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Title: Cry in the Night
Author: Thru Terry's Eyes
Pairing: None
Genre:Thriller/gen
Word Count: 30,512 

Chapter 4:  A few wrong words.
Disclaimer: Welcome to the world thru my eyes. Don't own 'em. Only get pleasure, no money.

Summary: Hurt/sick Dean haunted by the flashbacks from a hunt that took place after Sam left for Stanford. He can't remember the details but something is wrong and what he can't recall can hurt him.  

Sam finished his breakfast in silence, casting an occasional glance up at Dean, but Dean never looked back, occupied with shredding his napkin into tiny pieces and rolling the pieces into tiny balls. His plate sat where he'd shoved it and his coffee had been abandoned to cool after two sips.

"Aren't you gonna finish you're breakfast?" Sam finally asked, drinking the last of his orange juice. Dean might have a thorny stick up his ass but Sam was damned if he was gonna let the fact ruin his breakfast.

Dean shook his head. "Not hungry." He eyed Sam's now empty plate. "You ready?"

"I guess." Sam replied.

Dean sighed and signaled the waitress for their check. He looked back at Sam and opened his mouth. "Sam, I-"

"It's okay, Dean." Sam slid out of the booth. "I know it was hard for you when I left. I get that. I've asked you about it before. You don't want to tell me what happened then, that's your call. I don't need to know what it was like for you any more than you need to know it wasn't all rainbows and sunshine for me either!" Sam tossed his balled napkin on the table and walked toward the door.

Dean groaned and dropped his head on the table with an audible thud. Wherever they were heading from here, it was gonna be one long damn drive.

---

Sam was leaning against the car, arms crossed, staring out at the open field behind the diner. Several fat cows drifted aimlessly across the bare field, still finding something to stretch their necks out to and crop with their teeth. The grass was winter dead and it seemed to him the task of finding something to eat was hopeless but they just kept plodding along, rewarded now and again with a small return on their efforts. They seemed…content.

Sam wished heartily he was a cow. Satisfied so easily and expecting nothing more. The more he thought about it, for all intents and purposes he was a cow. Drifting aimlessly, in search of something very hard to find, receiving every now and then a small reward for his efforts.

He heard gravel crunch behind him just as he realized how desperately ridiculous this inner conversation was. Turning he saw his personal field of winter dead grass coming up behind him. He sighed, watching Dean come closer, walking slowly, eyes down, rubbing a hand over the front of his shirt. Sam made a face and shook his head. He knew he would keep hunting for that tiny reward, ignoring the Dean nettles and long expanses of nothing in search of those tiny rewards that made it worthwhile.

A cold blast of wind hit him, causing him to hug his coat closer.

Dean settled against the car next to him, hands stuffed in his pockets, holding the coat closed.

"Hey," he said softly, looking ahead.

Sam glanced at him. "Hey," he answered stiffly, after a moment.

After another extended silence which Sam refused to break, Dean finally spoke again. "So," he began, taking a deep breath, "do you really want to know what happened that night?" Dean's eyes rolled to Sam. He didn't look happy, but he did look willing.

Sam tried to hide his surprise with a shrug. "Not if you don't want to tell me." Meaning it this time.

"I don't want to tell you." Dean replied honestly. "I'm not even sure how much I remember…it was five years ago, Sam." Dean shook his head. "I can't believe I forgot about it." He snorted. "I don't know why I'd remember it now, and it's still kinda unfocused. Like trying to remember a dream." He laughed shortly. "Or maybe a nightmare you don't want to remember."

"Maybe it's that post traumatic stress thing," Sam offered. "Maybe your mind just couldn't deal with it and made it go away."

Dean stared at him. You are so dumb, clearly written on his face. "It was just a hunt for a coupla werewolves, Sam. Not some end of the world thing. Traumatic stress…" Dean gave him another dirty look, shaking his head, then stared out across the field at Sam's cows.

After another protracted silence, Dean closed his eyes, trying to mentally reach into the fog. "I wasn't where I was supposed to be," he said. "I got turned around somehow. It was raining, getting dark and we were in the woods."

Dean blinked, seeing it in his head, fuzzy around the edges, as his mind faded into remembrance. "We'd been hunting almost 36 hours straight. We were gonna lose the moon and then it woulda been another month. I was tired, hell we were all tired, and-" He pressed the side of his hand against his eyebrow and rubbed slowly, sighing.

"Sometimes when it rained-" Dean started reluctantly, staring at the ground. He shifted uncomfortably and tried again. "I had trouble breathing when it rained sometimes, for awhile, after you left." His words came out in a flurry, as if saying them quickly would keep them from tasting so bad. He blew out a breath. "I had to carry that stupid inhaler around with me for almost a damned year. Don't think Dad wasn't pissed off about that, never knowin' when I was gonna choke up."

Sam went cold all over, knowing why Dean had the inhaler in the first place. "Dean, I'm sorry. I didn't-"

Dean waved his hand, cutting Sam off. "Dude, it's done. That was five years ago, too. Leave it be. It doesn't matter anymore." He cleared his throat and tightened his grip on his jacket. He was freezing.

After a moment, when Dean didn't resume his story Sam prodded him gently. "So what happened after you got turned around?"

Dean glanced up at him, moving his finger along his upper lip. "Uh…well, the one after me damn near got me. I slipped in the mud and fell. I got off a shot, but just hit it in the shoulder." He laughed ruefully. "I mostly just pissed it off. The rain'd stopped and I heard Dad and Caleb yelling." Dean pushed away from the car and started walking a short track the length of the car and back.

"What happened?" Sam spoke softly, enough to be heard over the wind and occasional traffic. Dean was becoming visibly more agitated, holding his hand against his stomach as he walked back and forth.

He cocked an eyebrow at Sam, his smile twisted. "I got up and ran like hell." He scuffed at the gravel under their feet. Sam noticed one shoe was coming untied. "I ran into the clearing and straight into the other one." He made a sound of disgust. "We didn't know there were two. I never saw it. Hell, I didn't look. I don't know where my brain was." He raked a hand through his hair, cupping the back of his neck, face tightening into a grimace. "God, I just fuckin' lost it."

"I had that silver knife I'd gotten a coupla years before, for my birthday. I got it once with that but it clawed me across the belly before Caleb and Dad-" Dean broke off, frowning. He could hear the gunfire, feel the phantom pain of that rip into his flesh…

Sam shifted around to face Dean more, watching his face intently . "Before Caleb and Dad what?"

Dean swallowed and licked his lips, a puzzled look replacing the frown. His breathing quickened slightly and one hand crept back to his ribs. "I can't…I can't remember anymore than that,"

Just screaming.

"John! What are you doing?"

Then gunfire…

Dean stood for so long with his eyes closed, Sam finally nudged him. "Dean…?"

Dean jerked, shaking his head. He sucked in a deep breath. "Um…I, uh…I guess I must have passed out then." He abruptly snagged the keys out of his pocket. "I don't remember anything after that." He moved quickly to the driver's side of the car, leaving Sam gaping after him.

"I'm freezing my ass off, let's get outta here. He looked Sam over the roof of the car, "It's your turn now, bore me with something geeky from your college life for a while." The corner of his mouth quirked in a smile that never touched his eyes and he slipped into the car.

Sam stared after him, a feeling of foreboding settling over him. He rolled his eyes and sighed opening his side of the car and climbing in.

Shit.

---

"See anything in the paper?" Dean asked, biting back a yawn. They had driven most of the day and he was tired and ready to sleep for a while. "There's gotta be somethin' goin' on somewhere." He took a bite of the grilled cheese sandwich he had ordered and chased it with some water. His stomach had been upset all afternoon from the soda and half a cheeseburger he had played with at lunch and he'd decided to take it easy.

Sam rattled the paper, scanning the articles on the back pages. "Man, there is nothing happening here. Or anywhere around here from the look of it." He laid the paper on the table, tapping one article. "Some guys chicken laid a pink egg and that's about the most out of the ordinary thing I can find." He dragged the paper onto the booth beside him. "The fact that it made the paper outta tell you something." He over spun a forkful of spaghetti and stuffed it in his mouth. He gestured at Dean's half eaten sandwich.

"If that's not cold enough yet, I'll bet the waitress'd put it in the cooler for you." He wiped spaghetti sauce off the corner of his mouth and took a bite of crunchy French bread.

Just the sound of Sam eating was making Dean nauseous. He glanced at the sandwich as though he'd just seen it. "You're a friggin' riot, you know that? You oughta go on stage."

"I'm not kidding, Dean. I can tell you don't feel good-" Sam could have chewed his tongue off even as the words left his mouth.

Closing his eyes, Dean said, predictably, "I'm fine, Sam." He glanced around, leaning closer to Sam, voice lowered and hissed through his teeth. "In fact, I'm gonna have, "I'm fine, Sam," fuckin' tattooed on my forehead to save me havin' to say all the time! I'll just point!" He made a one fingered gesture at his own forehead.

Sam rolled his eyes. "Fine, far be it from me to argue with that logic. So whatta you wanta do?" Sam sipped his tea, ignoring Dean's continuing dirty look, refusing to lose his temper. "We can stay here tonight, take off in the morning and then check out the pink egg." He bounced his eyebrows at Dean.

Dean laughed despite himself, breaking off with a sudden grimace, swallowing hard. The side of his hand snapped against his mouth.

Sam watched him, but said nothing, brows drawing together, prepared to dodge to one side or the other.

Dean rested the palm of hand on the table, eyes closed until he got his gag reflex under control. Taking a deep breath, he lifted his eyes to meet Sam's accusing glare.

"Okay," he grunted, dragging his fingers over his lips. "So, maybe my stomach's-" he swallowed again. "- off a little."

"Let's get a room," Sam said. "Maybe you'll feel better after some sleep." He didn't sound convinced but was relieved when Dean nodded and pushed out of the booth.

A little unsteady on his feet he quickly covered it by leaning a hip against the booth and digging out his wallet. He threw some bills on the table and jerked his head at Sam. "Let's get out of here."

---

Dean twisted in the bed, hot and uncomfortable, desperately trying to find a position to lie in that didn't hurt. He drifted in and out of restless slumber, unable to fall completely asleep or come fully awake. He moaned softly, rolling onto his stomach and burying his face in the sweaty pillow.

Dean paused as he started to open the door to their room, hearing Caleb's voice in a soft growl from the main room.

"John, are you sure Dean's up for this? He looks exhausted. We can finish this ourselves."

"We're all tired, Caleb. We can't let this chance go by, and we can't hang around another month waiting until it comes around again if we miss it. Dean'll be fine."

"John, for God's sake -" Caleb's voice took on an edge.

Dean heard something slam down and John's impatient reply. "He's gotta get past this, Caleb! It's been months!. He was sick, I know. He's got that damned inhaler if he needs it." John he would have said the words to Dean's face just as easily as behind his back. Pulling punches wasn't his style. "He needs to be on this hunt, we need a third man. He has to get his focus back. I can't do this if I have to keep worrying that my back up's not good enough-"

John stopped as Caleb's suddenly straightened in the chair he was slouching in, his eyes darted past John to the door. John turned to see Dean standing in the doorway, a look of hurt betrayal on his face. John shot a look at Caleb, then back at Dean as Dean stared at John before walking to the table and carefully setting the bag he carried on it. He stood there for a moment, staring at the table.

Dean's throat worked as he tried to think of what he could say that would begin to express how deeply his father's words had wounded him. Shocked him. They wouldn't come and if they had, Dean would not have been able to say them.

…not good enough.

He glanced at Caleb and then turned his eyes to John, who had the grace to look uncomfortable. John's hand moved slightly.

Looking away again, Dean said quietly, "I'll start loading the car."

TBC

 

 

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