Some people have told me that a couple parts in my story resemble season 5 spoilers they've read. I'm staying away from spoilers until the fifth season starts, so please don't tell me that stuff. Anything in here that seems like any part of the fifth season is an accident. For the most part, I'm not even reading fanfiction in case I accidentally run into a spoiler. I've never watched a brand new season opener before, so I really want to be surprised.
"We always say 'I would kill for my family' or 'I would die for my family' but would you really? I mean, when really put in that situation, would you really give up your life? Do you really love something or someone that much?"
--Johnny Depp
x.x.x.x.x
"It's demons."
Dean didn't look up from his normally soothing task of cleaning the weapons. "What's demons?"
He felt sleep-deprivation pull at his eyelids. Sam had had a restless night, and Dean hadn't been able to do more than brush the edges of unconsciousness.
"They're behind it all. God, I can't believe I didn't see it."
When Sam gave an almost inaudible sound of pain, Dean looked away from what he was doing. Sam was pushing himself to the edge of the bed, his movements only just noticeably slower than normal. To anyone else, Sam would look fine. Dean wasn't just anyone else.
Sam walked to the cheap, tiny dining table that held his laptop. Carefully lowering himself into the seat, Sam pulled up the screen with one hand, the other spreading the length of his forehead.
"Your head hurt?"
Turning a frown on his brother, Sam quickly dropped his hand. "I tell you demons are behind something and you ask if my head is okay?"
"Is it?"
Sam turned away, not answering. "The guy who was possessed by Cozbi's ghost… I think he was possessed by a demon."
"The guy? What, like a demonic ghost orgy in his meat suit?"
Tossing Dean a wry expression, Sam gave a shallow shake of his head. Dean didn't miss the way he was careful not to move his head much.
"Not the guy." He hesitated. "Cozbi."
Shock broke like glass over the back of Dean's neck, stunning him for a moment. Finally, impossibly, he calmly asked, "How is that even possible?"
The skin between Sam's brows puckered under the weight of his thoughts. "I don't know if it is. I just… I thought I felt something odd about that guy, but I didn't know what. And now after—"
"After what?" He watched Sam, noting the startled look on his brother's face that was covered up in a matter of milliseconds.
"Uh – those demons attacking and everything." Sam was back on the computer, rushing with his words. "There's more to this than we thought."
The damp cloth in Dean's hand seemed suddenly too heavy, too sticky. "It's possible."
Sam didn't even look up. His head stayed bent toward the computer, those new shutters of his pulled tight to hide whatever he was thinking. It didn't work. Dean saw his brother's stony regret as clearly as if Sam had cracked his skull open and displayed the thoughts inside.
"What's possible?" There was synthetic curiosity in Sam's voice.
"Demons possessing the incorporeal. I'm willing to bet that it works similarly with spirits."
"How do you know that?"
Dean forced himself to keep Sam's gaze. "I forgot about it until now. Dad had some papers on it; theoretical stuff, but I think it'd work. He thought the Yellow Eyed Demon might be able to do it. I think he might have seen it once."
Sam said nothing through the whole story, but his eyes never once left Dean's face. At the end, Sam leaned back in his chair and gave a sigh that spoke of enough experience to fill many more years than he had yet lived – or was likely to ever live.
"Azazel."
"I think so."
"Why didn't you tell me about this?"
"Didn't remember until now," he repeated firmly.
Sam said nothing, but Dean saw his shoulders straighten, tighten.
"You think that might work with ghosts?" Dean asked.
"Maybe. I have no idea how that would work. I mean, theoretically they do exist in some form, but it's not a corporeal body to possess, so I'm not sure what the demon would latch onto." He broke off, mouth straightening into a hard line. "I think the bigger question is if it's true, who else has the juice to swing something like that?"
And for that, Dean had no answer.
Sam's hand was at his temple again, thumb rubbing in hard circles. Dean doubted Sam knew he was doing it.
"Sam, your headache…"
"…Is fine." He left his forehead alone.
The world went dark for several moments as Dean shut his eyes. "Don't lie to me." When he looked up again, Sam was watching him warily.
Dean noticed the flash of tempered fury fade in Sam's eyes fade to a smoky sulk. Sam massaged his head again, seemingly uncaring that Dean was still watching.
"What do you want me tell you, Dean?" Sam looked at him, his gaze hard and withdrawn. "You'll hate it."
Though it wasn't said, Dean could hear the fearful word that Sam had thought in place of the word "it." You'll hate me.
Never. "Try me." When Sam said nothing, Dean cut to it. "How do you know it's demons, Sam?"
"I saw it." The answer was quiet, almost a whisper, and Sam's tongue clicked quietly on the 't'.
Suddenly Dean's muscles seemed to be made of rigid bone. He had suspected, but to know was a different thing. "You…as in a…?" Just say it, you idiot. Come on, Dean. "A vision?"
Without warning, Sam was up and across the room, throwing on his brown jacket and grabbing at his shoes, his movements jerky and determined. He didn't look at his brother.
At the sight of Sam preparing to walk out, Dean felt his heart give a sick lurch against the haphazard stitches securing it in his chest. "Where are you going?"
"To stop all this."
Blinking at the clipped reply, Dean stood and walked over to Sam, who now had only one boot left to lace up. "All what?"
"Whatever they're trying to do. It's at that house, Dean, don't you get it?" All of that Sam said while finishing the ties on his shoe. When he was done, he stood and moved toward the door.
Dean snagged his arm and swung him around harder than he meant to – Sam hadn't put up the resistance he had expected. "Get what?" His voice was low, almost a growl.
"All of this, the hunt, the haunting, the house, everything is part of it."
"Sam, just tell me what's going on."
"It's all a trap," he hissed, "They couldn't find us with the wards we were using to block them, so they had to lure us out. They made up the whole freaking thing just to get us out of hiding. They knew we'd be in contact with Bobby, they knew we'd hear about this 'easy' hunt, and they knew we'd come." Sam let his arm go slack in Dean's grip, feeling Dean's hand loosen as well. He turned away, pulling slowly out of Dean's grasp. "I'm not letting them screw around with us anymore."
Rounding Sam to stand in front of him, Dean stood squarely in the path of the exit. "You want to let me in on how you think you're going to stop them?" Then, looking Sam deliberately in the eye, he continued, "We only have one knife."
Not missing a beat, Sam replied, "You keep it," and moved to go around Dean.
Not having it, Dean stepped in his way again. "Because you don't need it, is that it?"
Once, Dean would have expected Sam to recoil from such a blatant reference to his demon blood, but now he knew his brother would do no such thing. As he expected, his brother looked at him levelly, silently answering in the affirmative.
Sam's face was all harsh angles. "What do you want from me, Dean?" His voice was quiet, but it carried through the walls of the room, his anguish flying like spikes through everything that could hear him.
Dean caught one of the spikes straight in his heart, feeling the muscle thud dully around the damaging intrusion. "I want you to be okay." He hesitated. "I want you to be my brother again."
"Don't you think I've tried? I don't know what else to do, Dean. I can't be the person you want me to be. It's too late. What I did is over, and I can't change it. I wish to God I could, but I can't."
Dean stared, watching as Sam unraveled before his eyes, threads of his brother peeling away and falling to the ground without a sound.
Sam shook his head slowly, his hair falling in wisps over his brows. Hazel eyes looked up, shards of grief floating in their depths. "I couldn't do what I needed to do, so I just…I had to be someone else."
Recoiling, Dean tried to get a handle on his emotions, tried not to let it be known how deeply he was shaken. He cleared his throat, feeling it burn with sharp, acidic regret. "You're not in this alone, Sam. You got that?"
There was no hope to be seen in Sam. "If you had asked me for anything else, I would have done it, Dean." He chuckled flatly. "Can't ever want what's easiest, can you?"
Dean didn't want to know what that meant, and he was afraid to find out. "I don't care what it takes. Just you and me, brother. Always better as a team, right?" He tried in vain to smile.
Sam took a step back, as though Dean would try to grab him if he got closer. Dean was tempted by the thought.
Dean's expression hardened. "If you think I'm letting you go alone—"
"You should."
Dean bit down hard on a frustrated retort. But a thought stopped him; he had almost let Sam go to die fighting Lilith, had called him a monster, had told him never to come back, had let him spiral into darkness without lifting a hand to stop it. In a matter of hours, Dean had checked off every item but clown on Sam's list of fears.
And he was done with that. All of it.
The question, he supposed, was if he could save his brother before it was too late. His decision was final and binding: how far gone his brother was didn't matter, because Dean would follow him down into the dark if that was what it took. Screw Heaven, screw Hell, screw the Apocalypse. What the hell was any of it worth without the huge, idiotic mess of a person standing in front of him?
Sam was leaving. There was no mistaking that. The only left to him was to decide if he was going to follow this time.
x.x.x.x.x
Sam didn't really remember not being angry. He knew, somewhere in the back of his mind, he understood that there had been a time in his life when he didn't wake and sleep and live all with anger simmering just out of his sight. The hurt and frustration he had felt toward his father and brother because of their lifestyle had never come close to what he had felt in subsequent years; it could never even approach what he felt after he had failed Dean in every way possible.
Anger at heaven, hell, Dad, Dean, but mostly himself: it had consumed most of his emotions for more than a year.
Sam grew up knowing about slews of different mythological and religious ideas and concepts. He had understood the Seven Deadly Sins since he was small, and had been surprised when he had found out that his brother was guilty of some of them. That was when he had realized that no one was perfect, not even Dean.
Sam had examined himself as he had grown and had seen that he had pride, too much as it were. But one sin he had was one into which Dean rarely dipped; wrath was Sam's main downfall, especially where his brother was concerned.
Sam knew wrath so often that they were on a first name basis, and he didn't know what to do about it. It had become his fuel, the way in which he was able to push through when he felt ready to fall to his knees. Yet it was the reason the world had been forced to kneel before the worst monster in existence, and soon the world would realize that.
His father had seen it in him, but had hoped that with time and age would come discipline. When that hadn't seemed to be the case, John had tried to drill it into his youngest son; the results hadn't been exactly what he had wanted. Sam didn't know how to fight the white-hot beast that was curled up in his gut, refusing to be dislodged.
The beast grew larger, louder, more powerful when Dean was in trouble, and that was something Sam knew would become frequent in the coming months. He was afraid of what he would do, of what he could do, of what he wouldn't do to keep his brother safe. In the process of making sure Dean stuck around, Sam might lose him.
In the motel, Dean had asked him why Sam wouldn't need the knife. Sam didn't have a definitive answer to give him, but he knew that if the demons came for them, he wanted Dean to be able to fight back. One of his visions from the previous night had confirmed that it was Dean they were after. He had briefly considered calling Castiel for help, but like Sam had said, he didn't trust the angels. Especially not with Dean.
Extricating himself from his thoughts, Sam kept his eyes on the road, watching the broken line of yellow disappear under the glossy black hood.
They had moved quickly, so quickly. Sam and Dean hadn't noticed, too busy keeping their heads down, too busy trying to stay under the radar to see that there had been a trap being built almost under their noses. The demons had bet on the fact that the Winchesters wouldn't stay in hiding forever, that the chance to save lives would draw them out. And what better plan than a simple haunting only a little ways away from the safest place the Winchesters knew: Bobby's house.
And it would happen again. Maybe demons, maybe something else.
"We're here."
Sam looked up. His brother was sitting straight-backed in his seat, his fingers curled around the thin steering wheel of the car. Those were the only two words Dean had spoken since Sam had walked out of the motel room and started down the street toward the Cozbi house. A few seconds later Dean had pulled up next to him in the car, his face blank. Sam had gotten in, and Dean drove.
Without a word, Sam climbed out of the car and went around back to gather weapons. Ten minutes later, steps more or less in sync, Sam and Dean made their way up the path toward the Cozbi house, its outline against the fading daylight looking regal and haunting.
Both of them were surprised, as they went over the last small hill between them and the building, to see someone else standing just at the bottom of the house's steps. It was a woman, slender under her thick, yellow striped sweater and pale blue jeans. Brown hair fell to her shoulders, looking unbrushed.
Sam checked to make sure his weapons were concealed before moving forward. He saw Dean drop his weapons bag out of sight before following; most people didn't know a lot about law enforcement, but even the average Joe with cable knew FBI and cops didn't carry old duffels on a regular basis.
"Ma'am?" Sam called, striding purposefully toward the woman.
She turned around, revealing purple-shadowed brown eyes and sun-tanned skin spattered with dark freckles. She was a girl, probably no more than nineteen. "Can I help you?" She asked it in a voice so weary that Sam wondered at it.
"I'm afraid you'll have to leave," Sam said gravely.
The girl frowned. "Why?"
"FBI investigation, Miss," Dean interjected, pulling out his badge. When the girl didn't even look at the fake ID, Dean cleared his throat and asked, "What's your name?"
"Meredith Hoskins."
The sister of the female victim.
"Meredith, we're going to have to ask you to leave the property at this time." Sam made sure to throw in a friendly tip of his head; the last thing they needed was an offended civilian running around town with a story about the FBI at the old house.
"I just left my job in Pakistan and flew out here to collect my sister's body. This is where she died." The girl turned back to the house, voice still empty. "I'd appreciate a minute."
Sam purposefully didn't look at Dean. He couldn't. Not when memories of Pontiac, Illinois were battering his mental walls with the force of a typhoon. He hadn't lingered long at first, but he was never able to stay away very long, either. Being near to Dean in any way had nearly killed him and yet had been what had kept him alive.
"Meredith…Merry," Sam tried.
Her eyes were sharp as she whipped around. "Don't call me that."
That was a tone Sam understood. "I'm sorry. Miss Hoskins, we're sorry for your loss, but the sooner we finish our investigation, the sooner we can catch the guy who did this to your sister."
Gaze dulling, Meredith shook her head. "Doesn't matter. It's my fault she's…" She choked back a sob. "She was amazing. I haven't talked to her in nearly a year, not after she… God, how stupid… She and my boyfriend fell for each other. That was her fiancé. Simon." A sad smile quirked chapped lips. "He wasn't worth losin my sister."
Without so much as a backward glance, Meredith hopped onto the stairs and climbed them two at a time until she was at the top. She walked over the huge bloodstain with no ill effects and stopped at the door, her hand on the handle. "I just want to see it." With that she twisted the knob and walked inside.
Sam and Dean were hot on her heels the second she hit the porch, following her into the house, protests falling automatically from their lips, none of them heard by Meredith Hoskins. The girl had eyes and ears only for the place in which her sister had lost her life.
"Miss Hoskins, you need to leave, now. I don't want to carry you out of here, but it's going to happen if you don't go." Dean followed the girl down the long, wide hall and flanked one of Meredith's sides, Sam taking the other. Neither of them liked being in the house without the duffel that held their salt and extra ammunition.
Tears coursed silently down Meredith's cheeks. She turned toward Sam, looking absolutely broken. "What am I supposed to do without her?"
Sam froze, struck. It was a moment's hesitation too long.
An enraged cry filled the room, followed a split second later by a fog of silver, white and black. Meredith screamed and Sam felt her being wrenched away. He reached out to grab her, his hands finding only cold and emptiness.
"Meredith!" Dean shouted, leaping around Sam and dashing toward the stairs.
The girl's body was being hauled up the steps as she writhed and fought against something she could not touch. Another scream erupted from her; it was the sound of terror for one's life, and it was something Sam had heard far too many times. Worse, though, was when the screams stopped.
He charged after Dean, arriving just when Dean ripped a small bag of salt out of his pocket and whipped it at the spirit. The thing groaned in protest as it evaporated into nothing, its wispy form fading immediately from sight. Dean didn't hesitate; he grabbed for Meredith and pulled the shaking girl against his chest. She didn't make a sound, just clung to Dean' jacket, terrified.
"Hey, it's alright, I've got you," Dean murmured, gathering her up into his arm. He ran his eyes over her. "Are you hurt? Shake your head yes or no if you can't talk. It's okay."
Meredith shook her head jerkily, hair falling over her face like a shroud. "It – it – it…"
"Dean, we've got to get her out of here," Sam said once Meredith had fallen silent once again.
"And get that duffel. Come on." Dean hefted Meredith higher, tightening his grip on her, his expression grim.
Dean led the way down the stairs and Sam kept vigilant watch for the spirit, one hand resting on his own packet of salt. It was all he had, so if he had to take a shot it had to be right on, else they were screwed. He followed Dean down into the lengthy hall and all the way to the end.
Just as they reached the door, Sam felt a force collide with his left side, bowling him over and sending him sliding across the floor into the eggshell-colored dining room off the hall. The loud slam of a door followed him as he slid to a stop. He gasped, his side singing with pain and feeling like it was at least bruised down to the bone, if not sporting a cracked rib. His stab wound from the previous night was on fire, leaking wet heat onto his shirt.
Carefully, Sam picked himself off the floor, holding on to the soft cushion of a dining table for support. When he finally got upright, he grabbed for his salt baggie, clutching it tightly. He glanced around the room, looking for Cozbi. He found himself alone. Taking a deep breath, he checked over his body. Nothing too serious seemed to be wrong.
The front door was closed. He made his way back to the door and tried the handle. It was stuck faster than Dean's hand to a superglued beer bottle. Sam couldn't help a vague grin at the thought. He tried it again, just to make sure, and then knelt down to peer into the lock, trying to ascertain what kind it was and if he would be able to pick it with what he had on him.
The pounding from the other side of the door almost made him fly back, but he caught himself at the last second, just in time to be surprised by the shouting that went along with the banging.
"Sam! Sammy!" More pounding.
"Dean!" Sam called back, but the pounding continued like Dean hadn't heard him.
"Sammy!"
Exhaling, Sam pulled out his phone and called Dean. It was picked up before the first ring ended. "Dean, I'm oka—"
"Are you hurt?"
"What? No, I'm fine. I'm on the other side of the door. It's locked, I think."
"You're okay?"
Sam almost rolled his eyes at Dean's insistent tone, but he couldn't go through with it; he hadn't heard it in a long time, and it made his chest throb. He told himself it was from his fall. "Yeah, I'm alright. I just got thrown into the dining room by the spirit."
A string of soft curses was heard at the other end of the line. "I think it's sealed. I tried to pick it, but no dice."
"Windows?"
"Threw some cement rabbit thing at one, and nothing. Bounced back and almost brained Meredith." Dean sounded frustrated.
"How's she doing?"
"Better than you are, at the moment."
"I'm fine, I swear, Dean." He pressed a hand to his back. It came away dry. Good – not enough blood to soak through his jacket. The stitches felt okay, too. Mostly.
Dean made a noise that Sam knew meant Dean would believe it when he saw Sam with his own eyes. He almost thought it was all in his head, but no, he had heard it. Busy trying to determine whether it was simply habit or real concern on Dean's part, Sam almost missed what his brother said next.
"What?"
"Pay attention, Sam. I'm going to try and find another way in. You sit tight and wait for me, okay?"
"I thought you said the house was sealed."
"Well, I'll unseal it."
"Nice. How're you gonna do that one?"
"I don't know, I just am."
"Okay." Sam backed off at Dean's tone. A thought occurred to him. "Dean, really, how's Meredith?"
There was a second of silence on the other end of the call. "She'll live. She's in some shock and she might have a slight concussion."
"Dean, she should be taken to a hospital. There's gotta be salt around here; I'll look for the watch while you take her to the emergency room. I'll have everything with Cozbi wrapped up by the time you get back." Sam said the last part with an air of humor.
Dean didn't seem very amused. "Funny. I'm coming in."
"Come on, she needs a hospital. Not everyone's us, man. I can handle things here; it's a simple haunting, just like you said."
"A simple haunting that's already killed four people. And did you forget about Cozbi's demonic buddies?"
"I didn't forget. I'll get salt and handle it." Sam began walking toward the kitchen, intent on finding salt before the friendly house ghost or something worse showed up to break the rest of his ribs or something really important.
"Sam, no. We're not splitting up. You said yourself that this is all a trap." There was banging on the other end of the line. "There's got to be a cellar door or something – all these old houses have them, right?"
Sam reached the kitchen and began going through drawers and cabinets when a shaker of salt didn't immediately present itself. "Maybe. It depends, I guess," he answered, "But you should really just take Meredith to the hospital."
"She'll be breathing by the time we finish up."
"And if more people come looking for her?"
"She's new in town; no one will look."
Sam snorted. "Who says you have no people skills."
"Shut up, no one says that. And stay in one spot. I'll be there as soon as I can."
Realizing he was beat from the beginning, Sam sighed. "Fine, I won't try to do it all by myself. But I'm looking for the watch until you get here." He grinned in triumph when his search uncovered a large container of Morton salt complete with the little girl and umbrella logo. "Got salt."
"Good. Make a circle and get inside."
Sam felt irritation flare at his brother. There it was again, the same old "You'll screw it up, get someone killed, so don't move." But was he wrong? Sam's hand clamped tighter over the phone, warring with himself. Finally, he came to a decision.
"I'm not sitting in a corner to wait for you. I can handle this until you're here."
There was a pause on Dean's end. When he spoke, it was nearly a snap. "Whatever. I'm coming in."
Sam didn't even know what to apologize for, this time. "Yeah, okay."
Another hesitation from Dean before, "You better still be okay when I get in there."
"Uh…yeah, promise."
"Be careful."
"You too. It's not every day one of us is locked out of a haunted house – new territory and all." As soon as he let the quip out, Sam winced from something other than its lameness. Dean had been locked out of haunted houses before, usually when something was in the process of killing Sam.
But Dean seemed to be too busy to be too upset.
"Bitch." The line went dead.
Sam stood still for a moment, his heart swelling from the last word Dean had said to him. He couldn't help the smile that felt like it might split his face; Dean had called him a bitch. He hadn't done that in… Sam had no idea how long it had been.
Sam made his way down the hall and toward the stairs, the thought that the watch was probably in the master bedroom floating through the back of his mind.
Dean had called him bitch, and that made whatever the spirit or demons could throw at him seem almost inconsequential. He could handle it, no problem.
x.x.x.x.x
Dean flipped his phone closed, icy arms of apprehension enveloping his middle. He didn't like being separated from Sam, regular old haunting or not. Which this was most decidedly not. But Sam was being Sam about it, and that meant of course that he had to go it alone no matter what anyone else had to say on the matter.
Dean would just have to find some other way into the house and hope the spirit…forgot to lock it… Yeah, freaking fantastic plan, especially with his brother in danger.
Scowling, Dean backed away from the door, the heel of his boot treading on the bloodstain. There was a gurgle behind him, like the sound of water coming from an upturned hose, and Dean turned to catch sight of sticky red-black pouring from the cracks in the floorboards. It oozed over the porch and tumbled down the stairs, falling thickly onto the path at the bottom. It slid toward him, reaching out with liquid fingers.
Crap. Cozbi was angry.
"Meredith," he called, leaping off the porch, jogging forward the second he hit the ground. He had deposited the girl near the floral bush behind which he had hidden his duffel, and where she now sat with her arms wrapped around her knees. "I have to in and get my partner. Are you all right alone for a minute?"
"What…was that?" Her voice shook slightly, but she seemed a bit more stable.
Dean leaned behind the bush and snagged his duffel, hoisting it over his shoulder before answering somberly. "We think it's what killed your sister."
Meredith seemed to mull it over slowly. "Why?"
He kept it simple – no need to confuse her with demon possessed ghosts and everything. "Angry spirit, wants revenge." Dean hesitated. "I'm sorry. I…know what it's like to lose a sibling." Sibling; the word seemed so inadequate for what Sam was to him. Sometimes it would be easier if that was all he was, but that had never been the case.
"Sister?"
"Brother."
Meredith nodded. "Just…kill the thing. Please."
"That I can do. Here." Dean pulled out a container of salt, feeling the remaining two shift in the bag. "Spirits can't get through salt lines. Make a circle around yourself and stay in it until either me or my partner come back out."
"And if neither of you do?"
Dean shrugged. "Call the police or run as fast as you can to your car. Keep the salt with you."
She shivered, pulling her legs closer to her body. "Thank you. I don't know why you care, but thank you."
"It's my job."
"I'm sorry about that, too."
Unsure of what to say to that, Dean just turned and headed back toward the house, skirting the edge instead of going at the front door again. He still couldn't believe that not even a window would break; that alone would have told him that this was not an ordinary everyday haunting. There was some serious evil going on in that house, and Sam was alone in the middle of it.
Ten minutes later, Dean had circled the entire house and ripped off some of the trellis on its side to get a better look at what had appeared to be a door. No cellar anywhere. Or if there was one, there was no external entrance. Dean growled his frustration at the sealed windows as he fished his phone out of his pocket. He hit Sam's speed dial number.
Sam picked up after the second ring. "Yeah?" It was said so casually that Dean was instantly annoyed.
"There's no cellar." He winced the sound of the sentence; it sounded like a complaint, as if Sam had hidden the door or something.
"Okay. I'll have to burn the watch."
"Have you found it yet?"
"Are the exits unsealed?"
"No."
"Then no."
"Sam. Look, dude, there is some freaky stuff going on out on the porch. I think Cozbi's pissed."
"Everything's going fine so far. The ghost is nowhere to be seen, no demons, I've got salt, and…"
Dean waited for a moment. Sam said nothing. "Sammy?" No answer. His phone disconnected the call. Heart rate picking up, Dean redialed and was thrown directly into Sam's voicemail.
"Hey, this is Sam. Leave a message—"
Dean swore sharply and shut his phone. There had to be a way into that house. He looked around for something heavier than a concrete mammal to throw at a window and quickly spotted a marble birdbath that sat in a state of disrepair. He dumped the leaves and vines out of it and ditched the bowel before hefting the base onto his shoulder, jogging quickly around to the front of the house. He smelled something burning, like a weird leafy scent. He looked over the house, searching for any sign of flames. To his relief, he found nothing.
Meredith was nowhere to be seen when he reached the porch steps, but he didn't pause to wonder why; if she was smart, she had run. He ran up the stairs, skirting the still flowing wound in the floor, and stopped at the door. He slung the duffel over his back and shoulder to keep it out of the way. Then, without ceremony, Dean swung the bird bath into the window next to the door. When he pulled away, a small crack ran through it.
He grinned; it looked like ghostly sealing wasn't as indestructible as they had thought. He swung again, creating another crack, trying not to think about how long it would take the break the whole thing. Sam was in there, so Dean was getting through. The bird bath whooshed through the air in a third hit.
It struck the glass hard and kept on going, wrenched out of Dean' surprised hands when the entire glass shattered, throwing knives of clear reflection at his face and hands. Dean hissed when one of the shards dragged over the top of his wrist and left a long, thin string of red behind. He ignored it.
On a hunch, he reached out a hand and twisted the doorknob. It turned easily in his grip. He stepped forward, barely aware of the wet squish from beneath his boots.
Inside the house was silent and still, dying sunlight peeking through the windows. Dean stepped inside, wet shoes loud on the polished wood floorboards.
"Sam?" he called out.
The only answer was his voice echoed back to him in the oddly bare hallway. He walked in farther, scanning through doorways and archways as he passed them, none of them containing Sam. Then he rounded a corner into the kitchen and one boot connected with a fallen container of salt. It spilled as it rolled across the floor, leaving a grainy train of white in its wake.
Dean drew his sawed off from the duffel and kept walking. Dropped salt – Sam must have dropped it. Couldn't he stay out of trouble for ten minutes? Maybe hold onto his weapons while he did so? Did Dean have to build him a utility belt equipped with gun, salt, and holy water? Maybe staple it to his waist to make sure he kept it with him.
His thoughts grew disjointed as they were shoved to the side, his feet still moving forward as he searched for his brother. He walked past the island in the middle of the kitchen looked toward the sink. His eyes landed on a brown sneaker.
Following the sneakers were jeans and then a jacket. Sam's jeans, Sam's jacket. Sam was lying on the ground on his stomach, unmoved as though he hadn't heard Dean calling for him, hadn't heard him looking.
Dean's throat burned as his lungs continued to suck down oxygen. He felt his weapon drop from his grip, the sound of it hitting the floor too far away for him to take notice. He was by Sam's side then, his knees cracking against the ornate amber tiles as he went down. His hands reached out to Sam, landed on his back and pushed at him to wake him. He tugged at his jacket and turned him over, Sam's limbs flopping without resistance. Dark red smeared over Dean's suddenly ash-pale skin.
"Sam?"
One wrist was sliced open exactly like his throat, deep and wide. It was the wrist that held the leather bracelet, the one Sam had gotten with Dean so many years ago. The bracelet was slit open and lying by the still white hand. Dean picked it up, crushed in his fist as he met Sam's eyes.
The blue-hazel gaze stared at nothing, blanker than Dean had ever seen it. Those couldn't be the same eyes that sparked with interest at a new hunt, or glinted with amusement when Dean did something embarrassing; they couldn't be the eyes that watched Dean so carefully throughout their childhood and most of their adult lives, the ones that recently had looked to see where Dean was broken and how he could be fixed; they couldn't be the ones that softened with something suspiciously like love when Dean would bump his shoulder against Sam's.
It was wrong, all wrong.
It wasn't Sam, not the kid Dean had practically raised himself, and who, if Dean was honest, had practically raised Dean. People said that kids were the best teachers, and God was that true. Dean had learned to control his anger when a terrified little Sam had seen Dean make his first kill – a witch who looked for all the world to be a normal human. Dean had been taught deep empathy when Sam had had to kill for the first time at age fourteen in order to save Dean's life. Sam's eyes had been dull then, but there hadn't been much regret; not when it was Dean at stake.
Those eyes that had gone from intensely relieved to pained and confused the first time Sam had died and slipped away from him. Sam felt the same as then, too; warm and heavy, and stiller than he had ever been in his life.
Dean's vision gave out. He saw nothing but the red of blood and gray pallor of death, the colors mixing into a sickening paste across his eyes. It blocked anything else, everything else. Sam had been taken away from him again, and once again Dean hadn't been there to stop them.
He was on his feet and out the door before he realized he was moving, the sawed off back in his hands, slick blood smearing its side. He heard nothing but the deafening pound of his heart, felt nothing but white numbness, and saw nothing but his brother dead on the ground, his blood seeping into the caulk between the floor tiles.
A soft voice gently broke through the rush clogging Dean's mind. The voice was one he had known almost all his life. Stop, it told him firmly, Let it go and just get out. Let me go.
The voice threatened to strip away the framework of anesthetizing gray rage that Dean had pulled tightly around himself. He shoved the voice away, knowing that if he broke free now, he wouldn't be able do what he needed to do. Even as his little brother's voice persisted in urging him to stop, Dean ignored it. He shoved the bracelet into his jacket pocket.
He reached the car and had it started without thinking about it, the engine silent outside of the storm that consumed him. Dean couldn't stop, wouldn't stop until he had killed every one of them. They wouldn't go back to Hell; Dean hoped there was something much worse for demons on the other side of death.
The world flashed by without Dean noticing, and then he was at their motel room, the door left open behind him as he grabbed Sam's laptop. He booted it up, barely glancing at the local listings that were on the screen. Sam had been looking for the psychic, had hidden it from Dean.
Dean couldn't have cared less anymore.
He ran through website after website, checking the buildings in the area, checking the weather report for demonic signs. He found everything he was looking for, everything he might have seen if he had bothered to look up from licking his wounds. There had been electrical storms in the area, strong enough that there had to be a lot of demons, probably most of them lower level.
It didn't matter. They were all going to die.
There was a warehouse on the edge of town, an old steel mill that had been abandoned for fifteen years. That was where they would be. Everything he had learned in his life told him that that's where he had to go. The laptop hit the bed with a muffled thump and Dean was moving again, past Sam's duffel without giving it a look. He couldn't look; he would break.
Dean didn't know how long it took him to get to the warehouse, didn't know how long it took to find the room where they were gathered. He didn't know what the layout of the room was, how many demons there were, if they had backup from other creatures. He paid no attention to the alter set up on the far side of the room. He didn't see any of it, and he didn't care.
The demon-killing knife in one hand, his sawed off in the other, and Dean was after them. He didn't feel the blood splashing over his hands as he slashed throats and stabbed chests, didn't feel the kickback from his gun as it went off. Demons came and went, cut down as quickly as Dean could reach them.
Anything he could touch died under the knife. They had taken his brother, made him break the promise he had made to keep Sam safe. Again, he had failed. It always came down to his failure.
How long he fought them, he didn't know. He felt no pain, felt no fatigue, only the heavy thirst for death that parched his throat and burned down into his belly. When his knife met no more resistance, he glanced around. More came in through a door on the other side of the room; they would die, as well. While the world around him was a haze of static, the figures of the demons were in sharp focus.
They would all die.
Dean was moving again, ready to strip the flesh from around them, to drive the knife into them as far as it would go.
"Dean!"
The voice again. But this time it seemed sharp, real.
Dean turned his back to the demons, ready to kill whatever it was that had taken his little brother's voice. But when he turned, he saw him. Sam, standing there, real and unbloodied: alive. It wasn't possible; it was shape shifter, a revenant, a trick.
His hand jammed into his pocket, fumbling to find the leather bracelet that had belonged to Sam. His fingers came away empty. He hadn't dropped it, wouldn't have let himself drop all he had left of Sammy.
He looked back up, meeting eyes that had been dull in death the last time he had seen them. The demons weren't moving; Dean didn't know or care why. He let his sawed off drop from his hand. He strode forward and fisted a hand in the front of Sam's jacket, jerking him against his chest. Dean wrapped his hand with the knife around Sam's back, crushing his brother's body in his grip.
Dean took what felt like the first breath in forever. He wasn't sure if he had been breathing; what was the point if Sam was gone?
After a moment, Sam gently pushed him away, eyes concerned as they looked him over. He shot a glance at the demons still waiting at the other end of the room, but then he was back to focusing on Dean. "What happened?" Sam demanded.
He didn't protest when Dean's hand held his jacket tighter.
Sam's hand moved to the back of Dean's neck, squeezing hard enough to keep Dean's attention, reminding him that Sam was here, not dead. Not dead.
"What did they do to you?" Sam's voice hard and deadly.
Dean was spared having to answer as one of the demons stepped forward out of the group and began to clap.
"Bravo. You two really are as good as I've heard you are."
Turning, Dean caught sight of the demon regarding them with the same interest with which a shark regards a seal.
It was Mrs. Cozbi.
Dean didn't let go of his grip on Sam, but he did ready the knife in his other hand. The blinding rage had begun to drain, but he was sure he had enough left to deal with the rest of the demons or go out trying.
"Did you like the little illusion spell I whipped up for you, Dean? It can paint some pretty disturbing pictures, can't it? Tell me, did it feel real? Sometimes I don't get the tangible stuff done as well as the visual."
Dean's spine stiffened as though made of stone. It had been her; she had taken Sam from him. Real or not, the image of his little brother's blood on that floor was etched into him as surely as if it had actually happened. He still wasn't completely sure the Sam he held onto now was the real one, but he would take it if that was all he got.
"You," the demon said, turning her black eyes to Sam, "weren't supposed to follow him. I thought that with the little tiff you two are in, you'd figure he left you. Shame, really; I might have let you live a bit longer."
With a growl, Sam was suddenly between Dean and the demons, shoulders angled so that he didn't break the hold Dean had on his coat. "You want something in particular, or are you just killing time hunting us before the world ends?" Sam snarled.
"We want you dead. Well, specifically we wanted him dead," she said, jerking her head at Dean, "but that might have to wait."
"For what?"
"Can't tell; that would spoil the ending." Mrs. Cozbi winked at him. "You know, I bet you'd make a magnificent corpse. What color is his blood, Dean? Red like everyone else's? Or was there something different about it?"
Dean's vision flooded with crimson; he would kill her. He would drown her in holy water and bury her in salt and then he would slice away her skin layer by layer until she died. And he would enjoy it like he hadn't enjoyed anything in a long time.
"You boys like the little play we put on for you?" Mrs. Cozbi gave a graceful little bow, her thin body bending at the waist.
"The whole thing was a trap."
"Sharp." Her sarcasm wasn't hidden. "Yes, it was a trap. You want the rundown? It's short and sweet."
When neither Winchester replied, Mrs. Cozbi grinned. "Fine, I'll tell you. We possessed dear little son-in-law, who went crazy and killed his wife's daddy. Cozbi's ghost killed him of course, but that was part of the plan. We needed a vengeful spirit. They're not hard to make if you know how."
"Son of a bitch," Dean murmured through his haze of relief and anger.
"Then we offed daughter and baby, took Mom's body and killed the people in the house that Cozbi wouldn't. The blood clots were his. Stupid little ghost. Gone now, though, isn't he, Sam? So we slit some throats and added a haunted puddle for pizzazz. And that's the whole story."
"You slaughtered a whole family." Sam's voice shook with rage.
"Just a little one," she said with a wink, "You wouldn't come otherwise."
Sam stepped to the side a bit, trying to block as much of Dean as he could. "We're here. What now?"
"Well, like I said, we thought you'd take off and we'd have Dean all to ourselves. Since that's obviously not the case anymore, I think we can come to a new arrangement."
"What the hell do you want?" Sam growled, pushing back at Dean as he tried to move forward.
Dean felt Sam's stance harden, rendering him effectively a wall of concrete between him and the demons.
"Here's the deal: you come with us, big brother gets another chance to run and hide and stop the big bad Apocalypse."
Before Sam could get out an answer, Dean had his handgun out and pointed at the demon. He emptied a clip into her in a matter of seconds, none of it doing any good, but then that wasn't the point.
The demon looked down with distaste at the new holes in her blue-striped sweater. Her glare was quickly turned on Dean. "That wasn't a smart thing to do."
"Just give me a minute," Sam said quickly, trying to move Dean only to find his brother the immovable object to his own unstoppable force.
"Keep your dog on its leash," Mrs. Cozbi spit.
Sam bared his teeth at the demon before he put a hand on Dean's shoulder. "Man, come on. We—"
"NO."
Sam let out a frustrated sigh. "I know this isn't ideal, okay? But I think we—"
"Sam, no," was all he said, but his voice shook.
"Look..." Sam shook his head once, shaggy brown bangs drifting over his forehead. "You'll be fine. You have Castiel and Anna to watch your back, now. That's more back up than any Winchester's ever had."
Anger roared in Dean's ears and flooded his vision, casting a red light over the world.
Only Sam, Dean thought, could turn this into an issue of Dean's companionship. And the moron was totally, utterly sincere in what he was saying. "I don't care."
"Dean..."
"No, just shut up." He swallowed hard, hating himself for what he was going to say, but unable to not say it. "I'd let the world burn, okay? Heaven too, if it comes to that. None of it's worth a damn if you're not - if you're..." And just like that, he couldn't say it; couldn't voice what made his heart freeze in his chest.
"I don't have time for this," Mrs. Cozbi snapped. She snarled at Sam. "Do we have a deal or not?"
Dean pinned Sam with a look. You do this, you kill us both.
Meeting Dean's gaze, Sam didn't look away until he answered Mrs. Cozbi. "No."
Mrs. Cozbi shrugged. "Fine." She motioned carelessly with one hand to her followers.
"Get them."
Dean was ready when they came. Not long ago, he might have felt fear at the sight of so many of Hell's creatures, but with Sam warm and breathing next to him, he would do what it took to keep him safe, to never lose him again.
He hated it, but he let Sam go. To end it, he needed both hands, and Sam needed to be able to move. But he made sure his brother was within reaching distance at all times, keeping an eye out for him even as his blade continued to slice and maim.
He could see the indecision on Sam's face as his brother fought with only holy water and salt. The temptation was there to use his powers. But Dean also saw Sam fighting it, and that was worth more to him than he realized.
Then he saw it out of the corner of his eye. Mrs. Cozbi was standing in the corner, laughing to herself as he eyed the battle. She caught Dean's gaze gave him an insane, twisted grin. With that, she turned and ran up a flight of stairs, disappearing from sight. Something in Dean demanded he go after her, end it.
Sam began to recite an exorcism, and Dean played the role of herder, keeping the demons from escaping; they lunged for doors, he removed their limbs. Finally Sam finished the ritual and dispelled the demons. Dean saw his chance. Before all the black smoke had even cleared, Dean was already halfway up the staircase. In seconds, he burst onto the roof, the light spattering of rain tapping coldly against his skull.
Mrs. Cozbi stood at the edge of the roof, long hair waving in the breeze, her eyes blazing as they locked on Dean. "I would have preferred to take your brother first, but we can start with you. My boss won't be happy with the way it's done, but it'll have to work, won't it."
He took a step forward. Wet splashed across his cheekbones and flicked liquid into his eyes. He remained unblinking in the rain and raised his knife, fury curling through him like hot smoke. "Bring it, bitch."
Her face warped, losing all semblance of humanity. With a loud snarl, she leaped. She was fast; Dean only had a second to get the demon knife out in front of him before she was on him. In that split second, he thought he wouldn't make it. But then Sam was on him first, his back slamming hard into Dean's chest just as the demon collided with him.
Air was forced out of his lungs, making him gasp. Sam's shoulder blades dug into his collarbone, scraping as the demon pushed harder. Dean struggled, trying to push Sam off of him and away from the demon, but she had them smashed against the rough brick of the wall.
Sam's right hand was pinned against the wall, his gun gone from it, and his other was on the demon's throat, doing absolutely no good as it gripped at skin that could feel no pain. The demon's other hand was at Sam's neck, holding a blade to his flesh, the edge biting hard enough to draw blood. The knife that once again had been meant for Dean.
Shoving again, Dean tried to dislodge Sam. He failed to move either of the bodies pushed against his. Still Sam was held against him, a human shield between him and a demon who wanted his life; who would take Sam's if given half a chance. Dean arched against the wall, his free hand pulling hard at Sam's shoulder, all to no avail.
"You want to take someone? Take me, bitch. Let's see how much fun we can have before one of us ends up dead." Sam snarled the words into the demon's face, not reacting at all when her mouth split into a gleeful grin.
"Why fight us, Sam?" She leaned closer, the tip of her tongue darting out to touch the blood trickling down his neck. Purring her approval, she licked her lips as she drew back, eyes still hungrily trained on Dean's brother. "You belong to us, little king. We will have you."
Sam tightened his grip on her throat, and her only reaction when he drew her closer was to let out a gurgling laugh. "Then do it. Take me. Isn't that what you want? Me in Hell? We could go through a gate, take all of me down there; body and soul."
The demon practically moaned with desire, bearing down tighter harder on Sam.
"Take me." Subtly, Sam pressed back into Dean: Be ready.
Fear trickled thick and hot down Dean's throat, making him tangle a hand in Sam's jacket, the need to keep him safe almost overwhelming.
With a cruel glance at Dean, the demon sneered and released Sam's hand to wrap both of her own around his throat. Snapping her head back just as Sam moved to shove her off, she gave a huge heave and flung Sam bodily across the roof. Dean's fingers cracked from the force with which Sam was ripped from his hands.
Sam's body hit the ground with a hard bang and kept rolling, the force carrying him straight toward the edge.
Through his panic, Dean heard someone shout, vaguely realizing it was he. In horrific slow motion, Sam's momentum kept him going. When the demon lunged again for the eldest Winchester, her knife salivating for his flesh, Sam's hand reached out just as he hit the edge. Fingers curling into a fist, he jerked his arm back.
The demon screamed at an invisible pain and fell to the ground, writhing from whatever Sam had done to her. Sam scrabbled for the edge of the roof and missed, hands slipping helplessly over the slick tar. He gave a grunt and then he was gone, vanishing over the side.
Dean was on the demon before he could take a breath, the blade of the knife plunging into her throat three times in quick succession. Leaving the knife where it was buried in her jugular, Dean threw himself toward the end of the roof.
"Sam!" He skidded to his knees, leaning out as far as he could go, heart thrashing wildly against the cage of his ribs. "Sammy!"
There was nothing, nowhere for Sam to have grabbed on. There were trees, but…
"SAM!"
Dean scrambled to his feet and ran for the door, flying down the stairs and through the warehouse. Rain struck his skin like fire as he tore across the warehouse yard and around back. The dark parted for him as he ran, his feet striking the softening ground with sharp wet sounds.
It was four stories. People survived four stories.
"Sam!"
The growing darkness clung wetly to him, gumming up his eyes so he couldn't see. Dean wiped at them and kept running. He reached the place Sam had fallen, his breath flowing sharply through his throat, the sound harsh against the even patter of rain on leaves. He peered through the gloom.
Just four stories, only four stories.
Just as panic and growing insanity neared their peak, Dean saw it; a dark lump on the ground, unmoving against the base of a tree. He lurched forward, one foot snagging in the soggy ground in his haste.
"Sammy! Sam— oh, god…" Dean lowered himself to the ground, his mind numb with the sensation of déjà vu.
Sam's body was slightly splayed, his head resting back against an exposed tree root. One arm was wrapped protectively around his middle, the elbow bent in a position that looked wrong at first glanced. Probably broken.
For the next few minutes Dean assessed injuries, noting the cuts, developing bruises, and gashes that littered Sam's skin. The cut above his brow was ripped open again and oozing blood into his closed eye.
"Hey, come on, bro, give me something here."
Dean licked the iron rain off his lips and put a hand to his brother's throat, fingers nearly unfeeling. A soft thrum could be felt against his skin, nearly making him collapse with relief and fear; he had to keep that heartbeat.
He couldn't fix it on his own, not if…
Jamming his hand into his pocket, Dean pulled out his cell phone and punched in 911, waiting impatiently as it rang once.
"Stockton Police Department, how—"
"My brother's been injured. He fell from the fourth floor of the warehouse on Carland Street. Hurry." He snapped the phone shut and dropped it back into its pocket.
Sam's face was pale, but not the waxy white that it had been earlier – in the illusion, Dean reminded himself sharply, desperately. "Hey, don't even worry about it, okay? The ambulance will be here quick. Not much else to do in a town like this, eh?"
The rain began to come harder, cold and slick as it crept through Dean's clothing. He did his best to block Sam from the worst of the weather, fist clenched tight when he couldn't keep his brother from getting soaked. He ached to move him to the Impala, get him away and to safety. But if he'd broken his neck, his back…
Dean scooted closer to Sam, the heels of his boots dragging through the wet dirt and clumping by his feet. He gently rested a hand against the side of Sam's head, carefully not to fall out of his crouch and crush his brother. His fingers slid to the back of Sam's skull, cautiously searching for signs of damage. They came away free of blood – no broken skin. He hoped that meant Sam hadn't suffered harm to his head. Internal bleeding would be harder to find so soon.
The moments went by, dragged and kicking as they went slower than normal.
"Idiot." The word was lost inside the noise of the building storm.
"He is, isn't he?"
Dean jumped in surprise, head jerking around painfully toward the sound of the voice.
"Don't tell me you don't recognize me, Dean. How am I supposed to feel about that?"
The speaker was a woman, tall and slender, wearing a dark leather jacket.
"What?" Dean snapped, fed up with everything that had happened that day.
"Touchy." Her eyes drifted toward Sam before snapping back to Dean. "That looks pretty bad. I hope nothing serious happens."
Dean drew his handgun and aimed it between the skank's eyes. "If you know what's good for you, leave us alone."
She smiled a mocking smile. "But Dean, I can't leave yet. I've got something to get, first."
The gun didn't waver.
She began to look annoyed. "Put that away; we both know it won't do any good. Just move aside and I'll be on my way."
Dean didn't blink, didn't budge.
"Come on, Dean. I sent my little army here to take care of this and look what happened; nothing. Demon hoards just aren't what they used to be."
"Who are you?" Dean snarled it through clenched teeth.
"The one who possessed poor Mr. Cozbi's ghost. It hurts, I hear. It's a neat trick I learned a while back. Just like dear old Dad. You remember him, right Dean? He was the one at the end of that bullet you fired."
Realization hit Dean fast and hard, dragging disbelief behind it. "Meg."
Clapping condescendingly, she said, "Very good, Dean. I was wondering how long it would take that little brain of yours to catch up. Now be a good boy and hand him over."
Standing slowly, Dean moved to stand squarely between Meg and Sam. "What do you want with Sam?"
Meg shrugged and took a step forward, the thick heel of her black boot sinking partway into the ground. "What Lilith used to want for him; we want him out of the way. Preferably in Hell where we can play with him some, but just plain dead would be fine."
"Out of the way for what?"
Dean wished fervently that he hadn't left the knife on the roof.
She grinned, perfect white teeth set in beautiful mouth. "You."
Dean started.
"You think we're going to let the angels use you to try and destroy our Master? You're going to die, Dean Winchester, and I'm going to love killing you."
"What does Sam have to do with that?" Dean shifted close, hoping to keep her away from his brother.
"He'll try to save you, and with his power he might just be able to do it." She smirked. "That kind of strength doesn't just go away because he dropped the sanguine helper. He might be the only one who can really stop what we have in store for you. He knows it, I know it."
"Stay away from him."
"There's no saving your little brother anymore, Dean. But don't worry, you won't live long enough to feel bad about it."
Dean considered her for a moment, his heart hammering silently behind his ribcage. He adopted a bored expression. "You're going the same way as your dad, bitch. And don't forget your brother; killed him, too."
Meg was fast; she leaped to the side, skirting Dean and rounding on Sam. Her gun was out and leveled at Sam's body inside a second. Dean's gun was out again, aimed between her eyes.
"Don't."
"And if I do?" She didn't wait for an answer. "I'm not going to kill him tonight, Dean. My master has told me that he wants him for something special. I'm not standing in the way of that. But if he continues to protect you, I'll take him." She lowered the gun.
Dean pulled the trigger, not feeling the satisfaction he had hoped for when the bullet sunk into the front of her skull.
"Ouch. That's not nice, Dean." She put a hand to her forehead, wiping away some of the blood that had started to flow. "Tell Sam I'll be talking to him soon."
With an angry flick of her wrist, Meg sent Dean flying into the heavy trunk of a tree. White exploded behind his eyes, and his head just about split with the force of the hit. He grunted in pain and curled in on himself.
Sam.
Forcing himself to straighten, Dean rose to rickety legs and stumbled toward his brother. The dark was impossible to see through with his vision still sparking. But he made it and fell to his knees, finding Sam exactly where he had left him.
Plopping down onto the ground, Dean carefully draped himself over the cold body lying at the base of the tree. His thoughts began to wander, slip-sliding through the mess of his mind. He had a concussion, he knew; a bad one, by the feel of it. He let the confusion come, holding tightly to Sam.
The next minutes passed in a hazy eternity and in a lightning moment. The ambulance arrived, flashing red and white and wailing like the loved ones of the deceased. People swarmed over them, thousands of them it seemed to Dean. He didn't like it.
Sam was taken from him again, and hands tried to push Dean down onto a stretcher. He fought it, trying to remember why he had to stay awake, what he was struggling to reach. They took him in a different vehicle than the one he wanted, and he tried to stop them, to tell them they were making a mistake. No one listened. An oxygen mask was put over his mouth, and then his hands were held down when he tried to push it off.
He didn't remember the ride to the hospital, didn't remember anything except voices saying horrible things that slipped through his mind like a fish through water; they were gone in an instant.
When they reached the hospital, it all came back to him. He ripped the mask off his nose and mouth, opened his lips and shouted for his brother.
No one heeded him.
So he called another name.
Behind the men and women keeping him from making sure his brother was alright, Dean saw the dark-haired man appear. The crowd around him thinned, more of it following Sam as they wheeled him away. He could hear their words as they left.
"Internal bleeding…"
"…broken ribs, and his arm is…"
"…bleeding too fast, we've got to…"
"Heart's giving out. Administer the…"
" Castiel," he said with a near gasp, trying to keep the mask off his face as someone tried to put it back on. "Sam," he breathed, "Sam."
Blue eyes watched him. Dean couldn't tell if the others around him couldn't see the angel or if they were just too busy trying to keep him still. He didn't care.
"Cas…" He swallowed hard. His words stuck to the dry walls of his throat.
An answer was spoken silently. I'm here.
Dean locked his gaze to the angel. "Don't let him die, Cas."
x.x.x.x.x
Castiel drifted away from Dean's side, knowing the eldest Winchester was not severely damaged. He would recover almost completely in a few days. But his brother…
He made his way past the humans filing through the hall, none of them giving him even a first glance. It was an easy trick; the humans were busy, so it was easy enough to direct their thoughts away from him. It was easier than explaining his presence.
Sam Winchester was being prepared for surgery, and he was easy enough to find. Castiel looked through the glass separating him from the young man.
The most recent weeks since the coming of the Apocalypse had been spent gaining intel and sending their enemies after false leads. He had hoped to give the Winchesters enough time to pick up the pieces of themselves before they were submerged in the coming war.
It seemed he had failed.
Don't let him die.
There were rumors of Lucifer's plans circulating among the supernatural entities of the world. A frightened shiver had rippled through their ranks, putting the creatures on edge. Few had been willing to communicate with Castiel, but as for the few who had, there had been nothing but ill news.
Whispers of Lucifer's intentions regarding the world, Hell's legions, and Sam Winchester; the deeds of the youngest Winchester would not be easily forgotten by one such as the Light Bringer.
Before he had left the Winchesters, Castiel had told Dean that all he need do was call and the angel would arrive as soon as he was able. He had not thought it would be for something like this.
The doctors worked steadily and quickly, giving orders back and forth, trying to come up with a way to save their patient's life.
Castiel looked down at his hands, frowning as he did so. His powers were waning, fading from his severed ties to Heaven. No longer was he able to transport others with him, nor did he possess the power to alter the mind of another in any major way. But for now he might be able to help Sam in a small way.
Healing had never been his area of specialty, and he could not save a life, but he could give Sam a fighting chance.
Once again he spared the unconscious man a look. For one so young, the burdens he held were tremendous. Like his brother, he was capable of great things.
And of terrible things.
The blame for releasing Lucifer did not fall squarely on the shoulders of Sam Winchester, but there was no denying that the man's stubborn will could be a threat to stopping the Apocalypse.
Were he still under the command of Heaven's angels, Castiel knew he would have been ordered to end Sam's life.
For one so strong in body and mind, Sam Winchester was helplessly small on the operating table. His skin was pale, his eyes closed, and he was silent in contrast to the noise of the machines hooked up to him.
Don't let him die, Cas.
Castiel raised a hand.
x.x.x.x.x
Pain.
God, it hurt.
Fiery steel slashed across his chest, his back, his arms. Heavy agony beat a tattoo into his body, driving awareness out of his mind. There was only the taste of blood and the smell of rage mixing with the bite of searing metal opening wounds deep into his flesh.
Hell, it hurt.
Razors kissed his skin with cold teeth, shredding tissue and lapping at the blood welling from new chasms of broken limbs. One knife caught in a muscle and jerked free with a sickening squelch – the muscle twitched and writhed beneath his skin.
He choked on red spilling from his lips and raining into his eyes until the whole world was black and red and blinding pain. They wanted something, but he couldn't remember what. They wanted him to tell them something about… Alastair.
Shadows and lights swarmed around him, touching him, pulling at him, making his head spin sickeningly, watching as he was tortured. Fear pooled warm and copper-flavored in his mouth; Alastair had him on the rack, he wanted him to talk. But how could he speak with so much blood in his throat? He couldn't…
A voice called out to him through the suffocating fog of anguish, stabbing through the thick veil that separated him from reality. He was drowning, and he wanted to drown, but that voice was screaming. It seemed like he should understand the words – it filled him with fear and a drive to help. He needed to save him.
The undersides of his arms were slit to ribbons, crimson breaking past the dam of his veins and soaking the ground at his feet. Relief twisted with affliction to create hysteria – maybe now he could die and leave all of it behind. Maybe now they would let him rest in peace.
The pain began to fade slowly, greedily sucked down into a narcotizing haze that blanketed his senses. Why was that voice still yelling? Couldn't they just leave him alone?
And then he recognized one word being shouted; it was his name.
"SAM!"
Everything went white.
…
…
…
"Hare's…damage…truck us…druther…"
The words made no sense – stringing them together with glue and dental floss was no way to make a sentence, Sam thought. It needed to be sturdier, like a lobster, he concluded with satisfaction.
Time went by, he was pretty sure. It might have been a lot. Maybe not. It was tricky, time. Very slippery, almost sneaky.
He wanted to swallow.
He wanted Dean.
Then, as if someone had heard his silent desire, a voice spoke.
"You're gonna be okay, Sammy. I've got you."
Dean. It was Dean. Dean was okay.
"That demon did a number on you, dude."
Sam tried to smile to put his brother at ease. He wasn't sure if it worked. Maybe if he could open his eyes…
"What the hell were you thinking? The fall…it busted you up pretty bad, brother. The internal bleeding…you broke some pretty important body parts, and ruptured a couple others."
He struggled to open his mouth to speak, to shrug and tell Dean, "It was me or you." And if that was the choice, there was no choice.
There was a sigh from next to him. Sam once again wished he could open his eyes, but every part of him felt heavy, like that time when he was thirteen and Dean had pinned him to the hotel carpet for losing one of his Alice in Chains cassettes. He'd never had a wet Willie before that.
Dean's voice rouses him from his thoughts. "So tired of having everything try to take you away from me. You gotta cut this out, Sammy."
I'll try.
"You can't leave me here, Sammy. I came all the way back from Hell just to see you, kiddo. You gotta stay, alright?"
Sam remembered; he had let his brother go to Hell. Castiel got him out.
He felt himself slipping. He let it happen.
…
…
…
Beeping. Too much beeping. And what was with all the noise again? There was shouting and other voices. The shouts sounded familiar. It was his name being called again. Dean was calling him.
Sam fought hard, managing to slit his eyelids open a sliver. Dean was yelling, which meant Dean needed help. Adrenaline gave him a short boost of strength. His eyes opened more. Dean was being blocked off by two burly hospital workers, his face white as a sheet.
The beeping suddenly turned into a long, drawn out wail. The people around him threw around words Sam didn't understand. His head began to buzz, turning lighter than a helium balloon.
Too much light.
Too much sound.
Dean…
Dean.
…
…
…
It wasn't cold anymore. That was nice. Sam had never really liked the cold, which had been one of the draws of Stanford. But Stanford hadn't had other things, and that was no good. But he liked it there. He liked Jess and the sun.
Sam stayed still as feeling cautiously began to creep back into his limbs. Everything was sore, like that time he had been shot and tumbled down a flight of stairs. Not fun. Movies were fun, though. So was knife throwing, not that he would ever tell Dad or Dean.
He was pretty sure he was on his back. It felt like a bed beneath him, too. For a moment he let confusion shift thickly between his ears before clarity started to return to him. Demons, Dean, falling off the roof, and then nothing.
"Hey, dude, you awake again?"
He had been awake before?
Bracing himself, Sam slowly opened his eyes, blinking in the light. His eyes flicked back and forth across the sterile hospital room and came to rest on the haggard face of his brother.
"Back with us, little brother?" Dean gave a wan smile.
"D'nno." Ouch.
"Your throat dry?"
"Nngh."
"Sore?"
"Nguh."
"Yeah, that's normal, buddy. They, uh, had you on a breathing tube for a while."
Sam blinked at him, watching as the world went dark and then came back from under the shade of his eyelashes. "H'w nng?"
Dean's voice was soft and quiet as gray ash. "Five days."
Giving a noncommittal grunt, Sam struggled to sit up. His limbs were weighted, soon joined by his brother's hand on the left side of his chest. It was warm. Sam relaxed just a bit, even as Dean seemed worried.
"Hey, hold it. Just lay there until the nurse gets a look at you, okay?"
"Deem…" Sam took a breath, tried again as Dean waited patiently. "Demons."
Settling back into his chair that was drawn as close to Sam's bed as humanly possible, Dean shook his head a fraction. "We took care of 'em. But, ah… there's more, Sam."
He waited, still trying to clear the antiseptic-flavored fog from his brain.
"They were being led by Meg." Dean glanced away. "You were right about Cozbi being possessed. It was her, man."
Sam gave Dean a look, to which he shook his head.
"I don't know why. I mean, other than the usual; she wants us dead. Nothing weird, there." He cocked his mouth in a half grin.
No, that was normal, Sam surmised. He coughed experimentally. It twinged. "C'n I sit up?"
Dean frowned. "Just wait until—"
"Hello, there."
Turning his head, Sam caught sight of a white lab coat, following it up until he met the smiling face of Maureen. Was the woman everywhere?
"We're awake today, I see." She turned to his brother. "How's he doing, Dean?"
"Talking. More than last time, anyway."
Last time? Sam thought back; he couldn't remember anything.
"That's good. Okay, can you tell me your name?" She was at the side of Sam's bed and had set a clipboard near his knee. Her fingers grasped his wrist, took a quick pulse.
"Sam."
"Sam what?"
He hesitated, eyes flickering to Dean, who looked back steadily. "G-Gelbowitz."
"Good, good. Can you tell me the year and where you are?"
"Stockton, 2009."
"Mm hmm, good." She nodded as she continued to check him. Sam barely noticed.
"You remember how you got here?"
He checked with Dean again. "Fell."
Maureen looked down at him, her brow furrowed delicately. "You landed badly, but it should have been a lot worse at the angle you hit. How did you learn how to fall?"
Sam's chest ached. He coughed. "Used to rock climb, no safety."
"A daredevil," Maureen said with a wink, "Let's just try not to repeat this, all right?"
Sam felt his eyes grow heavier. He let them close, feeling relief at being out of what light there was in the room.
"How's he doing, doc?"
There was a slight hesitation. "Okay. He should be able to leave in a few days, hopefully. We need to monitor him for a while yet."
"For what?"
"To make sure things go smoothly. He suffered a fairly serious…"
The words faded into the background, and the voices washed gently over him, Dean's rumble as reassuring as it was familiar. He had feeling back now, and he wished Dean would make some sort of contact with him. Sam felt himself floating, sliding along the smooth edges of consciousness.
After a while, the quiet woke him.
He opened his eyes to see Dean sitting forward in his seat, letting his weight rest on his elbows, the bones digging into the tops of his thighs.
Sam watched him for a moment, struggling to rise from the deep sleep into which he had fallen.
"Why weren't you there?"
The question almost went unnoticed by him. "What?" Sam focused on him, his eyes a bit fuzzy. He blinked to try clearing them.
"At the Cozbi house. You weren't there."
Then he remembered clearly, and it was like a jolt to his mind. He woke further.
Sam glanced away, his expression fading almost comically into sheepishness. He wiggled his tongue in his throat, trying to loosen his voice before speaking carefully, surprised when the words flowed with relative ease. "I burned the watch, but then I got locked in the attic. It was a big oak door with an old lock, so it took a bit to get out." His large hands smoothed twice over his hospital blanket as he looked at the smooth ceiling above them. "Thought you left me at first."
Dean almost didn't catch the last sentence, Sam spoke so quietly, so cautiously. He met his little brother's eyes squarely. "No."
"Yeah, I found the rest of our weapons lying around. I smelled burning hazel; I figured someone had pulled something on you."
"Hazel?" Dean thought back; that might have been the burning scent he had detected.
"It's used in the stronger illusion spells. When I got back to the motel, the address for that warehouse was up. That and the weather reports let me know where you went and why."
Dean said nothing, simply letting his eyes blur as he stared at the minty waffle pattern of Sam's bed cover. He opened his mouth, stopped. Sam knew he wanted to say something meaningless, something to help him forget whatever illusion the demons had shown him. What came out was anything but.
"I can't ever stop it."
"Stop what?" Sam struggled to sit up a bit, to scoot a little closer.
"You dying." Dean gripped his knees hard. "I can't ever keep you safe."
"You've kept me safe my whole life. And I didn't die this time, Dean." Sam shifted his arm so that his knuckles bumped against Dean's forearm, just enough pressure to let him know that he was real; Sam knew what it was to disbelieve reality. "You've never failed me."
Dean hadn't had to say it; he supposed it was written all over his face. Sam saw it clearly, and he knew Dean felt as though he had failed, no matter what Sam told him.
"You're never going to fail me. I know you, man."
Dean turned away, the light in the room casting deep shadows over his eyes, making the sockets appear sunken.
Sam didn't like it. He glanced away.
"What the hell were you thinking?"
Sam looked up, confused at the contrast between the harsh words and the tone that felt colder than ice between them. "When?"
"You threw yourself between me and her, Sam. You knew they wanted you dead. You asked her to take you before me."
Continuing to trace his fingers across the blanket on his bed, Sam exhaled slowly, letting his head sink into his flattened pillow. "I'm guessing this isn't a thank-you."
"Good guess."
He turned a bit toward his brother. "I didn't actually think she'd take me up on it, Dean. They're done with me." The last part was brittle, bitter as he said it.
"How do you know that? We don't know that. They could still want you for anything; lead Lucifer's army, anything."
"You're reaching, Dean." There was no use for him anymore. Sam moved up farther until the top of his back rested against his pillows. He closed his eyes as if he thought the conversation was over.
Dean was nowhere near finished.
"What if she'd done it, Sam? What if she's said yes? That's one place I can't go after you. I can't get you back if they take you there."
One at a time, Sam opened his eyes and looked at Dean, his gaze hard. "I wouldn't do it, Dean."
"What?"
"Whatever they wanted… if they took me. You don't have to worry; I'm not going to help finish what I started."
The Apocalypse.
Dean frowned. "That's not what I was talking about."
Sighing long and quiet, Sam felt sleep creeping up on him again. A numbness had started to ooze over his toes and up his legs, moving in from his extremities. "'Think they've got me on a timed…medicine…thing…" he mumbled, surprised when he realized his eyes were shut.
Dean said something he didn't catch, and then there was a warm hand on his forehead. Feeling himself melting apart, Sam fought for a moment to stay with his brother. Dean's thumb stroked across his brow, gently ruffling the soft hairs. He let go, knowing Dean would catch him.
x.x.x.x.x
Three weeks and some days later, Sam dreamed a strange dream. It was cramped and too hot and bright. He squinted, barely able to see through the white. It wasn't a good white, he knew.
"Sam Winchester. I'd have expected you to be dead by now."
Damn it.
Sam turned slowly, barely able to make out the now-familiar form. "What the hell do you want?"
"Let's remain civil, shall we? There's no need for things to get barbaric." The figure chuckled. "The light too much for something like you? I thought it might be. Here…"
The brightness dimmed significantly, down to a level that allowed Sam to make out the arrogant smirk and the wide, prideful blue eyes. Zachariah. The suit was as unwrinkled as ever; Sam wanted to throw something at it, like ketchup or powdered cheese. Something that would stain badly. But it was a tomato-free, cheeseless dream.
"We need a favor, Sammy."
Sam's mouth tightened into a snarl. "Don't call me that."
"Dean's little pet name for you? Well, whatever you like. Are you willing to hear me out? Not that it matters, of course. You'll listen."
"Let me out." Sam turned, trying to find an exit. He didn't want to hear what he had to say, didn't want to know.
"You'll stay until I release you." The voice was sharp, immovable in its conviction. "Now, we don't have all the time in the world; this connection with you is hard to maintain. Your mind isn't an easy one to crack. Had to find a psychic just to get this far." There was a note of fascination in his voice. "All this white?" He gestured around them. "It's because we can't get any deeper than this."
Sam turned back, shoulders twitching belligerently. "Where's Dean?"
"Wherever you left him. We won't harm your brother, Sam. That is, so long as things go according to plan." He began to pace. "You see, your brother is remarkably responsive to orders, no matter who they come from. You, on the other hand, are a little maverick, aren't you? That's not good for us, Sam."
"Shut up about Dean."
"You know it's true. He's a good soldier, Sam – and he'll make a great commander. But he needs directive, he needs a purpose. Without it, he's useless."
Sam shot forward, hand wrapping tightly into the fabric of the suit. He jerked him forward, his face inches away, his teeth bared. "Shut. Up."
He smiled.
"You don't get to talk about him."
"Let me go, Sam. We both know there's nothing you can do to me here."
Slowly, Sam released his grip, pleased to note the rumples in the previously perfect jacket and tie.
Straightening his attire, Zachariah got back to it. "We'd like your cooperation. It would save us trouble and save you and your brother some pain."
Saying nothing, Sam simply watched. He didn't trust them, especially not after what they'd allowed to happen to his brother.
"If you refuse, you'll simply have to be removed. This can be done without Dean ever knowing what really happened, so don't think he'll come to your rescue."
Sam shrugged. "Give me a reason to care and we'll see." He just wanted out.
He waited a moment, as if preparing to deliver a blow. "Your brother swore his allegiance to us. He belongs to us, Sam."
Blood drained from Sam's face, sucked down like oxygen into the fire pit filling his belly, leaving him dizzy and confused. "What?"
That warped smile again. "He took an oath to serve Heaven no matter what. We don't take that kind of thing lightly. The question for you is whether you'll join him or be removed."
Like a stain, Sam couldn't help but think. He said nothing.
"Don't be difficult, Sam. Honestly, you should know the right answer. Sure, there's a good chance you won't make it out alive, but I think we both know that's not an unfair sentence." He didn't say the words nastily, but Sam felt the dull sting all the same.
"What do you want?" He couldn't help it; a morbid curiosity demanded he ask it.
"Your cooperation. You have talents we could use, Sam. Think about it: the only thing you've ever done is kill people. Your mother, your father, your brother. And now the cherry on top: the rest of the world. All dead because of you."
Sam stepped back. "Stop it."
He moved forward, not letting Sam retreat. ". If you had done the right thing years ago and just swallowed the barrel of your gun, been a little slower on a hunt, then none of this would be happening."
"Get away from me," Sam growled, trying in vain to put space between them. Zachariah kept following.
"You are a traitor to the human race, an aberration even among demons, and the enemy of man and Heaven. You have betrayed your brother and your species, and you did all of it knowingly and willingly." He gave a shallow smile. "You turned yourself into a freak."
"Shut up!"
He didn't listen. "Never in the world have I seen a monster quite like you."
Sam didn't know when he had ended up on the ground, his head bent down under the weight of the words being hurled like stones. They hurt because they were true. "What," he repeated through tight teeth, "do you want?"
A face appeared close to him. "You're our frontline, Sam. The distraction, if you will; worm on a hook, or however you'd like to think of it. You keep them away from Dean, keep your brother safe until he can do what needs to be done. That shouldn't be too hard, right? Of course, you'll need those special talents of yours."
Sam jerked back and was on his feet again. "He won't want me to do it."
"Dean won't know."
"Yeah, he will."
"If you want him safe, he won't. He pledged himself to us because of you, Sam; to try to save you."
"You lied to him."
"Well, haven't we all?"
Sam seethed.
"We simply didn't correct him when he assumed…certain things."
"Find another pawn."
"You think that's not what you are anyway? What role did you think you were playing in this story?"
Sam silently reeled from the similarity of those words to others he had heard not long ago.
Dean, yes… This is his story now, kid. What are you? Villain, brother, betrayer, sacrifice?
He had made a decision then that he would stick to: he would be whatever his brother need him to be. He met Zachariah's gaze. "I'll protect him. I'll fight whatever he needs me to fight, and I'll die for him if that's what has to happen. But I'm not answering to you."
He laughed. "Very good, Sam. Very good; I'd have expected nothing less from you. Obstinate until the end, right? Well, you do whatever you want, so long as the end result is your brother alive and ready to fulfill his destiny." He stepped forward and patted a heavy hand against Sam's shoulder. "We'll be in touch."
The world faded out.
x.x.x.x.x
Cold. There was nothing else. It stretch out in every direction, blank white and all-consuming.
Dean stared at the body lying at his feet. Sam's eyes were blank and his body as cold and white as everything around him. Dean couldn't move, couldn't touch him, hadn't saved him.
A chuckle brought his eyes up; they met green ones identical to his own that shone with sad victory. The other Dean watched him for a moment, stepping closer until the toes of his boots brushed the icy corpse on the ground.
The other Dean looked down, a non-smile bending his mouth. "At least he died human."
Dean jerked awake, confusion clouding his senses. He turned quickly, searching for his brother. Sam was sitting bolt upright in his bed, a hand on his head, his bangs obscuring his eyes. Dean was off of his own mattress and next to Sam's in a second.
"Hey, you okay?" He hesitated, and then laid a hand on Sam's shoulder. He exhaled when Sam didn't shake him off.
"'M fine. Just…a dream."
"Dream?"
"Just a dream, Dean."
"Yeah, okay. That's…good." He broke off uncertainly.
It had been nearly a month since Dean and Bobby had snuck Sam out of the hospital and back to Bobby's place. The older hunter had been horrified when he found out what was behind the hunt. Dean was right there with him on that.
But Sam had been different after they had gotten back; better, in some ways. He ate with them most times, and Dean almost always found him sleeping in the same place at night. Sam would even start conversations a couple times each day. A few days after they had arrived back at Bobby's, somehow the topic of breaking seals had come up; Dean admitted to breaking the first one. He'd explained it all to Sam, who simply nodded when he'd finished.
It had been then that Dean realized just how far out of the loop he was in his brother's life. He hated it. "You knew? How?" he had asked.
"When you were in the hospital after Alastair."
"You were listening." Dean had frowned, mouth tightening.
Sam's brows had quirked in a makeshift shrug. "Yeah. I went to get coffee, man. I didn't mean to find out, if that helps. I'm not apologizing for it."
"And when exactly were you going to let me know you knew?"
Sam said nothing. He let his eyes flicker away from Dean's face.
"Sam?"
"I didn't think you'd want me to know. Not after the siren." I didn't want to hurt you again.
"I didn't."
"I don't care about it, Dean. You had no idea, and you sure as hell aren't responsible. You were in Hell; I don't think many people could have held out longer. You didn't know about the seal."
Dean had made himself say it before he could stop himself. "Dad did."
"Dad?"
"Alastair, he told me Dad lasted 100 years. I broke in 30."
"So?"
Dean blinked. "What do you mean, 'so'?"
"I mean, so what? You're not Dad. You're Dean."
"Meaning I'm weak."
"No. You're just Dean. My brother."
And that had been the end of the conversation that day and the door to having others. Like what Sam wanted to eat for lunch (not that he was actually eating much) and which football team was likely to lose. The latter never went very well; neither of them knew much about the sport; if anything, Sam knew more from his college days.
Visions had kept coming to Sam; Dean knew it, though Sam never said anything. He knew what prophetic dreams and waking visions looked like on his brother. He waited, wanting Sam to come to him on his own. But he knew he couldn't wait much longer.
And yet in all the time between leaving Stockton and now, Dean hadn't seen Sam wake from a dream this shaken. "You wanna tell me what it was about?" He gripped Sam's shoulder tighter.
Sam shook his head slightly and pushed at Dean with his good arm to move so he could get up. Dean backed away, ready to grab his brother if he stumbled. Sam had healed quickly, and he only had a twinge of pain when he bent wrong or something that was still healing shifted too much. Other than his broken arm and a few broken ribs, he was okay. And for them, for anyone after that, that was pretty good.
"I'm gonna go get some water," Sam mumbled, shuffling to the door, disappearing around the corner, snatching his arm sling as he went..
Dean dropped onto the edge of Sam's bed and sighed. He scrubbed a palm across his eyes, trying to come up with a way to break through Sam's defenses this time. Dean didn't know what being a full-time mother was like, but he was sure what he was going through was pretty damn close. He chuckled at the simile, the irony not lost on him.
"You boys awake?" The gruff question came from the hall.
"Yeah, Bobby. Sam's downstairs."
Bobby came through the door, fully dressed at… Dean glanced at the clock. Bobby was already dressed at four in the morning, trucker hat and all.
"How's he doin'?" Bobby made his way to stand near Dean, one hand in his jeans pocket.
"I don't know anymore. I keep thinking he's getting better, but then…" Dean flicked a hand at the empty doorway. "He's keeping stuff from me again."
Bobby grunted. "You got any idea what?"
Dean tiredly shook his head, eyes staring into nothing. "Nah. I didn't have a clue all year; what makes you think I would now?" He tried to smile like it was a joke.
Bobby didn't smile.
Dean's voice lowered, softened. "What do I do, Bobby? What if he's started up again?"
"Well, you can lock him up, leave him, kill him…" Bobby ignored the sharp look Dean shot at him and continued. "Or you could somethin' really crazy and live with it."
"Bobby…" Dean warned.
"You think that kid likes this any more than you do? He's the one with the evil in him, boy. If this thing's really a part of your brother that's not gonna go away, you gotta pick one of those options."
"I don't think he's never going to stop, Bobby." Dean's voice was tired, resigned.
"Then there's just one question left: are you gonna stop lookin' out for him?"
"I – I don't… He lied, Bobby. He trusted demons and look what happened to him." Dean kicked his heel into the leg of the bed, making the wood pop in its socket. "How the hell did he get like this?" It had happened when he wasn't looking; he had missed it, and for that he couldn't forgive himself.
"You died." Bobby said it as if it was that simple.
Dean shook his head. "I get that, but that can't be it. He's stronger than that."
Letting out a short breath, Bobby gave Dean a look. "It's got nothin' to do with strong. You two are just alike: more stubborn than your daddy, blinder than bats. Sam'd do anything, kill anything for you. And losin' you 's what broke him." He bent his head, closing his eyes briefly as though he were tired. "I'm not sayin' you two don't have a hell of a time ahead of you; I'm just sayin' that maybe you wanna talk to him before either of you throws out everything you've got. And with what's comin', you could lose it all anyway."
Dean barely noticed when Bobby made his exit the way he had come. Everything else fell to the back of his mind like water to the side of a tilting bowl. He'd talk to Sam – not that it would do any good, but he'd try. No accusing, no guilt trips, just talk.
Right.
By the time he was up, dressed, and heading in search of Sam, Dean had come to a decision: Fate, if it existed was a bitch. But that bitch wasn't getting Sam.
x.x.x.x.x
Ten minutes of searching finally found Sam sitting in a chair in the panic room tucked away under Bobby's house. The blades in the overhead fan swung sluggishly, sending shadows rolling rhythmically over Sam's long frame. He faced the door, his posture uncharacteristically slouched against the back of his chair.
Dean's knuckles thunked loudly against the metal of the door as he knocked unnecessarily. "Hey, can I come in?"
"It's not my room. Do whatever you want."
"Right." Dean stepped into the room and looked around. "Uh, the couch upstairs is more comfortable…"
All of the weapons, shelves, books, and other assorted items that had been removed for Sam's short imprisonment had been returned to their places, all of it looking as if nothing had ever happened.
A grim smile quirked one corner of Sam's mouth. "Sometimes I think I belong here more than up there."
"Than where? In Bobby's house?"
Sam shrugged. "Bobby's house, around people…"
Dean stepped closer, dread making his wrists tingle. Something had happened; he didn't know what, and he didn't know when, but something had happened to Sam. He could see it now, in the way his brother stood, spoke, looked at him. Whatever it was, Sam was hiding it.
Sam shook his head. "I have to go." He stood but made no move for the door.
"What?"
"Leave. I've gotta – gotta go." Sam still wasn't looking at him.
"Where? Are you feeling okay?"
Then he looked up. Dean understood – Sam wasn't going out, he was leaving.
His eyes lifted to Sam's, bitterness rising up his throat. "I can't pin you down, no matter what I do, can I? I tried, god knows I've tried. I can find you, but I can't stop you from running."
"I'm not running," Sam bit out.
"That's crap."
"It's not. I have to do this."
"What? Is it something only you can do, like last time?"
Sam lowered his head a fraction of an inch. Not surrendering, just conceding the point. "No, but I'd work best for it."
"What's that?" he asked again.
Sam hesitated, as though weighing the risks of what he was going to say; deciding how much he was going to tell Dean. "Running interference, playing decoy, playing bait."
Dean frowned deeply. "For what?"
"Everything that's after you. I'm supposed to give you enough time to… I don't know what. Fix the seals, become Heaven's warrior, I don't know. Doesn't matter."
"What the hell are you talking about?" Dean feels himself nearing the edge of a freak out. Then realization dawned fast and furious. "The angels."
"No. But they didn't hesitate to let me know that if I didn't help willingly, they'd throw me into the path of the train. I've got no problem walking the tracks, but I'm not taking orders from them."
"What the hell? You're gonna what? Lead an army, go on a suicide mission? What?"
"Whatever it takes, I guess. And this…" Sam held up his good hand for a moment before letting it drop back to his side. "…can only help."
"I think recent events say otherwise, Sam."
"I know. But this time, no demons, no angels, just me. And all I'm doing is slowing them down, keeping them away until it's over or I'm dead."
Dean's shoulders hunched as though trying to protect himself from what Sam was saying. "Sam, no more, okay? Just, no more. Please, you have to stop."
Expression softening, Sam shook his head. "I did. I've just got to figure out how to flip the switches, I guess."
Dean's fuse burned down to the root. He reached out and grabbed the end of the desk standing next to Sam, whipping it up and over, papers and knick knacks flying everywhere.
"You selfish son of a bitch! So you get to run around playing vigilante and the rest of us either have to kill you or watch you die?"
Sam hesitated. "You don't have to watch," he said quietly.
Dean shook with rage. "You think it was fun for me, Sam? Watching you strung out and dying for all I knew? Do you think I liked locking you up and watch you lose it down here?"
Not backing down, Sam met Dean in the middle of the room, seething. "Yeah, you're right, how could I possibly do that to you? Lucky me, I only had to watch you die for a year, know there wasn't any way to stop it, and then watch you torn to pieces because I screwed up! Ruby offered me a way out, and I didn't take it, and I wish like hell I had.
"I'm not doing it again, Dean; I can't. I can't."
Dean surged forward, wrapping his fists in the top of Sam's shirt. He shoved him backward, meeting no resistance from his little brother, ignoring the slight wince the movement brought out of him. "You're not doing this; you are not going to Hell."
Shaggy brown hair shifted over Sam's face as he tilted his head down toward Dean, watching him neutrally. "It's my turn."
"Shut the hell up, Sam."
Their eyes locked, Dean's furious green ones on Sam's sharp blue. "Why didn't you do it?"
Blinking, Dean frowned in confusion, scowling at the change of topic. "What are you talking about?"
"After St. Mary's Convent. You didn't do it. I want to know why."
Dean growled and gripped Sam's shirt tighter, hitching higher on his chest, mindful of the still-healing rib lower down. "Do what?"
"Kill me."
"Kill you?"
"You came after me, but you didn't kill me. Was it because you were too late?"
"What? I was never going to – to kill you." Dean swallowed hard after the last two words, his fingers slipping slowly from the plaid fabric held between them. But I was going to let you die.
A frustrated sigh escaped Sam. "Then what, you just sent that message to be funny?"
"The phone message?"
"Yeah, that one." Sam's voice was sardonic. He reached up to try and pry Dean's fingers off of him, but his brother held fast.
Dean refused to let Sam slip away before he knew what was going on. "How did you get 'I'm going to kill you' from that message?"
"When you said you were done trying to save me." Sam's voice shivered.
Feeling as though Sam was trying to get him to read Sanskrit backwards, Dean held onto his brother tighter, afraid he would never catch him again if he let go. "I have no idea what you're talking about."
"I heard it, Dean."
"Apparently you were insane, because I said… Well, it cut off, but I said that…" He exhaled sharply, fighting back waves of embarrassment. "Damn it. Look, we're brothers. That's never gonna change, and that's enough for me to stick around, okay?" Like I should have done from the start.
Sam scowled in frustration and began digging in his back pocket. He pulled out his phone, hit a few buttons, and handed it to Dean. "I got the message, Dean. I get it." I'm not an idiot; I know what I heard, his tone said.
Pausing to stare at the Blackberry, Dean accepted it after a moment. He put it to his ear, the plastic warm from being in Sam's pocket. His other hand remained tangled in Sam's outer shirt.
A mechanical voice purred, "First saved message. Sent May 14 at 11:16 PM." That was about the right time Dean would have left his message for Sam; he listened for the beginning of his apology. His own voice spoke, but the words were all wrong.
"Listen to me, you blood-sucking freak. Dad always said I'd have to save you or kill you. Well, I'm giving you fair warning: I'm done trying to save you. You're a monster, Sam, a vampire. You're not you anymore, and there's no going back."
"End of saved message. To delete this message, press—"
Dean slammed the phone shut.
Zachariah's words came back in full force.
Sam… has a part to play. A very important part. He may need a little nudging in the right direction, but I'll make sure he plays it.
They'd wanted him out of the way to give them a clear path for screwing Sam over.
"Sonuvabitch!" Dean gripped the phone tight enough that the plastic groaned in pain.
"Dean! Watch it," Sam protested, scrabbling to snatch the thing back before Dean broke it.
Pulling the cell away from Sam's searching hands, Dean kept his grip tight in Sam's clothing. He just needed a second to think, a moment to let the absolute horror pass. Kill Sam. He felt his stomach roil. To hear himself say that… God, had then been what he sounded like in Bobby's living room?
I am sick and tired of chasing after him. Screw him. He can do what he wants. … Sam's gone. He's gone. I'm not even sure if he's still my brother anymore. If he ever was.
Dean had sudden, clear, and horrible understanding; it made sense, now, the weird things Sam had been saying. When he had been facing Lilith, Sam had thought Dean had come to kill him; he had thought Dean wanted him dead. That was why he had been watching Dean like… like he was waiting to die.
"I didn't – I never sent you that message," Dean said, forcing the words around the fury clogging his throat.
Confusion clouded over Sam's sorrow. "What d'you mean? I heard it. You heard it."
"Wasn't me, Sam."
A pained smile took up residence on Sam's mouth, showing his disbelief in Dean's statement. He once again tried to get out of Dean's grip.
Dean snarled at the look and held Sam fast. No you don't.
"Zachariah, some other angel, I don't know who exactly, but it was the angels. They wanted you away from me so you'd kill Lilith. They've wanted this the whole time." Guilt scratched at his heart – they'd used him to get to Sam, and he'd gone and helped the bastards do it.
Sam shrugged, as though whoever sent the message wasn't important. "Okay, fine, they sent it. It worked."
He doesn't believe me.
There was that look on Sam's face again, the one that said He's trying to trick me, but what the hell – none of it matters, anyway. Dean hated that look. He'd never seen it before this last year, and if it was all the same, would rather never see it again.
"I don't want you dead, Sam."
"Fine."
Dean's fist ached with the desire to connect with Sam's jaw, to try forcing some sense into his thick skull, to deal out some of the hurt Sam was hurling at him.
He tossed the cell phone onto the upended desk, ignoring Sam's noise of protestation at the handling of his phone. Twisting his fingers back into Sam's shirt, Dean held him firmly and made sure his brother was watching him.
"Let me tell you something," Dean continued, leaning toward Sam, not heeding Sam's flinch, voice hard as steel, "If you think you or anyone else is ending your life, forget it. You go, I gotta follow, and I'm not going anywhere, understand?" He paused to make sure Sam was hearing every word. "We're sticking around. At least until I can tear those bastards apart," Dean finished with a snarl.
Sam looked paler, drawing back into himself, hands trembling slightly.
"Dean," Sam pleaded, "Can't you see it? You know what I am, you saw what I'm capable of, and you saw what I've already done. No one can love something like that."
That time did swing at him, but he pulled the hit at the last second, his fist slamming against the hard metal of the wall, sending pain zagging up his bones. He drew his hand back, barely feeling the pain. "You don't get to do that." He didn't look at his brother. "Don't you dare."
"Why the hell do – do you care?"
Dean slowed to a stop, feeling a sharp pain between his shoulder blades where Sam's words struck with deadly accuracy. Never, never had he thought things would get to that point; Sam wanted to know if he could count on Dean, if Dean even loved him anymore. As though that was something Dean could do – not love him.
Sam's eyes were the color of coal, his huge frame wilted. "What about me could possibly make you want to do anything but kill me?" Behind the hurt was morbidly genuine curiosity.
He wanted to hear that there was something about him that made him worth keeping alive; that to Dean, he was worth it.
Dean warred briefly with himself, torn. "You want the truth?"
"Please."
"I don't know, Sam, okay? You're my brother. That's all the reason there's ever needed to be." He curled his fingers into his palms, fingers biting into his flesh. "But sometimes I wish to God I didn't care."
Sam's body went slack, his face showing absolutely nothing. He seemed to draw back into himself. "Me too… Sometimes I wish you didn't." The words sounded broken, as if wrenched forcefully out of his body.
"But Sam?" Dean made sure Sam looked at him, or at least near him, before going on. "I do care. Always have." Still Dean couldn't say those words.
I love you, Sammy. God, I love you.
Sam finally broke his gaze away from Dean's. He twisted the end of his plaid shirt around his finger, winding it tight as he shifted in Dean's unrelenting grip. "It scares me, you know."
"It should." Dean's tone was cold.
Head bent so his eyes were hidden, Sam said, "I don't know how to stop."
"We'll figure it out. There's got to be—"
"No. Not the blood. I don't know how to stop being…like this."
Dean swallowed hard. "Like what?"
"A failure. A freak."
"Sam…"
"I'll find a way, Dean. I swear." Or else die trying.
"We'll find a way."
Sam turned on him eyes that held long unused, tarnished faith. "Okay."
Relaxing his grip enough to pull Sam closer, Dean nodded his head. "Okay."
x.x.x.x.x
Eight Days Later…
They had another hunt. As Dean was wont to call it, an intermission from hunting down Meg; he had flatly refused to entertain Sam's suggestion.
"We aren't just 'waiting for her to come to us.' We're coming for her, ready or not," he had said, adamant.
Their "intermission" consisted of a local hunt that sounded like nothing more than a few rogue flashing lights that led hikers off sharp embankments. Two fatalities so far: a middle-aged man and a woman in her early twenties. No connection obvious connections other than the area in which they hiked, so the victims were most likely sharing only geography. And that had led Sam to the nature of the creature. Minus the part where he and Dean nailed the glowing suckers, the hunt was over.
Sam rubbed dry hands over his even drier eyes, feeling the rough skin of his palms scrape against his eyelids. He hadn't been sleeping much, not with the dreams he was having. If they were dreams; he wasn't so sure anymore. Things had changed, and he didn't know what it all meant.
A soft knock at the open door of Bobby's library had Sam's head snapping up fast enough to pop a joint. He winced and waved Dean in.
Dean strolled through the door and dropped down in a chair next to Sam's. He frowned as he looked his brother over. "You look like crap, man."
Too tired to glare, Sam simply muttered about the things Dean could do with himself if he didn't like how Sam looked. When he was finished, he sighed and asked, "You need something?"
Still watching Sam closely, Dean nodded. "Yeah, Cas got in touch with me earlier."
"Through a dream?" Sam couldn't hide his curiosity about the way the angel communicated with his brother.
"Yeah. I think whatever he's looking for, he's getting closer." Dean leaned back in his chair, the front legs coming off the ground as he rocked it. "In the meantime, he thinks he picked up a lead on Meg."
"What about this case?" Sam waved a hand at the research he had in front of him.
Dean gave it a glance and shrugged. "Haven't you figured it out?"
His brother knew him, damn it. "Yeah, it's done. We can finish it anytime before next weekend. They won't act until then." Sam shoved his books closed and leaned back in his chair, exhaling slowly. When he glanced at Dean, his brother was still watching him. "What?"
"Dude, you may as well give up now. Spill."
"Back off, man," Sam mumbled, turning his head away, "I'm just tired."
Dean reached out and put a hand on the back of his neck, letting it rest comfortably. "What's going on?" When Sam said nothing, he frowned, annoyed. "I'll figure it out eventually; I'm Big Brother, like from that book. I know when you're sleeping and I know when you're awake."
Sam's tired eyes focused on him, a slight grin tugging at his features. He rolled his eyes and replied, "That's Santa Claus, you jerk."
Dean shrugged. "Well, whatever." Then, serious, "Gotta tell me these things, Sam."
He thought about brushing it off, thought about saying nothing. He changed his mind. "My dreams are changing."
"Changing, like…?"
"Getting stronger, I think. And just, I dunno, different."
"Specifics, Sam."
Sam thought fast, trying to phrase it in a way that wouldn't worsen the worry in his brother's voice. He failed. "They're showing me stuff; weird stuff. I don't understand it all, yet." He looked away. "The stuff I do understand…it's not good."
The grip on his shoulder shifted, tightened. "We'll deal with it."
"Yeah." Sam nodded, pushing himself to his feet, quickly followed by Dean. "You hungry?"
Dean grinned. "Starved. What're you thinking?"
"Falafel and pita."
"Sounds disgusting."
"Burgers?"
"And pie."
"That diner place down the street has good stuff." Sam bent and grabbed his jacket from where he had tossed it on the floor. "You ready?" He strode to the door.
Dean watched him walk out, slowly strolling after him. "Yeah, I'm coming." He took a moment, glancing back at where Sam had been working. "I'm right behind you."
THE END
"He is my most beloved friend and my bitterest rival, my confidant and my betrayer, my sustainer and my dependent, and scariest of all, my equal."
- Gregg Levoy
