He didn’t remember much, and for the first time in a long time, he could say that it wasn’t because of the whiskey, it wasn’t because he had been drunk on his ass to remember where he had been standing five seconds ago or what day it was; and this, had to be some kind of an improvement right?
Kevin would have been proud. He wasn’t quite sure why he always needed to look for Kevin’s approval; the old man wasn’t even around anymore. At least he hadn’t freaked out, well, not freaked out, freaked out, just a little alarmed at the sketches he had shown him three weeks ago. They had a long talk after that, one that he actually didn’t dread having, at all. We’ll do this together okay? All five of us, he had said, and even as Kevin was saying it, he knew they were just words, that they couldn’t possibly do this together (and Kevin left didn’t he? He wasn’t going to come with them to Nashville in two days and start recording again, so how can they do this together, right?), because come on, this is CRAZY right here, it’s not the same when they said okay AJ, lets do the rehab, we’ll be behind you all the way, don’t worry, we just want you to get better.
But there was no getting better for his case. How do you get better from sudden attacks of visions? It’s not even normal. It’s not like a flu virus that will go away with a lot of rest! He won’t be better if they dump him in a crazy house because he doubt that would stop the visions, that voice. And he wasn’t stupid, he knew, he knew what it looks like, what it sounds like, for someone to hear him say he has this yellow eyed dude talking to him, telling him things, that he shouldn’t be afraid (too late for that!) of those disturbing images he was seeing, that he was a friend.
Brian said they wouldn’t dump him in a crazy house, he’d just take him to the church every Sunday, get closer to God, he said, it would help. And to be fair, he did just that, played along for Brian’s sake, because while it did help him feel better, he knew it would not keep those visions away. He even told AJ to sprinkle some holy water on him (when Brian’s not looking), see if he started to combust on the spot, but there wasn’t even a speckle of pain, which he guessed was a good thing cause he didn’t really want to die from holy water burns, he didn’t want to die period. Yet nothing he did, nothing that Brian had suggested, made him do, could ever rid that look from Brian’s eyes. The one that screamed so loud that it was deafening, the one that yelled my friend is crazy and I need him to see that before it’s too late.
He remembered all these, yet he didn’t remember much of what happened after the vision assaulted him again in the middle of a fucking conversation. He was too overwhelmed with what he saw, the images playing in front of him, of the pain that kept stabbing at every nerves of his brain cells, at the sudden urge of wanting to throw up, at that burning sensation somewhere in his nose…
What he did remember was the warm, soft cuddles of leather, the lulling purrs of the Impala, the hint of fresh, cold night air brushing past his nose from that little opening of the window, of guitar riffs plucked and strummed by skilful fingers and that deep, almost whispering voice going come on come on come on come on come now, as if calling him to wake the fuck up.
His hand made a quick brush to the pocket of his jeans, felt the missing bump of his wallet and knew that he was going to die tonight, knew he had willingly been led by a Sam Winchester into his brother’s sweet ride to be killed and disposed off somewhere after robbing him of his fucking wallet (and money); and what was he thinking, trusting someone whose last name is Winchester?
But after it all dawned on him, he found comfort in two things: 1. he was glad he didn’t pay for Sam I have visions of you having visions so you must trust me and follow me back to my brother’s car where I can steal your wallet and fucking kill you Winchester’s glass of Whiskey and 2. that the last thing he’d hear before he dies was Ted fucking Nugent rocking out to Stranglehold. Thank God for small favours, right?
So he didn’t understand, couldn’t grasp the logic, when he was woken up by this Sam dude and led out of the car gently, and found himself parked right in front of the motel he was staying in, room 101 staring back at him a few feet away.
“Why am I here?”
Sam, still holding him up by the arm, looked at him worriedly. “This is where you’re staying right?”
“Yeah…but I don’t understand.” The car creaked noisily and he looked back, saw the trunk opened wide, body hunched over, face hidden from view, making a grab at something, and he remembered Sam Winchester had an accomplice.
“That’s Dean, he’s just getting some stuff.”
“Oh yeah, don’t want to make a mess out of it right?”
“Out of what?”
“You guys gonna cut me up in my own room, that’s even sicker than I imagined man…I mean, I thought you’d prefer the woods-”
“Cut you up? Dude you really took a number on the head just now didn’t you?”
“Stop fucking with me all right? If you’re gonna kill me, at least have the decency to be honest about some things.” That was stupid. You don’t expect any kinds of honesty from a would be killer, let alone asked for it.
“I’m not here to kill you Nick, you had a vision remember and I-”
“You took my wallet.”
“We need to find out where you’re staying man, Dean figured I would get some kind of clue if I look in your wallet and he’s right, found your key card.”
“You know, normal people would drive my ass straight to the hospital.”
“Well Nicky.” He wondered if a neck could snap in two just from turning back too quickly; that was going to hurt in the morning. “We’re not normal, and so are you.”
He was going to have a hell lot of problems with Dean; he knew it. That smirk, that streak of confidence masked by arrogance, that James Dean cool leather jacket, that motherfucking sawed off shotgun leaning against his shoulder. Who the fuck are these people?
“It’s Nick.” And that would have been more convincing of a threat, if his body hadn’t just decided that that was the perfect time to pass the fuck out.
