Sam sat at the kitchen table; cards from Bobby's card file spread in stacks around him. He knew Dean's reasons for asking him to do this. One was to occupy him, distract him. The other far simpler, Dean didn't want to do it himself. Sam didn't mind, he liked the distraction. He liked having something to do that helped Dean.
He knew Dean felt backed into a corner. There was no other reason he would lash out at Sam the way he'd done in the last day. Dean was on his own, floundering with this mess. Sam needed his brother, and knew Dean needed him just as much. However Sam hadn't been a lot of help, if anything he was becoming a burden. Feeling lost, frightened and alone, if Sam could only remember. He doubted himself, wondered if that man, Forge hadn't been right. Maybe Sam was somehow doing these things himself, that Abaddon was dead, there was no spirit, nothing more than Sam's subconscious acting up on him. But he'd had no memory loss, at least he didn't think so. Starting to seriously doubt himself. Worse was what all this was doing to Dean, who was trying so hard to set it all right, take care of Sam, not stick him in some psych ward where he'd probably be drugged. And alone. Maybe Dean should put him there, not look back.
Never had Sam felt so confused, so unsure. It didn't help that Dean changed his mind hourly, his confidence and judgment shaken. Sam didn't have any missing time, but would he know it? Wasn't that sort of the definition of missing time, it was missing? He and Dean had done all they knew to be sure there wasn't some kind of possession happening. Drawing a circle in the dirt in Bobby's junk yard first Dean had draped a rosary over Sam's neck, then dowsed him thoroughly with holy water, then Sam drank it. Stepping into the circle with Sam they repeated the same process on Dean. They recited incantations and used every herb and potion either one could think of.
In the end Dean had thrown up his hands in frustration, stalking away mumbling something about demons and spirits at least being consistent. That had made Sam smile.
Twisting in his chair, he could see Dean through the window. He was just outside, as he'd promised not going anywhere Sam couldn't see him easily. Dean was on the phone. Closing the phone he was up the steps in one jump. A second later, moving briskly, he was in the kitchen.
"Ok, I left Bobby a message, couldn't talk to him, but told him to call me, we'd explain further when we could talk. I didn't want him worried." Dean sat across from him, with that one act his whole demeanor changed. His face softened, as did his voice. "How's it going with that kiddo?" In the span of a few seconds Dean went from antsy hunter to astoundingly patient big brother, treating Sam like he was some fragile two year old. It was kinda creepy.
"Ok." Sam shrugged a bit, barely glancing up at his brother.
Sighing, "Sammy, you gotta talk to me dude. You've barely said anything since we went to the cops yesterday. You're seriously weirding me out here. Since when has there been anything you couldn't talk to me about, tell me?" Dean took a stack of cards, started sorting them.
"I was thinking. Maybe, uh….maybe what Forge said, about going somewhere, a hospital…."
Dean put down the cards, folded his hands in front of him, looking steadily at Sam. "Is that what you want? Or is that what you think will be easier for me? Cause if it's the latter, Sammy, you're wrong."
"No. I don't want to. Not at all. I just thought…"
"Well stop. It's my fault. We shouldn't have gone there, talked to him. It's insane, what he said."
"You didn't know. It's not your fault."
"I know I would hate myself if you where stuck away, somewhere like that. Haven't I always looked out for you, taken care of you? What makes you think that needs to change now? Just because things are a little rougher than normal, that doesn't change Sammy. You want to see someone, we'll go, but being committed, I can't agree to that. And Sam, for the record, I don't think you're crazy."
"Well, that's a comfort." Sam said dryly, grinning at Dean's stunned expression. Smiling even more when Dean cracked a grin too. "Dean if it was me…..I don't remember."
Dean nodded, studying him, scrutinizing him for a minute or so. "Then it wasn't you."
He'd said it with such conviction Sam could only feel grateful, and for the first time since he'd left Dean standing in the store Sam felt things might really be ok, someday soon.
OOOOOOOOO
Tim Forge read, and reread the report he'd pulled from his printer. He'd learned long ago what was written on paper and what he saw in front of him was often two different, seriously conflicting things. This was definitely one of those times.
When the desk officer called, told him to check out the news Forge knew he was out of time. It was on the local station, only a matter of a few hours before it went statewide. How the hell did the story get out? He'd covered it for a day, hoping to have more time. Now he was out of time. Worse yet, a nice kid whose only crime since being in the state had been offering to change a damn tire was possibly out of time too.
He'd blown it yesterday, blown it big time with Barnaby, or Winchester or whatever the hell the guy was calling himself this week. And that kid just might die because he'd screwed up. The kid he was trying so hard to keep alive. Not nearly as hard as the kid's brother was however, Dean Barnaby or Winchester or Dean Whoever-The-Hell-You-Are-This-Week. The man had skills, that was obvious. Having practically no leads he'd tracked his brother down. Dean Whoever wasn't the only one with skills. Tim Forge had skills too.
It would take him nearly an hour to get to Singer's Junk yard. A lot could happen in a minute, a lot more could happen in sixty.
Sirens and flashers on Tim drove, navigating the country roads as fast as he dared. His mind churned faster than his car moved. Murderers didn't walk into police stations, twice, TWICE for chrissake, risking not only their freedom, but their lives for some information and help, not ones with skills like Dean Whoever. They didn't give two rips about anyone but themselves, and they didn't break into dead people's apartments to rescue little dogs. They most certainly didn't protect anyone the way Dean Whoever did that brother of his, even after Forge's blundered attempt to get the kid out of that house, make Dean Whoever dump him and run. But he hadn't dumped and ran; he'd hung on tighter and fought back. If what Forge read were really true Dean Whoever's brother would be a serious liability about now, and murderers didn't keep liabilities hanging around either.
Things written on pieces of paper could be wrong. Things you saw with your own eyes? More often than not were right.
He should have come clean with them, followed them yesterday and laid it all out. He'd have to make amends for that mistake. He tried the junk yard's phone, call didn't go through.
A mile from Singer's yard he cut the sirens and flashers. It didn't look like anyone was home when he pulled in front of the house. Turning off the engine, Forge drew his gun, ran up the porch steps and kicked open the door.
OOOOOOOOO
Sam watched Dean as his brother moved around the kitchen, packing food. "What are you doing?"
Before answering Dean went to the other room, switched on the TV, turning it up. "That asshole cop had one thing right Sammy, we need to not be here. We're leaving. We'll get a hotel in town."
"We're running away?" Sam blurted out the words before he could stop himself. This wasn't Dean, not like Dean at all. Dean never ran, not unless he was really scared…Dean is never scared…scared he couldn't make sure Sam was safe.
Whirling on him, looking angry and frightened all at once Dean shouted, "Yes, Sam! We're running away." Deep breath that calmed him almost instantly, he dropped his voice to normal. "We'll leave tonight, when it's dark. Staying here isn't worth being terrorized and stalked. Whatever…whoever this is, I think is real serious about killing us. I'm not willing to risk it, risk you. I told Bobby not to come here till he talked to us first. Get those cards finished, we leave this place looking like nothing has been here. No trail to follow." Jabbing one finger in the air in Sam's direction he ground out his last few words, "This time you'll listen to me."
"Ok." Sam was really in no shape to argue, and he knew it.
Dean had bags loaded with food, and Valkyrie's food and toys. He carted it all closer to the back door, placing them to one side of a table laden with books, keeping the stuff out of sight.
Sam barely noticed, his attention riveted to the television. Dean proceeded to moving the recliner back to its original position, saying something Sam absolutely did not process.
"Dean." Sam barely whispered. His brother hadn't heard him, or was more likely too engrossed in his project to hear him. "Dean!" Shouting this time.
Turning to look at him, stunned, spreading his hands wide, Dean asked, "What is it Sammy?"
Sam could only point at the TV. When Dean pivoted to look, Sam heard him swear under his breath. Sam left the table, stopping just behind his brother, hand on Dean's shoulder, he had an overwhelming need to feel a physical connection. Dean gave him an odd look when Sam's breathing quickened, became raspy, grabbed his elbow.
They watched the Special Report…Another boy kidnapped two days ago. Found dead yesterday, same type of mutilations, burnings as the others, as Kristen and Brandon. The picture showed a young man with dark brown longish hair. A young man, who from a distance, could have been mistaken for Sam.
"Dean…"
"I see it Sam. I'm just not understanding it."
Sam gasped, then gulped, so much so Dean's hand left his elbow, and both hands landed a powerful grip on Sam's shoulders when words tumbled out of his mouth too fast, and probably making no sense.
"Slow down." Dean shook him a fraction. "Sam, slow down."
Hands on Dean's arms, Sam tried again, "Two Dean. There were two, Dean there were two."
Dean frowned, "What? Are you sure?
"Yes! That's what I've been missing, at first, when he first took me to the house, someone came out and helped him carry me inside, down to the basement. I kicked one of them."
"Two?"
"That's victim twelve, Dean there are two!"
Dean's head jerked around to the TV again. Turning back to Sam, "We're leaving now."
As if on cue, the television sputtered, and died. There were no lights on, it was daytime, but there was the distinct sound of the refrigerator stopping. The brothers took only a few seconds to exchange looks, before Dean reached over and tried a lamp. The switch clicked, no light showed through the shade. Sam tried another one, with the same effect.
From under the kitchen table Valkyrie growled. Hackles raised, she puffed up to nearly double her size, showing some good-sized teeth for a little dog.
Not moving from where they stood, each pivoted, visually scanning all of the rooms they could see. Stepping to the kitchen, Dean pulled on Sam's arm, which was really unnecessary since Sam had no intention of standing there by himself.
Dean grabbed their jackets on the way by, "We'll come back for the rest later. I'll get the dog. Car is by the back door. Stick close."
Sam smiled in spite of the fact he felt jittery and shaky. He wondered if Dean noticed that if Sam stuck any closer just then they'd have to wear the same clothes. No way was he not sticking close.
Reaching under the table, "Come on chicky," Dean scooped Valkyrie up, whacking his head on the table trying to get out from under it too fast, probably because of Sam's horrified gasp.
"Dean….look out."
Once straightened, Dean turned into a flurry of activity. In the same movement he dropped Valkyrie, shoved Sam back, and overturned the table. The shotgun the man---the man looking like Abaddon---held clattered to the floor when he was hit by the flying table.
"You killed my brother!" Abaddon shouted.
"He shouldn't have tried to kill mine." Dean spat, moving so fast Abaddon didn't have the time to react before Dean landed a punch to his face.
"Brother?" Sam rasped out.
"We were together our whole lives, every day, we shared a womb, and you took him from me."
Sam felt sorry for him, if something happened to Dean, if he was taken away or killed…Sam felt this man's anguish. Standing here, in front of them, like he was, suddenly Abaddon, or Abaddon's brother, or whoever he was didn't generate in Sam the same fear he had a week ago. Result of Dean's presence between them, or the pity Sam felt for his former capture, or some combination of both.
"You'll have to forgive me for not feeling sorry for you!" Dean kicked the shotgun away as Abaddon lunged across the floor at it. "He, you, the two of you hurt people, killed them, and for what, cheap thrills?"
Abaddon was up, scrambling away from Dean, who was advancing on him. Nearly on top of him, Dean reached down, hands going for Abaddon's collar, to pull him up and Sam figured to knock him out. Abaddon rolled to one side, grabbing up a chair and smashed it into the side of Dean's head. Clamoring to his feet as Dean dropped, Abaddon ran out the door.
Sam was at Dean's side in less than a heartbeat. Dropping to one knee long enough to hear Dean spout "sonofabitch.." Knowing Dean was ok, Sam took off after Abaddon, paying no attention to Dean's shouts demanding he stop, come back.
In the brief few seconds it took him to make sure Dean wasn't badly hurt Sam lost sight of Abaddon. Going only twenty or thirty feet into the maze of wreckage that was the junk yard Sam stopped and listened. He couldn't hear anything. Doubling back to the house, he'd get Dean, and some weapons, they'd track the guy. Sam barely slowed when he got to the house, the front door was open, hoping Dean was still inside, he was up the steps and in the house in a few long strides. He had to find Dean.
Sam slammed to a stop, throwing his hands up.
OOOOOOOOO
Catching a glimpse of Sam through the open door, he was moving full speed when he hit the porch, barely slowing down to vault the railing and disappeared into the junk yard after Abaddon.
"Damn it!" Dean staggered to his feet, through the house and followed Sam. "Sammy!" But Sam paid no attention. Great, picks now to act like himself. Hand pressed to his temple, Dean fell down the steps more than ran down them. An entire new universe was born in the amount of stars sparking into being along the edges of his vision. His feet tangled together, he dropped to his knees with a hiss and a grunt.
Taking in the deepest breaths he could, Dean willed his vision and head to clear, and they listened for once. Too bad Sam couldn't. Lurching to his feet Dean was moving again. Stalking through the yard he could care less if he found Abaddon, or Abaddon's twin, or whoever the hell it was. He wanted only to find Sam. Now that they'd both seen the guy Dean fully intended to let the cops deal with this.
Rounding each pile of stacked cars, Dean stopped, listening intently with keen hearing for Sam's footsteps, his breathing, his voice, anything to lead Dean to him. Hearing movement behind him, Dean turned in time to see someone come at him. Abaddon screamed, and flung himself, arms out, hands clawing, at Dean. Stepping back, bracing to catch the weight, Dean caught the man, shoving him to one side. Abaddon's hands got purchase around his neck, but not with enough power or grip to do much damage.
"Where's Sam?" Dean shouted.
"After I finish you, I'm going after him."
It was all the information Dean needed. The man had no idea where Sam was, hadn't gotten to him, didn't have him tied up or trapped somewhere. Shouting, Dean brought both fists up and slammed them down as hard as he could on Abaddon's forearms. Pulling back his right fist plowed into Abaddon's middle several times, doubling him over. As he bent in two Dean hit him repeatedly in the face. Using his shirt collar for a handle Dean straightened the guy, landing more punches to his face and jaw.
Abaddon somehow managed to get a foot around Dean's leg, kicking him down. Crab walking backwards, panting, trying to escape Dean, Abaddon got far enough away he flipped over, staggered to his feet, tried to run. Using a stack of old tires as a support he staggered around them, then started throwing them at Dean.
Each one Dean swatted to the side like they were annoying bugs. Each hit sent spikes of pain up his arms, each one fueled his anger. He didn't stop, slow down one bit, just kept moving at Abaddon in even, determined, furious paces. When Abaddon ducked to the side, tried running, Dean sprinted after him, stopping him with a tackle. Pinning the other man with his own weight, straddling him, Dean got in a few more punches before Abaddon managed a few hits to Dean's face, throwing him back just enough to give Abaddon the chance to push away from the ground. He tried rolling Dean over, but Dean was ready for the move, Abaddon didn't succeed in totally freeing himself, was just able to twist to the side. It threw Dean off enough the creep got his hands around Dean's neck, forcing him back and down, pressing off Dean's air with his weight.
Shouting hoarse and wordless, Dean brought both hands up, slamming his fists into either side of Abaddon's head. He heard a sickening thud, felt movement of bone under his hands, and didn't really care right then.
Abaddon fell away from him, face down in the dirt. Dean knelt in the dirt beside him, leaning both hands heavily against his thighs, gulping air into his deprived lungs, coughed a bit. The sound of footsteps, not Sam's, he didn't make that much noise, and then the distinct sound of a shot gun being pumped caused Dean to turn his head to one side, looking.
Letting out a breath of relief, Dean straightened, looked at the man and wiped the back of his hand over his lips. "I don't mind saying, I'm glad to see you."
"He dead?" The tip of the shotgun jerked at Abaddon.
Dean shook his head, "I don't know." Realizing he was probably being requested to check that out, Dean leaned to one side, feeling for a pulse. Nodding stiffly, "No, he's got a pulse, breathing."
"Well less paperwork that way."
The shotgun didn't waver, which was beginning to make Dean nervous. "You want to put that thing down?"
He ignored Dean's request. "Course we can make a case either way, with your brother as a witness and the pictures, we can lift prints from the photos. Hope you still have them."
Dean slowly climbed to his feet. "I told Forge about notes, a phone call, nothing about photos." The damn shotgun still hadn't really gone anywhere. "You going to put that thing down?" He repeated the request, putting more force into his voice.
"Arty."
Dean shook his head, didn't say anything.
"His name is Joey," Redding motioned to the figure on the ground. "Arty is who you killed, died because of your brother."
Dean's eyes flicked to the man on the ground, then back again to Redding's face. "You know them?"
"Their whole lives."
Bobby had jugs of holy water all over the yard, there was one a few feet from Dean. Holy water or regular water, a gallon jug was still ten pounds. Half expecting Redding's eyes to suddenly turn some color, filled completely, Dean shifted to one side.
"Don't."
Dean froze.
"Where is he?"
Dean shook his head. "I don't know." It was the truth.
"You wouldn't tell me anyway, would you? I have to kill him you know, so he can't tell anyone what they did."
"No, I sure as hell wouldn't."
Redding shook his head, "I had to cover up for them, protect them, my brothers. You understand that, don't you?"
"They killed people, kids. They were kids. Sam is only twenty-three, just a kid. Their families have to live with how they died, suffering, scared. My brother has to live with what was done to him the rest of his life, he'll never forget, he may never be the same again. And you let them? Helped them?" Dean's voice rose, he got a few more steps toward the jug before Redding barked a laugh at him.
"You would do anything to protect your brother."
"Sam would never do anything like that."
"What would you do if he did?"
Dean glared at him, "He wouldn't, period." Another step toward the jug.
Joey groaned. Redding's attention shifted to him, mumbling the name under his breath. Dean didn't stop to feel sorry for him, he ducked down, snatching the jug. In one swift movement it was open, and water was flung at Redding. Dean was almost disappointed when it did nothing but get him wet. Dean dropped as the shotgun discharged, rolled closer to Redding and came up, cracking him in the side of the head with the now half filled jug. Grabbing Redding's arm Dean tried wrestling the gun from his grasp. It lowered, Dean shoved the gun away from him as Redding managed to fire a second time. Dean heard the distinctive sound of bullet impacting flesh, a strangled grunt from behind him.
Redding forced him around, to the side trying to get a clear view of Joey. Dean's head snapped around, a pool of blood oozed out from Joey's head, his eyes open and staring vacantly. He was dead.
"You bastard!" Redding swung the shotgun up, hitting Dean's shoulder.
Staggering back, Dean had to take a few quick steps away from Redding to keep from being knocked to the ground. The shotgun trained on him. Shouting from one of the stacks of flattened scrap iron drew both their attention. Dean didn't need to look, he recognized the voice. Sam hurled off the closest pile of wreckage at Redding.
Redding swung in Sam's direction, firing. Dean heard two weapons discharge. Redding crumpled to the ground.
Dean flung himself at Sam. "SAMMY!!!"