Compelling
K Hanna Korossy
"So…did your husband often work in the garden in the middle of the night?"
Sam gave a sub-vocal clearing of the throat, and Dean's eyes slid over to him even as his face remained turned to Mrs. Glazer, features politely interested. He was just in time to see Sam shift in his seat and give Dean a dude, just…shut up look. Sam was lucky Mrs. Glazer was there, or Dean would've stuck his tongue out at his little brother. Geez, it was a legit question.
Mrs. Glazer certainly didn't seem offended. Teary-eyed and looking like she was desperate to hug someone, which, considering she outweighed Dean by a hundred pounds easy and was dressed in the most colorful mu-mu he'd ever had the misfortune to see, was the most frightening thing about this case so far. She restrained herself a little longer, though, just dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief that was ridiculously small in her big hands. "No. I mean, he loved to garden—he was out in the yard almost every day. But not usually at night. I didn't even realize he was out there until I went down for coffee the next morning and saw…saw…" Her mountainous bosom heaved in new sobs.
Dean's eyebrows jumped, and he glanced over at Sam with a silent yikes!
Sam squirmed again. Dean would have liked to have thought it was because his brother was just as afraid of being buried in an avalanche of neon-flowered fabric, but the slight twitches of discomfort in the kid's face told the real story. That demonic witch-bitch in Sturbridge had tossed them both around, but she'd practically ground Sam through a wall. Dean had only caught glimpses, but the color of the skin of Sam's back rivaled Mrs. Glazer's wardrobe, and that was saying something. Even days later, Sam was moving with a fraction of his usual speed and grace.
Good thing they weren't chasing anything more than a few weird, unexplained deaths in the small, picturesque town of Lock Haven, Pennsylvania. Guy found dead in his garden and gardening clothes by his wife, another apparently jogged himself to death, with a third keeled over in his boat after having disappeared four days before for an afternoon of fishing. All the deaths had real causes: heart attack, dehydration, exposure. But no explanations for the out-of-character behavior.
Which was where they came in. Dean had figured it was kind of a geek vacation, mostly research and talking to people instead of tromping through the woods looking for some creature or having to do a salt-and-burn or exorcism. At least, he hoped not. It was theoretically possible some couch potato's vengeful spirit was after people dared to be out having a life. Well, if you called digging in the dirt, living.
Sam cleared his throat, darting a sharp glance at Dean first. Oh, right, probably wandered there a little. Hard to imagine how, with Mrs. Glazer's riveting story. "Did he act strange at all the night before?" Sam smoothly took over. "Say anything unusual?"
Mrs. Glazer turned to him, which actually made Sam shift back a few inches. Dean tried not to smirk. "No. I mean, not really. He'd been gardening all afternoon—it's bulb season, you know—and he said he didn't want dinner, just wanted to keep going, but that wasn't terribly unusual. He got that way sometimes. He did love his garden." Her eyes welled up again.
Sam nodded sympathetically, while darting out a foot to kick Dean in the ankle when he rolled his eyes. He flinched, mouthing something nasty to Sam around Mrs. Glazer's considerable bulk. Sam glared back. Then fidgeted like a four-year-old on a sugar rush.
Too bad he'd just lost his sympathy points there. Dean let him take the rest of the interview, gaze meandering around the room while Sam tried to coax anything useful from the widow.
It was obvious someone loved gardening. Besides all the flower-themed stuff crammed into the small living room, there was some sort of award with a golden trowel—a golden trowel? And Sam thought Dean was skewed?—perched on top of the mantel, an embroidered pillow on the couch that said, "Gardeners do it in their beds," and a flower catalog neatly squared on the coffee table. Well, there were worse ways to go than while doing something you loved. Or for something—someone—you loved.
Wincing, Dean turned back to their interview subject, just catching Sam's slightly furrowed eyebrow at the sight of him. Dean wiped away any evidence of his thoughts and smiled blandly back. That earned him another classic piqued look and a slight roll of the shoulders, followed by a wince.
"Uh, I think we've got enough for our article now, thank you, Mrs. Glazer," Dean interrupted what was doubtless a fascinating story about Mr. Glazer's views on perennials versus annuals, whatever those were. Sam's mouth pinched, but he followed Dean's lead, rising gingerly to his feet, pain visible only in his eyes. Okay, so maybe Dean felt a little sympathetic. He even let Sam go ahead of him to the door, bravely placing himself between his brother and Mrs. Glazer for their good-byes. He'd survive a hug from the large woman—probably—but Sam didn't need to be crushed again. "We'll call if we need anything else—appreciate your time," Dean continued as they moved toward their escape.
Thankfully, there was no hugging, just a teary farewell. Mrs. Glazer stood in the doorway looking mournfully after them, which was the only reason Dean didn't give into the full-body shiver that was crawling down his back as they hurried to the car. "Well, that was scary."
"He died gardening, Dean," Sam shot back without much enthusiasm.
"I meant her." He barely hitched his thumb back. "I'm going with, Mr. Glazer spent as much time out in the garden as he could so he didn't have to be around Mrs. Glazer."
"She seems like a nice person," Sam said mulishly.
"She seems like three nice persons," Dean corrected.
Sam rolled his eyes at him. Dean would have bet good money he'd been dying to do that the whole visit. "Unfortunately, that was our last lead, too. No explanations for the deaths, no connections between the victims. I don't know, Dean, maybe they just…died. It happens."
"Three weird deaths in a town this size?" Dean shook his head as he circled the Impala's hood. "Doesn't feel right to me, dude."
Sam's mouth pulled into a half-smile as he looked at Dean over the roof. "Is that the same famous Dean Winchester sixth sense that was sure that raccoon in Dover was really the incarnation of a Native American deity?"
Dean's cheeks flamed as he ducked down to get the door. "Hey, I had good reasons for that one."
"Or did two exorcisms on that waitress in Tampa until you were sure she wasn't possessed?"
He pointed a finger at Sam. "Dude, she had, like, four of the classic signs."
"Or—"
"Shut up, Sam," he growled as he slid into the car.
Sam was chortling as he joined Dean, even though he immediately arched away from the seat back.
Dean eyed him a minute before deciding he was all right. Well, besides needing a new sense of humor.
No, there were definitely worse things to die for than what you cared about, Dean thought as he turned the engine over and pulled away from the curb.
00000
"I have a theory," Sam said, looking up from the laptop to his brother.
Dean was sprawled across his bed, thumbing idly through an old car magazine he'd dug out of the dresser drawer. For a job that he'd found, he was showing a decided lack of interest in researching it. Sam had been ready to complain about it, until he'd realized half the material he was going through was about demons. Considering the little theory about demonic origins Ruby had kindly shared with his brother after their witch hunt, Sam couldn't really blame Dean for not wanting it rubbed in his face.
Not that it was doing Sam's morale a lot of good, either. But he potentially had years to get over it, he thought bitterly. Dean was down to a little over four months.
Dean tossed the magazine aside without hesitation as he sat up and gave Sam his attention. "Lay it on me."
Sam pulled his thoughts back to the case at hand, trying not to wince as he forced his stiff muscles to relax. He'd been having to do that a lot lately. "A passion demon," he responded.
Dean's eyebrows climbed toward his hair. "Seriously? Like, what, we're talking succubus?"
"More like a calumniator, a demon that incites people to act on their passions."
Dean was looking at him like he was speaking Latin, which…okay, no, he wasn't. "Riiight. One of those evil gardening demons. Take over the world one rosebush at a time, something like that?"
Sam made a face at him. "It doesn't matter what the passion is, Dean, or even if it's a vice or not. The point is, they make you do it to the exclusion of all else. You forget about eating, or sleeping…"
"Or returning to land—okay, yeah, that kinda makes sense. Sorta. I mean, there's only so long you can do anything, right, before your body wears out. Although," a leer crawled across Dean's face. "Few things out there I wouldn't mind trying."
Sam glared.
Dean's smile didn't slip so much as finally wore away. "Okay, fine, killjoy. So how do we find a demon that keeps jumping from person to person? I mean, just about everybody's got something they're passionate about."
Sam sighed, shifting on the chair to try to find a position that didn't push on his tender shoulder blades. Stupid high-backed chairs. "Yeah, I'm still working on that."
There was silence for a minute, Dean's lips pursed in thought. "Maybe we could do some sort of mass exorcism on the town?"
"The words only have power if the demon can hear them, Dean."
"Okay, we wait until there's some kind of town event, then get on a loudspeaker…" He grimaced. "Yeah, that plan sucks."
"You think?" Sam drawled.
Dean gave him a startled look. Well, Sam had warned him he was trying to be more like him, right?
Sam hurried on defensively. "We could go around testing people."
"Uh-huh. That would only take, what, about a week? Demon could've jumped ship half-a-dozen times by then."
Sam jogged a leg as he flipped through his journal looking for possibilities, stilled the movement just as fast as his back flared with aches. They weren't calling Bobby again if they didn't have to. It was starting to feel as though they couldn't get through a case without the older hunter's help, and Sam had to learn how to do this himself, to be independent. To be…alone.
"Town's got a main square, right? What if we lay down some kinda massive devil's trap, see what we catch? I bet most of the town passes that way at least every few days."
Sam blinked his eyes clear before he looked up, and cleared his throat. "Yeah, maybe. If we figure out how to do it so no one can see it." And if it didn't rain. And if the possessed person even went that way.
Dean chewed on his lip a minute more, then sighed, shrugging. "Dude, I got nothing."
Sam sighed. "All right, well…maybe if we just keep our ears open, we can figure out if somebody's acting unusual before they kill themselves. I mean, most…passions would take a while to wear you out."
Dean was starting to smile again.
Sam shot him his most lethal glower, the one pulled out for special occasions only, and saw his brother's smirk fade with all the squirm of a kid caught in the cookie jar. Sam was still the quelling little brother. For four more months, anyway.
Dean sighed, expression going completely serious, making him look tired and old. Sam wished back the leer. "Okay, well, I know one place that's good for catching up with the town gossip." He stood, reaching for his jacket.
Sam snorted softly. He knew Dean, and that his brother had probably just been looking for an excuse. "You comin' back tonight?"
Dean grinned at him, all show and faux cheer now. "Not if I can help it."
Sam wanted to point out that they still had a lot of research ahead, that they didn't know how the demon was choosing its victims, and they weren't even positive yet it was a demon, but none of the words had enough drive to make it past his lips. The truth was, Dean's time was short, and he should have the right to spend it as he wanted to. If that meant forgetting his death sentence for a little while in the arms of some willing barmaid, who was Sam to say no? He shook his head in pale amusement. "Take some holy water with you," he called out after his brother.
Dean turned back to flash his jacket open, the glint of his flask visible inside his pocket, his face schooled in a clear Yes, Mom.
Sam did smile for real this time.
"Don't fall asleep on your computer," Dean said pointedly. "Drool's a pain to clean out of the keyboard."
"Yeah, you'd know all about cleaning bodily fluids out of the keyboard, wouldn't you?"
"Hey, someone has to clean up after you."
There was a moment's pause, old jokes seen in a new light these days. Dean's eyes a silent apology, Sam's a just as clear Forget it.
"Take some pills and go to bed, Sammy," Dean said, newly gentle. "I know your back's killing you." And then he was out the door.
Right, Sam sighed out slowly. That was what was wrong with him. His back.
Wearily, he returned to his laptop and the waiting research.
00000
Dawn was actually a beautiful time of day.
Dean never saw it from the front end of a day—get serious. He wasn't out of bed that early unless it was for work or, occasionally, Sam. Neither of which tended to leave him time to be looking at sunrises. But as the capstone to a night of fun, the farewell before he stumbled home and into bed? Yeah, it was a pretty awesome sight. Dawn of a new day.
One of his last.
Instantly sobered, Dean turned away from the pastel sky and headed for the motel door.
The click of laptop keys was the first thing he heard as he opened the door quietly, in the vain hope Sam was asleep. Dean sighed to himself. If the kid wasn't researching their current hunt, he was scribbling mysteriously in his journal or looking for a way out of Dean's deal, which meant he never got much sleep. Dean would have to make sure Bobby was around come May, to knock Sam out for some overdue rest if nothing else. It had become starkly obvious over the last few months that Sam would not do well on his own. He just didn't take care of himself.
Or, Dean froze as he stepped inside and Sam's head shot up, sometimes things went wrong.
Sam looked…grey. Drawn and rigid and near-panic, eyes a little wild as they landed on Dean, even as he kept typing away. What the—? Dean moved forward, the question on his lips.
Until the new angle revealed the keyboard, and Sam's hands. Sam's rigid, bloody hands.
"Sam, what—?"
"I can't stop. Dean, I—I tried, but it's like…something else is controlling my hands."
All night? he wanted to ask, but the answer was appallingly obvious. While Dean had been busy with some passions of his own, the demon had apparently been paying Sam a visit.
"Okay, just…hang on," Dean said, and took hold of Sam's wrists, pulling them away from the laptop.
It felt as if they were chained to the computer, however. They didn't budge, held fast by supernatural strength, even as Sam's fingers jerked and twitched over the keys, leaving bloody smears in their wake from cracked fingertips. The whole body-fluids-in-the-keyboard thing was taking on a stark, morbid new meaning.
"Fine," Dean said, "we'll do this the hard way." He moved next to Sam, grabbed his brother by the waist, and yanked him hard to the side, off the chair.
Sam's whole body stiffened, momentarily fighting his pull. Dean put his back into the tug-of-war, leverage on his side this time, and slowly, Sam started to move. He grunted as Dean finally tipped him off the chair and he slid into his brother's arms, body still arching to sit and hands spasming in a macabre parody of typing.
His passion, Dean snorted bitterly as he wrapped his arms around Sam's, pulling his straining brother close to his body, then smoothing his grip down over the splayed hands. They pulled in his grasp, but not enough to break free. "It's okay," he soothed. "I'm gonna stop this."
"I tried an exorcism already," Sam gritted out through his teeth. "Couldn't get to the holy water, but…"
Okay, that was a start. Dean shifted him around, trying to be careful of Sam's back as his brother's breathing sharpened, making sure not to loosen the hold on his arms. Dean finally worked them around so Sam's hands were pinned between his body and the carpet, leaving Dean a free limb to pull out his flask. "Hold on," he said. He twisted the cap off with his teeth, then liberally anointed his brother's shoulders, then upper arms with the water.
Nothing. Not even a faint sizzle.
Dean rolled Sam a little, got one of his hands free. Tried again, with the same results. Crap.
"Dean…" Sam begged, fingers leaving streaks and spots of blood on both their shirts, his bones outlined under taut skin.
"I'm working on it!" Dean snapped, then added, "Christo."
Sam looked fearful and just this side of wrecked, but there was no demonic flinch, no black eyes.
Increasingly baffled, Dean slowly levered himself up, quickly bearing back down when Sam started to bend away from the floor. Fine, then, the hard way. Dean stretched to reach their bag, finally snagging the strap and pulling it closer. "I'm gonna try salt, okay?"
Sam nodded into the carpet, exhaustion like a weight on his features, his jerking body.
Dean dug out the bottle and started pouring, first a circle around them, then a little over Sam's body and, finally, his hands. Sam hissed as salt hit open wounds, but didn't utter a word of protest. Nor relax.
Dean dropped the bottle and ran a hand through his hair. "Dude, I don't think this is a demon."
"Dean, I can't…" Sam swallowed.
"I know. We'll figure this out, Sam, okay? Just give me a minute." Dean eased him fully onto his side, trapped him once more against the bloodstained carpet with a gentle but firm grasp instead of the weight of his body. "Okay, so, what else can do this to a person? We looking at another witch here?"
Sam grimaced. "What are the chances of that?"
True. "Fine, then, what? Trickster, maybe?" They'd run through these possibilities before, discounted most, but Dean needed to fix this now. "Getting to people through their vices and faults?"
Sam looked at him tiredly, still managing a very little-brotherly sarcasm. "Gardening?"
Dean gave him an exasperated look. "Okay, genius, you come up with something."
The kid looked beyond coherent thought, but he gave it a try. "Maybe…something like the seven deadly sins? Touch you and you give in to your passion?"
"Gardening, dude?" Dean echoed.
Sam seemed to lose what color he had left, even as his hands heaved against Dean's grip. "I don't know, all right? I've been trying to think all night…"
Dean snorted. "Yeah, kinda hard when you've got the whole Mephisto thing going on."
Sam huffed a pained laugh under him.
Dean glanced around the room, racking his brain, absently rubbing Sam's corded wrists. They'd laid down salt lines; that should have kept out almost anything. So…maybe there wasn't something to keep out. Not everything they came up against was a thing. Dean straightened. In fact…
He shot an arm up, pulling their dad's journal down from the table.
"What?" Sam asked.
"Curse," Dean said tersely, and flipped through the pages. The big curses, the dying-victim, kill-you-all kind of curses like the one on Oasis Plains were pretty much unbreakable, as were the specific, detailed ones. But the smaller ones, the general, weaker variety cast by twisted witches and dabblers of the occult, those he could do something about. And considering the recent manifestations of this one, Dean was willing to bet it fell into the latter category. No major supernatural entities or events he knew about in the area lately to have spawned something complex like this. Besides, having to sit on Sam to keep him from typing his fingers down to the bone was growing old pretty fast. They had to try something.
Dean found the page, the general curse-breaker he was looking for. Something specific to the exact spell would work better, but beggars couldn't be choosers. He dropped the book on the floor, wrapped Sam's hands in his own, and started reading.
The reaction was dramatic. As soon as the last word fell from Dean's lips, Sam went limp under him, only his heaving chest giving proof of life.
"Sam?" Dean cautiously loosened his grip, felt along sinew and bone to large hands that were pliant in his grip. Bruises were already forming along the palms and fingers, the skin scratched and split at the tips. Dean winced and laid them gently aside, moving to tilt Sam's chin instead. "Hey. Sammy. You with me?"
Sam groaned. "I hate curses," he muttered, eyes not bothering to open.
"Yeah, you and me both," Dean agreed with relief, patting his shoulder, then rolling smoothly onto his knees off Sam. "Let's get your hands cleaned up."
He actually had to help Sam rise, and the kid swayed groggily on his feet. Guess a night of bewitched typing really took it out of you. Dean changed his mind about heading to the bathroom, tugging Sam toward the bed instead. He stripped the covers back, then sat Sam on the edge and crouched in front of him.
"You feel okay now? Mission Control back in charge of all systems?"
"Yeah, just…" Sam swiped at his face, hardly even seeming to notice as Dean intercepted his dripping hand. "…really tired."
"Gee, can't imagine why," Dean said dryly, and guided Sam back down on the pillow, swinging his legs up after him. He pulled his brother's boots off and the blankets on, then nodded at him. "Go ahead and sleep. I'll take care of your hands and get a few more wards up."
"Can't ward off a curse," Sam mumbled, eyes half-shut already.
"Watch me," Dean said stonily. Actually, he was pretty sure the curse-breaker would protect Sam indefinitely from this curse, but he wasn't about to come home again to a bloody and frantic brother.
Sam's response was an unintelligible trail of sound, and then he was out, body sagging into the mattress and respirations growing long and deep. The weary lines of his face eased, leaving only pallor to signify this was anything more than normal sleep.
Dean sighed, shoving a hand back through his hair, then headed into the bathroom for supplies.
By the time he was done, Sam looked like a little kid who'd had a playground accident, seven of his fingers decorated with the Sesame Street Band-Aids he'd bought for Dean as a joke after Gordon had fed on him. It had taken Dean two days to realize he was sporting The Count bandages on his neck. Sam probably didn't even remember that Dean had gotten him GI Joe Band-Aids when he was little, covering his thumb with them once John decided his youngest was too old for thumbsucking. They'd used up almost the whole box before it finally worked, although Dean was well aware Sam had continued to suck his thumb under the blankets for months after. No reason Dad had had to know about that one.
Smiling faintly, Dean dug into his bag half-under the other bed, pulled out a notebook, and jotted a few lines down, then tossed it back. Sam made a soft sound in his sleep, and his brother's gaze returned to him, to his still occasionally twitching hands. Sam had fretted endlessly over the one bandaged finger after those stupid Scandinavian freaks had torn one of his fingernails out; he probably wasn't going to be much fun to be around for a while. Not like Sam was a barrel of laughs these days, anyway, yet there was still no other place Dean would rather have been. No one else he wanted to be with in the time he had left.
Dean pulled a hand over his jaw, eyes flicking to the bloody keyboard and Sam's notes on the table. He rubbed Sam's upper arm as he stood and headed back over to their research materials, grimacing faintly at the rusty red that coated everything. A ginger touch of the keypad brought the screen to life, and it looked like Sam had opened a window and just typed away, the screen full of gibberish. Ninety-four pages of it, and Dean winced and shut the document, declining to save. He flipped open the first aid kit on the table next to the laptop, dug out some alcohol pads, and started cleaning the keys.
Sam's journal was sitting next to the computer. Dean's eyes kept straying to it as he worked, partly an effort at distracting himself from what he was doing, partly the same curiosity that had been eating at him the last few months, when he'd first started seeing Sam furtively writing in it. Several times, Dean had caught him copying something out of Dad's journal or off the computer. Making his own hunter's handbook? Preparing himself for a life alone? He'd said he'd wanted to be more like Dean, and the simple statement that had filled Dean with pride when Sam was four, now ate at him. Sam saw the pragmatic killer, the stoic face. He didn't see Dean shaking in the bathroom late at night after some hunts, or wiping burning eyes in the Impala when Sam left to find a bathroom. He saw denial and took it for dealing, which was what Dean had always wanted, but he hadn't expected Sam to emulate it. Sam was supposed to be all emo and second-guessing; it was how they balanced. But if Sam was left alone…
The keyboard was clean, smelling sharply of the alcohol, and Dean moved his hand over to the scuffed journal, resting his fingertips on the cover. If becoming more "like Dean" was what Sam needed to do, if this was what he had to believe in order to survive, Dean wouldn't fight it. Maybe it would only last until his death, but anything that helped Sam cope, he was behind. He just…he had to know Sam would be okay. Even if it was a dying request, he had to be sure. Dean slid his grip to the edge of the cover, started to lift it.
Then snatched his hand back from the journal with a shake of the head. Sam had promised he'd show Dean what he was doing when it was time. Dean had to trust him on that. If he started doubting his brother now…
Dean curled his hand into a fist. He couldn't doubt his brother now. That was all he had left.
Chewing his lip angrily, he moved away from the table. There was more research to be done, and geek boy was in no shape to do it which meant Dean was up, fatigue or no. But first, he had a protective circle to draw and some wards to put up.
Damned if he was going to let something happen to Sam on his watch again. Not this time.
00000
Sam ached. His body had come to expect it, moving slowly and hesitantly even when he was still half-awake. But the soreness down his arms and especially in his hands was new, and Sam blinked sleepily at the limb he held in front of his face. Was that…Big Bird on his pointer finger?
He groaned, dropping his head back to the pillow. Mephisto, right. Except instead of music, he'd been chained to a different keyboard.
"Rise and shine, cupcake," Dean's almost amused voice rang out from somewhere past his feet. "I brought coffee."
Which just went to show how bad off he was, that Sam had noticed the new aches of his body before the rich smell of coffee. Tea had been his drink of choice once, but with the diminishing sleep and mounting stress of the last seven months, Sam had turned to increasingly stronger stuff. Dean had finally cut him off Red Bulls when Sam had found himself unable to shut up or stop moving one evening. Still got him tons of candy and coffee, though, which was almost as good.
One more way he was becoming more like his brother. As if he could carry Dean inside him if he had enough coffee and M&Ms.
Sam sighed and eased himself upright in the bed, feet dropping to the floor. At least his back didn't hurt enough to steal his breath with every movement anymore. Now he was just stiff and sore, needing to stretch just to be able to move normally. Sam stood, stepping gingerly over the salt-drawn protection circle that surrounded his bed. When nothing happened, he started on the exercise grudgingly, catching glimpses of Dean watching him over the rim of his cup.
"Thanks for this, by the way," Sam said as he went through some basic moves, waving a hand full of kids show characters toward his brother.
"No problem," Dean said easily, the exchange equally valid for both the first aid and the choice of bandages. "Feeling better?"
"Than I did after typing possessed for eight hours straight?" Sam raised an eyebrow at the ceiling he was reaching for, plastic-tipped fingers just brushing the textured surface. "Uh, yeah."
"Good, 'cause your old job's waiting for you anytime you're ready. Dude, I don't know how you can look at this stuff for hours without going crazy." Dean paused. "Oh, wait…"
Sam rolled his eyes as he dropped his arms, glancing over at the clock before he crossed the room to join Dean. Five-oh-three, presumably in the afternoon considering it had been around dawn when Dean had come back. Long time to sleep, but he still felt a little cotton-headed. It was probably why his back was better, though. Sam swallowed another sigh as he circled around to behind his brother, peering over Dean's shoulder at the open laptop. On which, of course, there wasn't a single speck of blood. "You find anything, or you just complaining on principle?"
"Hey, I said it sucks, not that I can't do it." Dean tilted the screen back a little so Sam didn't have to lean down so much, and tapped it. "I think we're not just looking at hobbies or passions here, Sammy. Looks more like obsessions."
Sam's eyebrows jumped as he read the details of Mark Rueger—the dead fisherman's—nasty divorce case. Basically, he'd been unfaithful to his wife…with his fishing boat. "The others, too?"
Dean flipped through opened windows casually, sipping his own coffee in between words. "Stu Glazer was kind of a legend in his gardening club—" Sam ignored the small snicker "—for spending a few years solid being some kind of hermit while he developed a new species of orchid." Dean shook his head, his disbelief clear. It never failed to amaze Sam that this was the kind of thing Dean saved his astonishment for, not what they hunted. "And Miles Etikan, the runner? Entered just about every marathon in the country, sometimes running every weekend a month. He never married, big surprise."
Sam straightened, chewing his nail as he turned over the facts. "So, you're thinking that something's targeting people who are obsessed? But that doesn't explain…" He trailed off, gaze shying away from Dean's suddenly sharp one.
"Yeah, no, you haven't been obsessed at all," Dean said dryly.
Sam glared at him, having no intention of going into this now. "All right, fine, but why curse obsessed people? I mean, it's not like they really hurt anybody but themselves."
"Rueger's wife wasn't too happy with him," Dean mused.
"Any signs she's into black magic?"
"She's a yoga instructor." Dean blinked. "Maybe I should go check her out, you know, make sure she's not exercising for Satan."
"Yeah, I know how you'd check her out," Sam muttered, then nudged his brother's shoulder. "Move."
"Well, since you asked so nicely." Dean stood stiffly, and Sam's attention momentarily shifted from the computer.
"Did you get any sleep last night?"
Dean shrugged. "Grabbed a little nap around noon."
"Well, you look like you just ran a marathon. You should grab another hour or two while I check some things out." He pointed at Dean's bed.
Dean eyed him. "You sure? Not gonna be able to type too well with those hands, Sparky."
"I'll manage," Sam said with a wrinkle of the nose. Not that he was looking forward to it, but recuperation time was a luxury in their job. Especially now that he'd experienced the curse firsthand; he wasn't about to let someone else succumb to it. And every life he saved gave Sam a little more hope he could save the one that mattered most to him, too.
Dean looked like he was about to protest, but then he shrugged, shoulders slumping. "Yeah, okay, maybe an hour. Didn't get much sleep during the night," he added with a weary smirk.
Sam groaned. "I've been tortured enough for one day, all right? Save me the x-rated blow-by-blow." Then, realizing what he'd said, he flushed crimson.
Dean's face split into a grin.
"Dude," Sam raised a finger warningly, "if you say one word, I swear, you're waking up outside and bald."
Dean squelched the grin but still looked highly amused as he dropped into bed and splayed out on his back, right hand tucked up under his pillow. He was asleep within a minute, a hunter's skill picked up from their dad that Sam had never mastered.
Still, the lightened mood had eased something tight and heavy in his own heart, and it was almost with no trepidation at all that Sam settled in front of the computer, sipped at his cooling coffee, and laid battered fingers gently on the clean keyboard.
00000
"So, tell me again why we're looking for a statue in the middle of the night?"
Dean thought it was a reasonable question, considering Sam had dragged him away from a bagful of chalupas and a double-feature of Godzilla v. King Ghidorah and Godzilla v. King Kong. Seriously, sometimes he really questioned Sam's priorities. Especially since a statute probably wasn't going anywhere in the next few hours.
Sam tossed him a look that was well down on the Sam Winchester Irritation Scale, which meant he probably still appreciated the de-cursing of that morning but gratitude was waning in face of Dean's foot-dragging. He figured he had about a two-wisecrack grace period left. "It's not just a statute; it's an avatar."
"An avatar for this woman—"
"—Grace Ledbetter—"
"—who you think started the curse."
"Dean," Sam stopped to give him a longsuffering look, "did you hear anything I said?"
He suddenly grinned. Sammy made a great straight man. "Grace's girlfriend was hot into pottery-making to the point of Grace feeling like her own pots were a little too neglected, so she kills her lover, curses other obsessive people in the town, and then kills herself. Other than that, yeah, I didn't catch a word."
Sam stared at him, apparently trying to decide between exasperated and impressed. Thank God, a smile won, turning Sam's face heart-clenchingly young-looking. Dean ignored the echoes of childhood promises and confidences, aiming a smug look at his brother, who just kept looking at him fondly.
Okay, so some things were worse than exasperation.
Sam cleared his throat. "So, Grace was a sculptor—"
"Is that different from pottery?"
"Yes, Dean. And she—"
"How?"
Sam clenched his teeth. That was better. "I'll take you to a museum after, all right?" They started walking again. "So Grace made this statue and donated it to the town. They felt they had to put it up after she died. But the statue's design matches amulets historically made to focus curses to specific recipients."
"Like painting a bull's-eye on the town," Dean summed up slowly. "So, the town puts up the statue in honor of dead sculptor-witch-chick, and people start dying of obsessions just like her girlfriend."
"The first death was five days after the statue's placement," Sam confirmed.
"Okay, makes sense," Dean said, nodding. Paused. "How sure are you she's really the one behind all the deaths?" He glanced over at Sam.
Sam squirmed a little mid-step, and Dean was pretty sure it wasn't because of his back. "I didn't find any proof she knows anything about curses, but it makes sense."
Dean frowned. "Dude, that's all you're—"
"Statue's made of stone, Dean—we'll have to blow it up."
Dean broke out into a grin and he picked up his pace. "Why didn't you say so in the first place?" It'd been too long since they'd gotten to blow something up. The bag Sam was carrying made sense now. Secretly, Dean thought the geek enjoyed explosions as much as he did. He forgot sometimes that Sam was a guy, too. Although, that reminded him, "Hey, you realize that means you were possessed by a lesbian?"
He chuckled at Sam's withering retort.
The statue sat on a pedestal beside a pink-latticed gazebo. Dean reflected for a moment how much more trouble it would be to blow up the gazebo, but Sam gave him a don't you dare glare, and that reluctantly put an end to the idea. Sam always had been a total spoilsport.
Still, even a one foot-tall stone statue made for a pretty impressive explosion. Even though they were well out of the danger zone, a few tiny pieces still pinged against the side of the gas station they were tucked behind across the street. Lights came on immediately in two of the houses that edged the opposite side of the otherwise silent and empty street, and Dean couldn't help wonder what was wrong with the hearing of the other half-dozen homes' occupants.
He grinned sideways at Sam, who smiled quietly back. Dean nudged his brother in the ribs. "Simple pleasures, dude."
Sam didn't bother answering, just snorted and shook his head.
They watched for another minute, until the approach of a police siren sent them slipping off into the darkness.
00000
It was two a.m., and Sam was on a road to nowhere.
The time didn't really matter; with the hours they kept, night and day were suggestions more than schedules. Dean had slept that afternoon and was now out getting them food, and Sam himself had been conked out most of the day. And then there was the lingering adrenaline rush of setting up an explosion in the middle of town that night, a whole other, more fun form of being worked up than their usual on-the-job panic. Sam didn't feel at all sleepy.
He was very tired, though. Which was, paradoxically, why he was out there walking along an empty road instead of back in the room waiting for Dean and dinner.
The simple pleasures, as Dean called them, were welcome and were carefully tucked away to be remembered and enjoyed later, just like the memories Dean had written down for him that Sam had been reading a little at a time, like dessert. They helped make the strain bearable, helped him forget for just a few wonderful minutes the deadline that lay ahead. Maybe forgetting wasn't good; maybe he needed to work harder, take advantage of every minute to research a way to get Dean out of his deal. But Sam was pretty sure he'd go crazy without the small breaks and oases, even if the crush of reality and guilt afterward was all the harder.
And then there was the fact he was working in spite of and around Dean instead of with him.
Sam rubbed the blur from eyes that were exhausted from blinking back tears all the time. He hadn't even mentioned to his brother the new player the witch in Sturbridge had talked about, the powerful demon that wanted Sam dead. It didn't matter in the face of the larger roadblock of Dean's resistance. It would have been bad enough if they'd been working on this together, the most important case of their lives. But trying to keep it from Dean, working it without the support he'd leaned on all his life, was breaking Sam. He didn't have the strength for this. Not to fight the fear and depression of every new dead-end, and Dean as well, to search in secret and play along with his brother in the open. To know there would be no one there for him at the end when he unraveled.
When Dean would be in Hell, turning into what they hunted…
Sam wobbled down to the ground, tailbone hitting dirt. He couldn't do it. He couldn't. He was tired and gutted and hurt so much, sometimes it felt like he couldn't breathe. Like he really was six feet under like he should've been in the first place.
The tears came hot and scalding, leaving no relief in their wake.
Sam sat a long time, praying in broken snatches, pounding the earth with colorful fingers and language, alternately cursing and begging under his breath. He sat until he felt utterly emptied, shoulders slumped and back bent. Until he had no recourse left but the one he'd had all his life, pulling out his phone with limp fingers and calling Dean to pick him up. He had that option for four more months.
The phone rang. And rang. And went to voicemail.
Frowning, Sam tried again. Got the same result.
He pushed to his feet and started running back the way he'd come.
The distance that had seemed so insurmountable a few minutes before, flew by now. Before long, the motel came into view on the lonely road, the Impala parked in front of the room that was currently home. Sam didn't slow, legs pumping past the car and up the wooden sidewalk, skidding him to a stop in front of the door as he pounded on it.
No one answered, and Sam dug out a key with fumbling fingers.
The main room was empty, but there was light and sound coming from the bathroom. Sam dashed to the doorway.
And stopped, momentarily uncomprehending.
An empty pizza box sat on the dirty tile floor, companion to the one Sam had almost stepped in on the way to the bathroom. And next to the box was Dean, slumped over the toilet and vomiting up what seemed to be most of the former contents of the two pizza boxes.
"Dean, wha—?"
Dean had only a second to glance up at Sam, eyes wide and watery from the retching and close to frantic, before he dipped his head again.
It was then that Sam noticed that in between heaves, Dean was gnawing at the bar of green-striped soap he had clutched in his hands.
"W-what?" Sam waded in, prying the soap from Dean's fist and throwing it into the sink, then ducking to see his brother's flushed face. "Dean?"
The position gave him a sudden view of the small pile of wrappers on the other side of Dean's legs. Everything from candy bar papers to Doritos bags, it looked like Dean had emptied his junk food stash. And eaten it all. Along with the pizza. And the soap?
Sam's eyes rounded with realization. "Dean? Is it compulsion? Eating, is that it?"
Dean's eyes gave him his answer, his brother reaching for the toilet paper even while he choked on soapy slime.
"Oh, God," Sam muttered, grabbing Dean's outstretched hand and pulling it down to his stomach. Dean made a sound of protest, but it hadn't escaped Sam that his brother had yet to say a word. The other hand followed the first, and Sam banded his arms around his brother with an iron grip, restraining Dean much as his brother had held him not twenty-four hours before. "I thought it was done, I thought we were safe," he said desperately.
Dean whiplashed under him, clawing for food with the frenzy of the starving.
Sam's mind raced. Even beyond the bigger picture of how to stop this curse, there was the immediate question of how to stop Dean. Clearly, the curse wasn't picky about what he ate, and that made what to do with him while Sam freed him a real concern.
"Try to fight it, Dean," Sam rasped at his brother, then heaved up, dragging them both back toward the main room, torn fingertips throbbing from holding on so hard.
Dean had been able to pin him and get Dad's journal without too much difficulty, but Sam didn't think he'd fought his brother this hard then, or been as far gone. Language seemed beyond Dean, and while his usual lethal grace and skills were also thankfully absent, he fought with the fury of a dying man, driven by undeniable need. He nearly bucked Sam off twice before the younger Winchester was able to get them into the room and Dean more or less trapped under his greater weight. Dad's journal was still out, at least, and it only took a little reaching to tip the book from the table to the floor. Sam snatched it up, nearly falling as Dean jerked under him again, then quickly flipped pages to the curse-breaker.
He read it off at a fast clip, Dean struggling and uttering horrible sounds underneath him.
Nothing happened. Well, Dean wormed a hand free and made a grab for the journal, but that wasn't exactly the result Sam had been looking for.
He twisted, tucked, and redistributed his weight, then read the chant again. And a third time.
Dean was mewling like a starving animal. Sam cursed as he slammed the book shut. His eyes shot around the room in mounting panic, looking for something, anything to restrain his brother long enough for him to figure this out. Nothing came to mind. Dean was better at this kind of thing: holds, tools, strategies, so much that Sam could never take his place in…
Okay, there wasn't time for this now. And he had to do something, with Dean's struggles growing increasingly violent. Sam bent over Dean, grimaced. Then, breathing apologies into his brother's neck, he slid an arm across Dean's throat and slowly started to squeeze.
00000
He lay on the bed, hands cuffed to either side above his head, and hazily watched Sam move around the room.
At least, he thought it was Sam. It was hard to think, hard to see anything past the burning light in his vision, the one matching the clawing need in his gut.
"Please," he whispered. "Please. Please."
The dark hair turned toward him, the face below it oddly twisted. "Just hang on a little longer, Dean, all right? I'm working on it."
"Please." His tongue felt thick, dry in his sandpaper mouth.
Sam darted closer then, lifting his head and tilting a cup to it. He drank eagerly, but the hole inside him wouldn't fill. Gentle hands, edged in something bright-colored and slick, settled him back on the bare mattress—he'd lost his pillow when he'd tried to pull it into his mouth with his teeth—stroked his hair, but didn't give him food. He growled a curse, sobbed a little. Then, dazed, lost his place and began again.
"Please. Please."
Sam paced, reading out loud, words that didn't make sense. Sometimes he stopped to look at him, throwing out words like "curse" and "missing something," and "compulsion." But he never fed him. Never did more than give him more of the water that didn't do anything to fill him. Didn't care that he was suffering here, dying.
The hunger chewed him raw, ate at him body and soul. "Please." He would've traded his brother to satisfy it. "Please," he begged. He climbed to his knees, pulling at the cuffs, trying to reach the drapes, the mattress edge, his undershirt, anything. "Please."
Sam moved closer again, and this time the water tasted bitter and the world went even hazier. His murmurs of "please" fell to mumbles even he couldn't make out.
Maybe this was Hell?
A cry roused him from his lassitude. He heard "witches," and then Sam was moving even faster than usual. His eyes slid out of focus from trying to watch.
"Dean, look." The bed dipped. The warmth of his brother was near. Maybe he could finally eat now, and he strained to push himself up only to slump again. Hands patted his cheeks, and he nipped at them weakly. "Dean, open your eyes. I found it."
He struggled to focus on the pouch Sam held, wondering idly if it was food, if he'd go mad if it wasn't. A sound pushed up his throat, making the hand on his cheek tremble before it pulled away.
A flame flared, and the smell of burning filled his nostrils.
There was a sharp lance of pain in the pit of his belly, so sudden, he screamed, arms pulling against the cuffs. And then it all faded away like the end of a movie, sight and sound dimming to nothing, touch following.
Right after he felt gentle hands start to release him from the restraints.
00000
Dean woke more slowly than usual, but that was probably to be expected.
Sam watched his brother blink a few times, waited until his eyes cleared before smiling at him. "Hey."
"Hey." Dean winced right after, like the word hurt. Sam could just imagine. Between the vomiting and the yelling, it was a wonder he had any voice left at all. Dean painfully cleared his throat. "Got me, too, huh?" he whispered.
Sam shook his head, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his crossed legs. His back was still complaining some, but sitting on the floor put him just at Dean's eye level. "No, man, the curse was broken when we blew up the avatar. You came up with something all new. Or old, actually."
Dean frowned at him. He still hadn't shifted in the bed, tested his wrapped wrists, or shaken off the blankets tucked around him. He looked queasy but lucid, if confused.
Sam smiled at him again, reassuring and relieved. "We never found the hex bag."
Dean stared at him a long moment before his eyes jumped. "Son of a…," he breathed. "Dude, she's dead. How—?"
Sam was already shaking his head. "A witch's hex can live on after she does. I guess whatever Ruby gave you just broke that manifestation of the hex, not the whole thing. I don't know how or why it hit you like this—maybe the curse reactivated it somehow, or maybe her dying kinda derailed the mojo, although the coughing your lungs up part was the same, I guess." He let his smile slide into teasing. "She kinda got you at your obsession, too—your stomach."
Dean snorted. "S'not the most important thing to me, Dude."
Sam hesitated at that, even as he saw Dean do so, too. Inadvertent truths were spilling out all over the place, and Sam felt himself choke up a little.
Dean cleared his throat again, and Sam jolted into realizing he'd been remiss in his duty. He grabbed the bottle of water that was on the nightstand nearby and started to tilt it to Dean's mouth, only to have Dean snake out a hand, albeit a shaky one, to grab it and help himself.
Half the bottle gone, Dean let it rest on the mattress and lay back tiredly. "How long was I…?" He made a very tasteful gagging noise.
Sam's mouth twitched as he reclaimed the bottle and set it aside. "About three hours." He should've thought of the hex bag sooner, but he'd been so sure it was related to the curse, and it had taken up valuable time before he'd exhausted all his probable leads and ended up with the highly improbable.
"Huh. Seems like more."
"Yeah, that would probably be from the screaming and fighting the cuffs."
"Fun scene, huh?"
"Dean, I had to choke you out and drug you."
Dean's head rolled back so Sam only saw his face in profile. "You did what you had to," he said wearily. Then turned back to Sam. "So, where was it?"
"Wrapped in one of your shirts at the bottom of your duffel." Sam's eyes dropped. "That night in the motel, in Sturbridge, I never even looked in your bag. Cut the mattress up, but didn't bother to—"
"Sam," Dean said hoarsely, shaking his head once. "Don't. You figured it out when it didn't make sense—you did good."
Sam chewed on his lip and nodded, tilting his head back against the mattress behind him to stare at the ceiling.
Dean coughed, obviously a diversionary tactic this time as he led into something. "In fact, I'd say you did just fine without me. See? You don't—"
Sam's jaw had tightened so fast and hard, teeth were going to crack soon. "Dean, so help me, if you tell me one more time I'll be fine without you—"
"Sam…" Dean pushed himself up in uncoordinated, wobbly shoves, but Sam made no move to help him. He was pretty sure he'd either hit his brother or start crying if he looked at Dean right now, and was also pretty sure Dean wouldn't be happy with either reaction. "I'm just sayin', don't use me as your role model, man. You don't have to change to get through this—you were always stronger than me, Sammy."
"No," Sam grated out, eyes on the floor now. "I wasn't, Dean. I was good at pretending. So unless you want me to fall apart on you right here, just…let me do what I need to."
Dean watched him from where he leaned sideways against the headboard, eyes too compassionate. "You…uh…need to?"
Sam looked up at him tiredly. "Need to what?"
"Fall apart? 'Cause I can deal with that, Sam. I mean, you know, not all the time, but, seriously, if it helps? You know I'm here."
Sam climbed to his feet, trying not to tower as Dean twisted back to look up at him. His brother had always seemed larger than life to Sam, even when he'd outgrown Dean. But now, face bruised and eyes old and wrapped in blankets, he suddenly looked small, fragile. Mortal.
"Go to sleep, Dean," Sam said, smiling sadly, and turned away to strip for bed.
It was the first time he could remember that Dean didn't know what he needed, didn't provide it before Sam could even think to ask. But he'd cried enough, and on his own, already. It was the fight he needed to focus on now, and in that, he was apparently still alone.
Even though he felt his brother's eyes on him long after the lights went out.
00000
The next two hunts were cakewalks, which was pretty much what Dean had been looking for. Yeah, okay, so Curseville, PA, hadn't turned out so easy, but Dean's wrists had healed nicely and Sam didn't look like he was sucking a lemon all the time anymore. He was still being, well, his version of Dean, which apparently meant more swearing, more shooting, and running headfirst where angels feared to tread. But if that helped, hey, hallelujah that something did. Dean started breathing again, even as they crossed another week-and-a-half off the mental calendar.
He should've known better about the breathing part.
They were hunting a cecaelia in Lake Erie, a new one for Dean even though Sam had rattled off the name as soon as they'd caught sight of the tentacled lower half of the "lady" in the lake. Had a nasty habit of drowning the men she didn't actually tear limb-from-limb, which made her a priority over the possible poltergeist they'd been on their way to when they'd heard the rumors.
Squid-lady was corporeal, which to Dean meant he could kill her with a clean shot to the head.
To Sam, it apparently meant he had to wade out into the lake with a blade and do battle mano a mano with her. By the time Dean realized his brother had turned suicidal, Sam was in up to his neck, literally and figuratively. A second later, only bubbles were left in his wake.
Dean was already diving in.
In the end, he got to take his shot, albeit from two feet away and into her neck, the one part he had a clear line of sight for after she wrapped herself around Sam's back. Her head came up with a screech, and even though he was bound up in tentacles, Sam somehow twisted around and slammed his blade halfway through her head.
Even the lake water didn't wash off the ichor from that one.
They staggered out to the shore together, Dean's arm wrapped around Sam's waist while Sam hung on to his shoulder, panting and coughing. As soon as he got his breath back, though, Dean jerked out of Sam's hold, unbalancing him enough that one hard shove to the chest was enough to drop him.
Sam blinked at him from where he sat in a pool of water, knees akimbo. "Dude, what the he—?"
"Is this your new plan, Sam?" He didn't realize he was shouting until Sam flinched from him, but Dean didn't bother to turn the volume down. "Kill yourself to break the contract? Or maybe just so you don't have to deal with it—if you're not here when my year comes due, at least you won't feel the pain, right? Is that it?"
Sam's face darkened as he shoved himself to his feet. "Shut up, Dean."
Dean shoved him again, just pushing him back a step this time. "Is this your friggin' plan, Sam? Because if it is, it totally sucks!" He shoved again.
This time, Sam shoved back.
Dean went down. He just sat there a moment, then started to laugh, bitter and ugly. "I thought you were getting tougher—taking the lead, shoot first and don't ask any questions." Dean shook his hanging head, water spraying finely off his hair and nose. "Turns out you're just trying to end it sooner. Joke's on me, huh? I mean, not like you asked me to bring you back, right?"
He saw Sam drop in front of him, face stricken, but that was the norm more than the exception these days. Dean shied away when his brother reached for him. "Dean…"
"Don't, Sam. Don't do this. I get you didn't want to come back, I get that I screwed you with the deal, all right?" He peered into Sam's face, suddenly anxious to make him believe. "And I'm sorry. I'd still do it, but I'm sorry it's so hard on you. I didn't want…" He flinched. "But don't you undo it, Sam. Please, I'm begging you. Don't make it for nothing."
Sam's face folded. "I wasn't…"
And Dean kinda believed him, which was kinda worse. "Then just…don't. I don't care who you need to be to get through this, but you get through it, you hear me?" He grabbed Sam's arm, shook him a little, adrenaline and panic making his motions jittery. "You friggin' live, Sammy."
Sam blinked slow, water pearling on his eyelashes and tousled bangs. Memories of seashores and sandcastles and the closest they came to innocence crowded in, making Dean bite his lip to keep it steady.
"Sam."
He nodded dazedly, as if he'd just understood something. The way he was looking at Dean, Dean didn't think he wanted to know what it was.
Dean still couldn't help asking. "What?"
"You didn't have a choice, either, did you?"
Sam could've meant a hundred things, and the answer would have been the same. But the way Sam was looking at him, Dean knew what decision he meant. "No," he said quietly. "It was you, or neither of us."
Sam's head bobbed, his eyes shiny and bright. Then he pushed himself up stiffly, reaching down when Dean made no move to join him. Sam hauled him up, looked him in the eye. "Then you should know how it feels," he said almost tenderly. And without pause, he walked past Dean, heading back to the car.
Dean stared after him a long time in silence before he followed.
00000
The next morning, Sam went and found a bar, and started drinking.
The End