Let me just lay this out in front of you right now: curses are not something to be taken lightly. They aren't something you can blow off. If you underestimate them, something bad is going to happen to you, and more likely than not, it's going to be painful, it's going to be humiliating, and you're going to deserve it.
Curses are nasty. Nine times out of ten, you're not going to be able to break them, because they were laid by people who are dead and intended to hurt people who are also dead. This is because the art of making powerful, long-lasting curses has been all but lost by everyone but a few creatures (thank god). Any witches you run across are going to throw tiny curses around. Hexes, aimed at specific people, that fizzle out as soon as they've done their job. We aren't going to talk about those. We're going to talk about the big guns: the ones that last.
We've already established you can't break a curse. All you can do is keep people out of its way, if it's bound to a place; put it somewhere safe, if it's bound to an object; and if it's bound to a person or a family or some other group of people…well, we'll go over that later.
The point is that, if you come across a curse, don't mess with it. Don't take any chances or perform any experiments, because that's kind of my job. If you even suspect that an object is cursed, don't even think about touching that thing with your bare hands. Don't spend too much time around it, either, because some cursed stuff can call to you. Get inside your head. The only way to shut it up and make it safe is to drop it in a hex box, and those are expensive to buy and tough to make. There are instructions on how to make a temporary one in the back of this book, though, so that you can neutralize your portrait that makes people's eyes bleed or whatever it is you have until you can find a more permanent solution to the problem.
Seriously, though. No playing with it, no touching. Pick it up with tongs. You'll regret it if you don't.
- Curses: People, Places, and Things, Sam Winchester
Demons: burned in a tangle in the back yard, weapons and all. Ashes buried at the edges of the property.
Wards: replaced and heavily bulked up, all round the entire cabin and the land that surrounded it.
The main room of the cabin: scrubbed with bleach until every speck of blood and bone and tissue was gone. Bullet pried out of the wall. Salt residue and gunpowder swept up.
Sam's ribs: felt out (not broken) and quieted with two aspirin.
Sam's pajamas: burned, ashes thrown into the trash pile.
Sam's weapons: cleaned with bleach, reloaded, put away.
Sam's arm: cleaned and bandaged. The cut wasn't deep enough to need stitches.
Sam's head: iced and calmed by the same two aspirin that he'd taken for his ribs.
Sam's stomach: probed for internal bleeding. None present.
Vaughn's cell: bedding and cot burned. Comic books burned. Loose pages burned. Journal burned. Walls and floor scrubbed with bleach.
Vaughn: burned. Ashes buried underneath the closest tree to the cabin.
Sam took stock of it all, all the work he'd done, as he sat in the shower and stared blankly out the frosted glass of the door. The spray was turned on as hot as he could stand it and as strong as he could make it, aimed directly at him. It pounded on his head. On his shoulders and chest. Running down the drain clean and clear because the last of the blood had been washed off of him half hour ago.
His arm had scabbed under the bandage that he'd slapped on it before getting to work on everything. He'd pulled that bandage off before getting in the shower, assuming that the scab would be enough. Which it was. But it was getting soft now, liable to fall off and make the cut start bleeding again any second. And his ribs were starting up again, too. And his head. He needed to take more aspirin.
The water was starting to cool down. Okay. Time to get out. Time to stop numbly, carelessly running through the list over and over again inside his head.
Sam struggled to his feet, turning off the water, then pushed open the door of the stall and reached for his towel. Light streamed in through the bathroom window. It was early afternoon. He was actually surprised that it hadn't taken him longer to take care of everything. He patted himself dry, replaced his bandages and popped another couple of aspirin, and knotted the towel around his waist before pressing the bathroom door open.
Bedroom. Clothes. Dean was oddly silent, even though he had to know that Sam would be able to hear him if he called out. Maybe he was feeling guilty – yeah, right. Demons didn't feel guilt or remorse. They didn't regret their actions, or things they had caused.
Hair still damp, Sam left his bedroom in jeans and a T-shirt, and scuffed his way across the floor that had been awash in blood last night. Early this morning. Whatever; he didn't care enough to make the distinction. Dean was standing up at the gate to his cell, as close as the Circle of Solomon would let him, and he watched Sam with green eyes as he approached. He really looked ridiculous, shirtless and with one leg of his jeans missing. That gauze pad still taped to his stomach. But he was obviously powerful.
"Uh…hey," Dean said, hesitantly. He nodded to Sam, and said, "Y'know, you're looking pretty good. All things considered. Hell of a lot better than the other guys, right?" He grinned.
"Dantalion?" Sam replied. Dean's grin faded into an ugly scowl.
"That's not how you say it," he complained. "They kept pronouncing it wrong. Sure, it's stupid, but it's not that stupid."
"Seems like a team of demons who came to break you out should really know how to pronounce your name," Sam replied. He stepped away from the iron gate, turning and then walking towards the kitchen. The conversation that he was having with Dean continued, despite the fact that he wasn't facing him anymore.
"Yeah, I know," Dean agreed. "Pretty much exactly how I feel. It's Dan-TAL-yun." He paused, and his chains clinked quietly as, presumably, he looked around. "So…I guess you got everything cleaned up."
"Yeah," Sam agreed neutrally, opening up one of the cabinets as he reached the kitchen.
"I could've helped with that, y'know," Dean pointed out. Sam snorted as he pulled down a bundle of black candles, bound together by twine.
"You seriously think I'd let you out," he stated flatly, bringing down another bundle. Then another, and another. There was half a dozen in each, and he stacked them like firewood on the counter.
"Well, nah," Dean admitted. "Guess I am just a little more dangerous than the wraith kid, huh?" A sudden stiffness flooded Sam's muscles. He struggled past it, not allowing himself to lock up. "But it's the last I could've done, since this was partially my fault."
Sam scooped the pile of candles, now pretty big, up off of the counter. He turned to look at Dean, and just barely managed to keep anger and shock and grief out of his voice as he repeated, "'Partially'?"
"Yeah. Partially," Dean agreed, and Sam could hear a challenge in there somewhere. "'Cause they did come for me, but it ain't like I called 'em here."
Sam snorted. "Right." It came out a lot more bitter than he'd meant it to. He was trying to wall everything back, focus on the task at hand with a clear and unbiased mind, but it just kept on slipping through. It was like trying to hold water in with barbed wire.
"You don't believe me?" Dean asked, sounding a little disbelieving himself. "You think they came here 'cause I got a message out to them." He shook his head. "How the hell would I've done that?"
"I don't have any idea," Sam responded harshly as he made his way over to his desk. "But I'm gonna make sure that you don't do it again. Ever."
"It wasn't me!" Dean exclaimed, rattling his chains in frustration.
"Then how else did they find this place?" Sam shot back. He balanced the pile of candles in one arm as he grabbed one of the two lighters on his desk with his other hand. He stuffed it into the pocket of his jeans.
"I don't know," Dean replied. "Maybe somebody tailed me when that Gordon asshole brought me up here. Maybe they tortured somebody to find out where a hunter'd take a Knight. Maybe your wards just suck." He glared at Sam as he dug the key ring out of his pocket. He had to fumble past the one to Vaughn's cell in order to get to the one that would let him open this gate. "In fact, yeah, it was probably that last one. How the hell else would four demons get in without you wanting them to? I'm just gonna assume that it wasn't really part of your plan for them to show up."
"Back away from the gate," Sam said tightly. That was the only response, of any kind, that he was going to give Dean. He was trying to bait him and it wouldn't work. "Sit down in your chair, and stay there.
Dean arched an eyebrow, and for the first time in a while, his eyes turned black. "Or what?" he challenged.
"Or I'll drag you outta your vessel with a specially-tailored exorcism and keep you in a damn milk jug full of salt," Sam replied, speaking through teeth that had gritted themselves at some point. "This is the best thing you can hope for here, Dean."
The demon's expression might as well have been carved from granite as he took one step back, then a second, then a third, until he reached his chair. Sam was surprised as he sank down into it. He'd expected to have to make more threats than that – Hellspawn were rarely this cooperative, and even though he'd never dealt with a Knight before, he found it hard to believe that Dean's kind liked being ordered around by an ex-hunter any more than other demons did.
"You seem pretty desperate to have me believe you," Sam said, as he put the key in the lock. It slid home with a cold click. "About not summoning those other demons here." He turned it. "Don't move a muscle if that's really true."
"It is," Dean replied as Sam pushed the gate open. "I'm not moving a damn inch over here, Sammy."
Sam rolled his eyes. Yeah, he believed that.
He hesitated before stepping into the cell. Into the Circle of Solomon that held Dean. This was stupid, and he knew it – what he was feeling right now as a result of what had happened last night wasn't clouding his judgment. Dean wasn't strapped into a heavy, rune-covered chair anymore, which meant he could move around the Circle at will; which meant that it wasn't too terribly unrealistic for him to be able to kill Sam if he went inside.
But he couldn't teleport within the circle and he still couldn't move his arms or hands away from his chest, so he'd have to run at Sam and attack him with his feet or legs. All Sam would have to do to survive was get out of the cell before Dean knocked him out or broke one of his legs or something. He felt confident that he could do that. And maybe some part of him just wanted to die, the pain of it be damned, because he went ahead and stepped into Dean's cell.
"What're you planning on doing to me, Sam?" Dean's voice was quiet. Sam briefly wondered if he'd received interrogation training, either as a human or as what he was now. Repeating the subject's name was a common technique, a way to form a quick and unconscious bond.
"Spell," Sam replied shortly. He stayed where he was while he gave his answer, just in case Dean reached badly and he had to leave the cell for his own protection. "It'll bind you for twenty-four hours. No moving, no talking…no sending any signals at all." He shifted the candles in his arms. "Would've done it sooner, but I needed to run a few experiments on you that're all done now."
Dean blinked at him, so slowly that it was almost reptilian, then glanced away, shaking his head. "If it makes you feel better, I guess." He moved, and Sam tensed until he realized that he was just crossing his legs. Irritation spiked in him.
"Yeah," he snapped. "Yeah, it makes me feel better – just what the hell is your problem, anyway?"
"Uh…" Dean leaned back in his chair and raised both of his eyebrows, skeptical. "My problem?"
"There were murder threats," Sam said, frustrated and annoyed. "There were insults. There was you kicking me in my bad leg."
"Which," Dean interjected, "I apologized for. A while ago, actually."
"Yeah – whatever." Sam shook his head, dismissing it. "So you started acting…better. And, okay, I guess I could see that, you were working an angle." He looked at the chair that Dean was sitting in now. "And I bought it. But I don't get why you're trying to be my friend today, after I fucked up your escape attempt last night."
More blinking. Then Dean shifted his weight and tipped his head back, looking like he was thinking as he pushed at the inside of his cheek with his tongue. Finally, he spoke.
"'Cause that's not the only thing that happened last night," he replied. "Four demons showed up to bust me out, yeah, and you killed 'em, but one of 'em also got to your wraith before you could stop him." He shook his head. "You obviously had a whole lot invested in that kid. And I guess that that makes me feel just bad enough, on some level, to not want to be my usual bag-of-dicks demon self to you today." He shook his head, looking a little fed up. "So pardon the little smidge of humanity that Alastair left me with."
Sam didn't respond to that. He didn't believe it, either, but Dean could probably figure that out well enough on his own. He stepped away from the doorway and knelt, not without some difficulty, in order to dump the candles onto the floor. The wax of them was soft, and had smeared all over his shirt, ruining it. He didn't care.
He pulled a folding knife out of his pocket and sawed through the twine around one of the bundles. The candles tumbled free. He started setting them up, exactly two feet apart from each other, along the edge of the Circle of Solomon, just inside the ring of salt. Occasionally, he had to mold the bases so they'd stay upright. He ran over the incantation for the spell in his mind as he worked. He'd used it enough times to have mostly memorized it, though only on much smaller scales before, and only in absolute emergencies. Which he guessed this qualified as. Despite Dean's cooperation so far.
Speaking of Dean, he could feel his eyes on him as he went along. As Sam slowly worked his way around the perimeter of the circle, he turned in his chair in order to watch him at all times. He didn't offer to help, though Sam couldn't think of a single reason why he would. This spell was meant to shut him down completely, everything but his thoughts. And his hands were still wrapped up so tightly that he wouldn't be much use at setting up candles.
When Sam finally finished, his leg was griping at him. It didn't like being in a kneeling position. Actually, it didn't like being in any position, but kneeling was the worse, next to crouching. He pushed himself up, and very briefly closed his eyes in relief when some of the pain vanished.
"This is the last step?" Dean asked from his chair, voice devoid of emotion.
"Just about," Sam replied after clearing his throat. If these candles had been made correctly, then all of them that had been cut out of their bundles would spontaneously burst into flame as soon as he lit one of them, to save time. They would all have to be put out individually, but he'd have plenty of time to do that once Dean was frozen.
Standing, more or less, back where he'd started, Sam dug the lighter he'd grabbed earlier out of his pocket. He flicked it as he bent to light the candle direction in front of the cell door.
As soon as the lighter had caught, Sam's nervous system stopped registering any signal beyond pain. Every cell in his body lit up with hot agony. His eyes baked in their sockets. His tongue shriveled in his mouth. His hair was flaming against his skull. Every drop of liquid in his body had been replaced with fire, and he was vaguely aware of thrashing on the ground, screaming and scattering candles with his panicked movements. His eyes were wide open, but he was barely seeing anything at all through them as he beat useless at his legs and torso with both hands. Trying to put out the flames. One coherent thought surfaced in the wild flood of them: I'm burning alive.
But his clothes weren't falling to pieces, his skin wasn't actually crisping. It just felt like it.
In this kind of pain, unimaginable pain, pain that made him howl and scream up to God in a plea to die and end the unbearable agony, it was hard to focus on anything for more than half a second. But he slowly became aware, through bits and flashes, that his right hand was still clamped so tightly around the lighter that its dull, rounded edges were actually beginning to cut into his skin, sending blood whipping all over the place as he thrashed. And it was still lit. That was when he realized what must have happened.
The cursed lighter. The cursed lighter that someone had sent to him. He'd been stupid, he'd been careless, and he'd just put it on his desk, right next to his normal, safe lighter. He'd forgotten all about it over the last few days. He'd just been overwhelmed by everything else that had happened, which was also probably at least part of the reason that he'd scooped it up today without thinking about why there were two lighters on his desk.
At least he knew what the curse was, now.
Fire filled his throat and lungs as he shrieked, rolling in a useless effort to smother flames that would never die. It caught in his few fat deposits, feeding eagerly on the streaks in his muscle tissue. The water in his organs boiled, and they burst inside of him, popping like overfilled balloons. Tears streaked his face. But he must be weeping kerosene, because they were just making the flames burn hotter.
Somebody was shouting. He originally assumed that it was him, but no, the voice was too deep, and too far away. What was it saying? Maybe his name. Did he even have a name? Or was there just the fire?
Something suddenly came down on his chest, a lot of weight. Holding him in place so that he couldn't roll over or writhe anymore. He screamed in protest – that was the only thing that helped. But he was cut off as the pressure on his chest increased, crushing him. Why wasn't whatever this thing was being burned? Why wasn't it pulling away from the white-hot bonfire that he'd been turned into?
Then something, maybe the thing that was on his chest, hit the lighter in his hand with shocking force, and a couple of his fingers, too. The fingers ached and stung in protest, but the lighter was pried free. It flew between the bars of the gate, hit the floor, and clattered across it. He heard the flame put itself out with a hiss and the top snap closed.
The pain immediately halved when the lighter left his hand, and disappeared completely once the flame was out. Sam stared up through tear-blurry eyes at Dean as he stepped off of his chest, sucking in huge breaths with a throat that had gone raw from screaming. His whole body ached (especially his ribs, stomach, and head), probably completely covered in scrapes and bruises from him slamming himself into the floor again and again. And his hand hurt badly, wrist complaining and pinkie and ring finger still oddly stiff, but it was billions of times better than holding the lighter.
Dean was watching him, standing above. His eyes were human and his face was a mask of concern that Sam couldn't hope to distinguish from the real thing. He lowered himself, slowly and awkwardly with his arms bound, to his knees, like he wanted to be closer to Sam.
"You okay?" he asked, rough voice gone soft and worried. "There's a…a bad spell on that damn thing."
"I…I…" Sam tried to answer, but his throat was so torn up, and the burning had hurt so bad, that he couldn't. Fresh tears flooded his eyes. All his barriers were frazzled ashes right now, so he couldn't stop himself from starting to sob, shaking on the floor. He squeezed his eyes shut, ashamed and afraid. He couldn't even begin to imagine how pathetic he looked right now. And he was at the mercy of a Knight of Hell.
"Hey, hey, hey, Sammy," Dean soothed. God, he sounded so tender. "You're okay. It's okay. It's gone, it can't hurt you anymore. You're safe now, all right? I got rid of it."
"S-s-st…" The crying meant that Sam couldn't even talk without stuttering. He wanted to get out of the cell, away from Dean, but he couldn't. Almost all of his energy had been used up in his reaction to the curse, and the last of it was being poured into what he was doing right now.
"No, shhh." Warm breath that smelled faintly of sulfur (and blood) puffed against Sam's face. Dean must be leaning closer. He tried to cringe away, but no, he was so useless that the only thing he could seem to do was cry harder. "C'mon, deep breaths. You killed four powerful demons last night, in under twenty minutes, with only one working leg. "You're a badass. Lemme see that now."
"N-n-n." Sam's chest jumped. "N-no." He'd gotten a full word out. But that was hardly an accomplishment. "Weak. So weak." He choked on another sob.
"Yeah. Shut up," Dean responded. "Calm down, stop crying. Pretty sure I broke a couple of your fingers, or at least bruised 'em, and you need to get those wrapped up."
"J-j-just wanna d-die." It simply popped out. And he was so worn away that he couldn't tell if he meant it or not.
"No." The gust of air that carried the firm, stubborn word spread out against Sam's mouth, and it was hot. Dean must be so close now, because soon, his lips were touching Sam's, and they were even warmer than his breath. After what had just happened, Sam would've thought that he'd have the urge to shy away from heat of all kinds, but he liked this. It was nice. Gentle. Human.
Sam pushed back, up against Dean's soft, full mouth. He couldn't think right now, so his body just took over for him, acting on instinct and memory. He moved his jaw. Dean's lips willingly parted for him, and he tilted his head to give him a better angle. The taste of sulfur and blood wasn't exactly a pleasant one, but the contact mattered so much more than the flavor.
His tears slowly dried, and the painful hiccups that his sobbing had caused quieted. As he lifted his hands and buried his fingers in Dean's close-cropped, impossibly-soft blond hair, drawing him closer, even the memory of the burning pain began to fade away.