Chapter 7
Dean was at his brother's side instantly, the gray tinge to what he could see of Sam's face hardly reassuring. But closer examination showed that he was breathing -harsh, panting breaths that stabbed rather than refreshed the lungs - but Dean would take it over the alternative. Sam's pulse was similarly stressed, pounding like a tap dancer on crack, with erratic skips and jumps, yet as Dean's fingers wrapped around his brother's wrist, he could sense the unique energy of his brother's life, the physical contact accentuating the bond the ritual had affirmed.
It was redolent of stubbornness and intellect, curiosity and passion. It was the riff of Dean's favourite guitar solo but in brass. Yet, in that surge of 'Samness', there was something wrong - a discord, a sour note in the rippling melody. Abruptly sickened by his own role in Sam's restrained and helpless state, the older Winchester pulled out his knife and carefully sawed through the bindings that constrained his brother's movements, wincing as he noticed that Sam's wrists had been rubbed raw.
"Come on kiddo, open those baby...uh...browns," he cajoled, rubbing the younger man's hands in an attempt to assist the return of blood flow.
He was rewarded with a brow twitch and a quivering of eyelids before confused hazel eyes stared up at him. But the dazed look suddenly gave way to a pain so raw that fear sliced like a hot knife in Dean's chest.
"Sammy? What is it? What's wrong?" He was starting to pat down his brother's torso frantically, searching for an injury he had missed, when every muscle beneath his hands snapped rigid, and Sam's spine arched in an agonised bow as if paddles were jump-starting his heart.
Dean could only watch in stunned horror, panic rising within him. His enforced medical knowledge had taught him that violent movements during a seizure should not be restrained. Since there was nothing dangerous within the vicinity, he should leave his brother to come out of it in his own time. However, that went against every protective grain in his body, especially since the entity's warning was screaming in his head - 'Each individual cell will be blasted from within and he'll die in agony.'
As the initial violent paroxysm subsided to be replaced by a smaller series of spasms that seemed to tear at every muscle group, Dean grabbed him by the shoulders and pulled him into the tightest hug he could manage. It was an embrace so fiercely protective Death itself would not dare try to penetrate it. He would physically anchor his brother's soul in his body and never allow it to escape.
In that position, he could feel the cramps and intense tremors that writhed through Sam's body, the convulsions shaking his own frame while the pain ghosted along that newly formed connection, echoing uncomfortably in his own synapses. Dean merely clamped down tighter, hoping that the agony that twisted his brother, streaking through his nervous system like lightening, would jump to him, always a willing lightning rod for his younger brother's pain.
Sam's skin seemed to have acquired a blue tint, and his heart was pounding against Dean's ribs as his chest heaved. Whether in sympathy or as another side effect of the recent ritual, the older man was also struggling with his breathing, as if he could no longer remember how to suck oxygen into his starving tissues, his throat throttling his trachea while his ribs clamped down cruelly on his lungs.
Hoping that this was another physical effect that was a two-way street, Dean concentrated on drawing long greedy breaths, ignoring the violent tremors that still shook them both. He felt every shuddering breath Sam took through the hand pressed against his brother's back and the short puffs that warmed his exposed collarbone in uneven bursts.
He steadied his inhalations still further as both of them seemed to feel the benefit. It reminded him irresistibly of Sam's coaching on the demon-infested airplane the previous year. That fear seemed so utterly mundane now; true terror was the responsibility of saving his brother with the consequences of failure too terrible to be contemplated. Horror was holding his brother in his arms, unsure if his actions had saved him or killed him.
He'd rather wingwalk or parachute or do acrobatics in the flimsiest of aircraft than face the possibility of losing Sam. His heart clenched with unendurable pain, the thought of life without his brother slicing through him with the precision of a scalpel.
However, although Sam's muscles were still jumping and trembling under his hands, his breathing was returning to normal, the fury of the spasms abating, releasing him from their relentless grip, his body relaxing by infinitesimal increments. He also seemed to have rediscovered at least some minimal voluntary motor function as a sudden new wave of pain surprised a grunt from him and his fingers curled weakly around the fabric of Dean's shirt to hold on. The older Winchester was happy to be his brother's life preserver, keeping him afloat until he was sufficiently recovered to assert his independence.
Dean couldn't contain the trembling of his own depleted body. The bitter taste of bile and despair had now commuted to the dull flavor of bone-deep exhaustion, and he seemed unable to move. He couldn't even summon the energy to mutter the reassurances that swam foggily through his mind. His brother's warmth was soaking into him, chasing away the chill and nightmare of loss. For an indeterminate length of time, he was lost in a gray haze, surprisingly comfortable despite the pain of his injuries, which were indistinguishable from that of his brother's distress.
It was only his hunter's instincts insistently nudging an internal alarm that prevented him from succumbing to the encroaching darkness. It wasn't over yet. The entity wasn't destroyed. The intense spasms that had coursed through Sam had now tapered to little aftershocks of jerks and twitches, and his heart beat, resonating through Dean's veins, was steady and strong.
As Dean straightened up, every bruise protesting, Sam let out a vowelless sound of disapproval and querying protest. "S'okay," the older Winchester offered comfortingly, patting his brother clumsily on the shoulder with oddly numb fingers. "Let me get you comfortable."
Gently, he scooted back a couple of feet to the wall, dragging Sam with him and propping him up against the bricks. He then scooted round in front of his brother, Sam's hand still entangled in his shirt preventing him from straying too far. Sam's eyes fastened on Dean as he entered his field of view; they were glassy, pupils blown as if concussed, but he was undeniably present, watching his big brother's every move intently as if afraid Dean would disappear if his perusal lapsed for even a second. Sam's bottom lip was caught between his teeth and, unsurprisingly, he'd bitten through it at some point, a trickle of blood decorating his chin.
Dean wiped off the smear with a calloused thumb, checking quickly for other injuries. "Relax, dude. You're going to be fine." He could feel an unspecified fear thrumming through the younger man, shaded with helplessness and frustration, but grounding him through the continuing ordeal was an overwhelming sense of trust. Nothing bad's going to happen to you while I'm around. This warmed Dean, but also made something inside his chest ache, small stabs of guilt that burrowed down inside, convinced that he had done little recently to merit that faith. But at least he now knew how to keep his brother safe.
Once he was sure his brother wouldn't keel over in a crumpled heap when he withdrew his support, he patted him again, reluctant to sever their connection. "Don't go anywhere, I'll be right back. We need some protection."
His progress to the door would have made a drunken sailor proud - a rolling stagger that lacked any element of grace, the force of necessity animating legs that felt disconnected from his control. Limp strands of overcooked spaghetti masquerading as limbs firmed up with some practice at walking, but he took advantage of the doorway for a brief respite, casting a look back to check on his brother's condition.
Sam was still staring intently at him, eerily silent, concern tinged with incipient panic in his gaze, and Dean wasn't sure if it was generated by his dismal attempt at walking or the prospect of his disappearance.
"Ten seconds," he reassured, holding fingers up in illustration. However, since one hand was still clinging to the door frame for stability, it lacked accuracy of clarification. He stared at his hand befuddled for a moment, but was unable to calculate the mathematical deficit, so settled for flapping it vaguely.
The kitchen looked different as he wobbled through the entrance, as if it had been years since he'd made his preparations there. Nothing had existed in the last few hours except the tiny bare room he'd just left and the fight for his brother's life, and now he was struggling to expand his awareness, but the sense of dissociation persisted. He couldn't even remember why he'd come back here, just that a foreboding had driven him onward. His head hung heavy, but simultaneously floated dizzily, flotsam on a wind-tossed sea.
His errant memory was jogged by the sight of the bowl, prominent yet incongruous on the bare counter. He picked it up and carried it with exaggerated caution back to his brother, small steps mitigating the possibility of a spill.
Sam had slipped further down the wall, a series of shudders aiding the downward force of gravity which he seemed unable to withstand, but his gaze was alert, and his relief at his big brother's return palpable.
Dean bent down to place the bowl beside the other man, sending the room spinning off kilter again, and he flopped down before he collapsed on top of his brother. Bracing himself, he grabbed two handfuls of Sam's shirt and propped him upright once more. "I swear, it's like you're a freaking newborn again. A gigantic mutant newborn...but still."
Sam's jaw was no longer locked by the spasms, and the older brother knew from experience that sibling provocation was the best way of goading him into speech. "Your head was just too big and it wobbled back and forth like one of those car thingies." He wagged his finger in illustration, happy to see the upward curve to his brother's mouth. He warmed up to his theme. "And as for the drool, you were like a St. Bernard - actually that hasn't changed much."
"Jerrrk." Sam's voice was scratchy and thickly slurred as if he'd just returned from a root canal, but it was the most beautiful sound Dean had ever heard.
"Bitch," he completed the ritual contentedly, knowing he was grinning like a fool, but utterly unconcerned.
The younger Winchester eyed his brother, a hint of mischief warming his gaze. "Sso, Dean, d-did you just m-marry me?"
"Wha..?" The unexpected question surprised a snort of laughter from his brother, and Dean's arms flailed in unconscious imitation of his mind as he struggled to find a sufficiently insulting rebuttal. "That's just...seriously, dude." He was too tired and too happy to see the twinkle in Sam's hazel eyes to put any concerted effort into the response.
"Dude, if I ever pop the question, it won't be to a freaky Cyclops like you."
Sam frowned. "Hey, I've got two eyes." He brushed a still shaky hand across his forehead.
"What?" it was Dean's turn to look confused. "I never said you didn't."
"Yeah, you did," Sam insisted. "Cyclops only have one eye - you know, in the middle of their forehead."
"Huh, that's weird. But they were really tall, right?"
"Well, yeah."
"There you are then. That's what I was going for." Dean settled back on his heels, the conversation clearly concluded to his satisfaction. For a moment, Sam couldn't remember the point of original argument, but mentally chased after it with typical stubbornness.
"Seriously, Dean, what the hell was that? I've read Dad's journal cover to cover, and that ritual's not in it."
Dean shrugged one shoulder dismissively and a little evasively. "It's just a little something I picked up in New Orleans."
Incredulity challenged the vagueness of that statement, Sam's voice strengthening with each utterance. "Dude, a little something you pick up in New Orleans is a t-shirt, a mardi gras snow globe, or, knowing you, an STD, not a...a..well, whatever that was."
"It's a binding spell," Dean offered vaguely. "Anyway, the important thing is, it kinda pushes out anything that shouldn't be there. But that's all it does. It depossesses, but it doesn't destroy them or send them to hell." Seeing Sam's confusion, he elaborated. "Like a blast of rock-salt, it'll drop kick 'em out of the action for a while, but your friendly neighbourhood confederate psycho will be back - Hey, easy there!"
Sam was struggling to rise, but his movements were spasmodic and uncontrolled, a travesty of his usual grace. His attempt to straighten up was rendered impossible by the paralysis that still gripped his legs. "I can't...not again." The words sputtered out almost incoherently.
"Easy tiger," Dean tried to soothe him, grasping his arms, but his brother shook off the attempt at consolation.
"You don't understand. It was just sheer evil...so much hate. It was like being buried alive, choking in the foulest slime. He wanted me to tear you apart, piece by piece, flay you, and enjoy doing it."
"Hey, enough!" Dean shook his brother slightly to command his attention. He should have realised he wasn't the only one living his worst nightmare. "He's not getting you again, do you hear me? I have here the patented, Dean Winchester, no-bastard's-sliding-inside-me-again, anti-possession fingerpainting kit." He wiggled his eyebrows in anticipation while stirring the concoction that had separated into a cold semi-congealed mass.
He paused for a moment, unsure where the sigil would be most effective, then with a shrug, pulled up his brother's t-shirt, warding off Sam's weakly protesting hands. "I think you were two last time I did this. Problem was, I didn't know the paint was oil-based or something and you were an awesomely smeary mess by the time I'd finished. Dad banned me from all artistic endeavors after that."
Once the design had dried on his brother's stomach, he decided to repeat it for good measure on his shirt. "There you go, possession-proof armour-plating."
"What is this crap?" Sam queried in disgust as the drying flakes tugged at the fine hairs on his belly.
"You don't want to know," Dean informed him unhelpfully. "But unlike my previous artistic efforts, it should wash off."
He wiped his fingers on his own shirt which was already torn and stained beyond redemption.
"So how do we finish him?" The question itself, even without the slight quaver that almost slid the words into a higher octave, betrayed the attempted nonchalance and revealed the dents in Sam's independent spirit as he reverted to a younger brother's reliance.
It kicked Dean's protectiveness into a higher gear, and he smirked confidently. "Salt and burn, no problem. His mojo might make him more powerful than the average spirit, but he's governed by the same laws and vulnerable to the same weapons. We just have to find the crunchy bits he left behind. Of course, since the signposts around here seem to be lacking..."
"Colonel Hayward Marston," Sam interrupted. "And his current address is the northeast corner of the cemetery."
Dean regarded his brother with a prejudiced eye. "Well, that's helpful. Nice of you to mention it."
The younger Winchester appeared to take the cheerful, fraternal sarcasm as a rebuke, his gaze dropping forlornly to where his hands were absently trying to massage feeling back into his legs.
"Dean, I...I tried to stop him, tried to keep him from...from rooting around inside me for information, but I just couldn't..."
"Whoa, hold it right there. Save the hair-pulling, hand-wringing, full-on guilt trip for a time I can slap you upside the head without feeling like I'm abusing an invalid."
It was absolution, Dean Winchester style, and despite his desire to push the conversation, Sam relaxed into that easy forgiveness.
"Besides," Dean continued, "The information you've gained is far more valuable than anything he learned. We were barking so far up the wrong tree, we'd never have figured out this dude's ID without your help." He shifted his weight, trying to find a more comfortable position without being obvious about it. "So, how're ya feeling?"
Sam tilted his head deprecatingly, "I'm fine, it's just like...pins and needles all over." His gaze skittered to the livid purple bruise covering his brother's cheekbone and his swollen, scabbed lip, merely the most visible of Dean's injuries.
"Pins and needles, huh?" It was an apt description, the sharp stabbing sensation of circulation rushing back along neglected pathways, yet their link showed Dean how it failed to adequately describe the intensity of the feeling, as erratic, unpredictable twitches still jolted through nerve endings. "I'd say more dartboard than pincushion, but either way, I don't think you can walk yet."
"It's like having two lumps of wood instead of legs." Sam thumped his fists on the deadened limbs in frustrated illustration.
"Well, I'm not dragging your heavy ass anywhere, so that doesn't leave us many options." Dean picked up the bowl and with torn lip caught gently between his teeth in concentration, he started pouring a thin stream in a circle around his brother.
"Dean, whachya doing?"
"Keeping Captain Caspar the Confederate Ghost out of your way while I turn him extra crispy.
Sam's spine snapped straight. "Damn it, you're not going by yourself. Just wait until I've got your back."
Dean didn't look up from his task. "I can't. Look, the ritual works like a shot-gun blast of salt. It takes time for the spirit to gather the energy to form again, but I've no idea how long we have, and we can't afford to waste another minute. It's far too strong in its incorporeal state, and neither of us is up for another go on the tilt-a-whirl."
"Dean, you can barely stand or walk in a straight line, and don't give me any of your 'I'm fine' crap. I can actually feel how far from fine you are. You're in no condition to dig a grave."
"I've done it in worse." It was said with characteristic bravado, but the open channel between them confirmed the truth of that throwaway statement, and a haunting wisp of desolation and loneliness accompanied the memory.
Nobody knew Dean better than Sam, but even for him, since Stanford, glimpses of emotional vulnerability were parceled out with the frequency of a parsimonious miser parting with his hard-earned gold, so this unintentional revelation, brief though it was, silenced Sam faster than any argument could. He watched as Dean finished the defensive line to his satisfaction, placing the nearly empty bowl beside Sam. Thinking his brother intended to depart, Sam reached out in sudden panic, snagging a sleeve. "Dean!"
His own eloquence deserted him. How could he find the words to explain that he was afraid that if Dean walked out of the room, he'd never see him again. They'd already been separated too long on this job, each meeting more violent and devastating as he'd grown increasingly incapable of mitigating the physical abuse sustained by his brother, the spirit leeching his energy, swallowing his life in greedy, long-denied gulps.
Dean picked up on Sam's misery, settling back into a more comfortable kneeling position. "I promise you're safe here." The comforting tone was reserved for children and brothers in distress, a gentleness that was innate but usually masked by his tough exterior. "There's no way he's getting to you again."
In a sudden burst of fraternal frustration that anyone could be so unconcerned about his own safety, Sam gave him a sudden shove, regretting it instantly as Dean overbalanced with a surprised, "oomph."
"I'm not worried about me, you stupid...jerk."
Dean sat sprawled on the floor, a slightly stunned expression on his face. Sam expected a sarcastic comment, a reference to his feminine tendencies, but his brother surprised him once more. "This is the only shot we get," he stated quietly. "It's not just our best chance, it's our only one. However, say the word, and we'll leave. I'll get you to the car and we'll book it, never looking back." There was no challenge in the words. It was a genuine offer, a promise of no future recriminations, his own get-out-of-jail-free card. Sam was tempted, yearning to grasp it with mouth-watering intensity, because he had tasted the foulness of evil, experienced the level of malevolence directed at his brother, and he knew that Dean wouldn't survive another encounter. Yet, if they left this hunt unfinished, it would fester in their minds, and Dean would always blame himself for the lives of future innocent families lost.
"You're not even armed." The rejection of the offer was implicit in the weak complaint, and he was rewarded with a quick flash of white teeth.
"I've got to get a shovel from the car. I'll pick up the other shotgun while I'm there. Wait a sec." He disappeared back into the kitchen, more steadily this time, and reappeared seconds later holding the gun he'd knocked out of NotSam's hand earlier. "This might not do you much good, but I'll feel happier knowing you have it. Now stay here, don't do anything stupid like move out of the circle, and I'll be back for you." There was another reassuring pat to his shoulder, then Dean was gone.
The sterility of Sam's surroundings offered little by way of distraction. The monotony of white-washed walls was broken only by lateritious smears that he'd like to think was the original color of the bricks breaking through, but he knew was actually evidence of the final vicious attack on his brother.
He didn't need the reminder of Dean, since his brother was a constant presence in his mind, a simultaneously unnerving and comforting sensation. It was new, yet utterly familiar. His first memory, baby-hazed and time-smudged, was of Dean wrapped round him, protecting him as he slept in the back of the Impala. He wished he could envelop himself in that innocence once more. He couldn't read Dean's thoughts or even definitive emotions, yet he found himself able to track his brother's painful progress, an insubstantial awareness of his movements that faded if he tried to follow it too closely. There was just grim determination and focused commitment that overrode weary pain.
Not for the first time, Sam marveled at his brother's ability to continue way past the endurance his body was supposed to possess. A sudden pulse of self-disgust throbbed inside. It was so damn easy to fall back into childhood patterns of behaviour, many of them so habitual, they gave them no thought at all. Dean had the bed nearest the door, Sam would escort the civilians to safety. Yet the younger Winchester had learnt to fight the most insidious of these tendencies - that Sammy shall remain protected while Dean shall take the risks, act as bait, attract the attention of the monster. He had to fight it, because Dean never would, accepting his role as an immutable law of nature such as gravity. But as Sam had grown out of the selfishness and obliviousness of youth, he'd sworn to protect his brother as Dean had always done for him. He was damned if he was going to stay here now, sheltered in his safe little circle while Dean battled an almost invincible monster on his own. He'd crawl to the graveyard if he had to.
He flexed the muscles in his legs, massaging them almost frantically in an effort to drive use back into them. His thighs were responding, although the daggers drove deeper and more savagely as feeling returned, but below the knees he was still numb. He could sense that Dean had reached the graveside, though how he could dig down to the coffin in his battered condition was a mystery. They were running out of time, of that Sam was sure. The inhabitation of his body by the entity had created an awareness between them, because he could feel it stirring, a fury and malevolence, a pilot flame that flared in preparation for an explosive blaze.
He needed a weapon, something to keep it away from his brother, and his gun was useless. Regular bullets wouldn't touch it. However... Sam's hands shook from residual weakness and eagerness as he extracted the clip from the automatic. His fingers felt swollen and clumsy, making the job of prying out the bullets almost impossible. He allowed each bullet to fall in his lap, then he scooped them all up and dropped them carefully into the dregs of Dean's potion. He rolled each around individually, meticulously coating them before setting them up to dry until they sat like a row of mini-torpedoes, blood-stained and gleaming in front of him. While they dulled to a dry sheen, he bounced his knees up and down, welcoming the prickly beginnings of sensation that told him control over the last area of his body was returning. He returned the loaded clip to his gun and set it down beside him. His hands were sticky with what he recognised as blood, and a curl of nausea twisted deep in his belly as he realised that there was only one possible source of that fluid.
There was no time to dwell on the thought. Marston was coming. Sam could feel his approach like the advent of hoar-frost, each cell crystalising from the inside out under the silent onslaught of verging terror. Every instinct screamed at him to run, adrenaline insisting it was his only hope of survival. Only training held him fast. His heart crawled into his throat, choking his breath stillborn. Dean had told him he was safe here, so he would trust to that almost invisible line soaked into the dirt, the line containing his brother's blood. His back pressed against the wall so hard it felt like each vertebrae left its own impression. The temperature dropped below freezing and what air he panted out plumed like a horizontal whale's spout.
An invisible enemy always carried twice the horror, the imagination filling in unknown proximity and intention with imminent and agonising possibilities. Sam clamped down on his fear, determined not to give the entity the satisfaction it yearned for.
"Hello, Sammy." Sam was unable to conceal his startled recoil, unsure if the words were whispered into his ear or directly into his mind.
"There's only one person who gets to call me that, and you're not even on the short list, you dead freak," he snarled back.
"But who knows you better than me, Sammy? Who's been privy to your every little secret? I've absorbed you. I've tasted your dreams, swallowed your ambitions and digested your every thought. You're part of me, and I'm part of you. Together we're invincible."
With the abruptness of an explosion, the spirit materialised outside the circle, and Sam recoiled impossibly further, drawing his knees up to his chest, confronted by his own face. Only the unearthly flickering and unnatural blue of the eyes belied his mirror image. Yet as Sam stared, he could see, as if concealed between the pixels of a photograph, the other half of the hybrid, the real face of the spirit.
"You don't know jack shit about me," he retorted, it only occurring to him afterward that he used Dean's words. "That face is stolen, every memory that you think you have is merely evidence of an act of violence. True knowledge of a person is a gift freely given, earned. Theft cannot give you any part of me. You've got nothing."
There was a distorting flicker, then Marston was pressed up against the circle, staring down at him hungrily. "You'll give yourself to me freely. By the time I've finished, you'll be begging me to take you."
Sam glared back at him mutinously. "Don't bet on it."
"You'd do it to save your brother, wouldn't you?" The entity's voice whispered confidingly. "How much more do you think that Dean can take? How long would you stay cowering there in safety if I had him in here with me? You could listen while I snap his ribs one at a time with the crisp crack of a wishbone. Then, when his chest is splayed open in front of me, I'll reach in and unravel his intestines."
"Stop!" Sam's voice cracked, torn open as if caught on a rusty nail, each word a punch to the heart. "You're right. I'll do it. Just...please... leave him alone." He buried his face in the arms that encircled his knees, needing to think and wanting to escape the knowing scrutiny. His acquiescence wasn't feigned. He would do it. He would do anything if it would save his brother. Yet he was under no illusion that such a sacrifice would actually safeguard Dean. Essentially, it meant that the hands that ripped him apart would belong to his younger brother. The older hunter would fight to the end to rescue him again.
Sam's thoughts pinwheeled furiously, sparks of half-formed plans flying off in all directions. He'd been going at this all wrong. Defiance wasn't the answer. Marston wanted the spice of his distress and betrayal, so Sam had to tantalise the bastard, offer him morsels of pain and guilt to keep him interested, keep him away from Dean. He had to buy time for his brother to finish the job.
He raised his head wearily. "Why me?" It was a genuine question, and had been an almost constant undercurrent in his mind in the last month.
"Because you're perfect. None of the others were strong enough. Their minds broke, splintered off before I could complete the process. You just kept fighting."
Sam was tempted to point out that if the entity had succeeded in killing Dean, his mind would have probably imploded messily, but since he didn't want to bring his brother back to Marston's attention, he settled for looking appropriately scared. "I don't really think that I..."
"Take off your shirt," Marston interrupted.
"Wha...oh." Sam squinted down at the symbol on the cotton. "Yeah, okay."
He removed the garment slowly, the faked reluctance actually concealing the utmost care not to allow his t-shirt to ride up and reveal the second sigil on his skin, all the while giving thanks to overprotective brothers and multiple layers of clothing.
He resisted the temptation to test the efficacy of the mark by throwing the shirt at Marston, merely balling the material and dropping it beside him. He tried to postpone the inevitable discovery. "I can't even walk at the moment; my legs are useless, paralysed."
"Is that why he left you here?" The spirit peered at the limbs in question curiously, hot greed still apparent in unearthly blue eyes. "But where is big brother?"
"He went to the car for first-aid supplies," Sam improvised glibly. "Just let me tell him, explain. Once he's gone, I'll step over the line."
He knew instantly he'd overplayed his hand. Marston had learned too much from Sam's memories and Dean's own actions to believe that such abandonment was possible.
"You're lying, Sammy." Marston disappeared. There was no melodramatic bang of a vacuum created, yet it felt as if the air had been sucked out of the room.
"Marston...Marston?" Sam fumbled to his knees, but before that split second of indecision could resolve into a course of action, the spirit was back, furious face crushed against the invisible barrier only inches away from Sam's own.
"I'm going to kill him." The violence with which the words were hissed should have been accompanied by the spit of saliva or noisome breath, but the only physical sensation was the impact of their meaning on Sam's heart. "I'm going to shred him to mincemeat, and, once you're an only child, I'm coming back for you."
"No...NO! I'm right here. Take..." But by the time Sam had lurched the short distance out of the circle, Marston had vanished again.
"Oh God, Dean!"