Sam finally hears the car around three. He's been lying in the dark for hours, going over algebra problems and trying not to think about family members with broken necks, or what might be making that scratching sound outside the window. Earlier he had been trying to study, but kept dozing off with the book still in his hands, the tension on the edge of his mind always pulling him back before he could get to sleep properly. He would wake up and check the digital clock beside his bed, see that it's ten or twenty more minutes closer to dawn and the test that he should be well-rested for tomorrow. And closer to the time when he should start worrying about Dad and Dean not being back.
He should be used to it by now, and waiting up for them should have gotten easier over the years instead of harder, he knows that. But when you're younger you just assume some things, like that your dad is invincible and will always be okay in the end, and that this sort of thing, waiting up worried for family members when you have a test tomorrow is, if not normal , at least useful, and justified. And hey, look how well Dean had handled it when he was fourteen. Well, Dean was born to worry, it's something he's just made a part of his personality, but Sam's never been able to handle it healthily. He'd just missed out on those don't-think-about-it-when-your-family's-out-hunting-ghosts genes, he figures.
The low engine sound is audible for half a minute before he sees the headlights turn in around front. It's always damn quiet out here, the nearest house is a good mile away, which is great if you don't want people complaining about gunshots, but bad if you're the only one in your family that recognizes the words human company. Sam sits up slightly and waits, tense, because it's only half over; the sounds will tell him if the hunt had gone bad.
After a few seconds the front door opens with a loud bang, which is unusual, and Sam jumps up, pushing the covers aside. But nobody calls out for him to help, like the time when dad got shot, or when Dean managed to break his ankle on a tree root. There's just a low voice, unintelligible through the walls, before a light switches on and the house is filled with the low, creaky noise of the pipes in the bathroom coming into action.
Sam frowns for a second before standing up fully, the rough wood floor cold under his feet. Now that's weird; they come home from a simple ghost hunt and the first thing they need is a shower? Sure, no one had called to him, but if they were both okay Dean would have come in here and checked on him first thing, he would always do that no matter what, even if he was covered in dirt or monster guts or that goo from Ghostbusters.
Outside Sam's room the hallway is dark, the only light coming from dad's bedroom down the other end. This house is big, enough for Dean to have his own bedroom if he'd wanted one, but it makes up for that by being old and damp and pretty much only good as the setting for a clichéd horror movie. At the end of the hallway the front door's still open a crack, and that's wrong enough for him to rush into his dad's room, past the old bed, to the door of the bathroom that joins the room. Then he pauses and swallows nervously, because weirdness or not, you don't just rush in on someone in a bathroom.
"Dad?" he calls, still blinking in the light. The bag his father keeps his weapons in is on the ground beside the door, apparently tossed aside. There's no answer, but maybe Dad can't hear him over the running water, so Sam taps on the unlatched door and pushes hard enough for it to open a few inches.
He can see his father's shoulder, still in his jacket, which looks clean as far as he can tell, or as clean as it ever is anyway. Which makes sense, because he is sitting on the tiled floor beside the bathtub. And his dad sitting on the floor, that's just weird.
"Sam?" his father says, and Sam nods and steps forward only slightly, because he's still not sure if he wants to go in. His father goes on without an answer. "There's some pills in the side pocket of my bag, would you pass them in?"
Sam steps back quickly and ducks down. Usually he'd ask a question first, but now he almost doesn't want to know what's happening, where Dean is; he's almost glad, now, that he can never tell what his father is really thinking.
He finds the pills under the spare ammo: orange tube, little white round ones. He has to no choice now but to open the door and step into the room properly so he can reach out to give them to his father. He does so, and he can't avoid seeing what's inside.
Dean's lying sprawled back in the bathtub, which Sam had kind of guessed, and the water is running hard, but the plug's not in, and he's not dirty either. He's stripped down to a t-shirt and boxers and the front of his left leg, which is propped up right under the flow of water, is dark red and blistered and looks like something out of a horror movie.
But that's not the worst part, it's not what had made Sam uneasy when he sensed the mood outside the door. His father has an arm around Dean's shoulders, and Dean's head is pressed against his father's chest, and he is silent and kind of shaking and Sam can see the side of the face in the bright light and Dean is crying.
Sam takes a step back towards the bathroom wall, presses against the crumbling plaster. He just stares for a second as his father pulls the lid off the pills with his teeth and tips them out onto the hand near Dean's face, presses his palm against Dean's mouth.
"What's wrong with him? What happened?"
His father doesn't acknowledge the question, just leans forward to catch some of the tapwater above Dean's injured leg in his free hand. He brings it back to Dean's mouth again, holds it there as he swallows it. Dean's face is pale, messy with tears. Dad looks down at him for a few moments, like he's thinking. "Sammy, in the next room. Second drawer down there's a small glass vial with oil in it. Get it for me."
Sam doesn't move, hovering awkwardly. "Dad, what's happened?"
"He's burned. I need the oil, son." Doesn't look at him still. The tone is familiar but Sam refuses to get the hint, stops himself from responding to it automatically. Dean's hurt, hurt so bad he's crying. Why had Dad brought him back here?
"Dad," he says hesitantly, just loud enough to hear over the sound of the water. "I – I think we should take him to a hospital."
"Sam. Now." He finally turns to him, face dark.
For just a second Sam holds his gaze. Then he turns, and barely resists kicking the bathroom door as he brushes past it. Suddenly he's so angry that he wants to cry, but he forces himself to be calm as he pulls open the dresser drawer and roots through the religious artifacts Dad keeps in here. Dean's skin's been burnt right through, for god's sake, he's crying, and Dad won't take him to the hospital, even though Dean's eighteen now and they won't even call the cops on him this time, or maybe they might, if Sam tells them about this, he'd deserve it -
He sees it in the back corner, a tiny, patterned glass jar filled with what looks like olive oil. Clenching his jaw, he pushes open the bathroom door again.
"You find it?"
Sam nods.
"That's good." He moves forward slightly. "Dean, I need you to sit up. I'm going to shut the water off."
Dean shakes his head, but doesn't say anything as Dad eases him back so that he is leaning against the porcelain. He covers his face with his hands as Dad stands up, turns off the tap and grabs a towel from beside Sam without looking at him.
"What are you doing?" Sam's voice comes out a lot less angry than he feels.
Maybe that's why he gets an answer this time. "We need the skin to be dry."
"Why?"
"Give me the oil."
Sam hands it over, scowling. His father positions Dean's leg so it's resting on the edge of the tub, and twists the top off the jar. Dean has started to whimper quietly behind his hands, and that makes Sam sick with fear. It's wrong, Dean shouldn't act like this, and Sam is helpless to do anything about it.
"Dad, please..." He looks back down at the burn so he doesn't have to see Dean's hidden face. His father dips his thumb in the oil, grabs Dean's foot with the other hand. "We should take him to -"
Then something happens that makes him Sam talking, and makes Dean shriek in pain, muffled behind his hands.
Sam stares stupidly, unable to speak. Did the burn on his leg just move?
"Dad," Dean says, so softly, "I need the water, it's bad without the water..."
His father doesn't react; he is tracing a thin line around the edges of the burn, the burn that just got bigger like whatever caused it's still on there. He doesn't touch it, keeping a thread's distance between the line of oil and the start of the ruined skin. Dean presses his head back against the rim of the tub and cries some more, and Sam still can't talk.
He completes the outline, turns Dean's leg slightly in his hands as he examines it, and then twists the lid back onto the oil. For a minute or two he waits, looking at the burn carefully as Sam just watches. The small room is silent except for the occasional drip from the cold tap, and Dean's quiet ragged breathing.
Then it happens: Dean lifts his head and moans, and the mark on his leg trying to expand again. This time, though, it's only half a second, and then his head drops back again.
His father smiles. He turns to Dean, runs a hand quickly through his hair. "That's done it. Now let's get you lying down."
Dean shakes his head. "Water..."
"We can't risk it washing the oil off. Those pills will kick in properly soon. Can you stand up?"
A pause, and then Dean nods. Dad apparently doesn't trust him at that moment, though, because he hauls Dean up himself. "Sammy, let's get him to my bed."
Sam is still dazed, but he wraps one arm around Dean's neck and helps Dad get him out of the bath. It doesn't take long to move him to the next room with the two of them for support. Sam arranges the pillows on the ancient bed so that Dean can half sit up, and steps back as Dad eases him down.
"I'm sorry..." Dean's mumbling as his father lets go of him. "I'm sorry."
"Don't worry about it, Dean."
Dean clutches at his arms; he gently pulls himself away. He glances at Sam briefly. "You still think it's a good idea to take him to the hospital, Sam?"
Sam doesn't answer. Shifts his face into a glare.
"I have to make a few calls," he goes on. "Tell me if anything changes."
Sam nods, although his father has already turned away without waiting for a reaction. The shock from before has largely faded, and the anger is coming back, but he is trying hard not to focus on it now. He's alone with Dean, and Dean's hurt.
He looks down at his brother. Dean has calmed down from before, at least, but he's still all pale, and he has turned his face away from Sam, like he's embarrassed. Usually when Dean gets hurt, Sam's part is to make fun of him and tell him he's overreacting, and then when Sam's hurt Dean will do the same thing to him. But now Dean is really hurt, and making fun of him that now would be wrong. And yet Dean is still behaving like that's what he expects Sam to do, when in reality Sam's just scared, because Dean doesn't cry and Sam has no idea how to react.
After a few seconds he reaches out and takes Dean by the wrist, like Dean would have done for him when he was a kid, and his throat is all tight, but he manages to say "It's okay."
Dean pulls his arm away sharply and says "Shut up , Sammy."
Sam frowns. So Dean's embarrassed; okay, it's understandable, Sam won't act like this is weird any more, won't act like Dean has been crying. He rests a hand on Dean's shoulder, a little awkwardly, and at least Dean doesn't pull away from that, just lies with his eyes closed. Outside in the hallway he can hear his dad, voice low and angry between long pauses.
"He didn't have to say that about the hospital," he says eventually. "I didn't know it was a curse or whatever on your leg. He could have just told me."
Dean shakes his head slightly, a gesture that says I'm drugged and in pain and even if I wasn't I wouldn't have time for this. "He wouldn't have to tell you if you just did what he said for once," he says. His words are just slightly slurred.
"Then how am I meant to -"
"It's not like you had any input that could have helped us. You're meant to help him. It's your job."
He sounds so tired that Sam stops himself before he can tell Dean that he can't have any input if Dad doesn't tell him what's going on in the first place, that he's not some useless kid that can't handle information or make decisions, he's fourteen already. But his brother's face is twisted in pain and their brief conversation seems to have made it worse. So all he says is: "I just wish he'd tell us more."
Dean's silent for a second. From out in the hallway Dad's voice rises slightly: "Listen, it's not for me, it's for my son, so -"
"Bitch grabbed me," Dean says softly.
"What?"
"The burn. You wanted to know what happened, right? It was this... fucked up ghost, a witch or something. Dad burned her stuff, she was halfway sinking into the floor and... she just grabbed my leg and screamed something."
He leans forward. "What'd she scream?"
"I don't know. I was kind of distracted at the time, you know."
Sam manages to smile. He puts a hand against Dean's clammy forehead, not thinking about it, and Dean doesn't pull away.
After a few minutes Dad comes back in, looking no more relieved than when he left. He stands beside the bed and looks down at Dean, forehead creased, like he's deep in thought.
"Dad?" Sam asks softly.
"Yeah?"
"So a ghost did that to his leg?"
"It's something like that." His voice is calmer now, softer. He's talking to Sam and figuring something out in his head at the same time, like he always does, but at least he's answering him now and that's something.
"How – how could it do that?"
"She was the one behind all those kids' deaths when she was alive. Must have figured she was going to hell, so she sets up an altar to keep her spirit here." He pauses, like he's distracted by something.
"Dad? His leg?"
"Oh. So when she figured she's on her way she grabbed him and tried to take him with her."
Sam frowns, confused. "His leg's in hell?"
"Don't be ridiculous, Sammy. But the wound's connected to her somehow, so it's burning him."
Dean moans from the bed. Sam squeezes his shoulder a little. "So... we have to exorcize it, or something?"
"No. You can't exorcize a human. She might have had some tricks, but she wasn't a demon."
"Then what do we do? We can't salt and burn his leg."
Dad looks up at him finally.
"We can't," Sam repeats, clutching Dean's shoulder a little possessively. Dean's eyes are still closed, but Sam can tell he's still awake because he keeps biting his lip.
Dad flicks his eyes back down at Dean, and then nods. "You're right, we can't. Look, go grab all the books you can find that might be helpful. I'll see if I can think of anyone else that might know what to do. We can figure something out."
Sam nods quickly, squeezes Dean's shoulder once again before rushing off. The living room's dark, but he knows from memory where they keep the short stack of books he and dad have collected to research this case. He gathers them all up in his arms, holding them in place with his chin. Sure, it's not the biggest collection of books in the world, but there must be something relevant in here, and he can even skip that stupid test tomorrow if they haven't found it by then. It's Dean after all. Maybe he can go to the town library when it opens and look on one of the computers, see if -
Behind him, the door to Dad's bedroom closes with a loud click.
For a second, Sam doesn't believe what is happening; he just stands there, looking stupidly across the hallway, holding his books. Then he drops them, and rushes to the door, but of course he's too late, it's already locked.
"DAD!!" He slams his weight against the door, which does absolutely nothing; it's made of solid wood. "Open the door!!"
There's no answer, and then from inside the room Dean begins to scream.
The door's not enough to block this out; he sounds like a dying animal. Sam sobs, anger swelling in his throat. "Dad, open the door!!"
Inside, the screaming dies down into loud whimpers, but Sam knows what's coming, knows that smell from the half-dozen ghost hunts he has been on. He bangs on the door, yells "Dad, no, please," but there's no response, and by the time he remembers the lockpick under his bed, by the time he's turning away to go grab it and save Dean, it's already too late, and the screaming has started again.
--
When he wakes up, his bedroom is bright with sunlight and the house is quiet. Sam's eyes hurt even before the sun hits them, and his throat feels dry and sore. He turns onto his side on the bed, wincing at the pain in his bruised shoulder, and sees that the faint green numbers say that it's after ten. Across the room, Dean's bed is empty, the faded covers wrinkled as usual but undisturbed.
Sam sits up, confused, his thoughts still sliding into place. When he had finally forced his way into the room last night Dean had already been unconscious, asleep or passed out, he didn't know. His father had been sitting on the bed, holding Dean like he was a little kid, like he wasn't the one who had done it to him in the first place. There was a wet towel wrapped around Dean's leg, and the room had still smelled of lighter fluid.
The fury that had hit Sam at that moment surprised him; it was like nothing he'd felt before, blinding, overpowering. He couldn't speak, could hardly move. He had just stared, as his father ignored him and Dean breathed slowly in and out, stared until he couldn't stand to be in his presence, and had turned and returned silently to his room.
After a long period of sitting on his bed he had calmed down enough to be able to think, and after that he started imagining scenarios in his head, all the things he'd say to Dad, so many things before he left and never came back. He repeated them in his mind enough so that it was almost like he'd said them out loud. It was hours before he could lie down, hours more before he could sleep.
Now, he has overslept and missed school, missed his test. Someone must have come in and turned his alarm off, because apparently Sam isn't even allowed to make that decision for himself.
Rubbing his shoulder, he makes his way down the hallway and into the living room. The books are still all over the floor, although someone's kicked them aside to make a clear path across the room. Dean is lying on the old sofa, leg propped up on one torn armrest, reading a magazine.
"Morning, Sam."
Sam looks over him warily. He doesn't know what to say, how Dean will react, because you can never tell when it comes to him and Dad. Dean's leg is still covered up, with what looks like a washcloth this time, but he looks healthy enough and doesn't seem to be drugged.
"I called the school for you," he goes on when Sam doesn't answer.
Sam clears his throat before he tries to answer. "What did you say?" His voice still comes out all cracked and scratchy.
"That my brother's a growing boy that needs his beauty sleep after he was up all night crying like a little bitch."
Sam bites his lip. So Dean is going to be like that about Dad. "I was trying to help you," he says.
"Huh. That's not what I remember. I remember you picking a fight for no reason." He turns a page.
"So you remember him burning you, then?"
He shrugs, apparently intently focused on an article about a new type of wheel or whatever. "Not that part. I was pretty high."
Sam studies his brother's face, but he can never tell if Dean is lying. "You were screaming," he says carefully. "He burnt you."
Another shrug. "It worked."
"We could have found another way."
Dean tosses the magazine aside and turns to him. "Why can't you just admit that you were wrong and Dad was right? Like always."
"Why can't you do something other than take his side for once?"
"Why the hell do you think, Sam? Because one day there'll be a werewolf coming at us, and you two will be arguing over which way to hold the fucking gun!"
Sam chews on his lip and doesn't answer for a while. Dean doesn't understand, he never does, and there's no point arguing with him now. "How's your leg?" he asks finally.
Dean shrugs again. "Dad said he'd get some cream for it."
"Can I have a look?"
"Sure."
He steps forward and carefully peels back the damp cloth. The skin underneath is red like he has a bad sunburn, and all the hair has been burnt off the front of his leg, but the blistering and the deeper burn has completely disappeared.
Sam gapes at it, amazed.
"Do you know how long it takes for leg hair to grow back?" Dean asks as Sam touches the healed skin in disbelief. "I'm not going to be able to take my pants off in front of girls for like, a month."
Sam doesn't answer, still staring. It had worked.
But no, Dad had still hurt him. They could have found another way. He couldn't just -
"Of course," Dean is continuing above him, "if it was your leg, we could just shave the whole thing and no one would notice."
Sam finally tears his eyes away, comes up with a response. "Yeah well, I'm not the one stupid enough to get felt up by a dumb angry ghost."
"The ghost would have tricked you into giving it a good long hug. You'd have been ashes by the time we found you."
He manages to sneer in Dean's direction, but he just can't keep up with a normal conversation at this point. He doesn't understand how Dean can act as if nothing had happened, as if dad hadn't done that to him. To both of them. Sam feels the distance between them at that moment, and it's scary.
Dean goes on with it, ignoring Sam's silence. He picks up the magazine. "I'll tell you what, Sammy. If you make me a sandwich now I'll tell dad about it, and maybe he won't yell at you when he gets home."
He's smiling like nothing had happened, like everything is normal. Normal . But he was so hurt last night, and Sam has to play along with it for now, for his sake.
"Yeah, like that'll happen," he mumbles.
"It might. He's a forgiving man."
Sam snorts, and rests the damp cloth back across the front of his leg. He swats his brother on the knee, ducking away before Dean can kick him, and then heads towards the kitchen to make him the sandwich.