Death Trap
K Hanna Korossy

"This is it?" Sam eyed the house they'd just pulled up to.

"You were expecting something more Unabomber?" Dean asked.

"Kinda, yeah."

He couldn't blame Sam. Most hunters Dean knew lived on the outskirts of civilization at best, out in the middle of nowhere at worst. The fact Rufus Turner, of all people, had a house in the city was…weird. "Bobby says he has a cabin out in the Montana wilds. I guess this was just his vacation home."

"Huh," was Sam's only comment.

Bobby pulled up behind them in his van, and they both got out to meet him.

"You know these things start shakin' when you go over sixty." Bobby hitched a thumb at the van as he greeted them, or more specifically, Dean.

Dean gave him a placid grin, knowing he'd been pushing seventy the whole way there. "What's your point?"

Bobby shook his head and grumbled something under his breath as he headed up the sidewalk to Rufus's house.

Sam was shaking his head, too. "You're gonna pay for that, you know."

"Totally worth it." Dean smirked back.

Sam probably rolled his eyes. Dean didn't bother to check.

At the door, his brother started reaching inside his jacket for his lock-picking set.

Bobby held up a key. "Trust me, you don't wanna pick this lock." Off both their inquiring looks, he just added, "And let me handle the security system before you go in."

Not that they weren't adept at deactivating alarms, but Dean put up his hands and stepped back. Rufus had been wily, and a hunter longer than Dean had been alive. He didn't doubt the old guy had a few tricks up his sleeve even after his death.

Bobby reappeared inside the open door after a minute. "We're good."

Dean followed his brother in. He'd been there before, but Sam gawked at the house. And, really, Dean couldn't blame him. It was so…normal. Besides a few unusual piles on the bookshelves in the small living room, the house looked an awful lot like any other. Dean's eye caught on the small table just outside the kitchen, and he couldn't help but remember sharing a bottle of Johnny Walker Blue with Rufus there as he tried to find out more about Bela, and maybe an answer to his own deal.

"The good stuff's in the back," Bobby's voice broke him out of the memory, and Dean looked up to see Bobby pointing an empty box at a hallway that ran toward the back of the house. "I'll start there. You two see if there's anything in here worth grabbing. Sam, might wanna check that computer." There was a chunky PC sitting on the desk. "Rufus was pretty handy at it. Used to drive me crazy, him yammering about all the info he found on that thing." A moment of sadness passed over his face; Bobby was still grieving. Not just for having killed Rufus while possessed, which was just an occupational hazard in their line of work, but for losing his mentor and, while Bobby wouldn't admit it, friend.

"Sure, Bobby," Sam said gently. Dean echoed him, exchanging a look with his brother. Sam had picked up on it, too.

Bobby disappeared into the back, and the brothers cast a glance around the room, figuring out where to start first.

"Computer?" Dean suggested.

"Might as well." Sam rounded the desk. "Although, this thing's so old, it probably still uses floppy disks."

Dean huffed a laugh as he scanned the nearest bookshelf. "If it's not a book in some ancient language, it's probably newfangled tech to Bobby."

"I heard that!" came from the back room.

The brothers grinned at each other.

Okay, so, the bookcases. Paperbacks. True-crime and thrillers, mostly, with a few random classics thrown in. A whole shelf of crossword puzzle books: man, for a hunter, the dude had had a boring life. A couple lore books were perched on top, but it looked like run-of-the-mill stuff they could find in any library. Dean turned to the next bookcase.

Sam's sudden cry interrupted him.

Dean whirled, just in time to see his brother's head disappear behind the desk, followed by the crash-thud of a body and chair hitting the floor.

If Sam had just gotten tangled and fallen over, Dean was never letting him hear the end of it. Please, God, he begged as he raced around the desk.

But no, not if the way Sam was gasping for air on the floor with his hands pressed against his chest was any indication.

"Lemme see," Dean demanded, prying them away.

There was no visible wound, however, no blood anywhere. Nothing but Sam's frantic eyes begging him to fix this even as his lips turned blue.

"Bobby!" Dean hollered as he grabbed Sam's hands, felt their rictus hold. "Hang on, man, hang on. What happened? Sammy, what happened?"

Sam just arched up, breath gurgling thick in his throat as if he were drowning.

Dean had just done a futile finger-sweep of his mouth to see if there was an obstruction and was seriously considering rescue breathing when Bobby dropped to a knee at his side.

"What happened?"

"I don't know!" Dean growled. Sam was practically clawing at him now, his face bloodless, eyes rolling in his head. "He was going for the computer, and next thing I know, he's hitting the floor." He snapped eyes up to Bobby. "You think the computer…?"

Bobby didn't bother answering, already pushing up to see if he could spot something lethal.

Sam was making horrible noises, heels digging into the ground. But he was weakening, Dean could see it, could feel it in the hands he held. His own terror spiked higher. "No, no, no," he chanted, pulling Sam up against him. "No way, this is not happening. You stay with me, you hear me? Sam!"

"Aw, Hell," Bobby spat out above them. "Dean, I think—"

There was a rattle of air. Even more disturbingly, a calm appeared in Sam's eyes, gratitude and love and other things Dean couldn't think about. And then Sam's gaze went dull and unfocused as he breathed out long and slow, deflating into Dean as the fight—the life—left his body.

The world, everything that mattered, stopped.

"Sam!" Dean clutched at him, darkness and despair gathering. It felt like Sam had been wrenched away from him, even if he still lay limp in Dean's arms. "Sammy!"

He could feel Bobby pulling at his arm, vaguely heard him say, "Listen, Dean, he's not—"

Sam suddenly coughed, gasped in a breath as his entire body convulsed, coughed some more. His eyes fluttered, hands flailing.

Dean couldn't even think. It was just Sam, Sam, Sam, as he scrambled to keep his brother from hitting the ground again, grabbed at those waving arms and corralled them with one hand while the other grasped Sam's chin.

"Hey, hey, look at me. Look at me. You're okay, Sammy. You're okay."

He's okay. Nausea flipped his stomach, relief and terror colliding to make his hands and voice shake. What the…?

Sam was starting to settle, still breathing like he'd just finished a marathon, confusion filling his face. You and me both, brother, Dean thought as he pulled him close again, wrapping an arm around Sam's heaving shoulders, feeling him breathe, the pounding of his heart. "You're okay. You're okay," Dean kept repeating. Sooner or later, Dean would believe it. "Just breathe."

Bobby was kneeling beside them, and Dean finally had a moment to replay what their friend had said. He looked up with narrowed eyes. "You know what happened." It wasn't a question.

In answer, Bobby held up something covered in a handkerchief. He flipped one corner back, careful not to brush against what was nestled within. "I think he touched this."

Dean leaned forward to see.

It looked like a lump of gold. Small enough to fit in a palm, it was smooth, oblong, with a couple of dips and mounds. The soft burnished glow and sleek lines made you want to feel it.

"Wha' is it?" That came from Sam, who sounded rough but curious, even as he made no move to get up out of Dean's embrace. Which was just fine with Dean.

"If I'm right, it's a Death Stone." Bobby covered it up again. Dean felt oddly relieved. "Anyone who touches it, relives the death of the last person who came into contact with it."

"That's not how Rufus died," Dean pointed out. "This wasn't a knife to the gut—it looked more like…TB or something."

"Or pneumonia," Sam said quietly. He cleared his throat. "Felt like my lungs were saturated sponges."

Which sounded as horrifying as it had looked. "If you're usin' words like 'saturated,' you've gotta be better," Dean muttered lamely. He cinched Sam a little tighter and felt Sam pat his hand in understanding. Always harder to watch than to be.

"Oh, I'm betting Rufus always knew better than to touch it," Bobby said wryly. "I'm guessin' he kept it by his computer as some kinda booby trap, in case someone came along to do what you were doing, Sam."

"Awesome." Dean swept the room with a more jaundiced eye. "You think he left any more surprises for us?"

Bobby scratched his beard. "If it were me, I wouldn't risk it. All it takes is one stumble or a moment o'not paying attention. But how 'bout you don't touch anything that looks…unusual."

"Right," Dean said dryly. "Nothing unusual in a hunter's house."

"Gloves," murmured Sam, and started pushing himself up.

Dean reluctantly let him, propping up his arm until he was sure it would take Sam's weight. Still, they sat on the floor next to each other a minute longer, letting things settle, neither of them anxious to move apart. "Yeah, I was thinking the same thing." They always kept a box of disposable gloves in the car for messier hunts, sometimes for first aid, and once, memorably, to make glove balloons for a bunch of traumatized preschoolers.

"Good idea," Bobby said, and climbed creakily to his feet. He proffered a hand to Sam, and with Dean from below and Bobby above, they got him to his feet. Sam swayed a moment, then nodded his okay. And promptly sank into the desk chair Bobby had righted.

Dean also stood, half an eye still on his brother, the other watching the handkerchief-wrapped rock. "You want me to put that away?"

"You got someplace safe?" Bobby asked.

"Yep." It was a small curse box, but they kept it for just such occasions and it would do fine.

"All yours," Bobby said, and carefully passed the rock over.

Keeping it well away from Sam, Dean patted his brother on the shoulder with his free hand. "You good here for a few minutes?"

"Not gonna touch anything but the keyboard, promise," Sam swore, already starting to type. His hands were barely shaking now.

Dean thumped him once more, then shared a look with Bobby: changing of the Sam-guard. Dean turned and headed out of the house.

He was still trembling, too, the adrenaline dump of losing his brother one minute and regaining him the next more than his mind or body had had a chance to process. It was too soon after the Cage, the Wall, Sam finally back body and soul. The cursed rock quivered in his hand, the handkerchief sliding off to let the gold gleam through.

Dean froze, staring at it.

Anyone who touches it, relives the death of the last person who came into contact with it. For Sam, that had been some poor nameless sucker who'd drowned in his own fluids. But now, it would be Sam's death stored in there for the next victim.

Sam had died…more times than Dean wanted to count. But the last time had been the one that still haunted him, that he always wanted to ask Sam about but didn't dare for fear of unleashing his walled-up insanity. The fall into the Cage. Sam's suicidal, world-saving plunge that they'd never really talked about.

Inside that stone.

Dean glanced furtively back at Rufus' house. No one was looking out the window; no reason to. Bobby would probably take the stone back with him to put someplace safe. It was now or never.

Dean sat down on the curb behind the car, out of sight, and hovered his finger over the exposed side of the golden rock. He was probably an idiot for doing this; Sam would surely call him that. But he had to know.

His fingertip brushed the cool surface.

There was an instant flare of bright pain to his chest. A moment of stunned incomprehension and overwhelmed synapses.

And the next thing he knew, Dean was staring at the sky. He bolted up from the grass with a gasp.

His hands automatically went to his chest, seeking the damage, the blood. Nothing. But he'd known what he'd felt.

It wasn't a fall.

He'd been shot with rock salt a couple times in his life. More to the point, he'd been gunned down by Roy and Walt in his bed right alongside Sam. He knew how it felt to get a chestful of shot. And that was what he'd experienced now, he realized, Sam's death in that motel room, not out in Stull.

But how? The shooting had been a couple months before Sam took the dive into the Cage. There probably wasn't a rule for how the stone processed someone who'd died multiple times, but it made sense that it would replay the last death. So why…?

Unless…the Cage didn't count. Sam hadn't technically died before his tumble, hadn't been torn apart by hellhounds or anything. He'd gone down into a cage alive. Maybe he'd stayed that way.

Dean turned on his side and threw up.

"Had to do it, didn't you."

Bobby's voice barely made him twitch as he wiped his hand over his mouth, then on the grass. "It's Sam," Dean rasped, all the explanation needed.

"It's death," Bobby amended. "Don't really matter who or what kind."

"It wasn't the Cage," Dean said and looked up to meet Bobby's eyes.

Which held no surprise. The other man sighed. "I figured."

"He went down alive. All those years…" Dean choked on the words.

"Does it make a difference? It would've been Hell either way."

It probably didn't. What did it really matter if it was Sam's physical body two ticked-off archangels tore up all those Hell years, or a metaphysical one, a manifested soul? It was pain and suffering either way.

But somehow this hurt worse.

"You all right?" Bobby asked finally when Dean didn't answer, stepping around the vomit to offer a hand.

Dean took it and let it prop him against the car. "Yeah. Yeah, it was fast. Walt an' Roy," he elaborated at Bobby's unspoken question, because there were a ridiculous amount of possibilities to choose from. He nodded toward the house. "Go babysit."

"I am," Bobby grumbled, but with one last look at Dean, he headed back in.

Dean took another steadying breath, unconsciously rubbing a hand over the smooth lines of his car. Then with a soft curse, he pushed off to get to the trunk.

By the time he came back in, Sam looked back to normal, and Dean figured he did, too. His brother gave him a searching look, but there was no frown of worry at the end for what he saw. Dean tossed a pair of gloves into his lap, then nudged up onto the desk beside him to peer at the screen, feeling the warmth of Sam against his hip.

"Find anything?"

And he just listened to the voice instead of the words, drinking in the fact that Sam was there and alive, and hoping against hope he'd never be any different.

The End