Disclaimer/Spoilers: See Chapter 1.
a/n: Thank you so much for reading. I wasn't sure—since this had already been in print—if anyone would read and review, but you guys have made me really happy. You seriously make my day every time I see "Review Alert" in my inbox. ::Gaelic does dance:: I will reply to each of you. Promise.
Also, I recieved a couple of questions about zines. No worries—I didn't know what the heck they were until Kati contacted me… zines are printed versions of fanfic, distributed and sold mainly through web sites and at conferences.
Once a story is accepted to a zine, the author has to wait six months to a year (depending on the zine rules) to post the story. So… I'll have more coming out at some point that had been printed in zines, but have to wait until the timeframe requested by the publisher has passed.
Meanwhile, I hope you enjoy this one. Thanks so much for your feedback! And, since it was written so long ago, I'll be posting it closely together. Just wanted to give ya'll time to read because I know I'm wordy. Slainte.
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There were such moments when the world chose thus to reveal itself not, as it might seem, to mock our plight or our irrelevance, but to simply affirm, for us and for all life, the very act of being.
-- Unknown
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His ears were ringing. He could smell the dusty remnants of a campfire. His head pounded, and he couldn't pull the jumbled fragments of his memory together to form one coherent thought. He tried to blink his eyes open, but something lay across his face… an arm? Not Jess… too heavy… damn, how much did he have to drink last night?
He sluggishly shifted his head to the side, and the pain of the movement slammed memory back into him with a blinding rush. The blast… a weight on him… holding him down… saving him…
Dean.
"Dean," Sam tried, but his brother's dead weight was too much for his tortured lungs to get any sound past.
With an effort, he pulled his left arm free and pushed Dean's weight off his head and chest, shifting sideways so his face and shoulders were free of the cover of his brother's body. He pulled in several deep breaths, blinking at the sight before him. They were lying in the yard, about five feet from the base of the stairs. The entryway was still smoking, but the trap must have been designed to flame out because the house was still intact, as were the double doors. As he blinked, shocked, at the smoking interior of the entranceway, the doors slammed shut of their own accord.
"Dean," Sam croaked, looking down at his brother.
Dean lay partway across his lap, his face turned away, his chest a mess of tiny cuts from the shrapnel he'd taken full-force. Sam coughed, blinked his eyes, and shifted Dean's legs off of his so he could crawl across him. He reached up and turned Dean's face to him. His eyes were closed, his expression lax. More small cuts littered his face, two on his right cheek, one in his right eyebrow, and one at the base of his lip.
Sam blinked away his blurring vision and searched with trembling fingers along Dean's neck for a pulse. He found one, faint but there. Then he felt the rhythm stutter and belatedly realized Dean wasn't breathing.
"Shit," he gasped, leaning over Dean and smacking his unmarred cheek once, twice. "Dean! Hey, hey, man. Don't you do this to me…"
He gripped Dean's jacket, shaking him once hard, wincing as Dean's head snapped back loosely on his neck like the end of a whip.
"Dean! Hey! HEY!" he yelled at his brother frantically. "Please, don't… don't do this."
Releasing his hold on the jacket, Sam took a deep breath. Think, Sam, he admonished himself. He felt for Dean's pulse again. It was barely there.
No no no no no…
The edges of his vision blurred and he blinked once, hard. He needed help. He needed Dad. He needed Dean… he needed Dean…
Suddenly, as if the world had been brought back to him in startling clarity, Sam knew what to do. He tipped Dean's head back, pinched his nose, and opened his mouth. Breathing into it a lungful of air, he pulled back and shook Dean again, roughly.
"Dean!"
Nothing. Sam tried again, and this time when he shook him, he actually lifted Dean's head off the ground.
"Dammit, you don't do this. You don't." His voice was a rough plea of emotion and panic.
Sam leaned in once more, breathing life into his brother's mouth, past his closing throat and filling his lungs. His own heart pounded behind his eyes, threatening to launch itself from him. Lifting his face away from Dean's mouth, Sam silently pleaded with his brother to please please don't do this… Gripping Dean's jacket once more, Sam shook him quickly as if that repetitive motion would convince Dean to breathe. To open his eyes. To come back to him.
Dean trembled when Sam released him. His hazel-green eyes flew open, shocked and vacant, as he gasped for breath.
"There, yeah, that's it," Sam panted, pulling Dean's head and shoulders up onto his lap. "That's it, keep that up, okay?"
Dean pulled in more air and coughed it out violently. He blinked blankly.
"Sam?" His voice was a hoarse burst of noise.
"I'm here," Sam soothed, his eyes burning with restrained tears of relief. Dean lay still in his arms for a moment, dragging in air and coughing it out. Sam held his shoulders, breathing with him as he waited for the confusion to clear.
"Wha—" Dean couldn't continue, coughing and pressing his hand against the various cuts on his chest. He slid his eyes up to Sam's face, hunched close to his in worry. "Y'r lips bleedin'," Dean wheezed, blinking rapidly and shifting in Sam's arms.
Sam felt Dean tighten his muscles, felt him try to sit forward. "No, yours is," he said without thinking, trying to help Dean adjust without hurting him further.
Dean reached up and pressed the back of his hand to his bloody lip. His eyes were cloudy, confused. "What the hell…?" He coughed again, closing his eyes and pulling his brows together in an expression of pain.
Sam cleared his throat. "There was a… a booby trap or something. Inside the door."
Dean opened his eyes, shifting his gaze to the house, the residual smoke, and the closed doors. Sam tried to grip his shoulders to keep him steady as he saw the realization shift into Dean's eyes. The anger immediately reflected there scared Sam a little.
"Oh, hell no," Dean ground out, shoving away from Sam, trying to stand.
"Dean, hey," Sam tried, but Dean wasn't hearing him. Sam could see he wasn't interested in listening, either.
Dean stumbled to his hands and knees, coughing, his arms visibly trembling as they attempted to keep him from landing flat on his face. He lifted his watering eyes to Sam and wiped the smoke- and cough-induced tears away with the blood that trickled down his cheek.
"This fucking ghost has seriously pissed me off," he said, his voice rough. "I want him dead, Sammy. For good this time."
"Take it easy, Dean." Sam rolled to his knees and reached for Dean's shoulder.
For just a moment, he reminded Sam of the old Dean… the Dean before Dad died… before the accident… before the cabin. The Dean who had said I want him dead, you hear me when the shtriga had gotten to Asher right under their noses.
When Sam touched Dean, the look in his brother's eyes shifted. The angry fire was extinguished and replaced by concern with an immediacy that shook Sam.
"You okay?" he asked Sam.
"Fine—little rattled, but fine," Sam said.
Dean rolled from his hands and knees to a sitting position. His legs were spread out in front of him, and he curled over himself, one hand wrapped around his middle. He kept his eyes on Sam.
"You sure?"
Sam shook his head in bewilderment. "Dude, you were in front of me. You got most of the blast."
Dean reached up and gingerly touched his lip, then the cuts on his cheek. "Damn," he whispered. As Sam watched, he looked down at his shirt, bloody with a half a dozen cuts. "We were lucky, Sammy," he said.
At that, Sam sat back on his heels, tilting his head to the side. "How do you figure?"
"That bastard must've thought we'd barrel in, guns blazing." Dean's tongue darted out to touch the cut on his lip from the inside. "Thought he knew us."
Sam nodded. "He was wrong."
"This time." Dean shook his head. "We've done that before, though."
Sam lifted a brow. "You've done that before," he corrected.
Keeping one hand wrapped around his middle, Dean waved dismissively at the air. "Semantics," he muttered. "Point is what made him think he knew what we'd do?"
Sam pulled his knees up so he could rest his elbows on them, and tilted his head into his hands. If his head hurt this badly, how did Dean's feel? He watched the small slices in Dean's grey T-shirt turn red from the cuts beneath the fabric as Dean wiped impatiently at the trickle of blood running down from his eyebrow into his eye. Dean looked back at the house that had so forcefully denied them entrance. Sam purposefully blanked his mind as he watched Dean stare at the house.
Sam's mind had a way of untangling knots, finding paths through mazes, working through impossible problems if he didn't think about it too hard, if he just… let it happen. If he tried to find the solution, it was as though he were continually reaching for something that remained just out of his grasp.
He watched Dean blink, watched him think, knew his brother's mind worked differently. Dean searched out the answer, pursued it relentlessly until he found it and pinned it to the wall of his memory. He rarely forgot anything. Once the answer was there, it was in Dean's mind for the duration.
Suddenly, Sam knew. He gasped, blinking, looking back at Dean's wide eyes.
"The paper," they said in unison.
"You signed your name to the hotel registry," Sam said.
Dean nodded. "And he asked Maxine to come back into that room just before we walked away."
"He must have made her… I don't know… check into us, our past…" Sam pinched the bridge of his nose against the headache of realization. "Dammit…"
"What?"
"Dude," Sam looked back at him. "You're wanted. You're in the system."
Dean closed his eyes, pressing the heel of his hand against his forehead. "Oh. Yeah."
"Oh, yeah? Why did you sign your real name, anyway?" Sam asked, irritated.
Dean sighed, pulling his hand away and looking at Sam. Sam regretted his harsh tone when he saw the pain and weariness in his brother's eyes. "I don't know, Sam. He—he triggered me. Something about the way he… watched us. I wanted him to know who we were."
Sam sighed. Dean never could back down from a dare…spoken or implied. Sam narrowed his eyes. "You knew then, didn't you?"
"Huh?"
"You knew then he was the reason for all this." Sam tipped his head back, watching Dean. "You knew it was our kind of weird and you ignored it."
As Sam held his brother's eyes, he watched the emotion vanish and was amazed at Dean's ability to simply shut off, shut down. He couldn't do that, didn't want to do that. He would rather feel everything than nothing at all. He hated the defense mechanism Dean had crafted for himself and wondered what could possibly be so heavy that Dean wouldn't allow himself to feel in order to be able to carry it.
"We're hunting it now, Sam," Dean said, his voice hard.
"Yeah," Sam sighed, dropping his head and rubbing the back of his neck. "So, what now?" he asked, his voice muffled by his position.
"Now," Dean said, tapping the flats of his fingers against his forehead. "We talk to Maxine."
"She's at Kelly's."
"How do you know?"
Sam lifted his head. "Saw her walk that way when we headed into the house."
"Oh," Dean said, then his mouth pulled up into a quick grin, until his cut reminded him that was a bad idea. "We'll get to check on the car, at least."
Sam looked back over at the doors, then stood. He walked slowly to where their shotguns had landed, about five feet on either side of their bodies. Gathering them up, he walked back and looked down at Dean.
"We might still have to get into this house," he said.
"Yeah," Dean sighed. "Yeah, I know." He slowly pushed himself up, swaying slightly when he made it to his feet.
Sam shifted the guns under his arm, then reached out with one hand and steadied him.
"I got it," Dean muttered and started walking in front of Sam, down the hill.
"Always gotta go first," Sam said.
Dean waved him off, stumbling with his next step. "Only 'cause I need you to catch me when I fall on my ass," he retorted. He purposefully kept himself in front of Sam, placing one foot carefully in front of the other.
They reached the sidewalk, and Sam stepped up next to Dean, wavering between worry and amusement when Dean's unsteady steps had him bouncing lightly off his shoulder. They ignored the guarded stares of the townspeople, walking in beat toward the gas station at the end of town.
"Damn," Dean said suddenly as they stepped off the wooden sidewalk and started to walk down the edge of the road.
"What?"
"This was my last clean shirt." He was looking down at the marks of red staining his chest.
"We need to check those out?" Sam asked, unable to believe it had taken that long to think of it.
"Nah, they're just scratches," Dean said, looking back up and dabbing at his lip with his tongue. "They can wait. But, uh, Sam?"
"Yeah?"
"Next time I say leave it alone? Leave it alone."
"Next time," Sam smiled, looking down, knowing he wouldn't do any such thing. Knowing Dean knew that, counted on that.
Their life was about hunting evil. He used to think that after The Demon was gone, that would be it for him. He would go back to Stanford, become a lawyer, maybe marry…someone. But since Dad… He looked over at Dean when his brother's shoulder lightly brushed against him again. Since Dad died, Sam wasn't so sure. He knew Dean would never stop. He would continue to bring light to the darkness of the world until it killed him. There was no after for Dean. There was just this.
"Dude, you friggin' kissed me," he heard Dean mutter suddenly.
Sam laughed. "You'd rather I hadn't?"
Dean was silent for a moment. Long enough for Sam to look over at him. Dean was looking down the road, a strange expression on his face. A scary expression. As though he were giving the idea some thought.
"Nah." Dean shifted carefully guarded eyes his way. "Breathing is pretty important to that whole living thing."
"So I hear," Sam bantered back, keeping with the easy tone Dean had crafted, with the act that everything was fine. Inside, he trembled with the realization that he'd almost missed the silent plea for salvation in Dean's empty eyes.
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He heard Hendrix.
He was sure of it. The opening riff to All Along the Watchtower. Dad used to listen to Hendrix on Saturday mornings, cleaning the weapons. Dean could still see him perfectly, sitting in the sun, a couple days' growth of beard on his face, shotgun held carefully across his legs, lips pursed in concentration, head bouncing lightly to the beat those nimble fingers danced out of the electric guitar. Dean could even smell the gun oil, hear the soft shushing of the rag as it ran over the barrel.
"Dean?"
Dean blinked, startled out of the memory. He looked up at Sam, who was standing several steps ahead of him. Dean hadn't even realized he'd stopped walking, so lost was he in the image of his father. It had been so long since he'd seen an image of John in his head where his father wasn't screaming in pain, wasn't staring coyly at him with the yellow eyes of a demon, wasn't asking him to watch over Sammy, wasn't telling him—
"Dean, hey," Sam said, suddenly right in front of him. Dean blinked and took a step back. "You okay?"
No, I'm not okay.
He swallowed."Fine, Sam."
His head was spinning slightly, and his chest ached with every breath. He pressed a hand to his sternum, holding in the ache, brutally reminded of the feeling of rock salt slamming into his chest and propelling back through a wall in Roosevelt Asylum.
He saw Sam peering at him closely and clamped down on the urge to just let it all go. Just sit down right there in the dirt on the edge of the road. Just stop moving. Just tell Sam. The music flowed over him as he stood still in the road and stared back at his brother's open, trusting eyes.
"You hear that?"
"Hendrix?"
"Yeah." Dean nodded, his eyes staring vacantly at Sam's shoulder, not really seeing it, not really seeing anything. "Just, uh… just made me think of Dad."
Sam nodded, but Dean could tell his brother was looking for something else. He was looking too closely. Dean blinked and moved forward, gently brushing past Sam so that he was compelled to turn and follow.
"Hey, Dean." Sam took two steps to catch up. "Maybe we should, y'know, have someone check you over."
Dean pulled a face at him. "In this town?"
"I'm sure there's someone…"
"For the last time, Sam. I. Am. Fine," Dean said, continuing up to Kelly's door and the source of the music.
"No, you're not," Sam whispered behind him. Dean ignored him and pulled the door open. The sound of the cowbell was muted under the hypnotic strains of Hendrix's guitar.
"Kelly!" Dean yelled over the music.
He felt Sam step up behind him and walked farther into the small room. A man the size of Kelly couldn't easily hide. Sam stepped up to the counter, setting the shotguns down on the top of it. Dean started to move toward the back of the store, looking over his shoulder as he did, noticing Sam doing the same.
"Kelly, it's–"
Dean turned his head and froze mid-step, the barrel of a 9mm pointed directly between his eyes, the click of the safety audible even over Jimi. He pulled his gaze from the uncomfortably large opening of the gun barrel and met the angry silver eyes peering at him from above the wild black beard.
"You know," he swallowed, trying to even out his breathing, "if you shoot me, you're liable to lose a lot of those humanitarian awards."
Kelly's head tilted to the side with a confused, "What?"
It was exactly the reaction he'd been hoping for. Twenty years of training and countless battles had honed his reaction time to half-seconds. Before Kelly had time to straighten his head, Dean had reached up and grabbed the gun from the big man's grip and was shifting it behind himself into Sam's waiting hands.
Kelly blinked, then a low rumbled growl rolled from his mouth as he fisted his large hands in the front of Dean's jacket. He pulled Dean to him, then turned and slammed him hard against the counter. The air rushed from Dean's lungs, and he bit back a cry as his bruised back hit the counter with a flash of hot pain.
"Hey!" Sam protested at Dean's abbreviated cry.
Dean's desperate eyes sought Sam's and he shook his head once.
Don't tease the bear, Sammy…
"What are you doing here?" Kelly asked, shaking Dean once.
Dean groaned as the tiny cuts across his chest twisted in Kelly's grip. "Why don't you ask your sister," he gasped out, watching Kelly's eyes.
"What?"
"She's here, right?" Sam asked, his eyes frantically darting between Kelly and Dean's pain-stiffened form held up off the floor against the counter
"Maxine?"
"How many sisters you got, man?" Dean asked. "She headed here when we started up to the Big House."
Kelly took a step back, and Dean breathed a sigh of relief as his back lost contact with the counter.
"How did you know?"
He released Dean's jacket, and Dean felt his knees buckle the minute he was left to support his own weight. He would have hit the ground in a heap had Sam not suddenly materialized next to him and caught his elbow, balancing him, steadying him. Sam eased him back to the counter so he could lean there without touching any bruised surface. Dean hooked an arm over the countertop and let it bear some of his trembling weight. All Along the Watchtower faded into Purple Haze.
"Lucky guess." Dean breathed shallowly, willing the pain in his back to ease up, willing the sting in his chest to go away. "So, what's the story? You're his kids, aren't you?"
Dean saw Sam look from him to Kelly, waiting expectantly. He knew Sam had come to the same conclusion.
Kelly rubbed his hand over his face, pulling at his beard and twisting the tiny braids between his massive fingers. "How did you know?" he repeated.
"Because it's what they do, Kel," came Maxine's rough bar-voice from the back. "They're hunters."
Dean looked up and saw a half-opened door in the back of the store, Maxine leaning against the frame, her head mere inches from the top of the doorframe. He quickly looked over at Sam, who was watching Maxine.
"There's three of them. John, Dean, and Sam Winchester," she continued, stepping out of the doorway and walking toward them, her eyes shifting from Dean's haggard appearance to Sam standing ready, the 9mm held loosely but confidently in his left hand.
"You ain't left-handed, honey," she muttered, lifting a brow in a slight challenge.
"You want to take that chance?" Sam answered in a hard voice. Dean grinned at his brother's sass, then looked over at Kelly.
"We hunt evil," he said, pulling the big man's attention to him.
"Evil what?"
Dean lifted a shoulder. "Demons, ghosts, werewolves, vampires, zombies. If it's evil, we kill it."
He watched as Kelly and Maxine shared a look. Dean waited. He knew the answer would come with patience. Sometimes waiting just the right amount of time saved their lives. He unconsciously darted his tongue out to touch the cut on his lip.
"He rigged the house," Maxine said, looking back at Dean.
Dean nodded. "Yeah."
"But you got out?" Kelly asked, incredulous.
"Yeah," Dean repeated, unconsciously pressing his hand against his chest. "He thought he knew how to get us, but…"
"He knows what I know," Maxine interrupted.
"And what is that?" Sam chimed in.
"That you're wanted for desecrating grave sites, for credit card fraud, breaking and entering, and murder," she said, lifting a brow, shifting her eyes to Dean. "And that's just you, handsome."
Dean waved a hand at Sam, "Eh, he's harmless."
Sam shot him a glare.
"You here to kill him?" Kelly asked.
"Actually, we're here to get our car fixed," Dean said with a raised eyebrow. "Any chance that part came in?"
Kelly shook his head once.
Dean sighed. "Was afraid of that."
"You want us to kill him?" Sam asked. "I mean, he's your father."
Maxine snorted. "He stopped being our father when he figured out how to bring himself back from the dead and killed our mother."
Dean slid his eyes to Sam. "And we thought we had problems."
Sam frowned at him.
Purple Haze reached a crescendo, blaring from speakers too small to hold the sound of Jimi's guitar.
"Dude, seriously," Dean finally said. "What is with the music?"
"He can't hear us," Kelly answered.
"I can barely hear you," Dean retorted.
"No, the music, the guitar, something about it… he can't hear us, can't find us," Maxine supplied.
"Can't hear you over the music?" Dean lifted his arm from the counter and stepped away slowly, testing his legs. They trembled but held. The pounding in his head and the ache in his body didn't abate, but he could handle it.
Kelly nodded. "We figured it out when we were kids…"
Sam looked over at Dean. "Makes sense. Ultra-high frequencies can block spirits."
"Or give them a medium to communicate through," Dean muttered, lifting his eyes to Sam.
Sam grimaced.
"What does that mean?" Maxine asked, shifting her eyes between the brothers.
Sam sighed. "He might be listening to you—"
"What?!" Kelly cried. "No… no that's impossible."
Dean looked from one sibling to the other. Almost half their lives, gone. Lived in the same town, under the evil rule of the crazed spirit of their father.
"He always leaves us alone… he never comes in when we play the music." Maxine shook her head.
Dean looked down. "'Cause he's listening. Like a… spirit spy."
Maxine looked at her brother. Kelly blinked twice and swallowed. He reached across the counter and shut off Hendrix just as Wild Thing began. He looked back at his sister with a scared expression that seemed out of place on his intimidating face.
Dean shook his head. In some ways, the twins were fifty year-old children. Dean looked at Sam. His brother was half their age and yet so much older. He'd lived five lifetimes in his twenty-three years. And if Dean couldn't do his job… if he couldn't save Sam from whatever The Demon had planned…
"What?" Sam had caught him staring.
He shook his head. "Nothing." He looked back at Kelly and Maxine. "He's not a normal spirit, your father."
Kelly shrugged. "What's a normal spirit?"
Dean saw Sam actually smile at that.
"Well, for one, he's corporeal," Sam said.
Kelly tilted his head again, and Dean couldn't help but picture a big, confused bear. "Cor-what?"
"Corporeal," Dean repeated. "He's solid. He has a form. He can touch things."
"He did that on purpose," Maxine said. "I heard him. He wanted a way to…stay in control."
"Dean," Sam said suddenly. "Gimme the keys."
"Keys?"
"To the Impala."
"The broken Impala?"
"Dude, just gimme the damn keys!" Sam slid his eyes over to Dean.
"Fine!" Dean dug into the pocket of his jeans, pulled out the keys, and tossed them to Sam.
He watched in puzzled amazement as Sam pivoted and ran to the car. Dean mirrored Kelly and Maxine as they all leaned sideways to look out the doorway and watch Sam climb into the passenger side of the car, fish around in the glove compartment, pull out a leather-bound book, and close and lock the car, then come sprinting back. The trio straightened at the same time when Sam burst back inside.
"What?" Sam asked, slightly out of breath from his quick sprint, seeing them all staring at him.
Dean spread his ams wide. "The hell, Sam?"
"Dad's journal, man." Sam waved it in front of Dean's face.
Dean dropped his hands. "Oh." He swallowed. How did I forget that? For over a year, he marked his life by that book. And he'd left it behind. "Oh," he said again.
Sam was furiously flipping through the book. He stopped on the page he was looking for, turned the book and showed Dean. "He's a revenant."
"A what?" Kelly and Maxine asked in unison.
"Shit," Dean breathed at the same time.
Sam shifted his eyes up to the dark-haired siblings. "He's a spirit that can take corporeal form." He looked down, reading from the journal. "Revenants typically have a goal, a purpose. They resemble a zombie or a vampire, but can switch from corporeal to spirit form at will."
"How do you… kill this… reverend?" Kelly asked.
"Revenant," Sam corrected. "You can weaken it in corporeal form with concecrated iron rounds…"
"Which we just so happen to have," Dean interrupted.
"But you kill it same as any spirit. Salt and burn the bones."
"Bones?"
Dean shifted his eyes to Maxine. "Yeah," he said. "Where's he buried?"
The siblings shared a look. Dean felt ice form in his belly as he watched Maxine pale and Kelly swallow.
"What?" he asked, his voice laced with dread.
"We, uh… we don't know," Maxine said, pulling her eyes from her brother and looking down at Dean. "Our mother buried him."
"And didn't tell you where?"
"We were just kids," Kelly protested. "Five-year-olds. She was trying to protect us."
Dean tapped the air. "Okay, okay, we get it." He looked at Sam. "Can't be too far from the house, though," he reasoned. "No way she was carrying him."
Sam nodded.
"She kept a diary," Maxine said suddenly.
"Yeah?" Sam asked. "You have it?"
Maxine shook her head. "It's still in the house."
"Of course it is," Dean sighed. He reached up and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Got any idea where?"
"Her room. Fifth floor, west wing," Maxine said immediately.
"Fifth floor," Dean repeated slowly, looking at Sam.
"Think he rigged the whole house?" Sam pondered, watching Dean's eyes.
Dean knew if he looked anything close to how he felt, Sam was going to suggest he go after this thing alone.
"Guess we'll find out," Dean said. He looked Kelly. "You got any aspirin?"
Kelly moved quickly behind the counter. He grabbed a bottle and popped the top off with his thumb, handing it and an unopened bottle of water from the cooler behind him to Dean.
"Thanks," Dean said, ignoring Sam's stare. He quickly swallowed four with a large gulp of water.
"You need a… bandaid or something?" Kelly asked innocently.
Dean almost laughed out loud. "I'm okay, but I could use a towel, wash some of this blood off."
Kelly jerked his thumb over his shoulder. "Back there. Washroom. Help yourself."
Dean made his way to the back room and splashed water on his face, cleaning the cuts there as best he could. Once the blood was gone, they didn't look so bad. He pulled up the shrapnel-peppered T-shirt and winced at the sight of his chest. It looked like he'd walked sideways into a bed of nails. He used the semi-clean towel hanging on the bar above the sink and carefully washed out the wounds with soap and water. Pulling down the T-shirt, he buttoned his outer shirt and looked at his reflection. Almost couldn't tell he'd just been blown up.
Almost.
He walked back to the main room with Sam's eyes on him. Dean looked back, his face carefully blank, his walk steady.
"You ready to take on Amityville, Sammy?"
Sam smiled a secret smile, a knowing smile. The one that he gave Dean when what he really wanted to say was you're not Superman, you don't have to do this, but you're my brother and I'd follow you to Hell and back.
"Here, Kelly," Sam said suddenly as he set the 9mm on the counter and picked up the shotguns, handing one to Dean.
Kelly looked up from behind the counter. He blanched when he saw the brothers watching him expectantly. Dean knew they would be going into this fight alone, just as they did every fight. But he could tell Sam had been hoping for some backup in the form of a giant.
"You're not coming with us, are you?" Sam asked, somewhat sadly, as though he were slowly becoming disappointed with people in general allowing them to take the hits, allowing them to put themselves in danger, allowing them to risk death just so peace could exist another day.
Maxine shook her head. "We can't go back to that house."
"Why?"
"If I leave… who's gonna warn people off?" Kelly looked at his sister. "And besides… Mom… Mom said not to." The childlike words sounded strange in the low rumble of his voice.
Sam sighed and looked at his brother. "Guess we're on our own."
Dean nodded, his eyes slowly traveling from Kelly's stricken expression down the counter and across the casette tapes and videos stacked on the shelf next to the cash register.
"You guys haven't left this town for forty years, but you got casettes and movies?" Dean asked, his eyes on the different titles of the videos.
Maxine chuckled mirthlessly. "We got microwaves and dishwashers, too," she said. "It's Silas's town, kid. He's in control."
Kelly nodded once. "He wants it, he gets it. Technology came to Wells, it just never went very far."
Sam shook his head. "And no one's crossed him… not in all this time?"
Maxine shook her head. "No one's ever been foolish enough or brave enough…" She shifted her eyes to Dean's battered face. "Until now."
Dean's eyes caught on a copy of Tombstone. He grinned and pulled it out, showing it to Sam.
"You tell 'em I'm comin'," he quoted. "And hell's comin' with me."
Sam returned his grin and shifted the shotgun barrel to rest on his shoulder. "Let's go get this son of a bitch," he said.
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"When we get out of this town," Dean grumbled, wiping sweat from his forehead as they trudged back up the hill toward the house, "I'm never walking anywhere again."
Sam just shook his head with a small smile. He was loading the concecrated iron rounds they'd retrieved from the Impala into the shotgun. Dean watched him, shifting the small pack of lighter fluid, matches, and ammo into a more comfortable position on his shoulder. He was having a slight problem walking in a straight line. His chest ached and his vision blurred with every other step.
Sam noticed. "Want me to take that?"
Dean shook his head. "I got it," he said.
"Dean, are—"
"Sam, I swear, if you ask me one more time—"
"Well, you should see yourself!"
"I'm fine, okay?"
Sam cocked the shotgun like a curse. "I'm gonna have that put on your tombstone. No, really, I'm fine."
"Funny." Dean slid his eyes sideways as they stopped at the base of the stairs. "Think we should find a back door?"
"That way could be rigged, too."
Dean nodded. "Good point." He let his eyes scan the front of the house.
"What if we go through a window?" Sam said.
"Seriously?"
Sam shrugged. "You got a better idea?"
Dean blinked and lazily looked over at Sam. "Sam, at this point, pushing the Impala down the road to the next town sounds like a better idea to me."
"Okay, so we'll go through a window."
"Works for me." Dean nodded and motioned with his head to the side window.
He looked for a latch and realized it was one solid pane of glass. With a glance at Sam, who shrugged back in reply, Dean blocked his face with one arm and used the butt of the shotgun to punch out the window. When he'd cleared enough glass so they wouldn't get cut, Dean eased the shotgun through the window.
"What are you doing?" Sam asked, confused by the sweeping gestures his brother was making with the shotgun.
"Checking for motion sensors," Dean answered. "Technology came to Wells, right?"
"Are you serious?"
"I'm not taking any chances with you, Sam," Dean said without thinking.
Sam jerked his head at him in surprise. "What?"
"Forget it, looks clear, let's go." Dean swung his leg over the sill and eased inside.
Sam followed, equally cautious. They both knew booby traps could be under floorboards, the shift of weight triggering them like land mines. They moved carefully, watching for trip wires at their ankles and for anything that might come swinging at their heads. Sam leaned close to Dean, keeping his eyes up, searching.
"I think we might be clear," he said.
"Fifth floor, dude," Dean reminded him. "Long way to go."
The interior of the house was dim, the only light coming from the large windows flanking the front door and running the height and length of the house. The entryway was marked with blackened shadows from the explosion, and there was a faint, familiar scent of gunpowder in the air.
The front room ran the width of the house, with broken, dirty furniture on either side in piles like someone had once used them to try to barricade the door and they'd been shoved aside. The dual staircases wound their way up, twisting across each other so they created a center point. Sam and Dean looked up and saw a large chandelier at the very top of the house, centered between the staircases.
"Here goes nothin'," Dean said, still looking up.
The started up the stairs, Dean a half step ahead of Sam, shotguns out, eyes darting quickly trying to catch any movements.
First floor. Second floor. Third floor.
As they reached the stairs for the fourth floor, Dean felt the ache-to-the-bone cold creep over him, and he looked back at Sam. He could tell by the muscle that jumped in his brother's jaw he felt the same thing.
They continued up the stairs and, as they reached the fourth floor landing, Dean cocked the shotgun, looking left, then right, pivoting toward the final staircase.
"You've been talking with my children," came a voice from the shadows above them. "Not very sporting of you. I so enjoyed listening to their little secrets and lies…"
As he stepped from the shadows, Silas tapped his fingers together, a cold smile on his narrow face, his eyes like ice as they raked over Dean and landed on Sam. Sam stepped up next to Dean, pointed his shotgun at Silas, and shifted frantic eyes to his brother. Dean simply stood where he was, gun held low across his waist, staring at Silas.
"I don't get it," he finally said.
"I'm afraid I don't follow."
"Why do it?"
Silas stepped further from the shadows, cold eyes raking over Sam, then coming back to rest on Dean. "I would have thought you would understand," he said, his voice flowing through the air like oil over water.
"Understand what?" Dean's face twisted into an expression of disgust. "That you killed yourself, your wife, this town… for some kind of dead-guy power?" He shook his head once. "No way. I'll never understand that."
"Really?" Silas' mouth slipped into a thin smile. "I simply made a trade for what I wanted most. You wouldn't trade anything to save him?" His eyes slid over to Sam, who hadn't moved.
Dean unconsciously shifted to the side, just in front of Sam. Sam adjusted the shotgun so it was still aimed at Silas but was over Dean's shoulder.
"You leave him out of it," Dean growled.
He ignored Sam's shift. Ignored the shotgun that was now only a few inches off the side of his face. Ignored the logic that said the revenant was baiting him, triggering him, on purpose.
"That's it, isn't it?" Silas chuckled slightly. "If it weren't for your brother, you wouldn't even be here anymore. So they tell me."
"Shut the hell up," Dean snapped.
"Dean." Sam's voice was low, and Dean heard the worry, but also the request for permission.
He knew what Sam was asking him to do as though he could hear his brother's voice in his head. Dean felt the world slow for a moment. He blinked at Silas and stepped slightly to the side away from Sam. But just as Sam's finger squeezed the trigger of the shotgun, Silas vanished. The gun roared, and Dean clapped his hand over his ear in an automatic reaction. The iron rounds peppered the stairway wall where Silas had stood.
"Where the hell—"
The rattle of the large chandelier one floor above them drowned out the rest of Sam's sentence. They looked up at the same time just as the chandelier came crashing down, the crystals breaking, shattering, flinging glass bullets in every direction as it hit the stairway banisters on the way down.
"Shit! Sam, down!" Dean yelled, ducking, wrapping his arms around his head, curling up into a ball on the ground next to Sam as his brother followed suit. The noise of the chandelier hitting the floor four stories below was almost deafening.
"Go, go, go!" Dean pushed Sam in a crouched run up the last flight of stairs in front of him.
Just as they reached the top, they heard the echo of a laugh. Sam whirled and looked back at Dean, his dark eyes slightly wild. The laughter increased in volume until it shook inside Dean's chest.
"West wing," he said, running toward Sam, moving him beyond the stairway landing. Sam ran through the doorway that led to a series of rooms. Just before Dean crossed over the threshold, the door slammed in his face, cutting him off from Sam.
"Sam!" he yelled, pounding on the door. Faintly, he heard Sam's echoed cry of his name. "Sam, get the diary!" He heard Sam shout watch your back… and then he was gone.
Dean turned, pressing his back against the door, fisting his hands on the wood as if his body against the door would protect Sam from Silas. He looked around the empty, dimly lit landing. It was completely silent, save for his breathing.
He saw the cold before he felt it. His frantic puffs of breath condensed in front of his eyes. The cold seemed to seep from the door he was leaning against through his arms, into his chest, and wrapped around his heart.
It's all your fault…
He heard her voice, heard her. He looked to his right. Nothing. The cold seemed to grow, and he tried to step away from the door.
Dean couldn't move, couldn't pull his arms away, couldn't pull his head away. He'd felt this before. He'd felt this in the cabin. He felt this in his dream. His breath hitched, sped up. He blinked, his eyes burning. The shotgun clattered to the ground from his numb fingers.
It's all your fault…
"She does like to be difficult." Silas was suddenly standing in front of him.
He was so tall, that if he could have moved, Dean would have tilted his head up to glare into his cold silver eyes. As it was, he was forced to look up through his lashes.
"Who, your wife?"
"My Jenny," Silas said. He looked beyond Dean as though he could see through the door Dean was held against. "She was going to throw it away. Throw it all away. But she didn't know my connections."
"Your connections to demons, you mean," Dean ground out as the cold seeped into his neck, his jaw, made his ears ache. The cold was making him shake from the inside out.
Silas pressed his lips together in a thin line. "They have come through with their part of the bargain. I have to admit, I never thought I'd be able to pay them back so handsomely."
"With us?" Dean growled.
"With your brother," Silas murmured.
Dean's heart stopped. For a moment, he couldn't breathe. Then he felt the heat, the anger. Rage he hadn't felt since… since Meg. A desperate rage that shot through him from his heart to his head. He felt himself tremble with it, felt it burn his eyes. The muscles in his neck corded as he worked to pull his head from the door.
Silas raised a brow. "What are you trying to do, Dean Winchester?"
Dean didn't answer; he drew on the fire from his core, from his soul, and poured it into the effort of pulling his head away from that door.
"You do know where this power comes from," Silas murmured, tilting his head back and looking down his hooked nose at Dean. "You have felt this power before. I know you have."
Dean's head came away from the door with a harsh bob of muscles. He panted for a moment, then with his chin down, slowly lifted dangerous eyes to meet Silas's cold gaze. "You won't get him," Dean promised.
"I'll get what I want." Silas's voice was flat.
"You. Won't. Get. Him," Dean repeated, and began to move his arms away.
"What makes you think you can resist this? Their power is older than time. You cannot defeat them."
Dean didn't answer.
"I know you know that a deal is a deal," Silas murmured, his gaze flicking over Dean's form.
"You think I give a shit about your soul?" Dean panted.
"I think you know the dangers of a deal with a demon," Silas said in a thin voice. "I think you know they will collect."
Dean grinned a malicious grin. "Fuck if I care," he said, his voice rough from the superhuman effort of breaking the invisible hold on his body.
"They will collect on the town. They will collect on the people," Silas said, his eyes flinty, his arms crossed over his narrow frame.
Dean sneered, "What, you're protecting this town by giving the demons my brother?"
"Precisely."
"You don't give a shit about this town. Or the people."
"That's where you're wrong." Silas leaned closer, his eyes boring into Dean's. "They feed me. They give me power. She tried to stop that, but she failed. As will you."
The fire burned hotter, brighter inside of Dean. He felt the heat around his heart, in his eyes. He clenched his jaw with the effort it took to pull at his arms. He was trembling with the need to reach forward… just move his hand… just a bit…
"Dean!"
Sam's voice. From the other side of the door. God, no, Sam… not now, Dean thought desperately, working to keep Silas's attention on him, afraid for what could happen if Silas was able to get through him… get to Sam.
"Dean, I got it! Can you get the door open?"
"What does he have?" Silas lifted an eyebrow.
"Dean, listen," Sam yelled.
Dean didn't respond, focusing his energy into moving away from the door.
"Dean, Jennifer Wells—" Sam's voice was cut off abruptly.
Silas smiled at the sudden silence.
"What did you do to him?" Dean roared, still working to pull his arms from the door.
"I didn't do anything." Silas smiled a liquid-smooth smile that chilled the angry fire in Dean. "Perhaps my Jenny is in there and has finally learned her lesson. She knows we owe them… she knows if not for their… benevolence, she would be burning for all eternity." His eyebrow flicked once. "Though they tell me she wouldn't be alone."
Something snapped inside Dean. He felt the crack, heard it echo in his head, sensed the cavernous hollow suddenly inside him. With a gutteral growl, he pulled himself away from the invisible bonds holding him to the door and dove at Silas. The revenant let him come, let him get close enough to touch, to wrap his hands around its narrow throat.
The cold touch of Silas's skin burned Dean's hands. His rage-filled growl turned to a low howl of pain as the fiery cold traveled up his arms to his shoulders. He tried to let go, but the laugh that had overpowered thought moments before, echoed from Silas's black mouth and filled his head. Dean threw his head back, working to pull away, but the cold shook him, weakening him as much as the fire had strengthened him.
"A deal is a deal, Dean Winchester," the voice in his head murmured. "And I am not ready to go."
Dean tried to take a step back, tried to force his hands away, but his ears were ringing and he couldn't breathe and he was cold, so cold… The dark crept over the edge of his vision, the cold was taking over his body, extinguishing the fire. Then, suddenly, he felt the door open behind him.
"Dean!" Sam's voice carried warmth. Carried a promise. Carried salvation.
"Sam." The word was a gasp, a plea. And with that plea, he was released. Silas vanished, and Dean's arms dropped, his knees buckled, and he fell forward into the waiting darkness.
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"No," Sam breathed as he saw the revenant vanish and Dean crumple in a heap. He stuffed Jennifer's diary into the interior pocket of his jacket and ran over to his brother, setting his shotgun down next to Dean's. He turned him over gently, noticing how cold his hands were. Pressing his fingers against Dean's equally cold neck, Sam felt his pulse, strong, steady. He lightly tapped Dean's face.
"Hey, man," he whispered. "You gotta stop doing this to me."
Dean came awake with a sudden startled gasp, his eyes wide, his hand reaching out in a hauntingly familiar gesture. Sam could feel him shaking, from cold, from effort, from fear.
"It's okay, it's okay, Dean." Sam held his shoulders, gripping them tightly. "Hey, I'm here."
"Sam?"
"Yeah, Sam. Who else would it be?"
Dean blinked and closed his eyes with a groan. "What did she do to you?"
"To me?"
"He said… he said Jenny…" Dean blinked his eyes open, seeming to realize he was almost lying in Sam's lap, and pushed himself away, working to sit up. Sam pressed a hand behind his shoulders, helping him balance.
"You stopped… stopped talking," Dean said. "Like something got you, right after you said her name."
Sam shook his head. "No, man, I was yelling at you the whole time. I was trying to get that damn door open."
Dean's eyebrows pulled together in confusion. Sam saw how pale he looked under the cuts from the blast, the dust from the house. "I couldn't hear you. He said she–"
Sam shook his head. "If she did anything, it was protect me. He's playing with us." He looked over his shoulder. He was crouched next to Dean, ready for Silas to appear. "It wasn't black magic like we thought, he—"
"Made a deal with a demon," Dean finished, rubbing at his eyes with the flat of his fingers.
"Yeah." Sam nodded, not even questioning how he knew. He could tell by just looking at Dean that Silas had been working him over from the inside out. "He stopped the progress of the town – no marriages, no children, no one leaves, no one comes." He watched Dean look at the floor, breathe, listen. "He kept control that way, and the longer he kept control, the longer he could stay corporeal. And, well, basically immortal. If someone doesn't do what he wants, he becomes weaker, more spirit-like."
"Talk about your power trips," Dean grumbled. He looked at Sam out of the corner of his eye. "What about Jenny? Why did he kill her?"
"That's just it," Sam said. "He didn't."
Dean's head jerked up, surprise evident on his face. "What?"
Sam pulled the diary out, shaking it. "She has entries in here for five years after he killed himself, after the deal with the demon."
"How?"
Sam shrugged. "She survived. She lived here, in this house."
"But –"
"She killed herself, after she made her own deal."
Dean lifted a brow. "Seems like there's a lot of demons in Wyoming," he muttered.
Sam shook his head. "Same one." He flipped the diary to the last entry. "Says here—"
The shriek that shot through the landing made them both duck instinctively.
Sam shut the diary and, crouching low, stuck it into his jacket. "C'mon," he said, his hands on Dean's shoulder, lifting him. He pulled the shotguns to him, handing one to Dean. They stood, hurrying to the stairs.
"Let's get out of here. We got what we–"
The force came from behind in a frigid rush of air. Before Sam knew what hit him, he was launched through the air, tumbling down the stairs, striking each as he fell.
The landing at the base of the stairs rushed up to meet him.
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Dean watched, shocked, as Sam bounced and tumbled, landing in a too-still heap at the base of the stairs, his gun flying from his grip and sailing over the banister to land four floors below.
I'll get what I want… The voice seem to surround him and echo inside him at the same time. Dean whirled around, looking, searching. The landing was empty.
"Show yourself, you fucking coward," he yelled at the emptiness.
It's all your fault, the woman's voice whispered.
Dean shook his head once. "Stop!" he yelled. Sam groaned below him. "Sammy…"
Things were moving too fast, and he wasn't moving fast enough. He took the stairs two at a time, his head pounding with each footfall, his breath coming in harsh gasps. Sam was rolling to his side, working to sit up when Dean reached the bottom.
"Wait, easy, easy," he said as he crouched low next to his brother, hand on his shoulder, holding him down gently.
"Ouch," Sam muttered, gingerly rubbing his head, rotating his neck. There was a two-inch gash on his forehead and the blood that had been flowing back into his tangled hair started to run down the side of his face.
"Are you broken?" Dean's quick, practiced fingers started to check his shoulders, neck, arms, ribs.
"No," Sam said, holding his right hand up and looking at his cast. There was a smear of red on the back. "I think I hit myself—"
"He's mine, Winchester." The voice shook them, and Dean stumbled forward into Sam a little, his head spinning. Sam instinctively reached up and braced him. He sat forward slowly, his hand still on Dean, looking around.
"What is it?" Sam asked.
"He wants you, Sam," Dean whispered, looking up at the top of the staircase where he'd last seen Silas. He shook his head, working to clear the cobwebs, and searched the ever-increasing darkness for the corporeal ghost.
"Wants me?" Sam blinked, standing with Dean's help. He reached for his head, wavering a moment as he got his balance. Dean stepped forward on the landing toward the staircase that led to the third floor. He held his shotgun in front of him, low in a loose two-handed grip.
"Yeah—that's his part of the deal." Dean looked back to make sure Sam was right behind him. "Guess the demon was waiting to collect until it saw something it thought was… worth it."
"Swell," Sam whispered. "What, is there some sort of… demonic newsletter letting them know that I'm a commodity?"
"You know the price," Silas said, suddenly in front of Dean, blocking his path. "You know the price for dealing with a demon."
"Told you already," Dean said with a shake of his head. "I don't give a sh—"
"You will," Silas roared, his silver eyes molten, his pale face translucent, his figure trembling. "You will not deny me. You will not deny them."
Sam stepped slightly to the right of Dean. "That's where you're wrong," Sam said, his voice cold, dangerous. "We've been denying them our whole lives."
Silas's anger flashed at them like a stab of ice, and Dean flinched from the cold, hearing Sam also gasp in reflex. Silas took one step toward Sam, and Dean didn't even think. He pulled the trigger on the shotgun, still held low, and the revenant took the full load of concecrated iron rounds dead center. The spirit's scream of anger bowed them, both reaching up to protect their ears. Dean's hold on the shotgun slipped, and he tightened his grip.
It's all your fault…
"Stop!" Dean yelled. "Stop it!"
"Dean, what—?" Sam didn't get to finish.
Silas reappeared with a roar and launched at them. Dean brought the shotgun up, but Silas was too fast, too close. He hit the shotgun from Dean's hands with such force that Dean staggered.
Silas came at him again, the speed of the blows he rained down on Dean's face too fast for either brother to see. Dean backed up, throwing his hands up in defense as the hot slices of ice-cold pain slammed into his shoulders, hands, then, finally, his chest, the thrust propelling him back harshly into Sam.
Sam slammed against the banister when Dean's bulk hit him dead center. Caught off guard, Sam tipped, having time only to gasp and reach out his left hand as he fell backward over the edge of the fourth-floor landing.
Dean reacted on pure instinct. Feeling Sam fall, hearing his gasp, he thrust out his right hand, grabbing Sam's reaching arm at the wrist.
But it was too late. Sam was already going over.
His weight, and the blows that had already knocked Dean off balance, pulled Dean over the edge with him. With one last desperate motion, Dean's left hand wrapped around one of the wooden spindles holding up the banister. He held fast, instinctively tightening his grip as Sam's fall completed and the entire weight of his 6'4" frame jerked at the end of Dean's arm, pulling his shoulder from the socket with a sickening lurch and audible pop.
Dean screamed.
Sweat broke out all over his body, and a cold shiver of pain spread through him. But he didn't let go of the spindle. He couldn't feel his right hand and, with blurring vision, looked down at Sam's terrified face as they dangled four stories above the shattered remains of the crystal chandelier by just the strength of Dean's grip.
"Dean—" Sam's voice was strained. Looking down at him, Dean could see he'd felt the pull, heard the pop. He knew Sam realized his weight was hanging from Dean's dislocated shoulder.
Dean was panting, puffing breaths through clenched teeth. A muscle in his cheek trembled. He grit his teeth, trying to hold back the groan of anguish that tore through him, worked to weaken him further. He could suddenly feel each bruise on his body from the bar fight, each cut on his face from the explosion.
"Dean—" Sam tried again, trying to hold himself as still as possible so he didn't cause more damage.
"I'll get what I want, Dean Winchester." The voice was faint. Dean blinked hard, looking down, past Sam. Silas stood on the ground floor. Waiting. Waiting for Dean to fail. Waiting for Sam to fall. Waiting to appease his demons.
"You…can't…have… him," Dean panted through clenched teeth, his entire body shaking.
"Dean," Sam's voice was whisper-soft. With effort, Dean shifted his eyes to his baby brother's pale, bleeding face. "Let me go."
"No," Dean ground out, trying to tighten the fingers on his right hand. He couldn't move them. He couldn't move his hand. He realized that the only thing keeping Sam with him was Sam's grip. Instant terror seized him; the minute Sam realized that, he'd let go. "No, Sam."
"Dean, I'm pulling you apart," Sam almost whimpered.
"I can't," Dean ground out.
Darkness was beginning to collect at the corner of his vision. His left hand started to cramp. He couldn't get enough breath into his lungs, and his right arm was beyond pain, beyond agony.
"Dean, please…" Sam's voice wavered, and Dean heard his tears.
No, Sam, please… "S-swing to the stairs," he gasped.
"What?"
"S-swing," Dean said again, pinning Sam with his eyes, willing him to understand.
Sam shifted his gaze to the staircase just out of reach. He looked back up at Dean. "No! No. That would –"
"S-swing, Sam."
Sam's eyes darted to their clasped wrists, and Dean realized he knew. Sam's eyes shifted to his.
"Don't you do it, Sam," he said, his voice low and steady, his eyes hot.
"Dean—"
"Don't you fuckin' let go." Dean swallowed.
Emotion, for one moment unrestrained, flooded his eyes, his face. Every doubt, every fear, every wish, every moment of pain, every thought of the past, every hope for the future poured from their hiding place deep inside him into his eyes as he pinned Sam with his gaze.
"Sam," Dean's voice trembled. "Y-you c-can't let go."
"This is killing you," Sam whispered, tears thick in his voice.
"I got nothin' if you let go," Dean admitted, his voice barely audible, his body shaking. "S-swing, Sam."
Sam swallowed, blinked. He turned his head toward the staircase, took a breath, and propelled his body toward the railing. Dean's scream of pain tore through the house.
Sam caught the banister with his foot on the first try. Using his broken brother as a rope, he pulled himself to safety, getting his leg over the banister, getting his balance, and releasing Dean.
The relief from the loss of Sam's weight was dizzying. Dean's vision swam, and he panted through the pain. He couldn't see Sam, so he twisted his heavy head so he could meet his brother's eyes. Sam's image blurred, but Dean could see him, safe, on the stairs, reaching out for him.
"Hang on, Dean," Sam was saying. "Hang on, man, I'm going back up."
"Sam," Dean said weakly.
"I'm going back up," Sam repeated, starting to move.
Dean wanted to hold on. He wanted to wait for Sam. He had a job to do. Watch out for Sammy… He had to save him–
"I will not be denied, Winchester," Silas's voice boomed from below.
"Hurry, S-sam."
His left hand cramped. His right arm throbbed. He was tired… so tired… Sam was gone. He couldn't see him anymore. You took care of Sammy, you took care of me… you did that… and you didn't complain, not once. I wanted to do it, Dad. I needed to. Where was Sam? Why couldn't he see Sam? God, he hurt. Maybe if he just let go…
Something strong and warm clamped down on his left wrist. Dean blinked at the odd, comforting sensation. Tipping his head back as if it weighed 100 pounds, he looked up. Sam. Sam was there. His arm was through the spindles on the banister, holding his wrist.
"I got you. I got you, just… just hang on," Sam said.
Dean looked at him. Wondered. What if… what if he let go? What if it were over? Today. Now. Would he join his father in Hell? Would he see his mother in Heaven? Would he suffer for not saving Sam? Or would he sleep forever… sleep…
"Dean! Dean, don't close your eyes. Hey, I need your help, okay? I need you to help me get you up."
"Don' need me, Sammy," Dean said, blinking his blurry eyes at his brother. His strong brother. His smart brother. His powerful brother. I want you to watch out for Sammy, okay? Yeah, Dad, you know I will.
"I always need you, Dean," Sam was saying.
Dean focused on him, working to hold on… just a minute more.
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Sam was leaning over the railing, his legs spread, feet wedged into spaces to brace himself. "Dean, I just need you to hold on so I can… so I can get you up here." He clenched his jaw with the effort of pulling Dean's weight toward him.
Gripping Dean's left wrist, Sam noted the dimming light in his brother's eyes, noted the complete slack of his body. He pulled the resolute grasp of his brother's fingers from the spindle, chanting that's it, easy, I got you, I got you…
He worked Dean's left arm hand over hand, his cast working against him, making the job exponentially more difficult, and pulled him up the banister toward him until he could get a grasp under his left shoulder.
Dean cried out when Sam touched his right shoulder, and he moved his grip to his brother's right side. He shifted Dean's lax weight against his chest, backing away from the banister in a staggered motion until he'd pulled Dean's legs over the edge and the shift of weight toppled him to the ground, Dean in a heap in his arms.
"Sam," Dean whispered through clenched teeth.
His face was covered in sweat, his right arm at an odd angle to the rest of his body, his body shaking, his left palm bruised. He blinked heavy eyes at Sam, jaw trembling. Sam shifted him in his arms, and Dean suddenly looked over Sam's shoulder. His eyes widened.
"He's behind you," he said as loud as his stretched lungs would let him.
Sam felt a quick flash of panic and anger, then he released Dean, straightened, and turned, his arms up and warding off the swift blows of Silas's cold anger. Sam ducked below a frigid swing and grabbed Dean's discarded shotgun.
As he rose, he cocked the gun and pulled the trigger, advancing as he did so. Once. Twice. The revenant screamed in angry pain and jerked with each blow. He vanished just as Sam pulled the trigger a third time, once again peppering the wall with iron rounds.
"Attaboy," Dean muttered from the ground.
Sam dropped the shotgun and turned back to his brother, crouching and carefully shifting Dean's shaking, battered body into his lap. Dean lacked the strength to pull away. He gasped as the pain of movement hit him, but kept his eyes open.
Sam pressed his hand on top of Dean's head, tucking it protectively under his chin. "You're okay, Dean. You're okay."
"Thanks," Dean whispered, "f-for not letting go."
"I wasn't going to let go," Sam said, feeling his brother tremble. Watching the anguish play across his face.
"You almost did," Dean whispered, blinking rapidly, willing away the darkness.
"I won't, okay?" Sam promised, watching Dean's eyes, watching the emotions there. Watching as something undefinable crossed Dean's face.
"God, Sam," Dean whispered, his back tightening as he resisted the urge to close his eyes, to give in, his lips twitching as he forced the words out. "I can't…"
"What? What do you mean?"
Dean blinked hard, averting his eyes, hiding what Sam could almost see lurking there. Sam searched his face. Looking for something. Waiting. He watched as Dean clamped down on his trembling jaw, blinked again, and shook his head as his brother once again forced the emotion from his eyes.
"Help me up, Sammy," he said. "W-we have to –"
"Dean," Sam half-sobbed. "Please… let me help you with this... Why can't you just let me help you?"
Dean looked away. Sam knew if he were able to move, he'd pull away. He'd walk down those stairs, forcing Sam to follow. He'd walk out the door, close it behind them. For the first time since Dean had come to get him at Stanford, Sam could see he was willing to turn his back on a hunt, willing to leave this town to its dark fate.
And he didn't understand why, what had happened that had marked his brother so deeply that he was willing to abandon the one thing that Sam thought kept Dean going. Even after Dad…
Dean looked back at Sam. Sam's lips pressed tight, seeing the way his brother's freckles stood out against his pale skin, making him look younger than his years, younger than their life ever let him be.
"I can't," Dean whispered. Sam felt his muscles tense, felt him pull in on himself. "I can't, Sam."
Before Sam could stop him, Dean tried to sit up, tightening his stomach muscles to pull himself forward. He shifted slightly, working to move away from Sam. The movement caused Dean to gasp sharply, all color draining from his face, and Sam gripped him tightly as his eyes rolled back in his head and he bonelessly collapsed back against his brother.
He didn't hear Sam's sob, didn't feel his body pulled gently against Sam's chest, didn't feel the press of a forehead against his, didn't hear the teary question of Why? Why can't you trust me with this? Why do you have to carry it alone?
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Playlist:
A Hendrix Triple Set: All Along the Watchtower, Purple Haze, and Wild Thing