First appeared in Of Dreams & Schemes 24 (2009), from Of Dreams & Schemes Press
Smothering
K Hanna Korossy
Sam Winchester was just shutting the car door behind him, paper bag in hand, when it hit.
The first bolt of pain wasn't so bad, but even that made him flinch and duck his head, and he knew it was just the herald of worse to come. Sam doubled his pace to the motel room door that suddenly seemed far away, free hand clasped to his head.
The pain grew like a tightening vise, and Sam could feel himself break out in a cold sweat, his footsteps stumbling. He tightened his grip on the bag and doggedly crossed the last few feet, nearly falling against the motel wall as agony speared through his head. He tried to knock, ending up more pawing at the door as the vision arrived with all the subtlety of a crowbar to the head.
Sam didn't hear the door open, barely heard his brother's voice, the arms under his own catching him as his knees gave way. And then he wasn't there anymore.
Dark and small and tight. She was trapped in place, wood behind and in front of her, the space just big enough for her body. Brown hair escaping from a ponytail into her eyes as she struggled, tears leaking down a young, pale face, she knocked her knuckles uselessly against her wooden prison, sobbing with each blow.
"Steve! Please, Steve, let me out. Please!"
But it was no use; she was buried alive, and no one would be hearing her cries…
"—my, can you hear me? C'mon, man…"
Sam heaved in a lungful of fresh air, coughing a little. Dean's face swam into view a second later, eyebrows drawn in fierce concern.
"Sam? You with me?"
He realized slowly he was on the floor, the open door a rectangle of fading light just past Dean's shoulder. His brother's hands dug into Sam's biceps, probably the only thing keeping him from falling over just then, and their grip didn't soften as Sam clumsily patted one hand. "'M all right."
"You sure?" One hand shifted up to Sam's face, a thumb brushing his cheekbone, and Sam suddenly realized it was wet. "You were crying," Dean said darkly, like he was ready to go kill the cause. He probably was.
Well, that was different. Sam nodded, brain thudding against his skull with each motion of his head. Dean must've seen his discomfort, because next thing Sam knew, he was being lifted to his feet and plunked down on the edge of his bed. Dean didn't let him go, apparently worried still he'd flop over, and Sam couldn't argue he wouldn't. He squeezed his eyes shut instead, gasping at the memory of his vision and trying to remember every detail. "Dean, she's trapped."
"Who?"
"I-I don't know," Sam said in frustration. He raised his heavy head to look his brother in the eye. "A woman. She's buried alive. She was calling for Steve."
Dean winced, maybe in claustrophobic sympathy, maybe for Sam having seen that. "Any clues who she is or where? Sounds, smells, nametag that says, 'Hi, my name is Julie Smith from Akron'? Steve's not exactly a lot to go on, Sam."
Dark hair in a ponytail, tears, small face. Tangible fear. Sam reluctantly shook his head.
Dean sighed. "Man, your visions need to come with captions or something." He thought for a moment, absently kneading Sam's arm, shoulder. "Okay, look, you got the supplies, right?"
Sam blinked, glancing around. The paper bag was on the floor in the doorway, and he nodded at it.
Dean let him go, hovering a second to make sure Sam was steady, then leaned back to grab the bag and swing the door shut. As Dean peered into the bag, Sam mentally reviewed what he'd see inside: herbs, a blessed candle, purification oil. He knew when Dean reached the M&Ms when a smile flitted across his brother's face.
"Peanuts are a symbol of purity," Sam said, rubbing his throbbing temple.
Dean's head shot up. "Really?"
"No." Sam managed a quirk of the mouth.
Dean scowled, then eyed him critically. "Dude, you look like that time you went on the Anaconda and almost hurled all over the goldfish booth girl."
"I hate rollercoasters," Sam muttered, then shook his head, trying to focus. "Dean, we have to help her."
"We will, but hate to say it, Sammy, we're gonna have to wait for your visions to give us a little more information before we can do anything."
"No, Dean, we can't just—"
"Fine, Sam, you tell me then, where are we going, huh?" Dean's arms always moved when he was aggravated. "State? Name? Give me a direction and we'll go."
Sam swallowed, looking away in frustration.
Dean's voice softened. "Soon as that freaky brain of yours gives us any more clues, we'll go, okay? I promise. But sun's starting to set and it looks like you got all the stuff—might as well finish the job here meanwhile. Right?"
He didn't like it, but Dean was right. People were out there hurting, dying all the time, and they couldn't help most of them. Sam just didn't usually get a front seat to their pain. Whose idea were visions he couldn't do anything about, anyway? Sam ran a hand through his hair, his heartbeat a pulsing ache behind his eyes.
"You up for this?" Dean asked at the door, giving him a steady look with a lot more understanding behind it than Sam had expected.
He nodded, swallowing hard again as he pushed himself to his feet and started gathering supplies. "Yeah. I'm good."
00000
Sam hadn't even realized he'd dozed off on the way until Dean's voice startled him awake. "Rise and shine, Sammy."
Sam started. A moment's panic at the dark—sobbing, pounding at the wood—instantly gave way to the knowledge Dean was right there, even though Sam could see only his silhouette in the dim car.
"Or in your case, maybe just 'rise.'"
Sam wiped at his spit-wet mouth—gross—relieved to feel only a lingering ache in the back of his head. Sleep had swept away most of the cobwebs and pain, and with fresh clarity he scanned the dark terrain outside the car with fresh clarity. "We here?"
"Yup." But Dean made no move to get out, just looked at him.
"What?" Sam asked self-consciously.
"Nothin'. No dreams about the girl, huh?"
Sam mutely shook his head, checking his bag even while he tried not to think about the raw panic in the woman's eyes.
Dean's voice was a gentle nudge. "Ready?"
Sam swung his pack up on his shoulder, met his brother's eyes squarely. "Yeah."
They weren't far from the motel; they'd deliberately chosen one close to the section of tracks where an unusual amount of auto-train collisions had occurred over the last thirty-three years. Everyone seemed to ignore the fact that the train was never found afterward. People saw what they wanted to, Dean always said, and Sam couldn't disagree.
It hadn't taken much research to find the culprit: Engine 52 on its East-West run, which had derailed in 1973 after striking a car, killing all aboard. It was a little trickier figuring out what to do about it, considering they couldn't salt and burn a wrecked train, even if they could find it. Hence purification ritual.
Dean led the way to the tracks, only limping a little now. The sprained ankle was almost healed, but Sam had insisted he rest it as much as possible, doing all the legwork while Dean grudgingly handled the research back in the room. Sam realized guiltily he'd nearly forgotten about his brother's injury since the vision had hit, and the reminder of the trapped woman made him flinch. But Dean was right: while there was nothing to be done for her if they didn't know who she was, they could stop the train here and now. Sometimes the job offered lousy options.
They set up in comfortable silence, Dean measuring out the exact location of the original derailment, while Sam lit candles, started burning herbs, and found the right page. He handed Dean the oil when his brother returned to his side, and Dean set to painting symbols with the viscous substance on one of the ties of the track. Sam opened the book and started to read.
A train whistle sounded in the distance, shrill and haunting.
He met Dean's eyes over the top of the book. There had been no pattern to the train's arrival that they could find, and neither of them had really expected it to show during the ritual, especially with the Impala parked a safe distance away. But maybe it being there wasn't a bad thing, make sure the cleansing got to the source and all that. The chant wasn't a long one, anyway, wouldn't be a problem to finish off. Sam saw the agreement in Dean's eyes, and bent his head to keep reading.
Pain flickered at the edge of his mind.
Sam swallowed a groan and picked up his pace. He'd almost hoped for another vision to give him some more information about the girl, but the timing stunk. Only three more lines and he'd be ready to give in.
The first shard of burning light lanced through him, making him stumble over a word.
He could feel Dean attention turn to him, his brother's gaze rake over his face. Just two more lines. Sam swallowed, feeling hot, then cold, and kept reading.
The next jab felt like a heated nail through his eye, and Sam gasped as his vision whited out. He could remember the words, though, and he kept trying to push the broken sounds through his teeth until a wave of fire swept through his head and cut him off with a cry.
Then his brother was plucking the book out of his hands, leg bracing Sam's shoulder as Dean moved in front of him on the tracks. The train sounded frighteningly close, and Dean yelled the words over the scream of metal. Sam's last independent thought was that no way was his brother going to be able to protect him from that, and then he was—
Trapped, small space, too tight, air thin. Her cries had gotten weaker, her struggles less frantic as panic and lack of air exhausted her. Her arms dropped, revealing a glimpse of her necklace, gold filigree spelling out "Mandy." It dangled above the scoop neck of a Washington State t-shirt smeared with dirt and sweat. It heaved with her struggle to pull in oxygen…
…and he was sitting on something cold and hard, Dean wrapped around him like a warm, impenetrable blanket. A hand on the back of his head had tucked his face against cotton and taut muscle, and was threading through his hair, constant proof he wasn't alone.
Sam shivered. It felt like icicles had been jabbed through his skull, and he wanted nothing more than to go lie down in the Impala's back seat, Dean's jacket bunched under his head like when they were kids. But Mandy's time was growing short, and Dean's grip had a desperate quality to it, and Sam had responsibilities. He always had responsibilities.
He shifted, and Dean loosened his hold. "Sam?"
"Yeah." He reached up to clumsily pat the shoulder behind his head. "Train gone?"
"Smoked it right as it got here. Your visions have great timing, dude."
"M'sorry," he muttered, maybe a little petulantly.
An exhalation near his ear, then he was turned. Sam blinked slow against a moment of vertigo, and when he could look again, Dean was only inches away, shoving hair out of his eyes so he could see them. "You all right?"
Sam huffed. "Man, my head's screwed on kinda loose, but yeah."
"See your girl again?"
Sam nodded. "Mandy. She went to Washington State." He wracked his brain for more, and realized there was something else. "Married—she was wearing a ring."
Dean's eyes went distant for a second. "So, Mandy and Steve from WSU. Can't be too many of those, right?"
It was an effort to pull his eyelids up again whenever he blinked. "She's running outta air."
Dean nodded. "Still could be the future. I mean, your visions aren't always in real time."
"Max Miller's dad's was." With the Miller fiasco only a month or so behind them, the kid with abilities like Sam's having blown his brains out in front of them, the name still came out bitter.
"We don't know that for sure, Sam." Which was true; all they'd known was that they'd gotten there too late to save the man. Dean licked his lips, scrutinizing Sam again. "Can you stand?"
He nodded, gripping his brother's wrist in a tacit plea for help. No doubt totally unnecessary, but Dean didn't say anything, just got an arm behind him and pulled up.
Ow, dizzy. Sam squeezed his eyes shut and leaned on his brother a minute, Dean playing silent crutch. "Dean…hav'ta hurry," he whispered.
A snort. "No problem, I'll just let you keel over here on the tracks while I get the laptop, all right? Shut up, Sam."
He tried to glower, he really did, but from the derisive sound Dean made, Sam doubted he'd succeeded. It probably wasn't smart to annoy the only person who was keeping you from face-planting on the ground, so Sam just focused on his feet so very far down and on keeping them moving forward.
Dean's hand rested on the crown of his head as Sam eased into the Impala's front seat, then tucked his legs in after him. "You want a blanket?" The question was unexpectedly gentle.
Sam shook his head. "Just the laptop."
Dean hesitated. "Sam, I can look for—"
"We need to head for Washington."
"Dude…man, you're like a dog with a bone sometimes, I swear." At Sam's glare, though, Dean shook his head and shut the door, opening the rear one. When he finally slid in on the other side, he was holding Sam's computer.
Sam accepted it, trying not to wince under the weight of the slender machine, and opened up.
Dean hesitated again, voice quiet when he spoke. "You know we're a few hours away from Washington, right?"
Sam's jaw bunched; he'd figured as much. "Just drive."
Dean didn't say another word, starting the car and pulling away from the tracks. They'd left the candles and oil there, Sam realized belatedly, but locals would probably think some kids had been fooling around, never connecting it to the fact that people had stop dying there. People only saw what they wanted to see.
With the satellite hook-up, they could do research on the road. Sam read through bleary eyes until he found what they were looking for. There had been two WSU alumna named Amanda or Mandy who were married to a Steve, and one of them was in her forties. The other one lived in Tacoma. Sam relayed the address to Dean, who nodded, then cast him a sideways glance.
"That it? Anything else you can tune in—where Mandy is, when she got buried, how much time she's got left?"
"I'm not a TV," Sam argued irritably, tipping his aching head against the cold window glass.
"No, TVs are actually fun," Dean agreed. He fished out a bottle of water for Sam, then a pack of Advil from his jacket pocket. "Take those and get some sleep, bro. Need you fresh for figuring this out when we get there."
Sam reluctantly obeyed, wanting to argue that Mandy didn't have much time left, that they should discuss some strategy, possibilities, but sleep was shutting off all the lights. He barely managed to swallow the water without making a mess. An hour, just an hour, and then he would…
00000
"You're sure this is the place?" Sam rubbed grit out of his eyes to look at the very normal powder-blue two-story.
He'd woken when the engine had cut, still feeling tired and sore but functional. Waking visions took a lot out of him; he'd konked out as soon as he was able after all the Miller ones, too. If this was what he was becoming, frankly, it sucked.
Dean was leaning forward to scan the house through the windshield. "Steven and Amanda Buresch—1012 Anthony Lane, Tacoma, right?"
Sam nodded distractedly. He rubbed at his forehead as he examined the home.
Dean pursed his lips, gaze still on the house. "You know, I could talk to him by myself." He cut his eyes over to Sam.
Sam shook his head, grateful when it didn't feel like his brain would slosh out. "If he buried Mandy, he's dangerous, Dean."
"Dude, he's just a guy."
"We don't know why I'm getting visions of her," Sam said pointedly. "The Demon might be involved somehow. I'm going." And to avoid further argument, he pushed his door open and climbed out.
He almost managed not to sway when he stood, too.
Dean had gotten out and made it around the car by then, and he just rolled his eyes. But there was concern hiding under the amusement, and he shadowed Sam closely up the walk to the house.
It was past ten, not ridiculously late but later than they usually conducted interviews. People tended to be more suspicious of strangers who showed up at their door at night, for some odd reason. Sam glanced back at his brother as they gained the porch.
"You got—"
"Of course." A leather fold was shoved into his hand, and Sam flipped it open with one hand before he rang the doorbell. It was an ID for Washington State Police Deputy Ulrich, complete with a photo of a much younger Sam. Sam shook his head minutely. He didn't even ask how Dean did it anymore.
The door opened, and a man appeared, about Dean's age and height but with black hair and goatee and a lot smaller build. Not exactly the epitome of evil, but evil wasn't always ugly. Sam gave him a thin smile, brandished the badge.
"Steve Buresch?"
"Yeah? Uh, are you here about my wife?"
Sam blinked, felt Dean's surprise next to him. Not exactly what either of them had expected. "Your wife, Mandy?" Dean asked carefully. "Is she here?"
The goatee angled down. "No, of course she's not here—I thought that's why you'd… She disappeared this afternoon on her way home from work. I called the county police, but they didn't seem too interested without any proof something happened to her. But it did, I know it did."
Dean slid forward a few inches, but distraught family was usually left to Sam, who found his hesitation melting at the man's obvious distress. Sometimes people fooled them—Max Miller again came unwittingly to mind—but they had a lot of experience interviewing and could usually recognize the fakes, and Buresch didn't strike Sam that way.
"All right, sir, just calm down and tell us what happened," he encouraged the man.
It was cold outside, but Buresch didn't seem to notice as he stepped out in his jeans and a button-down to join them. The story started pouring out of him before Sam could even suggest they go inside: Mandy calling on the way home to say she'd be there soon but never arriving, Steve driving her route and not finding anything; her phone going to voice mail every time he called; and the way she'd been uneasy those last few days, as if, she said, somebody was watching her.
Sam glanced at Dean, his brother meeting his gaze opaquely.
"But you don't know of anyone who might be after Mandy or want to harm her?" Dean asked carefully at the end.
"What? No. She's kinda quiet, doesn't have a lot of friends, but she doesn't have any enemies, either. I just…maybe she was in an accident or something. Do you think I should call the hospitals?"
"It wouldn't hurt," Sam said gently, but it was make-work and he knew it. He'd seen exactly where Mandy was, and from the sympathetic glance Dean gave him, his brother was thinking the same thing. The last vision had been almost four hours before. Mandy Buresch was probably dead by now.
Dean took a breath. "Thank you for your time, sir. We'll call you if we find anything." He turned to go back down the walk.
Sam hesitated, seeing the white-knuckled grip Buresch had on the screen door, and on his emotions. "I'm sorry," Sam said earnestly, then nodded and turned away.
Dean was waiting for him on the walk and fell into step beside him. Behind them, the screen door slowly closed, the door a wooden wumph behind it.
"I don't think he was the one who planted her," Dean offered.
Sam silently shook his head in agreement.
Dean glanced over at him. "We don't have anything else to go on," he pointed out quietly.
"I know."
"Maybe we can still find her body for him."
Sam nodded woodenly, reaching for the Impala's door as Dean headed around to the other side.
Sam never saw him reach it. The vision slammed into him without warning, and as he fell against the polished metal, he knew nothing but—
Mandy's crying was silent now, her sobs transformed into gasps for air. It was hot and tight and the wood was blood-streaked but unbroken where she'd scratched futilely at it. She was going to die here, and the tears rolled silently down her cheeks in that knowledge.
"Steve…'m sorry." Each word was effort, lungs straining for air. "Sorry you died…missed you. Steve…" She was tired and her lungs hurt, and then there was just the sound of her losing battle to breathe—
"Sam!"
Couldn't breathe. He gripped his straining throat.
"Sammy!"
No air, no space, can't breathe—
The blow struck him between his shoulder blades, bruising. Sam gasped in shock…and sweet air flowed into his lungs.
He doubled over, coughing and sputtering, trying to inhale air and expel the terrifying feel of straining lungs. He gulped oxygen until his vision swam.
"No way, don't you start hyperventilating on me. I swear, man…" Hands ruthlessly shoved Sam's knees away from his chest, straightened his bowed back, and tilted his head up. "Sam, open your eyes and look at me."
Sam's eyes snapped open to stare into wide hazel mirrors of his own. Dean's face was creased as if in anger, but his hand moved along Sam's jaw and chin with light, careful touches.
"You're okay. You're okay, you can breathe. Just slow it down, all right? Slow and deep. You're not trapped, Sam, you're outside with me."
And he was. The house they'd just come from sat dark behind Dean, and grass tickled Sam's palm. It was cold, too, although he hadn't felt it until that moment. The breeze made the sweat on Sam's skin icy, and he shivered. "Dean."
Dean sat back, dropping awkwardly onto his rear but his grip on Sam not loosening. "God… Sam, you…" He cursed, drawing a hand over his mouth. "Dude, that sucked."
Sam chuckled, senses expanding to take in that he was propped against the Impala's passenger-side door, Dean's hand digging grooves into his upper arm. At least Buresch had gone to bed or something and hadn't witnessed Sam's meltdown. "Tell me about it."
Dean seemed to take him literally. "You couldn't breathe, Sam."
He closed his eyes, felt Dean's grip on him tighten to painful, then relax as the hand traveled up to the back of his neck. The touch was freezing cold and he doubted it was just because of the weather, but it felt good nonetheless. Grounded him in the here-and-now instead of that hot, airless prison. "She's dying," he whispered.
"Yeah, kinda figured that. You see a watch, cell phone, anything to tell us when?"
"No." Sam shook his head, then bolted up as he remembered the rest. "Dean," and this time it was his turn to dig nails into his brother's leg. "Steve's dead."
"What?" Dean's brow creased in a puzzled frown. "Dude, we just talked to him."
Sam shook his head. "Maybe it's not him, maybe…maybe it's another Steve. But she was telling him she was sorry that he died, that she missed him."
"Huh." Dean absently started helping him up. "Okay, so maybe she has a thing for Steves."
"Worth checking out," Sam agreed.
"Fine. On one condition."
Sam groaned inside. He knew what was coming. "Dean—"
But he was only upright because Dean hadn't let him go, and they both knew it. Dean leaned in to him, his eyes an intense green. "Sam, you weren't breathing," he said flatly. "The not-inhaling, not-using-your-lungs, dead kind of not breathing."
Sam shivered and nodded. That trumped any argument he could have made. He'd freaked out the few times Dean had stopped breathing, too.
"This time I do the research and you rest. I'll wake you up when I find something."
There wasn't even an okay? tacked on to the end because it wasn't a negotiation. Sam reluctantly nodded, knowing that as lousy as he felt, Dean could pretty much sit on him until Sam gave in and there wouldn't be a thing he could do about it.
Besides, there wasn't a lot he wouldn't have been willing to do to wipe the fear away that lingered under Dean's casual expression. Like, "Dude, did you just hit me?"
"Yeah," his brother shot back unrepentantly. "And guess what, Sam? You stop breathing and I'll do it again." There was a definite smirk lingering, thankfully, as he helped Sam into the car.
Their deal was probably superfluous. As soon as Sam settled into the relative warmth and softness of the seat, he was out.
00000
"Sammy."
This was really getting old: the catnaps to stave off the worst of the pain and fatigue, the visions that made the catnaps necessary in the first place. Dean's worried face swimming in Sam's line of sight. "Y'found something?" he asked, closing his eyes for just one more minute.
"Mandy's a widow."
That made him open his eyes and sit up. "Widow? She's, like—"
"Twenty-eight," Dean said, nodding. "But her first husband, Steven Edelstein, died in a construction accident three years ago."
"Steve," Sam whispered.
Dean set the laptop on the seat between them. "It was a pain to find, too—Mandy and Steve—the first Steve—got married in Vegas, land of a million marriage certificates, and he died in Oregon. Guess where he's buried?"
"Tacoma?" Sam hazarded. Why were records never simple? It was always Smiths and Joneses, families that started one place and ended up across the country, people who'd changed their names to get away from their pasts.
Dean pointed at him. "Yahtzee."
Sam squeezed his eyes shut, trying to think with brain matter that felt like Jell-O. "All right, so…Steve dies, but he's still tied to Mandy, and he doesn't like it when she finds herself another Steve. So he buries her alive…why?"
Dean shrugged. "Send for the missus? Have her all to himself? Who knows what ghosts are thinking, Sam."
Sam sighed, brushing a hand across his eyes. "Yeah, okay. So, salt-and-burn?"
"Yup. And check for any recent graves close by while we're at it."
It was twisted, but so were restless spirits. It wouldn't be the first time they'd run across a ghost that was crueler in its love than it would have been in hatred. Sam cringed at the thought of the last sight he'd had of Mandy, weeping in hopeless silence.
"Sam. I can handle this one."
"Your ankle," Sam mumbled.
"I'm not digging with my ankle."
Sam shook his head, throat tight, eyes twisted shut. It felt like he was four again, convinced the world outside would go away if he couldn't see it.
A hand skimmed the side of his head, his ear. "Seriously, dude. Curl up in the back for a while. You look like you're about to fall over, anyway."
"I'm all right," Sam roughly insisted, forcing his eyes open.
Dean just gazed at him, compassion and worry and sarcastic disbelief.
Sam deflated. "I'm all right," he repeated quietly.
"Yeah." Dean faced forward and started the car. "Sure you are."
They drove in silence, Sam wringing handfuls of his jeans with nervous energy, and not just for what lay ahead. "Dean," he finally started.
"Is this the part where you tell me you're sorry, but?" Sam gave him a rueful look, and Dean sighed, melting. "Dude, just…stop it. We're good, all right? Long as you're up front with me if you can't do this, we're cool."
"I can," he said with total honesty, and relief.
"Super."
It didn't stop Dean from checking on him every few minutes, but then, Sam wasn't sure he would have wanted it to.
The cemetery looked like a thousand others they'd been in in their life, with all the features they liked best in a boneyard: meager lighting, distance from the road, no caretaker, no wall. They parked behind a mausoleum but didn't even have to skulk as they searched the more modern section of the cemetery, looking both for Steve and fresh dirt.
The cold air had revived Sam a little, and it no longer felt like the earth was shifting beneath his feet. Mandy's slow death was never far from his mind, but at least here he had something to do. They separated enough to weave through separate rows, never out of each other's sight, and Sam felt a slim satisfaction as the simple engraving caught his flashlight beam: "Stephen Matthew Edelstein, 1975-2003. Rest in Peace."
"Dean!" he called, and saw his brother's head shoot up, then Dean was making his way over. Sam read the stone a second time while he waited, wondering momentarily what the living Steve would have thought of the dead one's actions.
Dean didn't waste time pondering; his eyes skimmed the headstone, then he was dumping their equipment to the side, gripping the shovel with both hands. "I've got this. You go look for Mandy."
Sam nodded and stepped away as he heard Dean ram his shovel into the hard earth.
He made it about five steps before the pain hurtled back. Sam spun in his tracks, mouth gaping like a dying fish, to give Dean a pleading look before…
…The silence was filled with the soft wheeze of a dying body trying to suck every last bit of oxygen from the small space it was in. Her eyes were shut, her hair pooled lifelessly over her shoulders, and her lips a faint blue. Her hand fluttered aimlessly against the wooden joist it was pressed against, and a tear rolled down her cheek. Her lips, when they moved, made no sound. Only her last struggling breaths filled the quiet tomb…
Sam groaned.
His cheek rubbed against something soft and warm, and his hands were trapped between it and his body. Soft…and moving, the surface panting up and down, a steady pounding beneath it.
Dean.
Sam relaxed, let himself drift a little more, trying to summon the strength to come up for—
Air.
He went from zero to flailing in a half-second, fighting harder as the space around him shrank. His breath was a sob by the time he realized he was cocooned in arms and legs, not a wooden prison, and he could breathe. Although it hurt, his chest protesting every rise and fall.
"Dean!" he called for help instinctively.
Utterly bewildered when the response came from just below his ear, pressed into the skin of his neck. "Here. I'm here. Calm down, Sammy."
Quiet and strong and just shaky enough to get his attention. "Dean?"
"Yeah. You okay?"
Up and down began to make sense again, and with it the realization of how tightly he was being crushed against Dean's chest, his brother's head bent down behind his. Ragged pants of air matching his own.
"Sam!"
"Yeah," he stammered. Mandy had been asphyxiating, and Dean was terrified. It wasn't hard to put the pieces together. Sam gingerly pushed away, not wanting to ask more than Dean could give.
His brother let him pull back, giving him space, sidling around so he was facing Sam instead of behind him. Sam glimpsed an open rawness in Dean's face before it was gone, wiped away into narrowed eyes and a furrowed brow that anyone else would have taken for anger.
He wasn't anyone else.
"Bad, huh?" he asked softly.
Dean's jaw rippled, eyes dangerous.
Sam swallowed, glancing around to take in the started grave, the quiet yard around them. He rubbed absently at his chest, wincing at the soreness there. "Why—?"
"CPR," Dean said tersely. He stood up, face set, impassive. "Stay there. I'll look for Mandy."
And memory thundered back, leaving Sam gasping.
Dean was instantly crouching in front of him again, hands gripping the two sides of Sam's face. "Don't you dare," he growled.
"No, it's—" Sam gulped, throat sore with phantom pain. And Dean… CPR? "Her hair was on her shoulders."
Dean's brow drew together in earnest confusion. "What?"
"And joists—there were wooden joists."
Real worry in his brother's dark gaze now.
Sam shook his head, impatient with his own fractured thoughts. "Dean, she's not buried, not in the ground. She's walled up somewhere, standing up."
Bafflement, comprehension, dismay chased each other across Dean's face. "So she's not here."
"No." Sam sagged. "She never was."
Dean eased off, sitting back on his heels, but his eyes scoured Sam's face. "Terrific. Okay, so, a house? One she shared with Steve?"
"Makes sense. Bring her back home with him, keep her there forever."
"He was in Oregon when he died, Sam. They probably lived down there."
He shook his head, his sweaty hair a damp slide across his forehead. His ribs ached. God, CPR. "He could've traveled for work—there wasn't any address listed for her in Oregon. But she had another home here once, I remember seeing it when I was looking her up. It was an old one near the school."
Dean gave him a skeptical look. "You puttin' odds on this? 'Cause I wouldn't bet on it."
"We don't have a choice," Sam retorted.
Dean stared at him a moment longer, then at the grave, back to Sam. "Gonna take me at least an hour to dig Steve up."
"She doesn't have an hour, Dean, she's—"
"Not breathing—yeah, thanks, I saw the instant replay."
"Dean." He put every bit of little brotherly imploring into his voice. "Please. I have to check."
"And what if you have another one of your visions, huh? You barely came back from the last one, Sam."
"I've seen everything I need to. I won't get any more."
"Right, because they're always about what you need," Dean argued, hand waving.
"I need this, Dean."
Silence. Dean tense and still as a statue.
"Dean."
"I'm thinking!" Dean snapped. He gave Sam a heated look, then breathed out explosively. There was a pause in which he looked everywhere except at Sam, then he dug his keys out and tossed them to his brother.
Sam just managed to catch them, which he figured was part of the test. He curled his fingers tight around the warm metal, not about to relinquish them again. He hadn't been kidding about needing to do this, but it didn't hit him until the keys did how much he needed Dean's trust, too. His brother believed he could do it, so Sam did, too. It had always been that way.
Dean's finger sliced at him. "You run her off the road, and you better keep running, Sam."
He struggled to get to his feet without it looking like he was struggling.
Strong arms hauled him upright with restrained force. "Keep your phone out and on. You even cough, I wanna hear about it."
"All right."
A gentle shove propelled him a step toward the car, and Sam went with the momentum, tired but remarkably steady considering he'd been clinically dead a few minutes before. Apparently, Dean hadn't allowed that to go on too long.
He felt Dean's eyes on him as he reached the car, leaning for a second against the hood.
"Keep breathing," Dean hollered after him.
Sam smiled as he slid the key home.
God, he loved that jerk.
00000
The house took too long to look up, the drive over even longer. He'd called Dean to let him know the address, but had otherwise left his brother to dig, and the silent minutes ticked off in Sam's head like some doomsday New Year's countdown, with the ball dropping on Mandy's life at the end. As Sam pulled the Impala up in front of the small deserted house, he just hoped that Dean had been right about the visions being pre-cognitive instead of real time. If all he had was a window into Mandy's prison, Sam was coming to dig out a dead woman.
He fished an axe from of the Impala's trunk, then headed up the front walk. The yard had once been cared for: winter-dead rosebushes and flower beds overrun with weeds and ivy now but showing signs of former beauty, dirty flagstones heading to a side gate, a leaf-strewn porch swing swaying in the breeze. A weather-beaten wooden sign painted with the name "Edelstein" thumped against the wood of the door. The windows were covered with boards, but the door was untouched. Sam took it all in in a glance, briefly grateful the house was still empty, then knelt on the porch with his lock pick set and got to work.
Twenty seconds later, he was walking in, sneakers a soft thud on dusty floors.
He flicked his flashlight on, aimed the beam low. There were marks other than the ones he was leaving disturbing the dust: footprints, smaller by half than his own. Fresh, it seemed, and Sam traced them with his eyes and the flashlight beam until they disappeared through a doorway. Sam followed.
The living room turned into what Sam guessed had once been a dining room, the far doorway opening into the kitchen. The rooms were bare, only the dark maroon wallpaper left, and the footprints went up to the wall on Sam's right and then just…stopped.
Sam's eyes narrowed. He strode up to the wall, taking in every untouched corner, unbroken surface. The wallpaper wasn't even peeling. Still. He tucked the flashlight into his jacket and set the axe down, then pressed his hands against the wall before banging against it.
"Mandy? Are you in there?" His bellow should have carried throughout the house, let alone one wall.
Sam held his breath.
Nothing.
But this had to be it: the wall prison, the prints leading nowhere. His hands rolled into fists, and Sam pounded harder against the papered plaster.
"Mandy! Can you hear me? Mandy!"
Another moment of silence. And then faintly, so quiet that in other circumstances Sam would have thought it was just a mouse or the house settling, a soft scratch, a weak thud.
She was there. Still alive. Sam almost sagged against the wall in relief. "Okay, listen, I'm gonna get you out, okay? Hang on."
The next part was actually tricky. From his vision, he'd seen there wasn't much room between the wall and Mandy. If the axe cut too deep, it would hit her. All he had to do at first was get air in there, then he could figure out where to chop to get her out. Sam's eyes traced the wall one more time, calculating, then he swung.
It took a few tries before he knew he was in the right place, the crumbled plaster falling away to reveal a glimpse of denim in the gloom, and stale air flowing out to choke Sam. He coughed, chest aching and throat rough, and chopped more carefully.
It took forever, but the plaster slowly gave way to details familiar from his vision: the mussed dark hair, the plaster-dusted sweatshirt, bloody and scraped hands limp at her side. And finally her face, ashen and exhausted and frantic but heavy-eyed as she took in her unfamiliar rescuer. She tried to talk and managed only a whimper. But when Sam, muttering soothing words, reached inside to lift her out, Mandy's arms wrapped around his neck with desperate strength, tears already wetting his skin.
Sam shut his eyes and just held her for a minute before easing her free.
"Everything's gonna be all right. You're safe now. Shh…" He rocked her with experience borne from Dean.
She just clutched harder.
And then she was grabbing at him frantically, her breaths tight little pants of panic.
Sam whirled, looking for what she'd seen…
…too late.
"Mine!"
The voice had the strange husk to it that characterized most ghosts, but it was also brittle with rage. Steve, Sam realized with a rush of cold dread, the first one. The one who was having some trouble letting Mandy go.
Sam scrambled to check his pockets for any weapon, cursing himself that he hadn't brought the salt-loaded shotgun. He just hadn't thought…Dean had to be almost done with the grave, and Steve had gotten his revenge. Neither of them had expected him to still be there.
But Mandy wasn't dead yet, and Steve wasn't finished.
"Mine!" the ghost shrieked, and wind suddenly blasted through the house, making Sam hunch against it. The next moment, Mandy was jerked out of his grip.
The woman screamed. Sam lunged after her. Steve yelled "Mine" one more time, and unseen hands slammed Mandy against the far wall.
The break of bone reverberated in the small room.
The wind instantly died, everything going silent.
"No!" Sam cried, throwing himself to her side.
Her eyes were already going dull. She couldn't breathe, neck broken, choking fast now instead of slow.
Sam's vision was blurry as he gently moved her hair out of her face, stroked her cheek. He'd been so close, tried so hard to save her. "Shh." His voice was a shadow of his earlier reassurances. "I'm here. You're not alone."
Her lips moved once. Peace replaced the terror in her eyes, and she went still.
Breath hitching, Sam palmed her eyes shut.
The temperature in the room suddenly plunged.
Sam's head shot up, fury overcoming grief, and he shot to his feet, fists clenched. "Where are you, you son of—"
A face, pale and long and twisted, materialized inches from Sam's.
He recoiled with a curse. But the spirit was faster, wrapping itself around Sam, the cold shoving into his bones until all he could see was white and he couldn't breathe. Before his panicked mind could react, there was the disorienting sensation of movement, and then the white broke up, pulling away. Leaving Sam with his nose, his chest and back, the toes of his feet mashed up against a hard surface.
Wood.
Sam's heart started pounding as he recognized it. The interior of a wall. Somehow, Steve had transported him inside, just as he must have Mandy.
"Mine," came the last satisfied word, followed by a laugh. Which suddenly turned into a scream. It spiraled down, then cut off abruptly. Dean had burned Steve's bones, a minute too late.
"No, no, no, no, no," Sam chanted, fingers already searching for a way out, a weakness, one of the holes he'd made. He had twice Mandy's mass, and had at least one or two weapons tucked into his clothes. He couldn't be trapped in here, joists pressing against the top of his head and one shoulder, with less than an arm's length on the other side. Sealing him inside an area not much bigger than the one tiny Mandy had been in, and the air was already stale. "No," Sam gritted out in horror, starting to paw in something near mindless terror. No way.
But the wood didn't budge. This wasn't the wall he'd broken into, and he was trapped.
Sam swallowed rising panic, trying to clear his head. Okay, he was trapped. It wasn't the first time. He just had to figure a way out. He pulled in a breath, then jostled to turn his foot, pound against the wall sideways.
Nothing. Wood was wood and wouldn't be breaking with his unaided strength, without even room for the momentum of a swing.
Okay. Okay, there were other options. Like…Sam cursed himself, awkwardly lifting his arm to get into his pocket. His cell phone. Call Dean, get help. He nearly fumbled the devise in his hurry, flicking it on with blind familiarity. The small lit window was a beacon of hope.
Until it gave him the bad news. Apparently, there wasn't enough signal inside of a wall. Who knew?
Sam growled, shoving the phone back into his pocket. Dean would come after him anyway, right? It would take him longer without the car…but he'd come. Meanwhile, Sam had… He took quick stock. A knife and a lock-pick set and a pen. Not exactly breaking-through-a-wall material, but it was something. Sam fidgeted to get the right leverage and jammed the knife tip between two boards, trying to jimmy something loose, open at least a small hole.
The air already felt thin, Sam's oversized body taking up too much room. How much time had Mandy had—two, three hours?
He put all his muscle into it, grunting with the effort. But the knife wasn't working. Some part of Sam knew it wouldn't, but he refused to give up, even when the blade slipped and sliced open the side of his hand. It just wasn't an option. He wouldn't die like this, like Mandy…
Oh, God.
He couldn't give up, wouldn't, he was a hunter, John Winchester's son, Dean Winchester's brother. But nothing was working and he couldn't get out. Sam sniffed, humiliated as a tear rolled down his cheek and dripped off his nose, his hands unable to rise far enough to rub it away. Had to get out…
It was already an effort to breathe. He was going to die here.
Sam's muscles went rigid with the need to move, his movements more frantic as he chopped at the wall. He'd always been sympathetic to Dean's claustrophobia, but Sam had never really gotten it until now. Being trapped, being helpless: it was a little like a front-row seat to watching yourself go crazy.
The knife slipped again, and Sam roared his frustration at the wood. He slapped his hands against his prison wall, knife forgotten in his grasp, inarticulate in his desperation.
His skin tore, chest heaving against the immovable pressure, but he didn't care, didn't even feel it, just the weight as his lungs struggled for air that wasn't there. He'd been through this already, couldn't do it again. Suffocating, trapped, gonna die here, and it wasn't fair, it wasn't sane, and where was Dean, God, please get me out!
Get me out!
His hands were wet with blood.
GET ME OUT!
He couldn't breathe.
Get me out get me out getmeout…
The world fractured and fell away.
00000
"…friend, My fingers grip with fear, What am I doing here?"
Sam floated.
"Flash before my eyes, Now it's time to die…"
Not dying. He was safe and warm, the steady words a lull to his bruised senses.
"Burning in my brain…"
Dean. That was Dean, and Sam was safe, locked in his brother's arms.
Dean kept reciting, words pushing out in a rhythm that Sam slowly realized was forced. Frantic, helpless to do anything for his little brother but let him know he wasn't alone.
Sam shifted a little, trying to get his bearings, to find the edges of his body and let Dean know he was back.
His brother fell silent, and the hold around Sam tightened briefly, then loosened. "Sammy?"
"Mmm." Only worry about Dean's obvious distress gave him enough incentive to pull his heavy eyelids up. "D'n."
"Yeah. I'm here." Sam thought he felt him shake for a moment, but he must have been mistaken because when he was pressed against Dean's shirt, his brother felt rock solid. He smelled like earth and smoke, every element but wood, and Sam was grateful for that as he breathed air and his brother in. "I'm here," Dean repeated as he turned Sam's head a little so he could breathe better.
His eyes opened to a confusing blur of close-up plaid. Sam's gaze trailed sideways, and fell on Mandy Buresch's lax face.
He started shaking then.
The dominos of the case fell into place: the visions, Mandy and Steve and Steve, the grave, the ghost. Freeing Mandy, only to watch her die, then taking her place. Sam started panting at the memory of the tiny space, the certainty he would suffocate there, teeth rattling around each inhale.
"Sam. Sammy!" Dean's voice cracked through the memory, yanking Sam back. "Take it easy, kiddo, you're out, you're safe."
That was what he'd told Mandy, too.
"You're not in there anymore—I found you. Had to boost a Volvo to get here, but I found you. Steve's gone—it's over, Sam. It's over." A hand rubbed the top of his head, his stomach, squeezed his toes. Points of pressure, of restraint, and Sam wondered vaguely how Dean knew. But even through their comfort, he couldn't seem to stop vibrating.
Dean shifted him, wrapped him in what felt like a body-warmed jacket, and it helped some. The hard tremors eventually gave way to smaller ones, joints popping and muscles straining instead of threatening to snap altogether. His hands hurt, and Sam noticed absently that one was wrapped in a handkerchief. He tried to force himself to relax, burrowing harder against Dean for support, but his body wouldn't let itself be rushed, working through the shock at its own speed.
Dean muttered something unhappy but didn't pull away, just helped Sam ride the crash in what was doubtless quite the emo-chick scene. Sam couldn't really bring himself to care.
He forced his own breathing to slow, to match Dean's. He was free. A shift of the eyes away from Mandy, and Sam could just see the edges of a desperate, gaping hole. Dean had found him, gotten him out in time. He was okay, safe. With his brother, and sometimes Sam thought that was the only place he could really breathe.
"Sam?"
He swallowed, nodded, his eyes pressed shut. "I know."
"Know what, Sammy?"
"I'm out. I'm okay. It's just…" The shudders came with intermittent randomness now instead of constantly.
"I know." Sorrowful, soothing. Proud? "Small spaces suck, huh?"
Sam laughed, weak and wobbly but honest-to-God survivor relief because sometimes that was all there was left, that and Dean. "Sorry," he whispered.
"I'll make fun of you later, okay?" One last press of the back of his head, then Dean was leaning back, looking him over for what felt like the dozenth time in the last few days.
Sam blinked at him, seeing the dirt and plaster in his brother's hair and in the wrinkles around his eyes. He felt unutterably tired and grieved and like he wanted to be anywhere but in that room with Mandy Buresch's body, but didn't have the strength to move.
"You okay? Sam?"
His eyes slid over to Mandy one more time, and Sam closed his eyes. He shook his head.
"You will be," Dean promised, and then he was hauling Sam up, hands on hip and the front of his shirt.
Sam turned away from Mandy and the broken walls of his prison, faced forward, and, with Dean's help, walked away.
00000
They sat awkwardly on the black vinyl couch, holding twin cups of coffee. Sam's gauze-wrapped hand balanced his on his knee, while Dean cradled his own. Across from them, Steve Buresch sat in silence, his mug forgotten on the table beside him.
"In a way…I guess it's a relief."
Sam narrowed his eyes at the man, and he felt Dean sit a little straighter next to him.
Buresch's eyes came up to meet them. "I don't mean… It's just, Mandy was never really happy, you know? I tried to make her happy, but she was still mourning her first husband, and…" He shook his head. "She deserved better than this, though."
"Yes," Sam quietly agreed.
After they'd left the house, Dean had called in anonymously and told the police where to find the body. The official theory was that someone had found Mandy and freed her from her prison in the wall, but her original attacker scared her good Samaritan away and finished the job.
"I'm glad…I'm glad I know. You know? If whoever it was who found her hadn't tried to help her, I might never have learned what happened to her. And she would've died trapped in—" He blinked, his eyes already rimmed with red. "I wish they knew who was there with her so I could thank him. It would've been an awful way to die. At least this was fast, right?"
People saw what they wanted to see. Sam couldn't swallow or speak, just nodded. Dean was watching him pointedly, and he pressed an elbow into Sam's side. The pressure inside his ribcage incongruously eased.
"I just wish…she could have been happy, at least for a little while. Her dad died in a fire in her nursery when she was a baby, and I don't think she ever really got over that, you know?"
Sam froze, horror fluttering up his throat. Static filled his ears, black his vision.
"…felt out of place…mom never…always struggled…"
Then Dean was jostling him out of there, one hand under Sam's elbow. He wasn't sure if he even said good-bye to Buresch. The next thing Sam knew, he was out on the walk, nose-to-nose with his brother.
"You're not gonna pass out on me, are you?"
Sam shook his head, trying to be irritated but stuck in the groove of nursery fires and dead parents.
"Sammy, we don't know—"
"It was why I had visions of her, Dean," he said hoarsely. "Same reason I saw Max."
Dean looked away, chewing his lip.
"I couldn't save either of them. They're like me, and—"
"Sam!"
The angry bark snapped his mouth shut. He stared wide-eyed at Dean.
His brother's face instantly softened. "You did save her, Sam. Because of you, she didn't die slowly and alone. She knew somebody had found her, somebody cared."
Sam rubbed his eyes. He'd slept through most of the last thirty hours, rousing only when Dean prodded him to eat and drink. But he still felt tired, deep down where no sleep seemed to touch.
Fingers tight on his shoulders gave him a shake. "And she's at peace now. Don't forget that. That bastard didn't get her."
Sam flinched. He wished he'd been able to torch Steve Edelstein's bones himself.
"Hey," Dean said, not without sympathy. "Steve said it, too—well, Steve number two. He's glad she wasn't alone at the end. That's all I'd ask for if it were me. She had a hard life, but you gave her back something before she died. That's huge, Sam."
Sam nodded, eyes skipping away from Dean and back again. That's all I'd ask for. He couldn't do anything more for the dead, but he could for the living. Sam licked his lips, managed a small smile. "Dude, 'Ride the Lightning'?"
Dean frowned at him. "Hey, you were freaking out on me. It was all I could think of."
"Right. Because 'Now it's time to die' is so comforting."
His brother's lips compressed. "How many times have you heard that song in your life, Sam?"
He blinked. "Uh, about a thousand?"
Dean grinned smugly at him and turned to head for the car, barely limping now.
Sam snorted softly. Okay, point. The soundtrack of Metallica was woven into his life as much as the gleaming black of the Impala and the smell of gun oil and taste of roadside diner food. The songs were comfort.
But Dean could have recited insurance statistics and achieved the same effect, and Sam figured he knew that. It was his brother's voice that had penetrated the terror of suffocation. Dean had let him breathe again, then and now.
"Sam? Coming?" Dean looked up at him from the far side of the car.
Sam nodded and started walking.
"Good. I wanna pick up some food and a movie." That same sliding grin. "Got a hankering to see The Tao of Steve again."
Sam groaned as he reached for the door. But he was smiling.
The End