Previously appeared in Route 666 #1 (2008), Ashton Press
Written for the KazCon '07 Auction
Trial by Fire
K Hanna Korossy
"So," Sam said, sliding stiffly into the diner booth. "Anything look good?"
Dean's gaze was still roaming over the menu. "Huh. After eight hours on the road, everything looks good." He eyed Sam over the top of the laminated sheets. "What took you so long? I was starting to think you fell in."
Sam flushed a little, feeling the blood warm his cool face. "Uh, there was a line."
Dean took an exaggerated look around the mostly empty diner. "Dude, if everyone in here decided right now to go take a leak, there wouldn't be a line. I think if everyone within a hundred miles showed up, there still wouldn't be a line." He paused. "Seriously, you okay?"
Sam shut his eyes and shook his head once. "It's nothing, all right? Just, all day in the car, greasy roadside food, and not enough sleep aren't exactly the best thing for my stomach. Go figure." The last was said buried into the depths of the menu.
He could feel Dean eyeing him a moment longer and studiously hoped his brother would drop it. It was mortifying enough that he'd thrown up in a diner men's room; he wasn't going to add insult to injury by enduring Dean's teasing about being weak. As if man were made to live off bad meatloaf and short nights on crappy beds.
Dean shifted in place, thankfully going back to his menu. But his voice carried quietly past the barriers of two sets of card stock. "Soft-boiled eggs go easy on a bad stomach."
Sam shook his head. "Eggs are pretty heavy, Dean."
Dean kept reading. "Hard-boiled eggs are heavy. Soft-boiled's different."
"Why would—?"
"Runny yolks? I don't know why, man, they just are. We used to get 'em for you when you got carsick, and you could keep 'em down. 'Course, I'd be cleaning yolk out of your hair for the next two days…"
Sam stared at him. Reunited with Dean for several months now, he still wasn't used to not just not having to censor everything about his past, but also sharing that history, those common points of reference with someone. In fact, Dean was the only one who remembered Sam's childhood in any kind of detail, and it was only now in hindsight that Sam realized how lost he'd been at Stanford without anyone who knew how he'd become who he was, who remembered for him.
"If you get yolk in the car, though, you're cleaning it off with your tongue."
Sam's mouth turned up. Now there was the brother he knew and loved. "You know egg yolk can eat through paint?"
Dean gave him a duh! look. "Why do you think kids egg cars and houses, genius?"
Sam's amusement didn't fade. "You ever do that when you were a kid, Dean?"
"Me? 'Course not. I was a model teenager." Dean's eyes returned to his menu. "What happened to Mr. Findley's Studebaker was total coincidence."
Mr. Findley? Sam had to rack his brain for that one. Oh, yes, Tennessee. Or maybe New Jersey. The cantankerous old man down the street who'd always yelled at a young Sam when he'd dared walk that way. One time, he'd rattled the youngest Winchester so badly, Sam had burst into tears as soon as he got home and saw Dean.
Which was probably why Mr. Findley's precious Studebaker, which even Dean had admired, had ended up victimized by poultry.
Sam hid his smile and ducked his head, feeling the unexpected curl of warmth in his gut that came from being loved. He thought he'd lost that when he'd lost Jess, but had forgotten it'd been there long before Stanford had come along.
"You boys ready to order?"
The waitress had to be at least in her fifties, but her step was light as she approached and her smile warm. Sam found himself smiling back at her. "Uh, yeah, I'd like two soft-boiled eggs and some dry toast, and hot tea."
He could see Dean shake his head over the tea, but his brother just flashed the waitress a smile. "I'll have the lunch special, Bev, heavy on the gravy. Oh, and any word on those woodwoses that were supposed to be in the area?"
"Nope. They either headed south or someone just couldn't hold their liquor. Supposed to be a chupacabra next county over, though." She tapped her notepad. "You want something to drink with your lunch, sweetie?"
Sam's jaw dropped.
"Coffee. Anything else, Bev? We're looking for something our dad might be checking out."
"Wait," Sam interrupted finally. "So…you two know each other? And you," he addressed Bev, "know about…" He wasn't even sure how to finish that. He was still stuck on the casual mix of chupacabras and coffee.
Bev was looking at him in clear amusement, Dean with something like longsuffering. "Nothing gets by you, college boy," he said, then nodded at the waitress. "Bev, you remember Sam?"
The woman suddenly smiled at Sam. "No, but I remember Sammy. Good Lord, boy, you sure grew up!"
Sam stared between the two of them in unrelieved confusion.
"It's all the hair," Dean offered.
"Same sweet face, though. You still inhaling books like they were air, honey?"
Sam's mouth moved, sound following a few seconds later. "I'm sorry…I—did…Dad…?" He stared daggers at Dean when his brother muttered a smooth, Sammy, under his breath.
"…help me out?" Bev prompted. "Lord, no, hon, I was hip-deep in this mess before your daddy even found out what was out there. You could say I'm just a concerned citizen." She and Dean seemed to find that hilarious, for some reason.
Sam finally snapped his mouth shut. "Oh. Uh, nice to meet you. Again. Dean didn't mention…"
Bev angled a look at the older Winchester. "Yeah, there's a lot Dean doesn't mention. But I knew you two since you had to look up to see grass, sweetie. Your daddy used to swing by for information sometimes, two of you in tow. Dean charmed ice cream out of the girls here more often than anyone I knew."
Sam was starting to smile, getting over the incredible strangeness of meeting someone who knew them. "I'll bet."
Dean didn't look the least bit repentant on that last point, but he soon grew serious. "Hey, Bev…you haven't seen Dad in the last couple of months, have you?"
Her eyes suddenly darkened, and for the first time Sam honestly believed she knew exactly what they hunted. "No, Dean, I haven't, but I've been hearing some whispers. What's going on?"
Sam didn't think anyone else, including Bev, would have caught the hesitation. Dean's deliberately casual answer was quick on its heels. "Don't know exactly, we just got separated. Sam and me have been doing some solo hunts and keeping an eye out for him."
Sam could feel her gaze back on him. "I heard about your girl, Sam—I'm sorry."
His eyes shot up to Dean, panic lodging in his gut.
"Hey, Bev," Dean interjected smoothly with a grin, "We've gotta get back on the road—think you could find us some food first?"
A small, not unknowing smile. "Sure thing, boys. I'll be right back."
His heart settled down with every step she took away, but his stomach was still twisted into a knot. "Dean—" Sam said urgently, leaning across the table.
"It's her job to know things, Sam," his brother answered low and flat. "And she always liked you, kept an eye on you, that's all. People aren't talking about this."
It had never occurred to him before that Jess, his Jess, could be just another hunt for one of their kind, and Sam felt his nausea rise again. "Who else knows?"
"Sam—"
"Who else knows, Dean?" he hissed.
Dean made a face, looking sad and defensive at the same time. "Jim and Caleb. They're the only people I told, man, I swear."
The tight fist inside him unclenched a little. Those were both friends, and while Sam wasn't crazy about anyone knowing about the fire, trying to solve Jess's murder like it was just another case, he couldn't argue his brother's actions. Sam had even intended to tell Jim himself at some point.
He leaned back, nodding a little. Bev didn't seem stupid, and she'd kept loose tabs on them. Most people, even most of their old acquaintances, would never have bothered. It wasn't like everybody knew.
"Sam?"
He breathed out long and low. "Yeah, all right."
Dean canted his head. "You wanna get the food to go?"
He almost even smiled at that. "Meatloaf and gravy? Dude, I don't even want to see you try to eat that while you drive. You behind the wheel scares me enough as it is."
Dean gave him a wounded look. "Hey, I've done a lot more than that while driving and I've never had an accident." His eyebrows darted up, meaning clear.
Sam groaned and kicked him under the table. "Shut up or I'm going to lose the appetite I've got left."
"You're such a pansy, Francis."
"You're such a slut, you jerk."
"Bi—"
Two plates were slid in front of them with a reproving look.
Dean instantly switched gears, from annoying to connivingly flirtatious. "Thanks, Bev."
"You let your brother eat in peace, Dean Winchester," she ordered. Then her voice dropped, her manner suddenly cautious. "I did hear about some fires a few towns over, in Cleve's Mills."
Fire. Sam's mouth went dry, his hands stilling around the steaming mug.
Dean darted him a glance, focused on Bev again. "Oh, yeah? Suspicious?"
"They say the fire jumps around, doesn't spread like it normally does. And there's been three of them in two weeks. That's a lot for a small town."
"Yeah." Dean cleared his throat. "Any fatalities?" Again his gaze lingered on Sam, seeming reluctant to pull away when Sam stared back like he might drown if he broke the gaze.
"Whole family in one. Grandparents in t'other—I'm not sure about the third one." She grew very quiet. "No nurseries."
It hadn't been all nurseries. Jess had burned in the bedroom they'd shared, her beautiful face twisted in silent agony…
Under the table, the toe of Dean's boot nudged Sam's ankle, and he started back to life. His palms stung from the hot mug, and Sam yanked them back, giving Bev a shaky smile. "Thank you." He glanced down at his hands, flinching at their redness, and laid them flat on the cool Formica.
"Yeah, Bev, thanks."
"You two don't be strangers, now. Good to see you again, Sam."
He threw her another blind smile. Dean probably answered her, but Sam didn't pay attention, gingerly measuring out lemon and sugar. He only looked up when he heard his name.
"What?"
"Chupacabra, we haven't tackled one of those in a while," Dean repeated around a mouthful of food.
Sam's hand tightened painfully on the spoon. "What about the fires?"
Dean shrugged. "Can't take every case. Bev'll find someone else to tell it to."
Understanding his issues was one thing; coddling them was something else. Sam glared at his brother. "Since when don't we check out suspicious fires, Dean? Dad was always looking for them, looking for the thing that killed Mom, and…" He swallowed.
There was a brief silence, Dean's gaze hooded. Then, "Fine. We go to Cleve's Mills, see if Dad's there, poke around a little. Just…"
After no continuation seemed forthcoming, Sam gave him a cautious look. "Just what?"
There was a moment when Dean seemed about to say something else, but he finally just shook his head. "Just eat your food. You're getting skinny enough without going anorexic on me."
Sam glowered at him but ate.
Dean was right about the eggs, but Sam couldn't even remember their taste afterward.
00000
The drive to the neighboring town wasn't a long one, just enough for Sam to do some research. He grimaced as he wrestled out his laptop with his reddened hands, forgetting the discomfort as he quickly hit pay dirt. Thank God for satellite link-ups; he found articles on all three fires, noting the address on the last one, just two days earlier. Eventually, he'd hack into police and fire department files, but for now it was a place to start. Sam relayed the directions to Dean, got a short nod in acknowledgment, and the rest of the trip passed in weighty silence.
Dean was worried about him; Sam got it. Probably afraid of how Sam would take facing a fire again, as if finding what had killed Jess hadn't been the whole reason he'd gone back to hunting. And, okay, yeah, Sam wasn't exactly looking forward to sifting through the blackened remains of another house, another family. But he wasn't going to break like some fragile civilian, either. If Dean didn't trust him not to, Sam would just have to show him.
They pulled up in front of a burned shell of a house. The fire clearly had been a major one; the exterior frame had collapsed, leaving chunks of debris, some charred, some intact, piled loosely where there had once been a home. The Winchesters stared at the ashes of someone's life, each remembering a different set of ruins.
"Any survivors?" Dean finally asked, hushed.
Sam sucked in a breath. "The dad, but he's in critical condition. He ran back in after the two kids."
"Mom?"
Sam shook his head soberly.
Dean muttered a curse as he disembarked and dug into their stuff in the back seat. Sam climbed out more slowly, hands itching, eyes drawn to the untouched trees that ringed the house. The fire might have been big, but it had been contained.
Dean was rounding the car, hands full. Sam nodded to the house without looking at his brother. "The trees aren't even singed. That look like a normal fire to you?" Dean was their expert in burn patterns.
"No," Dean said tersely, shoving something into Sam's palm even as he turned on the EMF meter he held. "Come on, let's take a look around before the town busybody notices us." He stalked up the walk, ducking under yellow Do Not Cross tape.
Sam looked down into his hand, smiling briefly when he saw the tube of aloe.
He followed Dean more slowly, eyes searching the scene around him as he rubbed lotion into his scalded hands. The grass was mostly untouched, but patches of scorched earth surrounded pieces of flyaway debris. Sam bent over one, what looked like a piece of a windowsill, and picked it up, sniffing it tentatively. No scent of sulfur or an accelerant, although after two days, neither would have been likely to linger. A glance to the left showed Dean intent on the meter, making his way through the edge of the ruins. Sam dropped the debris and moved on.
The last fire he'd picked through like this had been the one that had destroyed his home. He'd been looking for mementos then, saying his good-byes, not searching for a cause. But the remains had been much the same: skeletal furniture, molten lumps of metal and plastic, half-burnt books and photographs. A scrap of white cloth, blackened at the edges, fluttered from the skeletonized closet. Jess had been in—
Sam. Help me!
Hot blood on his face, hot flames above, and all he could feel was the cold of seeing her up there, her white slip sliced open and bloody—
"Sam."
He jolted, pulling in a sharp breath as he whipped his head around.
Dean was standing a foot away, brow creased. "Sam? You all right? You're not gonna hurl again, are you?"
Sam tried to laugh, wincing with Dean when it came out strangled. "I'm fine," he said, not caring if the lie was blatant, and nodded at the meter in Dean's hand. "You find anything?"
His brother's gaze lingered. "Maybe some faint residuals—kinda hard to tell with the lines so close." Dean nodded to his left, and Sam followed his line of sight to the power line at the edge of the property. "You?" He peered close at Sam, asking about more than just the case.
Sam shook his head, bangs sliding across his eyes. "No."
Dean nodded slowly. "So. Research?"
"Research," Sam agreed, turning slowly away.
"Super," Dean said with lackluster enthusiasm, starting back down the walk.
Sam had almost turned to follow him when his eyes caught the impression in the dirt by the nearest tree. He headed over there instead of after Dean, crouching beside the trunk to examine the print more closely. "Dean."
A moment later, his brother was hunkering beside him. "Yeah?"
Sam pointed wordlessly.
Dean stared at it a moment, then sank back on his heels to look at the house. "Huh."
Sam nodded, agreeing. It wasn't every day you found cloven hoof prints in suburbia, after all. Definitely their kind of job.
He just hoped they figured out what was going on soon, because even though they couldn't find any more prints or other clues after photographing the one, Sam could feel the looming presence of the burned-out house long after they got in the car and drove away.
00000
"Walt, unit needed at 1314 Abner Street—possible 10-10."
"George, you got that? I think you're closest."
"Copy that, Walt."
Dean turned away from the police scanner, eyes bouncing from Sam to the perimeter of the room and back again. Less than 36 hours they'd been there, and Dean could have recited the room's exact dimensions, described the muted earth-tone wallpaper, and run down the list of five protective wards he'd installed around it.
Sam, on the other hand, he doubted even registered if he was indoors or out.
His brother was frowning at the laptop, and if Dean ever would have had to describe Sam to someone looking for him, it would be in this pose: long back arched over a too-short table, face creased in concentration and disquiet, foot bouncing restlessly. That, or writhing in the hold of a nightmare, and Dean wasn't sure which state he liked less.
"Sam."
"What?" He didn't even look up, but he responded instantly, and Dean silently revised the theory about Sam not being aware of his surroundings.
"Anything?"
"I'd tell you if there were, Dean."
It was said tiredly, flatly, and Dean resisted sighing like some kind of girl. They'd found a few candidates for hoofed fire entities, but so far none of them looked likelier than any other, and the official fire investigations and witness statements hadn't helped at all.
It wasn't the lack of progress that was taking the real toll, though. Dean had expected trouble too as soon as he'd heard the word "fire" come out of Bev's mouth. Yeah, it was a logical place to look for Dad, but they were pretty sure now John Winchester had never been to Cleve's Mills, and still there they were, searching. Sam not sleeping.
Friggin' fires.
So far Dean had successfully kept them away from any cases involving fire, the search for Dad be damned. Dean was pretty sure they didn't send drowning victims to be lifeguards two months later, or new rape victims to deal with sexual abusers. Sam had already been skating the edges of PTSD, between the nightmares of the fire and the grief of losing Jess, and Dean hadn't missed how he flinched at every salt-and-burn they'd done since. He'd hoped to protect his brother a little longer from having to face this particular fear, at least until Sam no longer looked so haunted.
Sam, unfortunately, seemed to have other ideas, as always.
"Dean."
"Yeah?" he said hopefully.
"Quit staring at me." Still without a single glance at him.
Dean rolled his eyes, going back to sharpening the knife he'd been absently working on for a while. Once upon a time, his kid brother had confided in him, turning to him for reassurance and protection. Grief had made Sam vulnerable again, leaning on Dean more heavily than he had in years, but he was increasingly resisting anything he saw as "coddling" now.
Dean was proud of him for the effort to keep it together, he really was. What Sam had been through would have broken many others. He just hated the fact Sam seemed to equate strength and maturity with handling everything alone. Not that he didn't have an exemplary role model for that attitude, but still, Dean had never meant to teach him that. As if Sam couldn't pull his own weight. As if he had anything left to prove.
As if Dean could think any less of him no matter what he did.
The scanner crackled to life, and Dean tilted his head, listening.
"Units 3 and 5, please respond with Fire & Rescue to report of flames at 337 Denfeld Avenue."
"Roger, Unit 3—"
Dean stood. "That's it—you ready?"
Sam must have been listening, too; the look he gave Dean as he lurched to his feet was frankly worried. "Dean, we haven't even narrowed down what it could be, let alone what could stop it."
Dean slid the blade in its sheath and gathered their weapons bag. "Yeah, well, I don't think this fire's gonna wait for us to figure it out. C'mon."
Sam trailed him out without another word.
00000
The ride was tense and urgent, Dean navigating as if he'd grown up in the small town. One drive-through of it the day before had been enough to map out its geography in his head, including where the local hospital was. You never knew what you'd need urgently.
The fire was only a mile or so away from their motel, the smoke soon visible. It was thick and black, and Dean pushed the gas down a little harder. Sam sat in full rigor next to him, pale and still and wide-eyed, and Dean's brows came together as he cast a sidelong glance at his brother.
"You sure you're up for this, Sam?"
"Just hurry," Sam said quietly. Dean took the steadiness in his voice for a qualified yes.
Two fire trucks had already responded, which in a town that size was possibly all there was. One of the police units was also parked to the side; the Winchesters had apparently beaten the other one. Dean pulled to the curb down the street, well before the gathering knot of gawkers. Night was settling, and the fire's harsh orange glow backlit the crowd.
Dean whistled long and low.
"Come on," Sam said tersely, and got out.
They'd done this a hundred times, separating automatically and sifting into the crowd, coaxing answers out of distracted onlookers.
No, no one had seen a thing. Not heard a sound. Sorry.
Dean glanced over to check on Sam, and saw the shaggy head bent low to listen to a small grandmother-type.
No survivors had come out yet, a woman in curlers whispered to Dean.
Sam had moved on to a pair of teary teenagers now, his eyes shining as they reflected flames.
Wasn't it a tragedy, nice couple like that?, the man with the dog was saying. Poor things had even been home sick the last few days; his wife had taken them a casserole just that afternoon. Shocking.
Sam was standing yardstick straight and still, staring at the conflagration that now fully involved the whole two-story. Even from twenty feet away, Dean could see the shallow rise and fall of his chest, the pale cheeks painted by the glow of the fire.
"I'm sorry, I think I hear my kid calling," the man Dean was talking to was just saying.
"Yeah, me, too," Dean murmured, and hurried to rejoin his brother. "Sam?"
His brother had been like this at the other fire scene, too: zoned out, shell-shocked. Not quite this badly, however, and when two calls of his name elicited no response, Dean grabbed Sam's arm.
A hard shudder ran through Sam, and he swayed a moment before blinking at Dean.
"Okay, that's it, we are so out of here," Dean growled.
"Dean—"
"Shut up, Sam. When you can stand without looking like a ninety-year-old granny could take you down, then we'll talk."
The stubborn jaw instantly jutted out, and Dean winced. Yeah, not exactly the best thing to say to get Sam to listen to him. But even though there was resistance in the lean body, it was too clumsy, too distracted to stop a determined Dean Winchester. Before Sam could do more than growl a protest, he was already ensconced in the Impala's front seat, Dean sliding in on the other side.
"Dean, I'm fine. We're not done here."
"Yeah, Sam, we are." He started the car and pulled away.
Sam cursed. "So, what, Dad's gone so you're taking his place? You're not my boss, Dean."
"I'm not gonna let you do this to yourself."
"Do what? Dean, just…would you just stop?"
Dean scowled but pulled to the side of the road, motor quietly idling. There was a distant wail of a siren, more units probably responding to the fire, but they were far enough away now that Dean couldn't smell the smoke anymore. It still seemed to paint the inside of his throat, though.
"Look," Sam said in that tone that he used when he thought he was being reasonable. "I get that you're worried about me, man, but I'm fine. I'm not six, Dean—I can do this."
"Who says you have to?"
Sam reared back an inch. "What?"
"Sammy, you lost Jessica in a fire less than three months ago. It's not weak not to be up for this again so soon. Hey, after Mom died, took Dad years before he could get me anywhere near a fire."
Sam's shoulders came down a little. "You never told me that."
He'd never told anyone that. Dean's eyes darted away. "Well, I'm telling you now. All I'm saying is, nothing wrong with leaving this one to somebody else."
Sam stared at him a moment. "So…you don't think I can do this because it's a fire?"
"I never said that," Dean shot back.
"Dean, this is just another case, all right? It's my job—our job—and I can't do it if you're always trying to protect me from something. Man, I thought this was why you came and got me, to do it with you. I mean, what are we even doing here then, Dean?"
"Hey, it wasn't my idea to take this case. I voted for the chupacabra."
Sam swallowed, nodding heavily, eyes downcast. "So, all that talk about needing someone to watch your back so you weren't doing it alone, that was just for the easy cases, huh, the ones you think I'm strong enough to handle?"
Oh, geez, drama queen much? Exasperated, Dean said, "Sam, that's not what I—"
Sam was shoving the door open. "I, uh, think I'm just gonna walk back to the motel, all right?"
"Sammy—"
"I'll be home before midnight." Then the door swung shut in Dean's face.
He sat for long minutes, watching the stooped figure disappear down the road. Itching to drive after him, wrestle the stubborn kid in the car if he had to, talk some sense into him. With his fists, if necessary. Only two things held him back: Sam promised he would come back to Dean, which counted for a lot.
And he'd called it coming home, which meant even more.
Hope stirring amidst the frustration and worry, Dean kicked the car into gear and headed back to the motel to wait for his brother.
00000
Stalking off on his own. Good argument for his maturity.
Sam sighed full bodily as he trudged onward. He was only a few blocks now from the motel, and his head wasn't any clearer than it had been when he'd climbed out of the car. But he had nowhere left to walk.
Dean wasn't really the problem here; that much Sam had figured out. His brother was just worried about him, and given Sam's history, he couldn't honestly blame the guy. But things had changed while he'd been at Stanford. Dad wasn't around to keep them both kids anymore. To his surprise, the demi-god older brother Sam had left behind had become a fallible, haunted, vulnerable human just like he was. And Sam had returned to the road with him as an equal instead of a sidekick little brother. Or so he'd thought.
But maybe he'd just been fooling himself. Not that Dean didn't listen to him like Dad never had. It wasn't even that Dean was patronizing him, because Sam could see the worry behind the sharp words in a way he never had before. He wasn't afraid of the fires, but, truth be told…yeah, okay, they'd brought back some bad memories. Sam still dreamed of flames several nights a week, needing only to close his eyes to see Jess burning. It wasn't as if he'd been dying to face those memories again.
But what Dean didn't get was that he had to do this. Not just to prove something to Dean, but to confirm it for himself. If he couldn't hold his own, if he couldn't do this, he might as well go back to school and leave Dean to fight alone. And then Sam really had nothing left.
The thought puckered his mouth like something bitter.
He wasn't a kid anymore. It was time to step out from his brother's protective shadow and act like it.
At the motel room door, Sam took a deep breath, then dropped his shoulders and went in.
Dean glanced up at him from where he sat in Sam's customary spot, at the laptop. His eyes scanned Sam, no doubt making sure he was all right, then skimmed away.
"Dean," Sam said quietly. "Listen, uh, I'm sorry, man. I know you're just lookin' out for me."
Dean cocked his head, listening, body suddenly pricked with hopefulness.
Sam swallowed a sigh. "But I need to do this, all right? I can't stop looking for the thing that killed Jess just because it brings up some bad memories."
Dean looked at him a long moment, then finally nodded. "Okay, I get that. I do. But then you have to tell me if it's too much, you hear me? I can take point on this one." Sam opened his mouth, and Dean winced and quickly added, "You did with the plane demon, remember?"
Sam knew it had to rankle, Dean trotting out that particularly embarrassing fear again, but Sam felt the tension pooled in his muscles drain. Dean was right; it wasn't weakness if it went both ways. It was being brothers. Partners. He nodded in relief.
Dean's head dipped curtly, but the tightness in his face had also eased. He leaned back and nodded at the laptop. "I think I know what we're dealing with."
Sam's eyebrows rose as he crossed the room and dropped into the other chair. "How?"
"One of the neighbors told me something at the scene. Didn't connect right away, but thanks to your painfully detailed notes, college boy, I found something. The Dwights, the family in the fire today? They were sick all last week."
Sam frowned, the information tickling something.
Dean flipped through a pad by the laptop. "Turns out the Wysockis and the Sprouls had been sick before the fires, too. I couldn't get any info on the last family, the Sietsemas."
"Sick? Like…gas leak kind of sick?"
Dean nudged his own notebook at Sam. "Like lidérc kind of sick."
Sam rubbed the wire coil absently as he thought. "Lidérc? Right, they usually drain people in their dreams, causing illness, but sometimes they start fires, too."
"Fires that don't burn normally," Dean pointed out. "And guess what kind of feet they have?"
Sam was smiling a little. "Hoofs."
"Hoofs," Dean affirmed, nodding.
Sam pulled the notebook to him, scanning his own research. "Okay, so, incense and birch repel it, and it can only be trapped in the hollow of a tree. Right?"
"It's got a lot in common with shapeshifter lore—I'm thinkin' silver might hurt it, too. Hard part's gonna be finding it before it strikes again. It looks like it's picking up speed."
"Right," Sam sighed. "Just have to find a home where everyone's been sick the last few days."
"Piece o' cake," Dean said with a wry grin. He tossed his notepad down and huffed out a breath. "Speaking of cake, I'm starving."
"What a surprise," Sam said dryly, still scanning his notes.
Dean gave him a dirty look that Sam could feel without confirming it, as he rose and grabbed his jacket off the bed. "I'm gonna go out and pick up some dinner. What do you want?"
"Something not greasy."
"Yeah, well, considering we're surrounded by fast food joints, no guarantees there." He'd shrugged into his jacket, slipped a knife in somewhere, and was at the door before Sam suddenly realized he was leaving.
"Dean."
"Yeah." His brother paused at the door, eyebrow raised patiently.
He didn't even know why he'd called Dean back. Sam's mouth moved for a few seconds before he shook his head. Not being a little brother—check. "Nothing, just…be careful, all right?"
Dean's mouth twitched. "Sure thing, buttercup," he teased, but there was unmistakable affection in his voice.
Sam rolled his eyes, as chagrined with himself as with Dean, and amiably flipped him off.
Dean was laughing when he shut the door, and Sam's world settled into slightly more even keel.
Okay, so, a lidérc. Hungarian lore portrayed them as being everything from a will o' wisp wannabe, to a black chicken, to a lost loved one. Sam grew a little more grim at that last. For all they'd known, it could have been hanging out in the crowd of onlookers at the fire earlier that day. Heck, maybe they'd even talked to it; the stories did say it was intelligent, a lower class of fire demon. The trapping and killing it bit was the part where the lore got vague. Naturally.
Sam sighed and pulled the laptop closer, starting to search.
The noises didn't register at first, just a seeming crest in the rise and fall of the noise that usually accompanied the kind of places they stayed in. Voices, some raised, hurrying footsteps. Sam filed it away unconsciously, just as he had when he'd dormed, and kept reading.
Then somebody screamed.
Suddenly, a klaxon sounded from somewhere nearby, and as Sam shot to his feet and headed for the door, more voices raised in alarm, followed by another scream.
He opened the room door and stuck his head out, scanning the parking lot, then the row of doors to either side. Third down on his right, near the front office, smoke billowed out of an open entryway.
Sam swallowed, a shiver of fear skittering through him. But it was just smoke, not even close, and he shook off the dread and dove back into the room to grab the laptop. A quick scan showed nothing else of import, just their duffels of clothes; the journal and weapons were still in the car. Sam quickly ran back out, thumping the laptop on the hood of the Impala with a silent word of apology to Dean, then turning back to the anxious rush of people that was starting to stream out of the motel.
The fire, he saw grimly, had skipped the adjoining room and was kindling in the one next to the Winchesters'. The jostle of the fleeing residents broke Sam's stare, and he deliberately wrenched himself away from the dancing flames, searching for anyone who needed help. Thankfully, everyone seemed to be evacuating in controlled panic, pouring out into the parking lot and then the street beyond. One woman was wrestling with her three small children, and, with a look, Sam asked her permission to give her a hand. She nodded, and he scooped up a small, dark-haired toddler, who stared at him with consternation but didn't make a sound.
A man and a woman, grandparents from the looks of their age, were trying to keep their two grandchildren calm and moving, and Sam stooped to fold a little girl of about three into his other arm, leaving the older couple to corral the one remaining child toward the street. The grandmother, afraid Sam might take off with his charges or maybe just feeling overwhelmed, tucked her arm around his biceps and let him lead the way.
The toddler had silently started to cry, and Sam cradled him closer, saying a few soothing words that probably didn't mean much to either of them. The little girl had started asking questions, but Sam couldn't hear her over the babble of voices. He cupped a hand over her head to protect it as he ducked under a low-hanging tree, and then they were safely on the far side of the street, just past the sidewalk. Across the asphalt expanse, half the motel was burning now in random patches, their room included. Sam shivered, then winced a little as he noticed the proximity of the Impala to the flames. Oh well, at least it was parked parallel to the rooms for once instead of just in front of; hopefully the dozen feet of distance would protect it. And the laptop still resting on her hood.
The grandmother reclaimed the little girl with a grateful smile and thanks, and Sam gave her a strained smile back. The mother was still occupied with managing her other kids, and the toddler had settled with tired resignation against Sam's chest, so he kept the little boy a little longer, unconsciously rocking him as his eyes skipped around the fire. The flames were licking at the red roof now, smoke boiling into the sky. If it had happened in the middle of the night…if they hadn't gotten out in time, like Jess…
Across the street and in the distressed mutter of the crowd, Sam should have never heard the holler, but he did. Angling to the right, he could just make out the familiar figure running full-tilt toward the motel, dropping a paper bag and shouting again as he went.
"Sam!"
Sam flinched. He could just imagine what Dean thought, arriving to this sight: the car still there, their room afire, and Sam nowhere to be seen. He pulled in a breath, bellowed across the way. "Dean!"
There wasn't even a flicker of reaction. Dean reached the car, one hand vaguely brushing its side as if he were collecting strength from it. His head swiveled wildly, taking in the scene, then turned to rake the crowd across the way.
Crap, he was behind the tree. Sam struggled to get free of the people around him, hearing and ignoring the wail of the mother who had probably just realized the stranger was making off with her baby.
Dean scanned the fire once more. Then, pulling his jacket up over the lower part of his face, he ducked in through the flames.
Sam was pretty sure he felt his heart stop.
He shoved the toddler at the nearest adult; the mother would find him. As soon as the baby was secure, Sam was dashing across the street, heading for the fully engulfed building. Toward the fire instead of away from it.
He pulled up when the heat started baking his face, a dozen feet from their door. There was no sign of Dean, and Sam's legs locked as he craned his neck and saw nothing but flames.
"Dean!"
No answer, just the crackle and roar of the hungry blaze.
Oh, God.
She'd been alive when she'd burned. He'd looked up fires after, found that most people died of smoke inhalation before a fire even reached him. But Jess had been looking at him, breathing in labored pants, her beautiful body cut up, when the fire had broken out around her. It had cooked her alive, and Sam could still see the horror and agony in her face, smell the burnt flesh of her body, taste the ashes and blood.
Nausea knotted his stomach, threatening to send him to his knees.
Hot and deafening and entrapping. He'd never felt so powerless before.
Someone was yelling at him, trying to pull him away, but his feet were rooted, his eyes glued. The two women he'd loved had both been taken by this monster, devoured by it. Torn from him.
And now Dean was inside it.
Sam faltered forward a step, then another.
Dean had lost their mom, too. Dad was nowhere to be found. They only had each other now, and his big brother had shot ghosts, burned a wendigo, faced his greatest fears of planes and adlets and rats and loss for Sam. Maybe he'd become human the last few months, but he was still Sam's hero.
Sam shook off the hands holding him back and stalked toward the burning doorway.
The fire couldn't have Dean, too. Sam wouldn't let it.
He ducked his head down and leapt.
The room was limned with flames, the air scorching his windpipe as soon as he breathed in. Hot, dense smoke made his lungs constrict, and Sam instantly started coughing. He could barely see, and every step was effort, a fight against déjà vu and common sense and terror that clogged his throat as surely as the smoke.
Dean had run in here for him.
Sam hunched down, trying to find clearer air. "Dean!" he yelled between coughs, voice almost drowned by the thunder of the fire. "Dean!"
No amount of yelling had done Jess any good. She'd died less than ten feet from him, in horrible pain.
Sam stumbled forward, gasping, pulling in smoke, fighting back panic. "Dean, answer me!"
He banged into something hard, felt along its edge. Bed. Sam thumped his way to the corner…and nearly tumbled into the form on its hands and knees between the ends of the two beds. Under Sam's hand, a bowed back heaved and stuttered for breath.
Dean.
"C'mon," was the only word Sam spared from his meager air, as he patted his way down to Dean's arm and hoisted it up around his shoulders. His brother felt clumsy and heavy, half-toppling against Sam, and Sam nearly went down under his weight. No. He had to get them out of there. Save Dean like he couldn't Jess.
Save them both before the fire devoured them, too.
He yanked Dean awkwardly to his feet, clinging to the hand that hung over his collarbone. They were both coughing, Dean folding more with every hacking breath, and Sam's legs wobbled as he tried to hold them both up and peered around
Oh, God, where was the door?
The whole place was in flames. The shiny wallpaper reflected the flickering light as it bubbled and peeled, and both the beds were smoldering. A window suddenly exploded from the heat, and even as Sam flinched, he realized that was his clue. The only window was next to the door. Which meant the door was…there.
If he was wrong, they would both die.
The panic threatened to eat Sam alive, make him dash blindly into the conflagration. He couldn't think, couldn't remember anything but Jess's face, the charcoaled lumps the fire had left behind of his former life.
And Dean's weight against his side and shoulder both times.
Sam swallowed soot, then reached down to yank the blanket off the bed at his knees. He clumsily dragged the spread over both their heads, then peeked under it to fix his direction. Now or never.
Sam ran.
Or rather, pitched and swayed and hobbled. The fire's roar grew all-encompassing, flames licking at their feet. For a second, he truly believed they were going to die there.
And then they were outside, the temperature falling drastically, hard asphalt replacing fire-stroked carpet.
With his last bit of strength, Sam staggered them a few steps further, then sank to his knees and shoved the blanket off. Dean slumped against him down to the ground, the effort to clear his lungs bowing his whole body.
They did it.
So why couldn't he stop shaking?
00000
It felt like the fire was inside him.
He'd been distantly aware of Sam's arrival at his side, mind giving up the fleeting thought that at least he wouldn't die alone, before the heat tore even that away. Next thing Dean knew, he was surrounded by fresh, sweet air, and he couldn't cough up the smoke and cinders fast enough to make room for the oxygen.
He was released to the ground, and Dean curled forward, wrapping his arms around his chest, and just concentrated for a moment on breathing. Such a simple task and yet so demanding. Pain rattled his chest with each inhalation, and he didn't care. Another minute, and Sam would have been dragging a corpse out.
Sammy?
Dean pushed himself up with effort, still horking and sneezing, to find his brother. Sam had managed to pull them both out, which probably meant he was in better shape than Dean. But still, he had to know. The feeling of seeing their room burning and knowing Sam was probably inside…
But no, Sam was right next to him, breathing labored and catching but steady. But he was also…shuddering, whole body whiplashing, and it wasn't from the effort to inhale. He was staring at the fire, eyes enormous and…not there.
Dean cursed and pushed himself up with effort. Sirens were wailing nearby, and people in bright yellow coats were flooding the scene. He waved to one. "I need some blankets here." His voice sounded sandpaper-raw and hurt like a mother, but it worked okay, even if it sent him into another fit of coughs.
By the time he managed to find some balance on his knees, a firefighter was wrapping a blanket around his shoulders. Dean immediately pulled it off himself and, with a fumbling grip, wrapped it around Sam. The kid was still engrossed in the fire, and as Dean pulled the metallic blanket closed with one hand, he gripped Sam's chin with his other, forcing his gaze away from the motel and to Dean.
God, he looked so lost.
Dean let go of the blanket and Sam's face, and pulled him into his arms. Made sure he was turned away from the fire as Dean tucked him close and whispered in his ear. "You did it, Sammy."
Sam coughed weakly, and when Dean looked down, he saw trails of tears through the soot that he doubted had been forced out by the heat. He rasped a laugh and rubbed Sam's back roughly.
"You did it, man. You did it."
He repeated it until Sam convulsed once, then raised a hand to grasp Dean's shirt. Until he was sure Sam would be all right, and he finally let the firemen separate and treat them.
And when he smiled at his brother's red-rimmed eyes as they still followed his every move, Dean meant it.
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They were both hauled to the hospital, and for once, Sam didn't fight it. Dean still sounded like Darth Vader when he breathed, and Sam's lungs were tight, his chest aching from the effort to draw in and expel air. His face was as tight and chafed as his hands had been the other day, and he smiled bittersweet at the thought of Dean fussing over the minor injury then. It wouldn't hurt them to rest just a little bit in a cool, safe place.
Sam had been checked out and given an all-clear with the instructions to take it easy for a few days. Dean had inhaled a lot more smoke and was put on oxygen and overnight observation. Sam had sat next to his bed, trading lame insults that he understood completely even though they were half-silent, until Dean had finally dozed off. Then Sam had gone out into the early morning dawn and walked back to the former motel.
The formerly twenty-room establishment was a burned-out shell of itself. Sam stood and stared at the ruins and the yellow-coated activity swarming around it. The Impala, amazingly, seemed intact, although coated from hood to trunk in grey ash. Dean wouldn't tolerate that for long. The laptop wasn't there, and Sam couldn't bring himself to care much.
He wandered the cordoned perimeter, looking at faces of the few people who were still milling around. A dark-haired sheriff eyed him, then moved on. The kids were long gone, and Sam wondered idly what had happened to the toddler and the little girl. In afterthought, her blonde hair reminded him of Jess's.
He almost stepped on the print in the soft dirt before he caught himself.
Sam crouched down to peer at it, stifling a soft cough in his sleeve before he could focus. Definitely a hoof print, the same size as the one at the previous fire scene. And a foot away from it, another.
Had the lidérc tracked them here? Or was this just total coincidence? If so, it was an escalation they couldn't keep up with, two fires in one day. It would be at least another day before Dean was even in any shape to hunt.
Sam kept walking, scanning the ground for more prints.
"Mister…Warren?"
His head came up, to find he'd made a complete circuit of the motel and now stood by the corner where the front office had been. Where the motel proprietor now stood, frowning at him.
"Yes, sir," Sam answered automatically, and stifled a tickle in his throat from the snapped words. "I'm sorry for…" He waved at the ruins.
A wan shrug. "Everyone got out alive—insurance'll cover the rest. You and your brother all right?"
It was kinda pathetic how much he missed Dean already, but Sam nodded, managing to smile a little. Usually the people who remembered Dean were either suspicious older folks or women.
"Oh," the man raised a finger, "did you leave something on your car? One of the fireman gave it to me so it wouldn't get damaged, but I wasn't sure…"
Sam's eyes lit up. "A laptop? Band stickers on it?"
"Right, right. I have it over here in my car. I was hoping I could give it back to you. 'Least I could do after…" He also waved vaguely toward the remains of the motel.
He'd refused to worry about it with Dean in the hospital, but the sight of the familiar metal case lodged a lump in Sam's throat. He cleared it with an irritated cough and nodded. "Thank you," he said earnestly. "It means…it means a lot."
"Sure." Task accomplished, the older man looked uncertain now.
Sam glanced to their left, toward the hoof print in the dirt, then back at the motel proprietor. "Say, uh, do you know by any chance if anyone in the motel's been sick? I just…I was worried somebody might have a hard time getting out if they were laid up or something."
The man's face creased. "No…not that I know of. I mean, there were some families with kids and kids usually have some kind of bug going, but…no, I don't think so."
"Huh." Sam winced inside, knowing for sure now just who was to blame for bringing fire there. "Well. Thank you again. And, uh, sorry. Really. I hope it works out."
The man nodded a little, c'est la vie, and turned away to watch the firemen work.
The sheriff gave Sam permission to move the Impala after asking him a few probing questions. He cleared the windshield of ash with the sleeve of his shirt, put the laptop reverently on the front seat beside him, and drove back to the hospital. Sam dug a few supplies out of the trunk and, after a pit stop, headed up to Dean's room.
Dean looked asleep as Sam stepped in the door, but when turned toward the bathroom, his brother spoke up.
"You find anything?"
Not where were you, or even you left. Sam smiled wanly as he continued on into the small washroom and shucked off his smoky clothes. "Hoof prints," he called through the open door. "And no one was sick at the motel."
He could just hear Dean's sigh. "You think it'll follow us here?"
Half the words cracked, but Sam understood him. He finished pulling the fresh t-shirt over his head and walked out the door, shaking his head. "I burned some birch at all the doors. That should keep it away until we can get out of here." A shower would just have to wait.
"Hey, I'm ready to go now." Dean shoved the oxygen canula up over his head and pushed himself upright, only to curl over the edge as he started coughing again.
Sam held on to his shoulders, lightly pressing him back down. "Yeah, how 'bout we wait on that until I don't have to carry you? Again."
"Dude, you didn't carry me. You're just so freakishly tall, you probably saw the door over the smoke." Dean wheezed a breath between each sentence.
"Smoke rises, Dean."
"Yeah, whatever." He glanced sideways at Sam, measuringly. "You all right?"
Sam dropped wearily into the chair. "I sucked up a lot less carbon than you did, man."
"That's not what I mean," Dean said seriously.
Sam looked at him, remembering the scraped, awed litany of You did it in his ear. It felt like a balm on the raw, burned places inside him, then and now. His mouth twisted. "You were right. About the fire, and me. When I got to the door and saw the flames…man, I just froze."
"But you went in." After me, Dean didn't have to add. Just like neither of them needed to point out why Dean had gone in there in the first place.
"It scared the crap out of me, Dean," Sam admitted in a low voice. Dean deserved to know this, even if it was humiliating, even if it knocked Sam back down to the bottom of the little brother scale. "All I could see was Jess."
"But you went in, Sam," Dean repeated firmly, not an ounce of scoffing in his voice. "It's not being brave if it doesn't scare you, dude."
Another déjà vu, to Dean talking to a young boy who'd lost his father. I know she would have wanted me to be brave…And I do my best to be brave.
Sam finally looked up at his brother. There was no pity in Dean's eyes, nor condescension, just…understanding. And pride.
Sam slowly smiled, feeling some of his depression lift. He had always measured himself against Dean, and even three years apart hadn't changed that. "So…you're saying I was brave?"
Dean instantly recovered himself. "Going on a plane of death is brave. What you did…" He shrugged a little. "Okay, so maybe it was a little brave."
"Gee, thanks," Sam said dryly. "And maybe you should stop talking now. You sound like somebody took a sandblaster to your throat, man."
Dean squirmed in bed. "Feel like I smoked ten packs yesterday, without the nicotine high." He huffed a breath, coughing a few times. "So, what's the plan?"
Sam took a deep breath, feeling it crackle in his chest. "Find out who else's been sick in the area. It's a small town and we're looking for a whole family affected; shouldn't be too hard to narrow it down to a few candidates."
Dean nodded. "You go ask around. I'll see what I can find out from the nurses here."
Sam frowned. "You're supposed to be resting and taking it easy on your voice." It sounded like it was going to give out any minute.
Dean just cheerfully lifted his eyebrows at him.
Sam shook his head, resisting the return grin that wanted to break out. "Dude, whatever. Just…don't go anywhere without me, all right?"
"Same with you. Don't go up against this thing on your own, Sammy, you hear me?"
Not because he couldn't handle it, but just because Dean was worried about him. And he had a grudge against this fire demon now, too.
Sam nodded. That he understood wholeheartedly.
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Dean settled a little more into the vinyl of his baby, and resisted the urge to sigh. He'd already lost his voice, but every noise he made just started a round of rough, tearing coughs that left him weak and dizzy.
"You should've stayed in the hospital," Sam said softly from the driver's seat next to him, his gaze, like Dean's, on the house across the street.
Dean thwapped him on the back of the head, glowering at Sam when his brother turned.
"I'm just sayin'. You sound worse than the Thaxtons do."
The Thaxtons being the people whose house they were watching. Both Sam and Dean had turned up several names of families who were sick in town, but the Thaxtons—Bart, Missy, and baby Thomas—had been out of commission nearly a week. Just the day before, Bart had shuffled into the small hospital to pick up antibiotics for the three of them. Katie the nurse had been thoroughly impressed by Dean's concern, he smiled in remembrance.
Sam groaned. "Dude, I don't even want to know what you're thinking about."
Dean's grin just widened. Then he grew serious, threw Sam a questioning look.
Sam straightened. "Well, I was thinking, we know the lidérc is on to us, right?"
Dean nodded.
"So, when it shows up, if you head it off at the door with some birch," he inclined his head toward the bundle on the seat between them, "I can probably lure it away."
Dean's eyes narrowed.
Sam quickly went on. "There's a hollow tree next door—right there, see? When it's close enough, I shove it inside, we use the birch to trap it in there, and that should do it."
Poof?, Dean mimed.
"Yeah, pretty much. That's what the stories say, anyway."
Dean made a face. They both knew how accurate those accounts could be.
"If you got a better idea, man, now's the time," Sam said impatiently.
Dean gave him a disgruntled look, and pointed at him with an arched eyebrow.
"What?" Sam gave him a baffled look.
Dean impatiently picked up the birch to wave it at Sam.
"No," Sam instantly shook his head, "I need to talk to it, and I might need to move fast. You'd run two feet and start hacking up a lung."
More glowering. Unfortunately, it only seemed to amuse his little brother.
"Dean, you'll be right there, all right? You'll see me the whole time. If things go south, we bail and regroup, that's all. It's not like the lidérc is gonna attack me—it's not its MO."
Again with the unreliability of stories.
"We have to do this," Sam coaxed. "They've got a baby, Dean."
With the puppy-dog eyes. And the Winchester do-or-others-die job ethic. Dean groaned silently.
Sam patted him on the knee. "We'll go pick you up a milkshake after, all right?"
No, but…that didn't sound half-bad, either. Dean reached over and smacked Sam again, though, just on principle.
"Hey, what was—"
Dean shoved himself up in the seat, eyes pinned to the yard across the street. Sam immediately cut off and followed his gaze, also shooting upright at the sight.
An orb of light danced in the air a few feet above the grass, its meandering path heading for the house.
"Will o' wisp," Sam murmured, and glanced back at Dean. Dean nodded and grabbed the bundle of birch.
They jumped out of the car, Sam's long legs and pink lungs propelling him quickly between the lidérc and the house. Dean followed more slowly, swallowing the coughs the cool night air and movement were jarring in his chest. He kept his eye on the demon as he went, touching Sam's shoulder when he passed him and climbed up onto the porch. The orb was still bobbing in place in front of Sam as if trying to decide what to do next.
Dean helped it make its decision. Digging his lighter out, he flared the end of the birch and held it up.
The reaction was immediate, and if they had any doubt left about what they were facing, that settled it. The lidérc reared back from the burning bark and angrily bounced in place at a safe distance.
Sam started moving toward it, his quiet, hard voice carrying back to Dean.
"You don't want them, you want me. You feed off their dreams, their fear? Well, I'm right here. Feed off me."
Dean stirred uneasily, holding the burning faggots away from his face to keep from choking on that smoke, too. He was all for improv, but taunting the demon to feed off Sam was way off the script. Dean dug his hand into his pocket for his silver-loaded handgun and waited tensely.
The orb floated indecisively a moment, then it swooped after Sam.
Sam took off. Dean knew his brother's limits, and it was obvious Sam wasn't trying to outrun the demon, just to make it give chase. And it did, hook, line, and sinker, darting after Sam with a bright, angry glow.
Dean yanked a few curls of birch from the bundle and dropped the rest onto the cement porch. Then he took off after them, as fast as his abused body could stand.
Sam had headed straight for the tree. At the base of the trunk, he turned, breathing harshly—he'd gotten a lungful of smoke the day before, too—and faced the approaching demon with defiance.
"You want me? Here I am."
The orb hovered a moment, assessing.
And then it melted.
The light elongated, stretching down to the ground, flowing outward. It was so bright, Dean turned away, hiding his face in the crook of his arm, keeping Sam in the periphery of his sight. His brother didn't seem to be in any danger however, only shying away from the brightness as Dean was.
And then going so pale, he looked white in the orb's glow.
Except, it wasn't an orb anymore. The glow faded, dulling, revealing a shapely figure, a white dress hugging curves, a flow of golden hair.
"Jess?" Sam stammered.
Dean cursed very loudly inside his head. "Sam, no," he snapped, except it came out as a harsh whisper, not even carrying across the few feet between them.
Besides, the way Sam was staring at her, Dean doubted he would have heard a shout.
He started edging around the demon—lost loved one, why hadn't they been prepared for this?—toward Sam.
Jess adroitly sidestepped him, keeping herself between the brothers.
She wanted Sam; that much was obvious. Maybe it had fed off Sam's fear at the fire, or maybe his loss was the freshest and most enticing. But she had her sights fixed on Dean's little brother, and Dean had a problem with that.
He drew his gun, aiming at the center of her very pretty back. And hesitated. They had no proof silver would hurt a lidérc. What if he just made it go nuts? If it could set a house on fire, it could do the same to a tree, a yard…a person.
Sam stepped forward as if in a dream, eyes wide and bright, and Dean felt sick. It wasn't fair; Sam had dealt with so much already the last few days, let alone the last few months. He shouldn't have to face his dead girlfriend, too. If she burst into flames, Dean was shooting her, guarantees or not.
"Sam," she finally spoke, and while he was no expert, her voice sounded like Dean remembered it. It made Sam shiver, so, yeah, Dean was thinking she got it right.
Sam took another step toward her, hand lifting up toward her cheek. The pain and love in his face was almost more than Dean could bear, and he swallowed, wishing he could talk, wishing anything he could have said would have been able to counter one Sam from her. "Jess," he murmured.
Sammy, no.
Then before Dean could even register it, his brother flung his arms around her, picked up the disguised demon, and shoved it headfirst into the rotted hollow of the tree behind him.
The thing shrieked, still sounding like a human girl, then changing, becoming more shrill, less recognizable. Dean didn't wait for a cue, charging ahead to add his momentum to trapping the thing that was writhing, shrinking, growing bright again as it struggled to free itself.
But Sam already had most of it jammed into the tree, and as Dean brought up the smoldering birch, the thing gave a cry and jerked all the way inside the hollow. There was the sound of thrashing, bright lights, a scream that wasn't the least bit human anymore.
And then something snapped, and…it was gone. The hollow stood dark, silent, and empty.
Sam leaned against the tree, gasping. The harsh breaths sounded a little too like sobs for Dean's taste, and he leaned his weight against Sam's, dropping an arm around his neck. Dean pulled him closer, rubbing his thumb gently against the reddened skin of Sam's neck, trying to convey all he couldn't say: pride, sympathy, relief.
Sam caught his breath and nodded once.
Lights were coming on, people responding to the demon's shrieks. Sam didn't bother to answer any of the queries, just hooked an arm around Dean's waist and towed him to the car.
Dean didn't argue his spot in the passenger-side seat where Sam had deposited him, just leaned against the door, coughing until he accepted the water bottle Sam held out, then drinking until his throat felt merely sore instead of blazing.
Sam was looking out the windshield, his hands laced on the steering wheel. "It didn't look like her at all," he finally whispered, and then started the car.
Dean didn't argue.
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"You know, this wasn't a bad idea," Sam said.
After two days of milkshakes—half of which Sam had co-opted—sleep, and an ever-expanding vocabulary of gestures, some of which were even suitable for mixed company, Dean could talk now. Okay, if an octave deeper than usual, but he had no doubt women found that irresistible, even if it still made Sam cringe. But sometimes a cocked eyebrow said as much as any words. This time it was a tacit, of course—I thought of it.
Sam dove under and came up spitting water, bangs plastered across his forehead and eyes. "No, seriously, man. A swimming pool? I can't even remember the last time I was in a swimming pool. And no, we're not counting that lake in Wisconsin with the ghost of the boy in it."
They'd just headed out after that chupacabra when they'd driven by the local YMCA. Before Dean knew it, he'd found himself turning in and buying them passes for the day. He'd seen Sam's resignation, knew his brother expected sparring in the Y's gym. Instead, Dean had headed for the pool. It was about as far as he could get from fire, and if the water felt half as good on his brother's still-reddened face and hands as it did on Dean's, it was worth the ribbing.
That wasn't the real reason they were there, though.
Sam had disappeared under the water again; the kid always had been half fish. Dean had often nudged their dad toward motels with swimming pools—some of them even had water—when it was warm enough. It was one of the few training methods his brother always happily agreed to: drop Sammy in the deep end, and he would happily swim himself into pruney exhaustion.
It wasn't why they were there, either, although it helped.
Dean floated on top of the water, closing his eyes, letting himself relax for just a moment. Nobody else was in the whole pool area, someone had his back, and for a moment there was just peace. The night before, they'd actually made it through a whole eight hours without Sam waking up screaming. The hunt had taken its toll, but Sam had not only survived, he seemed stronger for it. He'd faced the fire and found his self-confidence. And Dean…Dean was finding a partner.
He was suddenly grabbed around the middle and yanked down below the surface. Dean swallowed water, gagging on the chlorine, but his defenses didn't snap into place as they normally would have. No, he knew this menace, and where its weaknesses were.
Sam shot back up to his feet with him, helpfully whacking him on the back when Dean spluttered, then gave him a guileless grin. "Huh. Maybe there's something in the water."
It was an old game of theirs, except usually Dean had been Nessie, or Ogopogo, or Champ. It had always been a good excuse to pull his little brother under. Dean just hadn't counted then on said brother eventually growing into a gigantic octopus.
"Yeah," he growled back, which was pretty effortless with his current voice. "Blood." And he dove after Sam, who was a half-stroke ahead of him already, his cackling laugh trailing behind him.
That was why they were there. And it was definitely worth some water up his nose to hear it.
Now, Dean raced through the water, he just had a little brother to go drown.
The End