Author Note: The last scene of this chapter is what's been holding me up for, well, for quite a while. Turns out I ended up moving that scene to the next chapter, anyway. :P

I've had an awesome week, seeing my gals out West, driving to watch the sun rise at the Grand Canyon, and getting a matching SPN tattoo with my partner-in-crime, who's so awesome you don't even know it, and is also the reason you're even reading this story.

Next chapter will be much quicker along, I promise!

Be All Our Sins Remember'd

Chapter Twenty

At the car, Dean pales noticeably, his face stark-white against the too-black setting of a backroads kind of night. He hitches his shoulder and scrubs at the side of his head, and even though he doesn't seem to realize Sam is watching him, the motion isn't nearly as discrete as he probably thinks it is.

"Dean?"

"M'fine, Sam." Dean squares his shoulders and rolls his eyes, jerks his chin in the direction of the barn. "You wanted to lead. Lead."

Sam stands firm, appraising his brother in a wash of unforgiving moonlight and a breeze that smells of impending rain. Dean seems steady enough, but he learned a long time ago to look beyond how his brother seems. Dean is a master of deception; you never really know what's going on with him unless he wants you to. Unless he allows you to.

There are faint, shadowy smudges under Dean's squinted eyes that a less experienced assessor might miss, and despite his aggressively straight posture, Sam likewise recognizes the subtle sag of his brother's shoulders, like they're holding the weight of the world. Dean winces under his brother's scrutiny and shifts his weight like a wordless admission of vulnerability, or just general unwellness, and suddenly Sam doesn't want anything to do with the maybe-haunted barn looming behind them.

He sighs. "I don't know, man. Maybe we should just roll the dice, call someone in to take care of this. Call Jody."

Dean shakes his head, clearly annoyed by the suggestion. "We're literally right here, Sam."

And you literally just almost died. But Sam knows what this hunt means to his brother. His uneasiness doesn't fade, even as he reluctantly nods. He wordlessly takes one of the shotguns from Dean and starts up the gravel drive, channeling that unease into more comfortable frustration. A new padlock gleams in the moonlight, an effort to dissuade unwanted visitors. He tucks the gun under his arm and finds his lockpick in his pocket, removes the cheap lock with ease. He takes his time straightening, tossing a glance back at his brother and pinning him in place as he sticks his shoulder into the heavy, creaky door.

Keeping the door propped open with his foot, Sam digs out his flashlight and checks the inside of the barn with a wide sweep of the beam. The place has been thoroughly ransacked by the authorities; tools, brooms, and rakes still hang from the walls, but the structure has thankfully been cleaned of all larger, potentially-murderous pieces of farm equipment. A rickety-looking ladder to one side leads to a hayloft. "Looks clear." He swaps the flashlight for the EMF detector and grudgingly motions for his brother to follow him inside.

A milk run, Dean had said. In and out before you know it. Before the ghost even knows it. And there is definitely a ghost in this barn. Sam doesn't need EMF to tell him that, but the lights on the device in his hand are going haywire as he further inspects the barn's interior.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees his brother stumble, one hand sliding along the grimy wood-plank wall. The heel of Dean's other hand is pressed to his forehead, his eyes squeezed shut in obvious pain.

"Dean?" Sam calls, but his brother doesn't respond, doesn't put his mind at ease with so much as a grunt of pained acknowledgement, doesn't even seem to register that Sam has spoken.

Goddammit. Sam curses each of them in this damn barn. His stubborn, won't-take-no-for-an-answer brother, the spook he can feel stalking them – a faint chill at the back of his neck, a bulbous smear of fog skirting the edge of his vision. And definitely himself, because he could have put his foot down with Dean.

Behind him, Dean sucks in a sharp breath, and Sam whirls to watch his brother slide down the wall to land in a senseless heap atop the dirty concrete, white as a sheet and blowing like a freight train.

"Hang on, man," he calls. Pleads. He pumps the shotgun, trains the barrel on the spot where he last glimpsed the spirit.

Dust swirls up from the straw-covered ground and a harsh, bitter wind howls outside the barn. Sam's got a truckload of I told you so's that have his brother's name all over them, but first he needs to get them both out of this barn, preferably in one piece. "Come on, you son of a bitch," he hisses at the spirit. "I do not have time for this."

There's a groan behind him, and Sam knows better than to take his eyes off a mark, but he can't help it. When he turns, Dean's legs are spasming in the dirt and straw, both hands clutching at his head as he tries to curl in on himself. His shotgun lies forgotten and useless next to his twitching right boot.

No, no, no, Sam thinks. Not this again. But it's not again, it's still. He knew better than this, knew better than to think they'd skate out of this thing so easily.

The ominous yowl of a threatened, riled-up spirit with some seriously bad timing draws Sam's attention back to the other side of the barn, and he brings up the shotgun, squinting into the darkness. But there are two threats to the ghost here, and one of them no longer has a deadly weapon in his hand. Sam realizes his mistake a second too late to get between the spirit and his downed, vulnerable brother.

Dean's eyes suddenly blow open and his gasps for breath, hands moving from his head to his neck, which is blooming an alarming shade of red. As is his face.

"Dean!" Sam can't see the spook that's attacking his brother, and that nearly causes him to pull his shot. It might trigger some long-buried feelings of resentment, but Sam would rather Dean take a little friendly fire of rock salt than be strangled to death by poor dead farmer Fred.

He fires off his last round into the space next to his gasping brother, and there's a spark of light, an agonized wail. Dean arches off the floor and crumples backward as he's released from the ghostly chokehold, coughing violently between noisy, desperate pulls for air.

"Dean, the gun," Sam orders, knowing exactly how cold and businesslike he sounds – how much like Dad he sounds – and hating himself for it.

Dean nods, still gasping as his wide eyes search the floor beyond his splayed legs until he locates the shotgun. He coughs hoarsely as he reaches for the weapon, and just as his fingers are closing around the barrel, he stiffens, is lifted from the ground and flung back into the wall by something Sam can't see. He strikes the wood hard, rattling a pegboard of tools with a thwack that hurts Sam's heart, and slumps at the base of the wall. This time he doesn't move a muscle, eyes closed and limbs twisted.

Sam's breath hitches. "Dean!"

Nothing.

Dammit.

Hindsight always has been one of the most-often used weapons in their considerable cache, and Sam knows that everything that's happened in this godforsaken barn is entirely his fault. Dean's brash and argumentative and stubborn as shit, but he's also just come out the other side of one of the worst fevers he's ever had. Maybe that's anyone's ever had. He's just spent the better part of two days stuck in bed. It wouldn't have been easy, but it wouldn't have taken much for Sam to overpower him and wrestle him back into the damn thing. He could have cuffed him to the frame, the radiator. Knocked his weak ass out and loaded him into the car, shagged ass for the bunker. Could have done anything but give into this "milk run" that is rapidly becoming anything but.

Sam moves quickly to snatch up his brother's gun, and traitorously turns his back on Dean, eyes alert for any sign of the spook. He clenches his jaw. "Come on." He doesn't have time for this. Dean doesn't have time for this.

The only warning he gets is a brush of cold air at the back of his neck, the eerie feeling there's someone standing behind him. He whirls, fires off Dean's gun and blasts the spirit square in the chest, hopefully buying the time needed to get his brother back to the relative safety of the car. Even so, Sam gives it a minute, finger tense on the trigger as he counts off the seconds on the suddenly overly-loud tick tick of his watch. He finally drops to his brother's side, sets the gun aside but keeps it close as he gingerly jostles Dean's shoulder. "Hey, Dean."

He brother is out cold, which might be a blessing in disguise given the pain Sam knows has accompanied these cursed visions he's been having. Dean's head lolls on his shoulders in a way that squeezes Sam's heart, but is likely owing to nothing more sinister than the knock he took to the head when he collided with the wall.

Sam pats his brother's cool cheek. "Hey. Dean."

Still no response. Blood runs thick but sluggishly from a deep, jagged gash over his ear, and Sam hisses in sympathy.

Dean jerks, sucking in a breath and coughing harshly, and reflexively rolls to the side. Sam hops out of the way to allow the motion, doing his best to keep his brother's bloody head off the filthy ground.

"There you are. Take it easy." Dean is one heavy son of a bitch, and Sam shifts his weight to keep the man from collapsing completely back to the grimy concrete.

Dean doesn't speak, doesn't move, just lies across Sam's arm like it's too damn much effort to do anything else. They've really gotta get out of this barn, because the ghost has already made it quite clear that he's not going to play nice. Sam moves to haul his brother upright, but Dean's fingers twist in the sleeve of his jacket.

He swallows, throat working, and his eyelids flutter. "Can't leave the job unfinished, Sammy."

"You are the job right now, Dean." You're the only thing that matters, man, so stop trying to make this so damn hard. Sam ignores his brother's noises of protest and the weak attempt to shove him away, drags one arm over his shoulders and pulls Dean bodily to his feet.

"I got it," Dean argues hoarsely. He stumbles away a few steps and hip-checks himself against the unforgiving edge of a workbench. An assortment of rusted tools rattles from the impact, and a wrench clatters to the concrete.

"Yeah, you got it." Sam grabs him firmly by the elbow and steers him toward the open door.

He gets his brother down the drive, pausing only once and only long enough for a green-faced Dean to decide he isn't going to puke. Sam's as gentle as possible while still putting urgency behind the motion when he shoves his brother down onto the seat. Dean makes one more guttural, wounded noise of protest and tries vainly to shove right back out of the car, and Sam keeps him easily pinned to the bench seat.

"Sit," he barks, eyes trained on the bloody side of his brother's head and face. "Stay." He roots around in the backseat, comes up with a clean square of gauze from the kit and sticks it in Dean's hand, guides it up to the wound. "Here. Hold that a sec. You'll be pissed if you get blood all over the car."

Dean's face goes chalk-white and he closes his eyes, breathes deeply. "Since when do you care about the car?" he asks, voice thick and slow and with the rough scratch of sandpaper.

"I don't," Sam returns, though it's not true in the slightest. He tucks his brother's legs inside the car and carefully closes the door, mindful of Dean's likely headache.

He hurries around the front of the car, shooting a single nervous glance in the direction of the haunted structure as he drops behind the wheel. He toys with the idea of just burning the place down and calling it a day, because the damn ghost can't haunt the barn if there isn't a barn, but decides against leaving Dean alone in the car for even five minutes.

Sam turns the key in the ignition, eyes sliding sideways. "You okay, man?"

Dean swallows, nods. The gauze gleams wet and dark between his fingers.

The clouds are hanging full and low in the night sky when they make it back to the motel, and Dean lays his head back against the seat, makes no move to get out of the car.

Sam's stomach drops out of his body. Turns out he preferred the version of his brother who argued until he was blue in the face and was adamant he could take on a hunt. "Dean?" he prompts softly, keys in his palm and one leg already out on the pavement.

"Hmm?" Like he'd forgotten that getting out of the car was something he was going to have to do.

"We're here."

"Mm. Where?"

Dammit, Dean. Sam leans across the bench and pulls the saturated gauze away from his brother's head, hisses. "Dude, we need to get you a helmet or something."

Dean raises his eyebrows, licks his lips. His eyes close again as he begins to sag, slipping against the seatback.

Sam grips the back of his brother's neck, rattles him gently until his eyes open. "Hey, man. Follow my finger." Dean's pupils are sluggish but reactive, and while the wound on the side of his head is still bleeding, it's mostly superficial. There are more pressing concerns.

"Back there…was that another vision?"

Dean nods, then winces. "I was so stupid," he rasps, rolling his head against the seat. "Thinking this was over."

This is bad, on so many levels. On all the levels. Wishful thinking isn't anything to place a bet on, and it was stupid to think the curse wasn't still sticking to him, for even a moment. Whatever caused this, wherever it came from, the spell is still wreaking havoc with Dean's mind, and his body, tearing at him and sapping his strength bit by bit. And it will continue to do so until they figure this out, or until Dean has nothing left to give. They're nowhere near out of the woods. Not yet.

"It's all right, man," Sam offers, trying to put some comfort and reassurance behind the words. "We'll figure this out." His gaze drifts to the windshield, and he forces a smile. "Just not in the car, okay?"

Dean's out, with five of Sam's neat stitches in the side of his head and a handful of regretfully mild painkillers down the hatch. His pale face is contorted in pain, even in sleep, but at least seems to be getting some kind of rest.

Sam steps out of the room to make the call, because there'll be no stopping the torrent of guilt that will rush over his brother when he hears another hunter was put on a job because he couldn't hack it. Even a "milk run" salt and burn.

She picks up on the second ring, because they've conditioned her to expect bad news when a Winchester's phone number graces her caller ID.

"Sam, hey."

Breathless and tense, and it makes Sam realize the lateness of the hour. Jody's a different breed of hunter than they are, the kind that's been through the worst and had to learn hard and fast, like Bobby. Like Dad. She skips the pleasantries, manages to load the greeting with a dozen unspoken questions and worries. It's been too long since they checked in, and shit's starting to hit the fan out there, with the Darkness and all.

"Hey, Jody." Sam throws one more glance through the gap in the door before he pulls it completely closed, satisfied by the sound of soft snoring that Dean seems to be sleeping somewhat soundly. "You keeping tabs on any hunters out East? We sort of need help on a job." He should ask about Claire, about Alex, should do anything but launch straight into this selfish request for assistance, but it's not like there's much time for small talk in their lives.

"You boys run into trouble like change in the street."

It's not polite to ask and it couldn't matter less, but Jody can't be more than ten years older than Dean. She calls them boys because there was once a time they all needed it. She'd lost her young son – for the second time – and they'd lost every parental figure they'd ever had. After a while, the word has begun to sound wry and ironic in her voice. They're too old to be her sons, and haven't been boys in a damn long time.

Sam huffs a short, unamused laugh. "Don't I know it. Anyway, we sort of had to leave a job unfinished." He winces. If his opening didn't send up enough red flags, his follow-up surely has. They've never left a job unfinished. "You, uh, know of anyone in the general vicinity of Pennsylvania?"

Jody's tone immediately sobers. "What's going on? You boys okay? Sam?"

His back turned on his brother and a brick wall between them, Sam bobs his head, tries to put some conviction behind his words. "We'll be okay."

"Sam."

He swallows, feeling the intensity of Dean's imagined glare burning into the side of his head. "Dean took a, uh…he took a hit," he relents in a quiet voice, just in case his brother has woken. "But he'll be okay."

"I'll get someone on it. Send me the details."

Sam clears his throat. "Great, Jody. Thanks a lot."

"And Sam?"

"Yeah."

"We'll talk later."

"Yeah." Sam disconnects the call, knowing she knows that he's boiled this entire shitshow down to the lowest common denominator, and knowing he owes her better than that.

He rubs a hand over his face and takes a deep breath, sucking back a lungful of wet autumn air that does little to clear his head or give him a sharper idea of what to do here. He's always given Dean a fair amount of shit over babying and protecting him, for not allowing him the opportunity to grow up and into his own and take the damn leash off every now and then. But truly? He feels out of sorts when Dean's not taking the lead. Sam depends on his big brother to do just that, to call the shots and take the wheel. Maybe because every time Dean hasn't been the one in charge of a situation, he's been incapacitated in some way.

Sam's come to dread the times he's actually been able to take charge.

Desperate for a moment of clarity, he lays his head back against the door and closes his eyes, and nearly falls ass over tea kettle into the motel room when Dean pulls the door open behind him.

Sam's cheeks burn as he straightens. "I thought you were sleeping," he says lamely.

Dean looks like shit on a stick, pale and bruised and shivering noticeably in his thin t-shirt, hunched over with an arm wrapped around his middle. He cocks an eyebrow, maybe amused by Sam's near-tumble, maybe annoyed by what he's obviously overheard. "She gonna get someone on it?"

There's no use denying the reason he's standing outside with his cell phone. They're both smarter than that. "Yeah, she's gonna take care of it."

Dean's expression betrays nothing as he nods. "Good."

Sam snorts. There isn't a damn thing that's good about any of this. He narrows his eyes as his brother. "I thought you were sleeping."

"Is that why you're making secret phone calls outside the room?"

"It's not a secret phone call, Dean. I told you I was gonna have Jody put someone on the job."

"Then why the hell did you have to come out here to do it?" There's no heat behind Dean's words, no fight in his eyes.

Sam puts a hand on his brother's arm, tries to move him back into the room. "Come on, man, we've gotta get you – "

"Get off me, Sam." Dean wrenches his arm away. "I'm fine."

He's not, obviously. He's hardly even standing upright, and something in Sam snaps like a rubber band. "Stop saying that," he seethes, leaning in and backing his brother up against the doorjamb. "Stop acting like this is nothing, Dean. Like it isn't serious. Like it's not the – "

His phone trills in his hand, saving them both the unpleasantness of whatever he was about to say. Sam lifts the cell, glancing at the screen. "It's Cas."

"He always did have a knack for crappy timing," Dean mutters, shifting with a wince against the open door. He frowns deeply, presses his fingertips to the bandage at the side of his head.

"Go sit down," Sam says with a sigh, knowing his brother won't listen. He brings the phone to his ear. "Hey, Cas."

"Sam. Is everything okay? I was expecting you back at the bunker by now."

"Yeah." He draws out the word, uses the extra time to decide just how much to tell the angel, with Dean stubbornly standing right next to him. "We took a, uh, a small detour." Sam winces, but Cas will know enough to know what he isn't saying. The two of them have a sort of standing agreement about how to handle Dean. His brother would kick both their asses if he knew they talked about him as much as they do. "Nothing to worry about."

Dean points to the crinkling bandage at his temple, curls his lip. "Speak for yourself, Ghost Whisperer." The joke falls flat; his face is sickly pale, like the vision that struck him in the barn tore a tangible chunk from him.

A chilly breeze strikes Sam's face, and rain finally begins to fall in fat drops that thud against the awning over their heads.

Dean shivers, and Sam rolls his eyes. He grips his brother by the shoulder, spins him and marches him into the room, shoves him too easily down onto the edge of the nearest bed.

"Sam?"

He hasn't even heard Cas talking, has no idea what he's said. "Yeah," he replies anyway, for Dean's benefit more than anything. "We're pretty much done here, chased this Berwick lead all the way to a dead end. Give us the night and we'll head your way first thing tomorrow."

"Sam…is everything okay?"

He nods, gives Dean a thumbs-up. "Sounds great, Cas. We'll see you." He hangs up quickly on a sputtering Castiel, crams the phone into his pocket.

Dean's still trembling, still probably concussed, and still has an arm wrapped tightly around himself, but he levels a frown up at his brother. "Why wait til morning? Let's hit the road."

Sam pushes his hands through his hair. God, he needs a shower. He sighs. "Dude, you look like crap and I just sewed your head back together. It can wait until morning."

"I'm good, Sam."

He bites his tongue, but what he really wants to do is shake every I'm good and I'm fine out of his brother. "How about this? Just…lay down, okay? Just long enough for me to take a quick shower. If you're not asleep by the time I get out, we'll head for the bunker." Sam raises his eyebrows. "Deal?"

Dean rolls his eyes, but flops back with a sigh of his own, throws his arm over his eyes. "Whatever."

For all his stubbornness and big talk, he's snoring before Sam even closes the bathroom door.

To Be Continued...

Prompt lines used in this chapter:

"You run into trouble like change in the street."

Dean points to the gash at his temple. "Speak for yourself, Ghost Whisperer. So what are you thinking?"