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Be All Our Sins Remember'd

Chapter Ten

They'd lucked out, as far as the "job" was concerned, and were poised to beat high tide by a few hours. Once the water comes raging in there won't be a chance in hell of finding the coin, and they're already racing one clock, if Duncan is to be believed and Dean's strength – his life – is waning with each ensuing vision. Low tide has provided opportunity, and a narrow outcropping: a slick, rocky path along the perimeter of the fort that calls for careful steps and sure footing.

Sam hadn't spared it a thought, had assumed that even in his current predicament, his bull-headed brother was still capable of both.

At the unmistakable sound of a body striking shallow water behind him, Sam's body reacts quicker than his brain, reflexes beating out any hope of coherent thought until he can get eyes on his brother. With a blinding buzz of panic roaring in his head, he finds himself slipping down the narrow, rocky excuse for a shoreline and wading thigh-deep into the cold water before he even summons the breath to call out for Dean, and well before he finds the capacity to wonder what just happened.

"Dean!" He uses the muted white light of the moon as a guide, zeroes in on the choppy, foamy waves being created by his disoriented brother struggling to regain higher ground, no more than ten feet away. The surface beneath Sam's boots is mud and muck-slicked rock, and his foot rolls as he hurries through the water, shoots out to the side and nearly causes him to lose his balance.

Dean likewise can't seem to find his footing, fighting the tide that's wrapped him up and is threatening to tug him farther out. He coughs and splutters and slaps in vain at the water as his head slips back below.

Heart thudding painfully, Sam stretches out and hooks a hand in his brother's collar, helps him make it to his feet and then does his best to keep him there. He wastes no time in hauling Dean back in the direction of the shore, doesn't loosen his grip even when the frigid water is lapping below their knees. Not even when his brother starts sluggishly pawing at his hand and coughs out a wet "Geddoff."

When they reach dry land, Dean collapses onto his hands and knees, sucking desperately for oxygen. He spits a mouthful – or a lungful – of dirty water to the rocks.

Sam doubles over as Dean goes down, keeps one hand twisted in the collar of his brother's shirt and braces the other on his own knee. He takes a deep, settling breath and eyes Dean appraisingly. "You good?"

He's really not; that much is obvious. Visions and mysterious blood spell aside, he's soaked, freezing, and pale as the moon overhead, with deep lines etched at the corners of his eyes. Racked by full-body shivers, he rotates his head slowly and glares up at Sam. Beads of water catch the light as they slip from his chin. "Get off me," he orders hoarsely, maybe embarrassed, and shucks Sam's hand away with a jerk of his shoulder.

Sam flops to the rocks next to his brother, wincing as his knees connect with the uneven ground. He pauses a moment, works to catch his breath. Turns out it doesn't take too damn much to scare the shit out of him, not anymore. Not where his brother is concerned. As Sam's panic recedes, a familiar, gnawing feeling moves swiftly to take its place in his chest, his gut.

Guilt.

He'd gone ahead of his brother, taken over control of the situation instead of covering Dean's six. Strike one.

Sam communicates his apology with a clap on Dean's soggy shoulder. "Smooth move, Grace."

"Shut up." Dean coughs and winces, swipes uselessly at the water on his face. He groans and moves to roll away, maybe even stand, the stubborn, impatient son of a bitch, but Sam grabs him by the elbow.

"Hey, just…just sit tight a sec, man."

Dean tries to wrench away, but can't seem to find the energy, or the strength. "Sam – "

"Sit your ass down," he orders firmly, his harsh tone fueled by adrenaline and regret.

Dean blink but complies, wordlessly settles back on the bank. Looking drawn and pained and breathing too wetly for Sam's liking, he inspects a dark mark on his elbow until his catches his brother staring, then drops his arm and squints out at the water.

Sam follows his brother's gaze. The evidence of Dean's mishap has already begun to fade away, moonlight dancing along the bobs and ebbs of calming waves. He swallows, drapes his arms over his tented knees. "What – was it another vision?" he asks, in a quiet voice that can't be heard as an accusation.

"No," Dean says, too quickly and stiffly to hold much in the way of truth. He sniffs, coughs deeply into his shoulder. "Just took a bad step."

Sam doesn't believe him, not for a second. He could write a book on the subject, could host a goddamn lecture series entitled "How Dean Winchester Lies," but he can't see how there's anything to be gained by picking that fight right now. It doesn't even matter, what Dean might have seen, because if all goes according to plan, the actual content of these visions will have been curious, but ultimately irrelevant.

But the source of the visions, the cause of this, the spellcaster, as Duncan put it – that son of a bitch will be hunted, and found, and made to pay for what his brother's been put through. Sam just got his big brother back, a Dean he'd missed terribly, who's strong, and always laughing and giving him shit. Seeing him like this, weak and pale and struggling…it rips a hole right through a vital, already frayed part of him.

Dean rubs his forehead with a trembling hand. "Quit lookin' at me like that."

"Sorry." Sam drops his gaze, picks a bit of silt from the leg of his soaked jeans.

With a sigh, his brother sits up straighter, twists until he releases a deep pop from his spine. "Okay," Dean says, shoving gingerly to his feet. "Tide's coming in. If we're gonna do this thing, let's do it."

Sam's doing that irritating thing he does, and thinking too much. He's walking in circles on the silty shore and staring at the corner of the fort like the building's about to do something surprising. The structure is in ruins, especially here, where the bricks have been mercilessly thrashed by decades of rough storms and high tides. The foundation is eroded, carried away by pounding waves, the mortar loosened around what bricks remain.

At the base of the wall is a curious formation of seven bricks, weathered and discolored at a much higher rate than the rest of the crumbling, condemned fort. The outer edge of each of the bricks is scorched, and the one at the center has a peculiar, circular sigil carved into it, one that Dean feels he should be more familiar with than he actually is. The sigil had caught Sam's eye as well, but it's been put on the backburner for the moment, as the kid trains his cell phone's flashlight along the blackened edges, where there's some sort of faint etching visible beneath the scorch marks.

His brother has yet to do anything with this development, just keeps pacing, tilting his head and studying the faded brickwork from different angles, swooping in every few minutes with the light.

Dean's still drenched, and miserably cold, and his head is fucking pounding. It's draining away what's left of his energy just watching the fidgety nerd.

It was a vision, he thinks, but that misstep – the shock of the cold water and the unforgiving rock bottom there to catch his fall – had ripped him back before he saw anything with enough clarity to really stick. If he closes his eyes and really thinks, his head screams in protest but an image comes to mind. The interior of a car, and a blurry someone on the bench next to him. A man.

Sam crouches down, leans in once more with the light. If he's having any thoughts about what he might be seeing there, he doesn't share with the class.

Tired and achy and annoyed, Dean scrubs a hand over his face and exhales loudly. "Is there something in particular you're lookin' for, Sammy?"

Sam's eyes tick up. "Just trying to get a lay of the land. Duncan said the coin was uniquely warded."

"Okay, but what does that mean?"

"I don't know. That's why I'm…" Sam waves a hand, then swallows and turns back to the fort. "I don't want any surprises."

Dean cocks his head, concedes that point. The wind picks up, coming in off the water, and he suppresses a shiver, can't believe he'd thought it was hot. He steps forward and leans over his brother's shoulder, squints at the line of carved letters. "What is that? Latin?"

Sam nods, creeps closer to the wall. "Yeah, but I can't…" he suddenly tenses, noticeably drops his shoulder. "It's an immolation incantation."

"Say that five times fast."

"Dean." But it's not a warning, and there's no hint of annoyance in Sam's voice. He just wants to make it clear that he's not buying Dean's shtick.

And that's just as well, because Dean's too damn beat to keep it up. "What's that mean?" he asks again, and there's definitely a fair bit of aggravation on his end.

"I'm not sure. It's been altered to protect this particular area, but…I think it means that anyone who tries to remove the center brick, and probably the coin, will…"

"Be immolated?" Dean supplies woodenly.

"Yeah." Sam sits back on his heels and runs a hand down his face, grabs his chin.

Dean straightens and takes a step away, rubs at the back of his neck. "Okay. So break it."

"Dean, this warding is two hundred and fifty years old." Sam shakes his head. "I can't just break it. I'm not even sure I got the translation right, and I don't at all have the knowledge or skill set to – "

"Okay, okay, I get it." Dean pats his pockets, trying to locate his cell phone, and hoping his impromptu dip in the water didn't kill it outright. "I'm gonna call Cas, see if he can – "

Sam throws a hand behind him, snaps his fingers. "W-wait a minute. I think I…" He points to the center brick. "Dean, take that brick out."

"What?" Dean's jaw drops. "You JUST said that removing the brick or the coin will cause the person to, what, burst into flames?"

"I take it back." Sam hops backward, twists and hits Dean in the face with his phone's light. "Take the brick."

Dean winces away from the bright light and steps back. "You take the brick. I think I've already handled my fair share of Civil War pennies, and I like deep-fried, Sammy, but I don't wanna be deep-fried."

"I can't do it, Dean," Sam insists. "You gotta do it. Stop being a baby and trust me, man."

Low blow, Sammy, playing the 'trust' card. "Fine." Dean rolls his head on his shoulders, shakes out his arms. "But if I burst into flames, I'm totally haunting your ass."

"Noted." Sam nods tightly as he rises and steps aside, and he looks just nervous enough about this idea.

And it's his dumbass idea.

Dean braces a hand on the wall, takes a few deep breaths and steels himself, mentally prepares as well as one can for the possibility of spontaneous combustion. His sore body protests as he settles into a crouch and stares at the bricks. He slowly reaches out a hand, squeezes his eyes shut as he presses his fingertips to the face of the center brick.

Behind him, Sam sucks in a breath.

Thanks for the vote of confidence, dude. But nothing happens – no flame, no spark, not even a tingle in his fingertips.

"Dean?"

"Yeah, I'm…okay." Dean can hardly believe it himself. He holds his breath and digs in with both hands, yanks the brick free of the wall in one swift motion.

He steps back quickly, gripping the marked brick in both hands. A hole had been chiseled out of the top, and the moon glints off a bit of metal tucked inside. "Okay," he says slowly, staring down at the hidden penny. "So the spell was a hoax?"

"No, it's real." Sam steps closer, hands floating around the brick, but he's careful not to actually touch. "I just had a hunch."

"You risked my life on a hunch?" Dean narrows his eyes at his brother, shakes his head. "So what gives, Poindexter? Why didn't I burst into flames?"

Sam makes a gesture like he wants Dean to turn the brick in his hands, so he complies. Once the outer side of the brick is facing his brother, Sam points at the carved sigil that Dean had noticed before. "Because of this."

Dean frowns down at the symbol. It tugs at him, but he still can't place it. "What about it?"

"It's, uh…the seal of Michael." Sam drops his hands to his sides, eyes wide and watching Dean. "I recognized it from…you know."

"Michael? Like…like Michael Michael? That Michael?"

"Yeah."

"The archangel who…" Who wanted to get his feathery ass all up in this? Dean shudders.

Sam nods solemnly. "Yeah."

Jaw clenched tightly, Dean digs into the hole and – without incident – wrangles the penny free, then turns and chucks the warded brick out into the water. He waits for the crash, then whirls on his brother with the penny wrapped in a white-knuckled fist. "Why the fuck would anyone – "

"For protection." Sam certainly doesn't seem happy about being right. First time for everything. "He's the patron saint of warriors."

"He's the patron saint of being a pain in my ass," Dean seethes.

His brother is suddenly overcome by deep thoughts, that crease appearing between his eyebrows as he tilts his head. "That's why he let us in the door."

"Who?"

"Duncan." Sam drops his hands to his hips, shakes his head. "He said he'd been after the coin for years, and he perked right up when we told him who we were. It's wasn't because of Henry, it was because of you."

Dean gapes a long moment, rehashing their meeting on the stoop of the trailer, and shuts his mouth with a painful clack when he realizes his brother is right. "Oh, I'm gonna kill that son of a bitch."

Sam sighs, shoulders slumped. "Yeah."

Dean brings up a hand, eyes darting out to where he'd tossed the brick. "So I could touch the thing because I was supposed to be Michael's vessel?"

Sam screws up his nose. "Technically, you still are."

Dean chuffs a harsh bark of laughter, looks down at the penny in his palm. "Just when you think you're out, they pull you back in." Sam doesn't respond, and the prolonged silence draws Dean's gaze upward. "What is it?"

"Nothing." Sam shakes his head, pulls that sour lemon face he makes when it's damn well not NOTHING. "It's nothing," he repeats, stacking his lies like Legos. "I just…I thought we were long past all of this vessel crap."

"We are," Dean says firmly. His head already hurts like a mother; he can't possibly entertain the alternative right now. "Those asshats are locked up tight in the cage. Don't even waste your time worrying about it." He ducks his chin. "Sam. Seriously, knock it off."

"Yeah," Sam agrees, but he still looks troubled. "Yeah, you're probably right."

Dean forces a tired smirk, tucks the wretched coin into his pocket. "I'm always right."

Charmed or not, nothing about the penny in his jeans pocket feels like it was worth all of this – not the time spent on this excursion, not knowing that dick Michael might still somehow have his wings dug in, and certainly not the fresh bruising Dean can feel blooming along his right arm and hip.

Shivering, he drags on his jacket at the car, then collapses into the passenger side in an uncoordinated tumble of aching limbs, and lays his throbbing head back against the seat. He doesn't even hear or feel Sam settling in beside him, just the sudden warm and needy weight of a giant hand on his arm.

Dean lifts his head, frowns and squints at his brother.

Sam draws his hand away, wraps it around the steering wheel. "Why don't you get some sleep?" he suggests, eyes wide with worry and questions he already knows the answers to. Maybe some he doesn't.

Dean shakes his head, regrets it immediately. "No," he says thickly, holding his neck deliberately, carefully still. "No, I'm okay."

Sam's hands tighten around the wheel, and he lets out a slow, even breath. "Dean, you…you don't look okay."

He props his elbow on the door, closes his eyes and kneads at his thrumming right temple with his fingertips. "Yeah, well, there's no accounting for taste. Just drive, okay?"

"Yeah. Okay." Spoken softer, like Sammy knows the very sound of his voice might as well be a fucking jackhammer to the skull.

There's nothing at all soothing or comforting about the sound of his baby's engine roaring to life. In fact, the initial, aggressive growl of it hits Dean rights behind the eyes, and sort of makes him want to puke. He squirms against the seatback, shoulders tight with tension and likely something more, the pain winding its way up his neck and pulsing hot at the base of his skull.

If Sam notices his discomfort, he doesn't mention it.

By the time they reach the main road, the pain in Dean's head has magnified tenfold, found a brand-new level of agony he hadn't thought existed, and he seriously contemplates asking his overreactive worrywart of a brother to find a gas station or rest stop so he can grab a bottle of water or something. They've got aspirin for days, but the thought of dry-swallowing another handful of pills leaves his throat working and stomach roiling.

Dean raises a hand with the intent to rub at that damn problematic spot at the back of his neck. Before his fingers make contact, pain rips through his skull like a fire-kissed blade shoved through his temple. He gasps and pitches forward on the seat, clutching at his head.

Before, in the bunker, the motel bathroom, the parking lot of that little dive bar, the brief glimpse that sent him careening into the water – those visions were a handshake, a greeting, a tease of what he's feeling now.

Dean hears his brother shouting his name, but Sam's voice is far, far away. He blacks out, he thinks, and when he next opens his eyes he's still in the car.

Or, a car. The same one as before.

Everything is fuzzy around the edges, and he knows he's in a vision, caught deeper than he's been before. He can make out some of the details of the car; the smooth, polished dashboard, the stiff feel of the leather-wrapped steering wheel, when he'd just been in the Impala's passenger seat. There's a gold band around his – no, not his – left ring finger, tapping a gentle rhythm against the wheel.

He has no control over his – this – body; can't move or speak. Can only witness.

"I don't think we should be doing this." The voice vibrates in his chest and up through his throat, and it tugs at Dean's memory but it isn't his.

He can't make out the face of the man seated next to him, but his thick eyebrows waggle mischievously; a trait that seems an ingrained bit of his personality, and can make even a quiet stroll through the grounds seem as though an adventure might be lurking around every corner. It's both an appealing and off-putting peculiarity, and…Dean's head is suddenly spinning from the influx of foreign thoughts.

"Come now, Henry. Where's your sense of adventure?"

Magnus – Sinclair, who the hell ever – that's the voice, the man.

And…Henry?

Dean's head turns of its own volition, and the reflection he sees in the rearview mirror isn't his own, but that of his grandfather.

To be continued...

Prompt lines included in this chapter:

He's soaked, freezing, and pale as the moon, with deep lines etched at the corners of his eyes.

"Why don't you get some sleep?" Sam suggests.