Dean Winchester wasn't a crybaby. He'd had more broken bones than he could count, more stitches than a puppet doll, and more bruises, scrapes, and grazes than an entire team of pro-footballers. But hearing his baby brother call him a demon and try to gut him with his own knife—that, that hurt a lot.
Dean scrambles back, the pain across his abdomen barely registering. Sam's screaming, his face red, his eyes panicked, but Dean can't hear the words over the ringing in his ears. His vision swims, the blow Sam dealt to his head doing more damage than Dean's sure he can deal with.
"Sam," he tries. "Stop."
But if Sam hears he gives no sign. His attack becomes frantic, every block Dean makes seeming to fuel something inside Sam, some fire that Dean wishes he could tap into because he's fading fast. Their last hunt had been no picnic. Nor had the two months of almost nonstop run ins with demons and angels alike, all eager to get a piece of the Winchester brothers.
The next hit comes in under Dean's flagging guard, catching him directly on the chin. Stars—literal ones Dean's pretty sure—explode before his eyes and then there's nothing. He comes to minutes, maybe hours later, hogtied in the back of the Impala. He can tell that's where he is just by the smell. He doesn't even have to hear the familiar rumble of the engine to know he's in his baby. And Sammy is driving. Fast if the constant rocking is any indicator.
Dean's head is killing him and the wound across his stomach complains as a bump in the road rocks him further onto his stomach. Sam's blindfolded and gagged him with something that smells like gun oil and metal, a usually comforting aroma, but in this context they make Dean feel nauseous and sick. How did they come to this? He tries to pinpoint what set Sam off but can't, the ache in his head a steady drumbeat that makes thinking all but impossible.
Finally he decides to quit trying, figures Sam will clue him in when they get to wherever they're going, and lets the purr of the engine lull him back to sleep.
SPNSPNSPN
The sound of the engine cutting off doesn't wake him, nor does the creak of the driver side door opening and slamming shut. It's not until Sam drags him out of the Impala by hooking his arms under Dean's that he comes to.
Boots drag against gravel that pings away as Dean tries to get his legs under him. The blindfold makes it feel like the ground is pitching and yawing, and his knees buckle at some point, the only thing keeping him upright Sam's firm hold.
Sam, he moans against the gag, involuntary tears filling his eyes. Stop, he tries, but the words are garbled and make no sense and Sam doesn't stop, doesn't say anything just drags Dean up a short flight of steps. They pause there and Dean wonders what's going to happen next, where Sam's brought him. He doesn't have to wait long to find out.
Door hinges squeal and a very familiar voice says, "Bring him in, I've got the trap all set up."
Bobby, Dean thinks, the word followed quickly by the thought, Trap? What trap?
Sam hauls him across a space that seems endless, but really only takes five strides to cross and then Dean's being dumped into a chair. His brain feels like it's going to slide out of his ears if he doesn't lay down soon, head too heavy for his tired neck to support. He sags, barely aware of the ropes being wound around his torso, wrists, and ankles, until the blindfold is ripped away, along with the gag.
They're at Bobby's, which shouldn't come as a surprise, but somehow does. He gives Bobby a dopy smile and leans forward. "Bobby, man," he says, the words slurring into one as they slide out of his mouth. "What, what are you doing here? Are we having a party?"
This seems like a completely reasonable assumption to Dean. He hasn't felt this out of it since the great hangover of '02 and the last few hours have already faded into a blurry haze that he's not sure even occurred.
The incredulous look Bobby shoots Sam says something different. "Jesus, boy, what'd you do to him? I thought you said you just knocked him out, not that you sent him into orbit."
Sam's lips tighten and Dean giggles. Giggles. Sam's bitch face is out in force tonight, which Dean thinks is hilarious being that he's the one tied to the chair.
"Sam," he tries to say but the word dips and stops halfway through when Dean realizes that he's been tied down. He eyes the ropes in surprise, wondering where they came from and experimentally tests the ones around his wrists. They dig into him and the added pain clears Dean's muddled head enough for him to squint up at Sam. "Did you, did you tie me up, Sammy? What the hell?"
He half expects Sam to look sheepish, to apologize and untie him. But instead, Sam lunges forward, forcing Dean back as Sam braces both hands against the chair arms. "You are not my brother, you demonic son of a bitch; you do not get to call me Sammy."
Spittle hits Dean's cheek and he blinks at Sam. "I'm not?"
Sam's bitch face gets even bitcher, but before he can say another word Bobby grabs him and pulls him away. An angry discussion goes on just out of Dean's earshot, but he can tell from the numerous angry glances that they're talking about him.
What did I do? Dean things, but the thought floats away as his attention is caught by something in the doorway. It's a dog. At least Dean's pretty sure it is, though his blurry vision gives the thing the appearance of being underwater.
"Doggy," Dean slurs, flapping a hand at it. "Sammy, there's a doggy here." Sam doesn't hear, never stops arguing with Bobby, but the dog-shape moves, toenails clicking against the hardwood until it butts its head against Dean's leg. It whines and licks at him, and Dean smiles, absurdly happy that at least one person in the house seems to like him.
There's another whine and the dog puts its head in Dean's lap. Its head is heavy and its breath warm as it pants. Dean has no idea where the dog came from and is pretty sure Bobby's dog Rumsfeld is dead. But he can't form the coherent thought necessary to question it. Instead, he strains a bit against the ropes and runs his fingers through the dog's thick black fur.
Dean's aware of the talking between Sam and Bobby breaking off more by the fact that the dog suddenly moves away from him and growls than anything else.
"What the," says Bobby, his voice stunned and strained all at the same time.
Dean cracks open heavy eyelids. Bobby and Sam stand at the edge of the Devil's trap inscribed on the floor—and Dean wonders how he didn't notice that was where he was—and stare at the dog who suddenly seems a lot larger and more threatening than he did before.
Now that Dean's focusing, he sees that calling this thing a dog might have been a bit misguided. The thing's taller than Dean is sitting down and its legs look like miniature tree trunks. Bobby has his shotgun trained on the thing and Sam's pulled Dean's knife from somewhere. Dean sees its still red with blood—his blood, he remembers after a strained second. If his head didn't hurt so much he'd cuss Sam out for that. But the dog-thing is growling louder now and Bobby cocks his shotgun, the sound shockingly loud in the enclosed space.
The noise clears Dean's head, memory slotting into place like a Tetris puzzle. He remembers coming back to the hotel room with dinner, remembers tossing Sam the bag and settling on his bed with the book he picked up from the used bookstore that afternoon while he was waiting for Sam. Remembers Sam jokingly asking him if he's possessed and saying Cristo. Remembers the stunned look on Sam's face after he says it and the fight that ensued. He still has no clue what he did to make Sammy think he was possessed, but now he's tied up in the middle of a devil's trap with what looks like a real live hellhound standing between him and his brother and surrogate father.
"Son of a—" Dean swears. His throat is dry, the words barely audible. He clears it. "Hey," he yells at the dog, sending sparks of pain through his head. "Back off, Cujo."
No one is more surprised than Dean when the dog does exactly that, turning to Dean with a whine that sounds just like any dog being reprimanded by its master. Red eyes blink sorrowfully at Dean and the hellhound pads back, shrinking until he's just a large black dog. It rests its head in Dean's lap.
He stares down at it, unsure what to say. He laughs and looks up at Sam and Bobby with a grin. "Hell, it would have been neat if I'd known that trick before."
Sam and Booby don't smile back. All the color has washed clean out of Bobby's face and Sam looks like he's going to be sick. For some reason that angers Dean.
A lot.
"What?" Dean demands. "You think that this is, what? Proof that I'm really a demon? I'm not possessed, Sam!"
Sam's face twists. "Then why did your eyes turn black when I said Cristo? There!" Sam points. "They did it again!"
"They did not," Dean snaps, but Bobby shakes his head.
"No use lyin', you demonic piece o' slime I saw it too. Here." He holds the shotgun out to Sam who takes it, sliding the knife away. I'll go get the exorcism."
Cujo stiffens, but Dean makes a warning sound in the back of his throat without thinking about it and the dog immediately relaxes.
If Dean didn't have bigger things to worry about, the hellhound's easy acceptance of all Dean says to it would be wigging him out, but the cold, flat look in Sam's eyes, scares him more than a dozen hellhounds. He hasn't seen that look since before they'd gotten Sam his soul back and Dean hopes that whoever's playing this elaborate trick on them isn't doing it to force Sam's soul away again. Dean's not sure he can take another round of Soulless Sam. The first round nearly killed him.
His subconscious snorts at that. The Souled version might kill you trying to save you.
Dean tells his subconscious to shut up and turns his attention back to his brother. "Sam, I don't know what you're seeing or why this dog is here, but there's got to be an explanation."
"There is," says Sam and doesn't say another word, no matter what Dean says.
Dean's pretty angry by the time Bobby comes back, arms full of who the hell knows what since all you need for an exorcism is the words.
Bobby places the bowl of stuff on a nearby pile of books and pulls a small notebook from his pocket. He frowns at Dean from underneath his dirty ball cap. Dean wonders idly if Bobby's ever washed the thing and the hellhound makes a funny noise, almost like a snort.
Bobby and Sam glare at the hound, who just calmly licks his chops before settling down at Dean's feet. Its body is furnace hot against Dean's legs and the last of the cobwebs clear as Bobby begins to chant.
It's long—longer than a regular exorcism and by the time Bobby's done, Dean's annoyed. Really freaking annoyed. "You done now?" he asks them. "I don't know what all that mumbo-jumbo crap was that you just spouted, but it obviously didn't work so let me go."
"Let you go?" Sam says the words like Dean's five and just asked him if he could order a hooker to come to his birthday party. "I'm not letting you go anywhere until you get out of my brother!"
"Easy, Sam," says Bobby, hand fisting around Sam's jacket, holding him back. Bobby looks nearly as angry as Sam, but at least the wheels are turning in his head. Not like in Sam's; Dean can see that anger has taken his brother well past the point of rational thought and if it wasn't for Bobby Dean would be picking his teeth up off the floor.
Sam's eyes never leave Dean, but he backs off a bit, body never relaxing. The hellhound watches him with mild interest before lowering his head dismissively. Dean's impressed. There's a burning desire in Dean to lean over and scratch the hellhound under the chin, but instead he leans back as far as he can and raises an eyebrow at his brother.
"Okay, Sammy, have it your way. Try another exorcism. It won't work—none of them will—because I'm not possessed!"
The hellhound barks his agreement, giving Sam and Bobby a look that would have had lesser men running for the door.
Instead Bobby picks up the bowl and takes what looks like a jar of blood from it. He hands that to Sam, removes a bundle of incense and a pack of matches, and sets the bowl back down.
"What are you going to do with that? Make me drink it?" Dean asks bitterly.
"No, you dumbass," says Bobby. "This is lambs blood. We're gonna use it to cast your sorry butt back into the fryer."
"And if that doesn't work? Will you believe I'm not possessed then?"
Bobby and Sam hesitate and share a glance that Dean doesn't like. It's not a look that says they're prepared to give up that easy.
Nor is the bottle of holy water, Sam whips out of his pocket and throws at the hellhound. The bottle shatters against the creatures torso and it scrambles back, nearly knocking Dean and his chair over in its mad scramble for the door, smoke billowing from it like grease on a hot griddle. It passes through the Demon's Trap like it's not even there and out the back door.
Dean gapes at Sam. "What the hell?"
Sam doesn't answer, just nods to Bobby who lights the incense and starts circling Dean and chanting.
The words aren't anything Dean's ever heard before, which he thinks is strange because over the last six years—ever since he learned that demons were a much bigger threat than previously thought—Dean's become sort of an expert in exorcisms. Whatever this is, it isn't in Latin like the previous one. Or German or Spanish or French; languages that Dean's pretty sure he'd at least be able to recognize. Instead Bobby sounds like his mouth is full of marbles and he's spitting the words out around them.
Dean doesn't feel anything happen as the chanting continues, and he's so focused on Bobby, that the cold slide of a finger across his cheek catches him by surprise. He jerks back, nearly getting Sam's finger in his eye as Sam continues over his nose and down his other cheek, ringing Dean's eyes.
"What the hell, Sam!" Dean yells just as hands clamp down on either side of his head from behind.
Bobby's shouting now, the words like daggers scraping along Dean's nerves. Dean starts yelling and cussing just as Sam places five bloody fingers against Dean's forehead and joins Bobby, his deep voice a harsh counterpoint to Bobby's.
Sam's touch feels like someone setting off a grenade behind Dean's eyes. Pain engulfs Dean's head and the world splinters and spins away leaving Dean plummeting into a void.
When the pieces come back, Dean's panting like he's run a marathon. Everything tastes and smells like the bloody vomit Dean can feel dribbling between his lips. Fogged eyes regard the bloody mess in his lap with only mild curiosity.
D
ean's pretty sure if he moves his head will simply crack open like an egg. It's quiet. Too quiet, he thinks, though he can't think why that might be.
Hadn't…hadn't someone been here…before…
The thought derails. Before is a jumbled mess, images and sounds pasted together into a strange collage. Some he vaguely remembers, but the majority show him strange things. Things he's pretty sure he's never seen or heard before: the chitter of dolphins as they swim through a bright blue sea; battles waged on horseback; screaming men dying in bloody trenches; beings made of light with giant wings, running across a boiling landscape, their laughter booming through the air.
Dean shudders, pulling away from them. Something is…wrong with those images. He senses the danger they pose and weakly shoves them away, focusing on the images that don't hurt so much to look at. He runs his tongue around his mouth and spits out the vomit.
Someone moans and Dean's head snaps up. It's a bad move, causing sparklers to ignite in front of Dean's eyes. He blinks dazedly to clear them and the room comes into focus in fits and starts. To say it's been destroyed is putting it mildly. The careful mounds of books has toppled, creating snowdrifts of pages, most of which have come clear of their bindings. The furniture's been tossed about and anything glass has shattered.
The moan comes again and finally Dean's brain reengages.
Sammy, he thinks with rising panic. Sammy was here. And Bobby.
It takes an age, but he finally manages to gather enough air for a raspy, "Sam? Sammy, where are you?"
There's another moan and then a harsh bark that has Dean swiveling in the other direction. It's the hellhound. Patches of its fur are missing, but otherwise it looks okay and Dean feels an unexplained relief.
"Cujo," he calls to it hoarsely, smiling when the hellhound comes right to him and licks his face.
The taste of lambs' blood has the creature drawing back with a whine just as part of the snowdrift of books shifts and a boot kicks out.
"Sam," Dean says, more out of hope than certainty. "Cujo, go check on him." The hellhound gives Dean an odd look, but barks and trots on over. Cujo sniffs at the boot for a moment and then daintily bites down on the tip and pulls. The person attached to the boot slides free and Dean sees to his relief that it is indeed Sammy.
He seems dazed and no amount of weak calling from Dean appears to reach him. Another moan sounds from across the room and then Dean hears Bobby's voice let out a vicious sounding string of curses.
Cujo lets out a loud bark at the sound and the curses break off. Dean's neck is getting too heavy to support his head and he lets it drop to his chest, telling Cujo to stay. The dog's not happy about it, but it does as its master commands and sits by Dean's side, one paw resting on top of Dean's forearm as if to give him comfort.
It strangely does and Dean's almost forgotten about Bobby entirely when boots shuffle into his line of sight and nudge his ankle gently.
"Dean?" Bobby sounds scared and Dean tries to raise his head, tries to reassure him, but he's just too damn tired to give anything more than a weak grunt. A too warm hand presses into his throat and Dean's head falls back at the pressure. "Christo," Bobby says when his eyes meet Dean's.
"Wha?" says Dean, squinting at Bobby. He tries to hold onto the thread of his thoughts, but the reason for Bobby to say that to him slips through his fingers.
Bobby though lets out a quiet, "Thank God," and begins whispering assurances as he cuts at the ropes binding Dean to the chair. Dean lets the words wash over him, unable to focus for more than a second at a time.
He's barely aware of another voice groaning and saying, "Bobby? Did it work?"
"Yeah," says Bobby. "A little too well I think. Rippin' that thing out'a your brother damn near killed him and us both."
Feet scrambled on hardwood and then another set of hands were on him, titling his head back.
"Oh God," says the blurry figure. "Dean, hey, Dean can you hear me?"
No need to yell, Sammy, Dean tries to say, but his tongue is too big for him mouth and instead of speaking Dean's eyes roll back in his skull and he lets the pain take him under.