Spoilers: Faith, Children Shouldn't Play With Dead Things

No Ilimu in this one. Got plenty of angst, though. Oh, the humanity!

Disclaimer: Don't own 'em. Darn it.

Author's Notes: I really, really, really appreciate ALL the reviews I've gotten for this story. This is the first time I've written a multi-chap fic, and I couldn't have done it without all your kind reviews and encouragement! Much thanks to everyone who read and enjoyed this twisted tale of mine, even if you lurked and didn't review. I'm feeling the love, y'all!

Also, several months ago over on Live Journal I read a wonderful meta which speculated on what kind of animals the boys would be. This meta was written by lunardreamed, and was entitled Spirit Animals, in which the author gave some very convincing arguments that Dean's animal totem would be a coyote, instead of a wolf. Once I saw "Tall Tales" it all seemed to fall into place. I'm not shortchanging Sammy; nobody, I mean nobody, does comfort better than Sam Winchester.

This was a really hard chapter to write, what with all the angst and that pesky sense of impending doom, so I'm posting this one by itself.

The title of this chapter was taken from the movie "What Lies Beneath" with Harrison Ford and Michele Pffeifer.

I will post more chapters this Saturday. The violence and weirdness is only going to get worse. I did mention I'm twisted, right?

Dog Eat Dog

Chapter 7: What Lies Beneath

Dean dreamed.

He felt the twitching and jerking thru his body as his overworked nervous system tried to settle down from the trauma he'd experienced in the diner. He was in a fetal position, curled up on his side, his head in the window corner of the front passenger seat. Before they pulled off Sam gently pushed a folded up blanket underneath his head, and he buttoned the front of Dean's heavy leather jacket up, pulled the collar up around Dean's neck. Temperatures were already in the seventies, and Dean's bruised skin was still cool to the touch.

When Sam got back in the Impala Dean had roused himself just long enough to mumble something about strangling Martha Stewart and doing something unspeakable to that damned bonsai tree, so Sam kept his mind carefully blank. He was bone tired, barely functioning on auto-pilot. He couldn't rest, he wouldn't rest until he got Dean safely to a motel room, somewhere quiet, away from crowds of people. Sam knew he wasn't alert enough to drive the remaining four hours to reach the farmhouse. They needed food, salt for the doors and windows and a motel room, quick, fast and in a hurry. Before they made the turn onto the supermarket parking lot Sam had spotted motel signage down the road. It was close enough.

Dean could hear Sam's heart, the rumble of the Impala's engine, and the sound of the tires on the highway beneath him. It all reminded him of the times when he and John and Sam were out on the road, long winding stretches of highway between motel rooms and backwoods cabins.

Having a regular laundry day was a part of John's discipline for his boys. The clothes they wore might be second hand and a little ragged, but at least they were clean. It wasn't only discipline, it was also a matter of pride.

After Dean had gotten old enough Dad would sometimes send him out to do laundry by himself, especially if the laundromat was in walking distance from wherever they were staying. Dean thought it was pretty damn funny that he had killed his first fugly at the age of nine but his Dad didn't trust him to do laundry until some years later. Grown ups. Go figure.

Dean had his own private ritual on those days, and he never did it in front of John. Or Sam. Whenever he brought Sam with him twelve year old Dean would sit there scowling, daring somebody, anybody, to bother his brother or to say something to either one of them. Dean always put his game face on whenever he was out in public, especially whenever he was with Sam. Whenever Sam had to sit in one place for two long he would always go twitchy. He fidgeted, slid down the hard plastic seat onto the floor, groaning, and he generally made a complete nuisance of himself, pestering Dean until the dryer thankfully stopped and they packed up their clothes and went home. Or where ever home happened to be that day. Sam wasn't a real big fan of laundry day.

But on the rare occasions when he was alone, there was one pleasure that Dean kept to himself. He'd usually go do laundry by himself early in the morning, and John had instilled in him the habit of never appearing defenseless in public, so he didn't do it very often, only when there wasn't anybody else around. Sometimes after he dumped the clothes and the detergent in and turned the washer on, Dean would look around, and if he felt he was safe, he would sit on the floor and push his ear against the slick hard white metal.

He wouldn't close his eyes, though. He never did, but the look in his eyes sometimes became distant and faraway. He listened to the rush of warm water as the machine filled itself, the click of the gears as the machinery inside turned on, and the side of the washer got warm and vibrated. Dean always used warm water to wash everything, and his dad sometimes wondered why the clothes looked a little too faded, but John never said anything. The sound of the water sloshing back and forth, the thump of the agitator as it worked around and around was like listening to his mother's heartbeat, in the womb.

Like now.

Why are we fighting like this?

Shut up, bitch.

It's my head too.

I'm not listening to this. This is a fucking trick.

And the laugh he heard in return was low, rough, and familiar. You're so full of shit, that sound meant. He got it. Scorn and affection all rolled into that one small noise.

This wasn't a trick, wasn't some kind of spell or whammy. He was tired, sick, bruised all over, and his mind felt like it had been fucked every which way, but it wasn't that.

He knew.

What the Trickster told him was true, and he couldn't ignore it, couldn't pretend it wasn't true anymore.

It couldn't ignore this voice. He knew it. He recognized it.

It was his voice.

Dean trembled a little as he felt something deep inside him loosen up. It felt like a door opening…

He remembered.

Sammy always laughed and giggled whenever Dean did the trick. Right after Sam came home from the hospital, Mary Winchester sat Dean down on her lap and explained that he was a big brother now, and that she knew he was going to be the very best one ever.

"I know you're going to look after Sam and always take care of him," she said softly, and Dean remembered how it felt when she hugged him and kissed the top of his head.

So, several months later four year old Dean was absolutely thrilled when he discovered he could do something that Sam really enjoyed. Dean didn't feel comfortable doing the trick in front of John or Mary. He didn't know why he felt that way, he just did.

Sam, though, Sam was a different story altogether. Sammy was always a very appreciative audience, even at the tender age of four months. That was when it started. Sam's eyes goggled in amazement, and he'd shake and giggle, and his hand and eye coordination was all shot to hell but he tried to clap his hands anyway. He drummed his tiny heels on the crib's mattress and squealed and laughed like a little maniac.

Hey, do that again, dude! Again!

Dean didn't know how he was able to do it…he just thought about it, and it happened.

Sometimes he could hear words whispered inside his head, words he didn't recognize, and when he thought about moving the thing, whether it was a book or a toy, it just happened. He didn't have to touch anything when he did it. He felt happy inside when ever he did it, and Sam obviously thought it was the neatest trick in the world.

He lifted some of the lighter toys, or Sam's baby rattle, just by thinking about it, and he made them spin in the air over Sammy's crib. He made the mobile over Sam's crib move and turn in opposite directions. Once John Winchester walked into the room, just as Dean lifted up Sam's baby rattle. The only thing saving Dean was the fact that he was standing on a small chair right next to Sam's crib. His back was to the doorway and his body was blocking John's view. The rattle tilted in mid-air, and Dean reached out and put his fingers around the handle just as John walked up behind him and hugged him. Dean laughed as his Dad ruffled his hair.

"Hey, Bud," John rumbled fondly. He kissed the top of his eldest son's head and held him tight. "What'cha doing?"

Dean giggled and leaned into the bear hug. "Nothin'."

Sammy laughed.

One day, a couple of weeks before Sam turned six months, Dean tried levitating a large stuffed bear in the air over Sam's bed. The toy was heavier than he was used to, and it was awkward, harder to make the thing dance in the air over Sam's head. Dean lost his concentration and dropped the toy right in Sammy's crib. Sam wasn't hurt, but he was startled, and he cried. Really, really loud. Mary came in and fussed at Dean a little. She picked Sam up, and rocked him to sleep, and Dean got scared. He was ashamed that he'd made Sam cry, afraid that he might have hurt him.

Dean put the part of him that could move things with his mind behind a wall. He didn't trust it, and he didn't trust himself anymore.

Coyote paced back and forth in the darkness.

That first night he yipped and scratched at the wall with his paws.

The night Mary Winchester died, bleeding and burning on the ceiling of Sam's nursery, the wall got even stronger. Coyote gave up trying to get out.

So he waited.

Years later he felt the wall weaken when that taser charge weakened Dean's heart, and Coyote waited. Death wasn't anything new to him. He'd come back from it many times. Coyote conjured up enough strength to keep the boy's failing heart and body alive until Roy LaGrange placed his palm on Dean's pale head. It was hard work; Dean was equally determined that he was going to die. His time had come, and he accepted it. Later on, after the healing, Dean felt guilty that Marshall Hall had died in his place. Dean believed he was worthless He was tormented because he had to stop LaGrange from healing anyone else, and that meant Layla O'Rourke had to die too. Dean saved people; it was not the other way around.

Sometimes Coyote thought the Powers That Be were, well, fucking with him sometimes. He'd never thought like that before, and sometimes he thought that being ensouled inside a human body wasn't all it was cracked up to be.

Dean didn't run, even when the Reaper came towards him and put his hand on the side of his head. He didn't struggle, even as the damn thing started killing him. It ended when Sam Winchester destroyed the black altar that bound the Reaper to Sue Ellen LaGrange, and the Reaper turned on the good reverend's wife and killed her.

Damn brat was good for something, at least, Coyote thought darkly.

He waited.

In the hospital after the car crash the wall was weakened again, but it wasn't enough to free him, yet. Death hovered close nearby, within arm's reach, and Coyote waited. He felt the wall get strong again, and he sat down, reared his head back and howled at the darkness.

Dean dreamed, and he remembered.

Damn, that dead chick Angela could run.

A row of dead plants on the windowsill, and that was when Dean knew that undead bitch was nearby. His eyes flickered over to the closed closet door, and Neal's eye shifted in that direction and then guiltily flickered away. Dean looked at Neal, and a part of him wanted to leave the fool there. Wanted to just turn on his heel and tell Sam, "Let's go," and walk out the office.

The way he had popped silver slugs into her before, Dean kind of doubted she was going to come barreling out of the closet at them. It wasn't like she was Wonder Woman. She wasn't bouncing bullets off her bracelets, and those slugs he'd put into her sure in the hell didn't bounce off her chest. She hadn't liked getting shot, and he was pretty sure she knew there was plenty more where that came from. His pistol was tucked in his waistband, and Dean wasn't at all shy about using it, especially with Sam in the same room.

A part of him, though, a part of him felt that he still had to give this idiot a chance.

A choice. Neal was the reason Angela was walking around past her expiration date. He'd brought her back using an ancient Greek divination ritual. She'd killed her ex-boyfriend Matt the day before and earlier that evening she would have sliced up her room-mate with a pair of scissors if Dean hadn't shot her. Several times.

"Look, Neal, you can come with us. I mean it. Leave with us. Right now." Dean could've knocked Neal out, put him over his shoulders in a fireman's carry, and walked out the door with him like that, but he didn't.

It was all about the choice.

Neal shook his head, stubbornly, stared at the floor. "N-no…"

"All right." Dean leaned forward, right in Neal's face. His voice dropped to a terse whisper. "Get out of here as soon as you can. No sudden moves. Stay cool. Stay calm. Don't make her mad." Dean turned on his heel and walked out and Sam followed.

Dean didn't even wonder afterwards why he didn't feel remorse or sadness, or any emo shit like that when he heard that Neal was found dead next to his car on the campus parking lot. His neck was snapped like a twig. Angela had apparently gotten pretty pissed off at him after the brothers left the office.

It was Neal's choice. It was all about the choice, and sometimes the lessons learned were hard ones. Lethal ones.

I didn't lie to you, the voice whispered inside Dean's head. We've been together the whole time.

Dean remembered.

The rancher was tired. Dean could feel it, could smell the sweat, fear, and greed on the man. It was overpowering, a high thin stench that prickled the insides of Dean's sensitive nose. That smell, so out of place out here up in the mountains, was what attracted Dean to the rancher in the first place.

The man stumbled forwards in the knee deep snow, clutched the gold nugget to his chest. The nugget weighed eighty pounds, extra weight that he didn't need, could have easily dropped as he lurched up the hill towards the cave. Dean placed the nugget right out in the open when the man staggered up the hill. Dean made sure the human could see the gleam of gold in the gathering darkness. The body of the rancher's horse lay at the bottom of the hill, a bullet wound in its forehead, its right front foreleg broken, twisted at an unnatural angle.

The winds picked up, sent swirling sheets of snow curving in the wild air around them. Further on up the hill Dean sat on his haunches, his long ears cocked alertly forward, his long thick tail curved around over his feet, and he watched with hooded eyes. The rancher had a choice: if he wanted to live he could move quickly and get to the cave, take shelter and survive the storm. If he wanted the gold nugget that badly, he could struggle with it and try to make it to the cave.

The rancher was found frozen, dead, clutching a large grey rock several days later.

His choice.

Dean rolled in the grass on the hillside overlooking the cemetery as they buried the man, and he yawned and snapped at the blades of grass as the man's widow and children cried and wailed.

Two large deli sandwiches, two lasagna plates with side salads, one six pack of beer…

and twelve boxes of salt.

Inside the store Sam was so tired his legs vibrated. His head hurt like a bitch, and his eyes felt gritty when he rubbed at them with one hand. He'd parked the Impala some distance from the store, and he wanted to finish and get back out there before somebody decided to mug or carjack the dude sleeping restlessly in the classic black Chevy Impala.

God, he hated this. All of this. It was all his fault. There was more to McCoy Indiana than met the eye, and he didn't like the fact that he hadn't picked up on it. Sam felt he hadn't done enough research. There was something he'd missed. Ordinarily, Dean was the one that took failure to heart. Dean was the one who internalized everything, wanted to save everyone, no matter what. "We can't save everyone," Sam had told Dean once, and Dean nodded. "Yeah, I know." It was clear from the look on his face that Dean didn't really believe that.

This was different. Sam had come this close last night to losing his last surviving family member, and he was using "If only" to torture himself. If only he'd done more research. If only he hadn't let Dean take point down there in the sewer. If only he'd found the mayor's house sooner….

Images flared thru his mind, one after another. Dean, drugged up and strapped to that damn chair, bruised and slashed all over his body. Dean limp and nearly unresponsive, his head hanging over to one side, his body nearly dead weight as Sam maneuvered him into that gas station restroom to clean him up. Dean's face, very young and defenseless in the backwash of the Impala's headlights out on the highway, his green eyes washed out almost to a pale grey as he told Sam that his family, that Sam, didn't need him, like he needed them, and Sam hated the fact that a demon, that yellow eyed sumbitch, the very same one that murdered Mary Winchester so many years ago, was the one who put that lie in his older brother's head. ….

Black spots flared around the edges of Sam's vision, and he gripped the handle of the shopping cart, hard. His knees buckled and the room did a slow lazy turn around him. Everything blurred into gray, then white…

­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­Dean felt himself getting smaller, lighter, and still he struggled against it.

Not yet. I have to tell him…

I know.

"Sam? What the hell? Sam?"

"Dude…you're…supposed to be…out in the car." Sam noticed he slurred his words; not a good sign.

"Hey. Hey! Look at me. Sammy! Open your damn eyes. Right now." It was an order, a familiar low growl, a tone of command that Sam had obeyed many times, spoken by the one person in the world that he trusted to have his back, without question.

So Sam opened his eyes. His face felt damp and cold, and everything blurred into everything else. He felt a warm hand on his shoulder, another hand on the side of his face, and he leaned into the touch. His eyes focused and unfocused several times, until he finally got it right.

Dean grinned at him. "Hey, Sammy. So, what'cha doing down here on the floor?"

"I dunno," Sam replied hazily. "Thought I'd…check out…the tile. S'interestin.'"

"I bet it is. You been driving all night, kiddo." Dean's expression grew solemn. "I didn't mean to put you through all this."

Sam stared. The bruises on Dean's face were gone. So was the goose egg on his forehead. He looked pretty damn good, actually. Sam pushed himself up by his elbows and tried to lean forward. Dean held him, gently pushed him back against the shelving. "Hey, you shouldn't be in here," Sam whispered.

Dean shrugged. "I'm okay." He stared at Sam, an intense look, as if he were trying to commit his brother's face to memory. The corners of Dean's mouth quirked upwards. "I love you, Sammy. I always have. You do know that, right?"

"Dean --- "

"Sam, listen to me. I want to stay, but he won't let me."

"Who won't let you?" Sam struggled upright, and Dean stepped back from him. He seemed startled, as though something Sam couldn't see pulled him backwards.

"Sam, they're coming for you." Dean's voice had a peculiar overlay to it, as though there was another voice whispering words Sam couldn't quite hear. "The Ilimu. They're coming for you, you hear me? You get out of here as fast as you can. Call Bobby. Call Ellen…"

"Dean, what -- "

You can't refuse me in this, the voice whispered, and this time Sam understood the words.The voice…the voice sounded just like Dean. I'm awake now. You have to rest.

Dean's expression was sad, desperate. "Sam…I'm sorry." He whispered brokenly. "I'm so sorry…"

Dean sank down to his hands and knees, and Sam tried to get up, but something held him back, pushed him back against the shelving. Dean lifted his head, and God his eyes were too green, too bright. He seemed to stare right thru Sam, and Dean's image wavered. The air around him shimmered, got brighter. Sam was able to move enough to raise one hand up, to shield his eyes. He leaned forward, reached out with his other hand, and it was like the air had thickened, was trying to hold him back, but he kept moving because it was Dean. Dean groaned, deep in his throat. He raised his head and reached out towards Sam.

Their fingertips touched. Sam felt a slight resistance against his skin, and then his fingers slid right thru Dean's outstretched hand.

Sam cursed as something gripped his body and slammed him back in place. He saw the after image of his brother kneeling before him, and that faded, and in Dean's place Sam saw a large coyote. The animal was large, barrel-chested. Big ears, glossy golden brown fur. Impossibly long eyelashes framed bright green eyes that sparkled with intelligence. Even the corners of the muzzle curved up slightly in a smirk. All in all, unmistakably, undeniably Dean.

"Dean? Nooo, Dean --- "

Sam felt hands on his shoulders touching him, and he struck out wildly, blindly. His sight cleared and he looked up, right in the face of a thoroughly freaked out store clerk.

Sam wanted to move faster. He couldn't. It felt like someone had removed his brain and stuffed his head with cotton. His legs were as wobbly as a newborn foal, and minutes later the store manager was looking at him as though he thought that calling the cops was still a mighty fine idea.

The twelve boxes of salt in Sam's shopping cart was enough to raise some eyebrows.

The manager and the clerk helped Sam up, helped him sit down on a wooden bench near the Pharmacy Department, right next to a little old lady who shifted her purse nervously away from him. They practically forced Sam to drink water from a white paper cup. The water felt good and cold going down his raw, sore throat, and he couldn't remember the last time he'd had anything to eat or drink. He waved one hand weakly at them, told them he was okay, that he got those spells sometimes. He asked if anyone had seen his brother, a young dude wearing a brown leather jacket, work boots, and worn blue jeans, and everyone said no.

Sam…I want to stay, but he won't let me.

Sam knew what he was going to see when he finally staggered out to the Impala. He waved the store clerk away from him. He figured the dude probably thought he was drunk or high, not sick. Sam didn't give a fuck.

Dean was gone. The windows were still rolled up half way, and the doors were still locked. Dean's clothes lay crumpled on the seat, with the blanket. His boots lay on the floor.

Sam felt the world tilt lazily around him, and he managed to unlock the driver's side, felt his ass thump down in the seat, his legs stretched out on the pavement. His right hand shook as he reached out and fisted a handful of Dean's leather jacket. Sam's throat closed up and his eyes stung with tears.

Dean, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry…