And The Warden Sang

by Mummyluvr

My Bloody Valentine crossover. When Dean passed the sign announcing his entrance into Harmony, Pennsylvania, he saw the last day of his life, clear as a bell, all blood and gore and hellhounds in a small town with a similar name. One-shot.

Title: And The Warden Sang

Summary: My Bloody Valentine crossover. When Dean passed the sign announcing his entrance into Harmony, Pennsylvania, he saw the last day of his life, clear as a bell, all blood and gore and hellhounds in a small town with a similar name. One-shot.

Rating: R

Warning: Spoilers for all aired episodes of Supernatural and MAJOR spoilers for My Bloody Valentine. Don't read unless you've seen it or know how it ends ;)

A/N: Title and transition lines are from "Ol' Red" by Blake Shelton, which totally set the mood for this one.

Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural or its characters. I don't own MBV or its characters. I don't own this wonderful Blake Shelton song. I really don't own anything. So sad.

---

And The Warden Sang

When Dean passed the sign announcing his entrance into Harmony, Pennsylvania, he saw the last day of his life, clear as a bell, all blood and gore and hellhounds in a small town with a similar name.

Then he saw red.

--And The Warden Sang--

"He's been missing for a week," Sam explained, gripping the phone in his hand tight enough to turn his knuckles white. "He only went out to scope the place, look at the house, see what was going on. He wasn't even gonna go in."

Over the line, he heard Bobby sigh. "Just calm yourself down and start from the top. Where are you?"

"Pennsylvania. About twenty miles outside some town called Harmony. There's a house out there that's supposed to be haunted. Or, at least, it sounds like it's haunted."

"Ok."

Sam sighed. "I was going to do the research, and Dean went to check the place out. That was a week ago, and I haven't heard from him since. What do you think happened?" There was silence over the line, a small scratching sound. "Bobby?"

"I'm sure he's fine."

"No. You paused. What's wrong. What do you know?"

"It's nothin', Sam. Just ancient history."

"Tell me."

He could practically see Bobby rolling his eyes. "Fine. But it's not important. Not now."

"Every little thing helps. You're the one who taught me that."

Another pause carried over the miles between them before Bobby finally spoke again. "When Dean was about six or seven, CPS caught up with your daddy. They took you boys away, put you in separate homes. You were probably too young to remember."

"That happened a couple of times," Sam said. "What's it have to do with this?"

"They kept you boys away from John for about half a year, Sam. You were somewhere in upstate New York, and Dean was out in Pennsylvania. Your daddy was able to get you back first. Knew some hunters who knew some people who knew your foster folks. You were only gone for about three months. Dean was gone for six. The people he was with were tryin' to adopt him or something."

"And they lived out in Harmony?"

"I guess. That's what John said, anyway. Had some trouble tracking him down. He hadn't given them his real name. Went by Tom for six months. Your daddy had a real fight on his hands trying to get him back. Barely did."

"So, what, you think Dean went back to see those people? He wouldn't do that."

Another pause. "Something happened to him out there, Sam. Stockholm Syndrome, best I can guess. He ran away to them a couple of times after John got him back. Wouldn't respond to his real name for a while."

Sam nodded. "So he might have dropped by for a visit while in town. Ok. But why won't he answer my calls?"

"Couldn't tell ya. But I'm sure he'll be back."

"Yeah. You, uh, you don't know the name of the family he was with, do you?"

"Johnny never said. Dean wouldn't give it up. You might be able to find it if you dig around long enough, but-"

"He'll be back. All right. Thanks, Bobby." He hung up the phone.

Sam's eyes traveled around the room, taking in the emptiness of it all. For a moment, it was almost as if Dean had never come back, as if he was still gone, locked away in Hell.

Six months. Six months away from the only family Dean had ever known, trapped in a home with people who didn't even know his real name. And only a few short years after their mother's death, too. He couldn't imagine that, the hurt and confusion and everything else that his brother must have gone through while waiting for their father to save him.

He looked at the phone in his hand and considered trying to reach his brother again. A week of silence was too much, too long. Something was wrong.

He had just started to dial when he heard the sound of a key slotting into the lock. The door swung open to reveal Dean, with blood on his face and shirt, soot caked into worry lines that shouldn't have been present.

"Where've you been?" Sam demanded.

"Just outside Harmony," Dean answered, as if that were obvious. "You were wrong, buy the way. Wasn't a ghost. Poltergeist. Threw me around a bit before I could figure out who it was."

Sam blinked. "You stitched yourself up?"

"Yep." He closed the door and entered the room, flopping down on his bed.

"You smell like smoke."

"Couldn't let her keep hurting people, Sammy." Dean pulled off his jacket with a wince. "Salt and burn."

"Where'd you get hit?"

"Head, arm, and side," the older man replied with a roll of his eyes. "But I told you, I took care of it."

"You could have called."

Dean shrugged. "I got it."

"You were gone for a week."

"That's because I thought I was looking for a ghost."

Sam sighed. "I called Bobby."

"Why? I had it covered."

"Seven days."

The older man quirked an eyebrow. "You thought the ghost lived in a well?"

"I was scared. You just disappeared. Did you go to see that family?"

"What family?"

"The ones you stayed with as a kid. When we got taken away from dad."

Dean narrowed his eyes. "What are you talking about?"

"The family in Harmony."

Dean just stared at him. "I don't remember any family in Harmony, Sammy. I've never been there before. Maybe Bobby got it wrong." He stood up and started digging through his duffle bag. "I gotta shower. Get the smell of ghost off me."

Sam grinned. "Thought you said it was a poltergeist."

Dean threw his bloody, sooty shirt in Sam's face.

--Come On, Somebody--

"Look at this."

Dean tossed his jacket onto a chair and turned toward the television. A local news crew had set up across the street from the bar he'd hustled in that night. "They covering my brawl?" he asked, plopping down on the bed next to Sam.

"Not unless you took a pick axe to the owner's head."

"Nope. Think I woulda remembered that."

Sam turned off the TV. "Well, someone went on a rampage and tore the place apart, along with everyone in it."

"Glad I skipped out after losing that hundred bucks, then," Dean observed.

"Maybe you shouldn't be. The killer followed the MO of some nut job up in Harmony."

"So he hopped towns?"

"Guy's dead."

Dean nodded. "So his ghost hopped towns."

"Sounds like."

"Looks like we're staying, then."

"We should head up to Harmony tomorrow," Sam muttered. "See how the guy died and what's left to burn."

--Why Don't You Run?--

Trees lined the road, zooming past as the Impala sped toward Harmony. Sam watched the scenery out the window, his eyes catching signs announcing their entrance into Harmony, as well as the location of the town's coal mine.

"Stop the car."

Dean did as he was told, pulling off to the side of the road just behind a billboard. "What is it?"

Sam unfolded himself from the front seat and jogged back up to the sign, staring up at it. Dean stood beside him, arms crossed in annoyance. "Graffiti?"

Sam shook his head. "RIP Elias Hanniger. Must've been the owner of the mine."

"Or the guy who tore up half the town and the only decent bar outside of it," Dean offered. He elbowed his brother. "Come on, let's find out."

They walked back to the car together and drove further through the woods and into the small town. Dean maneuvered the car into a parking space outside a darkened grocery store and turned to his brother. "You want the sheriff? I can take the townies."

Sam nodded and let himself out of the car. He looked down the street, trying to figure out where the police station was.

"Go west a couple of blocks," Dean said. "It's on the corner."

"How do you know that?"

His brother shrugged. "Just a feeling. Meet back up at two?"

Sam muttered an affirmative response as his brother stalked off and into the town. He shook his head and went west, following Dean's directions.

Strangely enough, Dean had been right. The municipal building was exactly where he'd said it would be, a large brick building looming over the street, people running in and out. Sam walked to the door and went in, glancing over his shoulder in time to see Dean chatting up a pretty brunette. Figures. He rolled his eyes as the door closed behind him.

--Ol' Red's Itchin' To Have A Little Fun--

Sarah Palmer couldn't believe her eyes. The sleek black car had pulled up in front of her store and two men she'd never seen before had climbed out.

Correction: one man she'd never seen before had climbed out. The other man had haunted her dreams for the past three days.

She watched the stranger walk downtown, towards the police station, before turning her full attention on Tom. Tom, who had tried to kill her husband, who had tried to kill her son, who had tried to kill her. Sick or not, the man was a murderer, had a murderer inside of him.

Her hand strayed to the pistol she'd stuck in the back of her jeans, a gift from Axel when they'd discovered the horrible truth hidden in that mine. For safety, he'd said. Just in case.

Just in case had come, was there, was walking down the streets of her once-peaceful town in biker boots, torn jeans, and an old leather jacket. Just in case was now, and she wouldn't miss this time.

Sarah jogged off down the street after her old friend, her would-be killer. "Tom!" He didn't turn. She caught up with him, grabbed his arm, spun him forcefully to face her. "Tom."

Tom glared at her, one eyebrow cocked, face pulled into a scowl. Sarah stumbled back a step. "Harry?"

He blinked. "Lady, I think you're confused. My name's Dean." He spun back around and began walking off.

"Can I talk to Harry?" she asked, remembering how Axel had bought the murderer to the surface. Her hand rested on the pistol again, ready to shoot as soon as he changed, as soon as Dean - whoever the hell that was - had disappeared from that familiar face.

He turned back to her. "Look, lady, I don't know anybody named Harry, all right? You know, maybe you should, uh, get some help or something?"

She laughed at that. Because she was totally the one that needed help. He was talking like she had gone berserk and killed half the town in less than a week. He was acting like she was the one with two - no, three now, apparently - people living in her head, controlling her body.

Yeah, Sarah Palmer was the one that needed help.

"Please, Tom-"

"I'm warning you, lady. Back off." He turned again and started walking.

Sarah took her hand off the gun, let herself relax. Maybe she did need help. Maybe she was seeing Tom where he wasn't, accusing innocent people of incomprehensible things.

She sighed and headed back to her store. She had some cleaning up to do, despite her sore muscles and the memories that the vacant aisles brought to the surface. She reached the doors and stood for a moment, staring into the blackness that lay beyond the glass. She reached out a trembling hand, and decided to go home. She could always clean up later.

Her car was right next to large black one that Tom - no, Dean, he said his name was Dean - had been driving. So it couldn't be Tom. Tom had his Ford. Tom had always had his Ford.

She climbed in behind the wheel and stared out the windshield. Of course, the Bronco had been wrecked. Totaled. Driven into a tree. It probably wouldn't run, and what would he do with it, where would be take it? Everybody knew him. Everybody knew what he had done.

They just didn't know that he wasn't dead.

Yet.

She drove mindlessly through the streets and toward her home, toward her son, toward the boxes that they were packing in an attempt to leave the memories of everything behind. Not another town. Just another house. One without bloodstains on the laundry room floor and the front porch. A house without a history.

The driveway was familiar, inviting. Devoid of a cruiser, unfortunately. It was the biggest cover-up in Harmony history, she supposed. As far as the world knew, Tom Hanniger and his alter ego were both dead, killed in an explosion that rocked the mines. With him gone, life could go on. Without, there would be panic, a manhunt, digging into her life that she wouldn't be able to cope with.

So she lied, along with Axel and family of the gutted rescue worker they'd found in Tom's place. She lied and she pretended and she wondered who had opened her front door.

Sarah was out of the car in an instant, the engine still running, because her door was open and her son was home with a babysitter and she'd seen Tom in town.

There was blood on the door, on the porch in front of it, in the entryway behind it. There was blood, and there was Mindy, only sixteen years old, laying off to the side of the sticky mess with her arms thrown out and her eyes wide and her hips jerked off to one side of her body as if her spine had been broken from a blow to the side. As if a pick axe had hit her hip, right where that big hole was, and just kept going, the force of the swing paralyzing her. The brutality of the second killing her, stabbed through on the wrong side to damage her heart, but the right side to deflate a lung. To tear the lung half out through the hole in her ribcage, the mocking space in her chest.

Sarah stumbled over the body, reaching for her gun.

She should have shot him, taken him out when she had the chance instead of being fooled by his innocent act. She could have saved the girl. Could have saved Noah.

There was blood in the sitting room, coating the couch, still dripping from her son's shredded stomach. She dropped to her knees by the body, setting the gun down carefully on the floor as she attempted to wrap her baby boy's organs back up inside of him, keep them all safe and warm and functioning even as his glazed eyes accused her of letting him down.

"Mommy will make it all better," she whispered, stroking his hair with bloodstained hands. "Mommy will make it all right. Shhh."

Noah didn't speak. Just stared. He didn't even say anything as heavy footsteps echoed down the hall and a pick axe separated his mother's spinal cord in one fell swoop, cutting directly into the center of her back. He didn't utter a word as Harry Warden turned her over and began hacking away at her chest, focused on the still-beating prize inside.

--Get My Lantern--

The town sheriff was sitting behind a desk, looking wounded and frazzled. Sam took a seat in the small chair opposite the man's desk without being asked or invited, figuring that Dean was starting to rub off on him.

"Sheriff?"

The man looked up at him, face pale, hair greasy and unkempt, dark circles surrounding sunken eyes. For a moment, he almost reminded the younger Winchester of Castiel. "Can I help you?"

"Maybe." Sam pulled a badge out if the back pocket of his jeans. "FBI. Agent Miller. Off duty at the moment, but this still warrants looking into." He tucked the badge away. "I was hoping you could tell me about what happened here last week," he glanced around the small office space, his eyes finally landing on a plaque with the man's name on it, "Sheriff Palmer."

Palmer sighed. "What does it matter what happened? Tom's dead."

"Tom?"

The sheriff nodded and spun his chair around to dig through a file cabinet. He turned back to Sam with a file in his hands and slammed it down on the desk. "Tom Hanniger. Twenty-eight years old. Suffers from dissociative identity disorder."

"Multiple personalities?"

Another nod. "Thought he was Harry Warden."

"And that is…?"

"Eleven years ago, Tom was working in his dad's mines, made a mistake, and caused a cave-in. Six miners were trapped, one came out alive. That was Harry Warden. He was in a coma, so he couldn't be charged."

"Charged for what?"

"Murdering the other five. Pick axe to their heads."

Sam cringed. "All right."

"One year later, we were having a party up at the mine, and Harry came back."

"From the dead?"

Palmer stared at him. "From his coma. He woke up, killed an entire hospital floor, and then started working through the kids in the mine. I barely got out with my old girlfriend and my wife. Tom wasn't so lucky."

"What happened?"

"He got stuck in the mine. Harry almost killed him. Lucky the sheriff showed up when he did, otherwise Tom would have been a goner." He paused, staring off into space. "Actually, it might have been better that way."

"Why?"

"Tom went away for a while after that. I mean, he was hardly around anyway. Came and went. His parents had him going to a boarding school up until the end of his senior year. I hardly ever saw him until then. But after Harry was killed, Tom left and he didn't come back for ten years. I thought he'd just chickened out and left town or something, but that wasn't it."

"So what happened to him?" Sam asked.

Palmer opened the folder and pointed to a paper. "He was committed. Spent seven years in an asylum."

Sam took the paper and looked at it. "Dissociative identity disorder." He confirmed, nodding, and glanced back up at the sheriff. "He actually thought he was Harry Warden?"

"Saw the split myself. See, Tom came back to town when his dad died-"

"Elias Hanniger?"

Palmer nodded. "Yeah. Tom was gonna sell off the mine. I guess coming back here triggered something and he started killing people."

"But he's dead now?"

The sheriff stared at him, his head slightly bowed. "That's what everyone's saying."

Sam leaned forward and rested his elbows on the other man's desk. "What are you saying?"

"There was an explosion in the mine. Tom was shot and killed."

"Sheriff Palmer, if you're lying to me, that's obstruction of justice. It's a crime." Dean was definitely starting to rub off on him. Or maybe it was residual attitude left over from his brother's time in Hell. Either way, it seemed to work.

"Look, Agent Miller, I'm going to be completely honest here. The people in this town have been through enough in the past decade to last them a lifetime. I'm not going to start a panic."

Sam narrowed his eyes. "Now why does that sound suspicious?"

Palmer sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. He leaned closer to Sam and dropped his voice to a whisper. "They never found his body. He was blown back in the explosion, and then the rescue crew came to dig us out, and…"

"Sheriff?"

He met Sam's eyes, his expression wrecked and hopeless. "When we went further into the mine, we found a worker missing an eye, half his organs, and his suit."

"He's not dead?" Perfect. Just what he needed. As if ghosts weren't bad enough.

"Not that I know." Palmer shook his head. "I still can't believe it, you know? He was my friend since we were kids. Used to play in the park together when we were in elementary school. That was when I met him. That was when his parents got him."

Sam blinked. "He was adopted?"

"Adopted, foster, I'm not sure. He just never seemed to be the crazy type, you know?"

"They never do," Sam muttered, pulling the file on Tom closer. He opened it up and began flipping through it, looking at reports of the murders, notes written by his doctors. "Where was he sent for treatment?"

"Hospital about forty miles into the woods, I think. Follow the road north and you should find it. Not much else out there."

Sam nodded and kept looking through the file. There were photos of crime scenes, people ripped open and gutted, human hearts in candy boxes, and Dean.

Dean?

He pulled the picture from the file and held it up for Palmer to see. "Who is this?"

"That's Tom. He was an early suspect, so we brought him in, had him questioned, took that."

Sam turned the picture back around and stared into his brother's black and white face. Shape-shifter? Doppelganger? But not Dean.

"Thank you, Sheriff," Sam said, standing up and reaching down to shake the man's hand. "I'll keep in touch."

Palmer took his hand and frowned. "Just don't tell anybody he's still alive. We've had enough fear and heartache to last a lifetime."

Sam nodded and left the picture of his brother on the desk. He left the police station and immediately pulled out his phone, dialing Dean's number. He got the man's voicemail, which made sense after seeing his brother with a female member of the species less than half an hour before.

"Dean, it's Sam. You should take the Impala and leave town. Like, now, dude. There's trouble. I'm going up north to check out a lead. I'll meet up with you back at the room. Keep your head low and be careful, all right?"

He hung up.

--Get My Gun--

"Seven years?" Doctor Mark Porter adjusted his large glasses on his small face. "No, no. You're mistaken, Mr. Miller. Misinformed. Thomas was only here for a year."

"How long ago was that?" Sam asked as he followed the doctor down the halls of the nearly-abandoned hospital.

"Would have been three since the massacre," the doctor said, rubbing at his chin. "How he'd dealt with it for so long, how his father had dealt with it, I'll never know. But that wasn't your question. It was about seven years ago, so I can see how that might be confused."

"But he got better?"

"Oh, well, nobody ever really recovers from that kind of trauma, Mr. Miller. Tom learned to deal with it, I suppose. I'd put him on a medication, and that seemed to help. His other personality quieted down after that."

"I see," Sam muttered, something not fitting into place in his mind. "You said his dad brought him in?"

"Yes," Porter nodded. "He seemed very concerned."

"But it happened seven years ago?"

"Yes."

"Town sheriff just told me Tom ran away ten years ago and never came back. Now, how do you suppose his dad brought him in if that's the case?"

The doctor shrugged. "I just assumed John was his father. Seemed very paternal towards Tom, very concerned. Tom seemed distant toward him, I figured it was due to his illness."

"John?" Sam asked. "Tom's father's name was Elias."

"Oh, no, no. I'm quite certain that the man who brought him in was named John and was, indeed, his father. There was no denying the resemblance."

"Tom Hanniger was adopted, doctor."

Porter's eyes went wide. "Well, he certainly had a startling resemblance to-"

"This guy John, was he about Tom's height, black hair, brown eyes, real gruff?"

The doctor nodded. "If I remember right. Tom's case is the kind that makes a real impression, and I took careful notes about him and his family, pull them out from time to time to show to colleagues and the like."

Sam sighed. Great. Even better than what he'd found out from the sheriff. "So, Tom had two distinct personalities?"

"Oh, yes," Porter said, his eyes wide and shining. "There was the main personality, Tom, who was soft-spoken and confused. Then there was the other one, pacing like a tiger in a cage. Made me nervous."

"You thought he was going to kill you?"

"No. He seemed to be a nice enough fellow. Just… a little rough and tumble. Like that John fellow we were talking about. That one didn't like being here."

"But you weren't scared of him?"

The doctor shook his head. "Should I have been?"

"Well, I don't know if you've heard, but Harry just went on a killing spree."

"Harry?"

"Yeah, the other one."

"Oh," the doctor smiled. "No, no. You've been misinformed again, Mr. Miller. Tom's other personality called himself Dean."

--Red'll Have You Treed 'Fore The Morning Come--

Sam stumbled into the room, his mind still working in overtime even after he had taken the time to drive the car he'd stolen out to a field and wipe down his prints. There was no way. Just no freaking way.

He would have noticed if Dean was someone else, if Dean went missing for too long. Their father wouldn't have had him committed, he would have had him exorcised. It just wasn't possible.

So Sam stopped dead in his tracks when he saw his brother sitting in front of the television with wide eyes, listening to the news about Sarah Palmer's death.

"I did that?" Dean whispered, his eyebrows drawing together in pain and remorse. "I did that?"

Sam shut the door as quietly as possible, his eyes darting over the room, looking for weapons, holy water, or any escape route that his brother might try to take. All he found was a heart-shaped box, undoubtedly filled with chocolates.

"Dean?"

Dean jumped and turned toward him, his eyes going impossibly wider. "Who the hell are you?"

"I'm your brother."

"I don't have a brother." He stood up and stumbled back. "I don't have any money."

"Dean, please, you're scaring me."

"Who the hell is Dean?"

Sam felt his heart speed up in his chest. "Tom?" He swallowed hard. "Is that you?"

"How do you know my name? Who the hell are you?"

He took a careful step forward. "My name is Sam. I'm your brother."

"I told you-"

"Your name is Dean Winchester. You're my older brother."

Tom shook his head. "No. No."

"You're thirty years old-"

"I'm twenty-eight."

"You probably lost time. See, my brother.. he, uh, he was put in foster care when he was about seven. Got sent up here. Lived with your parents."

"I never had a brother."

"He didn't give them his real name. Said his name was Tom. I figure, to deal with the stress of staying there-"

"I'm not your brother."

Sam took another step toward the man. "Couldn't it be possible, though?"

"No, I went to school near here. My parents-"

"My father took my brother back after six months. And, see, the more I think about it, the more it makes sense. My dad took my brother on a lot of hunting trips over the years, just the two of them. Dean was always in the car first. I never got to say good-bye. He'd come back and barely remember anything. Was that you, Tom?"

"I don't know what you're talking about." But the quiver in his voice said that he did.

"It's ok. I understand. It's stressful." He paused, licked his lips, took another step. "How'd you find out about your dad?"

"Got a phone call," Tom said, now backed against the wall, his eyes following Sam's every move. "They told me."

"Really? You go to his funeral?"

"N-no."

"Dean never got a phone call."

"I'm not Dean."

"Just humor me."

"No. There can't be another one. Not another one. There's only one, and he's gone. I took care of him. I.. I…" He reached into his pockets, one after the other, searching for something.

Sam walked to the duffle bag sitting on a chair and began rooting through it. "Looking for these?" He asked, holding up an orange bottle of pills.

"How'd you know those were there?" Tom questioned.

"It's where Dean and I keep all the meds." He checked the label. "These are old, Tom. Seven years old. Filled about a year after I went to college." He looked back up at his brother. "Is that what did it? Is that when dad lost hope? When I went away?"

"You're confused," Tom said. "But it's ok. We can get you help."

"Dad starting taking me on hunts after a while," Sam muttered, unable to stop himself from thinking aloud. "You must have stopped running. You stopped running for a while, and then I left and you came back here. Dad found you and took you away…"

"I did some soul searching, got myself some help. Buddy, I suggest you do the same."

"But if it was just you and Dean," Sam continued, "then who killed those people?"

Tom paled, his eyes flicking to the box of candy on the dresser. "Harry," he whispered.

"Harry?" Sam repeated. "See, now, I don't think Harry was there forever."

"No, I-I felt him. He was there. After the party, the mine. I saw him, and he almost… I felt something snap, and then I woke up in a motel almost a hundred miles away with some scruffy guy staring at me. I tried to go home, but… he took me to a hospital. It was because of Harry."

"Dean went home," Sam reasoned. "And then I left and you came back. That's how he dealt with it."

"No, it was… it had to be. Unless," he narrowed his eyes. "You're a killer, too."

That hadn't been what he was expecting. "What?"

"Harry didn't kill those people. It was your brother."

Sam blinked. Definitely not what he'd been expecting, but at least he had an explanation for it. "Something happened to my brother recently, within the last year. He was, uh, tortured, I guess. Maybe Harry wasn't there before, but was brought out due to your, um, combined experiences. His torture and your past. You know?"

Tom stared at him. "You've given this a lot of thought."

"It was an hour's drive."

The older man pushed himself from the wall and sat on a bed. "I'm really your brother?"

"Yeah. Looks like."

He glanced back up at the TV. "I killed those people."

Sam nodded. "I think I can help with that."

"I don't even know your name."

"Sam. It's Sam."

Tom flashed him a nervous grin. "Hi, Sam." He reached forward and turned off the TV.

"Hey, Tom." He stood in front of the dresser, looking down at the box. "What's this?"

Tom shrugged. "Valentine, I guess. Little late, but… whatever. I thought it was a wrong delivery or something, but I guess it has your name on it."

"How'd you find this room?"

Another shrug. "I woke up here. Figured I'd been pretty drunk or hung-over or something and gotten the room while I was out of it. Happens to me a lot." He leaned to the side to look at the box. "Aren't you gonna open it?"

Sam nodded and took the edges of the lid in his fingers. He heard he rustling of fabric as Tom shifted on the bed behind him and he opened the box. Nestled inside was a bloody human heart.

"Tom?" Sam asked, turning slowly to the man who was his brother, but wasn't. "Who delivered this?"

Tom grinned, an expression that was creepily close to a snarl. "I did, Sammy-boy," he growled, his voice dropping an octave as his eyes went hard and he pulled his hand from under the pillow, his fingers clenched tight around Dean's knife.

Sam felt his eyes go wide as Tom - no, Harry - glared at him. He took a cautious step back, his eyes never leaving the man on the bed. Harry twitched, his lips pulled into a snarl as he watched Sam finally turn and run for the door, wrenching it open and fleeing into the parking lot.

The lot was mostly dark, illuminated only by a few streetlamps, but it was bright enough for Sam to find the Impala.

The trunk. There had to be something in the trunk, something that could knock his brother out, something to tie the older man up with, something that he could save himself with.

He cursed himself for not thinking to grab the keys, to even look for them, when he saw his brother's keychain dangling out of the lock on the trunk. Thanking whatever lucky stars he might have, Sam turned the key and opened up the trunk. He pushed up the fake bottom to reveal their weapons compartment and gasped.

Sitting atop various knives, guns, and packages of salt was a bloody pick axe.

Sam turned back toward the room in time to see his brother silhouetted in the doorway, hardhat on his head, gas mask on his face, knife glinting in the lamplight coming from the room.

He closed the trunk and ran.

They were in a small, out of the way town, the kind of place that only had one school, a Wal-Mart, a gas station, four bars, a few old houses, and a motel to its name. It was the kind of place where no one could hear him scream.

He stumbled across the street, turning around long enough to see Harry pull the pick axe from the trunk and begin to give chase.

There was a bar across the street from the motel, the same one Dean had been hustling in only a few nights before. The same one Harry Warden had killed in after Dean had been called out and gotten into a brawl.

An old apartment complex sat next to the bar, vacant, creating an alley between the buildings. Sam ducked into the darkness, sticking to the shadows and looking for a place to hide, a weapon that wouldn't hurt his brother too badly.

He was at a loss. He was being chased by a known murderer wearing his brother's face, a murderer he couldn't shoot, couldn't stab, couldn't harm without also injuring Dean.

The alley wasn't nearly as long as he would have liked it to be, and ended abruptly in a high brick wall. Sam stopped and stared at it, his heart pounding in his ears. There was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. Nothing but dirt and grime and the sound of heavy breathing as Harry stepped into the alley, pick axe in hand.

Sam spun to face his attacker, watching as the man in the miner's suit walked slowly closer, his gait matching Dean's step for step, swagger for swagger. The hunter pressed himself up against the wall. "Dean?"

Harry kept walking, slowly, purposefully. He loosened his grip on the axe, letting it fall farther into his hand, getting a better grip just south of the blade.

"Dean, please."

Closer and closer, breathing deep through the mask, possessed by his own madness.

"Oh, God, please."

He stopped. Close enough to strike, staring at Sam through the dead eyes of the mask, he stopped. Waited. Watched the taller man cower against the wall, helpless as he was to protect himself from his only remaining family.

"Dean."

Sam's eyes went wide as he recognized the voice coming from behind his brother's back. "Cas?"

Harry stilled, his hands falling to his sides, his grip loosening again, the axe falling until only the bottom of the handle was held in his fingers. Sam breathed a sigh of relief. The angel. The angel would save him, would save them both, would heal Dean's mind just like he'd healed his body.

In the blink of an eye, the body before him tensed and swung, the axe slicing through the air to lodge in the angel's neck, burying itself in deep and sticking out the other side.

Castiel cocked his head. "You're not Dean."

Sam watched with wide eyes as the axe was pulled from Castiel's neck with a sickening squelch. Harry drew his weapon of choice back and dealt another blow, this one penetrating the angel's skull and sending blood splattering onto the side of the bar.

The axe was withdrawn again, and Castiel fell to the ground, staring up at Harry with confusion in his eyes as the murderer rained blow after blow upon him, hacking open head and chest until blue eyes finally slid shut.

Harry stood and looked down at his latest kill. The pick axe fell from his hand, hitting the soggy dirt with a muffled thump, and he turned to Sam. His hands came up to knock the hardhat off his head before moving to pull off the mask. Finger closed around rough fabric as he reached down tore his face completely free of the shirt that had covered his nose and mouth. He gasped, choking on the fresh air. "Sammy?"

Sam blinked and swallowed hard. "Tom?"

"Who the hell's Tom? Where are we?"

He sighed. "Dean."

"Who else would I be?" He glanced down at his clothes. "The hell am I wearing, Sam?"

Sam peeled himself from the wall and took a shaky step toward his brother. "We need to get out of here. I'll explain on the way."

Dean nodded and glanced down at his feet. Noticing the blood pooling under them, he turned around. "What happened to Cas?"

"Hopefully," Sam muttered, grabbing his brother's arm and walking him out of the alley. "Nothing irreversible."

--Now There's Red-Haired Blue Ticks All In The South--

Sam stalked back through the night. Dean had taken it better than he'd expected him to, almost as well as Tom. Though, where Tom had denied before finally accepting, Dean had denied, accepted, and locked himself in the bathroom so he couldn't hurt anyone else.

Never mind that they'd left the mining gear in the alley. Somehow, they both had a feeling that wouldn't stop Harry Warden.

Sam shook his head and quickened his pace. He had to act fast, had to fix his brother. He just hoped he wasn't too late, hoped Dean - Harry - hadn't done what he'd intended to. They needed Cas alive for this.

The alley was empty. Devoid of blood, angel, pick axe, hardhat, and mask. Like they'd never been there at all. Sam stepped into the darkness and look up at the sky. "Castiel!"

There was a rustling of wings, and the angel was at his side. "Sam."

He jumped and spun, surprised by the angel's sudden appearance. "You're alive."

"We don't die easily. You wanted something?"

Sam swallowed. "Dean is… Dean hasn't been himself lately."

The angel rubbed absently at his healed neck. "I noticed."

"I guess he's been having this problem for a while, and dad thought it was fixed, but it's not."

"And you thought I might help?"

"You healed him before. You just missed a spot." He sighed. "It's not his fault. It was dad's and mine and Hell's. Please, you need to fix him."

Castiel nodded. "Where is he?"

"Back at the room. Follow me." He began walking, the angel tagging along behind him. "So, where'd all the stuff go?"

"It was evidence that could be used against your brother. His fingerprints were everywhere. He's no use to us in prison. The offending articles have been eliminated."

"Good to know." He turned to look back at his companion. "You really didn't know about the other personalities?"

"I've been watching Dean for some time now. They were only recently brought forth again. His trip to Harmony triggered it."

Sam nodded. "Tom saw his dad's name on the billboard, found out about his death. He snapped into Harry when things got bad."

"Harry is new," Cas confirmed. "Tom would be easily handled. Your father didn't have much of a problem with it until you went to school and Hanniger refused to leave."

"So he tried to fix him," Sam said, shaking his head as he unlocked the door to the motel room. He walked inside to find that Dean was no longer locked in the bathroom. Instead, he was sitting on the bed, staring at the pistol in his hands.

"Harry?" Sam whispered.

Dean didn't look up. "All my fault. Just couldn't do it before."

Sammy breathed a sigh of relief. "Tom."

His brother finally met his eyes. "Tom?" he asked, gazing back and forth between his brother and the angel. "My name's Jason."

--Love Got Me In Here And Love Got Me Out--

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