Soul Occupant
K Hanna Korossy
"So."
He would have bet money he'd see Sam seize up at that word, knowing what was coming next. Dean felt a dull surprise that Sam didn't react at all, just continued to stare out the dark car window as he'd had the whole trip so far.
Dean cleared his throat. He'd asked Sam after Pamela had breathed her last what it was she'd whispered to him before she'd died, but Sam had deflected him then with the legitimate need for them to get out of town. It had been on his tongue since they'd hit the road to ask again…but somehow the question had gotten less and less important as they went. Sam would just lie to him once more, as he always seemed to these days, and Dean would rather just not give him the opening. Instead he asked, "How far's the next town?" his voice rusty and dry.
Sam did finally turn to him, face scrunched in puzzlement as if Dean had asked him what the capital of Lichtenstein was. Which Sam probably knew, geek that he was. "How should I know?" he asked.
"Uh…you could look it up?" Dean proposed, the duh unspoken but clear.
Sam blinked at him, still uncomprehending.
Dean wondered for the three thousandth time where his brother went to in his head these days, because he sure as anything wasn't with Dean. "On your genius phone, genius."
If he'd been hoping for a churlish little-brother correction of smart phone, Dean would have been disappointed, but he hadn't been. Not for a while now. Sam just hesitated another moment, then finally reached into his pocket, pulling out his phone. He worked it clumsily, mind still obviously elsewhere. "Uh…'bout ten miles up. We stopping?" He threw a pointed glance toward the back seat.
As if Dean could forget about their silent passenger. "We're not gonna get to Indiana in one night. It'll be cold in the car—she'll be fine." And his head was still killing him from its collision with a tombstone, courtesy of Alistair. Not that Sam had asked.
"We're not that far from Bobby's…"
"No." Dean had already made that really difficult phone call; he wasn't ready yet to actually face the older hunter. A night's sleep—or what passed for it these days—would give them all a needed break. "We'll pick him up in the morning like we planned."
Sam slipped his phone back into his pocket with a shrug, apparently uncaring, and returned to staring out the side window.
Somehow, that made Dean feel even more alone than did the body in the back seat.
Motel signs started popping up as they approached town, and Dean turned into the parking lot of the one that looked the cheapest. They should probably squat, low on funds since their last two credit cards had been tied to motel rooms with an axed room door and a bloodbath of a crime scene, in that order, but Dean couldn't talk himself into sleeping on a bedroll with no shower or heat. Not tonight. He still had one emergency card stashed away, and if they burned that, well, it wasn't like they weren't used to working without a safety net.
He pulled up in front of the motel office and turned off the engine, letting his hand drop to his leg with a hard breath. Even getting out of the car seemed like insurmountable effort, but Sam wasn't budging. With a swallowed sigh, Dean shoved the heavy car door open and struggled out.
The clerk inside never even gave him a glance as he took the card and handed over a key, nor did he seem to think anything unusual of Dean asking for the room at the end of the row. Pamela's body was completely wrapped in a blanket, they'd only be there overnight, and Dean would take care to park the car in an out-of-the-way spot, but still. The less attention they risked, the better.
He flopped back into the car, ignoring Sam almost as effectively as his brother was him. Once the Impala was safely wedged between a grassy knoll and the end of the motel block, Dean eased his aching body out of the car one more time and went around back to collect his duffel. He couldn't seem to care when Sam followed a half a beat later.
He was almost startled when Sam paused beside him at the open trunk. "I could keep going on my own," he offered casually.
A sudden cold threaded through Dean's veins. "What?"
"You could stay here, get some sleep, and I could take Pam and keep going. Indiana's not that far."
Dean stared at him, shocked even when he didn't think he could be anymore. Had this been what silent Sam had been thinking about the whole trip, ditching him? "Dude, it's, like, 1300 miles. One way. And we haven't picked up Bobby yet."
Sam shrugged, unconcerned.
"You're not taking my car," Dean said more forcefully.
"Okay, whatever. I just figured if you couldn't handle it…"
Dean reared back, stung anew. "What—? What the hell is wrong with you?"
Sam smiled, abruptly nasty. "Think you've got that backwards, bro."
And that…that was…okay, not untrue, but he'd never expected, even after Sam had thrown his brokenness in his face under the Siren's influence, to hear his brother mock him about Hell. It was a new low, even for this new Sam. And it hurt, deeply.
But Dean had never been one to cry and get all maudlin; anger was so much easier. He pinned Sam with a cold eye. "You think you can do better?"
"Dude," Sam raised both arms, then let them drop. "That's what I've been saying all along. If you don't wanna go after Lilith, fine, sit this one out. I can do it on my own."
"You and Ruby," Dean clarified bitterly.
"Hey, whatever works." Shrugging seemed to be Sam's new favorite thing.
This was what some part of him had feared, and the rest of him had been so adamant couldn't happen. This was it, what he'd dreaded and expected and denied. The cold had all pooled in his gut now, made his insides feel cavernous and hollow. It made his voice empty when he finally found it. "No one's stopping you."
Sam tilted an eyebrow at him. This would be the moment when his brother would snap out of it, shake his head and offer at least a platitude, a surface assurance. Where they kept playing the game even though both of them knew it wasn't real. Dean had clung to that surface appearance anyway. It was all he had left.
He felt the rip as Sam yanked it away from him with a nod and a dip into the trunk for his duffel. "Yeah, okay. Guess I'll see you around then. Maybe." No teary eyes, no waver in the voice, no emo hesitation at saying goodbye to his last remaining family. Sam had finally become a complete stranger to him.
Dean stared at him a moment. Both drinking in the features he'd followed through every stage of development, and shying away from the uncaring eyes. His own would betray way too much of what he was feeling. He swallowed, slammed the trunk shut and turned away. "Bye, Sam."
And with no more than that, his brother walked off, out of his life. Dean listened as his footfalls faded to silence.
It wasn't the first time. But somehow it felt like it might be the last.
Maybe you couldn't really escape Hell, after all.
00000
At first, he'd thought Pamela's incantation hadn't worked.
He'd felt his spirit sucked back into his body, felt the odd sensation of having mass and solidity and gravity again. He'd watched, horrified, as blood had started to spill over Pamela's finger from her gut. He'd listened in shock to her final words, whispered into his ear. I know what you did to that demon. I can feel what's inside of you. If you think you have good intentions, think again. And he'd found an excuse not to answer when Dean had asked her what she'd said.
Then…then things got a little hazy.
There'd been a sensation of displacement, of being shoved to the side. But instead of landing on the floor, or facing an irate brother, or any one of a half-dozen other things that might have made sense, the next thing Sam knew was, he was…floating.
Over his body. Which, unlike before, was moving and talking without him.
His thoughts had felt as insubstantial as his form, and Sam was bewildered at first: had Pam's spell to reunite his body and spirit failed? Maybe it hadn't stuck or something. But Dean's seemed to work. And Sam hadn't been bobbing in the air like a shapeless balloon the last time. Then there was the fact that his body was apparently functioning just fine without him. What the—?
Frowning—or at least feeling like he was frowning—Sam concentrated on sinking down and trying to melt into his body. It hadn't worked before without Pam's help, but she'd already helped him…right?
This time was different. It was like hitting a wall. No, not just a wall: a sheet of ice. Cold and dark and…oddly foreboding. Sam darted back, stunned and confused.
Then horrified as his body, his face, turned unerringly toward him and flicked him a nasty smile.
Shying back, Sam watched as Dean and…he quickly packed up, then wrapped Pam's body in one of the bedspreads and headed out the door. There was no parting acknowledgement that he was still there, nothing but two brothers apparently working in sync. Sam knew what he'd seen, however, knew with growing certainty what he was. He wasn't dead, wasn't split in two, wasn't duplicated. He was himself. And something else, something evil, was leaving with an oblivious Dean.
Sam shot out after them.
He had a lot of time to think during the quiet car ride, hovering unseen, or at least unacknowledged, in the back seat above Pamela's body. He'd tried experimentally to drift away, up through the car's roof, only to be yanked back when he got about twenty feet away. So, he was still somehow tethered to his body: that was an odd relief in itself. But it was the only good news. Talking, naturally, didn't work, not even making Dean twitch. The skills they'd practiced with Cole for how to move things and affect the real world, also seemed useless in this new, even less formed version of himself. Every time he approached his body, he was repelled by that same cold, slimy feel of evil. So…basically he was stuck watching while his body was hijacked, unable to warn Dean, to reclaim what was his own, to do anything. It felt like déjà vu to Meg, to Dr. Ellicott…to how the siren's effect should have felt but only did in part, except that was more Sam than he cared to admit. He would take every word of it back, though, if Dean would just fix this.
The thing inside him didn't seem to have all his knowledge. It fumbled through using his phone. Its responses to Dean were off, even though Dean didn't seem to notice. It either didn't see or didn't care that Dean was obviously exhausted and in pain, barely able to climb out of the car to get them a room.
And then it made fun of Dean's time in Hell, something even the siren hadn't gotten Sam to do, and walked out on his brother.
Sam hung there, aghast, watching Dean's composure crumble as stared at Sam's retreating figure. Without anyone there to hide it from—that he knew of—Dean's face showed every inch of how ravaged he felt, hopeless and hurt and hollowed out. Then, giving his eyes an angry swipe, he yanked his key out of the trunk's lock and stalked into the room.
It was only when Sam felt a jerk that he realized he was still on a leash…and it wasn't to his body. With a breathless feeling of motion, suddenly he was in the room with Dean, not bobbing after his rapidly departing flesh and blood.
It should have bothered him, letting "himself" go without being able to see what his hijacker was up to. But it filled him with comfort instead, being able to stay with Dean, maybe even figure out a way to get through to him.
Or to help him, because what he was seeing amped Sam's worry up to new levels.
Inside the room, the door shut, Dean paused a moment. Then with a sharp curse, he was in motion.
The chair fell apart when it hit the wall. The motel placard was ground into the carpet under Dean's boot after it tumbled from the table Dean flung over. Glassware shattered on the floor as Dean swept the kitchenette counter with an arm. The TV followed. Then the one lamp that wasn't bolted to a wall. The other chair in the room. The bedding and mattresses. The picture of a sailboat on the wall. The mirror on the closet door.
The glass crunched as Dean sank down on his haunches there in front of the corner closet.
He was breathing hard, wiping at his face. Even as Sam hesitantly slid closer, he had to look away when he saw the glint of tears on Dean's cheeks.
It's not me. The words were as useless as the ones he'd tried to form in the car. God, Dean, I'm so sorry, but don't you know it's not me?
"Sammy," Dean whispered, but it wasn't to him. It was uttered in despair and with a shake of the head, like…like Dean was saying goodbye.
I'm here, Sam raged in silence. Damn it, Dean, pay attention—I'm right here!
With a sound that was suspiciously close to a sob, Dean reached out and grabbed one handle of his duffel. He pulled it close, snagged a bottle of Jack from inside and twisted the cap off, and drank deeply.
Sam sank as low as his spirits; he'd be sitting on the floor next to Dean if he'd had any substance. Instead, he just shifted as close to his brother's side as he could and repeated more quietly, I'm here, Dean.
And he stayed there, while Dean emptied the bottle, when he finally passed out on the floor still cramped into a ball, while he slept, face no more at peace than when he'd been awake.
I'm here, Sam whispered every time his brother made a sound of distress in his sleep. But he wasn't sure anymore if he was trying to convince Dean or himself.
00000
Maybe he slept, if he could sleep in that form. Maybe he just grayed out for a little while. The next thing he knew, weak light was filtering in through the drawn curtains, and Dean was stirring, blinking muddily for long minutes at nothing before he dipped inside his jacket.
Sam grimaced—or least wanted to—as he expected Dean to pull out his flask and continue his earnest efforts at alcohol poisoning. He was pleasantly surprised when Dean emerged with his phone instead. Right, Bobby was expecting them, and he'd talk some sense into Dean. Maybe even help him figure this out. Sam bobbed up in anticipation.
Dean dialed a number with difficulty, then held the phone to his ear while his other hand drew tiredly over his face. His eyes looked bloodshot and empty, new lines carved around his eyes and mouth. Sam felt his non-existent heart twist at the realization of what being abandoned had done to his brother. His brother who was still reeling from having gone to Hell for him.
"Hey. It's Dean."
Sam frowned. That wasn't the way Dean usually greeted Bobby.
"I'm in…I dunno, western South Dakota somewhere, I think. You hear about anything up my way?"
Was he…was he looking for a hunt? He couldn't be—
"No." Dean was shaking his head. The motion made him look faintly green. "Too easy. I'm lookin' for something to sink my teeth into, dude. Got anything really badass?"
Oh. Oh no. This was bad. He hadn't realistically expected Dean to just pick up and move on after being dumped like that by the only family he had left, but Sam hadn't been prepared for this. This was…this was giving up, Dean's version of suicide, like he'd been after their dad died, like Sam had skirted around after Jess was murdered until Dean pulled him back from the edge. This was giving up.
It shouldn't have surprised him. Dean only had two things that kept him going: his family and the job. Hunting had seemed progressively hopeless of late, however, with the mother of all demons gunning for them and both Heaven and Hell taking potshots at them. With his family gone, too, Dean had nothing left. Not even the thin consolation that his brother at least cared whether he lived or died.
Sam felt sick.
Dean was nodding, grim satisfaction on his face. "Yeah, all right, that sounds good." There was a pause. "Yeah, 'course Sam's backing me—you don't think I'd take an adlet on alone, do you?" His face twisted a little, eyes briefly closing.
An adlet. Was it possible to feel cold when you had no body? One of those creatures had once held Dean captive for a nightmarish week, a week that he still didn't talk about. No, no, no, Sam chanted, pushing each word as hard as he could, trying to make Dean feel his dread even if he couldn't hear the actual words. Don't do this, Dean, just don't.
The one light that was on, the small bulb by the door, faintly flickered.
Dean tilted his head up at it, eyes narrowing, and Sam felt a surge of excitement. That's me—I'm here. Listen to me! Again the light wavered.
Dean snorted softly. "Awesome. You want me, Casper? Come and get me."
Oh, God, this wasn't working; Dean was past caring about his safety. But if Sam could affect the light…he started moving around the room, testing every switch, small item, even the dust. He found he could stir the latter faintly—although not enough to write in it—and, according to the small thermometer mounted by the back door, he apparently drove the temperature down a few degrees just by being there, but nothing Dean would notice in his state or, even if he did, that he wouldn't chalk up to a random ghost. Which apparently wasn't worrying him considering he was gearing up to go after an adlet.
Sam tried to block him from the weapons bag, the bathroom, the front door. He switched between desperate barks of no, no, no and pleading don't do this, man. He tried yelling his brother's name.
With a final glance around the room to make sure he had everything he needed, Dean walked out the door.
Sam waited for the tug to join him. Tried to sail after him when it didn't come. And found himself yanked back when he'd almost reached the car.
Crap, he wasn't attached to Dean then, either. It had to be an object he was tied to, something in Dean's bag, because Sam wasn't leaving that motel. All he could do was watch, impotent and despondent and afraid, as Dean drove away, off to hunt a creature that was intelligent and cruel and would be more than happy to accommodate a hunter who didn't care if he lived or died.
When the car was out of sight, Sam withdrew back into the motel room, curled in on himself in one corner, and let his awareness become as intangible as his form.
00000
The thump roused him. The scraping sound that followed focused him on the door.
He had no ears or eyes; he had no idea how he heard or saw anything. But Sam still turned to the door and watched with anxious impatience. He had no way even of knowing how much time had passed; it was as dark outside now as when Dean had left.
Dean had returned.
A vast ocean of relief swamped Sam as the door crept open to admit his living, breathing brother. Then the blood, the pallor and unsteady gait registered, and the relief dried up.
Dean? Dean! There was no reason Dean should have started hearing him now, but somehow his brother's lack of reaction only ramped up Sam's worry. Because it looked like Dean wouldn't have heard a freight train coming right at him.
His face was a mess of bruises, with swollen eyes and blood crusting his nose and one ear. His hair was matted, Sam couldn't tell whether with mud or more blood. He was limping heavily, jeans filthy and torn. But it was the side he was guarding with his left arm, the maroon-stained t-shirt, that seemed to be the most serious injury. And as Dean stumbled against the bed, bright crimson bubbling against his hand proved the bleeding hadn't stopped.
Oh, God. This was bad. Maybe, possibly, with an IV and the full contents of their kit and Sam physically there to patch him up, they could have handled this on their own with motel-room surgery. But alone? Dean would bleed out, was bleeding out in front of Sam's eyes. He needed help.
With a groan, Dean collapsed face-first onto the bed.
Dean, call for help. Sam hovered by the bed, feeling almost ill with fear. Dean! Hey! Call for help, just… Dean's phone was still on the floor where he'd left it before tottering off on a hunt he wasn't ready for. A hunt Sam's departure had pushed him into. Sam swore at him. You've never given up on me before—don't you start now! Get up!
Dean had never been able to ignore him, either. Whether through Sam's ephemeral persuasion or his own determination, he inched his arm underneath himself and began to push up.
Then collapsed back to the bed with a gasp. And didn't move again.
Crap, crap, crap. This wasn't happening; he was not watching his brother bleed to death in front of him. No way. Sam moved agitatedly to the phone sitting on the floor, then back to Dean's immobile form. Shouting his brother's name didn't elicit so much as a twitch.
To the phone again. Sam stared at it, wishing so hard, he could almost feel the plastic and metal. Calling 911 was just one button on Dean's model. One small button he needed to depress a fraction of an inch to save Dean's life.
He pushed, strained, willed, pressed. Pled and bargained and maybe cried. The world narrowed down to that one tiny square of plastic.
"911, what is your emergency?"
Sam gasped. And, miraculously, either in response to him or roused by the tinny voice, Dean moaned behind him. At that point, Sam didn't even care why.
"Sir, are you hurt? Can you speak to me?"
Dean muttered something. It might have been Sam's name.
"Sir? Can you tell me where you are?"
He couldn't. And cell phones didn't automatically provide locations. But if the line was open long enough, the call could be triangulated.
Just…hang in there, man. Please, Dean.
Dean did. Even as a circle of red started seeping out across the coverlet from under him. Even when his breathing grew increasingly ragged, sometimes disappearing altogether just long enough to give Sam a good scare before sputtering to a start again. He remained unresponsive to Sam's coaxing and shouts and prods. He didn't even react when the paramedics finally stormed in through the unlocked door and rolled him over.
Sam hovered above the action, for once in nobody's way.
There was too much blood and too many heads in front of him for him to see the damage clearly. But from the urgent way the medics worked and the numbers on the heart rate and bp monitor they hooked Dean too, Sam knew it wasn't good. He felt dizzy, wanted to chew his fingers, swallowed the questions he yearned to ask. And when they loaded Dean up onto a gurney—still alive, still hanging on—Sam followed them to the ambulance door…where he bounced back as he hit the invisible wall. From there he could only watch, helpless, as they loaded Dean up and sped away.
Two cops remained behind. One called a detective, and soon the three of them were poking through the room, taking pictures of the damage Dean had wreaked before, collecting the bloody bedspread…and finally gathering up Dean's duffel and phone before leaving. They locked the door behind them.
Sam went to follow them before he got yanked along again like a balloon on a string. And hit the same wall outside the door.
But…that didn't make sense. If he wasn't tied to Dean or something Dean had with him, what was left?
Sam prowled the silent room, looking for what was keeping him there. Some of his brother's blood remained on the sheets and floor: that was a possibility, but why would that grab him more than Dean himself? He checked again to make sure there wasn't salt along the doorways, but no, Dean hadn't bothered, clearly ambivalent about his well-being. Once, they'd gotten a motel room that had apparently housed another hunter before them, tiny sigils carved into doorpost and doorstep, but Sam couldn't see anything like that now. The Impala was parked sloppily two spaces away from the door—the cops hadn't connected Dean to it apparently, which was even more a relief if Pam was still in the back seat—but that wouldn't explain why Sam was trapped in the room. And the only thing Dean had brought inside with him was his duffel, which the cops had taken with him. So there wasn't anything—
Sam frowned at the tiniest glint of light off something under the corner of the bed, where the one cop had pawed through Dean's bag looking for clues. He couldn't pull it out, of course, but Sam could fit into very small spaces now. He slithered under the bed, trying to see in the shadows. Was it…a picture of him? That was what he was tied to, a stupid picture? It wasn't even a regular picture, looked like one torn off one of their many fake—
He didn't have a mouth, but if he had it would've gone dry.
He recognized that picture, that ID. It was the one he'd stuck into the box he'd buried to summon the crossroads demon and offer to trade places with Dean in Hell. But how…?
He'd told Dean. He'd admitted not long ago that he'd tried to make a deal to get Dean back. He might have mentioned a town; Sam couldn't honestly remember. But apparently he'd given Dean enough to go on to find the place and dig up the box. Worried that it offered some kind of future option for Sam to make a deal? Or just horrified by the idea of what Sam had done? It was hard to tell with Dean. But the proof of what his actions, of what had been important enough for him to do and without Sam even knowing, was right there in his hand. And yeah, that kind of free-will offering did have a powerful magic to it. Maybe strong enough to bind Sam when his own flesh and blood—literally and relatively—didn't.
Sam turned away from the bed, unable to bear the further reminder of his brother's love, the brother whose back he was sneaking behind and who could already be dead without Sam ever knowing.
Time didn't mean the same thing when you weren't corporeal. His self-pitying wallow could have lasted a few hours or a few days; it was light when he kicked himself back into gear. He could just hear Dean's voice telling him to pull your head out of your… well, another body part he didn't have, and squaring metaphorical shoulders, Sam did. He glanced around the room, looking for something he could do in its confines.
He'd called 911 and made the light bulb flicker; that meant he could manipulate the physical world if he tried hard enough. Maybe it would take months of practice like it had Cole, but, well, didn't look like he was going anywhere. If he could call Bobby on the motel phone, he could spell out an SOS on the buttons or maybe just make enough noise to pique the hunter's interest. Or maybe someone else would stay in the room who had a laptop, or a smart phone, and Sam could type out a message. Surely it was just a matter of willpower and time, and he had plenty of the first and too much of the second.
So…practice. Sam looked around. He'd never knock the phone off the hook—at least not yet—but maybe… He went to hover in front of the TV and narrowed in on the power button.
It was easy to let your mind wander, however, when that was all you had. Like trying to figure out how this had happened in the first place. They'd warded the room before Pamela had helped them jump bodies, but she'd obviously broken a ward if a demon had gotten in to kill her. Maybe something else also slipped inside and, finding an unoccupied body, moved in. A strong enough spirit could possess a living person by overpowering the resident soul, but anything could move into a dead body, and what the Winchesters had left behind were similarly empty shells. Not that he'd felt anything already there when Sam had returned to himself, but then, the whole thing had been a pretty new experience. And then there'd been the distraction of Pam dying in front of him. It was possible.
Sam didn't want to think about what whatever it was wanted with his body, where it was or what it was doing right now.
He didn't want to think about Dean, either, or the way he'd looked when Sam had last seen him, but he had little else to distract himself with. The image of Dean bloody and ashen and still haunted him like a movie on continuous replay. If he could just make one call to the hospital, get one assurance that Dean was still alive…
Sam stared at the TV button, funneling all his desperation into one attempted small act.
Maybe it was better he didn't have fingers or teeth. He'd have chewed them ragged by now.
One tiny button. One tiny push.
What if he never found out what happened to Dean? If his brother died in the hospital, or walked out alone into the world, certain his brother didn't care about him? What if Sam was stuck in that room forever?
A half-inch of silver-gilded plastic. Or…the circuit behind it? Hmm. Wishing he had his brother's technical prowess, Sam ducked inside the TV. Maybe he didn't need to manipulate the actual button; maybe he just had to bridge a circuit or provide a current. EMF detectors picked up spirits because they had electrical energy, right? Sam, or whatever he was now, probably did, too.
He lost himself in wires, circuit boards, what he was pretty sure was a cathode ray tube…
There were noises in the background.
By the time Sam realized what he was hearing, he suspected he'd been hearing it for a while. He was zoning out, struggling more to focus. It took too long to pinpoint the noise as coming from the door.
Sam froze. Were the cops back? Or another renter? He was pretty sure Dean had put a credit card down for the room, which meant they should hold it until Dean checked out. Of course, a crime scene could change that. And they wouldn't rent the room without… Maid service? The place certainly needed cleaning. But if she found the picture under the bed and tossed it… Sam felt fresh panic swell at the thought of being bound to a junkyard indefinitely, formless, helpless, never knowing what happened to Dean or to his own—
The door jerked open and someone almost tumbled inside.
Dean caught himself in time against the door jamb, and Sam felt nonexistent breath go out of him in a whoosh.
Dean was alive. On his feet…sort of. He was hunched over, guarding his middle, which was clearly bandaged under the scrubs he wore. There were a pair of butterfly bandages on his forehead, and while his face still looked a little puffy, the discoloration had faded to pinks and yellows and greens. Days, he'd been gone for days, Sam realized with a shock. But he was alive and he was back.
With a groan that sounded half pained, half relieved, Dean shuffled forward and toppled in slow motion back onto the bed.
It felt a little too much like the last time Sam had seen him.
He ventured forward slowly when Dean didn't move. If he hovered close enough, he could see his brother's shallow but regular breathing. Closer still, and he could see the faint throb of heartbeat in the carotid under Dean's jaw. A little fast but also regular. Sam counted beats, fascinated by the proof of life, the way he could almost sense Dean's spirit's steady burn…
Sam shook himself. He'd zoned again. It was happening more easily, and that was a concern. But he had other things to focus on now.
Like, the room was cold, the bed was still stripped, and Dean was shivering faintly. Sam had no hope of snagging a blanket to lay over him as he normally would have, but maybe… He bobbed over to the heater and drifted inside.
It seemed simpler than the TV. Just provide a current there and…
It took a lot of tries. It almost didn't register when there was a rasping chug and the heating unit started humming.
Huh. He was getting better at this.
Sam darted back to Dean's side, watching intently as his brother's trembling slowly faded, his breathing coming a little easier. Dean sighed in his sleep, a whisper slipping out. "Thanks, S'mmy."
Sam froze. Stared. Felt a rush of…something go through him.
It hurt.
Dean had always taken care of him. Always. Sam hadn't been surprised to hear Dean had carried him out of their burning house when he'd been four, because he couldn't remember a moment when Dean hadn't been the strong one. Long as I'm around, nothing bad is gonna happen to you. I'm watching out for you. I've tried so hard to keep you safe.
And then he'd gone to Hell, also for Sam, and come back broken. He'd still kept trying to look out for Sam, against angels and demons and school bullies and friggin' Samhain. But he was barely able to keep himself together. Sam saw the hidden tears, heard the silent nightmares. Dean was struggling.
It was time for little brother to step up to the plate.
Okay. Okay, so…he couldn't do much without a body, and getting himself back was on the short list of priorities. But maybe there were a few other things he could do meanwhile.
With fresh determination, Sam went to work.
00000
Someone was knocking.
Dean started, curled up with a groan as that pulled on the stitches in his stomach and side. Right, no sudden moves. A little fuzzier on the whys, but that could wait because the knocking wasn't stopping. He pushed himself up gingerly, dropping his feet to the floor.
"Yeah, 'kay, comin'." He sounded like someone had taken a file to his vocal chords. Oh, and the scrubs were a nice touch; nothing said crazy like a guy answering the door with bedhead, hospital scrubs, and—there it was—bandages on his face. Dean rubbed a hand over his eyes, then pulled himself to his feet.
A little wobbly, but not bad. Belatedly, he realized he should probably have a weapon, too, but screw it. If something wanted in, he was in no shape to stop it, anyway.
Dean hobbled over to the door. Knee was messed up, too—what the…? He dropped his forehead against the plywood door. "Who'zit?"
"Pizza."
He frowned at the door. Did he order a pizza? Pretty sure he didn't remember anything besides hospital and bed. Wasn't even sure where his phone was. "Wrong place," he called back, coughing when the words dredged a frog up into his throat.
"Um…Room 12? Meat lover's with peppers, garlic breadsticks, and chicken soup?"
The cobwebs were starting to melt a little from his brain. That…did sound like him. Sammy always teased him about the token vegetable on an otherwise all-meat pizza. And rolled his eyes over the garlic smell of the breadsticks. They didn't usually get soup, though, and they'd order a pepperoni and mushroom for Sam, but Sam was…
"Sir?"
Dean squeezed his eyes shut, just for a second, then fumbled for the doorknob. Door wasn't even locked; his dad would've torn him a new one for that alone, if not for…for Sam.
The kid on the other side of the door was gangly, red-haired and freckled. Nothing like Sam. Didn't stop a pang going through Dean when a friendly smile broke out across his face. "Your order, right?"
"Right," Dean mumbled, although he didn't really understand any of this. Sam was gone, Dean was messed up, there was pizza: dots weren't connecting. But the kid was still smiling, so Dean glanced around, wondering where his wallet was. He'd paid for a taxi…sometime, hadn't he?
"Oh, you already paid online, mister, remember? Tip and everything." The warm box and bag were thrust into his hands. "Have a nice day, sir!"
"Yeah, uh…" He was still shuffling for the right words when the kid turned and hurried back to his car.
The sunshine was bright, hurting his eyes. His car sat waiting a few spaces over. It was quiet.
Nothing made sense.
Dean scuffed his way back into the room and dropped onto the bed. There'd been an…an adlet. He flinched at the memory. He shouldn't have taken it on alone, but Sam was… Sam was gone. The adlet had been vicious. Sam had been worse. And Dean had stopped caring, and done something, something really stupid and suicidal? Had killed the creature and gotten himself free. Then he'd made it back to the motel.
Things got less clear after that. He had no idea how the hospital had come into play. Maybe someone had seen him staggering, bloody, into the room? His bag was…okay, stuff was gone, so police had probably been involved. Dean had woken in the hospital all stitched up and bandaged up, hooked to about four different tubes and monitors, and had promptly unplugged himself and left. Wasn't totally clear on the details there, either. Came back to the room, had his key and wallet, gone right to bed…
Pizza?
The smell was both making his mouth water and turning his stomach. Dean compromised by digging out the soup and starting there. That actually felt good going down, even though his hands were shaking and spilling a little, and Dean's head cleared further with the nourishment.
Soup. Sam got him soup whenever Dean wasn't well, saying that he had to order it since Dean was too manly to get it himself. And he was right; even half-conscious from blood loss and pain and drugs, Dean wouldn't have ordered soup. He didn't even see how he could have ordered the pizza. Maybe…
Dean looked up, giving the room a searching look. "Sam?" he called hesitantly.
The room was quiet. Someone could be in the bathroom; the door was only half-open. But the room felt empty, no noise except from what filtered in through the walls from outside, and there hadn't been any sign of his brother since he'd woken. Nor were there any personal belongings. Besides a little blood staining the sheet he'd been laying on—old blood, Dean winced—there was no sign of habitation in the room. So unless Sam was calling him in food remotely, after washing his hands of Dean…
Jaw set, Dean finished the soup, devoured the breadsticks, and managed to get a slice of pizza down before his energy flagged. And his thoughts no longer refused to stay quiet.
With a guilty look around the room, Dean heaved himself up and crept around the bed to sink down on Sam's. It had blankets, after all. And no blood or crumbs.
The room was pretty warm, though, come to think of it. He thought he remembered putting the heat on before going to sleep… No, that was wrong. The heat came on as he was going to sleep. He'd been in no shape to make it across the room to the heater. Dean stared at the unit. Almost like…like…
His phone beeped.
Puzzled, he pulled it out. Should probably call Bobby and let him know what was going on, but Dean didn't know what to tell him. Sam got tired of dragging me around and split? Sam meant everything the Siren had him say? I'm a total—
His phone's GPS had been activated. "What the…?" Dean murmured in total confusion. Angels and demons were looking for him, yeah, but so far none of them had gone high tech. Bobby could just call him; Sam didn't care to. Who was left?
This didn't make sense. None of it made sense. The ambulance, the heater, the pizza, the phone. Something tickled at the corner of his thoughts; if he weren't so friggin' tired, or if Sam were—
Dean's head shot up. A moment later he was digging through the bag the hospital gave him, searching for his keys.
It'd been a while since they'd used the camcorder; Dean had to move the weapons bag—thank God he hadn't taken that into the room when they'd first arrived, or the police would have taken a much keener interest in him—the flamethrowers, the shovels, and a few other things around in the trunk to get to it. But finally he yanked it out, then caught himself on the edge of the trunk for a moment as the world swayed. "Not now, Dean," he muttered, slamming the trunk shut and hurrying as fast as he could with a bum knee back into the room. It took another minute to turn the machine on and remember how to set it to infrared. Then, with hands unsteady with anxiety as much as weakness, Dean held up the recorder and scanned the room.
He didn't have to look far. The orb, softball-sized and brilliant—was hovering just a few feet away, smack in front of him.
He almost dropped the camcorder. "Dad?" he said shakily, swallowed. "M-mom?" Belatedly, he thought to lift the camcorder again.
On the tiny viewing screen, the orb was gently swaying back and forth. It looked like it was saying no. Apologetically.
Dean cleared his throat. "You've been helping me, right? Do I know you?"
The ball of light bounced up and down with a little more enthusiasm. Yes.
"But…" Dean's mind spun; there were plenty of candidates for people he'd known and cared about who were dead and gone. Any of them would have called an ambulance for him, but turned on the heat and ordered soup? He felt that tickle of familiarity again and, with more dread than hope, ventured, "Sam?"
The orb whiplashed up and down, then darted in toward him before floating away. For a featureless ball of energy, every movement suggested joy and relief.
Dread turned to dismay, tightening his chest. His knees gave, and Dean sank down on the bed. "No," he said numbly. "No way. You did not go out there and get yourself killed, not without me, you son of a bitch." He blinked, then jerked his phone out and dialed Sam. Voicemail. A second try yielded the same result. Dean resisted the impulse to slam his phone against the wall and sagged in place. No. No.
He forgot about the camcorder. His body felt like it was full of concrete, but his eyes were burning. He'd just seen Sam, what, a week ago? How had the moron gone and gotten himself killed so fast? There'd been something wrong with him, that was obvious now, and Dean had just let him go. He should've seen through Sam's callousness, stopped him from leaving, something. But…he couldn't be dead. Right?
His phone beeped again. Dazed, Dean pulled it out, staring blankly at it for moments before he actually saw it. The GPS again. Wh—?
Dean's chin snapped up. Sam's phone had GPS, too.
Dean found new energy to rush back out to the car, returning with the laptop this time. Another sign he should have picked up that something was wrong with Sam: the geekazoid had left his baby behind with Dean. One more minute, and he had the machine booted up and on the cell phone site. He'd check first to see if Sam's phone was on before he called the phone company. With any luck—
The site went immediately to a map, a red pin marking…Colstrip, Montana. A couple hundred miles away. And above the pin was Sam's phone number…which Dean hadn't put in yet.
"That's where you are, huh?" He looked up, staring at nothing. "So, just come and get you?"
He didn't need the camcorder to feel the "yes."
Dean was nodding slowly to himself. "Yeah. Okay." His eyes refocused on the air in front of him. "I, uh, don't know if you can come with me or not, but I'm coming back, Sam, okay? One way or another, I'll be back, I promise."
He felt exhausted, thirsty and weak with blood loss, his head aching. He was in hospital scrubs and his duffel was probably in a police evidence locker. There was no way he should be taking off to drive to another state.
A few minutes later, the Impala pulled out of the motel parking lot and headed for the highway.
He wasn't sure later how he made the drive to Colstrip.
The adlet had torn him up pretty badly, and while Dean hadn't needed surgery, he'd lost a considerable amount of blood and gained a few impressive scars across his belly. Ironically, it was the throbbing in his side and nausea that cleared the cottony fatigue enough to keep him going. But that didn't explain how he took the right exits, stayed in his lane, and even managed to stagger through a fill-up on the way, when his body felt beat to Hell and his mind was everywhere but on driving.
It was possible he was on his way to retrieve Sam's body.
Dean hadn't brought the camcorder with him; he didn't want to know if Sam was along for the ride. The radio and heat hadn't gone on, on their own, and it didn't feel like Sam was there, but that could have just been the injuries talking. If Sam's spirit was attached to something back in the room—although there didn't seem to be much left back there—Dean could have probably figured out what it was and made sure Sam came with him. But…he really didn't want to know. Knowing meant facing the fact that Sam was not in his body, and there weren't many explanations for that that didn't involve something really, really bad.
"Maybe…" Dean muttered. "Maybe Pam…" His eyes automatically went to the rear view mirror, but thankfully he'd had enough presence of mind to torch her body before going after the adlet. Maybe she'd messed up her spell? Maybe Sam had been drawn back into his body after their spiritwalk but hadn't…stuck there somehow. Dean snorted. "Right. 'Cause souls always come loose." And Sam had been walking and talking just fine last time Dean had seen him. He was reaching and he knew it.
But if Sam had…had died, why was he hanging out with Dean? Not like they'd parted on good terms. "Feeling guilty, dude?" Dean smiled humorlessly. Trust Sammy to pull out the spectral version of remorseful puppy dog eyes. He'd been sorry about losing it when Dean died, too, but that hadn't kept him from turning his back on Dean to hang out with the demon bitch.
That didn't…didn't explain—
An air horn blast yanked Dean's head up in time to see an 18-wheeler coming at him. With a curse, he wrenched the wheel to the side in time to get back into his lane and out of the way. "Moron," he growled under his breath, at both the truck and himself. "Not gonna do Sam any good if…" If he could do Sam any good at this point at all.
Eyes burning, Dean reached out and snapped the radio on, filling the car with Motorhead.
He didn't even remember the rest of the trip until he was pulling into Colstrip.
Dean hesitated as he pulled up the cell phone website again. This was it. Ignorance was bliss; he could get a room, get some sleep in him, delay the truth, whatever it was. Until he knew for sure, he could pretend Sam was alive. Dean's lower lip trembled, and he pulled at it angrily with his teeth. No, one way or another, he had to know.
The GPS said Sam's phone was a few streets over. Dean pulled back out into the late evening traffic.
It was a police station.
"Least it's not a hospital," Dean muttered, trying to fill the empty dread in his chest, in the passenger seat beside him. This was good, right? But police stations kept the belongings of crime victims…
Blanking his face, Dean climbed out of the car. It only took three attempts.
His duffel was still back in Cedar Rapids, probably in the police station there, and he chuffed softly at the thought. But they had their FBI suits in the back. Dean changed into his mechanically, ignoring the second suit that was bundled beside his. He took Sam's tie—his had a mustard stain on it—and chucked the scrubs into a nearby trashcan. Drawing a deep breath, and flinching as that pulled on fresh stitches, Dean pulled out an ID and a photo of Sam he needed depressingly often. Then he set out across the street, automatically smoothing out his limp.
Colstrip was just small enough that an FBI badge elicited quick and total compliance. As soon as he pulled out Sam's picture, Dean had an answer.
Sam wasn't dead. He was in jail.
The room wobbled for a minute. Dean's grip on the counter was so tight, he could feel the edge of the linoleum cut into his fingers. "He… What?"
"Assault and attempted robbery," the mid-twenties cop offered eagerly. "He punched a guy in a bar and tried to take his wallet."
That was so far from what he'd been expecting, Dean's mind reeled for long seconds. "Oh. Uh, great. Good job. He's, uh…" Dean was so off his game, he was distantly surprised the young cop wasn't suspicious. "…he's a…witness. In a federal case." Dean grimaced a smile. "I'll take him off your hands."
"Oh." The cop straightened. "Uh, yeah, sure, I guess. I'll just, uh…I'll get the paperwork, okay?"
"Yeah, you do that." Dean leaned against the counter, hoping he looked casual instead of like he needed the support. Sam had tried to take someone's wallet? Attempted assault? And how was he even walking around when the most important part of him was in a different state?
The cop appeared, towing behind him a handcuffed figure that was almost a head taller. Sam caught Dean's gaze over the kid's head…and smirked at him.
And it hit Dean like a splash of ice water that he didn't know the person—or thing—staring back at him through Sam's hazel eyes.
He bumbled through the right words and signatures. Collected "Sam Murdock's" belongings and gave him a shove toward the door. Thankfully, Sam didn't open his mouth. Not until they got outside, out of the cop's earshot.
"Missed me, big brother?"
"You're not my brother," Dean spat, aiming him toward the car. It was a good thing "Sam" wasn't fighting him, because Dean was in no shape to subdue him.
"Took you long enough to figure it out," the thing taunted with a lazy smile. It seemed willing as Dean yanked the Impala's back door open and prodded him toward it, collapsing inside with a sprawl that was blatantly not Sam.
"Shut up." Dean glanced around the quiet street. Then he pulled out the syringe he'd prepared and slipped into his pocket when he'd changed—not that he'd expected to use it for this purpose—and uncapped it.
The mocking grin on Sam's face disappeared. "What—?"
He didn't dodge away fast enough. The needle sank into his neck, and Dean depressed the plunger before his brother's body could squirm away from him. Dean swore in frustration as the sudden motion snapped the end of the needle off, but it didn't really matter. Sam's mouth opened a few times, nothing coming out, and then his eyes rolled back in his head and he slumped over on the seat. His expression was frozen in outrage and, unbelievably, betrayal.
Dean sagged against the car a long minute, watching Sam's body breathe and trying to get his tired brain to put the pieces together. It wasn't working. He was too weary, physically and emotionally, to figure this out. Best he could do was get Sam and…Sam back together again and go from there.
But South Dakota seemed like the other side of the planet at that moment.
Each movement an effort, Dean dug a roll of duct tape from the trunk, crawled into the back, and taped Sam's arms, wrists—cuffs and all—knees, and ankles together. He stuck a piece over Sam's mouth, too. More gently, he teased the broken needle from his brother's neck and arranged the long limbs as comfortably as possible in their bindings and the small space. Then Dean poured himself back into the front and turned the car around. Just past the city limits, hidden off-road in a copse of trees where no casual passerby would come upon them, he pulled off and parked.
Dean took one last look into the back seat. Whispered a "sorry, Sammy." Then slumped down along the bench seat and let himself pass out.
00000
Dean was alive and upright. Knew he was there. Knew his body had a squatter in it. All good news.
It didn't seem to make the wait any easier as Sam stayed firmly in front of the window, watching and waiting and grinding imaginary teeth.
At first he couldn't believe that Dean hadn't taken him with him; it wouldn't have been hard to figure out what was keeping Sam there in the room. But after the first flare of frustration and anger—and, okay, maybe a bit of little brother neediness—he understood, sort of. His presence was just a reminder that he wasn't himself, and his self was gone. Dean was clearly afraid he was dead, in fact, a bodiless spirit, even though Sam knew…
Or did he?
There'd been something else inside his body: he'd felt it before he was kicked out. He'd assumed that just meant they'd need to evict the thing that had stolen his body and get Sam back where he belonged. But…maybe it wasn't that easy. He wasn't sure how much time had gone by since he'd watched himself walk away, but it was certainly long enough for something to have happened to his body, especially by an occupant that didn't know how to be human and didn't care. Sam was still haunted by the thought of what Meg had done while in the driver's seat, and she'd actually made an effort to keep him intact.
And that was assuming Sam's eviction hadn't irreparably damaged something. Maybe the thing had killed Sam and moved in, in his place? What counted as death when body and spirit were separate, anyway? Maybe he was a true ghost and just hadn't realized it…
Despite his intentions to keep track this time of the passage of days, Sam lost himself in the rising storm of uncertainty and worry. It almost took too long to come back.
He'd missed the Impala's rumbling return, the opening of the motel room door, the two figures that straggled inside. It was Dean's voice he was finally able to grab on to and tow himself back. Sam was pretty sure he wouldn't be able to do it again.
But maybe he didn't need to, because there on the bed lay his body. Silver duct tape kept it from doing more than writhing in place, angry eyes glaring at them over a taped mouth. Sam looked into those eyes and recoiled when something dark and inhuman looked back.
"Figured we could try an exorcism first."
Dean's voice irresistibly drew his attention again, as it always did. Sam peered at his brother now, concern rising at the rumpled, pale, haggard figure. Dean was wearing his suit, but he looked as fresh out of the hospital as he had when he'd tottered through the door the last time. Maybe even worse.
He was also holding the camcorder, arm drooping like the weight was almost too much, and Sam quickly centered himself in the view, nodding. Yes. As much as was wrong between them—and considering the scene in the room, it was a whole freaking lot—they were still thinking on the same wavelength.
Dean's face seemed to clear a little as he saw Sam again, and he nodded back almost unconsciously. Then sank down on the bed as if his legs couldn't hold him any longer. Clearing his throat, he started on the exorcism he'd finally memorized after too many losing fights with demons that last year.
"Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus…"
Sam darted back to his body. It didn't seem to be having any effect. In fact, if anything, the thing inside him just looked disgusted with them.
"…te rogamus, audi nos."
Nothing. No black smoke, no arching or collapsing. Sam's body rocked again, snarling muffled by the tape.
Dean drew a heavy—and, Sam noticed, shaking—hand down over his face. "Yeah, I kinda figured. Demons usually sublet instead of evicting. You wouldn't happen to remember Pam's handy little chant, would you?" He halfheartedly held up the camcorder again.
Sam bobbled side to side, dejected.
"Awesome. I'm gonna call Bobby. You just keep…floating there." He waved vaguely at Sam.
Yeah, 'cause he had so many other options.
Actually, maybe he did. Since his body was back, might as well try a few things, right?
Like before, sliding back into his body wasn't an option. The malignant barrier was still there, making him shiver as it repelled him. His own eyes beamed amused triumph at him when he drew back up to hover over the bed again.
What are you? he demanded. You can hear me, can't you?
If it did, it wasn't giving him the satisfaction of a response.
Growling a little, Sam launched into a different exorcism. Regna terrae, cantate Deo…
That didn't work, either.
"Thanks, Bobby." Dean's voice startled him. Sam turned just in time to see Dean sway as he stood.
Crap, they were in bad shape.
Dean shook his head, pressed his arm against his body, and straightened, his expression daring Sam to call him on it even if he could. "So Bobby knows how to pull you back in, but we can't do it while you're occupado. We gotta figure out a way to kick the son of a bitch out first."
Right. Research.
He'd figured out circuits enough to be able to pull up the pizza place and the GPS info on Dean's phone and the laptop, but even that had taken him hours…and a focus Sam was pretty sure was beyond him now. If he sunk himself into something that deep again, he didn't think he'd come out again.
He could read over Dean's shoulder, though. Zap the coffeepot into turning on. Nudge the heat higher again. And worry as Dean struggled to stay awake and focused, let alone find something.
Sam was the one who caught it.
Dean had slipped past the page in question, clicking blearily on link after link, when something snagged Sam's eye. Without thought, he jolted the laptop back to the previous page, a Japanese demon.
"What—?" Then Dean fell silent, reading. His eyes were bloodshot when he raised them to his right, somehow knowing where Sam was. "You've gotta be kidding me." A beat. Then Dean was lurching up out of the seat. "No. We're not doing that."
We have to. Frustrated at his voicelessness, Sam darted down to the camcorder, but Dean wasn't picking up.
"No way, Sam, I'm not gonna…charbroil the sucker while he's in you. We'll find another way."
Can't wait. Dean, I can't wait. Already he felt thin around the edges, fading. It was harder and harder to concentrate. He wasn't a ghost; he wasn't anything, and the energy to nonetheless keep being was taking its toll. We have to, Sam begged silently.
Dean was still shaking his head. "Sam—"
Desperate, Sam flowed toward the cell phone on the table, concentrating. Infusing, seeping, dissipating, shifting…
Distantly, he heard Bobby's voice. "Dean?"
Voices. Words? Noises.
Tired.
Louder voices. He should care, should… He?
Flare of…of light. Heat.
Hurt.
Something familiar fluttered inside him.
More sounds, pained.
Soothing. Familiar.
He sank.
And was suddenly yanked back.
Too much, too much. Bright and cold and tight and everything touching and closed in and out of control. And burning, burning, ow ow ow, hurts,"'en?"
"Just breathe, Sam. Breathe. In and out."
He forgot. Breath sucked in—ow—punched out. Coughing hurt.
"Okay, take it easy, kiddo. It's gonna get better in a minute. Only you in there now, nobody else here but us. Just focus on breathing, all right?"
It felt…wrong. Like a round shape being pressed into a…rectangle with four limbs and a head. Nothing fit and there were empty numb spots and places that were too tight and—
"Sammy, watch me. Watch me. Focus on me and breathe, okay?"
His vision fluttered—oh, right, eyelids—then converged on the gray face hovering above his. The fingers digging into his jaw and cheek. The weight on his chest, pressing down gently before letting up and then repeating, reminding his lungs how to work. Hazel eyes, the one feature the two of them shared, creased and bloodshot and muddy with pain and worry.
"That's better. Just keep doing that, okay?" Dean sagged to one side of him, hands still holding on tight. "No more giving me heart attacks."
He felt…heavy. Dull. Everything ached, but his forearm was aflame, and he curled it in toward himself. Bobby must have convinced Dean to try what they'd read. "…ow."
"Don't touch it." The weight from his chest slid down to his wrist, trapping it easily. "Had to singe you a little to get rid of your hijacker. It worked, too—sucker jumped ship like it was the Titanic. I treated your arm before I pulled you back in, but it's gonna smart for a while." A thumb slid back and forth against the soft skin inside his wrist, tactile distraction.
Breathe. Blink. Don't touch. It was a lot to remember.
"Think you can sleep now if you want. Don't know 'bout you, but I'm ready to crash for a week." The bed creaked, and Dean slid down next to him. He hadn't let go of Sam's wrist.
There'd been something in his body. He wanted to know what it had looked like, if Bobby had known Pam's ritual, what else had—
His mouth stretched wide, the room growing dark, and Sam startled before realizing he was yawning, sliding into sleep.
"Shoulda probably asked you some questions while you were tied up," Dean mumbled in his ear, also sounding more asleep than awake. "Found out what…you and that…" He sighed, exhaling warm air in slow puffs against Sam's neck.
His arm was a dull agitation now, body immovably heavy. His mind still gave a few sluggish turns, trying to remember, understand, figure out. Then that surrendered, too.
He slept, and dreamed.
00000
They recovered slowly.
Sometimes it was Sam who woke long enough to make them both gulp down some protein bars and water. Sometimes it was Dean coaxing him to the bathroom or rebandaging their injuries. Sometimes they were in the same bed, sharing warmth and a private reassurance, and sometimes Sam was sprawled across the bed alone. He was pretty sure Dean was talking to Bobby at one point, and to him more than once, but he wouldn't remember a single word later. The duct tape was gone, the one time he'd thought to check for it, his wrists still chafed—and were those handcuff marks?—in its wake.
Mostly, Sam didn't care.
He woke in the middle of the night with a cramp so bad, it felt like something was eating through his stomach. In the secrecy of the bathroom, he drained the flask Ruby had filled for him the last time he'd seen her. He avoided looking at Dean when he stumbled back to bed, feeling relaxed and undeniably better.
It was nighttime—again? Still?—when he woke to the quiet sounds of Dean's breathing in the other bed, regular but awake. Sam blinked, working to bring the shadowy beams above him into focus.
"You okay?" Dean's voice floated over from the other bed.
"Yeah," he said to the ceiling, through his furry throat. "You?"
"Feel like I'm pushing seventy, but yeah." The mattress creaked rustily as Dean turned on his side to face him. "You up to filling me in now on what happened here and why I had to burn something out of you?"
Sam sighed, nestling on his side to also face Dean, and gave it a shot. He started talking, sharing his theory about his empty body being an open invitation for a new tenant, about watching, helpless, as the thing inside him turned on Dean, about being even more scared when Dean stumbled back badly hurt, and about everything he'd done to reach and help his brother.
Dean was silent throughout, although Sam could hear him shift uncomfortably a few times at the private moments Sam had witnessed. He finally cleared his throat. "So, uh, you figure out what was keeping you tied to the room?"
He started to open his mouth, and closed it again. The crossroads deal he'd tried to make while Dean was in Hell, the photo remnant Dean had obviously retrieved: none of that was pain that needed stirring up right now when they were both still raw. "Maybe the room's warded somehow," he said with casual innocence. "Ghost roach motel, like that one down south: spirits check in but they don't check out?"
"Huh. Maybe." Dean took long enough to answer that Sam didn't think he bought it, but he clearly didn't want to press, either. "You wanna know what you were up to when you weren't, you know, you?"
It was like Meg all over again. Sam cringed, wanting to find out and not, and let his silence answer.
Dean told him about Colstrip and the arrest, and then how the thing inside him had taken off—like you were burping green smoke, dude—after a few seconds of contact with Dean's lighter. It wasn't reassuring exactly, but it could've been worse. Sam didn't feel like he needed a day-long shower and an STD workup this time, anyway.
He licked his lips. "You know it hasn't been me since Greybull, right? I wouldn't've walked out on you like that. You know?" He tried to see his brother's face in the dark, but Dean was a motionless cipher.
Again, a beat too long. "Yeah. 'Course."
Shame sideswiped Sam, hot and bright. Because he had walked out on Dean before, and expressed those hurtful rejections in other ways, and even now was keeping secrets he knew would horrify Dean. It had to be done, Sam knew that…but that didn't mean he didn't feel guilty about it.
Sam dropped back flat on the bed. Shoulda probably asked you some questions while you were tied up. It might've been a relief to answer them if Dean had.
"I'm sorry," Sam whispered.
Dean rolled to his back, no longer facing Sam. The pause was longer this time. Still disbelief? Not that Sam wouldn't deserve it. But just as his heart started to really sink, his brother quietly spoke up. "I remember it now, being in the hospital after the semi hit us. I was, I don't know, doing the whole spiritwalking thing again? Like we did in Wyoming—I could see and hear everything, it was just one way."
Sam nodded. "I figured. That's why I got the talking board."
"Which is still girly, but…yeah, good idea." He coughed a little. "I heard what you said to Dad…and to me when I was lying there. You didn't give up."
Sam's eyes swam a little, and in the dark he didn't have to pretend it was from exhaustion. "I never did," he whispered.
"I know," Dean answered back, just as hoarse. "Just, you know. Thanks for that." Then before Sam could say anything—no doubt Dean's intent—he hurried on. "I'm goin' back to sleep. You need anything?"
He was surprised by the rush of love he felt for his brother at that simple question, and the complex feelings behind it. Beat to Hell, traumatized by Hell, and with a hell of a chasm between them, and that was still Dean's first concern.
Sam turned over, wormed his arms under the pillow, and looked toward his brother. "No, I'm good." At that moment, that was wholly the truth. He let it hold a beat, just so his meaning would be clear. "Thanks, man."
"Oh, for God's sake," Dean groaned, flopping over to mirror Sam, doubtless with a scowl. "Shut up and start sawing logs, dude, or I'm hitting the road without you tomorrow." No hesitation this time.
Nor in Sam's smile as he closed his eyes and obeyed.
The End