Title: From Yesterday
Fandom: Supernatural
Author: gaelicspirit
Characters: Dean, Sam, and OCs
Disclaimer/Summary: See Prologue
Author's Note: I can't thank you guys enough for sticking with me through this story and continuing to share your thoughts via reviews. I appreciate the gift of your time very much - and I apologize for not having replied personally (yet). I will, but it may take me a bit as right now my spare time is going toward finishing this story. This is the final chapter in Part One of our heroes journey. From here, things get just a tad more complicated...
Hope you enjoy!
Dean was running out of shells.
His right hand was visibly shaking and was shooting sparks of pain up his arm every time he even thought about using it, but he had no choice: he had to keep reloading. He'd been able to dispel Maggie's spirit three more times since Tommy had sprinted from the house, but each time she seemed to grow in strength, spreading shadows like tentacles from the tips of her fingers.
The stench of darkness – mold and rot and stagnant water – permeated everything in the house, forcing Dean to breathe shallow or gag. He hoped that Tommy was getting closer to digging up all of the bones.
Because Maggie was one pissed-off spirit.
He'd managed to avoid being tossed around like a rag-doll for the most part, primarily because she seemed to fear him looking directly at her. He could only surmise it had something to do with whatever the hell was up with his eyes.
He yearned to ask Castiel about it. Was it tied to the amulet? To his tapping into that power? And what the hell was he supposed to do about it now?
But the angel was gone – no vessel, no voice, and apparently no way of reaching out to Dean. He hadn't answered Sam's prayers when Dean was in the hospital, and he hadn't answered Dean's prayers in the weeks afterward.
Dean was on his own with this one.
Once dispelling the second re-manifestation after Tommy left, Dean felt himself weakening. His back was throbbing, his arm and hand aching, and he couldn't run without limping. There were only so many places to hide in the old farmhouse – that was slowly being destroyed by the minute. He couldn't open any of the exterior doors; he'd given his matches to Tommy, and there were apparently no candles or flashlights in the entire freakin' house.
And now he was running out of shells.
"Great idea, Dean," he muttered to himself. "Come out to the farm house. We'll get together, have a few laughs," he quipped, wiping the sweat from his already blurry vision. "Way to start this year different."
Boo-hoo, Princess.
Dean whipped his head to the side; Bobby's voice so real he would have been willing to swear on a stack of Bibles that the old hunter was in the room with him.
"Bobby?"
The empty house mocked him as the shadows seemed to eat each other, growing in size and density, gathering at the erased corner of his vision and hanging there. Nothing. Nobody. Just a memory of a voice, a sensation of warmth and comfort, and a longing for safety.
What made you think this was going to be easy?
"And now I'm losing my mind," he muttered.
Dean cradled the shotgun against his chest and used his forearm to chamber the next round. Real or imagined, the memory of Bobby's voice was helping steady him, giving him a sense of solace and strength that had been slowly siphoning away as the night wore on.
You think you were going to smoke this spirit just because you're Dean Winchester? Because you're so damn bad ass?
"It had crossed my mind."
You stopped one little Apocalypse and now spirits everywhere will cower in fear.
"Would be nice," he muttered to the empty house, eyes searching the shadows for the tell-tale sign that Maggie was back.
Don't work that way, Son.
"Starting to get that picture."
You gotta fight, Dean. You fight every damn day; this day is just one more.
"I'm not quitting, Bobby."
You know what needs to be done. You just got find a way to make it happen.
"I'm trying," he whispered fiercely, wishing with everything in him that the man was actually with him, standing next to him, staring at him with fierce eyes, ready to pull him close for a hug. "I'm trying, Bobby."
He pressed his forehead to the crook of his elbow, body trembling slightly.
It don't gotta be you, though, Dean.
That brought his head up.
It's gotta be done…but it doesn't have to be done by you.
Before he could think of an appropriate reply to that profoundly confusing statement, he heard Maggie's screech once more, the bricks of the fireplace he'd tucked himself next to rattling from the force of it. He rolled away and pushed to his feet, stumbling violently when his hip seized up unexpectedly, the pain of it shooting across his lower back and echoing up his spine. He gasped and cried out, lurching forward in an awkward gait to what appeared to be Greta McMahon's pantry.
Turning in a tight circle, he ran his hands along the shelves, trying to identify packages by feel. Crackers, cereal boxes, spices, cans, cans, glass jars of something, more cans—there! Salt.
It wouldn't stop her, but it would keep her from tossing him around for awhile. He spread a thick line of it in the doorway of the pantry, then pushed himself back in the corner, shotgun at the ready.
Feeling around in his pockets, he pulled out the last four rounds of shotgun shells. After that, he had holy water and a small, bright hope that Tommy would be able to find all the bones. Fishing around in the pockets of his jacket on the off-chance he'd missed a shell, his fingers closed over his cell phone.
He pulled it out and turned it on.
Three missed calls, all from Sam.
Dropping his head back against one of the shelves he swore. "This just gets better and better."
Sam hadn't left any messages, but Dean couldn't not call him back. Taking a breath, he squared his shoulders and, with a wary eye on the doorway, dialed Sam's number.
"Dean?"
"Hey, Sammy," he whispered.
"Where the hell are you?"
"Uh…a pantry, I think." Dean swallowed, his back choosing that moment to throb painfully, causing him to gasp.
"You okay?" Sam's tone immediately shifted.
"Been better." He could feel the tension and fear radiating off of his brother through the phone. "Been worst, too, though."
"Bleeding?"
"No."
"Broken?"
"Not yet."
Sam was quiet on the other end of the phone and Dean swore he could hear him mentally counting to ten.
"I'm sorry, man."
"You said you were going to go through Bobby's books."
"I said I might."
"You said you needed a quiet night."
"I did."
"What the hell, man?" The words you promised dangled from the phone line between them.
Before Dean could answer, Maggie spirit found him, the darkness outside the door groaning and stretching in loud protestation of his treatment. The inky tendrils of her hair reached for him, held back only by the invisible barrier of the salt, but Dean knew that wouldn't hold her off for long. He looked up at her face, and realized either whatever he held in his eyes that had kept her at bay was dimming, or she was growing that much stronger because she pushed forward.
Around him, the darkness breathed. And Sam heard it.
"How bad?" Sam asked, years of hunter's muscle memory kicking in.
"Think bad…then multiply by two," Dean managed, trying to balance the phone and the shotgun at the same time.
He heard Sam swallow. "Oh, good. For a minute there I thought we were in trouble."
Maggie rushed the barrier, pushed back by the salt line, but her movement startled Dean into dropping the phone. He pulled away, but realized that the shadows only made him more visible to her.
"Dammit, Tommy, what the hell is taking you so long?" he muttered.
Lifting the shotgun, he blasted Maggie's spirit with both barrels, wincing as she came apart once more. Fumbling in the dark, he found his phone, relieved to see Sam hadn't hung up.
"Sammy?"
"I'm on my way," Sam told him, then hung up.
Dean forced two more shells into the shotgun, and pulled himself painfully to his feet. He crept from the pantry to the kitchen door, trying it once more, to no avail. He made his way through the dining room to the parlor, trying the front door, the windows, even one of the larger air vents. He was still trapped inside the old stone farmhouse with a homicidal spirit, his only hope a nervous kid who probably hadn't even found the graveyard yet.
Except no…Sam was coming. Sam was on his way.
As much as he hadn't wanted his brother involved, as much as he wanted to do this one on his own, Dean had to admit the knowledge that Sam would be here soon to dig him out brought him immeasurable comfort.
There was no one alive he trusted more than his brother.
"Cas?" he whispered tentatively in the dark. "Sure could use some kinda sign you've got your ears on out there. Being all…guardian and stuff."
The house breathed quietly around him. Whatever Lucifer had done to his friend when he blew up Cas' vessel had sent the angel too far away to return, no matter how much need Dean infused into his prayer. He hung his head for a moment, once more accepting the truth, and with that acceptance feeling the loss as keenly as the first time.
This time, when Maggie's spirit returned, he never saw her coming.
It was as if she'd learned his weak points, his blind spot, and came at him from the left, grabbing him up and throwing him across the room before he even had a chance to gasp. He crashed through the partially demolished wall and landed, hard, on his back. He felt something give and feared he quite literally had a screw loose. He lay still, trying to get his breath, pieces of wood and construction dust all around him.
Something wet ran down into his eye and he realized one of his scars had opened –like a fault line on his forehead. Once he realized his head was bleeding, the pain blossomed, clean and clear and right through his eye down to his jaw.
Clumsily, he reached down to his side for his shotgun and froze in horror when the sling came up empty. The gun had been torn free of his grasp when he'd blasted through the wall, lost in the other room where Maggie awaited, skittering and crawling across the walls amid the groaning darkness.
Rolling to his side, Dean tried to push himself upright, but was caught by a sharp pain in his side. Looking down, he saw a three inch piece of wood sticking out from his skin, a giant splinter piercing his ribs. It hadn't gone deep enough to cause real damage, but that didn't mean that it didn't hurt like hell when he pulled it out.
"Ahhh! Oh, you bitch!" He shot furious eyes at her and she shrank back, pulling up into the shadowed corner of the room. "You are so gonna fuckin' burn."
He pressed his hand to his side, steeling himself against the sharp sting he felt there, and made it to his knees, his eyes still on Maggie. Crawling on his scarred hand and knees, his left hand still pressed to his side, he entered the room where she hovered, feeling around for his shotgun. When he hit it with his knuckles, he tried to pull it toward him with his claw-like right hand, but it was too awkward.
Releasing his wounded side, he grabbed the shotgun with a blood-smeared hand. He was forced to balance the gun between his knees as he used his left hand to reload, keeping his eyes on the spirit. Once the load was chambered, he wasted no time in blasting the salt pellets straight at Maggie, then turned and half-stumbled, half-ran towards the stairs. There was only one room he hadn't yet tried to take refuge in: Greta's bedroom.
He made it to the top of the stairs before he felt the house inhale once more.
"Dammit," he growled, throwing himself at the door at the end of the hall, directly across from Tommy's. He made it into the room, falling to his knees on the other side of the door, and slammed it behind him.
The room was pristine. Immaculate. None of the destruction or wreckage that had been visited upon the rest of the house had touched Greta's room. Yet.
Dean crawled to the far corner, between two large windows, and rested against the bend in the wall. His side burned, the blood warm as it soaked through his T-shirt. His head throbbed where the scar above his eyebrow had opened. His back, hip and hand were a jumbled mess of raw nerve, twinging with every ragged breath.
And he was down to his last two shells.
"C'mon, Sammy," he groaned, closing his eyes and dropping his head back, thankful for the interlude of calm.
Which ended just as the door to Greta's room blasted inward, bouncing violently off the wall, the top hinge sagging away from the frame. The fingers of dark slipped around the door frame and Dean chambered the last two rounds.
"Bring it, you bitch."
"Tell me again exactly what Tommy said when he called you."
Mason was pacing around the tight space of his office, rubbing the back of his head and pulling at his hair in hard, quick tugs. Sam had been trying to get the man to calm down since he walked into the garage and Dean's call did nothing to help him in that regard.
"Said he'd gone to his house to get some of his things – like we knew he was going to – and some woman attacked him." Mason stopped, leaned against the wall and covered his face with his hands. The rest of his words were muffled as he continued. "Said she locked him in his closet and wrapped him up with his clothes…whatever the hell that means. Said Dean got there and the woman attacked Dean, too."
"Did he say how Dean knew he was there?" Sam asked, narrowing his eyes at the big man.
Mason dropped his hands. "I don't think he did, kid. I think Dean just…he knew something was wrong with that place. Some kind of…Spidey sense or something."
Sam dragged a hand down his face. "Okay, so where is Tommy now?"
Mason took a breath. "He bailed. Dumb shit. He said Dean shot the woman – told him it was a spirit, first, then shot her – and she fuckin' disappeared – direct quote. Said Dean told him to dig up the bones and burn them and then got him out of the house." Mason looked at Sam, his blue eyes anguished. "Right before Dean was sucked back inside."
"How'd you know to call me?" Sam asked.
Mason lifted a shoulder. "Dean talks about you all the time. And…well, I figured if he was a hunter, you were, too."
"You know about hunters?"
Mason nodded. "Told Dean when I was helping him at the shooting range."
"Wait, shooting range?" Sam held up a hand. "Goddammit, Dean." He slammed the hand flat against Mason's desk.
"Son, don't get angry with him, now," Mason stepped forward. "He's just trying to find himself again. The boy is lost. He is broken and lost and he is just trying to figure out which path to take."
"He picked the wrong damn one," Sam muttered. Shoving a hand into his hair he turned toward the door. "Okay, you know where Tommy's house is?"
"Yeah."
"We need to swing by my house before we head out there."
"Can't we just go?"
Sam shook his head. "We need supplies."
"Right. Supplies," Mason said, grabbing keys from a hook on a wall just inside the door. "Let's go."
Mason's truck was large and loud, but as long as it got them to where they needed to go, Sam didn't care. He couldn't get the sound out of his head – the sound of something groaning, something coming for his brother. He couldn't stop hearing the pain and breathlessness of Dean's voice.
And he couldn't stop replaying the image of seeing his own hands beating his brother to death.
When they reached the boys' house, Sam marched straight to Dean's room and tore open the lid of the trunk at the foot of his brother's bed. He'd known Dean kept all their weapons; he considered it a win that his brother had pulled them from the Impala. He couldn't expect Dean to get rid of them.
He should have realized it was simply Dean biding his time.
"There's a damn good reason I wanted us to quit hunting, you know," Sam said, sensing Mason standing in the doorway behind him.
He handed the man a sawed-off shotgun and a handful of rock salt shells. It was clear Dean had restocked at some point.
"Don't doubt you there," Mason said.
"You've seen his scars," Sam continued to defend himself. "You gotta know it was bad."
"I know."
"I just wanted to keep him alive," Sam shoved several bullets into the repeater rifle, "but I don't think he cares about that."
He started toward the doorway and Mason grabbed his arm. "He cares, Sam."
Sam turned on him, his expression fierce, echoing the heated anger percolating just beneath the surface of his control. "And how the hell do you know that? You've spent all of, what? Six weeks with him? I've been with him my whole life."
Mason lifted his chin, but didn't release Sam's arm.
"He's all I've got," Sam continued, his voice crackling with impotent anger. "Don't think it's too much to want to keep him alive."
Mason shook his head. "But, Sam…there's alive…and there's living."
Sam yanked his arm away. "Lemme go or he's not gonna have a chance to figure out which one he wants."
The bag of rock salt, shovel, and kerosene was missing from the footlocker; Sam surmised Dean had taken it with him. His brother might be reckless, but he wasn't stupid.
As they headed from their small house back across the river, Mason told Sam what he knew of the events that had transpired with Tommy's grandma and how Dean had taken the news. Sam began to file back through his memories of the hours he'd seen Dean at the computer, the way he'd looked through specific books from Bobby's collection Christmas night, the odd drawings that had looked like floor plans Dean had managed to sketch out with his non-dominate hand.
Dean hadn't gone into this hunt half-cocked. He'd just gone in handicapped. And alone.
"When we get there," Sam told Mason, "you follow my lead. You do exactly what I say. Got that?"
"You're the boss, kid."
They pulled up in front of a seemingly innocuous stone house, parking behind the Impala. As Sam got out, he saw another car across the street with a man sitting inside. As he shut the door, he recognized Sergeant Jackson. He looked at Mason across the hood of the truck.
"You called the cops?"
"No." Mason's scowl was formidable. "I called my brother-in-law. Who, you might be surprised to learn, has been worried about you two since the moment he found you blood-soaked and practically dead at that damn cemetery."
Jackson climbed out of the car, looking much less malevolent in civilian attire.
"Wait, he was there?" Sam asked, surprised, his memory of that night filled with lost time and bottomless holes.
Mason nodded as Jackson approached. "He was with the first responders."
Sam looked over at Jackson, who'd clearly heard what his brother-in-law had revealed.
"I-I didn't know."
Jackson lifted a shoulder, the white hairs in his sandy beard catching the moonlight. He stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Mason and regarded Sam solemnly. "No way you could have."
Sam looked over his shoulder. "Okay, so…Dean's in the house," he said, clearing his throat, needing to focus on the task at hand and not the fact that there were people who worried about them – people neither he nor Dean had factored into their survival. "But he wouldn't have gone in without a plan. And we need to figure out how to get him outta there in one piece." He looked back at Mason. "You said Dean told Tommy it was a spirit of a woman?"
He waited for Jackson's look of disbelief or bark of denial. Both men were silent and somber.
Mason nodded.
"Okay, so," Sam shoved his fingers through his hair. "That means there must be a grave site around here somewhere."
"This house has been around since before the Civil War," Jackson told them. "One of the oldest in Lawrence."
"So…family plot?" Sam guessed. "Maybe around back?"
"They just started building that new apartment complex on the field just north of the house," Mason said as they began walking across the frozen ground toward the back of the house.
"Well, that would do it," Sam muttered. "Why didn't they move the gra—"
His question was cut off with the sound that had all three men jumping in alarm. An unearthly screech – like a night owl possessed – sounded just before the unmistakable retort of a shotgun blast followed by a man's enraged bellow. Sam instinctively started for the house, but stopped himself with a curse. If he ran blindly in after Dean before finding the graves, he wouldn't be doing his brother any good.
"What the fuck was that?" Mason exclaimed.
"A spirit," Sam told him, hurrying toward the back of the house.
"How is it no one is calling dispatch?" Jackson called out to them. "You're telling me no one around here heard that?"
"Welcome to my world," Sam muttered, skidding to a stop as he saw a discarded flashlight – the beam still illuminated – and the outline of a shovel about 50 yards north of him. "Look! There."
They ran three abreast to where Sam pointed and he saw that Tommy had apparently at least started to dig up the earth before bugging out. Kicking aside the shovel, Sam fell to his knees and brushed frost from the faded tombstone.
"Can't read this one. You see anymore?"
"Here!" Jackson called just a few feet away. "Somebody Flynn?"
"They're probably all Flynns," Sam surmised, "if this is a family plot. We just don't know which one—"
"Here's another!" Mason told him. "Can't read the name here either."
"All of 'em," Sam jumped to his feet, tossing the extra shovel toward Mason. "Dig 'em all up. Pour this," he grabbed the bag of salt, "over the bones and light 'em up."
"Burn them?" Jackson asked.
"You have to burn the bones to ash to end the spirit," Sam told him. Jackson frowned. "You asked about the grave desecration on our record, Jackson? Now you know."
He started to turn away and his foot kicked at something metal. Looking down he saw it was Dean's Desert Eagle. He grabbed it up and slipped it into his waistband, the cold metal against the small of his back making him gasp.
"Keep digging until you get all the bones," Sam told them. "If something – anything—tries to stop you, use the shotgun. It's filled with rock salt. Won't kill a human and will temporarily dispel the spirit."
"Wait! Where are you going?" Mason called.
"I'm gonna go get my brother outta that house," Sam muttered.
Without another word, he took off for the back porch at a run, dread building at the base of his skull and sending his pulse skyward. He felt his breath hammering against his lungs in a rush to escape and had to force himself to calm down just before he slammed his foot against the back door and rushed inside. Not more than a second after he plunged into the darkened kitchen, though, the door was sucked shut behind him, making him jump and duck instinctively.
He grabbed for the handle, turning and pulling, to no avail.
"Great," he muttered.
"I think the word you're looking for is fuck, Sam."
He flinched to the side, searching the darkness for Dean.
"I'm over here." His brother's voice was ragged, tired, but there was definitely still fight in him.
Sam followed the direction he'd heard and saw Dean had holed himself up inside a…closet? Or maybe a pantry?
"Watch the salt," Dean admonished as Sam made his way forward.
"Right," Sam muttered, stepping across the threshold and crouching down next to Dean. "So…fuck, huh?" he asked with forced casualness.
Dean nodded. "Shit, dammit…it all works, but after you've spent New Year's Eve getting your ass handed to you by a woman made out of shadows, fuck pretty much fits the bill."
"Why are you hiding in a closet?"
"It's a pantry," Dean corrected. "And it's pretty much the last safe place in this whole damn house – including all the bedrooms. Shoulda just stayed here in the first place," he sighed.
Sam skimmed Dean's face with the flashlight, noting the blood making a trail through his eyebrow and down the left side of his face.
"Though you said you weren't bleeding," he chastised.
"I wasn't. Then she threw me through a wall."
"Anywhere else?"
"My side. It's not bad."
Sam pulled Dean's jacket away and saw the dark stain on his brother's shirt. "Dammit, Dean."
"Hey, I had a plan."
"Some plan."
"Would've worked if Tommy'd listened to me and stayed the hell away."
"So…got a new plan?" Sam sat back on his haunches, shining the flashlight beam above Dean's head and looking for more supplies they could use to their advantage.
"Was kinda hoping you'd brought one with you," Dean confessed on a groan as he tried to push himself upright. Sam could see his right hand shaking in the shadows cast by the flashlight.
"I got Mason and Jackson out back digging up graves."
Dean blinked at the names, but didn't react more than that. "Well, that's something. Now we just gotta get out of this damn house."
"Yeah." Sam nodded, gripping his brother's elbow and helping him to his feet. When Dean swayed on the spot, Sam held his arm tighter. "Easy, you're okay."
Dean was about fifty feet outside of okay, but as he'd said to Sam on the phone, he'd been worse.
"She's strong, Sam," Dean told him. "Won't take her long to regroup from that last hit – and it was my last hit, by the way. I'm outta ammo."
Sam dug into his pocket and stacked six shells on the shelf in front of Dean, mindful of what would happen if he placed them in his brother's hand.
"Ha-HA! That's m'boy," Dean said, a grin evident in his tone.
"How long you want to wait here?" Sam asked as he watched Dean transfer his shotgun from his left-handed grip to cradle in his right arm.
He ached to reach out and take the gun from his brother, load it for him, but that wasn't going to help. If Dean wanted to do this, then he was going to have to do this.
"Ready when you are," Dean said, once he'd pocketed the extra shells and had a loaded shotgun.
They crossed the salt line and started for the back door. Sam sensed movement a heartbeat before Dean barked Down! They dropped as one, the refrigerator torn from the wall slamming against the door, barely missing their heads in the process.
"Holy shit!" Sam breathed. He dropped his flashlight, pulling the spare gun free.
"Well, that's new," Dean remarked, pushing to his feet. "Let's try the front door."
They started forward once more, Dean taking point with Sam behind, covering their back. The moonlight that filtered through the large windows played with his vision, but it was enough for Sam to see the warzone the house had become. Even the stairs were impassible, Sam realized as they walked by the base of them, with three or four steps completely obliterated right in the middle of the flight.
"You do all this?" Sam whispered.
"I had some help," Dean shot back. "Maggie's not much for feng shui."
Maggie. So he even knew who the ghost was. Sam should have known that Dean would have gone in with all of his bases covered.
He just hadn't anticipated how strong the ghost would be – which wouldn't have been a problem if Dean had been up to his usual fighting strength. And Sam doubted his brother would ever be as strong as he was before, no matter how adept he became with using his left hand.
"Sam," Dean said suddenly, his tone putting Sam on alert.
Sam felt a tap on his shoulder signaling him in habits so ingrained he'd never forget them that he needed to shift right, adjust his focus. They rotated, facing the same direction and Sam saw Maggie's spirit for the first time.
"What the hell…."
"Sam, meet Maggie: Ghost of Shadows."
A sudden, overpowering stench of rot and putrid water permeated the air around them and Sam gagged, bringing up his elbow to cover his mouth and nose.
"Yeah, pretty, ain't it?" Dean remarked. "I call it Dark Number 5. Seemed fitting."
Sam's eyes were watering. The shadows stretched, groaning and creaking like wood bearing too much weight. He blinked back the tears and watching in horror as the spirit's hair seemed to spread across the walls and ceiling, reaching for them. He was afraid of what would happen if the shadows touched them.
And then he realized that as the tendrils crawled forward, Maggie crawled away. Slinking into the far corner of the front parlor, she crawled backwards up the wall to perch in the corner of the ceiling and stare down at them with the empty eyes of death.
"Why isn't she trying to kill us?" Sam whispered.
"She doesn't like it when I look at her," Dean replied, his voice mild, but his words rattling Sam more than the haunting image of Maggie Flynn's spirit.
Shooting a glance toward his brother, Sam saw what he hadn't noticed before in the pantry, his concentration more on the blood than anything else. Dean's eyes seemed to be reflecting light, as if capturing the moonlight that filtered into the room. It was the same strange glow he'd seen before, but had convinced himself that he'd just been a trick of light or memory.
It wasn't anything like the light he'd seen pour from his brother that night at Stull, but it had gooseflesh rippling across his arms just the same.
"I don't know what it is," Dean was saying with that same calm, curious tone, "but I saw it in my reflection up in a mirror upstairs. Before she blew it up."
Sam looked back at Maggie, trying to match Dean's casual attitude about the fact that he was able to hold a ghost at bay with a glance. "Yeah, I...um...I think I saw it before."
"Huh," Dean replied, not looking away from the ghost. "Too bad we don't know any angels we can ask."
Personally, Sam was happy to be rid of angels. And their alter-egos. But now wasn't the time to bring that up. "How long can you hold her off?"
"Not much longer. I blink and we're toast."
"'kay," Sam said, bringing up his rifle loaded with consecrated iron. "You ready?"
He saw Dean lift his shot gun from the corner of his eyes, using his right forearm to chamber a round. Dean's right hand was visibly shaking and the motion caused the barrel to shift.
"Now!" Dean yelled.
Sam pulled the trigger. He could hear Maggie's scream and closed his eyes, ducking away as the sensation of something utterly dark flooded him. Opening his eyes, he saw Dean sagging against one of the exposed support beams, but no Maggie.
"Let's go," he said, pushing at Dean's shoulder.
They turned toward the front door. Sam reached for the handle. The air around him sucked close and before he could shout a warning, a cry of protest, anything, he was yanked back, off his feet, into the darkness of the house.
Dean was hurting.
It was more than just pulled muscles, bruises, bleeding side. It was more than just damaged nerves and shaking limbs. It was pride and will and need and the inability to do what used to come so easily to him.
It was failing so completely at the only thing he'd ever been good at.
When he saw Sam crash through that kitchen door, he'd felt a rush of relief and gratitude mixed with a shame so deep he felt it when he breathed. His brother had been right: he wasn't ready. And now, he'd gotten Sam involved. The only thing he had going for him was whatever the hell was going on with his eyes.
And even that seemed to be fading.
So when he was able to hold her off – even for a moment – before she dug her freaky-assed shadow-tentacles into Sam, Dean felt a surge of satisfaction. Which lasted until he felt that vacuum once more pull him away from the door and throw him across the room. This time, though, he wasn't able to tuck and roll.
He hit the far wall of the living room with such force that for a moment everything went black, silent. He lost time, unsure how long had passed between impact and taking his next large, choking breath. He lay on the ground, curled to his side where he'd apparently fallen, trying only to breathe, unable to determine what damaged he'd sustained.
When he was able to drag in a breath without the painful stabbing sensation in his lungs, Dean took inventory. He was fairly certain that while everything hurt, nothing was broken. His side was warm with blood and his head throbbed with unforgiving ferocity. He fumbled for his gun, but came up empty. The last he remembered it being in his hand was when he'd been facing the door. With his luck, he'd probably dropped it over there.
The most disturbing fact of all, though, was that he couldn't see or hear Sam.
"Sam?" he tried, his voice paper-thin and breathless. Clearing his throat, he tried again, barking, "Sam!"
And suddenly the spirit was there, hovering over him, staring at him with her dead eyes, her breath – if that's what it was – the stagnant stench that had overpowered them moments ago. He had nothing to fight her off – no weapons and little strength. She reached out with hands like rotting paper and stroked his cheek with an almost loving caress.
Dean groaned at the contact, trying to pull away, but with the wall behind him there wasn't far to go. Gasping out a trembling breath, he stared at her, hoping something of the light inside of him shown outward; if anything she got closer, seeming to seep into his skin, the darkness pressing close with damp intimacy.
"No," Dean growled, wanting to push her away, left with nothing to push against. "Not like this."
Needing to look anywhere but at that shadowed face, his eyes desperately roamed the room, finally seeing Sam curled on his side against the wall on the other side of the hall from him. Panic slammed into Dean with the force of a freight train. The ghost shifted, turning her attention from him toward where he was looking.
The shadows began to shift from Dean, turning toward Sam's still form and Dean growled again, only this time it was wordless, feral, and it pulled her attention back to him. He felt the air around him still, the shadows threading through his hair, his clothes, weaving around him like sea weed and he stared at her, searching for where her eyes should be, watching with satisfaction as she began to shrink away from his gaze.
In that moment, Sam shifted, rolling to his back with a pained groan and Maggie turned to him once more.
No!
"Sam!" Dean barked, desperate to alert his brother, to bring him around enough he could grab a weapon.
He saw Sam's head rotated toward him, heard his brother curse, then saw him push upright, reaching for his rifle. Maggie's shadows reached for Sam, tentacles wrapping around his outstretched arm, causing his brother to gasp at the contact.
No!
No fucking spirit was going to take Sam, not while he could stop them.
Moving on instinct, Dean used the wall to push to his feet, stumbling unsteadily forward until he was standing between Maggie and Sam, straddling Sam's outstretched legs, breaking off the shadows mid-grasp. He barely registered that he was weaponless; all he could think about was keeping the spirit away from Sam.
"Dean!" Sam called with a tone that Dean recognized.
Without looking, Dean reached back and felt the cold metal barrel of his Colt 1911 fall neatly into his outstretched left hand. Pulling it forward and aiming – remembering all of the recent reminders to make the weapon an extension of his arm – he fired, the iron slicing through the shadows and embedding into the wall behind Maggie as the spirit screamed.
Dean kept firing, sensing Sam rising to his feet behind him, but the iron wasn't enough to chase Maggie off, not this time. She was too angry, too strong, and his arm was tired enough many of the shots went wide. He could hear Sam moving around to his left, but couldn't see what his brother was doing, the curtain over his vision complete in the shadowed house.
When the shotgun roared, Dean realized Sam had found his dropped gun and reloaded it with rock salt. Maggie's scream shook the house, a cry of rage that had Dean going to his knees with the intensity of the sound. He turned and saw it had the same effect on Sam. To his horror, the ghost surged forward as if sensing this was her last chance and her shadows blasted against Sam, pushing him back and away, slamming his body against the far wall.
"You bitch!" Dean roared, reaching for the broken bits of wood that had once been a wall and attempted to pull himself up once more, the sight of Sam hitting the wall angering him more than anything Maggie had attempted thus far.
And then, unexpectedly, Maggie stilled, pulling abruptly up into the far corner of the room. Dean blinked at her, surprised, and then he saw it: fire – a glowing, coal-like burn – traveling through the dark tendrils and encompassing her body until, with a last almost pitiful scream, she was gone, the house quiet, the stench and the darkness evaporated.
Dean dropped back against the wall. "I take back every bad thing I've ever said about cops," he muttered wearily.
The first rays of dawn were illuminating the sky outside and turning the destroyed interior of the house to a fine, light gray. Rolling to his side, he found Sam again. His brother hadn't moved. Dean started to stand, but his side protested vehemently.
He settled for crawling.
"Sammy?"
Grasping Sam's shoulder, Dean turned his brother to his back, trying to determine where his injuries were. He could see nothing sticking out of him that shouldn't be, but when he looked up at Sam's face, he saw a trickle of blood running down his forehead, across the bridge of his nose.
"Sam. Sam! Sammy," Dean shook his brother once, roughly, hoping for a groan, a complaint, a blink of the eyes. "Sam. Open your eyes."
When Sam failed to respond, fear stabbed through Dean; thoughts of a cracked skull, of dangerous head wounds, of losing his brother forever after sacrificing so much to keep him alive, here with him, flashed through him at lightning speed.
As if compelled to move of its own accord – knowing exactly what would happen and not caring about the ramifications – Dean watched his trembling right hand reach out and press against Sam's face.
Instantly, his world went dark.
He couldn't move; it was as if he were paralyzed by the bolt of electricity that shot through his system, jarring his damaged body and freezing his lungs. Unable to think, to move, to breathe, he was a prisoner within himself, aware that the thing keeping him here was his contact with Sam, unable to break it.
The only thing he could think to do was imagine light – brilliant light, pushing the darkness away, tunneling it to a pinprick, rather than filling his reality with a black void.
The next moment, he felt his hand knocked away and he collapsed back, his chest heaving as he sucked in great gulps of air. He could hear his name being called, but he couldn't open his eyes; it took too much effort. He needed all of his strength to breathe.
A voice filtered into his consciousness. He knew he needed to—
"…c'mon, Dean, please…"
—open his eyes.
"Hey," he rasped.
Sam was sitting next to him, blood smeared across his cheek from where he'd apparently wiped at it. He sagged in visible relief when Dean spoke, tears pooling in his eyes. It was getting lighter outside, Dean realized, because he could see Sam very clearly now.
"You jerk," Sam sniffed.
"What did you see?" Dean asked, knowing that when his world when dark, Sam's lit up like a movie reel on high-def.
"It was…weird," Sam told him. "It was just…you. Yelling."
Dean closed his eyes, huffing out a breath of air. That was weird. Well, weird-er than the other times they'd made contact.
"Probably yelling at you," he said. Sam laughed a small, teary laugh.
"I've never seen you before, Dean," Sam confessed, sniffing and wiping at his bleeding head. "I've just seen what you've seen."
Dean blinked at him. His subconscious was a strange one. "Maybe I was yelling at me."
Sam shook his head, not ready to let it go, but clearly without answers.
"You think you can get up?" Sam asked him.
Dean nodded, but in truth, he wasn't sure. He really was hurting. "Where're the grave diggers?"
Sam looked over Dean's shoulder toward one of the windows. "I think they're still outside."
"We're gonna have a lot of explaining to do," Dean commented as he managed to make it to a sitting position. The house was utterly destroyed. "Not much to auction off now."
"Let's just get outside," Sam replied, his voice tight.
With Sam's help, Dean was able to make it to his feet, but he realized quickly he wasn't even close to being steady on them. Sam wasn't faring much better, Dean realized when he caught the pained groan Sam tried to stifle as he pinched the bridge of his nose.
"C'mon," Sam encouraged, looping an arm around Dean's waist and letting Dean drape an arm across his shoulders. As long as Sam didn't touch his skin, they'd be okay.
"What 'bout the guns?" Dean muttered.
"We'll get 'em later," Sam replied, and they shuffled toward the front door.
For a fraction of a second, Dean was afraid it wouldn't open just like so many times he'd tried it throughout the night, but as they approached it swung wide to reveal Jackson and Mason standing on the porch, dirty and soot-covered, shovels and a shotgun in their hands. The brothers stood, wavering on the spot, staring back at the two men, too tired to do much besides wait for the inevitable.
"Holy shit," Mason muttered, dropping his shovel and reaching for Dean.
Sam gave him over, then leaned heavily against the door frame. Dean allowed his boss to take his weight, knowing there was no way he was going to be able to stand on his own. He looked at Jackson.
"Help Sam," he asked. "Cracked his head pretty good."
Jackson was staring at him with such concern Dean wondered just how bad he looked. To his relief, though, the cop stepped forward and allowed Sam to sling an arm over his shoulder.
"Dean needs a hospital," Sam said.
"You both do," Jackson returned.
"Hey." Dean dug his heels in, stopping Mason from hauling him down the stairs to his truck. "Thanks."
"For what?" Mason replied. "Digging up hundred year old bones and setting them on fire?"
Dean nodded. "And for believing us." He looked at Jackson. "I mean it."
"You are two of the craziest guys I've ever met," Jackson replied. "But I gotta say…a lot more makes sense now."
Dean tried to laugh at Jackson's statement, wanted to say something appropriately sarcastic in reply to the cop's epiphany, but the events of the night were quickly catching up to him. The adrenalin that had carried him through the night drained quickly, leaving him dizzy and swaying. He knees buckled and he felt Mason shift to take more of his weight.
"Dean?" Sam's voice filtered toward him through a veil of pain and weariness.
He tried to respond, but his tongue wouldn't cooperate, his body rebelling, becoming limp and unresponsive. Dimly, he felt himself lifted up, an arm tucked under his knees, his head cushioned on a sturdy shoulder. He tried to turn toward where he knew Sam would be, but it was too much effort. The last thing he was completely conscious of was the sound of a motor turning over and the rumble of an engine sparking to life.
When he next became aware, everything was warm and soft, and he felt the strange, weightless sensation of drugs coursing through his system. The muffed chaos and sound of police radios nearby told him that he was in an ER. Opening his eyes he settled his gaze on the ceiling, trying to piece together what had happened.
"You're awake."
He rolled his head to the side, blinking away the blurriness, to see Mason sitting on a hard, straight-backed chair next to his bed, reading a copy of Auto Week magazine.
"Hey," he tried, clearing his throat so that he didn't sound so weak. "Where's Sam?"
Mason sat forward and Dean felt a surge of panic. He tried to sit up and Mason quickly reached out, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder.
"Hey, hey, take it easy, kid. Your brother's okay. He's in another room getting treated."
"What are you doing here?"
"What, you think I'm just gonna dump you at the ER and head off?" When Dean just looked at him, Mason blanched. "Kid, you got a lot to learn about people."
"Yeah," Dean muttered, pushing himself up in the narrow bed. "Guess I do."
"Can tell you this much," Mason lifted the head of the bed to help him, "I'm not gonna burn bones for someone and then not make sure they're okay after they collapse in my arms."
"Yeah, uh…sorry about that," Dean muttered, eyes shifting away. "And thanks," he continued. "You saved my life."
Mason let his eyes drop from Dean's face to his chest and hand. Dean looked down at himself. Somewhere along the way, he'd lost his shirt and a large square bandage had been taped to his side. He could tell by the tightness of his skin that he had stitches where he'd pulled the splinter out. He could feel bandages on his forehead as well. Aside from that and several visible bruises, he seemed to have come out okay.
"Nothing broken, the doc said," Mason told him. "All your screws are in place. But you're one gigantic bruise, pal."
"Tell me about it," Dean dropped his head back against the pillow. "Sam's okay?"
"He'll be fine." Mason rolled his magazine up and stuffed it into the inside pocket of his jacket. "Had to get some stitches in his head. Kirby stayed with him."
"Man, I bet he's pissed."
"Sam? Or Kirby?"
"Sam," Dean clarified. "Jackson's pissed?"
"Kirby's…baffled."
Dean nodded. "It's a lot to take in."
"Actually," Mason stood and made his way over to the glass sliding door that separated Dean's room from the chaos of the rest of the ER. "I think he's confused how all of this has remained a secret for so long. That people don't – or can't – see what's right in front of them."
Dean thought about that a moment. Jackson had been willing to accept an awful lot based on their word. He'd been pretty sure the cop had seen some things he hadn't been able to explain over the years.
"Sometimes people just don't want to see," Dean sighed. "Or hear. Or…know."
"Seems damn foolish to me."
"Let me ask you this," Dean said. "If you'd never known Mike Guenther, had never seen that email from Jackson back when Sam and I first showed up here…if you suspected nothing about what we do, and Sam told you to dig up and burn some bones so a ghost wouldn't kill me, what would you have said?"
Mason rubbed the back of his head. "Yeah, I take your point."
"People are afraid of what they don't understand," Dean said softly. "I grew up around this stuff, man, and…some days there's still plenty I don't understand." He rubbed at his eyes, feeling a burn there.
The door to his room slid open and Dean opened his eyes to see Sam step inside, a bandage on his forehead, his left hand wrapped, and a tired smile on his face.
"Hey," Dean greeted.
"Hey," Sam replied. He nodded at Mason and stepped further inside.
"I'll let you boys catch up," Mason told them. "When you're ready to go, I can take you home."
"What about Tommy's house?" Dean asked.
"Kirby's writing up a report," Mason told him. "Vandals."
"Will this come back on Tommy and his grandma?" Dean pressed, worried.
Mason shook his head. "Not if Kirby has anything to say about it." He half-smiled, his hand on the sliding door. "My guess is, some insurance company isn't going to be too happy."
When he left, Dean looked back at Sam, pushing himself further up in the bed, his right hand still shaking with the strain of use.
"You okay?" Dean asked.
Sam shrugged as he sat down in the chair Mason had just vacated. "Yeah. Just a couple stitches. Got a stress fracture in my hand." He glanced up at Dean. "Probably from hauling around my big brother."
"Hey, now," Dean protested. "I lost weight."
Sam grinned, glancing away. "Yeah, you did." He looked up at Dean through his bangs. "You look like shit, y'know."
"Thanks, Sammy. Always count on your for a pick-me-up," Dean teased.
Sam tilted his head. "Your eyes look…regular again, though."
Dean frowned. He'd almost forgotten about the odd light that had seemed to echo from inside of him, keeping the spirit at bay.
"Yeah," he shrugged, the bandage on his forehead puckering as he folded his brows close. "Weird, huh?"
"That's one word for it," Sam muttered. "Add it to the list of things we don't know a damn thing about."
Dean sighed. "That list is getting as long as my—" he glanced askance at Sam and caught his brother's raised brow, "—arm."
They were quiet for a moment – long enough for Dean to feel self-conscious. He was still wearing his jeans and socks, but his shirt and boots had been removed and he felt the chill of the room. Sam must have noticed because he grabbed the blanket from the foot of the bed and handed it to Dean, who wrapped it around his shoulders with a smile of thanks.
"So," Dean tried, clearing his throat. "How was your New Year's Eve? Kiss anyone at midnight?"
Sam nodded, looking down. Dean saw the blush creep across his brother's cheeks. He grinned.
"Sammy, you sly dog," he teased, lightly punching Sam's knee. "Nicely done."
"Probably last time I'll see her, though," Sam muttered.
"What? Why do you say that?" Dean asked, genuinely puzzled.
Sam looked up and the expression in his hazel eyes had Dean's heart sinking.
God, Sam, I'm so sorry.
"Because we can't just be…just regular guys anymore, Dean," Sam said. "We can't just be a couple of brothers on a road trip who decided to stay for awhile. This…this changes everything."
Dean dropped his head, looking at his scarred hand where it rested in his lap.
"I wanted to…disappear into a life," Sam confessed. "I wanted to draw a line in the sand. End that part of my story and start a new one. I wanted us to be safe. I wanted…," he paused, swallowing hard. "I wanted a chance to be clean again."
Dean couldn't speak. The disappointment and resignation in Sam's voice weighed heavily on his heart.
"I did it, too. For awhile." Sam sighed. "But…it was all a lie."
Dean lifted his head, looking at his brother. Sam was staring at nothing, his gaze on the middle distance, eyes on something only he would ever see. His own version of Hell, his own demons, his own truths.
"I spent so much…so much time and energy hating the lies we have to tell to do what we do. I hated the person I had to become just to survive." He drew in his bottom lip, tugging on it with his teeth in thought. Dean waited him out. "I hated not being able to just tell someone about me…about who I am, why I feel the way I feel about things."
Someone not me, Dean realized. Someone not Ruby – not connected to this life and the darkness that surrounded them. Someone…, Dean mentally replayed Sam's words, someone clean.
Sam looked at Dean. "And then I met Stella," he said, swallowing, "and I realized I just told her a different set of lies. I couldn't be truthful even then. I didn't want her to see who I was...who I had to be. How is that a life, huh?"
Dean shook his head. "I don't know, Sam."
"You just…you never tried, did you? You never wanted to change. You just said you would because you wanted me to be happy."
"I tried, Sam," Dean told him. "I swear I did."
"How?" Sam's voice cracked. "You barely leave the house. You're always alone, except for me."
"I got Mason, too. And Tommy," Dean protested.
"Oh, swell." Sam flopped a hand on his leg in exasperation. "One of those two almost got you killed tonight, Dean."
"No, Sam," Dean leaned forward. "I almost got myself killed. You were right. I wasn't ready. I thought I knew what I was doing but I'm…I'm," he looked at his scarred hand. "I'm not me anymore."
Sam sighed. "You were right, too," he conceded. "There's still evil out there."
"I'm sorry, Sam," Dean stated honestly. "I know you wanted it to really be over."
"I did." Sam nodded. "I wanted to not feel guilty about quitting."
They were quiet a moment, both searching for words heavy enough to stand on.
"You don't have to lie to her, Sam," Dean offered. "Mason and Jackson…they know."
"She's been through a lot, Dean." Sam shook his head. "I tell her…she's gone."
"You don't know that," Dean protested. "If you're going to bail on her anyway, you might as well give it a shot."
"How about you, huh?" Sam challenged, tipping his head to the side. "You going to give it a shot?"
"I've never even met Stella," Dean deflected, uncomfortable.
"That's not what I mean and you know it," Sam snapped. "Why did you even do this tonight, Dean?"
Dean swung his legs over the side of the bed. This was not a conversation he wanted to have feeling helpless. "You see my shirt around here anywhere?"
He shucked the blanket and stood up on the opposite side of the bed from Sam.
"Why didn't you just let it alone? Why did you have to get involved?" Sam's voice shifted as he stood.
"Maybe they put it in one of those bags – oh, here it is."
"Dean!"
Sam reached for him, clearly meaning to turn him around, but Dean saw him at the last minute and flinched away. He didn't want that shock, that darkness, and he did not want Sam to see anything inside of him in this moment.
His motion stopped Sam short.
"Sorry," Sam murmured, backing away as Dean worked to uncoil.
Pulling his shirt over his head, Dean rubbed at the butterfly bandages above his eyebrow. Whatever they'd given him eased the muscle aches, but there was enough stiffness in his hip and back for Dean to know tomorrow was going to be Hell. He sighed and leaned against the counter on the other side of the room from where Sam once more sat.
"I didn't want to lie to you, Sam," he started, trying to find the right words that would help his brother understand why he'd gone to that house tonight. "But…tonight had nothing to do with you."
Sam looked up. "It had everything to do with me! We're bothers, man! We're in this together!"
Dean shook his head. "No, we're not." Sam drew back as if he'd been slapped. Dean tried to temper his honesty. "We're not in it together, I mean. You…you've had the regular life before. You were good at it. You enjoyed it. And you deserve to have it back."
Sam slouched in the hard-backed chair, watching Dean with childlike eyes.
"I wanted you to have it. And for a little while, I wanted to have it, too. For you. Because I knew it would make you happy."
"It doesn't make you happy? To be safe? To have something real? A home, a job, friends?"
Dean looked down. "I want it to," he confessed. "It would be so easy if it worked that way. But…," he chewed on the inside of his lip for a moment. "It's not me, Sam. I've only been good at one thing." He looked up, meeting his brother's eyes. "Killing."
Sam stood up. "That's not true, Dean."
"Yeah, it is," Dean nodded. "And it's okay. I was really good at it, y'know? But then…the Devil came along and fucked everything up. And now…I can't even do that right."
Rubbing his face, Sam turned his back to Dean, staring out through the glass door of the room. "I don't dream anymore. Did I tell you that?"
Dean started at the abrupt change of topics. "I, uh…I knew you weren't having nightmares, but—"
Sam shook his head. "Not just nightmares. Any dreams. I don't remember them, at least. Nothing."
"Maybe that's a good thing?" Dean hedged.
Sam turned back around. "It doesn't matter; I don't need to have nightmares. I just need to watch you. You limp or you wince, or your rub at your scars and all I see is my fist pounding on you; all I hear is the sound of your bones breaking."
Dean felt a fine tremor slip along his skin, shaking him from the inside out.
"I can still feel it, Dean. That rage. And that helplessness."
"Jesus, Sammy."
Sam stepped forward and Dean wanted to back up, but he had nowhere to go. "And I'm scared to death that something is going to happen to you and I won't be able to help – to stitch you up or set your shoulder or any of the four thousand other things I've had to do for you in the past – because I can't touch you without getting trapped in your head."
"Sam, don't—"
"You torture yourself with all these memories and I can't…I can't make it go away. I can only see it, watch it tearing you up inside. And the hell of it is, I can't stop it or change it or anything because you did it."
Sam was practically yelling, but Dean didn't stop him. He could only listen and wait for the fall-out. He didn't even register the tears burning the backs of his eyes until one spilled free and seared his cheek on its journey to his jaw line.
"You saved my life. Again. For what?" Sam asked, his chin trembling. "What did you do it for if you were just going to go off on another fucking hunt and almost get yourself killed?"
"I had to," Dean choked out. "I had to."
"Because you couldn't live with me dead, right?" Sam tossed his own words back at him. "Well, what about me, Dean? You think I could go on if you were dead? You remember what I told you about what happened to me when you were in Hell, right?"
"Sam—"
"Right?!"
"I remember."
"Then why—"
"Because I got nothing else, Sam!" Dean yelled. "You said it yourself. This is it! This is all I am! If I'm not sending some evil piece of shit back to Hell, then I'm nothing. I'm…I'm no one."
Sam blinked, his own eyes swimming with tears. "You not no one, Dean," Sam retaliated. "You're someone. You're my brother."
Dean looked away, another tear joining the first. Emotion sat like a fist at the base of his throat and he was having trouble pulling in a full breath.
"Dean, you're the best man I know," Sam said, his voice steadying. "And it's not because you kill monsters. And it's not because you went to Hell for me. It's because of who you are. The guy who…knows me better than I know myself. Who turns himself inside out just to make sure people get another chance at life. Who…puts himself in harm's way just to stop some kid from losing everything he owns."
Dean looked down. He couldn't reply. There was nothing he could say. His whole self rejected Sam's words as truth, but denying them would just cause Sam to push harder.
"You were right," Sam said softly. "There's still evil in the world. And it will need to be dealt with. But…it doesn't have to be you."
Dean caught his breath, looking at his brother. "What did you say?"
"It doesn't have to be you, man."
The déjà vu was so intense it made Dean shiver. "What…you want others to figure out how to deal with it?"
"Why not?" Sam challenged. "There are some who know the truth. And it's not like we're the only hunters out there."
Unable to accept it could be that easy, Dean shook his head. "And how did retirement work out for you, huh? Keith? How easy was it for you to see a hunt and know what to do and have to call another hunter?"
"It wasn't easy," Sam squared his shoulders. "I'll give you that. But…it was the right thing at the time. And so is this!"
Dean rubbed at his aching head. He couldn't imagine it. Finding a spirit or a monster and going about his life while he called in someone else to do the job. "I don't know how, Sam."
"We'll learn together." Sam hadn't moved closer, but Dean was starting to feel the walls close in around him. "But you have to want to learn. Not just for me. You deserve this, Dean."
"Sam, I—"
"He's right."
A voice from the doorway made them both jump. Sam turned and Dean shifted and both brothers stared at Jackson and Mason standing in the doorway. Sam glanced back at Dean, his eyebrows up.
"How long you guys been standing there?" Dean asked, dragging a hand down his face to banish the evidence of tears.
"Long enough," Jackson replied. "And he's right. It doesn't have to be you."
"You don't understand," Dean protested. "We were raised to do this."
"From what I understand," Mason broke in, "that was a direct result of tragedy. No reason you couldn't do something else…call in reinforcements the next time a ghost tries to redecorate someone's house."
Sam looked back at Dean. "It wouldn't hurt to just…just try a regular life, Dean."
"But, Sammy, there's so much more," Dean shook his head. "I mean…what about the whole…." He lifted his scarred hand, waving it in the air between them, willing Sam to understand that he meant their connection and the weird light in his eyes and all the unanswered questions so he didn't have to reveal more in front of Mason and Jackson.
"We don't need to hunt to figure that out, man," Sam protested. "We just need to research. And maybe get some help from a friend." When Dean continued to frown, Sam scrambled to add, "Maybe just…give it at least until you're a hundred percent again."
"I can help with that part," Mason added. "Gimme six months with the heavy bag and you won't need to worry about that hand not working."
Dean looked down at his shaking right hand. When the room around him stayed quiet, he lifted his eyes to meet Sam's. He wasn't going to be the only one conceding defeat.
"Tell you what," he said. "You be honest with Stella – you tell her about our lives – and I'll give you six months so Mason can get me back in shape."
"Dean," Sam replied, his eyes tragic. "There's…it's too much. I can't tell her about how I—"
"Anyone can understand addiction, Sam," Dean said quietly, knowing exactly what his brother was worried about. "And that's all it was."
Sam stared hard at him. "Six months?"
Dean nodded. "Six months."
They held each other's eyes for a long while, memories, uncertainties, past lies and harsh truths passing through the slipstream of emotion that would forever bond them, no matter the distance or circumstance.
"Okay," Sam said finally. "I'll tell her tomorrow."
Dean smiled. "You'll do fine, man. Just be honest. Be yourself. There's no way she won't listen."
"Listen, sure," Sam looked down. "Understand…that's asking a hell of a lot."
"Don't sell yourself short, Sam," Dean said, remembering all-too clearly how well the truth had gone over with Cassie and yet somehow he felt sure Sam would simply…do it better.
"Same goes for you, y'know," Sam said quietly, glancing up at him. "You have no idea what else you're capable of."
Dean self-consciously rubbed the back of his neck. "Don't know about you," he said, shifting uncomfortably, "but I'm ready to blow this popstand."
"Maybe you two should shake on it," Jackson suggested, eyeing them doubtfully after their tremulous truce.
Meeting each other's eyes, the brothers shook their heads. "We're good," they said in unison.
Several hours later, once Doctor Randall first warned Dean about the dangers of multiple concussions and then cleared him with strict instructions that he was to stop playing the hero and should call the cops before trying to chase vandals away from a friend's house, Mason took the brothers home where they spent the remainder of their New Year's Day sleeping.
Dean woke the next morning with a renewed sense of purpose. As he breathed through the morning pain, he made a plan. Once healed enough that he could rise from bed and move through the house without short, quick gasps for breath, he would work at the garage, he would build up strength via the heavy bag, he would practice at Mason's shooting range, and if a hunt crossed his path, he'd take it to their newfound committee before rushing headlong into it alone.
He did his best to make good on his promise for nearly six months, despite drawbacks like Tommy being hauled in for drunk and disorderly – his ramblings resulting in time behind bars for Dean.
And despite Rufus providing leads on the amulet that set the brothers back on their heels.
And despite nightmares of Hell, and living in a supernatural hotspot, and his brother's worried, watchful eye.
Dean thought he might actually find a way to play Sam's game, make this normal life work.
Until one day in June when Sam checked his phone and saw a voicemail with a Denver, Colorado, area code and a message from someone out of their past:
Sam – this is Virgil. Listen, I'm sorry; I don't know if you even kept up hunting after your brother died, but…I need your help. It's about Brenna. I wouldn't call if it weren't important, but believe me…there is literally no one else I can call about this.
END PART ONE
a/n: Thanks so much for reading! First chapter of Part Two will be posted next Friday, and the brother's lives will begin to shift once more, taking them down the ultimate path they're destined to follow in this "what if" scenario. I hope you continue to enjoy!