Coming down to the home stretch here, folks!

Be All Our Sins Remember'd

Chapter Twenty-Four

It's not as easy as all that, and Dean really should have seen it coming. Nothing with Sam is ever easy. Even deciding what to grab for dinner becomes a debate, and then a sermon, with his little brother pulling out four-dollar-words to make his point about why Dean should eat more of this and less of that. So he tends to altogether remove a sense of option the equation, just plops a plate of food in front of the kid and tells him to eat what's in front of him or he's welcome to forage for his own supper.

God, he's becoming his father.

At least Sam allows him a beer during this exercise in futility. Two, even. Dean shifts in his chair, stares disinterestedly up at his brother as he valiantly attempts to force a rational discussion that considers all angles and factors. He refuses to participate, but that's fine, because Sam seems perfectly content pacing around the head of the table and giving a little lecture. Hell, the kid practically goes through withdrawal if he doesn't get in a good argument every couple of days. Dean's mildly surprised the nerd doesn't call for a thirty-minute break, so he can slap together a goddamned PowerPoint presentation detailing the pros and cons of this idea.

And yeah, sure, he can admit that there are things to consider before they throw their own wrench into the proceedings. Cas is still reeling in the aftermath of Rowena's curse, nowhere near full power, and despite the fact he won't outwardly acknowledge it, every time they ask him to step up to the plate for Team Free Will he taps whatever reserves he's managed to build back up. He might not be capable of powering up enough to produce this ward, and if he does it might bench him for the remainder of the game. There are more witches out there, more threats than just Ellie in the dungeon. They don't know the full extent of who they're up against, or how far the witches will go to get what they want. They don't know that this won't just backfire right in their faces.

But if it saves Sam, that's all that matters to Dean. That's how this becomes one of the easiest decisions he'll ever make.

Castiel watches from across the room, leaning against one of the columns with a weary, though intense, gaze. Sammy yammers on, and Dean slouches in his chair and crosses his arms. He releases little sighs of boredom at regular intervals, until he's pretty sure Sam's considered clocking him one.

Good. That means the show he's putting on for his brother is working. Distracting Sam, at least for the moment, from noticing how bad this getting. How absolutely lousy Dean feels. Since the visions started up again, he's felt like he's draining away even quicker than before. Despite the exhausting emotional toll of these rogue glimpses of Dad, he's physically weakening in a tangible way, like he can feel each chunk of life as it's torn from him.

"Dean."

Crap. He zoned out there for a second. Dean blinks and straightens, squinting up at his brother's pinched expression and struggling to recall what Sam's just said. Then he remembers that is doesn't actually matter, because his mind is made up and he's only been humoring his brother. He clears his throat. "I've thought this through, Sam. We're doing it."

Sam, clearly frustrated, runs his hands down his face. He locks eyes with Castiel over Dean's shoulder but doesn't seem to find any help there, and finally sighs in resignation. He redirects his gaze to the ceiling and shakes his head. "Whatever you say, Dean."

Damn straight whatever I say. Dean nods, pushes up from his chair follows his brother around the table on legs that are barely shaky. Sam jerks his chin toward Cas, then squares up with the table, bracing his hands on the edge of the polished surface.

Cas steps closer, pale face screwed up in concentration. "For what it's worth, I don't believe this will hurt." He cocks his head, considering. "Much."

Sam huffs a quick, nervous laugh. He flinches in anticipation, likely remembering the bleat of searing pain as Cas had etched the protective warding into their ribs, or the clusterfuck that had been his attempt to scrub these cursed marks from Dean's back. "Just do it if you're gonna – "

A spark erupts from Castiel's open palm, a brief burst of light that brings tears to Dean's eyes but dims and sputters out almost immediately.

Dean blinks. Resisting the urge to dig his knuckles into his aching eyes, he leans in closer, cocks an eyebrows and sniffs. "Was that it?"

Cas shakes his head, lips pursed in frustration. He drops his eyes and squeezes his hand into a fist. "I just need a moment to…" He takes a long, deep breath, then extends his hand once more toward Sam's tense shoulders.

Dean stares, transfixed, as another bloom of light builds, burning bright and bluish. The light expands, coiling protectively around Sam before concentrating on a spot high on his back. There's a white-hot flare at the spot, and this time Dean has to turn his face away. When he turns back, a pattern of residual light is superimposed over his field of vision. He blinks hard, but the reddish glare doesn't completely fade.

He scrubs at his eyes, bringing about a few dozen dancing black spots. "Okay," he coughs. "Was that it?" When the spots have mostly dissipated and the room is more or less in focus, he sees Cas looking dazed and unbalanced but standing, and Sam slumped over the table, breathing hard.

"Sammy?" Suddenly panic-stricken, Dean crosses the distance between them. He summons what strength he can, pulls his heavy-ass brother up from the table and shoves him into the nearest chair. "Hey, Sam. Sammy, you okay?"

Sam clutches the arms of the chair and swallows, nods. "Yeah." He wrinkles his nose and shifts his shoulders, leans forward. "Didn't even hurt really, just…"

Hand gripping his brother's shoulder, Dean whirls on Cas. "Is he okay?" Always his first concern, but right on its heels, "did it work?" He can tell immediately from the angel's strained, wide-eyed expression that there's really no way of knowing.

He shifts his hand around to Sam's back only to pull away with a hiss. There's a strange, extreme heat radiating from the spot, and while Dean is surprised not to find a burn mark across his palm, Sam doesn't react, doesn't even seem to notice. Dean yanks down the collar of his brother's shirt, wresting a throaty noise of protest from Sam, and reveals a single Enochian sigil high on his right shoulder. A thin white line, like a cut that had scarred over some time ago.

Dean releases the shirt with a huff. "Well, good news, Sammy. It's a hell of a lot more subtle than mine." He claps a palm to the spot as he steps away.

Sam barks a pained laugh, winces. "Mm. Okay, maybe it stings a little. Mostly it just…tingles."

"Okay. Overshare." Dean wrinkles his nose, but nods. A few spots still float in front of his eyes, and a dull pain begins to thump at the base of his skull. A sudden, sweeping sense of vertigo threatens to swing the room around on him and he sticks out a blind hand, reflexing seeking a way to steady himself, fumbling for purchase on the back of a chair or one of the tables. His fingers close around smooth wood, and he tightens them in a desperate grip, leaning most of his weight onto his right arm as he draws slow, deliberate breaths.

His brother makes a face, reaches back to feel out the fresh ridges on his shoulder. "Cas, you okay?" His voice doesn't sound quite right: warbly, too much bass.

Cas nods but his face is grayish and unconvincing. He opens his mouth but closes it quickly, turning his narrowed gaze toward Dean.

Dean notices the attention, even if he can't quite figure out why Cas is staring at him. He tries to wave off the concern, tries to straighten, and the room tilts sickeningly.

"Dean?"

He tries to say yeah, tries to say he's fine, tries to say anything to put the others at ease, but all that comes out is a dry, wordless rasp. His ears are ringing, a piercing buzz that builds until it's the only thing he can hear. He squints up at his brother, watching Sam's lips moving and trying to make out his voice through the disorienting ring. Sam's eyes are wide, his face pale, and Dean can't hear anything he's saying.

Sam leans in closer, and from this distance it's easy to see that he's very clearly saying, shouting, pleading: Dean.

Dean shakes his head, and the ringing recedes enough to finally allow him to hear his brother, the panicky, high-pitched "hey, hey, hey, sit down." And that's not the worst idea Sam's ever had, because the library is tilting again, or maybe this time it's Dean. Either way, there's a hand at his elbow, tugging him down into a chair. He nods along as he's forcibly relocated, and he jars every already-aching corner of his body when he drops more heavily than he means to.

Sam crouches, hand on Dean's knee and eyebrows mashed together in the kind of concern that would be suffocating if Dean was in a position to properly appreciate it. "Talk to me, man. What's going on?"

Before he can get a single word out, the pain in his head intensifies tenfold, a hot stab shearing from his right temple to his left, and his back burns. He drops his head into his hands with a groan, he thinks, and clutches at his skull. Bright lights flash in front of his eyes, and the ringing roars back. He can longer hear or see his brother, or Cas.

Images and sensations pop into his mind like shots, in full color and clarity, ripping him away from the comforting setting of the library, and Sam.

The two men meet for the first time, eagerly shaking hands.

Brittle leaves shift and blow across the wide windshield as a plain gold wedding band taps anxiously against the steering wheel.

A tall, shuttered house stands empty on a quiet street.

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

A seemingly unending assault, an agonizing parade of everything he's been shown – everything he's experienced – along the way. He's thrust from one scene to the next with a painful, nauseating tug of his mind, and pulled in multiple directions as Henry's other memories begin to seep in.

Pain stabs in his hand as he reaches into a soft spot in the wall, and he falls back against the hardwood with a gasp.

He looks down at the music box in his hand, and a smile pulls at the corners of his mouth as he makes his way over to the bed.

Sickness ravages his body, a vicious fever.

The mattress dips with a groan as he perches on the edge, and he places a hand on his son's small chest, coaxing the boy from his nightmares.

"Not to worry, old friend. It's in a safe place."

"John," he whispers.

Everything goes mercifully black, but the ringing lingers, fading slowly until he begins to register vague, faraway sounds of scuffing footsteps, a voice in his ear.

"Dean!"

"Yeah," he chokes out, because that murky, familiar voice sounds terrified. Dean's own voice is curiously muffled.

"Dean."

He licks his lips, tries again. "Yeah," he rasps, bruised cheek and temple dragging against a smooth, warm surface. He works his eyes open and finds himself face-down against the table. He flattens his palms against the tabletop and shoves up, lifting his horribly heavy head. The side of his face that had been pressed against the table is curiously numb, in a way that hints of raging pain waiting in the wings.

"Dean."

Sam keeps saying his name, the broken, desperate sort of pleading that Dean is usually responsible for putting a stop to.

"I'm okay," he says, but can't manage the strength or volume needed to give the words a lick of truth.

"You are not – " Sam bites his lip, shakes his head. The hand he has wrapped around Dean's upper arm is trembling. "What the hell just happened, Dean?"

"I think – " he starts, stops. What he's about to say doesn't make a lick of sense, but he knows it. "I think they were just telling me that they know what he did." And then, without ceremony, he leans over the arm of his chair and pukes up the beer next to his brother's shoes.

It was…everything, Sammy.

A hoarse, choked admission, followed quickly, though weakly, by another frustrating rendition of I'm okay, Sam.

Whatever he is, Dean is not okay. Sam had almost believed the strength he felt in Dean's grip as he pulled his arm away, realized belatedly that his brother was using the hold to ground himself against the pain. And there seems to be plenty of pain.

Dean's definitely paler than he should be, but seems to be steadier than he had been in the immediate aftermath of this latest mental assault. He shakes off Sam's concern, and any additional questions he might have about what his brother's just seen.

Sam wants to find a way to save his brother. He needs to. And for the moment at least, that means hitting the books.

They might not yet have an exact plan, but with the knowledge of what the coven is after, they at least have the foundation of one. They also have leverage now – Ellie, who can serve as hook or bait – and the end is in sight. Sam's not sure what that end is, how things are going to go down, but it's looming ahead of them, either way.

Cas has been locked in the bunker with these books for the better part of a week – when he's not running solo witch retrieval ops, that is – but it can't hurt to looks over the texts with fresh eyes. It's unlikely anything helpful will turn up now, but Sam has to stay optimistic in the face of his fear. Because what's happening with his brother – and to his brother – is beginning to terrify him.

He forces a smile, and he tells Dean they're going to figure this out, the eleventh-hour sort of breakthrough they've come to rely on. One of these books is going to turn up the exact right counterspell, the perfect ingredients, and they'll remove those eerie markings on his back and the invasive spell from his mind, and then they can go after the coven the good old-fashioned way. But he's pretty sure Dean isn't buying it, because if there's one person Sam can't lie to, it's his big brother. And if there's one thing his big brother is good at, it's seeing through Sam's bullshit.

Because deep inside, he can't help feeling that it's going to take more than whatever twisted brand of luck the Winchesters have been enjoying the past several years. Time and time again, they step in it, bad. There's heartache and pain and sometimes they die, for crying out loud. But they always find a way, and through it all, they're still here. While part of Sam is banking on that twisted luck to get them out of this, part of him knows – given the way the past few months have gone and how they easily could have gone – that well may have finally run dry.

The anger he'd been clinging to has turned the corner to raw, unabated fear. The bunker offers them some semblance of safety from a physical attack, but time is still very much a factor. The warding here isn't doing squat to slow the effects of the spell, isn't dulling the pain it's causing Dean in the slightest. Sam doesn't know what to do for his brother, and that's an all-too familiar acknowledgement of helplessness that settles in his chest like a rock. All the shit he's been through, all the years, all the monsters…there's nothing in his arsenal to pull from, no experience to help his brother out of this. There's nothing he can do when Dean's caught in the painful throes of these memories that have been jammed into his head.

Sam's never felt so damn useless with a book in his hands.

Cas has his own impressive array of materials spread out on the next table, and Sam can't figure it will do any good, but he scours his dad's journal anyway, even though he has the book memorized cover-to-cover and has for years. Witches bad had pretty much been the extent of their experience and training prior to the small coven they encountered in that year Dean's deal was winding down. Not to mention Ruby – and he really tries not to mention Ruby – who'd taught him a couple of things he's swornto his brother he didn't retain. They've cast a handful of spells themselves. Kid stuff. Things that wouldn't impress, or even raise the eyebrows of, anyone who uses magic regularly. Castiel's literal eons of knowledge gives them a leg-up – usually – but they haven't got a lot of experience with good magic. The magic they've run afoul of has always concerned various pains, agonies, and violent deaths. Curses and hexes, that's what they know.

Rowena could actually prove to be a resource, an asset, but given how they'd parted ways, with a gun in Sam's hand pointed at her head – Do I need to remind you these are witch-killing bullets? – he can't imagine she'll be jumping at the chance to get tangled up with them again.

Yeah. Sam knows what's at stake here, and he's trying to focus, but his eyes keep drifting up from the small print in these tomes to check on Dean.

The physical toll of this spell is tangible. His brother looks like a ghostly shell of himself, like everything that makes him Dean has been sucked out. He can hardly hold his own head up, and Sam can hear the sickly rasp of his every breath, can starkly see how much pain that simple motion is causing. Like Dean's body is asking for more than him than he's able to give. No question, whatever just happened to him went beyond vision or memory. Dean doesn't appear simply distracted or exhausted, but like his entire body has been wracked by an electric charge. And that's not a comparison Sam makes lightly.

Dean is slouched in his chair across the table, skin an unhealthy pallor, fine lines of persistent pain at the corners of his eyes, and he's been staring at the same page for at least ten minutes.

Sam pushes his own book away and rubs at his eyes. "I can't read this anymore. I'm gonna stretch my legs, get some water." He stares across the table, but Dean doesn't even acknowledge that Sam's spoken. "You need anything?"

"Hmm?" The response is delayed and sluggish, like the words had to walk across the table to him. "No, I'm okay."

Sam comes back from the kitchen with a second glass of water anyway and puts it next to his brother's hand. He's going to have to find some food, too, that Dean can keep down, because he needs to keep his strength up. Sam drops a hand to Dean's shoulder and gives it a quick squeeze, offers the least false reassuring smile he can manage, but his brother seems to be momentarily lost – or trapped – in his own mind.

Sam returns to his seat across the table and slams down a new book, flipping open to a random page. He drags his notepad closer and scoops up a pen, then raises his eyes to his brother, who hasn't moved an inch. "Dean?"

Dean's eyes widen, and he swallows, throat bobbing. He looks down at the book lying open in front of him, then his gaze flick to Cas. "Yeah, uh, you guys've got this. I think I'm gonna try to grab a coupla hours."

A harsh chill runs through Sam, one that squeezes his heart and lungs in a vice. "You sure?" Dean's not the napping type. He used to clock a nightly four hours of sleep, and that was before he suffered nightmare-induced insomnia. Anytime he's ever nodded off in the middle of the day, it's been on the heels of being up three straight days on a hunt. Or when he's hurt so bad he just can't play through it any longer.

His brother nods. "Yeah." He looks up, tries to cover his undeniable unwellness with a wide smile. "You know I'm no good with the books, Sammy."

It's true and it's not. Dean's never had the patience for the books and the research, but that in no way means he has an aversion to reading, or that he can't rustle up information when they need it, when it's important.

Sam watches his brother make his way slowly out of the library, with a horribly ill-concealed limp and a hand thrown out more than once to steady himself against a wall or pillar. He knows he should be happy – or at least relieved – that Dean's not fighting this, not exacerbating the situation by pushing himself further than his body can take him. Except, for Dean to willingly take a knee, even from research…that means something. That tightens the knot of unease in Sam's chest.

His brother has always had an annoying, self-destructive habit of concealing – or flat-out ignoring – injuries until they take him to the ground. More than once, Sam has thought they'd walked away from an altercation scot-free only to have Dean drop like a stone on the way to the car. Usually some nasty head wound he'd managed to keep from his brother, and once a deep, gruesome gash across his back that had been bleeding heavily and steadily for over an hour before he'd collapsed mid-stride across a gas station parking lot.

For him to make this concession…that means something.

Sam can feel Castiel's gaze on him from the next table. When he speaks to the angel, he doesn't even look at him. "We need to finish this. Now."

"I know."

They scour the texts until even Cas is rubbing at his temples, until Sam is cross-eyed and has consumed roughly a gallon of coffee. Even so, he yawns as he leans back in his chair and stretches his stiff spine. He glances at his watch, and even though it's only been a few hours, even though Dean is an adult, he feels that tug of fear and responsibility to check on his brother.

The bunker feels different with a witch in it. Sam knows the feeling well enough to recognize it. There's power trapped in the walls here, decades' worth of serious warding carved into the concrete, etched into the iron with holy water and salt. Nothing makes its way into this underground compound uninvited.

Cas brought the witch inside, with the best of intentions. But the air feels different now, sparked and electric. Sam's grown used to the stale smell, a ventilation system that cycles through some fresh air from above but not enough to rid the place of that dank, damp stench. Especially near the dungeon. It stinks of sulfur, from Crowley's visits and Dean's brief demonic stint, and their combined lack of desire to clean any more than they absolutely have to. The bunker has become their home, but they aren't much for housekeeping anymore. Not like Dean's full Susie Homemaker mode when they first moved in.

Dean's door is propped open a few inches, so Sam doesn't feel like quite as much a lurking sleaze this time as he gently nudges it the rest of the way open. He notices immediately that his brother isn't resting, but is sitting on the hard, cold floor with his back against the bedframe. Sam will never understand why his brother chooses to sit in such a blatantly uncomfortable position. It's not like he didn't drop a pretty penny on that memory foam mattress, and he nearly noogied Sam to death to make sure he got the "good chair" in his room.

Dean doesn't seem to have noticed his approach, and Sam's pretty sure the faded, folded photo in his brother's hand is the one with Dad, from when they were kids. He doesn't have the best angle, but the look on Dean's face is as open and broken as it had been in that motel room when he'd first caught a glimpse of their young father in Henry's memory. Sam needs to make his presence known, now.

He knocks lightly on the door, rousing his brother's attention.

Dean's been moving slowly lately but he tucks the photo away under his leg and replaces it with a half-drunk beer so fast Sam's not sure he didn't completely imagine the sight of his brother holding it in the first place.

"Hey," he opens, cramming his hands into the pockets of his jeans. He lifts an apologetic shoulder. "It was open."

"Yeah, hey," Dean returns, his voice gravelly and painful to hear. The lighting in the room isn't to blame for the sallow tint to his face, but it's certainly not doing him any favors.

"Get any rest?"

"Nah."

Sam bobs his head. There's a pill bottle on the table next to Dean's bed, one of the scammed prescriptions for painkillers. Good ones, it looks like. Another concession. He frowns. "How are you feeling?"

Dean eyes follows his brother's gaze, narrow. "Well, my eyebrows don't hurt," he answers, picking at the label of his beer bottle.

"That's good," Sam says lamely. Another tickle of energy toys with the fine hairs at the back of his neck, and he ducks father into the room. "You feel that?"

"The chill in the air that smells like evil skank?" The corner of Dean's mouth lifts. "Thought it was just me."

"What do you wanna do about her?" Because this is Dean's call to make, in the end. He's the one who'd been attacked, who'd been drugged and dragged off into the night. The one who's been hurt and tortured and had his mind fucked with. As much as he might one, Sam's not going to pull the trigger on this one. And God, does he want to.

"We can't just leave her down there?"

"Do you want to leave her down there?"

"No. Guess not." Dean tips back his beer and drains what's left in the bottle. He makes a face, and for what it's worth, Sam's sort of impressed it took his brother long enough to drink the beer that it went warm on him. His eyes shift to the guns displayed with uncharacteristic neatness on the wall. "Can I shoot her?"

Sam crosses his arms, shifts his weight. "We need her, Dean. If we need to set up the meet."

"I'm pretty sure they'll find me, Sam." There's no joking tone in his voice this time. He's safe from tracking spells while they're in the bunker, but they can't stay locked away in here forever.

"So, what, you just wanna go walking around town with a 'kick me' sign on your back?" Sam sighs and crosses the room to sink into the chair at his brother's desk. "We're not using you as bait, man."

"I'm already bait, Sam." Dean moves his tented leg, and Sam catches a glimpse of the photograph he'd stashed from view.

A thought crosses Sam's mind, morbid and unfair, but he's too tired, worn too threadbare, to bite his tongue before it slips out. "Do you think it was worth it?"

Dean's eyebrows jump, then his gaze narrows in suspicion. "Do I think what was worth it?"

"The visions," Sam blurts. "The memories. Seeing…seeing Dad."

Dean lowers his eyes, chuffs a not-laugh that has Sam thinking his brother is about to pop up from the floor and slug him. Maybe that wouldn't be the worst thing, for either of them. His complexion sucks, and the bruises on the left side of his face stand out like a garish billboard advertising his mortality. But that's only what's on the surface. Sam knows there's plenty more he can't see, damage that runs miles below the surface what his brother will allow to be witnessed. The mask Dean's spent years constructing, the wall he's built carefully brick by brick has been completely steamrolled by what's happened to him. By the weight that's been placed on his shoulders, the pain.

No. Obviously, none of this experience has been worth it.

To be continued...

Prompt lines used in this chapter:

"Pulling out the four-dollar words?" Sam raises his eyebrows. "I'm impressed." - okaaaaay, I'll admit I stretched this one a bit. But I consider it used.

Suddenly panic-stricken once more, Dean crosses the distance between them.

If there's one person he can't lie to, it's his big brother.

All the shit he's been through, all the years, all the monsters...there's nothing in his arsenal to pull from, no experience to help him out of this.