Part V: What the Thunder Said

In this decayed hole among the mountains
In the faint moonlight, the grass is singing
Over the tumbled graves, about the chapel
There is the empty chapel, only the wind's home.
It has no windows, and the door swings,
Dry bones can harm no one.
Only a cock stood on the rooftree
Co co rico co co rico
In a flash of lightning. Then a damp gust
Bringing rain
Ganga was sunken, and the limp leaves
Waited for rain, while the black clouds
Gathered far distant, over Himavant.
The jungle crouched, humped in silence.
Then spoke the thunder
DA
Datta: what have we given?
My friend, blood shaking my heart
The awful daring of a moment's surrender
Which an age of prudence can never retract
By this, and this only, we have existed
Which is not to be found in our obituaries
Or in memories draped by the beneficent spider
Or under seals broken by the lean solicitor
In our empty rooms
DA

Chapter 1

Boots in hand, keys digging into his sweaty palm, duffel slung over his shoulder, and maneuvering carefully over the creaky step halfway down the stairs, Dean felt all of ten years old. His heartbeat was pounding out a ruthless drumbeat and he couldn't so much as breathe without hearing it loudly in his ears.

He frowned and squinted before planting his foot carefully on the next step. Bobby's "reorganizing" meant that every surface was covered in unicorn teeth fillings or eye of newt preserves, and to make matters worse, tonight was a new moon.

Like every good hunter, Dean had taken care to reconnoiter the area beforehand; he knew that there was a precarious pile of books at the bottom of the stairs. He pressed against the wall to avoid smacking it with his duffel bag and walked sort of diagonally down the hallway to avoid the shelves on either side.

There was a soft moan from the library, and Dean paused.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

If Sam had an episode now the whole thing would be off. For a second he wondered if he could leave anyway; Bobby would be distracted and it would give him a solid head start. There was another whimper and Dean knew that he would never be able to tear himself away. Unless, by some miracle, Sam settled.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

Eventually he decided that it had been quiet long enough. He peeked into the library as he passed. It was too dark to see his brother with any kind of clarity, but he was quiet and still.

Dean gave a shuddering breath and moved on.

The kitchen tile was cold enough that it almost felt damp through his socks, and Dean moved quickly over to the fridge. Which had a surprisingly bright light, given its age.

"Bless you, Bobby," he said, grabbed the container of lasagna leftovers, and stuffed it under one arm.

The back door was a little bit tricky but he managed to get it open without too much noise. He sat down on the top step and pulled on his boots, shivering despite his jacket. Then he crossed the yard, keeping an eye out for Rumsfeld, and deposited his duffel and Bobby's Tupperware into the back seat.

Now would be the most dangerous moment; he was sure that starting the car would wake one or both of them and he hadn't been able to think of a good excuse to park it any further from the house. He thought about pushing it, but there was no way he would be able to get around the junk in the yard without someone to steer for him.

"Here goes nothing," he said, and put the key into the ignition. And it was. Now, or nothing. Dean pulled out of the yard and onto the road and didn't stop checking his rearview for Bobby's truck for the next sixty miles.

Two hours later, and it was still pitch black, but there was a certain feeling of anticipation in the air. Dean stopped at the first open diner he saw and filled his thermos with coffee.

Hour three saw a little bit of gray in the darkness of the night, and Dean pulled over to pee.

Hour four, and Dean finally gave in to the silence and stuck a tape into the cassette player.

Hour five. The sun was slowly rising; Dean thought that there was nothing so beautiful as driving through the sunrise with mountains on either side. He drank it in.

Hour six, and Bobby had called three times. Dean set his jaw and set his phone on silent.

Hour seven, and he pulled over, cracked his back, and did a hundred jumping-jacks.

Hour eight.

Hour nine.

Hour ten, and Dean turned off the radio.

Hour eleven.

Hour twelve, and Bobby had left eight voicemails.

Hour thirteen. Dean pulled over for the last time and ate the cold lasagna.

Hour fourteen, and there was another voicemail. He would listen to them when he stopped.

Hour fifteen, sixteen, seventeen.

Hour eighteen, and Dean found himself following a familiar route.

The sky was rich oranges and reds, and he wished for a moment that he could prolong the sunset. He shook himself.

"Here is no water but rock," he said. He swiped a hand across his face.

It was chillier than Dean remembered, although it had been July then; the gray light of twilight made him shiver in anticipation, and if he was honest, fear. He pulled out his flashlight, checked the battery. Hesitated for a moment over the weapons in the trunk, then pulled the knife out of his boot and left it behind.

He couldn't put it off any longer. He pulled out his phone and opened his messages.

"Hey, your phone is probably dead, but if you get this make a stop and pick up some fruit. Sam was asking for apples."

"And orange juice," was all Bobby said in the next message, which made Dean chuckle.

"Dean, I don't know where you are, but Sam had a pretty bad one, and he's asking for you. I get that you need to blow off steam sometimes, but at least give us a heads up. Call me."

The ball had obviously dropped by the fourth message. "Sam's got it into his head that you're going out to Malad. Dean, there's no way, I mean… It was a big chance already, with John. I don't know. If you get back here and your phone was just dead I'm gonna skin you alive."

"Sam had another episode. Get back here, boy."

"If you were planning to go out there you could have at least had backup. You idjit."

"Dean, I can't leave Sam. Turn around. He's in a bad way, and he needs to see you."

"Dean, call me," and Bobby's gruff voice broke. "You idjit."

The last message. "Dean," and this time it was Sam's voice, quiet and hoarse. "Dean, please don't go. I just want to see you. Please come back," and he broke off, breathing shakily.

Dean waited.

"I know you're not gonna come back," Sam said. "Because you're my brother, and if it were you, and I could do something, anything, I would do it too. 'Cause that's how you raised me."

There was another wheezing breath.

"You jerk," Sam said, and Dean could hear him crying. "You jerk. Come back."

That was the end of the messages. Dean dashed an elbow across his face, closed his phone, and picked up the first rock.

So. I read through the story again and discovered that I was bothered by the word distribution between chapters (MicheleChadwick - thanks for the feedback; it helped). The story didn't seem to flow from chapter to chapter as well as I would like it to, and I spent an hour or so reworking them. I knew you might get an update notification, so I wanted to give you an actual new chapter as well, and here it is! But be warned: I don't have any completed chapters in my back pocket anymore, so the next update will probably be a few weeks.

Also, thank you so much to "Guest" for the review, and MicheleChadwick, sometimes I feel like you can read my mind! That's exactly why John can't do it.

I hope you enjoyed this, and if you're reading, let me know what you think! Your feedback is a huge encouragement and often gives me ideas of how to make the story better. Even a little note to let me know that you're reading makes my day!