Nightmare Echoes

by VenicePlace

This third season story takes place some time after Malleus Maleficarum and a few months before NRFTW. Dean’s grisly deadline looms near and the Winchester boys must battle their worst fears.

Nightmare Echoes

by VenicePlace ©

Author's note: A big thank you to Bebe Anne for her constant cheerleading and editing skills. I hope you'll enjoy what started out as a simple 500-word scene. Also, if your Latin is rusty you can find a couple of free automatic translators online.

* * * * *

Gina Windham took a sweeping glance around the room as she claimed a seat on one of the diminutive plastic chairs, the kind commonly found in community centres everywhere. She had planned to arrive fifteen minutes before the meeting—she couldn't bring herself to call it group therapy yet—but an accident had caused traffic to be sluggish on I-93 so she had made it with only minutes to spare. Four other people, three women and one man, were already seated and from their bored expressions, Gina supposed that this was not their first therapy session.

The energetic 35-year-old had just settled in as comfortably as she possibly could within the prearranged circle of chairs when the therapist—from the self-important expression that seemed permanently stamped on his face she supposed he was the therapist—breezed in. He chose a seat in the middle of the assembled group and, dropping his attaché case on the empty seat next to him, he grabbed a thin file folder to check the attendees against a neatly typed list.

In a lecturer's voice he welcomed them all and introduced himself as Calvin Michaelson, clinical psychologist. He described the goals of group therapy and explained the realistic expectations they should entertain, and allowed each of the five participants to briefly introduce themselves to the rest of the group. His methods, he instructed, were not conventional and he encouraged them to disregard their preconceived notions about therapy and instead to open up wilfully to the liberation of the mind and of the soul. As he said the words, the psychologist produced an old hand-held mirror from the leather satchel and held it up for all to see.

"This mirror represents your soul," he said, like a schoolboy doing a show-and-tell presentation. "You only need to look into it for the mirror to unearth what is buried deep inside your mind. It knows your shame, your fears, and your failures. Even though you cannot hide from its reflection, unlike your friends and family the mirror does not judge. It's an unbiased witness to your personal struggle and once you finally find the courage to really look at your reflected self, you will finally arrive at the core of your neurosis and be able to identify it. Once this is achieved you'll be as good as cured."

He paused and looked around the circle.

"Very well, then," he said, proffering the mirror toward the participants. "Who wants to go first?" Silence met Calvin's request and he turned to Gina who appeared to be the only one showing interest to what he was saying. "Why don't you start us off, Gina?"

The woman hesitantly accepted the mirror from his hands, looking sheepishly at the other patients. "I don't know what to say."

"It's simple, really. Look in the mirror and state your problem."

Gina toyed with the antique prop as she would an oversized lollipop, nervously spinning the ivory handle between her hands. She briefly wondered why a shrink would use an obviously expensive antique to work with emotionally unstable people. She wondered how the mirror would fare in the hands of a wrestler suffering from anger management issues. The last thought made her smile and she took a deep breath before finally raising the mirror to her face as she addressed her self-conscious reflection.

"I have panic attacks," she began.

"What makes you afraid, Gina?" the analyst prodded.

Water slithering in my mouth, in my nose, burning their way towards the lungs. Undulating face down in the backyard pool, body weighed down underwater by liquid hands. Struggling to cry, to breathe. Choking in the dark. Alone.

She gasped. The sudden flashback to her childhood recurring nightmare had taken her by surprise. She felt her heart beat faster and a sheen of sweat glistened on her forehead. Her hands felt numb as she fought to control the hyperventilation, resisting the panic that engorged every organ and every tissue of her being.

"I'm afraid that my marriage with Mark will fail and that he'll leave me and that I'll be alone," she said in a small voice.

"Are you simply 'afraid', Gina?"

"No—"

"Say it to the mirror."

The woman picked the mirror up again, feeling like a reprimanded schoolgirl, and faced herself one more time.

"I'm terrified. Sometimes, I wake up in the middle of the night feeling tremendous pressure in my chest. It feels like someone is sitting on me, suffocating me, waiting for me to die," she whispered.

"Excellent," Calvin encouraged. "And how does that make you feel?"

Gina spoke to her reflection in a trance-like drone, seemingly oblivious to the other patients who stared silently at her. She didn't notice the way Calvin was leaning forward either, failing to suppress a fevered expression that darkened his face. "I feel I have no control over my life. I feel I'm caught in an incessant whirlwind that threatens to rip me apart and send me to unknown depths."

She stopped, suddenly embarrassed by her unplanned disclosure. Exhausted, she slumped forward in her chair, bowing her head to avoid the look of her companions. Calvin clapped approvingly as he rose from his seat and approached the woman to retrieve the mirror that was still clutched between her hands.

"That was very good, Gina," he said, lightly squeezing her shoulder.

She looked up expectantly and a shiver seized the length of her spine when instead of seeing the expression of support and approval she craved to read on the therapist's face she detected a darkness that she couldn't decipher.

During the drive back home, Gina replayed the session in her mind. It certainly had not followed the script her friend Kelly had described for her when she announced that she had decided to undergo therapy to get rid of her irrational anxiety. Her friend had told her to expect group sharing and probing questions and a lot of "how does that make you feel?" from her therapist but she hadn't mentioned anything about antique props and trance-induce hypnosis. Maybe the psychologist subscribed to a new school of thought based on new-age theories.

She found it strange how she had seemed eager to please Calvin. She wasn't usually vying for men's approval. As a matter of fact, she had said much more than she had planned to reveal, especially for her first therapy session. The other patients hadn't seemed too bothered to emotionally strip down in front of strangers but maybe they were used to the psychological discomfort. She presumed that it was part of the healing process, a necessary embarrassment to go through in order to get better. Like stripping down and lying naked on the physician's examination table, suffering through temporary awkwardness in order to be cured.

She wondered if she stuck to therapy long enough if she'd ever sport that blasé look that seemed to be permanently etched on patients' faces. An expression that seemed to advertise to outsiders that something inside had been broken and threatened to collapse under the slightest breeze, just like a window pane that had been smashed and had been precariously taped to its frame.

She turned in her driveway and parked the car, pondering on her free use of the word 'therapy'. Calvin must be as great as they said seeing how he had succeeded in cutting through her defences as early as the first session. Maybe there was hope for her yet and the anxiety attacks would soon be a thing of the past. Grabbing her purse from the passenger seat, she got out of the three-year-old silver Elantra and went inside the house. She found Mark in the living room lying down on the couch where he had fallen asleep in front of the newscast. She bent down to kiss his forehead. He stirred as he woke up and looked up at her with bleary eyes.

"Hi. Did you just come back?"

She sat on the couch in the crook near his belly and his arms automatically encircled her waist. "Mm-mm."

"How did it go?"

"I'm cured," she joked. Gina disengaged herself from her husband's grasp and kissed his lips, this time enjoying the passion she had roused in him until she reluctantly broke the embrace. "I'll go change."

She climbed the stairs leading to the upstairs rooms making a beeline for the bathroom to run warm water for a bath. She stopped by the vanity mirror and glanced approvingly at her reflection as she removed her earrings and bunched up her auburn hair in a bun. Stepping back in the master bedroom she disrobed, casually dropping her skirt and blouse on the hardwood floor. She walked to the far end of the room and sat down on the edge of the bed.

As she bent to remove her stockings, an invisible hand grabbed her throat and pushed her down forcefully on the mattress. She tried to scream but the unseen force compressed her vocal cords. Struggling to draw Mark's attention downstairs she flailed and kicked, knocking a table lamp over while her head and torso sunk deeper in the bed.

She heard the concern in her husband's voice when he called her name from the foot of the staircase and she heard his heavy footsteps as he scrambled into the room but she couldn't see him. In a flash, Gina's body was no longer enfolded in Egyptian cotton bed linens and feathery pillows but instead was drenched in a pool of dense water. Eyes bulging from both panic and oxygen deprivation, she thrashed around desperately, failing to free herself from the ghostly assailant, sinking deeper instead in the depths of her watery grave. She tried to scream one last time but instead of words she spurted out a stream of mucky water. Suddenly exhausted she stopped moving completely, her muscles refusing to obey her brain's frantic commands to fight. Finally yielding to the wave, she floated in a dream-like state watching from above as her husband stooped over her body. As her vision blurred to darkness she heard the same three words echo over and over within the confines of her mind.

I am dead... I am dead... I am dead...

* * * * *

One week later

"I just love these salt and burn hunts," Dean said between mouthfuls of bacon cheeseburger. "Get in, I.D. the ghost, do some shovel work and burn the sucker to a crisp."

"I don't know," Sam said, staring down at the half-eaten club sandwich on his plate. "The amount of research involved in any case is pretty much the same, plus we never know when something else is gonna come up and bite us in the ass."

Despite the fact that they were seated at the most isolated table the Cleveland pub could offer, the constant flow of boisterous people that streamed in, eager to start happy hour compounded by the surround sound of abundant TV screens that broadcasted the Browns vs. Cowboys game dramatically exceeded the maximum decibel level tolerated by human ears. And since the home team was winning, the Winchester brothers soon abandoned any fantasy of settling down to a quiet meal.

"Thank you, Mr. Cheerful." Dean gulped down the rest of his beer and raised two fingers in silent order as the waitress who acknowledged him with a quick nod passed by their table. "Hey, it's still early. Wanna catch the new Batman flick in town?"

"Nah," Sam said while stifling a yawn, "I thought I'd head back to the motel, do some more research and go to bed early."

"The case is closed, Sammy. Haven't you heard?" He licked his index and mimed a downward motion in the air as if he was marking a point on an invisible scoreboard. "Chuck one more to team Winchester."

The younger Winchester barely smiled as Dean returned his complete attention to his meal. He was tearing chunks out of his second burger when Sam's whispered words reached across the table.

"Your case is not closed, Dean," his brother said, avoiding eye contact.

Dean stopped chewing and stared intently at his brother, contemplating an appropriate response. Was Sam looking to pick a fight or was he just reminding Dean of the upcoming deadline like he was some sort of secretary in charge of his boss' schedule? Did he actually think that he'd forgotten about it, that he had somehow lost track of time?

Months ago, when Sam had learned about that stupid deal, he had been the one with the optimistic resolve about finding a way out even if it meant they had to slaughter every demonic son-of-a-bitch who stood between them and the contract holder who owned Dean's soul. As time went by, however, they soon realized that leads were continuously pointing to dead ends and that they were fast running out of their most precious commodity: time. Unless they got a major "God-exists-and-miracles-happen" kind of break, in less than three months Dean would have to pay his debt and take a permanent vacation down south and that realization quickly curtailed the boys' hope for a happy ending.

"Sam, I…" Dean began tentatively but the swift appearance of the waitress carrying their drinks saved him from the necessity of finding the words that would make the kid understand that they were caught in an "either/or" dilemma: either Dean went to hell or Sam died and that—well, that simply wasn't an option.

"There you go boys," the woman said, setting down two bottles of locally-brewed beer on the table. "And here's your shooter," she added, laying a cocktail napkin topped by a shot glass of amber-coloured liquor in front of Dean.

"I just ordered the beers."

The slender blonde bent down with practiced ease, showing off her décolleté and drew her lips close to Dean's ear. "The shooter's on me, handsome," she whispered.

Before Dean could regain enough of his senses to think of a clever reply, the waitress had swivelled around and sashayed back to the bar, taking customers' orders without looking back. As Dean followed the woman's retreating silhouette, Sam reached across the table and grabbed the paper napkin from under the untouched glass.

"I have a feeling that you won't miss me, anyway," he said, reading the neatly printed cell phone number on the tissue. "Looks like Missy will be more than happy to keep you company tonight."

Dean snatched the paper from his brother's hand, and as he read the number for himself a predatory smile grew on his lips. He raised his head to warn Sam not to wait up for him but his brother was already striding out of the pub, both hands shoved deep inside his jacket pockets in a futile effort to ward off the late October chill.

* * * * *

It was past 5 a.m. when Dean returned to the motel room and was greeted by the bitter-sweet aroma of fermented hops and the familiar rhythm of his brother's snoring. Fingering the nickel-plated .45 tugged in the waistband of his jeans, he quickly swept the premises for any sign of disarray or a break-in. Although he was relieved by the lack of immediate, other-worldly danger, his trained eyes took in the two empty beer bottles on the kitchenette table, and the three other knocked over on the bedside table that lay between their beds. Printed sheets of research were strewn haphazardly on every surface of the room. In the bed directly across him, Sam was sprawled on his stomach, his face turned towards the door, his hands and forearms buried under a flaccid pillow. Dean winced sympathetically at the way Sam's loosely-fitted jeans, shirt and hooded sweatshirt joined in a tangled mess with the wrinkled bedcover, trussing him up like a mummy inside its sarcophagus.

Since a couple of months this had become a familiar tableau. Whenever he and Sam finished a hunt, they would head off to a diner or a local bar to unwind for a few hours. At first, Sam had spent the whole evening with his brother and they would chat casually over a hot meal and a few beers, pretending at normalcy. Over the past three weeks, however, Sam had cut their evenings short more frequently, claiming fatigue or the need for fresh air before walking back to the motel, alone. Initially, Dean had tried to get his brother to open up but Sam had stubbornly shut him out. Once or twice when that happened, Dean had taken advantage of his stag status and had applied his hunting skills to pursue an attractive waitress or barmaid for a few hours of consensual entertainment. Most of the time he would reach the motel room under the pale light of dawn only to find his younger brother in the same state as he was now; still fully dressed and totally passed out on his bed.

A flicker on the floor caught Dean's attention as he approached the space between the beds. Without removing his leather jacket he sat on the edge of his own unmade bed and, keeping his gaze on his younger brother's tear-streaked face, he bent down and picked up Sam's cell phone from where it lay on the carpet. The small earphones his brother used to listen to downloaded MP3s were still plugged in. Dean pressed a button and the phone's LCD screen instantly alighted. Even before looking at the display screen, he knew the digital player would have been programmed to repeat only one track until someone shut it off or until the battery died down. Dean closed his eyes and sighed.

Aw, Sammy.

When he opened his eyes, Jessica's picture glared at him from the device's wallpaper, the song's title and album info overlapping on the candid photo. As Dean pressed down the button to shut off the MP3 player, the last notes of Bon Jovi's Bed of Roses bled through the earphones into the stale room, a tinny accusation of broken promises.

* * * * *

The stench was the first thing that Dean noticed.

A nauseating odour that reminded him of rotting produce left too long under the sun permeated the air around him. He gagged and forced himself to breathe through his mouth. His head swam in a heavy fog that made it difficult for Dean to think. Scanning his surroundings he found himself standing in the thick darkness of a motel room but he couldn't remember with certainty how he had gotten here.

A noise coming from inside the closet drew Dean's attention and he immediately knew that the thing hiding in the shadows had been waiting for him. Slipping into predator mode Dean became silent and surveyed the room for other potential threats but found none. Keeping his gaze locked in on the closed door, Dean loomed towards the closet.

Before he could reach out to touch the knob the door flew open and his opponent charged him in a blurry shadow. Before Dean could counter attack, a knife slashed through the air and he swerved instinctively out of the blade's way with barely an inch to spare.

Rage swelled in his gut and he felt it coursing through him like acid; corroding his veins and his organs with every pulsation. The surge of pure adrenaline triggered a primal, feral response in his body and only produced primitive grunts as he lashed out at his attacker. Dean snapped the bones of the other man's wrist like dry twigs and the knife dropped clumsily on the floor, sliding across the room when Dean kicked it away.

Blinded by the darkness as well as the fury that constantly fuelled him, Dean maintained an aggressive line of attack. Holding nothing back, his whole body became a lethal weapon and every punch, every thrust he laid onto his rival's body was meant to kill.

As he tackled his adversary he was surprised that he could easily toss him across the room where he violently crashed against the wall. Bounding at his side, Dean dug his nails deeply in the other man's flesh and slashed through soft tissues, ripping the skin from the muscles in long bloody ribbons.

His opponent must have cried out in pain. He must have protested the assault in some way but Dean couldn't hear, wouldn't let himself hear. Every sound was drowned by his heartbeat pounding in his ears and the constant screaming in his head that urged him finish the fight.

Kill. Kill. Kill.

Acting purely on instinct, Dean countered every one of his opponent's move, deftly blocking the series of punches and kicks he launched in a last ditch effort to overcome him. Dean felt the man's life-force ebb under his grasp. If he could sustain his hold just a little longer he'd win. He'd survive. Both men had known going in that only one of them would come out of this fight alive. The stage for the battle had been agreed upon tacitly, a fight without morality, without right or wrong, ruled only by Darwin's principle that only the strongest rival would survive.

The losing man was pinned under Dean's weight, his limbs flailed heavily on the floor. Straddling the man's lower body Dean reached above his opponent's head and clutched the knife that had been thrown away. He straightened, towering with the blade poised over the supine man's chest.

Lying on his back, the man could only stare at him and Dean read resignation in the cloudy eyes as his opponent realized that the fight was almost over. Under his weight the other man's muscles ceased twitching and his breath evened out in weak sighs although his gaze kept boring into Dean's without blinking.

Kneeling over his opponent's body Dean poised the blade over the exposed chest watching mesmerized as the taut skin leapt with each heartbeat. Dean remained in this position for several seconds as if deciding on his next move when the man spoke up.

"Dean."

The familiar voice pierced through the fog and for the first time Dean recognized his adversary.

Sam. His Sammy.

An emotion akin to tenderness flashed briefly in Dean's eyes and for a moment his grasp on the knife seemed to falter as the shadow of a gentle smile flew across his features. Then just as suddenly as it had appeared the smile vanished and Dean plunged the knife just under Sam's ribs, burying the blade into the belly's vital organs. Blood seeped through the wound and as his brother coughed his last breath, bloody foam spurted from his lips and soiled his chin.

The agony was short-lived and Sam died quickly. As the soul escaped Sam's corpse the stench dissolved into the room. Still straddling his brother's dead body Dean lifted his hands to his face. They were slick with his brother's blood—his blood—as if he was wearing a pair of warm, tight crimson gloves. Instead of sickening him, the sight strangely stirred in him a hunger that had been smouldering inside his belly. Unable to resist to the urge any longer Dean closed his eyes and licked the blood off his fingers, savouring the tangy taste of copper and iron that coated his tongue and his throat. As the thick syrup warmed him inside, the screaming in his head subsided and was replaced by a chorus of congratulatory disembodied voices.

The fog around his head slowly lifted and Dean looked down at the mutilated corpse in front of him. Instead of grief and regret he was moved by a sense of accomplishment. Succumbing to the demonic voices that urged him to join them, Dean threw his head back, his yellow eyes glowing dimly in the darkened room, and accepted the demons' summons with a burst of irrepressible laughter.

* * * * *

Dean jerked awake.

His whole body was glistening with sweat and the drenched bed sheets had been kicked down in a ball at his feet. He noticed with much embarrassment that he had voided his bladder as he felt warm fluid trickling down inside his leg. His heart pounded inside his ribcage so furiously that it felt to Dean as if a cargo train was using his chest as a railroad. Each panting breath was painful and as the dizziness hit him the young man realized that he was starting to hyperventilate.

Dean closed his eyes and hummed the intro of a random Led Zeppelin tune, straining to bring his breathing under control. Dude, calm down it was just a nightmare. A vivid, piss-in-your-pants-night-terror nightmare, but still just a friggin' dream.

Once the wave of panic had ebbed, he scanned his surroundings, anxiously searching for his brother. Sam must have gotten up early for Dean was alone in the room. His brother had already packed their luggage, leaving only a change of clothes for him at the foot of the bed. All traces of research had been meticulously removed from the tables and walls. The empty take-out boxes had been gathered and disposed of in a large garbage bag that lay under the sink and even the kitchenette appeared to have been scrubbed clean. Nothing remained of the messy picture that greeted him a few hours earlier when he came home.

Dean sat up straight and glanced at the digital clock on the bedside table. They still had plenty of time before check out. He sprang to his feet, cleaned himself and dressed hurriedly, looking frantically for his missing car keys while recollections of his brother's ominous disappearing acts blended in his mind with random images of his most recent nightmare. Relieved to find that Sam had at least left him his cell phone he flipped it open and speed dialled his brother's number. Sam picked up on the third ring.

"Dude, where are you?"

"Right here." The door opened in a swift movement and Sam appeared in the doorway, his lean silhouette backlit in the morning sun. He was precariously balancing two small coffee cups and a breakfast take-out bag in one hand while cradling his cell phone against his ear. Looking at his brother he grinned broadly and flipped off the phone. Dean didn't look back at him as he grabbed the greasy paper bag, fishing for the egg and bacon sandwich at the bottom and grudgingly accepted the coffee cup Sam proffered.

"When did you get up?"

Sam shrugged. "I don't know. Sun wasn't up yet." The younger man surveyed his brother, taking in the sheen of sweat still covering his face, the dark circles under his eyes and the bunched up sheets on the bathroom floor. "Hey, you okay?"

"Yeah, peachy," Dean said, consciously avoiding his brother's gaze. "Anyway, what's the hurry?" He picked an orphan piece of bacon wedged in the waxy wrapper and munched on it loudly. "Somewhere else you need to be?"

"I called Bobby on my way to pick up the food. He may have found a case for us."

"I'm sure he was thrilled to be woken at this hour." Dean mumbled, biting down on his sandwich. "What did he say?"

"He asked if I knew what time it was. Also a woman drowned in her house last week."

"Lots of people drown in their bathtub."

"She was in her bed at the time."

Dean stopped chewing, shooting a baffled look at Sam. "Well, that doesn't sound too normal."

"That's what I said. Bobby gave me the coordinates." Sam produced a torn piece of motel stationery from his pocket and handed it over to Dean who looked over the short hand notes. "How far is it to New Hampshire?"

* * * * *

Right after swallowing the last of their coffees, Sam relinquished the car keys and driving duties to his big brother and the hunters hit the road heading for Manchester, New Hampshire. During the drive Sam maintained an uncharacteristic chatter, commenting on possible theories regarding the new case or drawing Dean's attention to the blazing autumnal landscape of turning foliage. And whenever the conversation lulled into silence the young man either pretended to doze off or buried his nose in a local paper, claiming to gather background material that would speed up their investigation once they reached their destination.

Dean was not fooled by Sam's behaviour, recognizing it for what it was: pure and simple misdirection to avoid dealing with his conduct the night before. The spic-n-span act back at the motel, disappearing at dawn to get breakfast, asking Bobby—no, begging him—for a new hunt was Sam's patented approach at distraction. Deep down, Sam must have known that he wasn't duped but he nonetheless respected the unspoken plea to drop the subject for the time being. As a matter of fact he was more than happy to comply, not yet ready to deal with the emotional needs of his complicated sibling.

They reached Manchester more than 800 kilometres later in time for a late supper. In the dusk light the city seemed peaceful, almost dormant, the outline of the buildings making like a monochrome drawing, but the hunters had learned from experience not to be deceived by outward appearances. They found an inexpensive motel amid the White Mountains off Route 3A, and while Dean checked in under his usual alias, Sam walked over to the adjoining diner to stretch his legs.

A young waitress greeted him as he entered the brightly lit space. He grabbed courtesy copies of the Union Leader and The Manchester Express and sat at an empty booth located at the back of the dinning area, which provided him with an unobstructed view of the entire diner. Sam glanced at his surroundings. Across the aisle a retired couple were finishing their meal engaged in relaxed conversation. At the counter, a slightly overweight truck driver was sipping coffee and exchanging banter with the short-order cook. In front of him in the opposite booth, a thirty-something woman was engrossed in a Stephen King novel, fork poised over a chicken salad. Feeling observed, she lifted her eyes from the hardcover, meeting Sam's gaze. Caught off-guard he smiled politely and she returned his smile before turning back to her story.

Normal people going about their normal life.

Sam closed his eyes and deliberately soaked in the everyday sounds and smells around him, almost believing for a brief moment that he was part of that world. But when Dean slid in the seat in front of him, the illusion vanished and Sam mechanically slipped in full hunter mode, discussing hunting strategies to defeat Evil in a world in which he felt he no longer belonged.

* * * * *

The customary visit at the medical examiner's office yielded disappointing results.

Flirting shamelessly, Dean easily convinced the young female tech assistant to let him peek at the coroner's report. According to the document, all marks found on Gina Windham's body were consistent with suffocation. The examination had revealed fluid in the lungs and, along with bloated tissues and widespread cyanosis on the body, the M.E. had also catalogued all the bruises sustained on her arms and legs linking them to the victim's probable struggle to summon help. He had also noted the occurrence of petechiae in her eyes, the tell-tale sign of disruption of the flow of oxygen to the small blood vessels over a prolonged period of time. The official cause of death had been predictably ruled as drowning.

Posing as Manchester PD detectives—detectives Grant and Page—the Winchesters stood on the porch of the victim's house and rang the bell. Dean had parked the car out front despite Sam's suggestion to find a quieter street on which to park the conspicuous car.

A long time ago Sam had tried to explain to Dean that although nice suits and fake credentials no doubt improved their chances of obtaining classified information, their efforts were wasted if people saw respectable police officers getting out of a 60's muscle car unless they were masquerading as Starsky and Hutch. Dean had brushed him off then saying that he wasn't leaving his baby out of sight in a strange city just so he could conform to some stupid stereotypical conventions and besides, people were more likely to become suspicious of a couple of detectives doing their investigating on foot.

Mark Windham glanced cursorily at Sam and Dean's police IDs and let them in. The man still sported a dazed expression and the hunters easily deduced that Windham's grief was still raw by the look of his mussed up hair and the crumpled clothes that hung loosely on his gaunt frame.

"We know that you already spoke with the police, Mr. Windham," Dean said as he sat down on the sofa, "but I'm afraid we need to ask you a few more questions."

"I don't know what else there is to tell."

"Can you tell us what you saw that night?"

"Gina was going upstairs to take a bath and change clothes. I heard her run the bath and then a few minutes later I hear this commotion coming from the bedroom like she's fighting with someone. I ran up the stairs and I found her lying on the bed with her eyes open. She was soaking wet." Mark Windham shivered as he attempted to steady his breathing, closing his eyes against the recollection.

"We're sorry for your loss, Mr Windham," Sam said sincerely.

The widower shook his head and forced a smile in reply. "The autopsy said that Gina drowned. Tell me, how can someone drown in their bedroom?"

"It's probable that she fell in the bathtub, inhaled water in her lungs and stumbled back in the bedroom where she lost consciousness," Dean suggested.

"That's what the coroner thinks. But she had forgotten to plug the bath. There was no water in the tub. And I could find no trail of water between the bathroom and the bedroom but the bed sheets where she lay were drenched."

Dean jotted down the information in his notepad. "Did you notice anything strange before the incident? Electrical problems maybe?"

"Strange?"

"Yeah. Flickering lights, TV turning itself on and off, for instance."

"No, nothing like that. Gina came in and woke me—"

"She had gone out?" Dean cut in.

"Yes. She had a therapy session at the community centre downtown."

"Your wife was seeing a psychologist?" Sam said, cutting his brother off.

"Gina suffered from stress-induced panic attacks once in a while. One of her friends suggested that she try therapy. That night's was her first session, but I don't understand the significance of her seeing a psychologist—"

"Do you know the therapist's name?" Dean interrupted.

"I have a card here." Mark rummaged through the desk drawer until he found what he was looking for. He handed Dean a plain-looking business card that bore the usual professional information.

Calvin Michaelson, Ph.D.

Clinical psychologist

Manchester, N.H.

603-555-5673

Dean mumbled a brief thank you and took his leave, reaching the curb in three long strides towards the Impala. He was already sitting behind the wheel as Sam shook hands with the victim's husband.

"Thank you for your time, Mr. Windham. We'll be in touch," he lied.

* * * * *

Since Calvin Michaelson worked from home, Sam and Dean had been waiting in a makeshift waiting area located on the house's first floor. They rose as one as the therapist entered, once again flashing their fake law enforcement credentials.

"What can I do for you, detectives?"

"We're investigating Gina Windham's death," Dean said in an officious tone.

He returned his counterfeit police badge back to his single-breasted jacket pocket, scratching absentmindedly under his shirt collar. He stopped abruptly when his eyes met Sam's scolding look and turned his attention back to Michaelson. The therapist showed them into a study that also doubled as a consultation office.

Calvin Michaelson personified the perfect psychologist stereotype from his wiry frame clad in conventional sombre clothing to his piercing blue eyes that seemed to peer directly inside one's soul. Sam estimated the therapist to be in his late thirties even though the prematurely grey hair and a fondness for knitted cardigans made him look at least ten years older.

"Ah yes. What a tragedy." Michaelson motioned for them to take a seat while he did the same in an executive leather chair that lay behind a heavy ornate desk. "I wish I could have done more for her but she came from her first therapy session the night she died."

"You seem pretty straightforward with your client's whereabouts, Doctor. Aren't you supposed to claim privileged information or something?"

"You obviously know that she was a client of mine since you're standing here. I imagine you found one of my cards among her belongings. However I'm afraid that I cannot divulge any information pertaining to anything that transpired during our session together."

"Was she feeling depressed? Any hint that she might be suicidal?"

"As I said, any detail regarding her state of mind in confidential."

"That's a striking antique," Sam said, suddenly changing the subject. He pointed to an old-fashioned ivory hand-held mirror that hung on the wall amid collegiate degrees and diplomas. Dean shot him a puzzled look.

"You have an eye for beautiful objects, detective," Michaelson said, taking the antique from the wall and handing it to Sam.

"Look at the detailed work," Michaelson prodded. "Look at the way the artist designed the mirror so the whole face is encompassed within the ivory frame."

Sam followed the therapist's instruction and raised the mirror to eye level, noticing the odd way his face seemed to look back at him, the reflection skewing his features slightly into those of a stranger. He inspected the sculpted handle, tracing his fingers on the ivory frame. Hidden among the flowery relief, Sam could make out odd symbols that were anachronistic to the decorative art conventions of the Victorian era.

When Sam tilted the object to examine its underside the light caught the reflective surface, temporarily blinding Dean. Sam dropped the item at his side as Dean blinked repeatedly to get rid of the mysterious shadows that had filled his vision.

"That's a pretty strong reflection," Dean said, rubbing his eyelids. "Could come in handy at a Boy Scout Jamboree; I bet you could start a fire in no time."

"That's an unexpected item to see on a psychologist's wall," Sam said as he returned the mirror to its owner.

"It's a common practice for psychotherapists to occasionally use props in order to encourage clients to express their feelings more freely."

"Aren't you afraid one of your clients might break it?" Dean asked.

"I am seldom afraid, officer," the doctor stated emphatically. "Anyway, as with most things in life, I find that collectables were built stronger in the past."

"I sure hope so," Dean said, his vision still bothering him. "Or else you might buy yourself seven years of bad luck."

"I assure you, gentlemen, as far as I'm concerned luck has nothing to do with psychotherapy."

* * * * *

After leaving Michaelson's house, Sam insisted that Dean drop him off at the local police station. Introducing himself as an FBI agent to the desk sergeant, Sam requested copies of reports of recent suspicious deaths that had occurred in the area. Looking bored, the officer didn't look twice at Sam or his badge before disappearing behind his computer screen. He rematerialized fifteen minutes later and after making him sign the proper documentation he presented Sam with dozens of printed out investigation reports.

On the way back they came across a family style restaurant where they opted to grab a bite before heading back to the motel for the night.

"Psychologists creep me out," Dean stated, chewing on a handful of fries. "They just sit there probing their way into people's heads. I swear they're not that different from Crocatas or Djinns who mess with your mind and leave you as good as dead."

"Therapy works for some people, Dean," Sam said distractedly. He was studying the police reports and the papers were carefully spread on the table in front of him. "I bet it could even help you get rid of your fear of flying."

"As long as I have my baby, I don't need no friggin' airplanes." He wiped some of the ketchup that stained the corner of his lips and flipped a few pages over. "Found anything?"

"Hey, keep your greasy hands off my papers," Sam said, swatting his brother's hand away. He arranged the reports in chronological order and selected three statements on which he had highlighted the relevant details. "A month ago, a man was found dead in his house. He had apparently been mauled by what the coroner supposed was a large dog but the victim didn't own a dog."

"Hell hound?"

"Could be. Then three weeks ago another man dies in strange circumstances. The autopsy report mentions that the near liquefaction of his internal organs was consistent with a fall from, say, a 10th floor window. However, the victim was found in his single-storey bungalow."

Dean cleaned his plate with a sweep of his fork. "Wouldn't happen to come across another strange fatality a week before Gina Windham's death?"

"Yep. Two weeks ago a young woman kissed her family goodnight and went to bed. Her parents went to wake her up the following morning and found her charred body still in the bed. The fire department couldn't find any trace of combustion or accelerant and the other family members didn't witness anything out of the ordinary during the night."

"That's a little creepy," Dean said, slicing through a generous piece of homemade maple-pecan pie with his fork.

"Gina Windham's killing also makes it the fourth one in as many weeks, though at this point I can't find a pattern other than the killings seem to occur each week."

Sam took one last gulp of beer and gathered the research material that papered the table. He rose, stuffing the notes and police reports in his messenger bag.

"I'll see what I can dig out this evening."

"Right now? I'm not finished here," Dean said pointing to the scarcely touched piece of pie in front of him.

"You go ahead and finish eating. I'll walk back to the motel. I need to clear my head."

Dean shook his head, barely concealing his irritation. "Hey, man, you do what you want but don't forget that we're still on a case."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It's just that I've noticed that you drink more than usual these days."

"I haven't even finished my beer."

"I mean your drinking benders alone in the motel room, in the dark. I swear it's like living with Lindsay Lohan."

"Like you've never drank yourself blind, Dean," Sam accused. "Besides, I'm an adult. I can take care of myself just fine. What I do, I do on my own time."

Dean raised his own beer to his lips and scoffed. "Right. Just like Dad."

Sam snapped his head up, staring at the older man, his cheeks flushed with pent up anger. Recalling that he was standing in a busy restaurant he waited until the muscles of his jaw stopped quivering before he trusted himself to speak again. "I really need the fresh air," he said, his voice tight. "I'll see you back at the motel."

Dean sat motionless as he watched Sam stomp out of the diner. No longer hungry, he shoved his plate aside, feeling powerless to draw his brother out. He just wished the kid would open up and talk to him like he used to do before—

Before he sold his soul.

Dean shook his head and dismissed the guilt. They both needed to stay focused on the job at hand. He'd have plenty of time to figure out what was bothering Sam once the case was closed. Providing that they succeeded.

Providing that they survived.

* * * * *

After taking the scenic route through the sloping streets of the neighbourhood, Sam entered the motel room and emptied his pockets on the night table. He had not lied to Dean; his head was swimming with too many theories regarding the case and the thirty-minute walk back had helped clear the cobwebs. The nature of their job meant that they dealt with the unknown all the time. They had frequently started a case in the dark, battling unidentified foes until back-breaking field work, tedious research and—more often than not—luck eventually yielded a crucial clue that eventually led them to close the case. Lately, however, Sam felt that their usual approach didn't produce as many satisfactory results and only wasted their time.

Sam removed his jacket and wrapped it around one of the kitchen chairs. He rolled up his shirt sleeves and marched to the small bathroom. He splashed water on his face and looked away when his eyes met his reflection's in the mirror. Maybe he was wrong to shut Dean out. But the fact was that in less than three months, unless he found a way to break the deal, Dean would be gone and Sam would have to go on hunting alone. Sam felt he had to prepare himself for the impending outcome. Dean had been there with him, looking out for him really, since he could remember and Sam couldn't wrap his mind around the idea that soon his big brother wouldn't be there for him to look up to anymore. It hurt him to shut out his brother from what he was feeling but he knew that he wouldn't understand. That he had to prove to both of them that he was tough enough to tackle the job on his own, that he was worthy of everything Dean had taught him.

Pushing the gloomy thoughts out of his mind, Sam booted up his laptop and slumped down in the wooden chair at the undersized desk. Because they didn't have enough information to go on, they had to cast a wide net in the supernatural reference sea. The Web was bursting with lore about people dying from pure fright or nightmarish creatures coming to life to assault unsuspecting victims. In fact, the culprit could be anything from a vengeful ghost to a demon manipulating people's mind or even Freddy Krueger. At this point, visits to the medical examiner and to the local library had brought up nothing out of the ordinary. The fact that the victims' bodies exhibited wounds consistent with brutal assaults yet contradicted witnesses' accounts that claimed that nobody had been near the victims when they'd died didn't help the hunters narrow down the search.

After hitting another dead end on the World Wide Web, Sam closed the lid of the laptop and sighed. He looked about him as his senses registered a smoky odour. He checked his computer for any sign of overheating and finding none, rose to check every electric appliance around the room. Moments later, as the room seemed to fill with smoke, Sam made a beeline for the exit. Before he could reach the doorknob an invisible force seized him and shoved him aside, effectively pinning him down against the wall. His body no longer under his control, Sam tried frantically to work himself free but remained paralysed.

A demon's m.o.

Powerless to move, Sam looked anxiously about the room, searching for tell-tale signs that usually heralded a demonic apparition. But there were no flickering lights, no electric appliances turning on and off by themselves, no column of thick, black smoke and no sudden appearance of black-eyed super strong humans.

Sam spotted the first glowing flames at his feet. The fiery tongues quickly multiplied around him, tracing the outline of his body on the wall, closely hugging his clothes; a yellow and orange tail trailing after an invisible kite. Sam bellowed for help but the heavy smoke that surrounded his head slithered thickly in his throat, jamming his airway and sending him coughing wildly. Propped up into stillness, the young man waited apprehensively for what he knew would happen next. He watched in horror as the flames swelled and licked at his clothes and at his hair, charging the air with the acrid smell of singed flesh. The fire seemed hungry only for him, the intense heat biting fiercely through his whole body, leaving angry welts on his bare skin while purposefully ignoring the easier combustible in the rest of the room.

Dread swelled rapidly within his body. Sam fought hard not to succumb to panic but he couldn't help recalling visions of Jess being incinerated before his eyes, of his mother suffering a similar fate twenty-four years ago. Am I going to die like them as well? Sam's blood pumped furiously in his veins, a deafening beat in his ears that dwarfed the roaring blaze. He squeezed his eyes shut, banishing the panic that threatened to take over his mind. Taking as big a breath as his scorched lungs allowed, Sam addressed whoever was responsible for the spell. "You can burn me alive all you want, you cowardly son-of-a-bitch, but I'm not eight years old anymore and I'm not staying pinned down on a wall while you do it."

Immediately, something snapped inside Sam and, channelling the frustration, the rage, the grief he had tried to ignore for the past several months but yet had felt every time he remembered that Dean would soon go to hell because of him, he threw his body forward with unrestrained abandon. Ignoring the pain that inflamed each nerve ending inside his body, Sam heaved his torso forward and away from the wall. Deeming a small victory with every inch of space that grew between his body and the wall, Sam kept struggling and yanking his limbs amid the fiery blaze, feeling his muscles stretch painfully under the strain and threaten to rip at any moment from the exertion. In an ultimate effort, Sam bounded forward and landed on the carpeted floor in front of him. Waving his injured hands in front on his face to dispel the smoke, Sam was rolling on the floor in an effort to smother the last of the flames when Dean came crashing through the door.

* * * * *

From the doorway, the hunter took in the scene before him. Although he could not find any evidence of a conflagration, Dean's nose was assaulted by the pungent smell of burnt flesh. In the middle of the room, Sam lay prone on the floor, rolling away from invisible flames, wisps of smoke floating up from his body. Reacting out of pure instinct, Dean grabbed one of the bedcovers and swathed his brother with it to smother the remnant of smoke, helping him to a sitting position.

"Sammy? Are you okay?"

Sam rocked back and forth in an effort to control the pain, eyes tightly shut and hands loosely clasped in front of his face. "Fire… the fire... My arms are burned."

Dean removed the blanket and seized his brother's arms to examine them. The skin was blistered and scalded raw, and the fingers bore the marks of second-degree burns where there fire had bit down on them. "What the hell?"

"You have to put the fire out, Dean."

Dean looked around the room "There's no fire. Look at me, Sammy. Come on, look at me." He grabbed his brother's chin and tilted his reddened face upward, waiting until Sam's unfocused stare rested on him. "You're safe, okay? The fire's out."

"It burns… My hands, my face…"

"Come here." Being careful of the blisters, Dean pulled his brother to his feet and guided him to the adjacent bathroom.

He helped Sam sit down on the toilet seat cover and lean back against the tank, wincing every time a strangled whimper erupted from the injured man's throat.

Kneeling down on the tiled floor, Dean removed Sam's shoes and socks and carefully stripped him off of his clothes except for his underwear while cursorily inspecting his brother's body for any signs of further injury. Relieved to find no other lesions than the ones he had already noticed on Sam's face, arms and hands, Dean turned on the bathtub's cold water faucet fully in one fluid movement and added just enough hot water to obtain a cool stream. Satisfied that the water had reached the right temperature, he activated the showerhead to a gentle pulse and, mindful of the burns on the young man's hands and arms, steered Sam under the shower spray. As soon as he had overcome the initial shock of running water on his skin, Sam sagged against the wall and sank down in a worn out heap at the bottom of the bathtub, arms drooping on either side of his body, knees loosely drawn to his chest, passively allowing the cool jet to soothe his blistered flesh.

Once Sam had settled down, Dean partially drew the shower curtain closed, leaving the bathroom door ajar in case his brother called for help, and he stepped back to the main room to try and make sense of what had transpired. If Dean hadn't seen it with his own eyes he was not sure he would have believed it. The wall on which Sam had been pinned down remained pristine; unsoiled by soot or burn marks and the paint hadn't bubbled from the heat. Dean couldn't even find cigarette burns on the tattered carpet. Even more puzzling was the fact that the manifestation—which had been real enough to leave physical marks on his brother's body—hadn't set off the fully functioning smoke detector on the ceiling.

Dean inspected the salt lines they made sure to lay under the doors and windows of every new accommodation, but was unable to detect a breach. The EMF scan around the room also failed to indicate any supernatural activity. Attacks like that weren't supposed to happen in their motel room, in their fort. They took precautions, for God's sake. If their Dad had taught them anything, it was to protect themselves before going out there to fight Evil.

Sam got out of the shower twenty minutes later and dressed gingerly, putting on sweat pants and a T-shirt while Dean stepped outside to retrieve the first aid kit they kept buried in the trunk of the Impala. He docilely complied when Dean guided him to the bed in order to wrap his injured arms in sterile gauze. The pain combined with the ebb and flow of adrenaline had drained Sam and as Dean tucked the last of the bandages away, the lanky man fell asleep on top of the covers.

While his brother dozed, Dean devoured his father's journal, desperately looking for a culprit on which to unload his anger and his fear but all his efforts fell short. He even called Bobby for help but the older man couldn't offer much except sympathy and a promise to carry out research on his end. Dean even took a stab at browsing the Internet using Sam's laptop, muddling through the 642,000 Google hits he had obtained after a "spontaneous combustion" keyword search. He was still getting nowhere when Sam woke up.

"What time is it?" the young man asked, propping himself up against the headboard.

"Almost midnight. While you were out like a log I've been researching spontaneous combustion." Dean twisted around on his chair. "Seriously, man, how can you find anything on this thing? Half of the hits lead to some really sick sites that have nothing to do with unexplained phenomena."

Sam offered a wan smile. "Sheer talent, I guess."

"How're your hands and arms?"

Sam shrugged noncommittally and looked down at the bandaged limbs. "The sharp pain's gone. Now they're just throbbing." He paused. "I don't think we're dealing with simple spontaneous combustion. This thing knew all about my worst nightmare."

"What?"

"The thing we're hunting. Somehow it knew about my childhood nightmare." Sam shifted uncomfortably on the bed. "As soon as I found out about how mom really died when we were kids I started to have recurring nightmares of being burned alive, trapped in a fire, unable to move. What happened earlier followed the exact same script of the dreams I used to have."

"You never told me this before."

"I was eight years old. Like I wanted to give you another reason to make fun of me."

Dean cocked his head and shrugged, conceding the point. "Yeah, well, you might have a point there. So what does that tell us about the evil son-of-a-bitch's ID?"

"Actually, it narrows it down quite a bit." Sam's demeanour became animated with his theory. "Ghosts and poltergeists can interact with people and things on this plane of existence but they don't have the power to read minds and manipulate our perception of reality to play our vulnerabilities against us."

"But you said you didn't see any usual signs of demonic activity."

"That's right. And I'll bet you ten bucks that the other victims didn't see any either. I don't think we're dealing with a demon. My guess is that whoever's responsible they must use a cursed object as some sort of trigger; something that can lock on the victim's worst debilitating nightmare and turn it against them."

"Great. Any idea as to what we're looking for?"

"It could be anything, really. But mostly, I think we're dealing with a concrete object with which for the victim to interact in order to trigger the curse."

"So, what do you suggest?"

Sam glanced sideways, deliberately avoiding Dean's stare, a tell-tale sign that he knew his big brother wasn't going to like what he was about to say. Finally, he took a sharp breath and spoke hastily. "I think we should call Ruby."

Sam waited, cringing inwardly as Dean's frosty silence spoke way louder than any words he could think of.

* * * * *

At first, Bobby was happy to hear Dean's voice.

Then, as soon as the young man concluded his summarized update of the day before, the older man exploded. "He what?"

"Sam called Ruby," Dean repeated, returning his cell phone to his ear. He manoeuvred the Impala effortlessly amid the New Hampshire landscape, handling the coiling mountain roads that led back to the motel with a relaxed one-handed grip on the steering wheel. "But Bobby, I saw it with my own eyes; Sam was burning, right there in the middle of the salt-lined motel room with nobody else around. If I hadn't come in…"

The older hunter detected the naked desperation in Dean's voice and forced himself to soften his voice. "I know, son."

"I'm not crazy about begging for a demon's help either. But if this thing's gonna attack us where we're supposed to be the safest, I figure we could use an edge to fight back."

"But you boys don't even know what you're up against."

"That's why I called. Did you find anything on your end?"

"Sorry. All my leads crapped out. You say that the thing re-enacted Sam's childhood nightmare?"

"Sam says that it happened exactly the way he used to dream about it."

The line went silent as Bobby processed the new information. "Actually, there might be something." Dean heard the crunch of shuffling papers at the other end of the line. "There are sketchy accounts of people living through a real-life incarnation of their worst nightmares shortly after staring into a cursed mirror."

"A mirror?"

"Yeah. Something about the mirror locking in on someone's unspoken fears and reflecting them into reality. Sort of like Tibetan monks summoning a golem out of thin air."

"Son of a bitch."

"What?"

Dean quickly enlightened his mentor, describing their encounter with Calvin Michaelson, the discovery of the antique mirror engraved with the peculiar symbols and how the therapist had directed Sam to look directly into it.

"I'd say that'd be a safe bet," Bobby said once Dean finished.

"So, destroy the mirror, stop the curse, right?" Dean asked hopefully.

"I honestly don't know. The thing with mirrors is that they don't really contain anything. They can ping-pong a reflection from one polished surface to another till you're literally blue in the face."

Dean hung up with Bobby with a promise to be careful and to keep in touch. He let the new information sink in for a long time as he focused his glare on the highway that unfurled at great speed in front of him. In the sky the midday sun played hide and seek behind mountain peaks and feathery clouds, shrouding the paved road in a patchwork of light and shadow. With his free hand he flipped his phone back on and scrolled down his contact list seeking his brother's number while keeping one eye on the road. He pressed the speed-dial option.

"We're so screwed," he sighed as he waited for Sam to answer his phone.

* * * * *

Sitting in front of his computer, Sam felt useless.

He pounded on the keyboard, his bandaged hands persistently landing beside the targeted keys. His hands didn't hurt so much anymore except for an occasional pang when he stretched out his fingers to reach the farthest letters.

Dean had left a couple of hours ago, readily volunteering to tackle some dusty fieldwork at the local library as soon as it opened, claiming to give his handicapped brother a break. Even though he appreciated the opportunity to rest and skip on skimming through piles of archived newspapers, Sam suspected that Dean had been looking for a reason to get out of the room and away from him ever since he had mentioned Ruby's name.

To Sam's surprise Ruby had instantly agreed to meet with the men later that evening to help out with Michaelson. Dean had called him soon after on his drive back from the library to recount his conversation with Bobby and to share their new findings concerning Michaelson and his mirror. Sam berated himself for missing the connection, blaming the emotional trauma of living through his paralysing fear for his muddled mind. Now, of course, the mirror's purpose made sense.

After reading the related material Bobby had emailed him Sam soon matched the peculiar symbols that adorned the mirror's ivory frame to an obscure document published in the early 1800s. According to the online copy of the original text, three of the symbols sculpted on the mirror were specifically related to the ancient belief of stealing, then controlling someone's soul. The reflected image then acted as a trigger that, along with the right invocation and the occult symbols, burrowed its way into the victims' psyche, unearthing their unspoken fears and turning those fears against them. Stuff nightmares were made of.

A woman drowning in her bed.

Being mauled by unseen dogs.

Taking a one-hundred foot plunge in your head.

Burning alive while being pinned to a wall.

Hacking into government and university databases, Sam also uncovered Calvin Michaelson's past. It appeared that despite his young age the doctor had become an expert in the field of cognitive psychology, being sought after to lecture at illustrious conventions and frequently publishing scholarly papers in eminent academic journals. The therapist was especially renowned for spontaneously detecting the exact root of his clients' neuroses and often curing them as soon as the first session.

Throughout the country, throngs of former clients swore by the good doctor's miraculous interventions. For each successful case, Sam wondered how many unsuspected clients had been sacrificed in order to maintain the mirror's power, their deaths misconstrued as unfortunate suicides where, in fact, they had been killed in the name of greed and pride.

Sam turned off his computer and rose to his feet, stretching his aching limbs before slumping unceremoniously onto his bed. Propping himself up on a couple of pillows, he crossed his arms behind his head and closed his eyes. In half an hour Dean would be back and they would formulate a plan to steal and destroy the mirror. Maybe destroying it wouldn't be sufficient to break the curse like Bobby had mentioned, but at least that was a start. He had to stop Michaelson. He wouldn't let another person go through the pure terror that had controlled his mind and body to such a point that, for a brief moment, he had really thought that he was about to die of fright. Tonight, if they were lucky, all of this could finally be over.

Sam fished his cell phone from his sweat pants pocket and flipped it open, staring at Jessica's smiling picture on the device's welcome screen. He smiled back, his eyes shimmering with welled-up tears. Thumbing his way through a labyrinth of menus and options he switched the cell's MP3 player on and selected the desired song. He retrieved his earphones from the leather bag that was tucked under the bed and plugged them in the phone's audio output. Throwing an arm over his eyes he pressed play and sang along with the lyrics, choking back a sob when the song reached its climax as Jon Bon Jovi proclaimed that he's got nothing to prove for it's her that he'd die to defend.

* * * * *

Michaelson's stately two-storey home stood at the end of a private lane far from snooping neighbours.

They had parked the Impala in a heavily wooded area which provided the casual observer with ample camouflage as well as an unhindered view of the house as long as they carried a pair of binoculars. After a few hours spent staking out the psychologist's house with the Winchesters, Ruby had confirmed that Calvin Michaelson wasn't possessed by a demon but was one hundred percent human. Also, they didn't observe any evidence that the house was protected by an alarm system—central or otherwise—a fact that amazed Dean. Small town residents—even wealthy ones—readily surrounded their homes with gates and fences but universally left their doors unlocked, mistakenly believing that major crimes happened exclusively in big city centres.

As the sun sank behind the White Mountains, the trio devised their line of attack. They decided to sneak in under the cover of darkness since the night significantly decreased the chances of being caught by law enforcement officials despite the added challenge of navigating a strange house's rooms in the obscurity. The two men would sneak into the house to retrieve and destroy the mirror while Ruby would wait outside, providing a convenient look-out in case the cops drove by, should they be alerted by prying neighbours. Believing that any evil power Michaelson had ever possessed would cease to exist as soon as the cursed object's was wiped out, the hunters had agreed not to exterminate the doctor for the time being.

In a display of practiced stealth and agility, the men scaled the iron gate that surrounded the property and lock-picked their way through a side door on the first floor. Once they were certain that their incursion had not woken the house's sole inhabitant, Dean executed a couple of military hand signals that Sam readily understood: he would sweep the first floor while Dean explored the basement. Sam nodded and, tightening his grip on the .45 he stealthily inspected the rooms, aiming his weapon at potential threats every time he crossed a doorway just the way his father had taught him.

Sam steadily explored the living room, the kitchen and the waiting room. He came to a closed door behind which, he recalled, lay Michaelson's study. With his whole body reclining against the wall next to the doorjamb, Sam cautiously turned the doorknob, surprised when he met no resistance from the unlocked door. He delicately pushed it open and tiptoed inside the room, taking a sweeping inventory of the contents of the small den. He found everything in the same condition as he remembered from his earlier visit except that he now noticed an empty space on the wall behind the desk where the antique mirror used to hang.

Sam swore under his breath. From the corner of his eye he glimpsed a figure whiz by in the shadows behind him. He twirled around but before he could complete his motion his jaw exploded as a steely fist forcefully struck it. Sam staggered backward, momentarily blinded by white-hot pain shooting through his nerve endings. He was still reeling from the blow when the assailant seized his right wrist and swiftly twisted the arm away from his body until he reflexively dropped his weapon. Not waiting for Sam to regain the upper hand, the aggressor briskly knocked the air out of the tall man with a well-aimed knee jerk to his diaphragm that made Sam drop to his knees. Arms folded protectively around his midsection while his forehead was pressed to the floor, the hunter was silently coaxing his lungs to inhale again. He cocked his head and watched helplessly as Michaelson drew near, his lower body obstructing Sam's field of vision. Stopping directly in front of Sam's prone body the therapist smirked as he lifted his right foot off the ground. When the toe of the boot brutally connected with his already sensitive chin, Sam abandoned his grip on consciousness as the world around him faded to black.

*

Dean walked noiselessly through the chaotic basement. It looked like the doctor had a special fondness for accumulating useless crap and Dean chuckled as he considered the irony of a prominent psychologist suffering from a major case of anal retention. Dusty cardboard boxes were piled in six-foot high towers, their contents neatly printed on the side in black ink. Dozens of large metal bookcases that were arranged in long parallel rows—like a library's—claimed most of the basement area, their shelves laden with an array of everyday items from moth-eaten textbooks arranged in alphabetical order to hardware tools in pristine condition that Dean suspected had never seen the light of day. Even the floor hadn't been spared from the therapist's hoarding and the hunter had to step over discarded heaps of old newspapers in order to explore nooks and crannies that lay behind the bookcases.

He felt his heart skip a beat every time he turned around a corner, imagining all sorts of creatures hiding in the shadows as the only light came from a dim light bulb suspended over a grimy window by the staircase. Then he thought he heard something.

Glancing behind him to make sure he wasn't followed, Dean pressed forward until he reached the heart of the cellar where the jumble of electrical wires and the house's central heating and plumbing lay. After a thorough examination, Dean breathed a sigh of relief as he determined that the sound had been caused by the central heater kicking in. He turned around, relaxing his grip on his shotgun. So far the search of the basement had been a bust. Hoping that Sam had been more successful in locating the cursed mirror, he started up the stairs when he heard the muffled clatter of an ongoing fight coming from the floor above.

Wishing to preserve the element of surprise, Dean made a conscious effort of slowing down his pace, sneaking up the steps instead of just propelling himself upward and bursting in through the door, shouting Sam's name like his instincts urged him to. Once he'd almost reached the top of the staircase he glanced reflexively at the window that now hung at eye level and peered into the moonless night. Standing directly under the light bulb he was startled to clearly perceive his features reflected in the grimy pane. For a split-second Dean thought that it was Michaelson spying on him from the front lawn. Under the faint glow of the bulb Dean was baffled to stare into a stranger's translucent glare instead of his own green eyes. He blinked and the stranger's face disappeared replaced by his familiar handsome features. He shook away his uneasiness blaming the mirage on poor luminosity and the surge of adrenaline coursing through his body.

Then, just before he tore his gaze away from the disturbing portrait and resumed his ascension to the first floor to provide Sam with back up, Dean's eyes were drawn again to the reflection. As he stared in disbelief at his own unrecognizable face Dean's heart skipped a long beat as if a cold hand had clutched it and ruthlessly squeezed the muscle until the pressure in his chest became unbearable. His knees buckled under his weight and he slumped down unceremoniously on the jagged step. Swallowing the bile that welled up in the back of his throat, Dean pressed the heel of his hands against his closed eyelids trying to banish the haunting vision from his mind. But as hard as he tried to dispel it, the vision infiltrated his whole being like a smouldering branding iron etching his soul inexorably.

*

"I must say that I am surprised to see you," Michaelson said as Sam slowly regained consciousness. "I've never seen anyone survive their nightmare before. You are strong, I'll grant you that."

Sam woke up groggily from his forced nap. He found himself propped up on an old-fashioned wooden chair with his hands tied behind his back with plastic tie wraps. His ankles were also secured in similar fashion to the chair's sculpted wooden dowels. As his vision cleared up, Sam saw that Michaelson was facing him, leaning casually against his massive desk. He was holding the antique mirror, twirling it between his hands, seemingly captivated by the patterns of light that danced on the walls.

"I see that I was expected," Sam said, his voice hoarse.

"I knew that you'd be an ideal candidate as soon as you looked in the mirror. The more terrifying one's fear, the more emotion is generated by the victim and the more power is absorbed by the mirror in return, which makes me the most brilliant psychotherapist in the country."

Michaelson replaced the mirror on his desk and approached the captive man then bent over to whisper in his ear. "And you are prime material."

"Is that so?" Sam said, peering directly into Michaelson's blue eyes.

"I know what you are."

Although Sam maintained his insolent expression, a flicker of uncertainty danced briefly across his hazel eyes as he feared that Michaelson knew more about his destiny than he himself had found out up until now.

"Aside from your most secret fear I also caught a glimpse of your soul. It's a pity that you're not even aware of your true potential. Inside of you lies a latent volcano of psychic energy that's all set to erupt. All you have to do is let go and once you do…" He let the sentence trail and he retreated behind the desk. "Well, let's just say that your energy could sustain the mirror's needs for months. Regrettably, since you already faced your worst fear and survived, I can't use you anymore."

Sam scoffed. "Sorry about that."

"Not to worry. But the mirror still requires a weekly sacrifice to ensure that it continues working its magic. I'm certain that your brother—who's lurking around here, I'm sure—will be more than happy to supply me with a substantial nightmare. One doesn't need to be a doctor of psychiatry to see that your brother is a walking billboard of self-loathing and anguish. As a matter of fact," he added as an afterthought, "he probably has the most screwed up psyche I've ever encountered in my career. If I didn't have to kill him, I'd offer him free therapy sessions just for the professional challenge."

"Dean knows better than to look into the mirror," Sam said in a loud voice, trying to alert Dean of his predicament. Despite the tingling in his fingers caused by the restricted blood flow in his arms, the young man kept struggling against the ties, making as much noise as he could while surreptitiously scanning his surroundings for anything that could help him escape.

"Ah, but he already did," Michaelson said, apparently oblivious to Sam's ploy. "When you were examining the mirror in my office the light reflected directly into your brother's eyes and that glimpse was more than enough to catch his soul. Now, all I need is for him to see his reflection on any polished surface and the rest, as they say, will be history."

From her concealed position, Ruby must have observed the fight with Michaelson through the study's window or the demon had grown tired of waiting outside in the cold. Either way, Sam was relieved as he watched the woman step out of the shadows outside the doorway. Not wanting to reveal Ruby's presence Sam maintained his gaze on Michaelson's face as the therapist kept on talking. She slid noiselessly inside the den and crept up behind the man. Before the therapist could react, she swiftly clutched his head between her hands and cocked her elbow in a backward motion as if she was going to break the man's neck.

"Ruby, no!" Sam shouted from his restrained position.

Ruby stopped short, glaring at him with a furious look and for a second, Sam thought that she might complete her move. After several seconds she grudgingly relented and instead, forcefully shoved the doctor face down on the desktop, knocking him unconscious.

With the doctor out of action, the demon strode across the room to where Sam was sitting and deftly slashed through the plastics ties restraining his wrists with her magical dagger. No longer restrained, Sam's arms slumped like dead weight, dangling at his sides unceremoniously while he waited for circulation to return to his limbs. Wasting no time, Ruby circled the chair and knelt down at Sam's feet to slice through the binds on his ankles. Behind her Michaelson stirred up from where he had fallen on the desk. Sam shouted a warning and the woman released her blade into Sam's hands. She swivelled around and tackled the psychologist, tossing his lanky body across the den. Sam quickly removed the last of his restraints, stood up and marched over to the desk. Without hesitation he seized the antique mirror and, holding the handle at arm's length, he turned to face the room.

"What now?" The blond woman asked.

Without saying a word Sam slammed the mirror against the desk and it shattered in a shower of glass shards. From his spot, the doctor let out a scream of shock and anguish that drowned the sound of glass beads that were clanking on the wooden floor. He reacted immediately as he snatched a silver letter opener and rushed Sam. The young man plunged down and rolled onto his side. Facing away from the therapist he grabbed a large sliver of the broken mirror. Clutching it like a dagger he reached behind him as the doctor's body dove on him and with a stabbing motion he plunged the makeshift weapon in his assailant's abdomen.

A dark cloud of electricity that appeared from seemingly nowhere illuminated the room and gathered around Michaelson's body. Blue bolts of lightning seized his throat and his chest like angry, greedy claws. Thick plumes of smoke crept into his airway and saturated his lungs.

Michaelson dropped to his knees, eyes bulging and hands grasping at the air around him. His lips parted as if to say something but he remained silent as a trickle of dark blood dribbled down his chin.

Sam and Ruby watched as the blue mist thickened around Michaelson's midsection where the mirror splinter was still imbedded. From the smoke Sam could slowly discern human shapes, no doubt Michaelson's hapless victims. Now the spirits of the dead appeared hungry for revenge and in one sweeping motion they shrouded the doctor's body, projecting images from their own nightmares directly onto the piece of mirror. The surge of intense images and emotions that were transferred onto his mind soon overloaded Calvin Michaelson's nervous system and his heart finally gave out. The psychologist drew his final breath quietly, his face bearing the primal mask of absolute terror. With one last thunderous detonation that deafened Sam's ears, all the glass shards scattered around the room were pulverized in a cloud of dust. Even the mirror's sculpted ivory frame burst into a heap of powerless cinders.

* * * * *

Defeating Michaelson had taken its toll on Sam's already weakened condition. His burned skin itched terribly and he felt a renewed wave of pain journey across his sore upper body as he bent down to pick up his gun. Trying to ignore the uneasy feeling that had taken residence in the pit of his stomach, Sam took a few deep breaths to steady himself. Normally Dean would have been the first to blast his way through the door as soon as he'd heard the scuffle from the floor above. His absence meant that he was either seriously hurt or dead. Sam wasn't prepared to consider either option at the moment.

Sam grabbed his gun and, flanked by Ruby, he warily descended the staircase leading to the basement. Ruby swept the beam of her flashlight over the shadows in the dark corners as Sam did the same with his weapon, clearing sections of the room as they moved forward.

"Dean? It's me," Sam called softly. "Where are you?"

"Go away, Sammy. Don't come near me."

Sam's heart beat faster as he detected the fear that was barely hidden behind his brother's words. "What's wrong?"

"I'm one of them, Sammy. I don't know how it happened but I'm a demon."

"What do you mean?"

"I can feel its filth inside me. I feel evil, like I've got to hurt people, to kill people."

"You can't be possessed, Dean. We got tattooed with the protective sigils, remember?"

"I'm not saying I'm possessed, Sam. I'm saying that somehow I've become a friggin' demon."

"You have to go to hell before you become a demon, Dean, and I told you that I won't let you go. I'll find a way out of your deal. I swear I'm not letting you go to hell, okay?"

Sam and Ruby stood at attention in the centre of the room. Ruby waved her flashlight over the metal shelves and dark corners of the basement while Sam, his fists clutched around his nickel-plated .45, tried to pinpoint his brother's location.

"Look."

There was a shuffling noise behind them as Dean slowly stepped out of the shadows. Sam spun around while Ruby shone the diffuse beam of her flashlight over Dean's legs. He was standing before them inside a makeshift devil's trap that had been hastily traced with chalk. On the floor, Dean's sawed-off shotgun and rock salt cartridges and even his prized automatic handgun had been discarded a few feet away.

Dean inched forward towards the pair but stopped suddenly, seemingly contained within the circle's outline by an invisible barrier. Ruby lifted the torch to illuminate the hunter's face. Sam unconsciously took a step back as he realized that his brother's normally green eyes had been replaced by a jet black viscous stare that seemed to swallow the glow of the flashlight.

"See? I've become one of these sons of bitches."

"Dean? What happened? What—"

"Don't worry, he's not a demon yet," Ruby simply stated behind him.

Sam twisted his head and stared at the woman who maintained her relaxed stance.

"Are you sure? How can you tell?"

"Takes one to know one and I'm telling you that there's no trace of demon inside him."

"Don't listen to her, Sammy, the bitch's lying."

"Nobody asked you," the blonde girl spat in Dean's direction, straightening up in a confrontational stance. "Want me to stick my knife in your chest just to prove my point?"

Sam ignored the exchange and drew Ruby's attention back to him.

"Then why can't he step out of the trap? Why have his eyes turned black?"

"It's all in his unhinged, fucked up mind, Sam. He probably saw his reflection in a mirror and the curse found his nightmare. As long as he believes it, then it becomes his reality."

Sam stared at Ruby for a long time, weighing the demon's words against his own observations, praying for her to be right while his mind kept screaming the words his brother had repeatedly drilled in his head: We believe in what we know, what we can see with our own two eyes. This simple mantra had helped them figure out their course of action on numerous hunts where the line between right and wrong, between good and evil, between righteous kill and first degree murder seemed blurrier and greyer all the time.

Sam searched his brother's alien eyes for any sign of demon activity, convincing himself that either his intuition or the remnant of his psychic powers would sense if Dean had been altered in any way. Unable to feel anything other than ordinary humanity emanating from the man, Sam finally loosened his grip on the gun, held up both hands in a surrendering gesture and laid the weapon down on the floor behind him. Holding up his hands palms facing outward, he advanced steadily towards Dean.

"Step back, Sam."

"Listen to me, Dean. You're not a demon. You've got to believe me, okay. You can step out of the trap."

"No, Sam. It's a trick. Ruby's lying to you because she wants me to hurt you."

"You've had nightmares about becoming a demon. I get it. But this is not real, Dean. It's only a reflection of your mind."

"I'm sorry, Sam, You don't understand. You have to kill me. If you won't, then I'll do it myself. Just give me Ruby's knife."

Sam inched forward until he toed the makeshift trap. He stared intently at his brother, trying to understand his strange behaviour until realization dawned on him. "Are you afraid that you're going to kill me, Dean?"

"What? No…"

"Is this what it's about? You have nightmares about coming back from hell as a demon and hunting me down?"

"I'm warning you, man, shut the hell up." Dean paced back and forth in his self-imposed cage in a futile attempt to escape his brother's scrutiny.

"Then you have to try to kill me. That's the only way we can end this."

"No!"

"Yes."

"Have you lost your friggin' mind? If I'm offing someone tonight it ain't gonna be you. I might try to slay the bitch standing beside you…"

"Hey!"

"Shut up, Ruby," Sam ordered while still maintaining his gaze on his brother. "I don't want you to kill me, Dean. You only have to try."

"Right. And when do I stop trying, huh? When your eyes start to bulge out of their sockets? When there's only one pint of blood left in your veins? When you're writhing on the floor gasping for air? Forget it."

"Dean, you have to trust me on this, okay? I managed to escape from my nightmare only when I faced it squarely in the eyes."

"Yeah, and I also remember that you were pinned to the wall while smoke was coming out of your body. Your skin was sizzling, Sam, I smelled it burn. It wasn't in your head, okay? It was real and it felt real and if I hadn't shown up when I did you would have ended up as crisp as breakfast meat."

"My point is once I overcame my fear I could take over and fight. I believe that once you have confronted what scares you most you'll be able to take control and stop yourself from actually killing me."

"You don't know that for sure."

Sam gave his brother an unwavering look. "I trust you, Dean. Don't you think it's time you trusted yourself?"

* * * * *

"I still believe you're making a big mistake."

Ruby was leaning against a kitchen counter, her arms crossed over her chest, the silver dagger she held protruding from the folds of her maroon leather jacket. She and Sam had moved on the first floor of the now empty house to gather all non-lethal weapons in their arsenal for the upcoming battle, leaving Dean inside his self-confined prison in the basement.

"Then it's a good thing you'll be there to save my butt if the plan doesn't work out the way we want," Sam said as he checked the last of the equipment he and Dean expected they might need.

"On second thought, I secretly hope that your big brother really gets out of hand so I can have one good reason to stab his arrogant ass."

Sam dropped the equipment he was holding and threw himself at the blonde woman, disarming her with one swift blow to her jaw. As her knife fell to the floor the hunter slammed unceremoniously into the demon's slim body, his six-foot-four frame effectively pinning her against the wall behind her while his forearm rested securely across her throat.

"Let me make something very clear to you, Ruby. You're here simply because you are useful to us. You'll stay back and wait for my signal, period. If anything should happen to Dean, and I mean anything, I will personally hunt you down for the rest of your unnatural life, so you better pray to whichever deity you believe in that everything goes according to plan today. Is that understood?"

Sam waited for Ruby to nod before letting go of her, finally allowing air to return to her host's lungs. He picked the knife up from where it lay on the floor and returned it to its rightful owner. He waited for Ruby to put it safely away before turning his back on her. Wordlessly, he picked up the duffle bag filled with the various tools he had assembled and climbed down the basement stairs where Dean awaited him.

"Little Sammy Winchester has balls after all," Ruby called after him once she had regained the use of her vocal cords. "Who would've thought, huh?"

*

In Michaelson's basement, Sam shot one last glance at Ruby who was standing behind him, remaining at a safe distance but ready to intervene if his plan backfired. He returned his attention to Dean who was still restless within the devil's trap. Along with the weapons he had been carrying, Dean had also discarded his boots and leather jacket to allow him more flexibility during the upcoming confrontation, all of which Ruby had carefully put away on the first floor. Armed with only a drinking gourd filled with holy water, Sam met his brother's gaze in mutual understanding.

"So, how do we do this?" Dean's said, apprehension colouring his voice.

"First things first," Sam replied. With his foot, he scraped some of the chalk from the mystical symbol's outline and stepped back.

Hesitant, Dean remained inside the confine of the trap, refusing to move forward.

"Come on out, man," Sam coaxed.

"I don't want to hurt you."

"Dean—" Sam let out an exasperated sigh.

"I told you I—"

"Exorcizamus te, bardus frater…"

As soon as Sam started the invocation Dean wailed in anguish as he fled out of the circle, charging Sam. The younger man swiftly moved sideways, successfully avoiding contact, and struck a blow to his assailant's lower back, sending him to his knees several feet further.

"subsisto vestri querulous…"

Sam took advantage of his upper hand and as he recited the verse he splashed a few drops of holy water on Dean's back without his noticing. Because Dean was prone on the floor still reeling from his landing he didn't feel the water trickle on him. Sam braced himself from Dean's reaction but he didn't show any. Instead, he rolled over, swiped his feet in an upward motion and kicked his brother in the abdomen, propelling the plastic bottle out of his brother's hands. Sam promptly regained his balance and rushed forward with renewed energy as Dean rose from the floor.

Dean's lack of response from the spray produced instant hope in Sam. A demon would certainly have felt the holy water and would have reacted to it even if it hadn't seen or felt it on it skin. There would have been smoke from sizzling tissue and the thing would have screamed in agony. The fact that Dean hadn't responded at all confirmed what Sam had known in his heart all along: his brother hadn't changed into a demon. Just like the fire episode at the motel, the mirror manipulated the victim's perception of the world around them without actually altering reality. In a way, the victims' injuries and ordeals had been self-inflicted by their own mind.

"quod visio vestri fatum."

Sam completed his recitation and Dean roared in pain, charging his brother with renewed fury. Sam allowed Dean to advance on him within striking distance and adopted an open stance. Without questioning Sam's sudden mediocre fighting skills, Dean acted from rage and threw a punch that landed on his brother's face. Without waiting for him to retaliate he followed through with a series of jabs targeting the tall man's soft tissues below the ribcage. Sam swallowed a cry of pain but didn't hit back, slowly retreating instead towards the back of the room, luring Dean where the shelving lay.

"Don't you see, Dean? If you were a demon, wouldn't you be able to send me flying across the room with your super strength?"

Without answering, Dean kept punching his way forward, each blow connecting feebly with Sam's flesh. When Sam's back touched the cold metal shelves he switched to an offensive tactic. Catching his opponent by surprise he swept Dean's feet from under him and pressed a knee across his stomach pinning his lower body on the floor.

Sam seized his brother's shoulder and pushed his gun into his hand. Sam forced himself to stare directly into Dean's eyes trying to ignore the sinister orbs that bore directly into his soul.

"Go ahead, Dean, take it." He pushed gun harder into his brother's hand but Dean refused to take hold of the weapon.

"Admit it, man, you've been dying to kill me ever since I began having those weirdo visions. Isn't that what Dad wanted you to do anyway? You already think that I'm a freak and you just hate that I hang around with Ruby. I'm sure you lie wide awake at night, tightening your grip on the knife you keep under your pillow, wondering if the next blow will be coming from me."

Dean fidgeted under his brother's grip trying to look askance but Sam leaned in closer until his intent hazel stare found his brother's alien eyes.

"Face it, Dean, the first chance you got you went and sold your soul because you just can't stand to be around me anymore."

"Shut up!" Dean bellowed in a voice that seemed to originate from somewhere deep inside his entrails. He grabbed the gun and forcefully shoved Sam off of him. Closing his fist around the weapon's pearl handle he waved it threateningly between Sam and Ruby. "Shut up. Shut up. Shut up."

The demon took a step forward but with a flick of his hand, Sam silently ordered her to stay put. Keeping his open hands at his sides Sam wilfully assumed a relaxed, non-threatening stance, maintaining his gaze focused on the agitated man as he resumed his soliloquy.

"I messed up, okay? I made a stupid deal and now I'm going to hell. It's all my fault, I get that. What was I supposed to do, huh? Everybody that ever mattered to me is dead: First Mom, then Dad. And you..."

Dean's voice broke as he swallowed back a sob and Sam realized at that moment that he had seldom heard his big brother cry. He waited awkwardly as Dean dispelled the haunting memory of the worst couple of days of his life spent in Cold Oak, his brother's corpse lying lifeless on the filthy mattress in a shack in the middle of nowhere.

"You're all I have, Sammy. I couldn't let you go. I just couldn't. I admit it, I was selfish, okay? Because now you're the one who's gonna be left alone. I did what I had to do back then. But I tell you, man, I don't wanna go to hell."

With every muscle impossibly taut from the built up tension, Dean tried to rein in the conflicting emotions that fought each other on his face. Balancing the gun in his hand he let its bulk oscillate from side to side marking the stretched seconds like a deadly metronome. Suddenly a switch flipped on inside his being as the hunter sought to discharge the rage and the hate that had fuelled his every action for the past year.

"You hear that, you son of a bitch?" He screamed, tilting his head back as if he was addressing the ceiling. And before either Sam or Ruby could react, Dean dashed to the foot of the staircase training the .45's nozzle on the basement window and rhythmically pulled the trigger sending glass flying everywhere as he punctuated each word.

"I." bang "Don't." bang "Want." bang "To." bang "Go." bang "To." bang "Hell." Bang, bang.

As the bullets blasted around them, Sam mechanically counted the shots as they were fired while he and Ruby buried their faces in the crook of their arms to avoid being injured by shrapnel.

Even when the last bullet of the fully-loaded clip had been fired Dean kept pulling the trigger over and over again in a succession of hollow clicks providing an anticlimax to the earlier commotion. Once his energy had been entirely spent he let the gun drop where he stood and staggered to the far end wall where he plopped down on the floor.

Sam walked to the spot where his brother was sitting, his back leaning straight against the wall. Dean's eyes had been restored to their original green hue and were staring fixedly ahead of him as he strived to bring his breathing under control. Sam crouched in front of him and rested a hand slightly above Dean's knee. The gesture was meant as much to provide comfort as to ground his big brother to reality. Dean finally focused his gaze on Sam whose brow was knitted in an expression of concern. The older man nodded once in answer to his brother's unspoken question before returning his gaze in front of him.

When Ruby's eyes met his own, Sam dismissed the woman with a quick nod and she climbed up the stairs, leaving the men alone. Maintaining the physical contact with his brother, Sam scooted on the floor next to Dean and leaned back against the wall, releasing the breath he didn't realize he'd been holding until now. He glanced furtively at Dean, trying to assess both his physical and emotional condition. Once he was satisfied that Dean had been restored to his normal self, Sam let go of his brother's leg and sat in awkward silence, not knowing what to say or do to comfort Dean.

He wanted to tell him that he already knew his bother didn't want to go to hell but that Dean somehow needed to convince himself; that his opinion of his big brother had not suffered from the imposed ordeal; that he wasn't less of a man because Sam had been forced to witness his secret fear; that he didn't need to work so hard at hiding his fears and doubts just because he was the oldest; that he was not the four-year-old boy that needed protecting anymore and that he was more than willing to shoulder the load with him. But in the end Sam chose to remain silent—a remnant of his childhood and teenage years spent under the reign of his authoritarian father—knowing deep down that what they both needed at the moment was simply to take comfort in the fact that they were both still alive, drawing strength from each other.

* * * * *

"So let me see if I got this straight," Dean said as he stopped bunching up his clothes to re-examine the events that happened a couple of hours before. "You thought I was possessed and you shoved a loaded gun in my hands anyway?"

"First of all, you thought you were possessed," Sam explained without interrupting his packing. "Secondly, I was pretty sure that you wouldn't shoot me."

"You were pretty sure?"

"The point is," Sam added quickly, squirming uncomfortably under Dean's incredulous expression, "I knew that if I got you angry enough you'd eventually face your fear and break the curse."

Dean remained unconvinced by the explanation, seriously weighing his younger brother's sanity while Sam busied himself with his packing, pointedly ignoring his brother's burning stare at the back of his head. Finally, Dean opted to drop the subject, deciding that in the end Sam's plan had actually worked out okay and in their line of work the bottom line was often all that mattered. Once again they had managed to beat the odds.

There was a long, awkward pause where neither man spoke as both were aware of the white elephant that stood in the middle of the motel room. And neither one of them wanted to acknowledge it because it would be like picking at a scab until it bled. With every day that passed, Dean was becoming quieter, almost resigned to his impending fate while Sam seemed to mentally prepare the way for life after Dean, recklessly throwing himself in every direction without any consideration to his or other people's safety. And even though each man clearly recognized the other one's distress, they didn't speak about it because that was one humongous Pandora's Box they weren't prepared to open. Instead they immersed themselves in menial tasks such as cleaning the room and packing their belongings.

"Dude, did you actually try to exorcize me?" Dean said after several minutes, unexpectedly changing the subject.

"I knew that you weren't really possessed and that the words didn't really matter. So I sort of improvised with the Latin I could remember."

"And what did you exactly recite?"

"Let's just say that "jerk" doesn't translate well into Latin."

Dean chuckled and both men returned to their packing, working in companionable silence for a while. Dean finally broke the pleasant atmosphere and spoke up.

"So, are we gonna talk about it?"

"Talk about what?"

"About what's been eating you lately. Crying yourself to sleep looking at Jessica's picture; your constant brooding whenever we're driving somewhere; your new fondness for alcohol poisoning lately."

"You don't know what you're talking about, Dean. Just let it drop."

"I don't know what I'm talking about? That's funny. Dude, I'm the one who cleans up your empties while you sleep off your drinking binge. I hear you call out Jess' name in the middle of the night. What's the deal? I thought you stopped having these nightmares years ago."

"I'm not having nightmares."

"Really? Could have fooled me 'cause, you know, lying on your bed staring at the face of your dead girlfriend, it just sounds totally healthy to me."

"Dude, shut up."

"And you know, I never understood your Bon Jovi obsession but going to sleep with Bed of Roses on repeat under your pillow is way too teenage girl even for you."

Sam spun around and hurled his rolled-up jeans across the room, knocking over the lamp on the bedside table.

"I said, shut up!"

Dean was shocked into silence. Growing up in tight spaces he had learned when to prod his younger brother and knew also when to sit back and allow silence to grow between them.

"I need to remember her," Sam went on in a voice constricted by emotion. "Not the nightmares, not the vision of her body bursting into flames pinned to the ceiling. I want to remember what her voice sounded like. I mean in the two years we were together she must have told me that she loved me a hundred times but for the life of me I can't remember one single instance when she actually said it. Sometimes I can't even recall what her body felt like…"

Sam squeezed his eyes shut against the painful memories. Tears streamed freely on his cheeks. In the corner of the room Dean remained silent; almost holding his breath for fear that he might interrupt his brother's revelation. Sam breathed in and out several times, his eyes cast down directly in front of him. Once he had successfully calmed down he resumed his narrative quietly.

"The night you broke into my apartment to ask for my help finding Dad was the last time Jess and I made love. It was such a cliché: Halloween night, candles lit around the room. She was wearing this naughty nurse costume and I had my law school interview to celebrate. Maybe it's only my mind playing tricks but I swear that was the most breathtaking night we had together. Everything felt so right, so…"

Suddenly self-conscious, Sam looked away, blushing furiously. Dean was always amazed that this twenty-four-year-old man, who confronted the vilest demons and vengeful ghosts, who could hold his own in any hand-to-hand combat situation, who had a gift to manipulate strangers with his puppy eye look and gentle voice, easily lost his composure like an awkward teenager whenever sex was mentioned.

"Afterwards," he went on so softly that Dean could barely make out the words even though he was standing a few feet away, "lying in bed dozing off, we heard Bed of Roses coming from the room upstairs. Jess and I started laughing, joking that this could become our wedding song."

"Sounds like you guys had something special," Dean said. He moved to the edge of his bed, sitting down to face Sam.

Sam nodded, choking back a sob and Dean fought hard to remain seated in his spot. Although he wasn't typically one to provide physical comfort, Sam's vulnerability stirred in Dean the knee-jerk impulse to protect his baby brother that had been drilled into him since childhood. Yet Dean understood that right now more than a hug, Sam needed his big brother to listen while he exorcised his demons.

"I'm scared, Dean. I'm scared that I'll wake up one morning and I'll have entirely forgotten Jessica."

"Nobody can steal your memories from you, Sam."

"But it's already happening, don't you understand? When I try to picture her face I've forgotten the exact colour of her eyes, or the length of her hair. With each day that passes the edges get blurrier and it's like she's disappearing behind a thick veil. I always wonder if my memories really happened the way I remember them or if I'm watching a made-up alternative instead."

Sam bent down and picked up one of his shirt from the floor. After a couple half-hearted attempts at folding the garment, he dropped it back in his lap. Finally he lifted his head and locked eyes with his brother, holding on to his gaze with a steadfast grip.

"Jess died. Dad died, too. They're already fading away. And now you're going to die, Dean." Sam's voice broke into a grief-stricken plea. "Tell me, what am I supposed to do when I forget you, too?"

THE END