Disclaimer: Neither Supernatural nor its characters belong to me. Supernatural is Eric Kripke and Warner Bros., etc. No infringement intended, no profit made—this story is just for fun.
Spoilers: Season one; Season two up to "Hunted" and probably some themes from "Playthings".
Summary: The brothers take what seems like an easy case for all the wrong reasons. When things go horribly awry, Sam and Dean realize that their mistakes could cost more than they are willing to pay.
AN: I dreamed up this story long before I ever caught wind of the episode "playthings". The only thing this story has in common with that ep is that the brothers investigate a hotel and it takes place after "Hunted."
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The Addison Hotel
By Libellule (aka Griselda Jane)
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Chapter seven
Sam froze, terror hitting him like a freight train.
Dean was in shadow, but as Sam moved closer he saw hints of Rebecca Addison's spirit transparent over him, matching his movements.
"Oh, shit," Sam breathed.
His head snapped towards him, apparently shocked by his language, and Rebecca's specter faded, although she was still fully in control of Dean.
Taking a step towards Sam, he said, "You talk of starting a family, but all you do is work. You build things for other people, but when will you build a home for us? Is this where you want to raise our children?" And suddenly he caught another glimpse of Rebecca in Dean's face as he whispered, "I want us to have a home together. It's not too late."
Sam didn't know how Rebecca got to his brother, not with lines of salt around the windows and doors, not with the protection sigils he'd drawn all over Dean's body, not this time.
Whether she meant to or not, she hurt whomever she reached out to and Sam didn't know if Dean could survive another encounter with her.
"Leaving me here is not good for us," Dean was saying as he opened another drawer and pulled out its contents. Suddenly he swayed a little, but steadied himself against the dresser top, rubbing the back of his hand against his forehead. "And it's not good for me. I'm coming with you this time."
Ever since Dean's fall, he'd been extremely susceptible to her. First there had been the bout of confusion, then the pacing by the window and now this— outright possession. It was almost as if she had tuned into Dean's frequency and his was the only wavelength she could find.
Rebecca isn't all that strong, Sam thought. She always needs someone else to help her manifest. Though she'd latched onto Dean and seemed able to channel into him occasionally, it was never for more than a few minutes at a time. This was the first time that she'd ever managed some kind of corporeal state— even if it was only in flashes. But she's getting stronger.
She was getting desperate and her desperation gave her strength.
Something had to have triggered this. Sam turned over the diary in his hands, realizing that this very incident was probably cataloged in its pages. It's quite possible that Dean had been reading that passage when this occurred.
More immediately his concern— Sam had no idea how to get Rebecca to vacate Dean.
She's confused—she has no idea that she's nearly eighty years dead, Sam thought as he watched his brother rummage through their possessions, looking for items that didn't exist. And she thinks I'm Warren...
Thinking fast, Sam went to Dean, grasping him firmly by the shoulders and forced him away from the task of packing.
"I know you're upset," Sam began, "but let's talk about this."
"Talk? No, I don't want to talk," Dean said and if that didn't sound just like him then it was one hell of a coincidence. "You're not talking me out of coming with you to Nevada."
"Let's go for a walk." Sam didn't wait for a reply; he simply took Dean by the arm and walked him towards the door.
Originally, he'd thought that Rebecca couldn't leave the stairwell, but he was finding out now just how untrue that was. But Sam would wager that she couldn't vacate The Addison, which was possibly why she wanted to leave it so badly.
Sam was going to have to test her boundaries and hope that it would be enough to release her hold on Dean for now. An exorcism would certainly send Dean back to the hospital, his body not yet healed from the first trauma.
If his hunch was correct, then Rebecca couldn't actually leave the hotel building. She'd be forced out of Dean's body by default as soon as they exited the structure. If her reach stretched to include the grounds, then Sam would take Dean off the premises, even if he had to carry him out himself.
First thing was first, though— getting out of the room and to the ground floor.
Thankfully, it was evening and few people were around to see Sam guiding Dean down the hallway. Dean would be bullshit when he realized what had happened but right now all Sam could worry about was actually getting Dean back.
"Warren, you're not going to talk me out of this," Dean said, but allowed Sam to pull him along to the elevator.
"I'm not going to talk you out of anything," Sam said quickly as he pushed the down button. Dean let out a huff, fidgeting at his side. It was frightening how she'd completely taken him over— his motions, the lilt of his speech, even the cant of his head as he stared at the numbers over the elevator doors were different from Dean.
For a moment, Sam thought back to the shapeshifter in St. Louis and then back to the old Asylum with Ellicot. He realized that Rebecca could be a lot worse.
The elevator announced its arrival with a bright ping. Sam ushered Dean inside, lighting the lobby key, then jabbing the "close doors" button impatiently.
Sam was watching the numbers slowly count backwards when Dean looped Sam's arm in his and leaned heavily against his shoulder. Tremors ran through his body, and Sam could feel the shock of cold coming from his brother through the fabric of his shirt.
"Meant what I said," Dean said quietly.
Sam tightened his grip around him. He could tell that the stress of Rebecca's ghost was too much strain on his still healing form. And Dean's body was clearly fading fast. Come on— hurry up! Sam urged the elevator.
"About what?" Sam asked.
"Not too late for us," he said, a too cold hand curling against Sam's forearm. "We could still have a home."
And even though Sam knew it was Rebecca talking through his brother's gravelly baritone, he felt his heart seize for it was so close to Dean's own wish that it might as well have been his brother's words.
"We are a home," Sam said, feeling Dean smile into his shoulder as the elevator doors opened upon the Lobby level.
Keeping his gaze down, Sam hurried them past the front desk, though he was pretty sure the clerk did a double take as they went by.
Sam had his eye on the side door, the one that led into the gardens where people were least likely to be at this hour.
Dean slowed, his endurance clearly being pushed past its limit, and his hand shook fiercely as he clutched Sam's arm.
"Almost there," Sam said.
"I'm so tired," Dean whispered. "Wasted so much time," he sighed. A trickle of blood seeped slowly from his nose. "You don't know how much I regret that— so much wasted time."
Wasted time… This phrase— Dean had been saying this since he got here. Nan had said it to the housekeeper. And Sam was willing to bet that the other victims had said it too. Somehow Rebecca had been accessing Dean before the fall— probably from the moment he'd arrived.
Maybe Sam could end it, could stop her here and now, if he could get her to tell him whatever it was that was keeping her here, making her possess victim after victim.
Merely three strides from the doors leading to the gardens outside, Sam stopped, steering Dean around to face him. "Talk to me, Rebecca," Sam said, hands gentle but firm on his shoulders. "I know there's something you want to tell me. Something important, something that's making you restless."
Be at rest, Sam thought, eyeing the trail of unheeded blood wending around the curve of Dean's lips and down his chin. Let Dean be.
"How did you—." Dean halted, his eyes narrowing as he looked up at Sam. "You're not Warren," he realized suddenly as if truly seeing for the first time, and he tried to twist away. Sam gripped Dean tightly, pulling him forward and wrapping an arm about his waist.
"I don't understand—," he said, his voice rising and his eyes wide. "Not my Warren," he said, trying to get away. "You're his Sam." And Sam all but lifted Dean the last few steps outside.
Dean buckled, pitching backward like a felled tree, both Rebecca and consciousness stricken from him as he cleared the sanctuary of The Addison Hotel.
Sam did his best to keep them balanced, but without any strength from Dean, they both stumbled to the ground. Sam pivoted taking the brunt of the tumble, fearing what damage another concussion might impart on his brother.
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Before he was truly aware of anything else Dean knew that he was gonna kill whatever asshole was playing that drum solo against his skull. He felt the hot throb of pain aligned with his heartbeat, threatening to bust his head open at his stitches.
"Hey," said a soft voice floating about his face. "Come on, wake up before someone sees us."
Dean opened his eyes, but it was dark and distorted. He blinked back the blur and Sam came into soft focus, his worried face hovering overhead. Sam was leaning over him, arms on either side of Dean shoulders as he fretfully stared down into his face. "Can you sit up?"
"Yeah," Dean said, even though he wasn't positive that it was true. Sam helped him, grabbing his arm and steadying him with a hand at his shoulder.
"What happened?" Dean asked as he slowly pushed himself up. "Why are we outside?"
"You don't remember," Sam said, unsurprised. "Rebecca got you."
"What, you mean like last night?"
"Worse," Sam said. "She outright had possession of you— at least ten minutes, probably longer."
"You've gotta be kidding me," Dean said. He grimaced and rubbed his fingers across his forehead. "That why I feel like I've been on a three day bender?"
"Probably," Sam said with a disapproving frown. "She thought I was Warren until I tried to get her to tell me why she's still here." Dean let Sam finger away the blood from his face and tilt his chin towards him.
"Shit," Sam cursed. "Your pupils are dilated." Sam had that look of terror in his eyes, the one that Dean had never been able to bear, would do anything to get rid of.
"Well, we are outside in less than perfect lighting," Dean said, trying for playful and failing. "Dude, I'm fine," he said. But his words were like throwing his zippo into a primed grave— incendiary.
"Don't start with me, Dean," Sam growled, temper rising. "We're leaving here right now and I'm taking you back to the hospital."
"No way," Dean said. "Look, we know what this is— it's not a head trauma thing. I can handle it until we figure it out."
"She's fucking around with your head— you can barely sit up, blood is coming out of your goddamned nose and you call that handling it?"
"Sam—."
"You were gone, Dean!" Sam shouted, grabbing his shoulders and digging his fingers in tight. "Do you understand me? She had you, and you were gone."
"Hey, hey, easy on the goods," Dean said, clapping his right hand over Sam's death grip on his arm. "I'm here now, Sam," he said. "I'm not going anywhere."
"Don't make promises you can't keep," Sam said. His grip loosened somewhat but did not release.
"Is everything okay out here?"
The brothers turned to see Lenny the bellhop standing in the doorway. His eyes shifted from one brother to the other, surveying the scene. What a sight they must be— both on the ground, Sam clutching his brother as if he might vanish otherwise and Dean looking shell-shocked, his face smeared with blood.
Dean opened his mouth to tell the kid that everything was fine, but Sam beat him to it.
"No, we need to leave," Sam said.
"The hell we are," Dean said indignantly. "Damn it, Sam, stop acting like such a pansy. It's just a little nosebleed."
"Help me get him to the car," Sam said to Lenny, completely ignoring Dean's resistance.
"Hold on," Dean growled, instantly regretting the outburst as pain flared through his skull. "I'm not going anywhere."
"Dean, this place is making you sick," Sam said. "I'm such an idiot for bringing you back here."
"Wait— just wait," Dean said. He turned to Lenny. "Can you give us a minute?" The kid nodded and stepped back inside, but hovered by the glass doors.
"You're so big on saving people, but you want to walk away from this?"
"I want you to be safe," Sam replied.
"If I leave then Rebecca's just gonna pick someone else— someone else is gonna die," Dean insisted.
"I'm not saying we give up on the case—."
"Might as well be," Dean interrupted. "Don't you get it, Sam? I have direct access to our spook— I walk outta here, we lose that. We need her to tell us what's going on."
"I tried that already," Sam argued. "It didn't work."
"No, you tried to trick her," Dean said. "We need Rebecca to talk to Sam Winchester."
Sam sat back from Dean and scrubbed his hands over his face, weary.
He's reached his breaking point, Dean thought as he examined the exhausted and angry man before him.
Sam had been through the wringer these past few days, thinking Dean was once again at the threshold of life and death, playing nursemaid for his recovering brother and watching helplessly as Dean was once again taken from him— this time by the wayward spirit haunting the hotel. Imaging himself in Sam's place made his heart flip-flop.
I gotta let up— have to take care of myself, Dean thought. And though he loathed to admit it, Dean knew that he couldn't right now. Rebecca had done quite a number on him and he was exhausted in ways he didn't think he ever could be. It hurt to think, felt like rusty nails scratching across his brain as he tried to organize his thoughts.
But Dean was in it deep with Rebecca, entwined with her in a manner that could not be explained to Sam in words. He understood things about her, intimacy that can usually only be known through years of familiarity, not unlike the closeness he shared with Sam. It was as if Dean had known her his whole life. He wanted to tell Sam about it, tried to form the words, but they scattered in his mind like leaves in the wind.
"Look, we'll go back upstairs, we'll salt the doors, I'll even let you draw however many sigils you want on me," Dean said with a smirk. "But I'm staying here until we get the job done."
Deep down, Dean knew none of these things would work because Rebecca wouldn't have to get past any barriers or protections— a part of her already resided inside him, a pathway forged without his realizing and now it was far too late to stop it. Sure, some places in the hotel were like hot spots where Rebecca's presence was stronger than in other spots, but she was still always there, omnipresent.
No sense in telling Sam. His brother was already starting to gray prematurely and Dean just couldn't add another worry on top of everything else when he knew full well there was nothing Sam could do about it.
Sam was quiet a moment, head ducked in typical Sam fashion, and then a small smile crept onto his face. "However many sigils I want?"
"Within reason," Dean hedged.
"Well, I think at least a hundred is reasonable," Sam replied.
"Oh, you would," Dean remarked.
Sam signaled to Lenny and together they both helped Dean to his feet. Despite his protests, the second Dean started to move vertigo swept him, removing all semblance of balance. Sam took hold of Dean's arm while Lenny held the door open for them.
"Thanks, Lenny," Sam said. "We've got it from here."
"Let me at least help you to your room," he said, anxious to assist.
"To the elevator's fine," Sam replied, knowing Dean would value the privacy.
"For a dead chick she certainly takes a lot outta you," Dean quipped, as soon as the elevator doors closed. And though he would deny it up and down, Dean held fast to Sam's arm because it was the only thing keeping him upright.
"Do you remember anything Rebecca said to me?" Sam asked as he watched the numbers rise.
"No, not specifically," Dean said, delving back through his disjointed memories, trying to untangle the chaos. "She was afraid to be alone, wants to leave the hotel." He glanced suspiciously up at Sam. "Why, what did she say?"
"Things wives say to their husbands," Sam replied cryptically.
"Oh, god, please tell me I didn't start up with the dirty talk."
"I assure you I was quiet flattered, Dean," Sam said with a mischievous grin.
"I hate you," Dean replied and Sam's grin widened, knowing that his brother meant just the opposite.
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When they returned back to their room, whatever levity had transpired in the elevator was immediately sobered when Dean saw the state of the room.
"I did this?" Dean asked, surveying the disarray of clothes, weapons and furniture disbursed about the room. "I don't remember."
Though Dean just shrugged and began to put things back in order, Sam knew he was disturbed by the wide gaps in his memory.
Sam picked up the phone and ordered an obscene amount of food ("It's all comped if we charge it to the room,") and then helped Dean right the mess. By the time the food arrived, things were back into some semblance of order.
Too tired to eat, Dean shoved the pizza Sam had ordered away from him and sat back on his bed. He rubbed tiredly at his eyes and sighed. "Feels like we've been here a year," Dean said. "Rebecca lived here five years and it felt like an eternity to her. At first it was glamorous, even kinda fun, but then it became a twelve story prison."
Refraining from pointing out that Dean shouldn't know something like that, Sam leaned forward in his seat, going for casual but watching his brother carefully for subtle signs of change.
"I want to put those sigils on you now," Sam said.
Dean looked horrified. "Dude, I was kidding!"
"Well, I wasn't," Sam replied.
"They didn't work last time," Dean protested, "why would they now?"
Sam stood and reached for the weapons duffle. Before Dean could disagree, Sam dragged a hunting knife across his palm, drawing a line of blood in his hand.
"Jesus, Sam!" Dean said, instantly springing to his feet, taking Sam's cut hand between his two. "You shouldn't have done that."
"Blood magic," Sam remarked. "If this doesn't keep her out, nothing will."
"What if I told you nothing will," Dean snapped angrily.
"Let me try," Sam said. "Please, Dean. Before I spill blood all over the carpet."
Sighing heavily and clearly displeased, Dean relented, allowing Sam to push him back down to his bed. "Make it quick then," he said, tugging his shirt over his head.
Sam pulled a chair over to Dean's bed and began drawing the sigils that he'd memorized from the night before onto his brother's back. His face scrunched in sympathy as his fingertips gingerly worked across bruised flesh where Dean's body had collided with the stairs.
"I think I found of a way to get rid of her," Sam said as he worked. "But we'll have to go back to the stairwell."
"You stay away from the ninth floor," Dean said. "If Rebecca's figured out she can get to me, I'm sure Robert knows he can get to you."
Sam paused, frowning. He'd almost forgotten about Robert. "I haven't felt Robert around at all— not even a hint of what it was like in that stairwell."
"Yeah, well, that doesn't mean he's not lurking somewhere," Dean said.
"Do you think it's possible that Rebecca is Robert's unfinished business?" Sam asked slowly, the gears in his head turning things in place. "Because Rebecca is not at rest, Robert also is not at rest?"
"Yeah, I guess," Dean said. "Their deaths are as complicated as their lives were."
"Exactly. Robert only seems to crop up when Rebecca tries to reach out," Sam said. He pressed at the cut on his hand, forcing more blood to well into his palm and resumed drawing.
"But Rebecca just had me," Dean said. "And you told me you didn't feel Robert at all." He straightened suddenly, shying away a little as Sam came to a ticklish spot at the curve of his lower back.
Sam smiled, remembering that once upon a time they had both been young enough for pillow fights and tickling matches and life that still had a little bit of innocence, at least for Sam anyway.
"I didn't feel Robert's presence at all. But Rebecca wasn't trying to tell me something, she wanted to get away, to escape," Sam replied. "I tried to get her to talk and then she got agitated."
"So, it's like they're stuck on that final moment," Dean said. "Replaying it over and over— whenever Rebecca tries to tell her secret, that's when Robert gets in the way."
"Right. Rebecca needs someone to tell, but Robert always intervenes— kills Rebecca—
whoever she happens to be possessing— to stop her."
"That's why there's always two," Dean said. "No sense in Rebecca appearing when no one is around to hear her confession— and that person ends up the perfect host for Robert."
"So if we put Rebecca to rest, Robert will go down too," Sam said as he finished drawing the sigils on Dean's skin. He studied the red lines carefully, looking for flaws while praying they would protect Dean.
"You finished?" Dean asked, looking over his shoulder at Sam, who nodded his reply. "Good. Now get me the first aid kit and a bunch of towels."
Dean was too exhausted to try to make it to the bathroom, but he was a determined big brother and wouldn't let himself rest until he'd made sure that Sam hadn't cut himself too deeply or needed stitches.
Wordlessly, Sam handed over the kit and the towels and sat himself back down in his chair. Dean draped a few towels over his lap, then took Sam's hand and probed the wound.
"Doesn't need stitches," Dean assessed. "But it was a damn foolish place to cut yourself. Hand wounds always take a long time to heal." He poured peroxide over Sam's hand, watching it bubble and let the towels catch the excess liquid.
"So tell me about this plan you have," Dean asked as patted the wound dry and applied firm pressure to stop the bleeding.
"If we can bind Rebecca's spirit to something else, some object that can be destroyed, we can put her to rest. No need to burn the stairs or anything in the hotel."
"Sounds complicated," Dean said distractedly, checking the towel to see if the bleeding had stopped.
"Well, it's a little involved, but we've done things that are more complex than this is," Sam explained and he began elaborating on the plan until he realized that Dean wasn't really listening.
Dean wrapped his hand carefully, shaking his head as he worked. "You shouldn't have done this, Sam," he said for the second time.
"It's not a big deal, Dean," Sam said. "You'd have done the same for me."
Dean stared at Sam as if to say, Yeah, but that's different, and then shoved the wet towels and first aid kit into Sam's lap. "Here, you take care of this, Sasquatch. I'm going to get some well deserved rest."
Sam snorted as he stood with the wet towels and first aid box. "Wouldn't want you to miss out on your beauty sleep."
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Though it felt like this day had gone on forever, it was only a little after nine pm. Dean had dozed lightly, but couldn't find real sleep. Sam had watched him try a range of sleeping positions until he finally gave up and turned on the television, flipping through various channels with disinterest.
Sam thought that maybe things would be okay now, that Rebecca really couldn't get past the sigils, until Dean clicked off the TV and went to the balcony.
He stared out through the tall glass doors for a long time as if searching for something in the darkness and then he started pacing, slow, deliberate steps. Sam knew Dean was beyond beat, that he had no energy left to waste on pacing. But he suspected that Rebecca did, had nothing but pent-up energy.
"Dean?" Sam whispered, voice filled with dread.
"Why are we still here?" he asked, pausing his stride to look over at Sam. "I had everything packed."
The color drained from Sam's face and he stood, approaching his brother carefully. "Are you still with me, Dean?"
"Of course I am, Sam," Dean said with a patented Dean-smirk. But then he said, "We've got to hurry up. I can't stand this waiting around," and went back to pacing. "This place is like a prison. It's been five years and it feels like I've been trapped here for an eternity."
And, ohgodohgod, this was horrific. Sam's plan was backfiring spectacularly in his face. This was Dean and Rebecca simultaneously. For some reason the blood sigils were both working and not working— Dean was still there, all right, but Rebecca was too.
"Hey, are you all right?" Dean asked, concerned eyes trained on his brother. But before Sam could say anything, he said, "Please. Let me come with you."
"No— Dean, it's happening again," Sam said.
"Is it Robert?" Dean asked, coming to a standstill in front of Sam.
At a total loss, Sam stared at Dean, eyes wide, swallowing compulsively, his throat suddenly dry. All of a sudden breathing became difficult. I did this to him, Sam thought. With those stupid blood sigils.
"Sam, breathe," Dean commanded, gripping his shoulders. "Don't do this to me."
A shaky chuckle escaped Sam, and he didn't know whether to laugh harder or cry. "Don't do this to you? Dean, she's got you again."
"What are you talking about, Sam?" Dean asked, but his breath was becoming labored and he pressed the heel of his palm against his forehead. "Fucking headache," he said with a soft groan.
Things were quickly escalating out of control—
"Let go of him, you bitch," Sam hissed.
Dean's face twisted with alarm and he looked like he might cry. "Why are you saying these things to me?" A trickle of blood seeped from his nose. Rebecca's upset was making Dean upset.
"Okay, okay, just relax," Sam said, attempting to placate both Dean and Rebecca. "Sit down," Sam said ushering Dean to the bed.
I need to be calm and form a plan, Sam thought, trying not to loose it.
The book he'd been reading earlier had a section on ghost possession and Sam moved across the room to the table where he'd left it.
"Are you leaving me?" Dean asked, his words low, barely above a whispered. "Don't go."
Sam stopped mid-stride, unsure who was in control now. It scared him that he couldn't tell.
"Please. I can't take it," Dean said, voice hitching. "I've wasted so much time, Sam. And I'm sorry for that. I just can't seem to get it together."
This was his brother talking, Sam realized, but it wasn't their situation he was talking about. Dean thought Sam was leaving because Warren had left Rebecca at The Addison one last time right before she was killed. Dean was completely intertwined with Rebecca, stitching her reality into his, feeling her emotions.
"I'm not going anywhere," Sam said, walking back to his brother.
"You will," Dean said despondently. He put his head in his hand, rubbing at his forehead with a grimace.
"Listen to me, Dean," Sam said, crouching down low to look up into Dean's face. "Rebecca must have felt something in you that mirrored her own anxiety, which is how she latched onto you— it's how she latched onto all her victims— but Rebecca is making you feel this way— her distress is making you upset."
"No, Sam," Dean insisted. "You don't know— you don't know!" He pounded his fist against his thigh. Visibly, Dean tried to reel in his anger.
It was very clear to Sam that Rebecca was aggravating whatever inner worry that Dean had. Her presence in him magnified his fear, blowing it up so big that it was all Dean could see, a devastating burden weighing down on him.
Telling Dean that what he was feeling wasn't actually what he was feeling was condescending at best. Still, Sam had to make him understand.
"Dean, you're all mixed up," Sam said, his voice low, trying to be gentle in its assertion. "Somehow your emotions and hers are overlapping, but they're not the same."
Eyes pressed tightly, Dean shook his head. "No, no—."
"You keep talking about wasted time— and I know, well, I think I know what you mean, but it's her, Dean. Her time is over, but yours is not."
"It's your time," Dean said, looking up at him, hazel eyes locked onto Sam's brown.
"What do you mean?"
"It's your time that's wasting, Sam," Dean said quietly. "I've been wasting it since Dad—," and he stopped there because he still couldn't quite wrap his brain around the phrase Dad died. "I have to save you," he said, his voice determined despite its shaking. "I have to."
"Dean—."
"Don't go away to Nevada again," Dean implored, heartbreak on his face. "You're all I have."
Dean was so entangled with Rebecca that Sam wondered if his mind would ever right itself. The spells of confusion were becoming more frequent than the moments of lucidity.
"It was Warren who went away to Nevada," Sam said quietly, trying to force calm into his quickly escalating breath. "Not me. I'm not going anywhere."
Gently, Sam placed his hands on Dean's knees, squeezed tenderly and swept them up his thigh and back in a consoling gesture.
Frustrated, Dean pushed his palms against his forehead again. "I'm losing my mind, Sam." He blew out a slow breath. "Really felt like you were leaving."
"Are you back with me, Dean?" Sam asked, hands still resting on his knees.
"Think so," he said. "Still— struggling a little," he said. "You're really not going?"
"No, I'm really not," Sam said with a small smile.
"Okay," Dean said, and it made Sam's heart swell because he knew Dean still felt anxious about it, but he trusted his word all the same.
"I think we should bind her right away," Sam said. "I'll figure out what we need to—."
"Your plan's not going to work, Sam," Dean interrupted.
"How do you know? We haven't even tried," Sam replied.
"You're not going to be able to bind her to something else," Dean said, with a sigh. He looked away, not meeting his brother's eyes. "Because she's already bound herself to me."
To be continued…
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Author's note:
Again, sorry this chapter is late! There's only one more to go after this, I think (unless I get terribly long-winded in chapter 8). What else? Oh, I have a crack!fic in the works. More on that next week.
Thanks for your comments and reviews :) I love hearing from you guys. I don't know about you, but I'm certainly enjoying SPN on two nights a week here in the states (Thurs and Sun) during hiatus.
Questions? Comments? Ask/tell me!
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Thanks for reading. See you next chapter.
- Li