8:55


~9~ Sleep

It took all of Garth's skills of persuasion to stop the pathologists from chopping Sam and Dean into mincemeat as soon as they got to the morgue. First of kin had to be notified, not to mention "Hank's" bureau in Texas. Sam and Dean were two key witnesses, after all.

That last thing was going to be harder to pull off. Garth was the new Bobby, and he couldn't be his own boss and Ranger Hank. Fortunately, on the way back to town, Garth had managed to contact another hunter to be on standby, ready to take the call.

This is a sticky one, no mistake. Garth stood by the gurneys bearing the two brothers, who had been stripped and covered in white sheets. Even though he couldn't see their faces now, he could not banish the sight of their lifeless eyes from when they were lying prone before the gates of hell.

"I'm gonna find whoever did this," he hissed to them. He picked up the autopsy reports from the last two vics, even though he had read them a thousand times. No signs of trauma, no toxins, no nothing to indicate sudden death. They weren't dehydrated or starved and they hadn't died from exposure. Only the cuts on their hands tied them together.

Now Garth looked at the Winchesters' reports. Sam and Dean both had cuts as well. Sam's had scabbed, and Dean's was sutured, indicating the wounds were acquired before death. But then he read something else. The brothers had matching tattoos: a star wreathed in sun waves. And both of them had been mutilated with a single brand.

Garth grabbed the sheet covering Dean and pulled it down to his chest. Sure enough, the tattoo charm that protected him from unwilling possession had been countered with a burn as thick and long as a finger, running diagonally across it. When he checked Sam, he found his the same.

Garth dropped the clipboards noisily on the table, baring his teeth. Possession. Blood. Stopped hearts and ruined charms. What did it all mean?

He would hit the books. He would drag the facts out kicking and screaming by morning if he had to chug five espressos an hour to do so. But just as Garth stepped around Dean's gurney, he spotted scarlet against the blanched sheet.

"Huh?" Lifting up the material, Garth pulled out Dean's wrist, which had several fresh cuts, including two open gashes. Blood had burst out but they weren't bleeding – how could they, when there was nothing to push the blood – and Garth was absolutely certain those wounds hadn't been there when he came in.

"Excuse me."

Garth spun around, unable to hide the guilt that flashed across his face. The medical examiner, an ancient woman with dark eyes, who looked like she could have retired twice, had appeared out of nowhere. "Exactly what do you think you are doing?"

"I...I'm on the case. I was just looking the vics over. Um..." Garth turned and grabbed Dean's stiff arm, raising it up to show her the new wounds. "This wasn't on the report."

She frowned and came closer. Garth was able to read Dr A. Corrigan on her name tag. She took a closer look at Dean's hand.

"They appear to have occurred postmortem. No excessive bleeding, no clotting, no signs of healing."

"What do you think could have caused this?" asked Garth. "The coroners were very careful bringing him in."

The examiner shrugged. "I don't know. Look at these. They weren't from grazing the ground. It was like he punched a window or mirror, and had glass embedded in his hand."

"Which I'm pretty damn sure he hasn't done. Being dead and all."

She and Garth shared a look.

"I'm going to look them over again. Just in case I've...missed something else," she said, and Garth nodded in agreement.

"I have some research to do. Call me if you find anything."

Ω

"So you time travelled and opened the door a hundred and fifty years ago?"

"Um, no, not exactly. It was really just a dimension within this one that looked like it was from the past," said Sam hesitantly. "I think."

Dean frowned at the now open door, which, according to Sam, led to the kids' bedroom.

"This...this isn't our normal gig."

Sam scoffed. "You're just figuring that out now?"

"Dude, I've never heard any of this happening to anyone! Ever! And we've encountered two monsters we've never seen before. What the hell?!"

"Hey, just calm down. We've made it this far. We can finish it."

Damn Sam and his soothing tone. Dean took a few deep breaths, locking away his confusion and fear while coaxing determination out of the shadows. It didn't need much prompting.

"Better," said Sam at his brother's expression. "Let's go."

The hunters entered the room cautiously but without pause. Several sets of windows against one wall cast in ample grey light, the infernal fog beyond as opaque as ever. Dean set the lantern down on the floor, as it was not needed, before stepping in further.

"So what are we looking for now?"

Sam shrugged, eyes drawn to his candelabra, their fickle guide. It was sitting on a dresser between two of the tiny beds, about halfway down the long, narrow room.

As Dean began investigating the beds one by one, Sam moved to the closet at the far end, frowning. When he had opened it in the alternate dimension, hunting the dark smoke that had killed the maid, he had torn everything out of there, casting it on the floor. Here, now, the same clothes and shoe boxes were in the same places he'd left them. But he was sure he'd left the closet door open. Now it was closed.

"Weird."

"Say something?" called Dean.

"Nothing." As he turned to survey the room, hands on his waist, he chewed his lip in thought. He barely got thinking when he saw the bedroom door start to close on its own.

"Hey!"

Dean spun around and made a dash for it, but before he could reach it, it clicked shut. He tried the knob, then bashed at the door.

"Locked!"

"Dude, hold it." Sam squinted from across the room, then moved closer. Words had been scratched into the solid wood.

Go to sleep.

"You've got to be joking."

"What?" Dean stepped back, and scoffed. "Sleep? Here?"

"If we want to continue, yeah, I guess."

The elder hunter growled and kicked the door. "I'm tired of this."

"Then have a nap."

He glowered at Sam, who smirked.

"Alright, smartass, where should we sleep?"

Not all of the beds still had sheets, pillows or even mattresses, but two had all three, and they were the ones on either side of the dresser bearing the candelabra. Sam nodded to them and joined his brother there, where they studied the beds.

"Kinda...small." Sam figured he could fit everything but his legs from mid-thigh down. And it would be little easier for Dean.

"Hey, I've seen you curl up in your sleep a few times," said Dean, smirking. "You're like a little hamster."

It was Sam's turn to glower. "Bite me." He sat on the bed closer to the closet. Dust whorled up around him, and he breathed slowly until it rested. At least the frame didn't break under his weight.

Dean meanwhile gave his bed a few kicks. "I'm not gonna sleep on this if there's rats." But nothing came scurrying out, so he, too, sat before lying down. He kept his knees bent so he wouldn't have to hang his legs over the wrought iron footboard. "Comfy."

Sam lied diagonally across the mattress, feet on the floor. It was anything but comfy, but he'd slept in the Impala on more than one occasion. He could take an hour or two on a teeny bed.

"Sleep tight," said Dean.

Sam folded the flaccid pillow and set it under his head before nestling down. "Sweet dreams."