Baby's Nightmare, Part 2

Baby's Nightmare, Part 2

A Supernatural story by Mich @raiahome

You've read Mich's Tales from Baby... now check out her third #SPNWishList masterpiece! Mich  wanted to share the untold story of how Baby dealt with Demon Dean in Season 10. You'll need to check your fluids after this one. Allll the exquisite DeanPain. Check below for a link to Part 1. -- Jennie

Read Part 1 here.

Every few days, Dean’s phone would ring, and Sam’s name would be on the caller ID.

Dean never answered it. He would stare at it until the ringing stopped and then mutter to himself, “I told you to let me go, Sammy. But you just have to be a stubborn bitch.”

He didn’t say it with his former exasperated affection. It was more like cruel disdain. But he would  hold on to the phone for a few minutes, and then toss it onto the seat beside him. On Sammy’s seat.

I’m not sure why this gave me so much hope or kept me going, but it did.

Maybe because Dean never threw the phone away.

For all his seeming disgust for his brother’s continued need to cling to him, for all his disinterest in what anyone else, including Crowley, thought of him or what he did, no matter how cut off from his past he attempted to be, he kept that phone.

And Sam kept calling. If he wasn’t giving up, then neither was I! How could I? I’m a Winchester.

Just one day at a time, that’s all I had to do. Take it one day at a time and pray that Sam could find some way, some miracle, to fix us all.

The first clue I had that Sam was getting close was when we left the Black Spur, a run-down dive in North Dakota that Dean had been camping out at with his sleazy new demonic BFF.

It was the middle of the night when Dean jumped behind the wheel, like he was running from something. A few hours into the drive, his phone rang, and Sam’s name popped up on the screen. To my amazement, Dean answered! He sounded like he was expecting the call.

“I left you an open tab at the bar,” Dean quipped without even a hello. “Knock yourself out.”

The relief that swept through me at knowing Sam was finally zeroing in on us was short lived as the conversation continued. It soon became clear that it wasn’t the younger Winchester on the other end.

When Dean asked, “Is he dead?” with no worry, only curiosity in his voice, my anxiety kicked in. I held my breath until I heard the tinny reply, “Not yet.” I could breathe again.

The rest of the back-and-forth just confused me. I was getting mixed signals from Dean. On one hand, he promised certain death to the person threatening his brother, and yet, in the next moment, he was abandoning Sam to his fate. As I struggled with this yo-yoing of his reactions, he was once more swinging in the other direction.

“’Cause he knows me. And he knows for damn sure that if I am one thing, I am a man of my word.”

How could that sound so reassuring and so dire at the same time?

And then Dean just hung up and calmly kept driving.

Meanwhile, I was freaking out. Sam was close! Sam was in danger! Dean was going to kill this asshole! Dean was leaving his brother!

I was on a roller coaster of emotions, and the ride seemed like it would never end.

All I could do was believe in Sam. Believe he would find a way out on his own and track his big brother down.

It was outside a strip club in Killdeer, North Dakota (I tried not to read anything into the name), that Crowley caught up to us again. Truth to tell, I was glad to see him for once, since he managed to distract Dean from beating the shit out of a group of mouthy teenagers.

Apparently Dean was no longer welcome in that bar, so we hightailed it to another. As he and his demon pal strolled inside, I just waited to see what would happen. I concentrated on the hope that Sam would follow the trail of violence his brother was leaving behind and show up before anything more horrible occurred.

Then Lester happened. So much for my hopes.

It seems this little disaster caused a … rift? ... between Dean and Crowley. Things were getting more and more out of control, and my boy seemed to be slipping farther away. If Sam didn’t show up soon, I was afraid we’d never get Dean back.

Another day, another bar. I was sinking into a depressive funk when suddenly my prayers were answered. Sam was here! He had a busted arm and looked like he hadn’t slept in days, but to me he was a shining knight in denim and plaid armor. As he entered the bar to confront his brother-turned-demon, I closed my eyes and held my breath. Please, God, let this work!

Moments later my eyes snapped open at the sound of shattering glass. Some Gomer Pyle wannabe had thrown a tear gas grenade through the window of the bar! Shit. What now?!

I had no idea what was going on inside, but then I heard the sounds of fighting coming from the back lot. Fighting and two voices. One I didn’t recognize, but the cruel, biting timbre of the other was very familiar. Dean. His tone calm and mocking as he taunted his adversary. The poor schmuck had no idea who he was dealing with.

I was about resigned that this nightmare would never end when I suddenly heard Sam shout, “STOP! IT’S OVER! It’s over.”

I sagged with relief when I saw Sam come around the corner with a pissed-off and handcuffed Dean. He hustled him into my back seat and secured him to my door handle. I knew the ordeal wasn’t over. Dean was still a demon. But I believed in Sam. He must have a plan.

We took a quick stop to meet Crowley. Apparently, I had him to thank for reuniting my boys. Huh. Who’d-a thunk it. He also relieved us of the First Blade, and good riddance. If I never saw that evil piece of crap again, it would be too soon. And judging by the look Dean was giving the King of Hell, he’d better hope he never saw that Winchester again.

Needless to say, the drive back home was a tad awkward. What conversation there was went from bad to worse. I barely flinched when Dean called me “just a car” again, but when Sam stated that his brother “took mercy” on the guy who attacked him, things got ugly.

“You call that mercy?” Dean sneered. “Imagine you spend your whole life hunting down the guy who knifed your father. When you finally find him, he whips you like a dog.”

Sam glanced at his brother in the rearview mirror with a look of trepidation at what would be said next.

“How do you think that feels?” Dean chuckled coldly. “That kid’s gonna spend his whole life knowing that he had his shot and that he couldn’t beat me.”

I could tell that every word was like a knife twisting in Sam’s gut.

“That ain’t mercy.”

Twist.

“That’s the worst thing I could have done to him.”

Twist.

“And what I’m gonna do to you, Sammy…”

Twist.

“Well, that ain’t gonna be mercy either.”

TWIST.

I thought I was going to be sick, until I saw the look of horror in Sam’s eyes switch to hardened determination. This wasn’t over by a long shot.

The rest of the trip home was made in silence. The only communication was Dean’s arrogant, threatening glares at his brother’s back and Sam’s glances of firm purpose in the rearview in return. I knew he was hurting, but this wasn’t the time to let his walls down.

We couldn’t get back to the bunker fast enough for me. When we finally pulled into the garage and Sam took his brother inside, I knew there was nothing more I could do. It was all up to Sammy now, and I fervently wished him good luck.

I waited through the day and into the night to see what would happen. There were a few anxious moments when the bunker flashed with red lights, signaling it was on lockdown, but I had no idea what it meant, and it was soon over.

The waiting was killing me.

It was much, much later when a very subdued Dean walked into the garage. I watched him warily as he slowly circled me, trailing his hand lightly through the dust and grime covering my body. He was a bit hesitant as he carefully opened my driver’s side door and settled diffidently into my seat. He just sat for a moment, then picked up a crumpled burger wrapper from my dash and proceeded to smooth it out on his leg, looking at the garbage strewn around my interior with obvious loathing.

In a quiet, broken voice, he said, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” And as the tears spilled from his eyes and he lay down on my seat, that’s when I saw it. The weight was back.

The weight of a motherless 4-year-old boy who had to care for his infant brother and broken father. The weight of a child with knowledge and responsibilities no adult should have to bear.

The weight of a teenager who had already seen more death and horror than he thought possible. The weight of a young man trying to hold his damaged family together, but watching it fall apart.

The weight of the desperation of trying to make a hard, distant father proud, to accept his role as a warrior in a war that had no end. The weight of seeing his beloved brother suffer the loss of the woman he loved and the chance at a normal life that he craved end in the most horrendous way possible.

The weight of watching that brother struggle with powers he didn’t understand. The weight of his father’s last words, charging him to save his brother or kill him.

The weight of Sam dying, and the pain so unbearable it drove him to make the ultimate sacrifice to bring him back. The weight of remembering not only the tortures of Hell, but the torture he had inflected on other souls.

The weight of fighting a “destiny” written for him and his brother by angels and demons. The weight of the brother he loved more than life betraying him. The weight of betraying that same brother to save his life again.

The weight of constantly fighting both Heaven and Hell. The weight of knowing his best friend, the angel who raised him from perdition, was in cahoots with the King of Hell and keeping secrets from him.

The weight of a year fighting for his life in Purgatory, only to return and discover Sam hadn’t even bothered to look for him. The weight of all the friends, family, the people who had died because of him. Because he wasn’t good enough.

The weight of all he kept giving of himself to save a world constantly teetering on the brink of extinction, over and over again. A world that didn’t even know who he was, that offered no thanks but only demanded more of him.

All the weight of the pain, the heartache, the failures was there in his slumped shoulders, his lined face and his bowed head. As I watched it all come crashing down on him once again in wave after wave, he lay down on my seat, curled into a ball of misery and wept like his world was ending.

And finally, finally, I understood why Dean wanted to stay a demon. Why he fought so hard to not be cured.

It wasn’t so much that he enjoyed the freedom in being evil. It was that he was tired of the burden of being human.

So tired of the world breaking him apart and his humanity demanding that he pick up the pieces of himself, put them back together, get up and keep fighting. So tired of putting his faith in people, only to have it abused and used against him. So tired of fearing a future that would leave him broken and all alone with nothing worth living for.

As I watched him with this new revelation pounding through my head, he curled tighter into himself, his hands grasping into fists with nothing to hold on to. He gasped for air between his almost silent wails like a man drowning in his own tears.

And there was nothing I could do to help him.

Yes, cars can have nightmares.