Author Notes: Sorry again for the long break between postings. Well, sort of sorry. I know it's rough to wait so long for a WIP to be updated, but I AM working on other, entirely worthwhile things in the off-time. Swears.

I very much appreciate all those taking the time to review - thank you so much for the treats! :D

Be All Our Sins Remember'd

Chapter Thirteen

Dean wakes with a start, his eyes snapping open as he sucks in a desperate lungful of air, like he'd been deprived of it. Like he'd been strangled, or held underwater. It's not an entirely unfamiliar sensation.

He doesn't remember dreaming, but that doesn't mean the nightmares weren't there. The nightmares are always there, lurking like toothy monsters in the shadowy corners of his perpetually abused and overtaxed mind. He's come to expect restless nights and violent dreaming, and can't actually remember the last time he managed a good night's sleep. Isn't sure he'd even know what that felt like.

He stays quiet and lies still, gives his racing heart and stuttering lungs a chance to settle while he just listens, slowly constructing a mental image for the room. The air conditioning unit hums a low, droning noise from where it's mounted beneath the windowsill, broken by an occasional hiccup in power, a muted, metallic clank. If he's remembering this right – and he's got enough self-awareness to know that's quite an assumption to make right now – then the motel isn't a dump by any means, just the first place they came across after breakfast, because Dean was dead on his feet. Or so Sam had said, and Dean hadn't quite had the energy left to argue. Faintly clacking computer keys means his brother is parked at the table by the window, and possibly unaware Dean's awake. Which is just as well, really, because he could use a minute or two, to get his head straightened out before he's expected to be on. The last few days have KICKED his ASS, and that's coming immediately on the heel of getting his ass very thoroughly kicked.

His head is pounding dully, in a consistent, not necessarily noteworthy sort of way, like an annoying, buzzing background noise he's grown used to. Like the air conditioner. His chest, though, feels curiously tight, his throat dry and scratchy, and sleep hasn't done much to rectify that twinge in his neck. He shifts his head, just slightly, eliciting a soft swish of the cotton pillowcase but not much in the way of relief.

The clacking stops abruptly, and Sam's chair creaks.

"Dean?"

Damn, he thinks, and then immediately after, showtime. Dean sniffs and shoves himself into a sit, wincing as sore muscles all along his back and bruised side wake up and scream their protestation of the movement. He scrubs a hand up through his hair and glances at his watch, assumes by the hour and the thin strip of sunlight parting the thick curtains that it's late afternoon. He lowers his arm and stares across the way at Sam's meticulously-made bed, the unzipped bag positioned at the end. The previous night, the early morning hours – it's a water-logged, headache-y blur of various discomforts, and he can't remember if his brother ever turned in.

"Hey." Sam squints appraisingly. "You sleep okay?"

"Like a baby," Dean replies roughly, voice catching suspiciously in his sore throat. He doesn't even bother forcing eye contact with his brother; they both know he's lying through his teeth. "How long you been up?"

"Uh, a while." Sam returns the favor, redirects his gaze back down to the computer screen. He hits a few keys, then closes the lid of the laptop. There's a takeout coffee cup next to the computer, and another discarded on the counter behind him.

A while, Dean notes with a frown. "You went out?"

His brother rotates in his seat to fully face him, eyebrows coming together in worry. "Yeah," he says, stretching out the word. "And you were awake when I did."

Sometimes, he just shouldn't say words. "Right," Dean amends quickly, though he's drawing a complete blank. What he's got recollection of is muddled, at best. There's…eggs, maybe, and really watery coffee, and really watery water and a fiery lance of pain before that, and then now. That dull, persistent throb between his temples and Sam staring him down, all sharp angles and palpable concern.

His brother props his elbows on the back of the chair and the table in a transparent play at nonchalance, an attempt at casualness that's difficult to convincingly pull off when his spine is ramrod straight. "How you feeling?"

"Better," Dean says automatically.

Sam narrows his eyes, nods after a beat. "That's good."

"Yeah, it's a real dance party." He jerks his chin at the computer. "What're you doin'?"

"Trying to figure out our next move."

Dean rubs the back of his sore neck, cocks his head to the right until he feels a satisfying crack. "Any luck?"

"Yeah, I think so." Sam drops his eyes to his hands, fingers twisting together restlessly. "I talked to Cas."

Dean snorts. "And I take it he didn't have good news."

Sam's eyes dart up, widen like a caught child's. "What?"

The annoying twinge is already back. "Sam, you look like someone backed over your dog. Spill already." Dean sighs and seeks higher ground, throws the covers from his legs and rotates to swing them over the edge of the mattress. He ends up making the move a bit faster than ANY part of his body appreciates, and the room sparks then dims around the edges. He ducks his aching head and swallows. "Damn."

"Hey, hey." Sam jumps to his feet and holds out a hand, but stays out of swinging range. A lesson Dean taught him at an early age. "Take it easy. You've been, uh…it's been a rough couple of days."

"Thanks, Mom." Dean grimaces, presses a palm against his aching chest. "I remember."

His brother folds his arms across his chest. "I'm just saying, you're not exactly operating at a hundred percent, here."

"I'm fine." Dean drops his hand, clears his throat. "What did Cas say?"

Sam pauses, waves a vague hand before speaking. "Well, he's been digging through the archives for a couple of days now, and he was able to uncover more about the source of the, uh, spell."

"Duncan said it was me." Nothing vague about that.

"And as much as I hate to give that son of a bitch any credit, it looks like he was right." Sam lets out a long, slow breath and shifts his weight, stalls some more. "Cas said it's like…well, he used an analogy that doesn't really translate – "

"Sam," Dean barks, rolling his eyes. He's not really looking to drag this obviously bad news out and make a damn day of it.

"It's like a light switch that's always flipped on," Sam reports with a wince. "Just…draining energy. Until…"

"Until I don't have anything left to power it," Dean finishes bluntly and dully.

"Or," his brother counters forcefully. "We chase this thing to the finish line. Piece together the clues from the visions and stop this."

"All right." Dean rubs his eyebrow, swallows around that damned rising itch in his throat. "You want to what now?" He holds up a hand before his brother can speak, shakes his head. "Like I'm five."

Sam moves back to the table, sinks into his chair. "I got the idea from something Duncan said – "

"Yeah, okay." Dean kneads again at the back of his neck. "Can we not take our tips from that creepy bastard?"

Sam nods. "Look, man, I hear you. And I get it. But I'm not exactly seeing a whole lot of options at this point."

Dean rolls his eyes, and his brother takes that as his cue to continue.

"Whoever did this to you, they're after something specific. Something that Henry must've gotten his hands on, during whatever mission it is that you're…seeing, right?" He doesn't wait for Dean to insert a thought, plows forward. "They're using you to find it, and if we can figure out what that is, and get to it first, maybe we can stop this. Maybe that's the spell's endgame."

Maybe. Things used to be so easy, so black and white. A goddamned lifetime ago. Lately, they spend a lot time in that murky gray area of maybe. Even evil comes with an asterisk these days, a maybe. Dean works his jaw, scans the small room for his cell phone.

"What is it?"

He spots the phone on the floor next to his bed, like he'd tossed and turned it right onto the carpet, and stoops gingerly to scoop it up. "I'm gonna call Cas, hear all this for myself."

Sam raises his eyebrows. "Since when do you grade my homework?"

Dean spins back and opens his mouth to reply, but he doesn't get a single word out before that persistent tickle climbs all the way out of his throat and escapes in a succession of quick, wet coughs that nearly send him to the floor next to his phone.

"You okay?"

"I'm fine, Sam," he retorts hoarsely, pressing a hand against his hot, scratchy chest.

"That's debatable." Sam rises with a sigh and grabs Dean's arm, forces him too easily into a seated position atop the bed.

Dean curls his lip, swats at his brother until he backs away. "Not right now, it's not."

"Fine." Sam picks up a notepad and pen from the table, eyebrows drawn together as he studies whatever he's written there. "Last time, you said you were – or, I guess, Henry was – in a car, with Magnus." He looks up. "Do you know where they were going?"

"Sam – "

"I know it's not easy, man, but try to remember. Anything. A road sign, maybe. A – "

Dean stands abruptly and wordlessly, grabs his bag from the floor. He tosses it to the rumpled sheets and rummages through, searching for a passable change of clothes.

"What are you doing?"

Dean hitches a shoulder as he fists a clean t-shirt, doesn't turn around. "Well, Sam, I was thinking you might at least let me grab a shower before you start poking around in my head." He doesn't allow a reply, keeps his chin tucked low and out of his spluttering brother's eyeline as he moves past Sam into the bathroom.

He doesn't slam this door, just closes it with purpose, the kind that doesn't say I'm pissed, just back off a damn minute. He hits the light switch, wincing as a harsh, bright light fills the small room. Dean drops his clothes to the floor with a cough and cranks the hot water in the shower, all the way, then turns to stand at the counter, hands framing the sink.

He stares into the mirror, at the ghostly face staring back at him, until it fogs over completely.

The bathroom doorknob finally rattles, and Sam's head snaps up.

Steam curls out into the room as Dean reenters, and "youokay" is on the tip of his tongue. He swallows it back, shoves it into the corner of his mind that's already stockpiled with dusty, unasked questions and discarded concern. The hot water seems to have worked its wonders on his brother's stiff muscles, the man moving with a bit more fluidity than when he'd stalked into the bathroom. So Sam instead drops his eyes and lifts a corner of the plain white box on the table. "I got donuts."

Never mind that it's now nearing sunset and traditional dinnertime, and the pastries aren't exactly fresh. But it's not like they've been keeping anything resembling a normal – or consistent – sleep or eating schedule since that thing appeared on his brother. And besides, Dean likes donuts.

His brother shakes his head, drops his armload of clothing to the top of his unzipped bag without so much as a glance at Sam. "Not hungry."

Not asking. Sam swallows that retort, too, but has a harder time stowing the concern. He leans back in his chair and frowns across the room at Dean, taking stock all over again.

His brother looks rundown and tired, despite nearly ten hours of – admittedly restless – sleep. Not that Sam is feeling particularly well-rested himself; more like severely – perhaps dangerously – caffeinated. The failure to undo the spell at Duncan's has taken a toll on them both, and any sleep he managed was owed to accumulated exhaustion, pure and simple. To his body's refusal to stay conscious and upright one minute longer.

He'd woken sometime around noon, slowly, in thick, gauzy layers, with a ferociously pounding head complaining of too little sleep, and an aching, regrettably familiar pit in his stomach. He got right to work, checked in with Cas then set up shop at the computer, watching his brother toss and turn and one time actually sit all the way up in bed to blink blearily at him across the room as Sam slipped out for coffee and a sandwich. He has nothing to show for the half day's research, aside from this espresso-roasted buzz in his skull and a precarious footing with Castiel, upon whom he'd unleashed his stress and short temper in an emotionally-charged tirade he can't believe didn't wake his brother.

It's been a few days now, but Dean's still sporting a bit of stubborn bruising around his left eye, in the shape of Cas' knuckles. He seems flushed, which could simply be from the long shower, or could have something to do with his midnight soak in filthy water and the way he keeps ducking his head to cough into his shoulder. Sam had waded hip-deep into the same frigid water to fetch him, and he feels fine, and Dean's never been one to catch cold easily. Or anything, for that matter; Sam can't remember the last time his brother was naturally ill.

But that had been before.

Sam had worried about this. Or, has a lifetime of experience dealing with supernatural fallout, and the presence of mind to acknowledge something like this was a possibility, if not an inevitability.

The Mark of Cain had dug in deep and changed his brother, gradually but steadily, on every level and in every way. Having it torn from him the way it was had to have been a vicious, abrupt jolt to his system, bringing Dean back but leaving him vulnerable. To his own demons, and to run-of-the-mill bugs and viruses, the kind that are likely inhabit the murky water he'd fallen into last night.

All told, Sam can't shake this heavy feeling in the pit of his stomach, like other shoe is due to drop any moment now.

His brother rolls his head on his shoulders and rubs absently at his chest, and Sam finally loses the internal battle. Third time's a charm. "Y'all right?"

Dean sighs, shoulders falling as he drops his hand to his side, but he doesn't turn around. "What do you want me to say, Sam?"

And, yeah, he's got a point there, because Sam doesn't honestly know which he'd prefer: another half-assed lie meant to divert his attention and make him feel better, or to know his brother is trusting him with the truth. He also knows that every time he asks such a thing, he's as good as setting his brother up, because there isn't a right answer here. If Dean says he's all right now, then he's obviously lying. And on the flip side, Sam can't figure either of them will benefit from Dean verbalizing exactly how lousy he's feeling, whether it's the truth or not.

"Why're you lookin' at me like that?"

Sam, lost in his own musings, blinks. "Sorry."

Dean sinks onto the mattress, spends a moment eyeing the box of donuts on the table with curiosity, but also like he's suspicious of their motives. He eventually wrinkles his nose and redirects his gaze to Sam. "All right. If we're gonna do this, let's do it."

"You sure? I don't want you to – "

"Sam."

"Yeah." He looks down at his notes, grabs up his pen and taps his fingers on the pad. "Okay. Just…tell me about your last vision. Or, memory," Sam quickly self-corrects, before Dean has a chance.

His brother narrows his eyes, gives it to him cold. "It hurt like a bitch."

Sam swallows, feels a muscle in his jaw jump. "What was it about?"

"I already told you," Dean snaps, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "They were, uh, were in a car, arguing about their mission."

"What was the mission?"

"I don't know."

"Where were they going?" Sam persists.

"How the hell am I supposed to know that, Sam?" Dean moves his fingers to his forehead, scowls.

Sam tosses his pen down and scrubs at both eyes. "Just…I don't know, try to remember any details that could help us figure out where to go from here."

Dean sighs the frustrated, impatient sigh that means this isn't gonna work and closes his eyes. His brow furrows, fine lines of strain and concentration creasing the corners of his eyes. He stills, fingers tightening in the folds of the blankets until his knuckles are stark white.

Sam shifts in his chair, leans forward. "Dean?"

Dean's eyebrows jump in acknowledgement, and he lifts his chin, swallows. "Shut up a sec. I'm trying to – " The color drains from his face like a plug was pulled. His entire body jerks, then goes scary stiff.

Breath hitching, Sam shoots to his feet with such force and speed, he sends his chair to the carpet. This isn't what he wanted, not at all what he was looking for. He's at his brother's side in a blink, grips Dean's arm just as he throws his head back and cries out, a sharp, pained bleat that sends Sam's heart into overdrive.

Dean slips from the edge of the mattress, and Sam's hold is the only thing that keeps him from smacking his head on the floor.

After a moment of vainly attempting to pull Dean back up, Sam concedes defeat to gravity and lowers his brother carefully to the carpet. I'm sorry, he thinks. Chants. Pleads. I'm sorry, I'm sorry. He can only watch, helpless and responsible, as Dean curls in on himself, hands pressed to his head as he struggles through the vicious mental assault.

Sam keeps his hands close, but doesn't dare touch his brother. Not just yet. This is a precarious, vulnerable position Dean's in, and for Sam to acknowledge it can only make it worse. He has to wait his brother out, even if he's the reason, the cause for his discomfort.

It seems like an eternity before Dean stills and releases a long, low breath, fingers twisted in his hair like he's trying to keep the lid on.

Still, Sam waits.

Dean finally flattens his palms against the flat, drab carpet and levers up, arms trembling. He sniffs, mumbles something Sam doesn't quite catch.

But if Dean's talking – or trying to – he's here, and Sam risks laying a cautious hand on his brother's shaking shoulder, leans in close. "What?"

Dean swallows, lifts his head. "Berwick. It was on a sign. That's where they were going."

"Okay," Sam says quietly, not knowing where that is or what that means but not looking to push the issue just yet. He gently squeezes his brother's shoulder, communicating you did good and thanks and sorry. Mostly that last one.

God, I'm sorry.

Dean knows the drill, knows he has to let his brother know he's okay before Sam will go away. He bobs his head and turns his face away, muffles a harsh cough into his shoulder. "Berwick," he repeats, a surer, stronger voice. Then another cough, and a hoarse "fuck, Sammy."

To be continued...

Prompt lines included in this chapter:

Sam's eyebrows come together in recognizable worry, and his fingers jump against his thigh. "Yeah," he says, stretching out the word. "And you were awake when I did."

"Since when do you grade my homework?"