Title: Shock to the System 1/3
Authors: faye_dartmouth and sendintheclowns
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Not ours.
A/N: We tackled this project for pinkphoenix1985--both for our Pay it Forward on her behalf as well as her birthday :) Pink, we hope this is acceptable and helps make your day better!
A/N 2: Much thanks to Bayre and gidgetgal9 for the betas. The fic is better for it :)
Summary: All three Winchesters are forced to learn a lesson that they won't soon forget.
CHAPTER ONE
John closed his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose, and silently counted to ten.
If he thought it would work, John would have tried physical intimidation on his son but his youngest was impervious to those kinds of tactics. Sam was fearless when it came to withstanding John's temper. It was too bad the kid couldn't apply himself to the hunt in the same way he did in opposing John at every turn.
Dean followed John's commands to the letter, unfailingly, without question. If Dean so much as took a half step out of line, John had only to quirk an eyebrow at him and it reeled his eldest back in. Sam received every directive as though it was an invitation to debate and the kid would argue until he was blue in the face if John didn't shut him down fast.
It was wearisome on the best of days and downright aggravating when it came to the hunt. They'd already spent days prepping for this, and Sam still managed to find something to nitpick. An hour out, and the kid was second guessing John. Again.
Not to mention the fact that they were already behind schedule thanks to Sam's slow delay home from school. The fact that they had a strict timetable was not really that important to Sam in the end. No, Sammy had gone to the library so he could do further research on the hunt. The hunt for which John had already studied, strategized, formulated, and delineated a plan.
Damn it. It was the eleventh hour and Sam wanted to throw in contingencies they didn't need. Hell, the entire thing was probably a ploy anyway to try to get a few more days in school before it was time to move on. It wasn't like the hunt mattered to Sam except for how it affected him. John knew that teenagers were inherently selfish, but Sam seemed to be ahead of the curve on that one.
When John opened his eyes, Sam was still standing in front of him, hand clutching papers, arm held straight in front of him. Extended toward John as if in supplication. But John knew if he accepted those papers, Sam would take it as victory and dig his heels in.
There was only one way to deal with his youngest son. "Go to your room. You're grounded for at least a week. No extracurricular activities, no trips to the library, and no reading. That includes homework."
Mouth gaping open, eyes flashing with irritation, Sam sputtered, "But…"
Crossing his arms, John interrupted. "Want to make that two weeks?"
Sam's eyes widened comically in response. He opened his mouth to argue and then abruptly snapped it shut. His son's thin shoulders dropped and his head hung low on his neck, messy hair obscuring his face.
"I'll call you when it's time to leave." John congratulated himself on maintaining a steady tone and volume.
With a slight huff, Sam turned away from John and toward his brother who had silently been watching the exchange from the kitchen table. The look of absolute disbelief morphed into one of pleading, large expressive eyes boring into Dean.
Dean ignored him, refusing to look at the kid.
Instead of a world class temper tantrum, Sam set the papers on the kitchen table, smoothing them out almost reverently, and left the kitchen quietly. His whole slumping posture screamed utter defeat.
Suppressing a smile at having won this round, John thought about asking Dean what was going on with his brother this time, but quite frankly he was sick of using his eldest as an interpreter. Sam was his son and he should be able to deal with him without a mediator.
It was all John's fault. He'd gone too easy on Sam; let his attitude slide for too long. Hell, he'd coddled the kid during his childhood, keeping him out of the know. He'd thought he'd been protecting the kid, given the suspicions John had, but now John couldn't be too sure if lying to Sam had been the best option. More than that, he'd let Dean carry the majority of the parenting duties and as a result he had a surly teenager who questioned his authority.
With a little tough love, John was certain he could bring Sam around. Turn him into a first rate hunter.
Just like his brother.
Dean looked a little uncertain. He smiled tentatively. "You want me to check on him?"
John looked toward the bedrooms and thought about his youngest. He thought about the world of things out to get them all, the world of things out to get Sam. There was still more to the story than Sam knew, even more than Dean knew, and the time for games was over.
He shook his head. "No," he said. "Let him sulk. It's time for Sam to grow up. Maybe we should just think of this as a way to jolt him on track. He needs a shock to his system in order to fall in line."
Dean nodded a little, but he looked skeptical, though he hid it well. "You think he will?" Dean finally asked.
John grimaced a little. He thought of his wife on the ceiling, of a four year old Dean carrying Sammy out of the house. He gave a small, bitter laugh. "Yeah," John said. "I'm sure of it."
-0-
Life was perfect. Dean had the Impala's wheels under him, his dad trusted him more and more on hunts and he had his geeky sidekick next to him.
Dean followed his dad's truck as he steered the Impala through town and out toward the abandoned power station. When the geeky sidekick let out a sigh and knocked his head softly against the passenger window, Dean reevaluated his thinking.
Life was almost perfect. If only Sam would cooperate.
Dean rarely took sides when his dad and Sam battled it out these days but if pushed – and he hoped no one would push him – he'd have to weigh in with his dad this time. His little brother was being unreasonable and Dean couldn't figure it out. When he'd asked Sam what his problem was, the kid had just crossed his arms and let his bangs fall across his eyes. Dean hated when he did that. It was hard enough keeping up with his little brother's teenage moods but when he couldn't see those large blue-green eyes, Dean was seriously lost.
Music pulsed through the Impala's interior – it was the only way Dean could combat what he perceived to be the silent treatment and he absolutely hated when it was quiet – Dean let his hand tap in time to the rhythm of John Bonham's drums. He refused to let Sam spoil his mood.
A slim hand snaked toward the volume and before Dean could protest, the music cut out. Apparently Sam was intent on spoiling his mood. Although the words that fell haltingly from Sam's lips weren't drenched in sarcasm and attitude. The kid truly sounded baffled. "Why are you letting Dad do this to you?"
Scratching the back of his neck with his right hand, Dean rolled his eyes. "Can you be a little more specific? I failed mind reading in high school and I didn't bring my Magic 8-Ball with me."
Silence greeted his question and Dean was on the verge of cranking the tunes back up when Sam cleared his throat. "You're the bait…it's not safe…what if…"
Now Dean had more to work with here. It sounded like Sam was concerned for Dean's safety.
The kid had the reputation for being selfish and contrary but at moments like this, Dean could have dragged Sam into a bear hug. The bear hug would of course have to be followed by a noogie because he refused to get all girly but damn if the kid didn't have a way of making Dean feel good about himself. That's why watching the two favorite people in his life butt heads was so painful.
Reaching across the bench seat, Dean gave Sam's shoulder a quick squeeze. He didn't like the tension he found in his brother's muscles but at this point the only thing he could do was reassure the pipsqueak that everything would be fine. "Dad wouldn't put me at risk. As long as we all do what we're supposed to do, no one will be in any danger."
Out of the corner of his eye, Dean noticed the way Sam's hands clenched and unclenched in his lap.
The truck pulled down a dirt side road and Dean switched his attention to following his dad. After a minute or two he rolled to a park next to the other vehicle.
His dad had already climbed out and flashed a rare toothy smile at Dean, white standing out starkly in the tanned and bearded face. Dean swiveled his head as Sam exited the Impala, his eyes firmly staring at his feet. The contrast in demeanors was startling and Dean turned his attention back toward his dad. If Sam was going to be a killjoy then there was nothing Dean could do to change his mind. Except ignore him.
They hiked the mile in to the power station and quickly scaled the fence. At one time it had been electrified but now the fence was dormant, a fact to which their dad could attest to, having verified it while on reconnaissance that morning.
"Dean, we're gonna pick out a spot between those two towers, under the spotlights I rigged up, and draw some summoning lines. We've got a little time so you can come downstairs and see what I did with the power grid. I put a little something in place so that we can freeze the phantasm when the time comes."
Dean heard the pride and excitement in his dad's voice and it made him happy that he was a part of this hunt. Sam, subdued and morose, had the air of someone being forced to attend a funeral.
His dad grabbed Sam by the upper arm and towed him toward the metal stairwell. Dean followed right behind and opened his mouth to tell his dad he was being too rough but instead snapped it shut. Sam had a voice and would definitely speak u p if there were a problem. When Sam's feet stumbled over a twisted metal step and the only thing standing between him and a nasty spill was his dad's steadying hand, Dean was no longer worried but relieved. There was no denying that Sam could benefit by letting their dad call the shots.
Sam was marched by a massive console on the wall that occasionally spat out blinks of red in a disorganized pattern. It was probably the outdated panel board for the power station but Dean didn't get a chance to look it over. Instead he followed as Sam was tugged over to a single steel handle jutting from the wall, wires and caps emerging from behind it like an octopus.
Smiling widely at Dean, his dad gestured to the single switch. "This is a little something I picked up in the Marines…I jury rigged a fused switch, bypassing the main panel, and tapping directly into the bus duct which is the main power feed into the building ." Reaching into his inside jacket pocket, his dad withdrew a walkie-talkie and pressed it into Sam's hand. "Sam, when I give you the signal, I want you to flip this fused switch. Now repeat back to me what you're supposed to do."
Sam held up the walkie-talkie. "When you give me the signal, I flip the switch fuse."
Dean winced at his brother's answer. He'd mixed up the difference between a switched fuse and a fused switch. His dad exhaled an impatience tinged sigh. "Dean, tell your brother where he screwed up."
Smiling with ease at his dad, Dean patiently explained, "This isn't a switched fuse, this is a fused switch. A switched fuse has the fuse that protects whatever the switch is controlling. The switched fuse is the fuse that goes into the fused switch."
The look of utter confusion on Sam's face would have been comical except for the heavy disapproval radiating off their dad. Dean loved showing off his knowledge. It was just too bad it came at his brother's expense. But the little geek had others areas that he outstripped Dean in so it all balanced out in the end.
At least that was what Dean told himself as their dad glowered at Sam. "You know what? Never mind. You just need to flip the switch when I give the order."
The 'dumb ass' was implied at the end of the last sentence and Sam could only nod and reply, "Yes, sir."
"Oh, and don't touch the wires," his father reminded him. "I had to expose them to rig the switch, but if you come into contact with them, you'll get quite the jolt."
Dean snorted a little. "I'd hate to see your hair on end," he joked.
Sam seemed to sigh a little, looking resigned. "Yes, sir," he forced out.
His dad, and idol, slung an arm around Dean's neck. "Come on, Dean. Let's go catch us a phantasm."
The tension that had been snaking through his back and up his neck instantly dissipated. His dad had a plan and he trusted Dean.
Dean threw a quick look over his shoulder and caught a glimpse of Sam, head bowed, kicking at the uneven flooring beneath his feet.
Sam just needed to relax.
Picking his way up the drooping stairwell, Dean followed his father until they were under the spotlights rigged to the overhead wires. Dean threw his backpack on the ground and starting digging out the spray cans they would need for the summoning ritual. Sam had pointed out on a previous hunt that spray-paint was less likely to scatter than chalk and although their dad had never said anything, the cans had made their way into their hunting packs.
Sometimes their dad rode Sam a little too hard but that was why Dean was around to look after the kid. He always made sure the squirt was okay. He wasn't completely sold on him and Sam splitting up but if their dad said it would be okay, he trusted him.
His brother worried incessantly about everything – global thermonuclear war, making straight A's and whether or not his family was going to come back from each job.
If they could just make it through this hunt without an incident, maybe Dean could make Sam understand that his worries were unfounded.
-0-
Since last night when his dad had refused to listen to him, Sam had known that there was nothing he could do to stop this hunt.
He'd done some extra research after school and he hadn't really turned up anymore on the phantasm than his dad had shared. Phantasms fed off a different energy signature so salt was ineffective against them. They were photosensitive so they avoided the daylight and only came out when it was dark. A bright source of light concentrated on the entity could paralyze them temporarily and then a standard banishing ritual would take care of the problem.
The only thing his research had netted him was a grounding. What kind of parent prevented their kid from doing homework as discipline?
Putting aside his miserable near future, Sam's main problem with this job was that Dean was being staked out as the sacrificial goat. Just the thought of Dean being at the mercy of some supernatural entity was enough to turn Sam's stomach. If it wasn't such a big deal, why didn't their dad act as the decoy? And really, if they were summoning the phantasm, did Dean have to stand out in the open, alone?
His dad refused to answer his questions which was irritating. There was also something vaguely disturbing about the previous cases of people who had gone missing at the power station but Sam couldn't quite put his finger on it.
The only thing he could do now was listen to his dad's instructions and not screw up. The seasoned hunter, towering a good half foot or so above Sam's modest 5'6", curled his hand around Sam's upper arm and steered him toward the stairway off to the side which lead underground. The grip would leave a mark and if Sam thought his dad was doing it on purpose, he would've said something. One glimpse at his dad's face, features set in granite, told Sam his father wasn't manhandling him roughly to make a point; he was focused at the job at hand and at this point Sam was just incidental to the proceedings.
Incidental.
Kind of felt like the story of Sam's life. Always underfoot and in the way. And no one wanted his opinion, which to some extent he could understand because he was still just a kid at fifteen, but he wasn't stupid and it really hurt when his dad ignored him. He might not know the ins and outs of hunting but he did know research.
His feet stumbled over a warped metal step and his dad's hand tightened on his arm. Sam didn't miss the way his dad's mouth tightened in disapproval or the slight shake of his head. In his dad's eyes he was just an incompetent kid who couldn't even walk on his own.
Sam needed to push these thoughts out of his head and concentrate on what he was supposed to do on this job. Dean's life was depending on him.
His dad explained the whole switch thing and even Sam conceded silently that he couldn't screw it up. He might not be able to tell the difference between a switched fuse and fuse switch but he knew enough to flip it when his dad barked the order at him.
He schooled his features into a blank mask as his dad belittled him. This whole rigging up something mechanical was Dean's area of expertise, not Sam's. But it wouldn't do any good to point that out. His dad didn't care that Sam had other strengths; his dad only cared that Sam was a failure when it came to hunting.
His dad's arm hung loosely over Dean's shoulder, a show of camaraderie, as they disappeared gracefully up the dilapidated staircase, one by one.
It was an exclusive club and Sam definitely felt excluded but he'd felt different his whole life. This was nothing to get his panties in a twist over.
His eyes roamed the cavernous room, the dim light from his flashlight the only patch of brightness around now that the sun was sinking fast. The walkie-talkie burst to life in his hand and Sam twitched, finger hovering over the switch. "Look alive down there, Sam. No sleeping on the job."
Sam squeezed the talk button. "Yes, sir."
His nose crinkled in disgust at his dad's treatment of him but when he spotted something out of the corner of his eyes, Sam quickly forgot about his dad. He swung the flashlight in that direction but didn't see anything. Something zoomed by his other side and Sam flinched away.
It was as though something was toying with him.
When an orb of blue light blinked in front of the large grid on the wall, Sam's feet slowly drifted toward it. He didn't want to stray too far from the switch but he was beginning to think he wasn't the only thing in the underground room.
When the walkie-talkie in his hand crackled with static, Sam's heart thundered in his chest. He wanted to call his dad but that wasn't his dad's plan and since he didn't know what, if anything, was going on he didn't want to ruin what was happening topside.
"Showtime, Sam. Hit it on my mark…"
Sam scrambled for the switch on the wall, staggering back when his face slammed into a wall of resistance. The points of contact, his nose and hand, twitched and tingled even as blue light flared around the switch, dancing along the surface.
"…Now!"
Feinting to the left, Sam darted toward the switch only to be turned back rudely again. The sensation of deep cold, a blanketing frost, encompassed his right hand and Sam realized with dismay that the flashlight had been knocked out of his hand.
His brain finally thawed out and began to spin. It wasn't just one phantasm they were hunting, but at least two.
Calling on his memory, Sam began reciting a banishment ritual in Latin. Without light to freeze the entity in its tracks, Sam was a sitting duck and forced to endure the abuse of the outraged phantasm. When his back, and the back of his head, smacked into the concrete wall the only thing that kept Sam from blacking out was the knowledge that Dean was exposed upstairs and was counting on him.
Throwing his hand upward, Sam made a swipe at the switch. His hand jolted as it met the same tingly force field, cold enveloping his fingers, then hand, and eventually his wrist. The Latin spilled from his lips at a quicker pace.
The phantasm was screeching, the noise high pitched and the keening inhuman. Sam's head ached and he forced the ritual out even though sparks were flickering at the edge of his vision.
Making one more pass at where he thought the switch was on the wall, Sam's hand finally pushed past the tingling resistance. His hand connected with the metal switch at the same time the phantasm exploded into a billion frozen pieces, jagged bits embedding in Sam's exposed skin.
Freezing cold met with a burning sensation that traveled through Sam's fingertips, down his extended arm, and spread through his chest.
Legs and arms banged against his will, his head slamming back against the wall.
Something pungent filled his nostrils.
Burning hair.
Sam's consciousness finally flickered out as the whole room exploded into a frenzy of fluorescent yellow light.
-0-
All the pieces had been in place. John had the ritual. Dean was in the open. Even Sam was ready to flip the switch and play his part. The perfect hunting trio in action. One, two, three, and the phantasm would be history.
So when the thing had appeared, John hadn't thought to worry about it. Sure, there was a rush of adrenaline--seeing his son in danger was not something he particularly relished--but one flick of the switch and the thing would be frozen and with a few Latin verses this whole mess would be taken care of.
"Show time, Sam," he whispered into the walkie-talkie. "Hit it on my mark..."
He waited as it approached, stalking its victim carefully. A flash there, a blur of motion here.
Then, it made its move. Dean tensed in anticipation and John called out, "Now!"
And nothing happened.
No paralyzing light, just an angry hiss and Dean's panicked call.
John swore. Dean was scrambling now, in a half-assed retreat.
"Sam!" he called again, louder this time. "Hit the switch! Sam!"
Swallowing back another volley of cursing, John had to give it up. He'd deal with Sam's failure, but right now, he had to focus on Dean--who was losing his battle to evade the entity.
It was an unsettling site, one that roiled John's stomach more than he would ever admit. He didn't put his son in the position of bait lightly--and he'd trusted Sam to do his part. If not for the sake of following orders, then for his brother's safety.
But there was no time for that now. John quickly reviewed his option. He could distract the thing--try to get it to go after him instead--but Dean didn't have the banishing ritual. John did. If he was incapacitated, the entire hunt would be lost.
He could go flip the switch himself. It was a viable option, but it would waste precious time. Hearing Dean yelp and the blur of whiteness intensify, he knew it wasn't time he had.
Which left option number three: do the ritual, fast and furious, and hope he could get it out in time before Dean became victim number nine.
And then--a miracle.
The lights went on.
The flood of light was brighter than John had expected, and it did its job well. The phantasm was caught, paralyzed by the light.
Dean was still in the middle of it, chest heaving and eyes wide. Swallowing, his eldest met his eyes, taking a tentative step backwards.
The mist wavered but didn't move and soon Dean was clear. With a reassuring look, Dean nodded.
Heart pounding, John took solace in the fact that Dean was okay--which meant it was time to finish this. Once and for all.
With a whir and a series of pops, the phantasm exploded. John ducked away and felt the splatter of its form against his jacket. When it was over, he peaked over his arm and saw Dean. Splattered with goo, still blinking into the overpowering light--and okay.
John blew out a breath. It had been near disaster, but they'd pulled it out--no thanks to Sam.
His relief was quickly replaced by his frustrations. Sam had one job, the easy job. To hit the switch. And John couldn't think of one good reason why Sam had almost put them all in jeopardy.
Dean was standing now, wiping goo off his jacket with a look of disgust on his face. "You didn't tell me it was going to be so messy."
"You alright?" John asked, looking pointedly at Dean.
Nodding, Dean flung another handful of cold goo to the floor. "Just peachy," he said. "Though I could have done without the delay of game there. Those things are freakishly cold."
"You were never supposed to get in contact with it at all," John told him tersely.
"I tried to run, but those things kind of go where they want."
John sighed. Dean's self effacing behavior made him an apt student, but they also tended to shield Sam from his share of the blame. Rather, all of the blame. "You weren't the problem," he said. "It was your pain-in-the-ass brother."
Dean quirked his head. "He was a little late in the game, wasn't he?"
John snorted. "A little?"
Dean's brow creased a little. "You think he's okay?"
"He won't be for long," John promised. "Come on. Grab the gear. Let's go find out what your brother deemed so important to put you at risk."
"Dad," Dean said, a little pleadingly.
John wouldn't hear it. Not tonight. It was Dean's instinct to protect his brother, but that was what got them into this mess. Sam didn't need to be coddled and protected. He needed to be strong and able. Making excuses for the kid wouldn't cut it. Not anymore. "Not a word, Dean," John ordered. "Let me handle this my way."
If Dean questioned that, he didn't say. Which was another reason Dean was the perfect hunting partner.
A stark contrast to his youngest, of course, which was exactly what John needed to rectify. Now.
-o-
Dean didn't mind playing bait. All in all, it wasn't as fun as playing with guns or torching things, but it sure as hell beat watching Sam or Dad in the hot seat. Someone had to do it, and was it Dean's fault that he was so irresistible that even the supernatural couldn't stay away?
Not in the slightest.
Plus, Dad still let him pack enough weaponry to make him feel like more than a glorified worm on a hook.
But really, playing bait only worked when everything else went according to plan. Because being caught by a phantasm and nearly chilled to the bone was not so much his idea of a good time.
Truth be told, the aftermath wasn't going to be much better. His dad was pissed and Sam had dropped the ball. The kid had come through at the last minute, but they had cut it pretty close. Dean had felt his vision gray out a bit before the lights had come on, which was so not part of the plan.
There would be lectures and yelling and punishment galore: a not so stellar end to a not so stellar hunt.
But it was more than all of that. It was something else--it was something with Sam. The kid could be a pain in the ass. He could be difficult and inconsistent and straight up frustrating, but sloppy? Not really. Sure, the kid screwed up sometimes--maybe couldn't always shoot quite as straight and had a tendency to fall for some lame-ass spirit tricks, but to not flick a switch on command? Especially when Dean's ass was in the sling?
That wasn't like Sam--not even on his least engaged or most rebellious times.
Given the stiffness of his father's shoulders as they navigated through the building, it was pretty clear that their dad figured it was Sam attitude that was the problem.
But the closer they got to the control room, the less sure Dean was. There was a pit deepening in his stomach, and the sense of dread that was creeping through him was a whole lot more ominous than the icy hold of a phantasm.
Sam didn't risk things like this. Their dad accused Sam of putting the lives of others on the line with his whimsical academic fantasies, but Sam never put family on the line--especially not during a hunt. After all, Dean knew that most of Sam's running away was about fear--that was why he questioned like he did. Sam didn't want to get hurt and he didn't want his family to get hurt, so why would he miss a cue so important?
He wouldn't--it was that simple. Maybe the kid had gotten distracted, fallen asleep on the job, but Dean had to admit, that didn't fit either. Nothing fit except that something was wrong. Very, very wrong.
Swallowing, Dean felt for his gun, which was tucked in the back of his pants. It went against just about every instinct he had to keep it put away as they downed the stairs.
"Sam," their dad barked. "You better have an explanation."
Dean ducked under the duct work as he neared the bottom.
"Samuel," their father said again, more threatening this time. "You want to tell us what happened?"
The air was cold down there--colder than it should have been. Dean's eyes roamed the area, his hunter's instincts kicking in strong. He had to scope it out, check out the landscape. There was something here, something...off.
The room was much as he remembered. Lined with panels and consoles, various ducting and electronic equipment. The panel was little rusted and fluorescent lighting burned low overhead with a painful intensity. And the chill--with this much machinery and this much light, it should be warm. He recognized this feeling. He remembered the icy fingers gripping him, freezing him into submission.
This wasn't that, but it was familiar. Like the chill of a memory, a fading presence. It made Dean shudder. And there was something on the floor--a puddle--and a smear on the wall.
Dean's brain struggled to make sense of it.
"Sam," their dad said again. "Son, what the hell are you doing?"
Then Dean stepped out from behind his father, his eyes settling on his younger brother.
Sam was against the wall, slumped low, his head hanging forward. The dark fringe of bangs covered his face, and his legs were splayed in front of him, arms limp at his sides.
"Sam!" their father snapped, wiling Sam to answer.
But Sam didn't answer. Dean's heart clenched. This was wrong. This was very wrong. The position of Sam's body, the sharp smell of something burning, and the wetness that stained Sam's jeans and shirt.
Somehow, Dean knew Sam wasn't going to answer.
Afraid to breathe, Dean stepped past his father, ignoring the man's short expression of dissatisfaction. Tentatively, he kneeled next to his brother, trying to see his brother's face. The smell was stronger here, and Dean recognized the puddles--the same ones he'd cleaned off himself.
Hand out, he touched his brother's shoulder. "Sammy?" he whispered, hopeful and afraid.
There was no reply.
Giving a small shake, Dean called again, "Sam."
Then, his brother's body flopped sideways, sliding down the wall until Sam was slumped on the floor, partially on his back, his arm flopped limply across his torso to expose a seared and blackened palm. And then Dean could see what he should have suspected: the pale, lax features, the singed hair sticking up in busy tufts from his head.
Dean's throat constricted and tears sprung to his eyes. The pieces made sense--they made horrible, horrible sense.
There had been two. One upstairs and one downstairs. Sam had banished this one, which explained the goo, before turning the switch to allow their father to finish the job upstairs.
Which would have been all well in good if Sam had remembered the basics of electrical currents. That water and electricity don't mix. That wet hands and a rigged switch may have saved Dean's life--
And may have cost Sam his.