Previously appeared in Blood Brothers 5 (2011), from Golden Lily Press
For wolfpup for her (previous year's) birthday, but happy birthday again, my friend!
Show Your Colors
K Hanna Korossy
For an underground arms dealer, the dude did brisk business.
The latest customer was a mid-forties guy who practically screamed hunter, with his flannel-and-denim wardrobe, wary body language, and the subtle bulge under the left side of his coat. Dean saw him glance around before striding into the tackle shop, and he leaned back in his seat to wait. He didn't want an audience when he went shopping.
Life was good. "Slow Ride" was playing on the radio, the weather was just cool enough for a leather jacket and an open window, and Dean had finally succeeded in tracking down the latest hole Gibbs had squirreled himself away in. Good thing, too, because their supplies were getting low, and Gibbs had the best when it came to the specialized needs of their line of work. Dean understood the urge to occasionally relocate with a business like that, but sure made it hard to find the guy sometimes.
The hunter came back out, clutching a cardboard box like it was filled with gold. His sharp eyes missed the dark Impala in the even darker shadows down the block as he scanned the street, then climbed into his Jeep. The license plate looked cleaner than the rest of the mud-splattered car, a rookie mistake but another tick in the hunter box, and Dean pursed his lips as he watched the guy drive away. Well, it was the kind of job you learned by doing, and Dean wished him the best of luck.
He was just looking around to see if anyone else was coming when the phone started vibrating in his pocket. Eyes still on the street, Dean reached for it, not even needing to glance at the Caller ID to know who it was. He thumbed it on and put it to his ear, a smile already forming.
"You and Beets kill each other yet?"
"Dude, he researches everything, he's a pescetarian, and listens to Fall Out Boy in an SUV even I can stretch out in. Tell me again why we can't replace the Impala's bench seat?"
"Because I'm not into desecration," Dean shot back easily, but his gut twinged. "So, he's a mini-you, huh? That's…that's awesome. You've gotta be in Heaven."
"He's driving me crazy," Sam said flatly. "You find Gibbs yet?"
Dean's smile widened. He missed his wingman more than he would've ever admitted, but it helped to know it was mutual. "Sitting right outside the place, waiting for a private audience. Dude, you were the one who wanted to be Beets' hunting buddy."
"He asked for help, Dean. And I didn't think you needed me to swap war stories with Gibbs."
I always need you, his mind automatically retorted. It was a truth Dean didn't deny anymore—at least not to himself—not since Dad died. Sammy was all he had left, but it was more than that, more than just not having anyone else. He actually missed Sam's mess in the front wheel well and the way he snored when he was exhausted and those emo eyes that could pretty much get Dean to do whatever his little brother wanted. It was stupid and pathetic and girly, but after only two days apart, he really missed Sam.
But what he said was, "Pesceterian—is that like a pesky Presbyterian?"
He could see Sam's eye roll over the phone. "I'll see you tomorrow at the motel, man."
"Oh, dude, find out if he thinks Diane Sawyer's hot. I bet he does."
"Bye, Dean."
Dean smirked as he turned his phone off and tucked it back into his pocket. Hey, with Sam off helping another hunter with research while Dean was doing a supply run, he had to get his mockery in whenever he could.
No one else had pulled up in front of Gibbs' shop meanwhile, and the coast looked clear. Dean opened his door and slid out of the car, doing a better job of casing the street than those before him had. But even with the sun sinking below the horizon, Dean could still see there was no one watching, waiting. No one but himself. One last glance, and he ducked inside.
Gibbs was leaning on the counter, lazily tying a lure. Which, considering the last front business he'd had was a truck detailing place, was pretty impressive. Dean threw him a grin. "Goin' the whole nine yards, huh?"
Gibbs' mouth quirked in return. He'd known Dean since before Dean could see over his counters; there was no need for passwords and pretenses between them. "Gotta keep up appearances. Some folks actually come in here for bait."
Dean snickered. "Bait, right. Well, I got a different kind of shopping list for you. Need some iron and powder."
"Cold, consecrated, or regular?"
"Cold. Forty-five and nine mil."
The half-finished lure lay forgotten on the counter as Gibbs made some notes, nodding. "Any p'rticular kind of powder?"
Dean was scanning the walls, but of course there were only fishing poles and baskets and cases of lures on display. "You got any specials?"
"Flake."
"Flake it is." He rested his hands on the edge of the counter and watched as Gibbs scrawled another line. Dean paused, chewing his lip, and shifted his balance. "How're you fixed for silver?"
The dealer didn't even look up. "Pawn shop's down the street. How much ammo you want?"
"Four boxes. And I'm not looking to buy." Dean pulled the blade out from a sheath on the back of his belt. "I'm looking to get rid of something." As he set it down on the counter, he nicked the edge of Gibbs' hand, drawing blood.
The older man's head rose then, eyebrow quirking. "You think I'm a shapeshifter, boy?" His eyes suddenly flooded with black as his mouth pulled into a sneer. "Guess again."
Dean fell back a step, hands raising a little in apparent supplication, but it put one near his right pocket. "Hey, I can see you're busy—how 'bout I come back sometime when you're not possessed?"
Gibbs—or Gibbs' body—vaulted over the counter with inhuman spryness. "Nice try, Winchester, but I kinda like my job here, identifying hunters, giving 'em just enough dud equipment to get them killed. Can't let you go and ruin it now."
Dean's hand had eased into his jacket pocket and twisted carefully. "Can't, or won't? 'Cause, see, I'm thinking you're not trying too hard."
The demon scoffed, advancing as Dean moved back. "What tipped you off?"
Another step back, another twist. "Gibbs is left-handed."
"Huh. I'll be sure to remember that next time." Gibbs' head cocked. "By the way, where's your brother, Dean? You leave him out in the car? I'd hate for him to miss this."
Dean's eyes narrowed. "He's a couple hundred miles from here, and you're not gettin' any closer to him, you son of a bitch." With that he pulled his hand out and threw, sending an arc of holy water into the demon's face.
The creature in Gibbs' body howled, clutching at its head.
Dean didn't waste any time, launching himself toward the door. He had salt in the car; if he could lay a line in front of the door…
The hand hooked the back of his jacket just as he reached for the doorknob.
Demons couldn't be killed, at least not any way Dean knew. They could be exorcised—not fast, though, and damned if he hadn't left his Exorcizamus Te in his other pair of jeans—or barricaded—but not if they were right in your face—or hindered; he still had half a flask of holy water. That wouldn't be enough, however, not with him having been blindsided like a total greenhorn.
Dean gritted his teeth and splashed the rest of the water in Gibbs' face, taking advantage of the second it gained him to ram the demon into the nearest wall.
The fight was short but brutal. Dean wasn't unarmed; far from it. Unfortunately, even a shot to the face, while leaving little of the former Gibbs' head behind, wasn't lethal to a demon. It was more than a demon could fix, all but guaranteeing its stint as the arms dealer was over, but that wasn't a lot of comfort when your head was being bashed against the floor several times in a row with superhuman strength.
The room was starting to go grey, his body increasingly detached. Dean's arm flopped with a groan as cheekbone met hard wood one more time, and his fingers came unexpectedly to rest on cool metal. He couldn't see what it was, couldn't take in anything but pain and red and the thick flow of iron that filled his mouth. But Dean was a hunter, and fighting was like breathing. Easier, in this case. He clasped clumsy fingers around the metal—dagger, heavy like consecrated iron, maybe the blade he usually had strapped to his leg?—and shoved.
Something above him screeched for an indecently long time. Then there was a heavy thud, a weight flopping onto Dean's back. And then silence.
Dean blinked, trying to clear his vision.
He was lying on hard and cold. His cheek felt hot against it. Fingers twitched in front of his face. He breathed, and little bubbles frothed against his lips.
Not good. Dying? Maybe. Bad. Can't stay. Demon. Need help.
Dean's knees shuffled, trying to push up. His back curved, then sagged. He tried again, face still against the floor as his hips hitched, legs trying to tuck under him. His hand flopped over, and his shoulder jerked, making him moan.
Bad. Need Dad. Demons. Danger.
His head rocked against the floor, disturbing sounds dribbling from his lips with the blood. Palm flattened against the floor and tried to push up.
Sammy. Demons?
Something was resting on his shoulder, weighing him down. He scraped at the floor, trying to shove back against it. Almost fell over when the burden slid off him with a meaty thump, rocking Dean back.
He lost some time there, startled back to awareness with a gurgle.
Up to his knees, feet, back to his knees. Thick liquid dripping into his eyes, down his throat, coating his teeth. He spit, gagged. Couldn't see.
Demons. Danger, Sammy. Gotta go. Gotta…gotta protect.
Somehow on his feet again. He stumbled out the door, literally, hitting sidewalk with his shins and curling forward. He was whimpering and didn't care. Head wasn't in one piece, couldn't be the way it felt. Body wouldn't listen to him, just like Sam, just like Dad. Dying.
Danger. Danger, danger, danger, demons.
It was dark and there was a wall to his back. Good place to take a stand. A soldier needs to follow his training. But he was unarmed. Couldn't protect this way, couldn't…
Hands. Petting over him, down his side to his pocket. Sammy worrying. Dean groaned and feebly tried to shove the hands away. But they were…gnarled. Small. Not like Sammy's. Darting into his pockets, then there was a chortle of malicious glee. Not Sam.
Danger.
Dean uttered an inarticulate wail and lurched forward, head connecting too too hard with pavement.
The scenery flashed around him like it was on fast-forward.
More hands. Voices. Questions. Blue lights. Red lights.
He was lifted. Groaned. Head was gonna blow.
Hurt. Sammy, help.
Bright light in his eyes. Hands on his face, in his hair, on his chest, too close. Trapping him.
He tried to focus on their faces, their eyes. But iris bled into pupils, a sea of dark.
Demons.
He yelled, fought, fists and feet finding soft targets, yells of their own.
Hands held him down, restraining, locking him in, forcing helplessness on him. He shouted his despair.
Danger, Sammy, please…
And somehow in all the madness, he felt the prick in his arm that was his final defeat, dragging him away into suffocating darkness.
00000
"Bobby, he's not here."
His first clue something was wrong had been the absence of the Impala in front of the motel where they'd agreed to rendezvous. It hadn't been around back, either, or within a two-block radius.
Sam had cased the area with tight eyes, then picked the lock on Room 9. The room was clean. A check with the front office also revealed no sign Dean had ever been there. Sighing, Sam had borrowed their yellow pages and looked up the first motel in the listings.
But there'd been no Impala there, either, nor any record of a Jim Rockford having checked in. And trying Dean's phone only netted voicemail.
Belly churning, Sam had begun driving around town in the SUV he'd borrowed from Bobby and dialed the older hunter.
"You checked your back-up site?"
"Yeah—no sign of him. I don't think he stayed at a motel last night."
"Maybe he found a lady friend at a bar? Wouldn't be the first time he didn't need a room for the night."
Sam knew their old friend was covering all the bases, but the denial was just wasting precious time. "He still would've made sure to meet me—something's wrong, Bobby, I can feel it."
"Yeah, all right. So what's the plan?"
"Uh," Sam exhaled. "Drive around, see if I can spot the car? I know he was here yesterday, and he wouldn't've left town without telling me. You don't have an address for Gibbs' new shop, do you?"
"Didn't ask—Dean said he'd find it himself. I can track it down—only gonna take a few calls."
"That would be great. Thanks, Bobby. If I can't find the car, I'll try tracking his phone, see if that gets me anywhere."
"Sounds good. Call in when you find something."
"Yeah. You, too."
"Don't worry, Sam, we'll find him."
He swallowed, nodding. "Right. Definitely."
It didn't feel so definite, however, when Sam tossed the phone aside and kept driving and looking, and not finding.
00000
White walls, white sheets, white clothes, white gauze wrapped around his brain.
Something was wrong; he knew it before he knew anything else. But every thought slipped away from his reach, tangling in the soft cotton. His brain hurt with the effort.
Everything hurt.
Dean tried to push through it. Couldn't afford it, either the cloudiness or the weakness. There was…danger and Sam and need to flee…
But he couldn't think. And his arms and legs wouldn't move.
"Sir? …hear me?"
Not all the words made it past the thick whiteness. His face felt swollen, his eyes struggling to open. White everywhere, searing into his battered brain…except for the black eyes inches from his own.
Danger—demons.
He hissed and tried to pull back, but the padded surface he was on wouldn't yield and his hands clenched uselessly in their…in their restraints. He was tied down, helpless, at their mercy. "No, no, no." He didn't even realize he was chanting it under his breath, still pulling, struggling.
"…down… Hurt you…" The inky eyes didn't blink. "…your name?"
Knew his name already. It was looking…looking for Sam… "Screw you," Dean spat. His gut lurched, bile tickling his throat, and he swallowed queasily. Never show weakness in front of the enemy.
"…won't let you go…"
He yanked his arms and legs, fear rising in him at how well and truly he was ensnared. The white walls seem to press down on him, the black eyes floating, gloating above him. "Demon," he whispered. "Not gonna…gonna get…"
Dad would be so disappointed; Dean had let himself get caught. Couldn't look after Sam this way, either, couldn't… He'd promised Dad, and Sam needed him. Needed—
Where was Dad—Sam? He needed a…a gun. Something. Needed to get away. Helpless—he was helpless. Trapped. "Get away," he growled. "…son of a bitch."
"If you don't…hurt you."
Hot breath on his neck, Dad's yellow eyes drilling into him. Unable to move, Sam yelling in the distance, and pain and pain. Feeble, vulnerable, trapped. Dean whined low in his throat, prey instead of predator, tearing at the fetters that bound him, heart threatening to break through his ribs. Can't do this, can't—
"…delusional, combative. Let's increase…"
A flood of cool whiteness invaded his body, more gauze enmeshing his mind, tendrils wrapping around his body, completely immobilizing him. Oh, God, they were cocooning him, burying him alive in white, gonna drain him to a husk. Couldn't breathe, couldn't…couldn't…
Dean fought—or at least he thought he fought—but it was a losing battle. The demons had him. "Gonna…gonna kill…" He lost the thought. "Sammy?" he whimpered.
"…alone…" The whisper, the word, was poison to his soul. "You're…alone."
Who knew white was as smothering as darkness?
00000
Sam found the Impala before Bobby could call back. It was parked in front of a nice periwinkle-blue house with a white-picket fence. Sam eyed the building warily a moment before deciding that not even a weapons dealer looking for a good cover would hide here. Besides, Dean wouldn't have left his car so close to his destination.
Sam unlocked the Impala with his key and shaking fingers, then slid inside. There was a temptation to close his eyes and just soak in the car, the feeling of rightness even when he knew it was all wrong. Dean should be on this side, for one, and they should've been flying down back country roads, not parked in suburbia, Dean nowhere in sight. Sam sighed and looked around.
There. The vantage point offered a good view of a small row of stores down the street, but especially an ice cream parlor, a bookstore, and a bait shop. The first would be too conspicuous, the second was a possibility, but Sam had a hunch about the third. Gibbs' kind of clientele wouldn't attract as much attention browsing for fishing supplies as they would shopping for books.
And then there was the matter of the yellow police tape strung across the bait shop's door.
Sam rolled his eyes; he could almost hear Dean's scathing, amused, Great detective work there, Columbo. Chagrin quickly gave way to new fear, though. A crime scene meant a crime, and probably not just a simple robbery. If Gibbs had turned on Dean, or if something had come after them both…
Jaw flexing, Sam slid out of the car and set off down the street.
It took two deceptively casual passes to confirm there was no one inside the bait shop. There were too many civilians around to make a frontal approach safe, so Sam slipped behind the row of shops and checked out the back.
Bingo. Quiet, deserted, and a rear door that was only locked. Piece of cake. Thirty seconds later, he was letting himself into the store, slipping his kit back into his jacket.
The place had obviously already been gone over by cops: there was fingerprint dust everywhere, pieces cut out of the tile floor, and half the shop looked like it had been packed up and removed. But there was plenty still there for Sam to read. Like the thick, dark spatter of blood on the floor, and the spray of fine blood on two walls. Not in the right place for the two to be connected, though, and Sam frowned, eyeing the scene. No, the mess on the wall was clearly from a gunshot, but the body couldn't have fallen the right way to make the stain on the floor. Two different victims then. Gibbs and Dean?
Sam swallowed, forcing the emotions down to stay objective.
Okay, maybe Gibbs and Dean. But there was brain matter on the walls, too, which meant a head shot—no way was the vic not going down from that. Where was the blood on the floor to go with it then, though? And…what was that smell? Not ozone; not a ghost. More like…
Sam felt the blood drain from his face. More like sulfur. Like a demon.
A non-lethal head-shot was starting to make more sense. So…the other bloodstain was from Dean? Could still be just another injury to a demon's host, but then where was Dean? In police custody? At this point, Sam was praying he was just under arrest. With a gulp, he started to back out of the room.
Then paused, eyes thinning as they caught something. He moved forward again, almost to the front door, then crouched and examined the floor. There was another bloodstain there, not as big as the others, but irregular. There was a rounded void on one side, like there'd been something between the victim and the floor, and on the other, the edges were diluted and scalloped with what looked like water stains. Sam rubbed a finger along the pale residue that marked out the edges of the clean spots.
Actual sulfur powder. Like the kind that was left when holy water met demon.
Dean had fought back. Whether he'd won or not, Sam didn't know yet, but his brother hadn't been completely ambushed. He'd fought hard.
Of course he had: he was Dean.
Pride mixed with fear tightened Sam's throat as he pushed to his feet and headed out.
Crime scenes also meant police reports. Whether Dean was arrested or injured—no way had he gotten out of that bloodbath unscathed, not to mention the fact he was still missing—there was no point in trying to back-door this one. Sam changed into a white shirt and suit jacket in the Impala's back seat, then headed for the sheriff's office, fake badge in hand.
A half-hour later, and a loose pile of papers and a cup of lukewarm coffee in hand that the blushing middle-aged lady cop at the front desk had forced on him, Sam settled in an empty interrogation room to read.
It was too early for many leads or even a proper file to have been set up, and they must not have found Gibbs' cache of hunting supplies—not yet, anyway—or else the investigation would've been a lot hotter and the paperwork twice as thick. But the preliminary detective's notes still painted a grim picture. The murder had been a little less than twenty-four hours before—probably right after he'd talked to Dean—with one victim, obvious gunshot to the head and postmortem stab to the abdomen. Identified as Chilton Graham, bait shop owner, but there was enough of the mangled face left for Sam to recognize Gibbs. Signs of a struggle and of a second victim, DNA test pending, but no suspect identified. A handgun and a knife were in evidence, and Sam sinkingly recognized both. The detective handling the case was out questioning Graham's neighboring shopkeepers and few known associates.
Sam stared at the pictures, mind's eye replaying the fight for him. Gunshot to Gibbs' head, then the demon did something to Dean to leave that puddle on the floor. But even down, Sam's brother wasn't out, dousing the demon with holy water and stabbing it, maybe finally sending it packing. Then Dean had dragged himself out the front door. The bloody drag marks—Dean on all fours, on his knees, and Sam's stomach lurched at the thought—disappeared after that.
When Sam was hurt, he instinctively sought out his brother. When Dean was hurt, he instinctively went to ground, like a wounded animal. Was he out there somewhere, tucked into an alley, injured, maybe unconscious, maybe bleeding out? The thought settled a numb horror over Sam. He'd just been starting to feel like he was getting Dean back, like his brother was starting to emerge from his black grief over their dad's death. He still looked lost sometimes, drank too much and talked too little. But he'd at least started opening up some to Sam, finally willing to admit he needed him. To lose him after all that…it would be too cruel. No, Dean was still alive, Sam stubbornly decided. He hadn't tried tracking Dean's phone yet; that was a possibility. Or…
He returned to the front desk.
"Sergeant…Waters?" He smiled with forced charm at the officer at the front desk.
"Agent." She blushed again. Dean would've been eating this up.
Sam tried to keep his smile from looking strained. "Could you tell me if you've had any John Does turn up in the last 24-hours, assault victims or, or bodies?"
Her eyebrows drew together as she consulted her computer. "Hmm. Yeah, looks like two. One's a transient, found on a park bench. Prelim is natural causes. And the other…mid- to late-twenties, beaten with head injury, taken to Mid-Gen. Pockets were empty, no ID on him—looks like he was mugged."
Beating and head injury. Sam swallowed. "Mid-Gen?"
"Oh, sorry." She smiled at him. "Midway General. It's the charity hospital on 12th."
"Right." Sam scrawled a note on his notepad. "Thank you."
"You think he was involved in the Graham case? It looks like your Doe was found at least a few blocks away."
Maybe she was lonely and flirtatious, but she was still a cop and not stupid. Sam played it casual with a shake of the head. "Probably not. Just wanted to make sure this was an isolated incident. I'll, uh, catch up on the Graham investigation with Detective—"
"Tennyson."
"Detective Tennyson later. Thank you, you've been really helpful." Sam squeezed her hand with honest gratitude.
She looked like he was the only thing on her mind now, the way she was melting under Sam's gaze, and that was good; the last thing he wanted was for Detective Tennyson to connect his murder victim to the injured John Doe.
Because Sam would've bet the Impala that "John" was actually Dean. Which, he thought as he raced back to the car and threw it into gear, meant Sam was a day overdue for a visit to the hospital.
00000
Blood.
Demons.
Pain.
Danger.
Black eyes.
White walls.
Waking was a sluggish slide from the nightmare of sleep to the nightmare of reality. He wasn't quite sure where the threshold was, just knew now that he was no longer trapped in his broken mind. No, he was well and truly caged for real.
They wouldn't have called it a cage, of course, his captors in white with their insipid words and smiles. The walls were smooth and blinding white, not black bars. The restraints around his wrists and ankles and across his chest were padded material, not iron shackles. Their instruments were needles and tubes, not fists and knives. But it was a prison nonetheless, and Dean's heart fluttered uselessly against his chest in its need to break free.
"Let me go, sonova…"
His head still hurt, slow waves of pain this time instead of the skewering artillery bursts of before. He wasn't sure about everything yet, but Dean was clear on the fact he needed to get out of there. A demon was on the loose, after him, maybe after Sam, and he couldn't be here, on a hook like a piece of bait.
"Gotta… Let me go…"
What had started as demands and yells was becoming a beaten plea. He'd tried yanking on his fetters and head-butting and curses, but they'd only earned him more needles and a fog of confusion he'd quickly learned to dread. He'd tried lies and he'd tried the truth, but both only received those looks of bland concern he could see even past slitted eyes. So now he was down to this, begging for his freedom because lives were at stake and Sammy could be in danger and he was pinned down like a frickin' bug, helpless and suffocating and going crazy—
"Please." His whisper scratched his dry throat. "Please, lemme go."
"I will in a second, man, I promise."
A fluffy brown halo of hair filled his vision, framing a pinched pair of hazel eyes. Sam's favorite emo look, and Dean barked a laugh that sounded a little hysterical even to him. "Oh, perfect." There were still occasional shadows in the corners, flickers of dark in the doctor's eyes and taunting voices Dean knew weren't real, but he'd thought he was past full-blown Cuckoo's Nest material. He rolled his head away, eyelids clamping shut, the only escape he had from his crumbling sanity. "What's next? Dad?" His voice cracked on the last, but wasn't like there was anyone there to hear it.
A broad, warm hand pressed against his ribcage. "Dean? Hey, hey. Look at me. It's me, it's Sam. I'm here. I'm real, I swear." Another huge palm cradled his cheek, gently insistent as it turned his face back. "I'm here. Sorry it took me so long."
Unless he'd lost more marbles than he'd thought, this was feeling a little too real for a hallucination. Dean squinted his eyes open, trying to hold on to his skepticism in a riptide of hope. "Sammy?"
Sam's smile was lopsided, more sympathetic than happy, but it was too perfect to be a product of imagination, and the way he patted Dean's chest, the tiny hint of teasing in his voice was as real as they came. "Thought you were imagining me, huh? Not Kirsten Dunst?"
Dean's eyes unexpectedly burned. The relief was almost as powerful as the despair had been, and just as unsettling. He tried to breathe and found himself panting, a small noise leaking out when he pulled at his bound arms. "Get me-get me outta here. Sam, get me—"
Sam's smile vanished. "Yeah, yeah, I got it. Hang on a minute." He disappeared from Dean's range of vision, and fingers brushed over the inside of his arm. "Take it easy, just…" The binding tugged as Sam worked at the buckle.
Dean was gulping now, suddenly so desperate to be free, it felt like he'd run out of oxygen if he didn't get out of there. "Thought I…thought I was going nuts. Dude, there was a demon—"
There was only a whoosh of air as warning before something clattered beside the bed. Sam yelped, then went silent.
Dean froze. "Sam? Sammy?" He tried to see, but the band over his chest didn't give him much wiggle room. He could see the bedside table, the knocked-over pitcher and, beside it…a crown of dark hair slumped against the wall. Cold sweat broke out all along Dean's body, and he yanked hard on his right arm, but apparently Sam hadn't managed to free it enough because it held firm. "Sam!"
The sound of movement, a small splash…and then a guy in a white coat Dean hazily recognized as his doctor leaned over him, smiling. "You were saying something about a demon?"
Black shuttered his eyes.
Dean lived with fear every day of his life. He stood toe-to-toe with it, made fun of it, and showed it no fear. But this, flat on his back and unable to move, with Sam down and silent behind them: this seized his lungs and clogged his throat with terror. He sneered at the face above him, trying to gather the remnants of bravado around him but knowing his panic was probably showing through. "You." His voice shook with fury and fear.
"Me. I had to leave early last time, but we won't be interrupted again. I see from your chart, Mr. Doe," and it took an exaggerated look at the file in its hand, "that you've been showing signs of a complete psychotic break. But don't worry, we've been doing groundbreaking work here at the institution on cases just like yours. With a combination of drugs, electroshock, and solitary confinement, we should have you reprogrammed and out of here in, oh, four or five years."
Dean's jaw twitched. His hands were curled into impotent fists, and he poured his hatred into his glare. But inside, blackness was seeping into his soul. Sam gone, restraints and solitude and drugs, cages within cages? Not happening. One way or another, he wouldn't make it past the first week, let alone years. "You're not gonna get away with it. Took me two minutes to see through you," he ground out.
"Yes, well, point for you. But you're a hunter. The general populace, those stupid bags of bones, they only see what they believe in. I could have a long and illustrious career here, and the only people who would know are the ones nobody's gonna—" He broke off with a jerk.
Dean narrowed his eyes.
"Gonna…gonna believe," the demon stammered, then jerked again. "What—?"
Steam began to rise up around him, and there was a low hum in the background.
The black eyes widened. "No. Not possible. You can't—"
The hum broke apart into words, a quiet litany of Latin that battered the demon like a physical force, making it stumble into Dean's bed. The demon's white coat brushed against his knuckles.
Its back was to the bed so Dean couldn't see its face, but he knew the moment the exorcism was finished. The demon's head shot back, and a black cloud funneled out of its mouth and then down, screaming its way back to the Hell that had spawned it.
It seemed to go on forever. And then it was done. The doctor's body toppled limply out of sight.
Dean's mouth moved silently, dry as a radiator in the desert.
A dark head suddenly shot up next to him, whole and there and grinning like an idiot.
"Guess he shouldn't've spilled that pitcher of water, huh?" Sam crowed.
00000
Dean was terrified. Sam had seen it the moment he'd laid eyes on his brother in that bed, even past the beating he'd taken.
Not that he showed it the way, you know, normal people would. Only Sam's big brother would think he still had to man up while drugged and restrained in a mental asylum with no hope in sight. And not only was that in itself terrifying, but Sam had figured out some time ago that being alone and being helpless were his brother's two biggest fears.
But Dean was trying hard to hold it together, so Sam had respected that, playing along while he hurried to get his brother free.
The next moment, he'd found himself slammed against the far wall, crumpling to the ground as a black-eyed doctor strode past him.
They didn't have all that much experience with demons, a little above their usual pay grade. But Sam had memorized a couple of exorcisms after his dad had been possessed, and they knew the basics. Like the power of holy water.
He could half hear the demon taunting Dean above as he worked. Didn't catch all the words, but he got the gist, the demon promising Dean years of torture, helplessness, and isolation.
He also heard Dean's composure shattering under his bluster. Sam hurried even more.
Seconds later, the demon was banished in a shrieking torrent of black. It roared past Sam's head, leaving only Dean's wheezing in the silence after.
Sam checked for a pulse on the doc, was happy to find one, then pushed himself up off the ground enough so Dean could see him. "Guess he shouldn't've spilled that pitcher of water, huh?" he said smugly.
Dean's face was pulped from his first fight with the demon, jawbone to eyes a swollen and discolored mass. But the pallor beneath the bruises was still clear, as was the crazed glint in what was visible of his eyes. He gaped at Sam breathlessly.
Sam's smile vanished. "He's gone, man. It's safe."
Dean's throat convulsed in a swallow, like words weren't all that wanted to pour out of him. But all he finally got out was, "Y'all right?" His voice shook as badly as his hands under Sam's as Sam returned to fumbling with the buckle.
He knew the interest was genuine, but also that Dean recovered best when he could turn his concern on someone else. "Headache. Just let it think it knocked me out." Stupid restraint was finally loosening. "You?"
"Awesome." Dean almost choked on the word. "The doc?"
"He'll live." The restraint gave, and before Sam could fold it back, Dean had already snatched his arm free and was reaching for the other wrist. Sam gave him a quick look before starting in on the band across his chest. "Gibbs was possessed?" he asked neutrally, watching Dean even as he worked.
"Oh, yeah." Dean's fingers slipped on the smooth vinyl; he was drenched in sweat. But he doggedly kept at it. "What'd you do?"
"What? Oh. It spilled a pitcher of water when it knocked me down, then stepped in it. I just blessed the water and exorcised it."
Dean snorted. "'Just,' huh? Just happened to have a rosary on you and an exorcism memorized?" Sam freed one of his ankles, and Dean immediately bent his knee as if he were afraid of being retied.
"Pretty much. That, and there was sulfur in Gibbs' shop. Had some idea what to expect—harder part was finding you. Local hospital didn't have a psych ward and you lost your wallet somewhere along the way, so they sent you to the nearest mental institution, two towns over, and didn't let anyone know." Sam had left a trail of chewed-out hospital personnel in his wake for that one. People with head injuries were often seriously confused, and someone who'd just tangled with a demon was bound to be a hundred times as paranoid. He'd replayed the nurses' descriptions the whole way out to the asylum: combative, paranoid, self-harming, anxious, delusional. Dean hadn't gone down easy.
Sam suddenly realized his brother's occasional tremors had increased to racking shudders, his freed hand locked around his bound wrist now, no longer even trying to liberate himself.
Sam cursed under his breath and yanked the second ankle loose, then returned to the head of the bed. Dean's eyes were darting around the room, his fast respirations on the verge of hyperventilation. He didn't look so much like a defiant hunter now, as he had in the hospital after Dad died, scared and small and kinda lost.
Sam replayed in his head what he'd said, wincing at the thought of how Dean might've heard it, that he could have disappeared into the system and been at the mercy of a demonic doctor if someone hadn't been looking for him. If someone weren't watching his back like he always watched Sam's.
Sam wrapped a hand around Dean's fingers and arm, laid his other hand flat on top of his brother's tousled hair. "Whoa. Dean. Hey, take it easy, all right? Just breathe. I've almost got you out." He felt his way to the final wrist restraint and began coaxing it free. "Just keep it together one more minute, dude."
Dean's gaze, glued to him from the second he started talking, startled to the right.
"No, no, man, keep it here. Eyes on me, all right? Breathe slow and easy, okay?" Sam demonstrated, pulling in exaggeratedly deep breaths. He was just starting to feel a little silly, when Dean copied him, breath whistling out through a throat that was probably still tight with fear.
The wrist finally came free. Dean didn't move it right away this time, still seeming a little out of it. Sam kept running with the ball, sliding a palm under Dean's head and slowly levering him up, mindful of concussion and bruising.
Dean weakly started pushing halfway up, and was feebly shoving Sam's hand away by the time he got fully upright, holding his wobbly own. Then he just sat blinking. Tension was starting to bleed out of his frame, but that just let exhaustion and injury take its place, bowing his shoulders and dulling his gaze.
"You ready to get out of here?" Sam asked cautiously, more to gauge Dean's frame of mind than for information. The hoarse "God, yes" startled a smile out of him. "All right, lemme go find your shoes, all right?"
He got one step before a hand clamped down on his wrist.
"Or we can find a wheelchair together," Sam instantly switched tracks. Tables turned, he probably wouldn't want to have been left alone in an asylum room that had nearly become his permanent home, a newly dispossessed doc passed out on the floor.
Dean immediately let go of him, reeling his hand back like it'd been burned.
"Dean?" Sam tried to peer into the downcast, misshapen face, trying to figure out what he needed.
But Dean was already sliding to his feet. Not that he was going anywhere alone, but Sam took the hint. He got an arm around his brother's waist, not taking it personally when Dean flinched away. But he didn't let go, and he could feel Dean fighting with himself not to shy away from help, from dependence on someone else. His wrist still tingled from his brother's bruising grip when Sam had turned to leave; he knew where Dean's heart was, even if his nervous system was still stuck on fight-or-flight.
Sam loosened his grip as much as he could without letting Dean fall. "Not goin' anywhere without you," he promised.
"Told you Beets was lousy to hunt with," Dean shakily shot back. He was starting to shuffle forward.
Sam snorted. "Yeah. That's what I was talking about."
Dean pulled away from him to grab onto the doorjamb, avoiding his eyes.
Trying to delicately help was the hardest part of getting out. Sam had taken the liberty of borrowing a staff uniform on the way in, and a nurse assisting a patient first to a wheelchair and then wheeling him down the hall drew no notice. It wasn't a psychiatric prison, merely a mental institution where half the inmates were there voluntarily and security was minimal. Within ten minutes, they were at the Impala, Sam standing by the open door, waiting, as Dean leaned against the hood and…didn't move.
Sam shifted. "Found her by Gibbs' shop," he started conversationally, as if he wasn't standing in an asylum parking lot in the middle of the night with a guy wearing patient scrubs and not in the best of shape. "Figured out from there what went down."
"Thought he was a shapeshifter at first," Dean said tiredly. He was bent over so much, his elbow was almost touching the car. "Shoulda known…wouldn't be writing with wrong hand if he was."
"Seriously?" Sam darted a raised eyebrow at him. "That's what gave it away?"
Dean shrugged, like it was nothing, like probably at least a dozen hunters before him hadn't picked up on the same clue.
Sam shook his head in amazement and stepped back from his spot by the passenger door to give Dean a clear line of approach. "You wanna check out the shop, see if we can find his cache? Still need iron rounds and powder."
"Nah. We can hit whatshisname, that guy near Bobby. Just…gimme a minute and then let's get out of Dodge."
Sam didn't bother pointing out that going back to Gibbs' place was getting out of town; he got it. Dean wanted away from the whole thing, just to be on the open road and leave the whole misbegotten state in their rear view. At some point, they'd have to think about all the evidence Dean had left behind in the bait shop, but…not now.
Dean was rubbing a hand gingerly across his eyes, then lightly over his distended features. "Son of a bitch," he muttered. "…look like the Elephant Man, don't I?"
Sam dug his hands into his pockets and hedged, "It's not so bad." At the sideways glower Dean tossed him, he gave a sheepish shrug. "Just, don't let any kids see you."
"Great. Thanks." Dean was starting to regain his equanimity, however, his voice getting stronger. And his slouch more pronounced. The few feet to the door probably looked like a mile.
Sam tipped his head back to the night sky.
He could hear Dean take a breath, then hobble forward, his baby's solid body barely creaking under his weight as he leaned on her. At the door, he hesitated, eyes on the small space he was about to get into. "I mean it, Sam. Thanks." His voice had gone quiet, and turned away like that, Sam barely heard him.
Sam nodded silently, knowing anything more would be too much. Even if Dean didn't see, he'd know. But it constricted Sam's chest, those tiny words and the huge feeling behind them.
Then Dean emptied his lungs and folded himself inside. "Let's get out of here."
Sam hopped around the car to follow him.
They made it as far as the entrance to the parking lot before Dean cranked the window open. To the end of the first block before he started fidgeting in the seat. Two more streets before his hand started rubbing against the door armrest. Still feeling confined even as he craved to be with the person and place that made him feel safe, Sam knew the push-pull had to be stretching nerves that were already rubbed raw.
His eyes caught a sign, and he turned left.
Dean's head was almost out the window by the time they pulled into the small park. Dark and abandoned, it was just what Sam had hoped for. He pulled into a space and cut the engine.
Dean was just opening his mouth to ask when Sam held up his phone. "Gotta call Bobby, let him know what's going on. I'm just gonna be right there, okay?" He pointed to a picnic table a dozen feet in front of the car. "I won't be out of sight."
His brother's eye roll was hampered by a face that was clearly hurting. "Dude, you wanna find me a nightlight, too?"
"Flashlight's in the back," Sam said with a grin, reaching behind him for his jacket and untangling it from his hoodie, which he left on the front seat. "Be back in five."
"Whatever," Dean grumbled, but he'd stopped fondling the door.
Sam jogged over to the table and called Bobby, who was happy for the good news. Glanced back to find Dean had pulled the window up and was pretending to ignore Sam. Sam called whatshisname near Bobby's and put in an order for the supplies they needed. Dean was starting to list toward the door, blinking his eyes clear every few seconds to find Sam again. Next call was to Ellen, then Jefferson, Missouri, and, hey, he hadn't talked to Sarah in a while, right?
Nearly an hour later, Sam eased open the car door and slid inside, then pulled it gently shut.
His hoodie had been co-opted, zipped up all the way to Dean's chin, sleeves sliding down over his knuckles. The hood was bunched up into a messy pillow between the window and his damaged face. He was already drooling on it—although, to be fair, it was probably hard to close his mouth with that fat lip—and snoring through a taped nose. His hair was smooshed up against the fabric, and the sodium lights of the parking lot darkened his bruises, reshaping his face into unfamiliar lines.
But for the first time since Sam had laid eyes on him in the asylum bed, he looked at peace.
Sam started the car, knowing the soft rumble of the engine would only lull Dean deeper into sleep, and gave him a smile before he shook his head and backed out of the space.
"Anytime, man."
The End
By the way, the newest issue of Blood Brothers (#6) just debuted last month, and it's beautiful, bound like an oversized paperback. I have two stories in it, as do several fine writers from this site and others. Cost is $25/zine plus $5 postage US (ask for overseas rates). Inquiries and orders: TeaJunkie at comcast dot net.