For a long time, the world was just a confused jumble, hurtcoldwetachedark.
He drifted in it, lost without even knowing he was, somehow aware that even that blur burningemptypainblackfire was better than what waited on the other side.
For a moment something slashed through the haze, a glimpse of a moon-shadowed road spinning away, glass shattering to crystal shards that rained over him like falling stars, an impression of something watching as sky and trees lurched sickeningly over and over, something with black eyes and a blacker smile that sent adrenaline shuddering through him.
He didn't want to remember that. It hurtin a way he couldn't quite understand, faded echo of familiar fists, of fire exploding in his shoulder and empty eyes staring at him down the length of the gun…
He let himself slide down into the dark, let it wash over him, drag him under and it never felt like drowning when it closed over him and pulled him away.
…full of broken thoughts I cannot repair…
It slipped through the nothing, quick-silver, snaring him and drawing him up. He thought maybe he struggled, he didn't want to be up, where it hurt in a way he couldn't make better and where there was nothing waiting for him but cold and empty and alone.
…beneath the stain of time, the feelings disappear…
It was inexorable, winding around him, through him, rushing faster and faster until he opened his mouth to scream at it to stop, just stop but before he could do more than draw a breath that turned ribs he hadn't had a moment before to fire, the world came crashing down around him. It smelt of cold metal and wet leather, rotting leaves and freshly turned earth and scorched rubber. He choked, the air escaping him in a whimper as he curled in on himself, searching the comfort of the cold, aching dark.
…you are someone else, I am still right here…
Only thing was… he knew those words that twisted him up in themselves. He knew they were important, knew they meant something that hovered just out of reach as his hazy mind scrabbled to catch it.
Sam.
Phone.
Oh, crap.
"Sam?" he blurted, winced at the rasp in his throat that made it feel like swallowing barbed wire. He fumbled one hand out, breath hitching as he rolled and sparks lashed up his leg, burning white hot. He bit his lip, held himself still and reached out again, fingers clumsily searching for the phone that warbled tinnily at him one last time and went silent in the middle of Reznor's growl.
"Hey, Sam."
He blinked as he heard his voice greet his brother, sure by the distinct lack of barbed wire in his throat that he hadn't spoken.
"I'm fine, Sam. Okay? Seriously. I'm fine. I just… well, you remember that waitress in Memphis? Yeah. Yeah, that's right, little brother. Ha. Funny guy. No, I'll be back this evening, alright? Carla's… feisty. Go… I don't know. Go rob a library or something, 'kay? Alrighty."
By the time the phone clicked shut, he'd managed to clear the bloody haze from one eye and glared at the short brunette smiling back at him as she tossed the small device carelessly over one shoulder. It clattered on the floor and he jumped in spite of himself, nerves wound to breaking point by her stare.
"Hey, Dean."
"I know you, sweetheart?"
Her smile stretched a little.
"Guess I don't look so dumb now, huh?"
The hunter's mouth snapped shut on the retort as he pulled back.
"Meg?"
She quirked a brow at him, spread her arms as if displaying the meatsuit she was wearing. He almost expected her to twirl right there in the middle of the cabin that was becoming painfully familiar. His breath hitched as he recognised it and he shrank back into the corner behind him, clenching his jaw shut so hard his teeth groaned and bright slivers of pain darted up into his skull.
You're not my dad…
"No."
He heard the whisper, thought for a moment she was mimicking him again, until she threw her head back and laughed.
"Oh, Dean. You Winchesters are so easy to play."
She pushed away from the scarred table she'd been leaning against, one denim-clad leg crossed over the other, and stalked towards him. Her face flickered as she neared, long hair turning shaggy, tumbling into eyes that were warmer, less green, then shifting again, back and forth.
"Sam?"
She grinned and the smile was all hers, even as she shaped her face to his brother's.
"Sammy-boy's just fine."
She cocked Sam's head to one side, the moonlight streaming fitfully through the grimy window falling across his – her – face and he frowned, rocking back from the memory of his brother, standing in the middle of the night-dark road, silver turning his face pale, eyes unreadable as he watched the Impala skid over the edge of the embankment and roll…
"Don't you wear his face, bitch."
He forced it out through gritted teeth, the growl smarting in his throat, so much it brought tears to his eyes but he glared at her until she shrugged, features smoothing back to the bland, pretty girl he'd first seen. She looked at him silently, impassive, her gaze a pressure on his skin that build to an itch as she held it. He made himself look back steadily, curled one hand into a fist at his side against the urge to flinch away, shaking with the effort it took, every tremor burning in his leg. He ignored it, kept his gaze locked to the greater threat, blindly trusting his instincts. As he watched, her eyes flooded slowly with the soulless black, a perfect mirror that let him see his own battered, bloodied face reflected back at him.
You look like crap, Dean.
The voice in his head sounded more like his brother than she did and he grinned weakly, wondering how long he'd been gone.
Better find me quick, Sammy.
She smiled back, and he wondered for a dazed moment if she could read minds.
"Well, this is fun, isn't it Dean?"
"Like a day at the fair," he snarked, smirking at her as she chuckled quietly and pushed easily to her feet. She tossed a look back over her shoulder at him as she wandered to the far corner and he peered past her; saw a table covered with bowls and candles and a heavy, silver goblet, cast with twisted faces leering back at him. He blinked once, slowly, as he realised he recognised it.
Chicago. She had that in Chicago, at the altar.
She shifted so that he couldn't see past her and he swore silently, flicking a glance around the cabin. His heart stuttered every time he saw it, the window that had silhouetted his father as he dropped his gaze, then looked back up with yellow eyes. There was still a bloodstain on the warped floorboards under another window.
He shivered, wrenched his stare away from it, let it skitter back over the demon as she stood at the table, chanting softly, hands weaving over the goblet. Licking dry lips, Dean rolled forward, curiosity itching under his skin.
How'd she do that? Demons don't shapeshift, they can't. Some kind of illusion maybe? A spell?
He almost grinned at the whisper in his head that sounded so much like his brother, faced with a puzzle he couldn't solve. It faded under another voice, a memory that made his throat tighten.
I learned a few new tricks…
His breath hitched as his leg rolled with him, slipping forward to knock against the floor and he lurched back, blind with the fire that slammed up through his thigh, thumping the dusty wood once then spreading his hand flat, trying to ground himself. Through the roaring in his ears, he heard a quiet laugh and tipped his head down to his shoulder, stubborn will refusing to let her see the tears that had sprung to his eyes.
She'd gone back to chanting by the time his vision cleared and he let his head hang for a while, panting, vaguely watching sweat drip from his jaw to make dark circles in the dust. Slowly, the pain eased back to a dull hiss of static along his nerves and he finally turned his head, looked down at his legs.
Two inches below his left knee, it looked like someone had hollowed out a watermelon and worked it up over his calf. The denim of his pants was stretched taut, seams straining, the old tear frayed and bloodied from a wide scrape that burned raw across the top of the swelling.
Busted. Oh, you are so screwed now, Dean.
That voice was all his and he snarled at it to 'shut the hell up, already' in his head, snapped his gaze back up as the low chant suddenly rose to a ringing cry that echoed, too long for this isolated cabin in the middle of the Missouri woods. The hunter tried to shrink back as the demon turned; the goblet cradled carefully in both hands, her boots quiet on the floor. She knelt, settled back on her heels and slipped one hand free of the cup, letting him see it clearly and a shiver traced down his spine as he realised the faces on it weren't leering, they were screaming, straining out of the silver, chains and fire lapping around them, dragging them back to the dark stained surface.
"You know, Sammy-boy's got an awful lot locked up in that head of his."
"You're telling me. Thousand and one ways to impeach a high court judge, couple of dozen banishment rituals, most of the damn bestiary…" he was rambling and knew it, but he couldn't tear his eyes away from the screaming, straining faces that suddenly looked one hell of a lot like his and between the pain still beating dully in his head, and the shudders that kept racing up and down his back, he couldn't seem to stop. She overrode him.
"He remembers things he doesn't even know he remembers. Like the Shtriga. You remember that, right Dean? So does Sam. He used to dream about it, waking up to see it leaning over his bed and big brother was nowhere to be found."
His ramble cut off with a snap of teeth and he pulled back as far as he could, hands and one foot scrabbling weakly on the floor.
"He doesn't remember. You're lying."
"Oh, he remembers, Dean. Let me show you what he's got locked up in there, buried so deep I had to dig to find it."
He wanted to punch her, smash the smug grin right off her face but she flattened her free hand in the air and the dull static of pain in his leg suddenly screamed as unseen hands roughly rolled him to his back, pressed him down into the floorboards and held him there. She rocked forward and all he could do was watch her as she reached out, grabbed his jaw and wrenched it open, fingers digging into his cheeks as she tipped his head back and tilted the cup to his lips. The thick, dark liquid inside choked him, burned his mouth as she poured it in and his throat worked, trying to spit it out. It trickled out over his jaw, turning to ice as soon as it hit the air and she scowled, tipped the cup further and forced his mouth shut, slapping her hand down across it as he writhed against the hands that were crushing him.
Then she tossed the empty goblet carelessly over her shoulder, and with her free hand, casually punched him in the stomach. He gagged, couldn't stop himself swallowing in reflex as she let him go and he curled in on himself, feeling the liquid scorch down his gullet, worse than the roughest moonshine. He strangled a cry, twisted his arms around his stomach as it burned and lost the cabin in a haze of fire that filled every nerve, disconnected him, jumbled his senses so that he saw her touch as she laid a hand on his shoulder, black and cold, heard the sulphur on her breath brush over his skin in an acid-bright discord as she leant close and whispered in his ear, words that tasted of smoke and dirt.
"Let's see, why don't we, Dean?"
And then Dad's standing there, getting ready to go again. He grabs a shotgun from the table and stuffs it into his duffle, looking up at me as he smiles a little, that grim smile he always gives me when he's leaving. I try to copy it, reflect it back, to say You can trust me, Dad. I'll make everything alright while you're gone. Sometimes it works.
This time, I don't think it does, because his lips twitch a little like he almost wants to laugh, but that's okay too. He doesn't laugh much, but I like it when he does.
He walks to the door, stops and looks at me and I know what's coming next.
"Look out for Sammy."
I say it right along with him and he just stares at me a moment. Then he nods, opens the door and he's gone, just like that. Two nights spent hunched over the table with it's load of books and newspapers and scraps of paper covered with his scrawl and then there's just the shotgun by the door and the salt line laid down along the window sills the day we got here.
And me and Sammy.
I lock the door like I'm meant to, stand there for a second, missing him already. Behind me, Sammy's zoned out to Thundercats on the grainy TV. I shake my head a little, square my shoulders and swagger to the table, swinging a chair 'round to sit on it backwards, like Dad does. Crossing my elbows on the back and resting my chin on top of them, I start fiddling, doodling with the newspaper, pretending to read some story about a local business man getting arrested for fraud.
Dad'll get a kick out the Impalas sketched down the margins, doing donuts and J-turns.
But the room's already starting to feel too small.
The air's kind of stale, tastes old, like it's been breathed too many times and the smell of cigarettes that I noticed when we first came in comes back full force. The TV is too loud, grating, jarring every nerve until I want to yell at Sammy to turn it off.
I turn to a new page, doodle harder.
Time flicks by, half-noticed articles and the odd theme tune blaring in my ears. I hate this time. I know if I can just get through tonight, tomorrow will be better. First night's always the worst.
Finally, it's time for Sammy's supper.
There isn't much that stays steady in our lives, but I try and at least make sure Sammy gets supper at the same time every night. So I push away from my chair, ask him what he wants, SpaghettiOs or SpaghettiOs. He grins at me, long hair flopping in his eyes and burbles, "Sgabettiohs!"
Usually, that kinda cracks me up. Tonight it just sets my teeth on edge.
"Fine. Coming right up."
Five minutes later the pan's steaming and the brat's demanding the last bowl of Lucky Charms. He turns on the puppy-dog eyes and it works, of course it does. I watch him chow down on the cereal, playing with the toy he gave me, rolling it over and over in my fingers. It's already cracked along one side; I'm squeezing it so tight.
Then he's done and I wash his bowl up and send him into the bathroom to brush his teeth. For a minute or two the room is empty, there's space for me to breathe, to listen to the hush and let my shoulders relax just a little. And then he's back with a minty grin and a sloppy kiss that I'm too slow to brush off.
"Night Deanie!"
"Don't call me that, brat."
"Deanie, Deanie, Deanie…"
"Sam!"
Maybe he hears the snap of anger, maybe he sees it in my face, either way he shuts up and stops dancing 'round the room, standing there all puppy-dog eyes and quivering chin. Dammit.
"Sorry, Sammy."
"Me too, Dean."
He whispers it and I feel like a scumbag.
"C'mon, kiddo. Get to bed, huh?"
"'kay. Night Dean."
"Yeah. Night, Sam."
It's like the damn Waltons and that makes the walls start closing in again, the air gets that stale smell and I have to clench my fists to stand there and watch him shuffle to the bedroom instead of running out screaming into the parking lot. I wait, make myself wait until he's asleep then clock-watch for another ten minutes, just to be sure. Then I slip out the door, locking it behind me and pocketing the key carefully, checking the windows from the outside, still shut, still locked, salt line still a faint trace of glitter along the inside of the sills. He's as safe as I can make him, and I gotta get out, just for a while. Just for a little while.
A little while turns into lost time, wandering around the motel until I find the space invaders machine. The high-score table is full of 'R. Plant' by the time the manager kicks me out, but I head back to the room easily enough. It doesn't feel too small anymore, the air's fresh, smelling faintly of toothpaste and burned tomato sauce and…
mud.
It smells of mud.
And that's when it all goes sideways.
In the same moment that I recognise the smell, I see the bedroom door isn't open like I left it, there's an odd, blue light coming through a thin crack like maybe the wind tugged it a little. There shouldn't've been any wind, not with the windows shut. It takes me three steps to get close enough to see the way that light shifts through the open door and I forget about breathing as I reach down for the shotgun propped against the frame, push the door open the rest of the way and freeze with the gun half-way to my shoulder.
Sammy?
I think it, over and over, like a stuck record, Sammy, Sammy, Sammy but I can't move, can't even make myself say it out loud. I just stand there, frozen, watching that thing suck the life out of my baby brother until thunder booms five times, right beside my ear and I jump a mile. The thing screeches, glares up at me, at Dad beside me, I can hear him cursing in one ear but the other, the one he fired the pistol beside, is just ringing like the scream that's been building in my head. SAMMY! The witch is gone in a whirl of mud-crusted black and Dad spares time for one furious glare at me as he dashes to the bed, wisps of smoke curling up from the gun he dumps on the bed as he kneels and pulls Sammy into his chest. The kid's pale, eyes bruised, lips tinged blue but the scariest thing is that he doesn't wake up. Sam always wakes up. Always. All I gotta do is turn over in the next bed and he'll wake but Dad's rocking him, shaking him, yelling at him, 'Wake up, Sammy c'mon, please, open your eyes!' At me, 'Where were you? Where the hell were you?' and he still lies there in Dad's arms.
I don't even feel the tears on my cheeks until we get outside, Dad carrying Sam, loading him into the front seat car like he's made of porcelain, leaving me to lock the room and hurry after him. I'm not too sure he actually would've waited for me to get in back if I wasn't quick enough. The ringing in my right ear is getting louder and it hurts but I don't say anything, don't even press my hand against it like I want to, just ball up in the corner of the back seat and watch as Dad runs his fingers through Sam's hair in front.
The hospital's all bright lights and scared faces. The nurses whisk Sam away through the doors and Dad bulls after them, leaving me behind this time, half a look telling me to stay put. I find a seat, do what I'm told, and if I'd just done that in the first place… Pull my feet up onto the chair, wrap my arms around them, bury my head in the dark and listen to the screaming in my ear.
Where were you? Where the hell were you?
Playing space invaders. I was playing space invaders while that thing sucked the life out of my baby brother.
I'm sorry, Sammy. I'm sorry. Be okay, please? You gotta be okay. You just gotta.
"Hey, son. You okay in there?"
I'm too tired to startle and anyway, the voice has been asking me for a few seconds, drawing me out of the hot guilt. It's only when a big hand falls on my knee that I actually look up and blink at him, white hair and a kind smile. Dad used to call me son. When did he stop calling me son?
I ignore the whisper in my head and nod, sniffling a little before I can stop.
"You all alone?"
I shake my head.
"Here with your mom?"
Freeze at that, feel my stare going icy-hard like Dad's does. The white-haired stranger quirks a brow and pulls back a little, and I see the dog-collar at his throat. Great. Priests.
"Dad?"
"Yeah."
"He hurt?"
Shake my head, mute again, deaf under the screaming in my ear. Sammy.
"Oh. So, maybe, a brother?"
I duck my head back down to my knees so he can't see me crying. The hand on my knee shifts to my shoulder, pets stiffly.
"Hey, I'm sure he'll be fine. He'll be just fine."
"What the hell are you doing with my son?"
It doesn't sound like Dad. It must be, because the priest is shifting away, snatching his hand back like my shoulder suddenly burned him and I can hear him stammering apologies and defences, but it doesn't sound like Dad.
"Dean."
One word order and I slip down off the chair; fall in behind him as he stalks off through the doors, looking back once to see the priest frowning after us worriedly. A chime sounds beside me and the lift doors open, we file in in silence, stand there, in silence, Dad's stiff and cold behind my shoulder and the rattle and clank of the machinery is too loud against my aching ear. It's still ringing shrilly. Still crying, Sammy. When the chime sounds again, louder inside the car, it spikes and I flinch but neither of us say anything as we file out and I watch Dad's boots leave faint traces of mud on the speckled tiles, all the way to a small room with three empty beds and one occupied one.
He drops into a chair, lifts one of Sammy's hands in his and curls it against his lips.
And doesn't say anything.
Not when I pull over another chair and perch on the edge.
Not when that's too far and I clamber up to the bed, sitting by my brother's shoulder, trying not to look at the tubes running into him.
Not when I curl up and whisper to Sammy, "You gotta wake up, Sammy. Please. You can call me Deanie forever, just wake up."
He doesn't say anything until the alarms start screeching, just like the witch did, then he shouts, so loud I cower back into the corner away from him.
"Save him, you have to save him! Please, he's my boy!"
When they stop and the alarms go silent, that's when he turns to me, eyes wide and red.
"What did you do?"
He jerked back, yanking his head away from her touch with a gasp that would have been a cry if he'd had enough air in his lungs. His leg twisted as he pulled away, white heat screaming from his toes to his hip, almost drowning out the fire in his stomach. He clamped his jaw shut, throat locked against the tears that burned his eyes, wide and locked on hers. She smiled back at him, let him scrabble for distance between them, unthinking motions as he shoved at the floor until his back met the wall and he hunched against it, chest heaving as he fought for air, struggled to remember what was real and what was just dream.
Dad shot it and it ran but we got there in time, we did, I know we did. He didn't die. He. Did. Not. Die.
He could still hear the ringing in his right ear.
"Not… not like…that. Wasn't."
He couldn't catch his breath, kept losing it every time his leg sent a new jolt of pain through him but he glared at her as she shifted to sit Indian-style, hands curled loosely together in her lap.
"Are you sure, Dean?"
He snorted breathlessly, forced himself to take slow, deep breaths until his heart eased its frantic race and he could think through the echo of alarms and What did you do?
"Called a paradox, bitch. If Sam died then, how did you possess him three months ago?"
She threw her head back and laughed, the sound echoing cheerfully from the roof, making the cobwebs tangled there sway.
"Good point. Still. I'm just getting started, Dean."
He licked dry lips, curled his hand into a fist against his abdomen, tried to pretend it was just the pain that turned his knuckles white.
"Why? What do you want?"
She sobered, smile turning cold and hard, eyes dark ice pinning him in place.
"You sent me to hell twice, Dean. The only thing I give a rat's ass about is seeing you burn like I did."
"That's it? That's what this is all about? Revenge?"
The demon nodded, smiling again, hazel eyes swirling with black.
"Pretty much."
He laughed, winced at the edge to the sound.
"Well, you're just freakin' bucket's've crazy."
"Demon here," she countered, spreading her arms to the sides. Dean shook his head, let it hang for a moment, still trying to slow his breathing past the flames chewing at his insides. He could feel the poison, his mouth and throat still stinging, it felt like every inch of his abdomen was being branded at once, raked over hot coals. He swallowed another jagged laugh.
Nice. 'Cause that's an image I need in my head right now. C'mon, Dean. Time to kick some demon skank ass.
He tipped his head back against the wall, felt the rough wood dig at his skin, achingly familiar. His eyes skittered over to the window, to the bed he'd sat on, cleaning his hands, where words he'd longed to hear had just driven suspicion into him. I'm proud of you. You watch out for this family, you always have.
Tore his gaze away, back to hers as she watched him, a smug grin twisting the girl's pretty mouth into something ugly. He wondered, suddenly, who she was, if she had family to miss her and knew his mind was starting to wander, trying to shut down the pain from his stomach and leg.
Meg cocked her head, leant forward a little.
"You know, Dean, I never really went for tall men. Sam was just… following orders."
He choked a little, made his voice high and frightened.
"No, please, stop, I'll do anything, just not that!"
The demon smirked, pushed to her feet and wandered over to the edge of the moonlight that spilled through the window. It played over the girl's face, cast it into shadow, glittered from black eyes as she turned to look at him again. He squirmed under her stare, breath hitching as his leg shifted again and tried to pull his hands under himself, judging the distance between them. Plans skittered through his mind and were gone, discarded as quickly as they formed until he had nothing but stubborn will driving him. He waited, hanging his head again to disguise the way he gathered himself, needing her to take just one more step back, to give him enough time to lurch to his feet.
"He's gonna come, you know," Dean said, lifting his head just enough to see her look sharply at him. "Sam. He's gonna come and he'll kick your sorry ass to next week."
"That's the plan, Dean. You're just bait, or hadn't you realised that? Sam? He's the brains, right? He'll think he knows just the right way to save the day and send me back to hell again. And when he tries his favourite exorcism…" She trailed off and shrugged. "He'll get one hell of a surprise."
As she finished, she took a step back, half turning away from the hunter where he hunched on the floor. Dean grabbed one last breath, balled his fists until his nails dug blood from his palms and launched himself up, growling out the pain that turned the room to blinding white.
"I hate surprises, bitch."
She spun, rattlesnake fast, he made that out through the haze but mostly he just went on instinct, throwing himself forward, one hand already out and reaching, the other balled, drawn back by his ear.
He never even touched her, slamming into a wall of air that caught him and threw him straight back across the room, hard. He hit the wall with one shoulder, felt something in it give before his head crashed into the wood and the already hazy world turned dim and cloudy, shot through with black stars. A groan shivered in his throat but he couldn't hear it through the roaring in his ears, just knew he sagged halfway to the floor before something caught him, crushed him back into the wall.
"Come on, Dean. You can do better than that."
The force dropped away, let him crumple bonelessly to his knees, blind and numb to everything but the pain that screamed along his nerves and tore awareness apart, left just the echo, Sam. He's gonna come. He'll get one hell of a surprise.
Gotta get your act together, Dean. Sam's gonna come charging into rescue you and kid'll walk right into it, you know he will.
Vaguely, he thought that his head was getting pretty crowded, with Bobby in there as well now. He dragged together fragments of rough wood splintering under his hands, of moonlight reflecting from twisted faces, the tang of his own sweat on his tongue, pieced them together into a cloudy world and blinked his vision clear. Realised he was sagging against the wall by the window, staring at the blood stain on the floor, the goblet lying at the edge of the moonlight. Old blood, months old.
He shuddered as he realised it was his.
A shadow blanked it out, long, slender fingers catching his jaw, tipping his head up gently, almost tenderly. She smiled down at him with clear, hazel eyes, dark curls falling forward around her face as she leant in so close he could feel her breath on his lips, could feel the heat coming off her skin and only then realised he was bitterly, achingly cold.
"Not good enough, Dean," she whispered, the words brushing his skin. He closed his eyes, tried to pull away but she tightened her grip, slid her free hand up to trace the blood trickling from his temple. "You lose."
It was the last thing he heard as she spread her fingers across his brow and tightened them, digging the tips in, the poison in his blood answering her touch with a roar that spun him away into nothing.
The sun's shining so bright I can hardly see. It smells like the pavement's melting and I know I'll never forget that smell, not ever. All I can hear is the brakes on the Buick barrelling towards us howling as he tries to stop. I stretch my arm out so far I think my shoulder might pop out like Dad's did that time but there's no way I'll make it, Sammy's sprawled out in the middle of the street right where he fell and there's people everywhere in the way, all of them running away from the asshat who jumped the lights and no-one's noticed the gangly seven year-old who tripped over his own feet.
It's not the sun that's blinding me at all as the Buick screams past in a blur of white and chrome, rocks to a halt fifty feet down the block.
I snatch my hand back, stumble and trip over my own feet and fall flat on my ass on the hot tar and stare at the sky reflecting in Sammy's empty eyes.
"No!"
He snapped his head back, away from her touch but with the wall at his back couldn't go further and her hand just followed, burning him, freezing him, dragging him under.
I blink at the hole in the floor. Place is like a freakin' haunted house, all trapdoors and hidden passages but this hole is different, this hole is ragged edges and settling dust and Sammy, somewhere down there in the black that opened up under our feet so fast I didn't even see him drop.
"Dean!"
It's Dad, on the stairs to the next floor, leaning over the banister.
"SAMMY!"
He jerked back, shuddering, throat desert-dry and every breath a rasping wheeze as he fought off the over lapping memories, the sickening double-exposure of what he knew was true and the things she showed him. Blind, he clawed at the floor, trembled and shook under the pain that lashed through him, stomach and leg, her touch on his head ice cold in the burning that seemed to consume him. Her fingers spread on his temple again, dug in as he twisted away and wrenched him back as he stuttered.
"Wasn't like that… I caught him. I saved him."
"Are you sure, Dean? Really sure? Like, a hundred percent sure?"
He growled incoherently at the smug grin on her face, shivered as it turned cold and hard and tried one last time to pull back but the poison in his blood screamed up as she leant in and swamped him again.
It's still raining. Startin' to feel like the wrath of god out here and seriously, who knew half of South Dakota smells like wet dog when it's wet? Then again, maybe that's just Rumsfeld. Mutt's ranging out ahead, Dad's on my left, Bobby out on the other side of him and Sam's just within reach on my right.
It's wet, it stinks and the cold's gonna do some serious damage to places I really don't want damaged.
It's freakin' perfect.
Out here, the Skinwalker somewhere up in the woods, the four of us and the dog all hunting together, it's like family. Sam's still doing his broody teenager thing but this is the first time in months he and Dad haven't been at it like cats and dogs and from the looks Bobby sends me every now and then behind Dad's back, he's just as relieved as I am. Now if I can just get Sam to toe the line for a few weeks, soften Dad up a little, maybe I can sweet talk him into thinking about those prospectuses Sam doesn't know I know about.
I haven't got a clue how long the kid's been thinking about college. Since he was eight, probably.
I duck under a low bush, half my mind still mulling over ways to make it seem like less of an abandonment, the other half cursing as the rain drips straight down the back of my jacket. Rolling my shoulders as it works it's way down my spine, I take a quick look along the line, Dad, Bobby, both the old men so intent on Rumsfeld's tail as he tracks the Skin' they don't notice me trip over my own feet as I look the other way and see nothing but trees and scrub and rain.
"Sam!"
Dog starts yelping, high and scared and I hear Bobby yell at him, Dad yell at me but all the time I'm yelling at Sam. The woods are echoing with the racket we're making, off to my right as I stumble over to where Sam should've been there's a clatter of startled wings as a brace of pheasants take-off, squawking loudly.
I shouldn't be able to hear it, god knows how but I do, faint breath of sound that drags me back along our trail, just a few yards to where it dipped down into a hollow, dimly aware of Dad behind me, Bobby still chasing after Rumsfeld as the dog starts howling.
I don't even notice the rain that drips down my neck again as I slide to my knees beside him. He's shivering, stare roaming wildly around the sky. I shrug out of my jacket, couldn't care less that I'm soaked to the skin by the time I've got it tucked around him, but he's still shivering and I can't catch his gaze.
"Sammy?"
He jerks a little at my whisper, whimpers in pain, the same noise I heard before; my name. But his eyes track to mine and hold there, more or less.
"Hey, Sammy. It's gonna be okay. We'll fix you up, alright? Okay?"
He tries to nod, shakes his head and bites down another cry. Rolls his hand out from under my jacket, curls his fingers at me and I slip mine through his and hold on, tight enough for both of us as I hear Dad scramble through the bushes.
"Call 911."
"What? Dean – "
"Call 911!"
It's the wrong way round, he should be the one kneeling here yelling orders and I'm supposed to be the one scrambling back up the low bank, searching for signal but Sam's got my hand caught in his and neither one of us is letting go any time soon. I reach out, brush the too-long hair that always falls into his eyes out with my free hand, leave it there resting on his head.
"Need a haircut, dude."
He grins shakily, faintly and there's blood on his teeth. He pulls at my hand, his fingers are cold and as I lean in I try and wrap them up in mine, try and warm them.
"D'n."
"I'm here. I'm right here kiddo."
"Dy'n'…"
"No. No you're not. You hear me? You're gonna be just fine. It's nothin'. Just a scratch."
My jacket's already turned black where it covers him but I don't let myself look at it, block it from his sight as well with my shoulder as I hunch over him, try and give him some shelter.
"Wan'ed… y' to…know…"
"Tell me later, Sammy, 'kay? Don't try and talk."
"Shuddup 'n lissen."
Rain drips down my face, falls to his as I follow orders. I can barely hear anything through the roaring in my head, but his thick, choked whisper comes through just fine. My fingers comb through his hair as he fights to get words out and I couldn't say anything if I wanted to.
"Was gonna… 'ply t'college."
I nod and he figures out then that I already knew. He smiles a little again, blood-stained and wonderful.
"Prof… said… I'd get… schol'ship…"
Each word is coughed out between rasping, rattling gasps that paint his lips red. My fingers around his are turning blue and I know, distantly, that I'm shivering hard but the world's disconnected, condensed down to him telling me he was going to leave and me trying to figure out how to tell him it was okay. It was okay.
"Stan…ford."
I laugh, cry, blurt out, "That's my boy," and he squeezes my hand once.
And then he's gone.
Then there's just the rain and Dad crumbling up on the bank behind me and Bobby, silent and shocked and Rumsfeld howling at his side and his icy fingers getting colder and colder in mine.
He shook, caught a glimpse of black eyes right up in his, an eager smile and a laugh that was the only cool thing in a world that burned. Jerked his head in denial, stammered out,
"Didn' geddim. It didn'. No. Y'r lyin'. Hafta be."
She just smiled wider and spread her other hand on the other side of his head, dug her fingertips into both temples and he cried out then, arched against her touch and lost what was real and what was just the twisted dreams.
