and gripped the steering wheel, breathing shakily. He felt a coil down in his chest, a tight spring of anxiety and excitement. He felt like he was going to vomit, but he also felt like he was on top of the world. The conflicting emotions were enough to hold him still in his seat for a minute, engine running, but foot firmly planted upon the brake. Finally, he switched over to the gas, and the Impala roared to life as it took off toward Sam.
The miles seemed to pass by in irregular intervals. Sometimes they were mind blowing slow. Other times they flew away like sand on a windy beach. It was a strange sort of limbo where the clock on the dash seemed to be out of sync with the rest of the world.
Dean grabbed the piece of paper he had scribbled the address upon. He looked up at the building in front of him. He checked to make sure the numbers matched again and again. The building was quaint. It seemed to hold a decent amount of apartments of less than stellar quality. It was probably well-occupied by college students.
Dean took his time milling over his guns. There was his favorite, of course. And he knew that he would settle on that one eventually. However, he took his time examining each barrel and round, giving himself an excuse to stall.
The pressing matter of both Cas' imminent arrival and the fact his face had been on the news more times than he could count forced Dean to load his gun and start up towards Sam's apartment.
He climbed the stairs slowly, keeping his head down. The nervousness was climbing out of his chest and into his throat, and he tried hopelessly to swallow it down. He reached the third floor, and checked his paper again. Third floor it was. Fourth room. Dean shoved it in his pocket, and proceeded down the hallway. 304.
Dean checked down the rest of the hallway for any people, but none were to be found. He knelt down on the floor so he was eyelevel with the doorknob. Cheap furnishings were no match for Dean's arsenal of bobby pins, and the lock was jimmied open in seconds, without any sign of a struggle. Dean slowly turned the doorknob and walked in.
The front room was empty, and Dean's whole body tightened up in anticipation. Sam could be in any of the other rooms, and it made it much harder for Dean to maintain an element of surprise. He stood quietly in the doorway for a moment, gun raised, and listened. It was silence, until a laugh bubbled from what Dean suspected was the bedroom. However, it wasn't the laughter of a man. It was high-pitched, and feminine.
Dean took a deep breath and headed towards the bedroom anyway, mentally steeling himself up. He felt himself slip into hunter-mode, an instinctive setting for him. It was tainted by Dean's nervousness, but he stamped it down as best as he could, pushing it to the back of his mind. He was on a mission. He had spent years leading up to this, and he was not going to be stopped because he was a little apprehensive.
The door was cracked, and Dean could now hear voices coming from inside it. The light, airy voice of a woman, and the deeper rumble of Sam. Dean kicked open the door, keeping both his hands on the gun.
The girl screamed, and Dean knew she would. Sam reached out towards her, a pretty blonde thing. His large frame covered her. Sam's eyes were wide, a disbelieving recognition within them.
"Hello, little brother." Dean growled. He locked eyes with his brother. "Get her out of here."
Sam pulled his girl closer, putting himself completely in front of her. The girl let out a whimper that sounded something like "Sam, no. Please."
Dean's voiced echoed in the room again, low and menacing. "I am not going to shoot her unless you make me, Sam. You want her safe? Let her go."
Sam turned to the girl, his eyes still flickering back to Dean rapidly. "Jess, go. Just go, I'll be okay, it'll be okay, just go."
Jess' eyes welled up. "Sam, no. He's got a gun, Sam!" She clung to Sam, who kissed her on the forehead, but then pushed her away.
"Jess, please, go. Just go."
Jess shakily let go of Sam, sobbing. She was dressed in her pajamas, considering it was early in the morning. The sun glared brightly through the window as it ascended into the sky.
"I love you, Jess." Sam said.
Jess let out a heavier sob. Dean was growing impatient.
"Just get the hell out or I'll shoot you!"
Jess flew out the door, but Dean stopped her for a second, and lean down close to her ear and whispered. "You call the cops, and I will find you. I've been tracking little Sammy here for years. You are no challenge." Dean moved out of the way, and Jess flew out of the apartment.
Dean turned his attention back to Sam. "She's pretty."
Sam glared at him. "What do you want, Dean?" He swallowed heavily, trying to stare down his brother.
Dean laughed. "Guy can't stop by to say hello to his own flesh and blood?" Dean was smiling, but something dark flashed through his expression when he acknowledged Sam and his relation.
"Not when he's a psychopath." Spit out Sam. "Are you here to kill me?" He said, trying not to let his voice shake.
"You're clever, aren't you? Got accepted into Stanford, all by yourself. Didn't need Dad's help at all, did you?" Dean paused for a second. "That was the last time we saw each other, wasn't it? Dad's funeral?"
"If you're going to kill me, just do it, Dean." Sam said. He kept a straight face, but his fists clenched in the sheets he was still sitting on.
Dean let out a laugh again. "Oh no. It's not that easy, Sam. You don't get off without a little guilt trip." Dean's face grew dark, all traces of his malicious humor completely gone.
"It's your fault Mom is gone. She went back to save you, and she died!" Dean's tone was hysterical, full of uncontrolled anger. He let out a shaky laugh, like a madman. "You think I'm twisted, don't you? All full of little nasty kinks and knots. You think I'm fucked up. Well you were the one who made me like this." Dean's laugh grew louder and louder.
"You killed Mom. You drove me to this. All those people you've seen me shoot clean through on the news? They died because of you. It's all your fault. Every. Last. Body. It's on your shoulders."
Sam stared at Dean with wide, stunned eyes. "No. You killed them. It wasn't me. I didn't do anything." Sam tried to sound sure of himself, but the guilt was already crushing in on him. He had failed to take responsibility for his brother. His own family was out killing people, and what had he ever done about it?
Dean chuckled again, this time low and evil. "I can see the guilt in your eyes, Sam. How does it feel, knowing you're the cause of so many innocent lives being taken? Does it bother you?" He took at step closer to Sam. "I can tell you one thing. It didn't bother me."
A shot rang out and Sam fell back onto the sheets, red pouring out over his bare chest. Dean, however, hadn't fired a shot. He turned around bewildered to see Cas standing in the doorway, ominous trenchcoat filling the space in the doorframe.
Cas smiled a smile that reached up to his blue eyes. "I told you I was going to take that from you, Dean."
Dean, enraged, spun and fired his gun several times. The shots rang out through the tiny room, crashing in Dean's ears. "You son of a bitch!" He screamed through the shots. "You son of a bitch!"
Cas crumpled in the doorway onto his face, blood seeping out everywhere. Dean couldn't tell if he had hit anything vital, but the blood loss was going to kill him quicker than anything. Dean kicked him over, and saw his stupid smile plastered on his face. His blue eyes had no life in them, but the expression was haunting. Dean dug his boot down into Cas's skull, relishing the crunch.
Still alive with rage, he turned to Sam's body and shot it a few times. It jumped off the bed slightly with the impact of the bullet, but Dean knew Sam had been dead ever since Cas shot him. Dean let out a yell. He threw his gun down on the floor, and punched the wall. Cheap apartments did not hold up well to fists, and the drywall cracked and broke.
Dean was in the middle of throwing things and breaking fragile objects when a crash came in through the front of the apartment. "Put your hands up! Put them up!" A voice yelled, and Dean just laughed and laughed.
That's how the police found him, laughing manically. A whole squadron of FBI agents crowded into the apartment, cornering Dean. Dean stopped his laughing, and looked at the array of law enforcement. Each one of them had a gun pointed at him.
Dean smiled, ignoring the yells and shouts and orders. He made a move to reach for his gun, and at least five bullets came rushing towards him.
The scene was crawling with FBI agents and cops so no one noticed when Bobby Singer slipped in with his less-than-authentic badge. He wormed his way into the bedroom, and stood in the doorframe. "Everyone move, please." He requested. People scuttled off, mostly clearing the room, except for a few forensic investigators. Bobby decided they were of no consequence.
He glanced over the blood stained floor and bed, covered in broken items. Three outlines decorated the otherwise rather plain room. One outlined in white by the door, one in black on the bed, and another in white in the middle of the room. A gun lay close to the middle one.
Bobby approached it, and looked at the dark stains around the surrounding carpet. The bodies had long since been removed, but the investigation was still going on. It was the murder of the century. Everything was crucial, right down to the dust on the window sill.
Bobby knelt down to the outline and ghosted his finger over the chalky white, hardly touching it. He shook his head and stood up, making his way out of the apartment.
In the parking lot, he noticed the Impala was still there, next to a sleek black Mustang. Of course, the Impala was evidence, but everyone was still inside save for a single cop by the cars. In fact, the crowded interior of the apartment was what let Bobby pick up the fallen car keys without anyone's notice. He slowly removed the yellow police tape around the parking space.
"Hey, you can't do that!" The police officer yelled.
Bobby pulled out his badge. "I sure as hell can. We're taking it in for further investigation. You got a problem with that, son?"
"No, no. My apologies, sir." The officer backed off, and Bobby cleared the tape. He got into the Impala and started the engine. He backed out of the parking lot, and was soon racing down the highway.
In the seat, there was Dean's old journal, full of notes about Sam. Bobby picked it up curiously as he drove. He recognized it. He had given it to Dean as a birthday present when he was young.
With a shake of his head, Bobby threw the journal back down into the seat of the Impala.
"I told ya, ya idjit." He murmured quietly. "I told ya"