Read Online Supernatural: Carved in Flesh by Tim Waggoner - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Tim Waggoner
Ads: Link
shaking him.
He pushed Dean’s hands away and then yawned. “What’s wrong?”
Dean had been sitting on the edge of the bed, but now he stood. “You were moaning and thrashing in your sleep, big time. You must’ve been having one hell of a serious dream, and not the good kind, if you know what I mean.”
Sam rubbed his eyes. He didn’t remember falling asleep. “What time is it?” He glanced toward the nightstand and checked the read-out on the digital clock there: 9:13. “Wow, I must’ve been wiped out. I napped for... what, three hours or so?”
Dean walked over to the window and drew back the curtains. Light spilled into the room and stabbed Sam’s eyes. His head pounded as if he had a hangover, and he lifted a hand to block the glare as he averted his gaze.
“You slept a little longer than that, Rip Van Winkle. It’s nine in the morning.”
He’d slept for fifteen hours. Most of the time, Dean and he were lucky to get four hours a night, but every once in a while the lack of rest caught up with them and they crashed for the better part of a day. “Guess I needed to get caught up on my sleep. Sorry.”
He sat up the rest of the way and swung his feet over the side of the bed. He winced as his right foot touched the carpet, and he remembered his wound. That memory brought the rest along with it—Brennan, the mummified corpses, Frankenmutt—and he was jolted fully awake.
He looked around the room, trying to appear casual as he checked to make sure that everything was the way it should be. He had a hard time telling what was real and what wasn’t these days, especially when he’d just awakened, or was tired or stressed. But he didn’t see any hallucinations—none that were obvious, at any rate—and when after a few moments the room, the furniture, and Dean remained the same, he allowed himself to relax.
“Any coffee?” he asked.
Dean walked over to the table where a couple coffee cups from a fast-food joint sat. He brought one to Sam, then went back and took a seat. The brothers sipped their go-juice for a few moments in silence before Dean asked, “So what were you dreaming about? And if it was the good kind of dream, make sure you don’t leave out any naughty details.”
At first Sam couldn’t remember what he’d been dreaming about, but then the details came flooding back, and he wished they hadn’t.
“Trish.”
Dean arced an eyebrow in surprise. “Trish Hansen?”
Sam nodded and took another sip of coffee. It seemed sharp and acidic as it went down his throat, and his stomach roiled in response.
“That was a while ago,” Dean said softly. “We were teenagers.”
“Barely.”
They were silent for a few moments after that, both continuing to work on their coffee.
After a bit, Dean asked, “Why do you suppose you dreamed about her?” He didn’t look at Sam as he spoke, but there was a clear edge of tension in his voice.
“I don’t know. I guess I’ve just been thinking about death lately.”
Dean turned to him, a hard expression on his face that verged on anger. “Lately? In case you haven’t noticed, Death could be both of our middle names. If we aren’t ganking some monster, we’re watching someone we love go belly up.”
Someone like Bobby, Sam thought, although he didn’t say it aloud. “That’s kind of what I mean. Death is so much a part of our lives that sometimes we take it for granted...” He hurried on before Dean could protest. “Until something happens to remind us. In a lot of ways, what happened to Trish was the first time I realized just how close death really is to all of us. Not just hunters, but everybody. It’s always there, just a heartbeat away, waiting for the right time, you know?”
Dean nodded gravely. “Yes. Yes, I do.”
Of course you do, Sam thought. For a short time, Dean had actually served as a stand-in for Death with a capital D.
Sam went on. “Besides, we were talking about Frankenstein yesterday, so that’s another
He pushed Dean’s hands away and then yawned. “What’s wrong?”
Dean had been sitting on the edge of the bed, but now he stood. “You were moaning and thrashing in your sleep, big time. You must’ve been having one hell of a serious dream, and not the good kind, if you know what I mean.”
Sam rubbed his eyes. He didn’t remember falling asleep. “What time is it?” He glanced toward the nightstand and checked the read-out on the digital clock there: 9:13. “Wow, I must’ve been wiped out. I napped for... what, three hours or so?”
Dean walked over to the window and drew back the curtains. Light spilled into the room and stabbed Sam’s eyes. His head pounded as if he had a hangover, and he lifted a hand to block the glare as he averted his gaze.
“You slept a little longer than that, Rip Van Winkle. It’s nine in the morning.”
He’d slept for fifteen hours. Most of the time, Dean and he were lucky to get four hours a night, but every once in a while the lack of rest caught up with them and they crashed for the better part of a day. “Guess I needed to get caught up on my sleep. Sorry.”
He sat up the rest of the way and swung his feet over the side of the bed. He winced as his right foot touched the carpet, and he remembered his wound. That memory brought the rest along with it—Brennan, the mummified corpses, Frankenmutt—and he was jolted fully awake.
He looked around the room, trying to appear casual as he checked to make sure that everything was the way it should be. He had a hard time telling what was real and what wasn’t these days, especially when he’d just awakened, or was tired or stressed. But he didn’t see any hallucinations—none that were obvious, at any rate—and when after a few moments the room, the furniture, and Dean remained the same, he allowed himself to relax.
“Any coffee?” he asked.
Dean walked over to the table where a couple coffee cups from a fast-food joint sat. He brought one to Sam, then went back and took a seat. The brothers sipped their go-juice for a few moments in silence before Dean asked, “So what were you dreaming about? And if it was the good kind of dream, make sure you don’t leave out any naughty details.”
At first Sam couldn’t remember what he’d been dreaming about, but then the details came flooding back, and he wished they hadn’t.
“Trish.”
Dean arced an eyebrow in surprise. “Trish Hansen?”
Sam nodded and took another sip of coffee. It seemed sharp and acidic as it went down his throat, and his stomach roiled in response.
“That was a while ago,” Dean said softly. “We were teenagers.”
“Barely.”
They were silent for a few moments after that, both continuing to work on their coffee.
After a bit, Dean asked, “Why do you suppose you dreamed about her?” He didn’t look at Sam as he spoke, but there was a clear edge of tension in his voice.
“I don’t know. I guess I’ve just been thinking about death lately.”
Dean turned to him, a hard expression on his face that verged on anger. “Lately? In case you haven’t noticed, Death could be both of our middle names. If we aren’t ganking some monster, we’re watching someone we love go belly up.”
Someone like Bobby, Sam thought, although he didn’t say it aloud. “That’s kind of what I mean. Death is so much a part of our lives that sometimes we take it for granted...” He hurried on before Dean could protest. “Until something happens to remind us. In a lot of ways, what happened to Trish was the first time I realized just how close death really is to all of us. Not just hunters, but everybody. It’s always there, just a heartbeat away, waiting for the right time, you know?”
Dean nodded gravely. “Yes. Yes, I do.”
Of course you do, Sam thought. For a short time, Dean had actually served as a stand-in for Death with a capital D.
Sam went on. “Besides, we were talking about Frankenstein yesterday, so that’s another
Similar Books
