Be All Our Sins Remember'd
Chapter Nine
"What time is it?"
Sam catches his brother with what's left of his third beer halfway to his lips. Dean switches hands, brings up his left wrist and squints at his watch. "Quarter to twelve."
They've been in New Orleans since early afternoon and here at the Hi Tide Bar and Grill since nine, forgoing all of the traditional activities that would usually do well to entice his brother in favor of camping out in this little shack of an establishment that's well off the beaten path. The restaurant is dim and uncrowded, and they're sprawled with strategic laziness in a booth on the southern wall, beneath a stretch of wide windows, the glass streaky from the salty spray of the ocean crashing against the nearby shore. Just a pair of travelers drinking in the experience, weekend warriors, buddies catching up before heading back to their boring, nine-to-five lives. Across the narrow channel of water and accompanying docks, the bricked silhouette of empty, abandoned Fort Macomb is faintly visible beneath a pale wash of moonlight. Gathered from a few scant glances through the window, a chain link fence seems to be the extent of the property's security. There are no lights along the perimeter, and don't appear to be any guards.
Between them, a pile of loaded wedge-cut fries sits, barely touched and long forgotten. The plate is beginning to produce a smell that's decidedly unappetizing, and the cheese has congealed, gone shiny and hard on top. Sam stares down at the plate, which he'd ordered more as a lure than from his own desire for greasy junk food, because Dean had turned down both lunch and dinner, and he doesn't think his brother's eaten a proper meal in days. He clears his throat and scraps any thought of subtlety, nudges the plate with the backs of his fingers.
It's food, and it's in his face, so Dean can't really help himself, drops his arm from the back of the booth seat and picks at a few of the fries. But he doesn't take a bite, just wipes his hands against his jeans and shoots another furtive glance out of the window.
Sam really wishes his big brother would eat something, maybe get back some color, but he swallows the urge to put a voice to the thought. Dean seems to have built up an immunity to concern, especially over the past couple of weeks, and would likely react like Sam was nagging or attacking him instead of caring. So instead he asks, "you think this looks suspicious?"
"Probably," Dean returns, draining his drink. His movements are tense and stiff as he shifts in his seat and lets the bottle thunk atop the table. He looks sore, and tired, as he jerks his chin at his brother's second beer, the bottle still mostly full and sweating in Sam's hands. "Probably look less suspicious if you quit playing with that and fuckin' drink it."
"Right." Sam takes a long drink, the beer warm and fizzy against his tongue. He narrows his eyes as Dean motions the waitress over. They're on a job – sort of – but he's not worried. Not yet. His brother can hold his beer like a pro, and he hasn't flipped the whiskey switch, though Sam can't argue that he's got more than enough reason to.
"Get you boys another round?" The waitress glowers down at them, and asks like she's daring them to order something more.
It's nearing closing time and they're some of the restaurant's last patrons. They've become irritating, keeping her here, cutting into whatever plans she may have had for the night. Even so, Sam's not worried about leaving much of an impression on the woman, because the night's stakes are too high to risk drawing attention to themselves. Dean might not be at the top of his game, but Sam trusts that tonight will go off without a hitch.
"That'd be great," Dean responds, seemingly oblivious to the stony look and tone. "And a couple shots? Whiskey."
Sam frowns. "Not for me, thanks."
Dean rubs at his eyebrow, sighs his most put-upon sigh. "Yes for him, thanks."
Sam works his jaw, forces out a reluctant, "yeah, sounds good."
"All done here?" Cocking a brow in the direction of the abandoned fries, and not light on the sarcasm. At Sam's nod, she scoops up the plate and stomps away.
Sam fidgets in his seat and taps his fingertips on the water-stained tabletop, discovers he can't bite his tongue any longer. "You need to eat something."
Dean lets out a slow, annoyed breath, but doesn't respond.
"Dean," he persists, "you should – "
"M'not hungry, Sam."
I didn't ask, Sam wants to snap. The arguments builds in his chest, burning, itching to escape. These particular words he manages to keep in check, but the concern runs rampant, gaining momentum. His brother's color is appalling, and frightening, nearly gray under the restaurant's cheap, unforgiving lighting. There are bags beneath and exaggerated lines cutting the corners of his eyes, and he seems small in the booth across from Sam, shoulders hunched and folded in, clearly internalizing his pain and discomfort.
And Sam's got more than enough experience to know, that way lies horrible, achingly familiar dangers.
"I think the kitchen's still open," he says, much too loudly, like his vocal chords are staging a rebellion against his better judgment. "I can order something else – "
"I'm fine, Sam," Dean seethes through his teeth. "Knock it off."
"Okay," he relents, at a much more reasonable volume. "Okay."
They sit quietly, eyes pointed in opposite directions, until the waitress returns with their drinks.
Dean wrests the shot from her hand and knocks it back immediately, chases it with a pull from the beer. He sets the bottle aside and scrubs at his face with both hands. "Sam, what the hell are we doing here?"
"We're helping you," Sam answers, hearing the forced confidence, the utter lameness, in his own response.
His brother lays his arms down on the wood, levels a bright-eyed stare across the table. "Are we?"
Sam swallows, narrows his eyes. "Yes."
"I can help you. For a price."
Sam's gut reaction, his initial, thoroughly exhausted thought is, name it. He can't watch this happen, not again.
The thing with the Mark of Cain happened slowly, and then all of a sudden. Dean had been surly and distant and aggressive for months, before graduating to bloodthirsty and scary, seemingly overnight.
The night Charlie died.
He can't let this…thing run its course, can't watch his brother embark upon another slow trek toward death. Sam won't, and so his first thoughts are name it, and whatever it takes.
And while Duncan might not know it, he knows it. They played this sloppy from the jump, showed their hand too soon, and the old man got a big whiff of Sam's desperation.
Dean, on the other hand, recoils at the man's words, jerks back like he's been struck. He looks like a cornered animal, feral and frightened. Dangerous. "What price?" he demands, shoving up from his seat at the table and grabbing his discarded shirt.
There's an odd, nervous tremor in his big brother's voice, and Sam frowns hearing it.
Dean drops his eyes away, moving quickly to cover the shake and even quicker to escape Duncan's reach. He just moves. "You think we've got money?" Flustered and anxious to get away, he trips into a knee-high stack of heavy books as he's tugging the t-shirt over his head.
Sam catches him, steadies his brother with a hand against his chest and feels Dean's heart hammering madly beneath his fingertips. Once his brother's regained enough of his composure that only the wild look in his eyes remains, Sam grips his shoulder and gives him a firm shake. "Let's just…hear the man out, okay?" He can't really see that they have any other choice.
Dean frowns and swallows audibly, then nods tightly, signaling a willingness to trust Sam's instincts in this instance. They turn to face the old man as a united front.
"We're listening," Sam says. "So what exactly is it that you want from us?"
The corner of Duncan's mouth lifts. "The trade I'm proposing doesn't include anything you have, but rather, what you can get for me."
Dean sighs and folds his arms across his chest, looking white and weary and worrisome. "I'm not really in the mood for games, okay?" Despite standing with Sam, and trusting Sam, he sounds ready to walk, to cut their losses and search out another avenue. "So why don't you just tell us what it is you want."
"Very well." Duncan wrings from the moment all the drama he can, shuffles achingly slowly over the counter and sips from his mug. "Are you boys familiar with Fort Macomb?"
Sam quickly scours his mental catalog and shakes his head. "No."
"No?" Dean turns to him, eyebrows drawn together in surprise. "Really?" He uncrosses his arms, waves a vague hand. "Over in, uh, NOLA, right? Occupied by both sides during the Civil War?" At Duncan's nod, he smirks without any zip behind it, bumps Sam with his elbow. "Guess you don't know everything."
Sam purses his lips, returns his attention to the old man. "What about it?"
Despite their situation and surroundings, Dean seems pleased with himself, and then immediately on the heels of it, incredibly drained. His gaze roams the trailer for a surface to lean against, and he settles for a narrow bit of unadorned wall next to the door.
"Buried in the western point of the fort's ruins," Duncan obliges, "is an extremely rare, extremely potent protection charm, placed there after the Union reclaimed control. This charm is…uniquely warded, and is rumored to have been disguised to look like any ordinary penny."
The old man has a storyteller's cadence, and Sam finds himself leaning in, in spite of himself.
Dean breaks the moment with a loud, derisive snort. "That's nice, but we didn't come all this way for a history lesson." He cocks his head toward Sam. "Although, sounds like you might need one, little brother."
Sam frowns, but doesn't say anything. Doesn't shush his brother's impatience, and certainly doesn't rise to the half-hearted jibe.
Duncan remains silent, nonplussed. Once he's sure he once more has their full attention, he nods solemnly. "The coin is to be my payment."
Sam can't really say whether it's the implications of what the man's proposing or simply the word "payment" that does it, but he's thrown for a loop, and this whole thing suddenly feels as dangerous as a crossroads deal. Those initial, eager thoughts of his are lost in a dull roar of panic, and hesitance. He holds up a hand. "Wait a second – "
"You want us to – to steal some crappy old penny for you?" Dean cuts in, eyes wide and incredulous as he vaults forward from his lean against the wall.
"Yes," Duncan replies, simply and with a small smile.
Dean gapes wordlessly a moment, then turns to his brother for help. "Sam."
"He's right, sir," Sam obliges, forcing a veneer of politeness over his unease. "That's not really what we – I mean, we don't usually – "
"Oh, come now." The old man's smile dissolves as he waves a dismissive, almost annoyed hand. "Two young, strapping gentlemen such as yourselves? It will be as simple as a stroll through the park."
"Okay," Dean says, his tone heavy with exhaustion and a fair amount of impatience. "So how the hell do you know all this?"
In response, a bark of laughter that doesn't sound particularly amused, or kind. Duncan lifts an arm, encompassing the long row of dusty, crowded shelving along the wall. "These books aren't here for show, and those cursed boxes aren't for decoration. I…" He pauses, seems to select his next words carefully. "Collect charms and charmed objects. I discovered the coin's whereabouts some time ago, using a simple location spell. I'm quite adept."
"Okay," Dean repeats, drawing out the word. His eyes, wide with confusion and possibly irritation, dart to Sam. "Uh, all due respect here, but New Orleans ain't that far. Why haven't you gotten it for yourself?"
Another chuckle, this one road-worn and weary. "I'm afraid, at my age and condition, that I am incapable of pulling off such a heist."
Sam catches the tilt of Dean's head, a sure sign that he's now seriously considering the offer, likely spurred by the word heist. His big brother never has been one to turn down a challenge of this nature, and Sam has a flash of clarity as bright and clear as the mischievous twinkle growing in Dean's eyes – if their positions were reversed, his brother would have already shaken hands. They'd be in the car by now, eating asphalt and burning the midnight oil.
And that revelation gives Sam pause, makes him think, because it's exactly the sort of mistake the Winchesters just can't seem to stop making.
He's apparently thinking far too loudly, because Duncan narrows his eyes at Sam, raises his chin appraisingly.
"Mr. Winchester," he says in a low, dangerous voice. "This spell will kill your brother. Not today, or tomorrow, but eventually, and likely whether or not the spellcaster gets what he's after." He steps forward, palms held out. "Now, I can help you, and I will, but only if you do this for me in exchange."
Sam doesn't look at his brother; he won't. Making this kind of decision out of desperation is usually how one of them ends up dead. But Duncan's words bounce around in his head, tripping all sorts of delicate, emotional levers and switches he swore he'd never touch again. But if the man really can undo the spell that's plaguing Dean, the ends just might justify the means. And this old coot was once a trusted associate of the Men of Letters, and that's nothing to scoff at.
But there are too many variables, too many ways this whole thing could go horribly wrong, and it's high time the Winchesters get paid up front.
Duncan senses his hesitation, pinpoints and attacks it.
"And," he states loudly, bringing up a hand, "in advance."
Sam shakes himself out of his reverie, runs a hand down his face. "What time is it?"
Dean makes a show of looking annoyed and dramatically checks his watch. "Five after twelve." He takes a long drink of his beer, shakes his wrist. "You know, you've got one of these newfangled gadgets, too."
"Right."
His brother shoots a glance out of the window. "We're really gonna do this, huh?"
"Well, right now Duncan's sort of the only game in town." Not that Sam's hesitation hasn't traveled to New Orleans with them. He'd give anything for Cas to call, right now, with another answer. But the angel is still wings-deep in attempting to trace the origin of the spell through whatever translation he can work out.
Dean raps his knuckles on the table. "I don't trust 'im."
Sam nods, but doesn't put a voice to his own hesitation. They'd be out the door in a snap, abandon this job and end up back at square one. He sips his beer, thoughts running rampant, twisted up in trailsof trust. Their stop of Duncan's had been short, but enlightening, and not all of the revelations were positive, or helpful. In fact, it sort of feels like they're taking two steps backward for every step forward.
His brother catches him staring, frowns. "S'there something I can do for you, Sammy?"
Sam shakes his head. "It's nothing." He sighs and leans back in the booth, cheap vinyl squeaking a protest.
Dean takes another drink, eyeing him suspiciously over the bottle. He lowers the beer to crack against the table and smacks his lips. "What?"
"It's nothing," Sam repeats, and lasts all of ten seconds in the staring match that ensues, before the hypocrisy of his denial sets him squirming. "So what happened to being honest with me?" he blurts, with no cool whatsoever.
Dean makes a surprised, amused noise in his throat. "What the hell are you – "
"Was he right?" Sam demands, leaning over the table. "Did you know these visions are killing you?"
His brother blinks, and – surprisingly – doesn't deny it. Of course, it'd be hard to; Dean's not that good an actor, especially with that chalk-white complexion and the dark circles framing his eyes. "Not…killing, but…I dunno, man." His face hardens, and he turns to indignation, which isn't surprising. "Christ, Sam, what good would it have done you to know?"
"Dean," Sam says sternly, foot poised to stomp beneath the table, but he reins it in at the last second. "You promised."
His brother doesn't quite show the same restraint, rattles the entire table with a kick of his boot. "Shit, Sammy. You tellin' me that I know every damn thing that's goin' on with you?"
Dean's deflecting, and it's working, because all of a sudden Sam recalls black veins and visions of Hell, and telling his brother that nothing major came up while dealing with the infected in that hospital in Superior. He's got just as much a precarious relationship with the truth as Dean, and it'll be his turn in the hot seat soon enough. He doesn't answer, turns his head to glare at his reflection in the window.
Dean drags a hand down his face, flicks his gaze once more in the direction of his watch. He sniffs, swallows the last few inches of his beer and helps himself to Sam's untouched whiskey. "All right." He waves a hand at the waitress, slaps his palm on the table. "Let's do this."
Dean's girl is big and loud, but she blends seamlessly into the background on a dark night.
While paying the bill, they made a big show of asking for directions out of town and over-tipped the waitress, then moved this waiting game down the road as discretely as possible. The padlocked gate securing the condemned remains of the fort sits back from the highway, offering an adequately concealed patch of grass and gravel that's just big enough for the Impala, and offers a clear line of sight to the restaurant's parking lot.
Dean tugs at the collar of his t-shirt and wriggles uncomfortably on the bench. The windows are down and it's the middle of the night, but the air is sticky and warm, permeating the interior of the car. He shoves the sleeves of his button-down to his elbow, scuffs a sweaty palm up through his hair before thumping it against the steering wheel. He's in the driver's seat only because Sam had been generous enough to allow him to drive his own car over, from the damn parking lot.
His fidgeting draws the attention of his brother, who turns to him with a raised eyebrow.
"S'hot as hell out here, man," Dean complains.
Sam rolls his eyes, resumes squinting out of the windshield at the Hi Tide Bar and Grill, where the last of the staff – and any possible witnesses – are locking up and heading to their cars. A couple of cooks, the waitress with the attitude and one of Dean's hard-earned twenties in her pocket. Not one of them spares a glance in the direction of the Impala.
They continue to wait, even after the last pair of tail lights disappears down the highway, allowing some time to ensure the area has emptied out.
The night air is thick and damp, and quiet, but for a few faint animal sounds and the muted slap of water against the nearby docks. Beside him, Sam cocks his head, listening. He's always had a thing for the water, always attached all sorts of meaning to it. Ideas like far and free and away. To Dean, water's only ever been two things: cold, and wet. Give him a stretch of dusty, open road any day.
He squirms again, but this time it's not due to the suffocating blanket of humidity. Dean can feel it building – a vision, a…whatever. An increasingly familiar pain blooming in the tense muscles of his back, a dull ache climbing his neck to nestle at the base of his skull. He winces, rolls his head on his shoulders.
His brother's got eyes in front, back, and all around his damn head, it seems. Sam leans forward with a sigh and a squeak of the seat, pops open the glove box and digs around. He comes away with a well-used bottle of ibuprofen. "Here."
"What about it?"
Sam rattles the bottle. "Take 'em. I recognize the look."
Dean rolls his eyes, wanting to appear annoyed above needy, but the motion looses a lightning bolt that rockets from one temple to the other. He accepts the pills, dry-swallows four and hands the bottle back to his brother without looking at him.
Sam returns the pills to the glove box, narrows his gaze in the direction of the highway. Not a single car has passed since the restaurant emptied out. After another long, silent moment, he asks, "you think we're good?"
Dean blinks the blurriness of pain from his eyes, then sets them roaming the bit of visible blacktop, cuts a circuit from windshield to rearview to side mirror. All remain dark. "Mmm hmm. Looks like." He opens the door slowly in an effort to lessen the characteristic creak. On the other side of the car, Sam echoes his motions.
"I can't believe we're doing this," Dean gripes, slapping at a gnat on his forearm.
Sam hefts the bolt cutters, squints are the gate. "You know, at this point I think you're just bitching for the sake of it."
The gangly smartass is only mostly right. Dean's got…a bad feeling. About all of this. Has since they left Duncan's back in Baton Rouge. It's an unspecific feeling, but dangerous to ignore, and he knows Sammy's feeling the same hesitation. In fact, he can't help but wonder if the both of them aren't going along with this plan just to keep the other from worrying. There's certainly no shortage of stubbornness among Winchesters.
Dean's always known he would go out bloody, but he'd rather it be on his own terms, on the way he's given it a hell of a go at ending himself before. Succeeded, too. Yet here he stands, staring down another barrel.
He reaches out, grips the fence in an effort to steady himself as a wave of dizziness washes over him, perfectly synced to a bleat of pain in his already aching head.
"Dean?"
He raises his head, finds his brother staring at him with eyebrows drawn together in palpable, nearly nauseating levels of concern.
"Are you…"
"Just waitin' on you." Dean releases his white-knuckled grip on the fence and gestures impatiently toward the gate. He swats another bug from his neck. "Let's get on with it."
The fencing is adorned with the expected warnings of fines, prosecution and imprisonment for trespassers, one sign signifying the fort's addition to the historical registry in seventy-eight, and the most recent placard, declaring the property as hazardous due to damage from recent storms. The padlocked chain drops away with a chunk from the bolt cutters, and jangles against the gravel.
Dean shoots a nervous glance behind them. He's no stranger to breaking and entering, but there's a world of difference between county lock-up and federal prison.
The road remains empty, but for the parked Impala, and they slip easily through the gate, make their way down the narrow road toward the ruins of the fort.
"Careful," Sam commands quietly as they maneuver around the edge of the brick wall onto the narrow shelf of ground along the water's edge, like he just can't help himself.
"You be careful," Dean shoots back, but his brother's got a point.
Low tide has left the ground a marshy mess of mud and long grass, and Dean is pretty sure they're leaving footprints. Assuming they make it out of here successfully and unseen, the break-in will surely be written off as the work of bored teenagers. It's not like there's anything to steal, not unless you know where to look.
His head thrums in time with his warily placed steps, and he's having a hard time navigating the narrow space between the water below and the crumbling brick exterior of the fort, and the ibuprofen ain't doin' shit.
The building pound in his skull suddenly cuts to a sharp flash of searing, blinding pain, and Dean raises a ill-advised hand to his head, fucks his balance six ways from Sunday.
Sam's just far enough ahead to be completely useless as Dean's foot slips on the slick ground and shoots out from under him, hands clutching nothing but air as he hits the water with a crash.
To be continued...
Prompt lines included in this chapter:
Dean lets out a slow, even breath, doesn't respond.
Dean frowns. "S'there something I can do for you, Sammy?"
"Dean," Sam says sternly, foot poised to stomp but he reins it in at the last second. "You promised."
Dean's always known he would end bloody, and he'd rather it be on his own terms, on the battlefield.