Chapter Three

2006

Sam was still carrying him across the field when Dean woke up, and he woke up swinging.

Sam reacted quickly, intending to lay him gently on the ground, but Dean wasn't having any part of it. The second his feet hit the grass, he shoved Sam away, knocked himself off-balance, and fell on his ass.

"Hey, Dean. Hey."

"Stay the fuck away!" Dean shoved himself back with his hands, his heels skidding on the dew-dampened grass as he scrambled to escape. "The fuck off me!"

Sam held his hands out to his sides with his palms turned up and out, assuming the least threatening position he could. He forced himself to speak calmly and managed to keep his voice gentle, which surprised him, because what he really wanted to do was freak the hell out.

"Hey, it's me. Sam."

"You stay away from Sam!"

"No, Dean." Sam knelt down as close to his brother's side as he dared. One thing he remembered clearly from the time when panic attacks were common was that when Dean got like this, there was always danger of a fist striking out and catching him. "I am Sam. Look at me."

Dean looked at him then, for the first time since he'd hit the ground. In the distant lights from the parking lot, Sam could see how wild and unfocused Dean's eyes were, and how truly terrified he was. It didn't last long, only a few seconds, but it was long enough to be unsettling, because Dean never looked like that.

Dean blinked a few times, seemed to get hold of himself, and looked up at Sam again.

"Sammy? You okay?" He glanced around the field nervously. "Where'd he go? Why are you still here? I told you to run!"

So maybe he'd been too hasty thinking Dean had gotten hold of himself.

"It's okay, Dean. Calm down. He's not here. He never was."

"Yes, he was!" Dean argued. He lurched forward and grabbed the front of Sam's jacket with his left hand, pulling him close. "He was just here. He threw me into the wall, and I told you to run, and ..."

Sam laid his hand atop Dean's on his jacket. "Look around you. Do you see a motel room?"

Dean glanced around again, shaking his head quickly.

"What you're talking about? Happened eight and a half years ago. He's dead."

"What?" Dean blinked again, and genuine confusion replaced the nervousness and anxiety on his face. "No, he was just here."

"You hit your head in that basement, you blacked out." Sam knew he was leaving out the part about Dean having passed out before he hit his head, but since Dean would never admit that, there really was no point in saying it. He reached out with his left hand slowly, carefully pressing on Dean's head behind his right ear. There was nothing he could feel, no noticeable lump, but he'd check it again at the motel just to make sure. "What you saw wasn't real; it was all in your head."

"Not real," Dean repeated. He closed his eyes and let his head fall forward. "Nothing happened. Just a dream."

"Yeah, man," Sam said. "Just a dream."

When Dean opened his eyes again, there wasn't a single trace of any of the emotions that had been in them before. Instead, they were filled with what might have been anger and what was definitely embarrassment. He let go of Sam's jacket quickly.

"What the hell, dude?"

"I don't know."

Sam lowered himself to sit on the ground next to Dean, pulled his right knee up and rested his arm across it. "I don't think we should have come here, Dean. We should have sent Caleb, or maybe Pastor Jim could have found someone."

"Why?"

"Because we're acting like this! You just had a panic attack! A panic attack, man, you haven't had one of those in years. And I'm not much better. I'm barely functioning, can't concentrate, and I can't shake this feeling that ..." Sam threw his hands up in exasperation. "I just think, I don't know, maybe we've got PTSD or something?"

"So take a Midol."

"Dean!"

"Yeah, I know, not funny. Whatever. But Sam, we're not ... I mean ... what trauma?"

"What trauma?" Sam had to wonder sometimes how Dean could keep a straight face when he said things like that. "What? Were you even here the last time?"

"Yeah, Sam, I'm pretty sure I was." Dean's voice was angry and tight, but he calmed down almost immediately. "And guess what? Nothing happened."

Sam just shook his head, because there was really nothing he could say that wouldn't end badly.

Dean rolled to his hands and knees and pushed himself to his feet. He was a bit unsteady, prompting Sam to jump to his own feet and move a bit closer to him. "Dude, back off. I can walk."

"I know," Sam said, but he didn't step back.

"Where's my car?"

"Right over there." Sam pointed it out. The dark shape against the school building was both familiar and comfortable.

Dean grunted as he started walking, and they headed back to the car together. Sam stayed close by his side the entire time. Neither of them spoke as they walked, or on the drive back to the motel. Both of them were too wrapped up in their own memories to even consider trying to keep each other company.


Sam walked into the room, tossed the car keys on the desk, and went straight to his bed, closing his eyes as he flopped down across it. Dean shut and locked the door behind them, and Sam heard some scraping sounds that he recognized as Dean fixing the salt line.

"What do we do now?" he asked without opening his eyes.

"You can do whatever you want," Dean answered tiredly. "Just stay in the room. I'm gonna take a shower."

Sam cracked his eyes open and glanced at Dean. There was some mud on his jeans, from where he'd fallen in the field, but he wasn't anywhere near as dirty as he usually got on a job. Sam made a mental note to start keeping track of Dean's sudden obsession with personal hygiene. It was a small thing, and it might mean nothing, but it was a sudden change in behavior. And with the way things were going, chances were pretty good that it was a sign of something much bigger.

"I think I should probably call the police," Sam said. "Let them know where Zack Mason is."

"It can wait." Dean walked past Sam and toward the bathroom. "Because you can't call them from here, and you sure as hell aren't going out alone to look for a payphone."

Sam sighed deeply. He was tired all the way to his bones, and he just wanted this day to be over. "Dean ..."

"Later, Sam," Dean said as he closed the bathroom door. He sounded as weary as Sam felt.

Sam reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out his phone, then held it arms' length and stared at it. Dean was right; he couldn't call the police from the room phone, because they'd trace it too easily, and the same was true of his cell phone. He just felt like there was something more he should be doing, someone he should be calling.

He shot up straight on the bed and started scrolling through his contact list. He pressed the dial button almost immediately.

No one answered, but then again, he hadn't been expecting anyone to. It was almost two in the morning in Iowa, and he had no idea where the person he was calling actually was. It didn't really matter when he called, though, and he knew that. He wasn't getting anything but voicemail. It wasn't going to be enough, and he knew that, too. It hadn't been enough the week before, and it wasn't going to be enough now, but he didn't know what else to do.

"Dad ... Dad, it's Sam. Listen, I know ... you didn't call me back last time, and I just ... I thought you might wanna know that Dean's okay. Or, I guess, I mean, he's alive, and he's not sick anymore. But he's not really okay. Neither of us is. We're ... Dad, we're in Johnston, Iowa. And I don't know what we're up against here, but we really can't do this alone. Dean's blacking out and I'm ... I think I'm losing it, Dad. We need help." Sam swallowed hard and forced himself to keep going. "I just wanted to ... I don't know. I really need you to call me back, Dad, okay? I just ... I really need you to do that."

He couldn't think of anything to else to say, so he flipped the phone closed and pressed it to his forehead. It had been a waste of time, and he knew it, but it had made him feel a little better at least. John knew where they were and what they were doing, and even if they didn't get the same from him, well, he really should know that Dean wasn't dead, even if he hadn't bothered to call and find out for himself.

The sound of the shower cut off, and a couple of minutes later, Dean stepped out of the bathroom wearing clothes that he had to have stolen from Sam. Dean didn't own any sweatpants, and the grey t-shirt he was wearing was at least one size too big. Sam shook his head and wondered again exactly what was going on in his brother's head. Dean never got dressed to go to bed; he slept in his shorts and maybe a shirt, if it was chilly.

"Are you feeling okay?" he asked as Dean walked past him.

Dean shook his head and threw back the blankets on his bed. "Just cold. I'll give 'em back tomorrow."

"No," Sam said. "It's okay. But you don't have a fever or anything, do you?"

Dean glared at him across the space between the beds as he settled down and pulled the blankets up.

"Okay, okay." Sam put his hands in the air and stood, turning around to dig through his bag. He needed to find something he could sleep in, because his usual pajamas were on his brother. "How's your head?"

"It's fine."

"Did you take any ...?"

"I'm good. Knock it off."

"I'm gonna hop in the shower real quick. I'm assuming you left me some hot water." He was trying his best to pretend that everything was normal, but he knew it fell flat. Everything was so not normal that it wasn't even close to funny. "You get some sleep."

"I'm tryin' to. It'd be easier if you'd shut up."

Sam nodded and pulled an extra pair of grey sweats out of the bottom of his bag. "I'll wake you up in two ..."

"Do it and die, Sam. I swear to God."

Sam let his arms fall to his sides and turned his head. Dean was lying on his right side, facing the window, with the blankets pulled all the way up to his shoulders. It was pretty clear that as far as Dean was concerned the conversation, and the whole day, was over.

Sam reached over and flipped off the light between the beds, then headed for the bathroom.


1998

It took Dean less than a second to realize just how screwed they were. He was defenseless, Sam was clueless, and they were alone. Even if he had known of a way to banish a spirit without weapons or the ability to move – and he was sure Dad or Bobby knew one, if there was such a thing – they'd still have been in trouble.

Dean had taken John's warnings seriously, and had done the most thorough job of salting the windows and doors that he'd ever done, but it hadn't been good enough. Something – and he didn't doubt for a second that it was the spirit that John and Bobby were there to kill – had still managed to get in. He couldn't believe that he'd been so careless, so stupid. What had he forgotten?

But he didn't have the time to worry about that; he needed to protect Sam. And to do that he needed more information than he had. What kind of spirit was it? What did it do? Why did John think it was a threat to Sam but not to Dean? He wished John had shared the intel that he and Bobby had gathered on the thing, but they'd taken it with them. There was only one way he might be able to figure out what he needed to know about the thing, so even though it was a long shot, he gave it a try.

"Who the hell are you?"

The spirit tilted its head and leered at Dean as it walked toward him. The expression it wore on its face made Dean's skin crawl, made him wish that he could go take a shower of his own. Just the way it was looking at him made him feel filthy. Without saying a word, the thing made it very clear just exactly what kind of a threat it was, and what it would want from Sam.

"You stay away from him," Dean growled. "You stay away from him or I swear to God ..."

"Coy," the thing said.

"What?" Dean had been expecting a monster's voice, rough and cracked and evil, but that wasn't what he heard. This voice sounded like any other average person, really, more like a mild-manned business man than a serial killer. But the evil was still there.

"You asked me my name," it said. "I'm Coy Holman."

Dean glared at it even as he pulled futilely against the invisible force that had him pinned.

"And you ..." The leer was back, and if it was possible, it was growing more disturbing the closer Holman got. "You are Dean Winchester. And in the shower?" Holman turned his head slightly so he could glance back down the hallway toward the bathroom door, and the bastard actually licked its lips. "That's little Sammy."

Dean was shaking now, both with hatred and the exertion of trying to free himself. No one wore that expression while they were talking about his brother and walked away from it. This son of a bitch was toast.

Just as soon as Dean got himself off the wall.

"Don't you fuckin' touch him!"

Holman turned back around and walked slowly across the room. When its face was only inches from Dean's, close enough for Dean to smell its rancid, rotting breath, it leaned forward. Dean's heart pounded in his chest, his breath coming in shorter and shorter gasps, as Holman leaned himself even further in. Dean shuddered when he felt the thing's lips brush against his ear.

"You know what I want, don't you, Dean?" it whispered. "Daddy didn't tell you, but you know what I want. And I always get what I want."

Sam chose the worst possible moment to step through the bathroom door. "Hey, Dean ... ?"

"No!" Dean cried out. "Sam, run!"

But Sam didn't run; Sam froze. He stood there at the end of the hallway, shirtless in a pair of brown sweatpants, still dripping from his shower and with steam still rising from his skin. His eyes widened, all of the color drained from his face, and he looked so much younger than his actual fourteen years that it made Dean's heart ache. Sam really was still just a kid, young and scared and somehow, even after all he'd seen, impossibly innocent.

'Not like this,' Dean begged silently, though he had no idea who he thought was listening. 'Please don't let him lose that like this!'

And then Sam was moving, running just like Dean had told him to. But he wasn't running away.

He was running toward his brother.

"Dean!"

Holman flicked his right hand with an air of boredom, and Sam stopped in his tracks. Before Sam's face had a chance to register anything more than confusion, he flew to his right and his back slammed into the far wall of the room.

"Hello, Sammy," Holman said. He walked away from Dean and toward Sam with that disgusting smile back on his face. "My name is Coy. Coy Holman. It is truly a pleasure to meet you. I have heard so much about you."

Sam turned toward Dean, his expression one of fear and confusion. Dean's struggles to free himself grew frantic.

"You let him go," Dean demanded. "He's just a fuckin' kid. You let him go!"

Holman turned his head, redirecting the lustful inspection away from Dean's half-naked little brother and back to him. "Yes, he is." Just the sound of this thing's voice was setting Dean's nerves on edge – oozing and slimy and dripping with every disgusting thing Dean could imagine. "Just a little boy. I like that."

Dean swore that he'd do anything to keep those eyes from turning back to Sam, to keep them from raking up and down Sam's body like they were currently doing to his. He just wasn't entirely sure how to do it. Under Holman's wanting gaze, Dean felt like a slab of raw meat, and if the way Holman was licking his lips was any indication, the spirit was hungry for some medium rare. But no way in hell was he looking at Sammy like that, even if Dean had to cut the fucker's eyes out.

"I get what I want, Dean," Holman repeated, loud enough for Sam to hear what he was saying. "Daddy's gone, and he's not coming back until morning. I've got all the time I need." Holman stepped close to Dean again, so close that its leg brushed against the outside of his thigh, and he turned his head to look at Sam.

Sam stared back at him, dark eyes filled with terror. Dean didn't know if Sam had fully caught or understood the implication and threat under Holman's words, though he hoped that he hadn't. But it was obvious that he had figured out enough to know that the situation was bad. And Holman was right about one thing – Dad was gone, and he wasn't going to be back in time.

"And how old are you, Dean? Daddy didn't say."

"Eight ... nineteen," Dean answered without taking his eyes off of Sam's.

"Oh, and it's your birthday, I heard. So, nineteen just today then?" Dean knew it was close to him, could sense it moving around next to him, but refused to look at it. "You don't look nineteen."

"Fuck you."

Holman clicked his tongue in admonishment as he walked around him. "Now, Dean, that's not very nice. Surely you don't want to be making me angry right now, do you?" It stepped in front of him, blocking his view of Sam, and lowered his voice again. "Or were you making me an offer?"

Dean felt the spirit's hand on his chest, its cold, dead fingers running up and down his ribs, and he shivered. Holman's touch, even through the fabric of his t-shirt, was like pure ice, leeching all the warmth from his skin and leaving freezing tracks in its wake. Holman circled him again.

He wanted to close his eyes and pretend it wasn't real, but he couldn't look away from Sam. He'd messed everything up. He hadn't been able to protect Sam at all. The least he could do was stay with him, stay focused on him, no matter what happened.

Holman pulled back, moved away until he stood between them. "Isn't it ironic, boys? Daddy and Uncle Bobby, making such a big fuss about protecting you from me, but they brought me right to you. And all their talk about salt and keeping me out? They had you lock me right in here with you. It's almost too perfect, isn't it? Almost like they knew."

Dean glared at Holman with every ounce of hatred he could muster. "They didn't know shit."

"No, you're right, they didn't." Holman's voice was light, teasing. "Well, they did know that I left one laying in the woods behind this motel, but they didn't know that I could come here because of him. They didn't know that I was listening to them in my house, when they were talking about pretty little Sammy back at the motel, and how much I'd like him. They didn't know that I was already here when they left. And they had no idea the lengths I'm willing to go to get what I want."

"Dean?"

Sam's voice was small, frightened and confused. He seemed as vulnerable as he was, the perfect prey. Holman took two steps toward him, with that damned perverted smile on his face, and Dean had never wanted to wrap his hands around something's neck so badly in his life.

"I will fucking kill you." All of the hatred that Dean had ever felt toward every single evil thing he'd ever seen dripped from the words.

Holman moved himself from one side of the room to the other so fast that Dean had to stifle the urge to gasp in surprise. Then his lips were against Dean's ear again, words whispered so softly that Dean knew there was no way Sam could hear them. For that, he would be forever thankful.

"You're feisty, Dean. Pretty. A bit old for my taste, yes, but I have to admit, you've got me intrigued." Venom, evil and unholy lust dripped from every word. "I came here for Sammy, that's true. But I might be persuaded to change my mind."

He knew how to keep it away from Sam.