Disclaimer: Don't know, don't own, don't care.
Warning: The following content includes explicit sex, rape, incest, strong language and violence. Reader discretion is suggested.
--
New Haven, Connecticut
One Week Ago
Tim woke up to the faint light of dawn, unsure of why he'd woken so early until he rolled on to his side and realized the absence of a particular warm body. He stood up, gawkily in his boxers and a flimsy T-shirt he used for sleeping, cracking open the door of his room and slipping silently into the hallway, making his way to the common space. As he approached the commons, he could hear the rustling of a TV screen with no signal and as he entered, he saw the large common-room television with it's speckled black and white façade. On the sofa in front of it, it's back to Tim, he could see Gary's socked feet hanging over the edge.
"Babe?" He said softly, yawning. "You didn't come back to bed, you alright?"
No answer. Tim assumed he'd fallen asleep. He approached the sofa gingerly, smiling sleepily. "Babe… Come on, lets get you in bed."
He came up to the back of the sofa, ready to lean over it and give his boyfriend a kiss on his sleeping forehead when at last he saw Gary's wide, dead eyes staring icily up at the ceiling, his lips blue.
Tim let out the most deafening shout of despair that had ever been heard in the Kappa Beta dorm.
--
Supernatural: The Fan Fic
Episode 14.1 – "The Secret Heart"
"I dunno, Sammy," Dean mused, shaking his head slightly as he drove, Sam reviewing the same papers for the one millionth time in the passenger seat. "It's too quiet, y'know? Like the calm before the storm, that kinda deal."
"Just be grateful for the peace and quiet," Sam replied, not really giving Dean his full attention.
"But it's been what, weeks since the last major demon activity? And that doesn't bother you?"
"Of course it does, Dean," Sam raised his head from his papers to look at his brother with an air of defeat. "But what are we supposed to do about it? We can't exactly sit around all day trading 'what ifs'. All we can do is focus on the hunt."
"Yeah, I know," Dean acquiesced, pulling a face. "So," he began on a factual note. "Dry land drowning. Shoot."
"Right," Sam glanced once again at his research. "In total, seven victims over several years, all drowned in their sleep nowhere near water, all guys in their early twenties, all in the Kappa Beta boys' dorm."
"Hey, didn't we do a 'dry land drowning' up North, that pirate guy…" Dean struggled to remember.
"Yeah, the Hand of Glory, Bella," Sam hurried. "But check this, in the last two victims, they found chlorine in their lungs during the autopsy."
"Pool water?" Dean lifted a doubtful eyebrow. "And what about the other five?"
"Well, that was before they started testing for that kind of stuff."
"Wait, so how long have the drownings been going on?"
"First victim was in 1935."
"So what, some poor son of a bitch drowned in the pool and his pissed off ghost's been ganking the kids?"
"You'd think, except the dorm has no pool, and no one who drowned has ever lived in the dorm, until the first dry land drowning."
Dean paused. "That makes absolutely no sense."
Sam raised a hand and said, "Exactly. Last week a student, Gary Schecter, was found dead in his sleep. Drowned. On the couch."
"So we show up, do our thing, and see what shakes loose."
--
After the doorbell rang several times, at last a spiky haired undergrad hobbled down the stairs and opened the door, where he faced two young men dressed uncomfortably in suits.
"Hey," he said nonchalantly. "Sup?"
Sam coughed into his hand then reached into his blazer pocket, as did Dean, to pull out their fake badges of choice. "Hi, we're with the county police. Do you mind if we ask you a few questions regarding the death of Gary Schecter?"
Once inside and standing awkwardly in the common kitchen, the undergrad started to respectfully but rather coolly elaborate on the events. "Gary was a cool guy, you know? Lots of people liked him, he had good grades and stuff. It was a real shame. Pretty freaky too. I mean, he drowned?" The kid looked skeptical. "I dunno, they said it was a perforated lung or something like that, but I don't buy it."
"What do you think it was?" Dean asked, sounding serious.
"Man, I dunno. But not that lung shit."
"Can you tell us anything about the days before his death?" Sam asked. "Did anything, I don't know, strange happen…?"
"What do you mean?" The kid asked, looking confused. Dean looked around the bottom floor of the dorm, trying to notice anything noteworthy. He looked out into the living space, crowded with furniture that didn't match and old pizza boxes. Then he noticed, on a sofa that stood under the window, a boy looking out into the street, his knees brought up to his chest and his eyes red around the edges.
"Did he say anything about, I don't know, strange noises or say he was seeing things…?" Sam reached. The kid continued to look confused. Dean decided to interrupt.
"Hey, who's that?" He asked, jerking his head in the direction of the boy.
"Oh, that's Tim." The undergrad nodded. "He was Gary's uh, best friend. You should really be asking him this stuff, I mean, I really wouldn't know."
"Okay," Dean said, and signaled for Sam to stay while he went to investigate.
Dean approached the boy cautiously and sat on an armchair facing him. "Hey," Dean began and the boy seemed to stir from deep thought, not having even noticed Dean's presence up until then. "I'm with the county police. Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?"
"I've answered enough questions," the boy said hoarsely. His deep sadness was thick and audible. Tim was quite nearly beautiful, Dean noticed. As beautiful as a boy could be. Skin pale like ivory, hair that was long and jet black and fell messily in his face. His eyes were huge and consuming, a pale shade of blue, and thick long black lashes framing them effortlessly. It was the tangible sadness, mostly, that made him nearly stunning. For a few seconds Dean was momentarily floored, but then proceeded.
"I know it's hard but, I just have a few questions." Dean put on his usual voice of concern and sympathy that he used in these frequent situations. "You were Gary's best friend?"
Tim smiled sadly then turned to look out the window again, answering the questions softly into the glass. "Yeah… I was."
"Before he died, did he mention anything? Like people that wanted to hurt him or that he was feeling strange? Anything like that…?"
Tim said nothing for a moment, and Dean wondered if he'd heard him, then he said, "He… had a migraine, the night he…" He inhaled jaggedly, fighting back fresh tears. "The night he died."
"Okay," Dean nodded, thinking how meaningless that was, but at least it was something. There was a drawn out silence, where Dean wondered what more he could ask, feeling bad that he had nothing the comfort the kid with, until Tim began, shakily.
"I should've… Stopped it. I should've saved him…"
"There's nothing you could've done," Dean attempted.
"No," Tim said firmly, letting tears fall down his pale cheeks. "There's always something. I know it's impossible but I should've, I don't know, seen it coming, felt it somehow. I can't begin to believe that he's dead. Not like that. Not alone in the middle of the night. Not him…" Tim sniffled and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. "I needed to have stopped it. No matter what it took. That was my place. My only purpose. I was supposed to protect him and I failed… How am I supposed to live with that…" He looked out the window into the street, desperately sad. Dean's heart ached unwillingly. He knew exactly how this kid felt, and he couldn't even begin to imagine how he'd go about living if he'd had to endure that loss…
"There's someone," Dean started softly. "That means that much to me. That I'm meant to protect. A person I'd die for. I can't imagine living without…" Dean shook his head, trying to cast away the thought of loosing Sam. "I wouldn't ever be able to be as strong as you've been."
"Strong?" Tim shook his head.
"Yeah, I mean, it's been a week, and you're still here. The hard part's over. You felt the full pain of loosing him and you survived. That makes you stronger than me."
Tim smiled the faintest of smiles and finally turned to look at Dean, giving Dean the complete impact of those startling eyes. "Thanks."
"Dean." Dean heard Sam say behind him. He said courteously to Tim, "Excuse me." Then stood up and walked over towards his brother.
"So, what'd you find out?" Dean asked, shaking off the heavy feeling of the conversation he'd just left and becoming factual.
"Nothing that'd help us. No sulfur, no history of hauntings, no ghost sightings. How about you?"
"Kid had a migraine the night he croaked." Sam shrugged at that news and Dean replied, "Yeah I know. Looks like we're running into walls here."
"Think we should do an EMF sweep?"
"Yeah, that'd be inconspicuous."
"Well, what do you suggest?"
"I think you should hit the books."
"And what are you gonna do?"
"Chill, kick back a few beers, watch Funny Girl."
Sam rolled his eyes.
"I'm gonna camp here," Dean shrugged. "Check out the dorm, check out the 'scene of the crime', ask about the place. Maybe some of the other guys know something."
"Okay," Sam conceded. "If I find anything, I'll let you know." Sam headed for the door and Dean stood, considering why he felt suddenly compelled to stay.
After a few hours of talking to the other dorm-mates and secretly scanning the dorm for EMF, Dean concluded two things, one of which he'd already guessed: Gary and Tim were gay, and there was absolutely no sign or history of haunting other than a faint EMF reading off he sofa Gary had died on, not nearly enough to be conclusive evidence of ghost activity. Defeated, Dean wandered back into the living area, where the daylight was starting to dim into evening yet Tim hadn't moved an inch, still staring blindly out the window, like the sad mold of a statue. Dean sat down in the armchair in front of him again, loosening the knot of his tie as he did so. This time Tim rustled, acknowledging his presence.
"It's 'Dean', isn't it?" Tim asked quietly.
"Yeah. Tim, right?"
Tim nodded. "It's nice to meet you." He remained quiet for a moment. "That person…" He began. "That you were talking about earlier… It's your partner, isn't it?"
Dean blinked then smiled. "How'd you know?"
Tim shrugged. "I know these things." He smiled softly. "The way you look at each other. I can see you're really close."
"Yeah," Dean nodded. "Really close." He paused, then sighed. "For what it's worth, I'm… I'm really sorry."
Tim looked down. "Thanks." His sadness seemed to deepen and Dean instantly regretted having spoken up, but then Tim started talking again. "You know, you think you have something. A life, or love, something, you know, established. And you lull yourself into thinking that it can't change anymore, that nothing bad will ever happen again. That you've paid your dues and now you have something… good. And that good thing, it just keeps going. Until you really start to believe that this good thing is happening to you. But it's bullshit. Good things don't happen. Not to people like me. They just…" He exhaled profoundly. "Don't."
"Hey, jeez," Dean protested. "Why would you think that? Good things happen to everybody. Problem is, bad things happen to good people. And that just kills me." Dean leant forward and rested his elbows on his knees.
"Thanks very much but," Tim shook his head. "You don't know me."
"Some things," Dean began slowly. "You don't have to know… Some things… you can just… feel."
Tim began to falter a sad smile when suddenly he cringed in pain and clutched at his head.
"Hey," Dean started in concern. "You okay?"
"Yeah, I'm just –" Tim was interrupted by a stab of pain and he groaned trying to contain it. "My head." He closed his eyes. "I think I'm getting a migraine."
Dean stood. "I'll get you some asprin."
After fumbling through the medicine cabinet of the first floor bathroom, Dean managed to find both asprin and a washcloth to use as a cold compress. Lying on the sofa he'd been crouched on the whole day, Tim let Dean apply the compress to his forehead, feeling only mildly relieved by the cool cloth. It was then that Dean's phone rang.
"Hey," Dean answered, taking the call into the kitchen so as not to bother or be overheard by Tim. "You find anything?"
"Yeah." Sam sounded agitated. "Nothing you'd find in the books, but I asked around on campus, and it turns out all the guys that died there were gay."
Dean furrowed his brow. "A homophobic ghost? Man, Casper's gotta get with the times, watch a little Queer Eye for the Straight Guy."
"Not funny, Dean. Tim might be in danger."
"Good thing I decided to stick around, huh?" He turned on to a more serious note. "So, did you find out who's behind the curtain on this one?"
"The discriminatory victim selection tipped me off, so I looked for murders on campus, in particular those of students between twenty and twenty three, like the kids drowned in the dorms. Turns out nine guys in total were found drowned in the campus pool, between 1925 and 1929."
"Were they all ass pirates too?"
"Gay? There's no way to know, it was too long ago, but I'm assuming."
"Okay, so, who's our man?"
"It was never proven, but a guy, named Alan Stone, was accused of the murders." Dean could hear the ruffle of pages. "He was never convicted." Sounded like Sam was skimming. "And he killed himself in 1931."
"And I'm guessing he was a proud Kappa Beta."
"Precisely."
"What's the action plan then, Lily Rush?"
"Find where he's buried and—"
"Salt and burn 'em."
"Until then, try to keep Tim out of the dorm. How's he doing?"
"Peachy, all things considered. Just has a migraine—" Even as he said it he realized what an idiot he was. "Ahh, shit. Gary had a migraine before he died. Okay, shit, call me when Imus is deep fried." He hung up and rushed back to Tim.
"Why don't we take a walk?" He suggested, overly urgently, already picking Tim up by the arm.
"What…" the kid replied drowsily.
"Yeah," Dean invented as he helped Tim to his feet. "A little fresh air is the best thing for a migraine. Besides, if you need to hurl, better out in the bushes than on the carpet, right?"
--
They walked slowly along the quiet sidewalk under the orange glow of streetlights with Tim's arm around Dean's shoulders for support. The walk was quiet, and lasted only a block and a half, until they found a bench and Dean, already tired of dragging his ill companion, sat them both down. They sat in silence, Tim too melancholy and sick to speak, and Dean too uncomfortable with drawn out silences to think of anything to say. At last Dean overcame his awkwardness and looked on at his company for the night in a mix of brotherly concern and an unfamiliar feeling of compassion.
"How you feeling?" he asked quietly, as it seemed appropriate to speak softly in such quiet.
"Better," Tim nodded gingerly, and bat his long dark lashes at the pavement. Dean felt an odd lurch in his stomach watching him, but ignored it and decided to share something he'd been thinking about sharing.
"Hey uh," Dean hesitated. "I want you to know something."
Tim turned to look at him directly, appearing soft and glowing in the dim orange light.
Dean looked at the pavement instead, so he could concentrate on what he was saying, since he did get distracted so easily. "No matter how responsible you felt for him, and no matter how bad you feel now – and I know it feels… really… bad… I want you to know that there was nothing, I mean nothing, you could've done to…" He took a beat. "To save him. And that's the truth." He met Tim's eyes again, only to find them welling up with tears again.
"I wish…" Tim began with a cracked voice. "I wish it had been my fault. I wish that I could have saved him, so I'd have someone to blame. So that I could hate myself. But…" He inhaled crookedly. "There's no one to hate. There's no one to take revenge on. There's nothing more I can do but feel this… emptiness. And this…" He beat his fist on his chest. "This not being able to do anything… This is what's killing me."
"I know it'd kill me," Dean stated bluntly. He looked out at the dark street, feeling an old wave of emotion, the feeling of deep despair that being without Sam provoked. An old emotion he'd tried to put behind him and hoped it'd never surface again, but listening to Tim's angst and loss, he couldn't help but feel that grief all over again. And suddenly he heard himself speaking. "I almost lost him. I thought I'd lost him, for good. Just like that. He's happy and alive one second and the next he's just… not. I thought I'd die from it. No, I knew I'd die from it. If I didn't try something, try anything, to save him, to get him back. I'd have done anything at that point, and tell you the truth, I did. It's that kind of pain, that kind of horrible… pain that drives you to do the worst things. I'd have traded my life, without batting an eye, just so he could go on breathing, seeing, living the life he was supposed to lead. It's that kind of pain that…" He breathed. "Really does drive you insane."
It was the strangest thing. Tim leant over to punt a comforting arm around Dean's shoulders, and Dean put a comforting hand on Tim's thigh, and he saw his face, half in the light and half not, and he got that distinguishable urge, that familiar urge. He hesitated no longer than a heartbeat and then thought, "Fuck it." And he was kissing the sad, grieving boy. In fact, they were more than just kissing, they were really kissing. Feverishly kissing. Battling tongues in an angry, anonymous, venting of emotional spleen. It was the intensity, the happenstance of odd circumstances, the crudity of it, that made the kiss last longer, and still longer. Dean felt hot in the cheap suit, even though the air was cold, and instinctually he pulled Tim on top of him so that the kid was straddling him. They breathed heavily and raggedly and finally unlocked their mouths so Dean could kiss and bite at his ear and then his neck, where he stopped to suck and bite harder, eliciting a low, guttural groan from the boy. And just then, the AC/DC theme rang through them like a bell announcing the end of round one. Dean answered.
"Yeah?" He was still breathing heavy. Tim climbed off him and moved back down on to the bench beside him, as if coming to what little sense he had.
"Hey, it's done," said Sam's voice, the sound flames crackling in the background.
"Great. Awesome." Dean said, rubbing his face, as if it would help.
"I'm gonna head back to the motel, but I was thinking you should keep an eye on Tim tonight, meet up again in the morning, you know, just in case."
"Yeah, no, of course. Yeah." Dean rested his forehead on the palm of his hand.
Sam paused. "You okay?"
"Sure, why wouldn't I be? I'll see you in the morning then." He hung up.
As he replaced the phone in his pocket, he looked at Tim sideways. The boy was trying half-heartedly to compose himself. Though the unique, heated moment had somewhat passed, Dean found his stomach filling with butterflies at the sight of the cute, awkward boy who barely masked a bottomless pit of sorrow and guilt. It made Dean's heart swell.
"What do you say?" Dean asked suddenly but quietly. Tim gave him a confused look. "We go back to your room?"
Barely inside Tim's room, their hands and mouths were all over each other. Two hot bodies colliding in a frenzy for release. Release of anguish and fear and hate. Dean threw the boy down on his bed and climbed on tip of him. Reclaiming his mouth, his hands tore at the boy's clothes. As Dean pulled the T-shirt over Tim's head, Tim undid the buttons of Dean's shirt. Their hot bare chests rubbed against each other as Dean kissed and bit at Tim's neck and collarbone. Tim made some deep, guttural noises that made Dean's head spin. As the rest of their clothes fell away, the boys were left bare, fumbling and grinding and groaning. Then Tim whispered breathlessly in Dean's ear, "Have you ever done this before?"
Dean lifted his head from Tim's chest, where he had been gently teasing Tim's nipple with his teeth, so he could breathlessly whisper back, "Once. A long time ago. But it's like riding a bike, right?" Then he took Tim's mouth back into his, Tim's lips already beginning to swell slightly from the harsh collisions and biting. Dean positioned himself between Tim's legs and pushed Tim's thighs back so that they hugged Dean's waist. Tim ran his long, white fingers through Dean's cropped hair and with the other hand he traced the soft contours of Dean's smooth back. Dean broke the kiss with Tim to lick his own hand and apply the saliva to his pulsating erection. Grabbing Tim's black hair, Dean pushed in to him, watching Tim close his eyes and furrow his brow, tolerating the initial pain. Dean moaned out loud, feeling the tight muscles clench around his cock. Tim dug his nails into Dean's back and Dean began to thrust rhythmically in and out of Tim's tight entrance. Tim started thrusting his hips in the same motion and the boy's breath grew shallow and labored and soon Tim started moaning and whimpering. The sound was like heaven. As Dean pushed harder into him, Tim cried out, his prostate being stimulated. Dean felt his stomach clench as he grunted and groaned and slammed his body into Tim's, gripping firmly onto his hair with one hand and his hips with the other. As he fucked him, images, flashes of images, filled Dean's head. The masculine moans sounded nearly like Sam's voice, and the musky, muscular body beneath his smelled and felt like Sam's. The louder Tim cried out, the more Dean saw Sam throwing his head back in ecstasy, Sam writhing in pleasure. And the more he saw these things, the closer he came to orgasm. Finally, he couldn't handle it anymore and he thrust one last hard thrust into Tim, groaning out as he raised Tim up to him, "Oh Sammy!" And he released into Tim. Tim shook violently as he too climaxed, releasing onto his and Dean's chests.
Dean sat in Tim's desk chair, once again clothed, tying his shoelaces, while Tim lay on the bed on his stomach, naked still, resting his head on his arms as he watched Dean dress.
"So," Tim began, sounding rather tired. "Are you going to tell your partner how you feel?"
Dean momentarily stopped tying his shoelaces so he could pause to look at Tim. "What?"
"Sam," Tim said matter-of-factly. "That's your partner, right?"
"Yeah, so?"
"Well," Tim raised an eyebrow. "You called out his name. So, I assume your feeling for him aren't platonic."
Dean looked momentarily unreadable. "I did?"
"Yes, you did."
And, for a moment, Dean felt horrendously guilty. But he recovered and said, "I love the guy, but it's not like that." He resumed tying his shoelaces.
Tim shrugged and looked dubious. "Okay. Whatever you say."
Dean remained seated, even after he'd finished putting on his shoes. Tim didn't inquire, and soon, after long moments of silence, Tim nodded off to sleep. Dean watched him with his arms folded over his chest, silently musing on his Freudian slip. Had he really thought of Sam as he fucked Tim? Had he really imagined it was Sam beneath him, writhing and moaning, and not the boy he'd taken to bed? Had he really called out Sam's name in ecstasy? Dean shook his head, trying to shake out memories he'd tried to suppress that now came flooding back. Memories of watching his brother undress and feeling a sudden tug in his groin, then convincing himself that he'd never had those feelings. Surely he loved his brother, more than anything in the world, but it was wrong to have these sexual feelings for him. It was just wrong. Guilt surged within him. Sam was his baby brother. He was put on this Earth to protect him. Just having these thoughts and feelings was like violating Sam, taking advantage of him. How dare he violate his brother's trust like that?
Suddenly, the sharp sound of gasping cut through Dean's thoughts. Snapping back to the present, Dean saw that Tim was choking, suffocating, his eyes open but glazed over, water spurting from his mouth with each cough and gasp. Dean sprang to his feet, looking frantically around the room for a form, a spirit, an orb, anything! He even pulled out his phone to see if he could see anything through the camera. Still nothing could be seen, and each second that went by, Tim's life slipped away. In an act of desperation, Dean pulled out his gun, cocked it and shot a rock salt bullet at Tim's chest. As small lacerations instantly appeared on Tim's skin where the rock salt had stung it, a translucent form emerged from his body, as if dispelled, and faded away into darkness. Tim gasped the great breath of air that a swimmer gasps after being submerged, and he coughed up the remaining water in his lungs. Dean sank to his side and sat him up, patting him roughly on the back.
"What just happened!" Tim coughed.
"I don't know," Dean said gravely.
--
The light of dawn gradually crept into the motel room, illuminating the crass décor and the grave faces of its occupants.
"So let me get this straight," Tim said slowly, holding out a dubious index finger. "I was possessed by a ghost that tried to kill me." Sam and Dean nodded. "That ghost killed Gary." They nodded again. "And a bunch of other gay kids before that." Nod. "And that rock salt dispels ghosts?"
"Yeah," Dean said, eyeing the multiple cuts along Tim's face and neck. "Sorry about that."
"And this is what you guys do for a living. Hunt ghosts."
They nodded and Sam said, "Pretty much."
"And you don't work for the county police."
"Nope," Dean replied.
Tim sat back for a moment, trying to take it all in. Then he said, raising an eyebrow, "Well, I guess it's comforting somehow that there's someone, or something in any case, to blame for Gary's death."
In the crude light of the morning after, it seemed nearly impossible to Dean that he and Tim had ever been violently attracted to each other. With his sadness outshined by the sobriety that a near-death experience induces, Tim seemed to Dean more flamboyant than he had before, and sarcastic, and even ordinary. It was as if the night before had been a fun fantasy, a bizarre dream. Dean couldn't imagine it happening again.
"So," Tim began. "What do we have to do to end this motherfucker?"
"Well, we need to keep you out of the house, for one," Sam explained. "If you got away on the first attempt, I doubt a ghost this pissed off will wait until you're asleep to try and kill you the second time. You can stay here while we finish this thing."
"Like hell you are!" Tim protested. "This son of a bitch killed the love of my life and nearly killed me. I'll be damned if I don't do everything in my power to end him."
"But—" Sam started, but was cut off by Dean clearing his throat and giving him a poignant look. "Okay," Sam said, defeated. "Usually when there's a restless spirit, the way to put them to rest is to salt and burn their remains. But," Sam paused. "We already have, and that still didn't stop him."
"So?" Tim asked, looking from Sam to Dean then back again. "What then?"
"We don't know," Dean said.
"We're gonna have to do more research, see if there's something we missed, something else that's tying him to the house."
"I have access to the school's student records," Tim offered. "I could go down there to see if there's anything useful on this Stone guy."
"Okay," Sam nodded. "I'll stay here, surf the web, see what else I can find."
"I'm gonna head back to the dorm," Dean said. "I skipped the basement and the attic on the first go around. They were locked." Sam raised an eyebrow at him. "What? The place is crawling with frat-boys, I didn't want to get caught lock-picking. In case you haven't noticed, it looks a little suspicious."
"Fine," Sam smiled at Dean's usual over-defensiveness.
So indeed they split up: Tim to the registrar's office, Dean to the dorm, and Sam stayed behind. Dean felt confident that the missing clue may be in one of the rooms he'd neglected on his first inspection of the dorm. At the registrar's office, which Tim had access to due to his position as TA, Tim scoured volumes of dusty archives, searching the alumni casualty records for the details surrounding Alan Stone's death. At the motel, Sam's internet research proved futile as it led him in circles and provided no insight into what might be linking the vengeful spirit to the Kappa Beta even after his remains were burned.
After picking the lock of the attic door, Dean carefully crept into the dusty, dimly lit room. It was crowded with draped clusters of objects that hadn't been touched, by the looks of it, in decades. Scrunching up his nose at the dust, Dean began his search, lifting up the tarps one by one and scanning the objects beneath them with the EMF reader. Three tarps in, Dean heard the creaking of floorboards behind him and immediately turned. Seeing nothing, he assumed it was just the old house settling and resumed his search. Moments later he heard it again, and this time was certain that it sounded distinctly like someone walking. He turned around slowly, reaching discretely for his gun, but again saw nothing. Suddenly, he heard a gust of wind rush past his ear, though the only window of the attic was closed. And then there was a sharp jab to his lower back and he doubled over onto the floor.
At the registrar's office, Tim skimmed over the names and descriptions of the students that had died on campus, but in doing so began to notice an unusual pattern. Obviously Sam and Dean had been missed this since they were only concerned with the dry-land drownings, and the pattern Tim had discovered not only didn't involve this but also stopped twenty-years ago, too much time having passed for it to peak the Winchester boys' interest. Inspired, Tim took the list of names and moved his research to the registrar's computer.
Sam sat at the motel mini-table, clicking away at his keyboard, skimming articles, growing steadily more frustrated by the minute. He heard the motel door unlocking and looked up, instinctively reaching for his gun. Dean entered the room and Sam sighed and released the hilt of his gun. "Find anything?" He asked. Dean closed and locked the door behind him, then shook his head. There was something strange about him that Sam couldn't quite put his finger on. An odd look in Dean's eyes as he leered at him, not taking his eyes off Sam.
"You okay?" Sam asked. Dean paused, then smirked.
"Just fine."
Dean walked past Sam lankily and sat on one of the twin beds, then patted the spot beside him, signaling for Sam to sit there. Sam smiled a "well, alright" smile, walked over and sat next to Dean. The whole time, Dean never stopped watching him and, even after Sam sat down, he was still looking at him. Sam found it odd but shrugged it off.
"I never told you," Dean began softly, huskily almost. "How much I missed you when I was gone."
Sam searched Dean's eyes wonderingly, looking for a reason why Dean might be telling him this. Finding nothing, Sam replied, "I missed you too, man."
"No," Dean said more forcefully. "I really missed you. I thought about you everyday. I longed to see you again, hold you again."
Sam smiled warmly and placed a sympathetic arm around Dean's narrow shoulders. He said softly, "I know. I felt the same way. I mean, I can't even begin to imagine what it was like being in hell but, I know that everyday you were gone, I woke up thinking of you and went to bed thinking of you, and prayed that you'd come back."
Dean smiled thinly and Sam smiled lovingly back, rubbing Dean's shoulder as he did so. Dean raised a hand and ran it through Sam's long hair. Sam closed his eyes and inhaled slowly, savoring the gesture of affection. Suddenly, Dean had pushed Sam's face to his and their mouths were touching. Sam opened his mouth to gasp in surprise and Dean's tongue invaded it. At first, Sam sat motionless in shock, letting Dean explore his mouth, then he sank into the kiss and let his tongue fight back. He let a deep groan escape from his throat as Dean bit at his lower lip. After a few moments, Sam raised a hand and let it caress Dean's rough cheek, then glided it over his neck and down to his flat chest where he let it rest. Sam's mind was so blissfully void of thought. He held on to the absence of awareness as long as he could. Dean's hand, that had been playing with Sam's hair, started to fall, touching Sam's collarbone and chest and stomach and the fasten of his pants and then…
"Whoa, whoa, whoa," Sam exclaimed, breaking the kiss. He held Dean by his shoulders and looked at him in shock, no longer able to fight off the process of thinking. "Dean," he said seriously. "What are we doing? We can't do this."
"Why?" Dean asked, lustfully eyeing Sam's lips.
"Why?" Sam repeated. "Because it's wrong, that's why." He raised his eyebrows at Dean incredulously. "You're my brother. Brother's don't do… this."
"But you want me don't you?"
Sam was taken aback. He released Dean and pulled away from him slightly. "What…"
Dean smirked wickedly. "Don't act all innocent. I've been on the road with you too long not to have heard you moaning my name in your sleep, having one of 'those' dreams about me."
Sam started standing up and backing away, looking mildly horrified. "You… you heard me…?"
"And those times when we were kids," Dean continued, sounding nearly sadistic. "That I'd bring girls over while Dad was away, and you'd spy on me."
Sam's jaw dropped as he continued backing away, growing steadily hotter in the face as he discovered that his brother had known all of these things.
Dean now stood up, walking towards him lankily as he spoke. "Why act coy now? I know you want me, and I want you. Why fight it just because it's 'wrong'?"
Sam backed away until his back hit the wall. He felt suddenly trapped, despite all his strength and training and skill. "Stop it, Dean," Sam said, almost pleadingly. "I don't want to do this."
"Aw, come on, Sam," Dean said huskily, now only a breath away from Sam. And then Sam's eyes widened and his heart, already racing, sped up even further.
"You never…" Sam said quietly, almost to himself. "Call me… Sam… You're not… Dean…" His voice fell away at the end. Before he could react, the Dean that wasn't Dean grabbed Sam's forearms, spun him, and locked them behind him in a startlingly strong hold before slamming Sam forward on the nearby dresser. Sam cried out as his forehead collided with the wood.
As articles flashed before Tim's eyes, Tim grew steadily more concerned and a creeping feeling of dread crawled into the pit of his stomach. He read the last article scan on the last death that occurred in the pattern Tim had uncovered. "The attic of the Kappa Beta dorm," Tim read to himself. "Was locked and banned from further usage following a court order deeming it hazardous after being mysterious linked to the series of rapings and murder-suicides that took place on campus…" Tim's eyes widened and he quickly referred back to the student records, hastily skimming down to the details of Alan Stone's death. "Alan Stone, ex-alumni, found at 1440 hours in the Kappa Beta dorm attic, hung from the neck by a four foot seven inches long rope…" He stopped, thoughts racing through his head, mentally reviewing the information he'd gathered and connecting all the pieces.
"Oh shit!" He exclaimed, bolting to his feet and to the door. He only hoped he wasn't too late.
Dean's strength seemed inhuman as he kept Sam bent over the dresser. Sam heard the Dean that wasn't Dean undoing his belt and fly. Sam struggled with all his might under Dean's hold and shouted out, "Don't do this! Please! Don't do this!"
As the non-Dean yanked Sam's own pants and boxers down, Sam struggled more than he ever had in his life, shouting all the louder, "Don't! DON'T!" But he did. And then he did again. And again. The pain wasn't as bad as other pain that Sam had experienced, but nothing in the world could compare to this feeling. He'd rather have a limb sawed off than feel this horrible, horrible feeling His ears were ringing with it, like having a gun go off right beside his head. His eyes were blinded by it, like a burst of light had just exploded before him. He wasn't even fighting anymore, he was just trying to manage this horrendous feeling of sickness and filth inside him as the monster pounded in and out of him. He felt tears run down his face and onto the wood of the dresser, his head slamming into it with each thrust.
And suddenly he heard a deafening bang and clatter. He struggled to raise his head to look up, but couldn't manage it. Then he heard a voice yell, "Hey, Stone!" The non-Dean stopped his motions abruptly. "Go fuck yourself." And a shot went off. Dean was hurled backwards and hit the opposite wall with a thud, falling to the floor. Suddenly free, Sam acted on instinct and ran as fast his legs would carry him to the nearest door, the closet, pulling his pants up as he did so, and once inside he slammed the door shut behind him.
Outside the closet, a misty figure sprung out of Dean's now motionless form. It materialized into a blonde young man with the most hideous expression of anger on his face as he stared down Tim, who cocked and reloaded the gun, letting the empty rock salt shell fall to the ground. Tim glared back icily.
"Want me?" Tim taunted as he reached into his pocket for something. "Come and get me." He revealed an ancient piece of decrepit rope and held it out, distracting Stone whilst he lit a lighter behind his back. The manifestation hurled itself at him, but before it could reach him, Tim set the piece of rope on fire. The spirit instantly burst into flames, letting out an ear-splitting shout of despair and anguish as it burnt away into nothing and disappeared. Tim dropped the rope to the floor, where it began burning itself out. And then it was over.
Tim just stood there for a moment, partially in shock, partially drained from using up a week's worth of adrenaline in one go. Then, across the room, he heard Dean suddenly gasp for air, like one does after being winded. Dean shakily got to his feet, coughing and gingerly fingering the places where the salt had stung him. He looked around, confused and disoriented. His eyes found Tim holding his shotgun, looking dazed, and his expression of confusion deepened. With a furrowed brow, Dean asked hoarsely, "What I miss?"
--
After taking a refreshing swig of beer, Dean applied the cold can to the cuts along his jaw. It was soothing. Across the mini table, Tim said, "So, I mean, it would stand to reason that Stone's spirit would take two sides of revenge. There were two sides to him when he was alive. He was a total closet case, but, you know, raised by bible-belt, Midwest bigots. He'd make friends, he'd come on to them, and when the rejected him, he drowned them." He took a triumphant swig off his own beer.
"Yeah, but, how'd you know about the attic?"
"Separate from the dry-land drownings," Tim continued. "Guys that were exposed to the attic went out, as if possessed, and raped and killed a close friend of theirs before killing themselves. All kids without prior history of instability or violence. When they made the connection, they prohibited anyone from going into the attic again."
"Curiosity," Dean said, then pointed at himself. "Cat."
"Pretty much. When I made that connection, I knew something bad was gonna come down, so I went to the attic."
"And Stone was already gone, wearing a brand-new Dean suit."
"So I remembered the rope and remembered what you guys said about remains and shit keeping him linked to the house, so I looked and found what I guessed could've been a missing part of hanging rope-"
"And came to save our asses on a hunch," Dean said with a raised eyebrow.
"Yeah, well, it worked didn't it?" Tim grinned and took another drink.
"Yeah," Dean said, gently touching his cuts, then he grew quiet. "We should've seen it, man."
"What?"
"That fucking pattern. The possessions, the attic, the rope. We should've seen it."
"But the possessions stopped twenty years ago. Anyone would've overlooked it."
"But shit, man, we shouldn't have." He shook his head, looking intensely guilty. "If we'd paid attention, you know, if we'd given a damn, that fucking closet-case would've never…" He looked sideways at the bathroom door, where Sam had been for the past few hours.
"You can't do that," Tim said sternly. "You can't blame yourself. It wasn't anybody's fault. The only one responsible was that piece of shit, and he's in hell now." Somehow, Tim looked a little smug.
"Wish it'd been me that ended him," Dean said through gritted teeth.
"I can't believe this is what you guys do everyday," Tim said in awe, changing the subject.
"Yeah," said Dean, sounding bitter. "Shit's never boring chez-Winchester." He took a great gulp of beer.
Tim paused, fingering the top of his beer can pensively. "I want to do it too."
"Hm? Do what?" Dean asked, honestly not knowing what Tim was talking about.
"I want to do what you do. I want to be a hunter."
"Whoa, no, no, no," Dean said emphatically, waving a protesting hand. "I know it looks glamorous," he mentioned sarcastically then grew serious. "But this is no kind of life. You're hurting real bad right now, I get it. But becoming a hunter, it's like signing a death sentence."
"So?" Tim raised an eyebrow. "It's not like I have anything to live for, and kicking ass and taking names beats the hell out of suicide."
"But you're just a kid. You're in school, a really good school, you're fucking smart, you've got your whole life ahead of you. And you'll fall in love again, trust me."
"I don't want to fall in love again, Dean! My parents disowned me when I came out, I haven't seen my family in years. Gary was the one thing, the one person, that made my life mean something, made it almost feel normal. I applied to this school because of him, to study criminal investigation of all things. I had this idealistic notion that I would help put away the bad guys. But with Gary gone, and knowing what's out there, what kind of bad guys are really out there, it makes what little life I have left so meaningless I can hardly stand it." He stopped to breathe, shaking his head slightly. "I want to do this. If there's one thing I have left to give, it's my life, and if I can save other people doing it… And hey, you guys do it!" He remarked, motioning to Dean.
"That's different. Sam and I were born into it. We didn't have a choice. It's not that I don't like saving people and killing evil sons of bitches. I fucking love it. But I would never, ever willingly bring this life on anyone."
"Well, how does Sam feel about it?"
Dean paused, looking momentarily grave. "He hates it."
Tim looked down. "I'm sorry…"
"Don't be. He's strong. He manages."
"Speaking of Sam," Tim cocked his head in the direction of the bathroom door. "When are you planning to go talk to him?"
Dean looked down at the chrome surface of the table. "I'm probably the last person he wants to see right now."
"You're his brother," Tim insisted. "He needs you."
"But I'm the one that—"
"No you're not. It was Stone. And if Sam's as strong as you say he is, I know he understands that." Dean still only stared down at the table, so Tim added comfortingly, "If it were me, I'd want someone I love with me, helping me get through it."
Dean looked up. "Yeah?"
Tim sighed, then smiled. "Yeah."
There was a knock, and then Dean's voice sounding guilty and unsure. "Sammy, it's me." Sam said nothing, only pulled his knees closer to his chest. "Can I come in?" Sam still said nothing, so Dean let himself in, closing the door behind him. Sam, sitting on the floor with his back against the tub, wouldn't look at him. Dean sat on the toilet lid, leaning forward and letting out a long, drawn-out sigh.
Dean looked his brother over, his hair nearly dry after having taken a shower two hours earlier, the fresh cut and bruise on his forehead, the bruises on his forearms. Dean had seen his brother in far worse condition, but somehow these particular wounds invoked a sadness and disturbance in Dean that made him need to look away. At last, after a memorably long silence, Dean said quietly, "I'm sorry."
"It's not your fault," Sam replied hoarsely to the wall.
"Yes it is," Dean protested. "I should've noticed that pattern, I shouldn't have let Stone possess me, I shouldn't have let him…" Dean's voice cracked at the end and he stopped so he could fight back tears.
"It was out of your control." Sam's voice sounded so hollow it made Dean want to cry and hug him until the pain in him subsided.
"Then I should've made it in my control!" Dean said angrily and covered his eyes with his hand so as to hide his fresh tears from his brother. "I'm so sorry, Sammy…"
"The things he said…" Sam began saying, more to himself than to Dean. "The things he knew…" Sam shook his head.
Dean wiped his eyes. "He was lying. Trying to get to you, catch you off guard."
"No…he wasn't. He knew… because you know." He closed his eyes. "About the dreams I had… about the times I…" He breathed in crookedly. "Used to spy on you."
Dean's eyes widened as he suddenly realized what Sam was talking about. "Hey," Dean quickly interjected. "That was a long time ago. I'd forgotten all about it. I mean, I'm not mad at you or anything. It's fine."
"No," Sam said quietly. "It's not fine… He was right. About everything. I'm," Sam let out a laugh of contempt. "I'm so fucking twisted."
"Hey!" Dean exclaimed as he rushed over to Sam and crouched down in front of him. He put an arm around him. "Hey, hey," he coddled. "You're not twisted. You're perfect. You're my baby brother. You're my Sammy. You're not twisted." He smiled lovingly at his brother.
Sam sniffed then smiled, but only slightly. He looked up at Dean, his eyes red and partially swollen from crying.
Dean leant forward and kissed his brother's bruised forehead. As he went to pull back, Sam unexpectedly caught Dean's mouth with his own. It was all too sudden for Dean to really grasp what was happening, and too sudden for Dean to use logic instead of instinct. And his instinct, of course, was to kiss back. For nearly two seconds, Dean experienced the most amazing sensation he'd ever experienced. But after exactly two seconds, the synapses in his brain at last fired and he immediately broke the kiss.
"Whoa, slow down," Dean somewhat laughed uncomfortably. "That's… that's just… We don't do that."
"But I love you," Sam said brokenly, a tear or two running down his cheeks.
"I love you too, Sammy. But that doesn't mean, you know…" He was at a total loss for words. He hoped though that Sam had caught his meaning.
"But the dreams—"
"Come on, Sammy. Two people that spend as much time together alone on the road as we do are bound to have sex dreams about each other at some point or another. It doesn't mean anything." He looked concerned at Sam's expression of loss and pain. "Okay?"
"Yeah," Sam whispered. "Okay."
"Stone was just trying to psyche you out. We're fine. You're fine. Okay?"
"Okay," Sam repeated.
Dean sat down next to his brother, also leaning back against the tub.
"Tim said he wants to be a hunter," Dean said, changing the subject.
"There's a waste of life."
"That's what I told him. But he says he's got nothing to live for now, what with Gary gone and all."
"Well, we all get into it somehow," Sam shrugged. "And that's as good a reason as any."
"Really?" Dean asked skeptically.
"Yeah, I mean, we're all adults here and if that's his decision, well, fuck it, more power to him."
Dean dipped his head in an "alright then" sort of motion. "Hell of a time to become a hunter though. Smack dab in the middle of an apocalypse, R-rated, hardcore war."
"And we're right in the eye of the storm. But hey, if he's got nothing to live for, it still beats suicide."
Dean raised his eyebrows at his brother.
Walking out of the bathroom, Dean shut the door behind him and Tim looked up.
"So," Dean began. "You really wanna be a hunter?"
NEXT on Supernatural: The Fan Fic
A string of murders that seem to be caused by a poltergeist takes the boys to Illinois. The addition of a third member to the Winchester team proves stressful as Dean doubts Tim's capabilities as a hunter. Sam struggles with his unbrotherly feelings of love and becomes jealous as he now has to share Dean's attention with Tim. The reappearance of Ruby further complicated things after the boys discover that the job they took is much more than they bargained for.