In the daylight we know what's gone is gone,

but at night it's different.

Nothing gets finished,

not dying, not mourning;

the dead repeat themselves, like clumsy drunks

lurching sideways through the doors we open to them in sleep;

these slurred guests, never entirely welcome,

even those we have loved the most,

especially those we have loved the most,

returning from where we shoved them away too quickly:

from under the ground, from under the water,

they clutch at us, they clutch at us,

we won't let go.

-Margaret Atwood


Nothing good ever comes from Dean being bored.

His brother isn't designed for idleness, isn't meant to twiddle his thumbs, to be assigned the role of spectator instead of player. It doesn't happen often but when it does, Dean gets…antsy.

Sam knows the feeling. Skin crawling, fingers tapping a too fast tempo atop the table, something caught behind his throat that no amount of coughing can quite clear.

They haven't encountered a demon in weeks and instead of praise their good fortune, Dean grows suspicious and tense, shoulders hunched around his neck as if he's about to lead them both into a trap. Sam doesn't tell Dean that he killed five the night before, the ones that were lingering around their latest dime a dozen motel, waiting for the cover of shadows with intentions just as dark. That the blood in their veins now flows in his. That it's getting easier and easier until what would have been impossible a year ago now hardly presents a challenge. That sometimes when he lays on the bed next to Dean, just before the blood hits his system in a mind altering rush, Sam is afraid of how far this could go. And how much he could learn to like it.

Sam doesn't say any of this.

It doesn't take long until the futile trickle of days becomes too much for Dean. Sam finds him up before dawn searching out a hunt, proactive in a way he's never had to be before, pouring over old dusty books and trailing his fingers over maps and police reports. It's difficult to keep danger away from Dean but Sam has managed so far. Keeping Dean from the danger…that's another story entirely.

And so Sam was forced to improvise.

The excuses were easy at first. Sam was bone tired, he confessed to Dean late one night, just enough vulnerability in his eyes to make his brother stop and take notice. Couldn't they have a single day off and relax? Hadn't they finally earned that? Didn't Dean want to catch up on sleep too now that they finally had the chance? Who knows when they might get this lucky again after all.

And because that only worked for a day, soon after Sam became sick, faked with a rattling cough. That, in addition to his new temperature, had been enough to convince Dean. Sam didn't even complain when Dean fussed over him, one hand carding through his hair to lull him into the pretense of sleep, the other hand soothing a cold washcloth over his throat and dipping between his collarbones. And Sam pretended because he was just happy Dean was keeping busy and more importantly, keeping out of danger. But two days passed and Sam couldn't claim nausea any longer without Dean bringing up the threat of a hospital. The next day brought with it a miraculous recovery for Sam. Dean just sighed and shook his head, long used to Sam's body swinging back and forth between extremes.

Next he brought up the idea of taking stock, of cleaning weapons. Their guns jammed. Was that rust along the blade of one of their knives? And since Dean had a deep and personal prejudice against weapons being anything other than flawless, they spent that day taking apart and stripping every single piece they owned.

Sam pulled a muscle in his back the next day. It didn't take much more for Dean to grow suspicious and then exasperated, especially since Sam had complained less when hunting with broken ribs. He offered to go alone, just a quick hunt, something simple to stay fresh, to keep from going crazy. And since that was unacceptable, Sam found himself pressed into the passenger seat of the Impala the next morning, sipping his coffee to keep from biting his nails.

On the other hand, Dean was exuding an excitement that Sam judged to be slightly inappropriate. He almost felt bad for killing all the demons while Dean slept night after night, imagining his brother's expression when they returned with empty hands, gun still full of bullets, knives clean of blood.

Still, Dean whistled while he blared the music too loud, singing purposefully off key and stuffing himself with as much soda and candy as possible while they made their way to the abandoned farmhouse that Dean had tracked a supposed werewolf's location to.

Sam dug his fingers into his palm.

Werewolves didn't worry him anymore. He could handle a werewolf. Hell, he could probably handle twenty.

Just not with Dean around.

Dean tended to be…distracting. Additionally, incredibly fragile.

Which is why, when they arrived, he automatically sticks closer than is purely necessary, shoulders brushing every few steps, but the instinct to be right there, close enough to still make a difference if something were to happen, is impossible to kill. Dean doesn't say anything at first, still heady with the promise of the hunt, even though they aren't doing anything more than stumbling through the high snow, breath hanging in the air in small puffs of white.

They're in the middle of nowhere, some stretch of forest in a town and state that Sam can't be bothered to remember the name of. The kind of place that remains utterly isolated, quiet and still with no neighbors around for miles and miles. There is what looks to have been a garden along one side of a field, all mangled roots and frozen soil, a few pitted fruits scattered round. Sam shivers and thrusts his hands into his pockets, gritting his teeth and counting down the seconds until they're done. He feels too exposed, a raw nerve, laid out bare in this stupid field next to a stupid barn. If he were really desperate, he might sneak out to the Impala when they're back to the motel, cut a cord or two, loosen a socket that looks important. That would definitely keep Dean busy for days at least. He might even be able to squeeze a week or two out of it. Promising, but he cringes at the thought. If Dean ever were to find out, Sam knows he would be the one that needs protection.

And more than that, he knows at the back of his mind, that this game he's playing isn't sustainable. That there's no way to keep Dean safe with clumsy distractions and red herrings. But thinking about what's going to happen when, rather if Dean finds out- if Dean leaves, is impossible so he takes it one day at a time. One hour at a time when the day proves too hard.

But today, right now, Dean is alive, the white of his teeth flashing in a goofy smile he can't seem to wipe away. Sam just grunts and keeps his eyes peeled at the place where the tree line appears, at the small house and a little further beyond that, a peeling red barn. The hair on the back of his neck stands up, his fingers reaching out to wrap around the back of Dean's jacket. It's the reaction a child might have when they're afraid and something that Sam hasn't done for years. Can't really explain why he feels the urge to do it now. But for Dean, it proves to be the final straw.

"Dude, what is this attached at the hip thing with you?" He looks half a second away from slapping the back of Sam's head, equal amounts amused and annoyed. "Tryina tell me I need a babysitter?"

Sam fights the urge to flinch and settles for a scowl. "Shut up."

"Go check out the house. I'll take the barn." He orders, using that voice. The one that always made his hackles rise when it came from dad's mouth but powerless when it comes from Dean's. "Hurry it up." he snaps without any real heat, nudging Sam's shoulder with his own just this side of too hard.

"You hurry up." Sam snaps back immediately, a little brother gut reflex but he watches Dean walk away like a beat dog, casts one final look over his shoulder before he makes his way towards the house, thinking about what a manipulative shit Dean can be when he wants to. He grumbles under his breath and makes a show of stomping out past the barbed fence and looping back around. Nothing here, just empty fields and cold bitter air that smells of pine.

The house is small and looks to be abandoned but Sam raises his hand to knock anyway, trying to conjure some halfway convincing lie he can hand to the owners if it turns out someone lives behind all that rust.

That's when he hears it. Something small shattering, a grunt of forced air. So faint that he really shouldn't have heard it at all.

Dean. His feet carry him back towards the barn, faster until he's in an all out sprint, sliding over the ice, almost toppling before regaining his balance. The door is partly open, banging in the wind. Sam wrenches it aside, throws it open and freezes.

Dean is standing in front of him, just a few feet away, close enough for Sam to witness the exact moment that his brother realizes what's happened, the exact second that confusion gives way to anger. By that time it's too late. He disappears in a sea of bodies that look just like him, twins, triplets, but there are half a dozen at least.

Sam feels another behind him just before a hand grabs the collar of his jacket, ripping him back outside just as Dean is violently pulled the opposite way further in. The door slams shut between them, the sound going through him like a shot.

Dean- the wrong one- smiles mockingly, a jagged butcher's knife in his hand, waving around precariously. The sight of it just about makes Sam's heart stop with fright, not for him, but because the others are all in there with Dean, all armed and dangerous and desperate for blood. Sam, half out of his mind with that particular brand of fear, does something incredibly stupid. He turns his back on the shifter, only intention to get inside that barn right the hell now and spill some fake Dean blood before real Dean blood is spilled. It's almost a surprise when a sharp pain explodes at his side. He swings around just in time to duck away as the knife, now wet with his blood, darts towards his throat.

Sam could tear him apart with a single thought but he doesn't. He wants to use his hands.

It doesn't take long. Sam doesn't let it. He could drag it out, play with his food a bit but Dean still needs him so Sam simply ducks into the shifter's space with speed born from a lifetime of death, gives a vicious shove that makes him stumble and uses gravity to turns the shifter's weapon on himself. It's over in a dozen seconds, a flicker of quick movement and sharp bursts of muscle and bone. Only then does Sam realize how quiet it is, his own panting, his own heartbeat pounding, the only sounds in the air.

"Dean, m'gonna kill you." Sam grounds out, struggling with the door that now seems to be jammed in place. His brother would manage to find a hive of shifters looking for a single werewolf. Just their luck. He keeps spitting out threats but it's mainly to combat the eerie silence. Because there aren't any sounds at all coming from the barn anymore.

Oh god, he doesn't want to see what's waiting on the other side of the door. Can't, can't, can't. He starts kicking, the burn in his side forgotten, animal noises erupting from his throat that builds into screams. Anyone close enough would think someone is being murdered, and maybe, just maybe they are because Dean is in there and Sam isn't and Dean- the wood cracks and the door swings opens and Sam is struck by the color first. All the red, all the blood. Shifters bleed red. Just like humans. Just like Dean and it's everywhere.

And then he's struck by the bizarre sight in front of him, just as horrible as what Gabriel subjected him to before. Dean lying dead on the ground, a bullet through his brain. Dean with his throat cut, blood still spilling between the floorboards, Dean missing limbs. Dean dead and dead and dead.

Shapeshifters all in the form of his brother, all bloody and torn and still.

It shouldn't affect him the way it does. After all, Sam sees Dean when he closes his eyes, when he pretends to sleep. Blink and it's gone. But this is different. Sam could reach out and touch the body closest to him. Feel the ebbing heat, his messy hair, stupid green eyes wide and unseeing, mouth agape.

Somewhere hiding between all these corpses is the real Dean.

Until one moves. And then another and another. Rising to their feet like zombies, like the uses of their limbs is something new and frightening and Sam sees the trap for what it is. In the end, there are only two that remain still and Sam knows the one of them is Dean and the other is dead. He doesn't let himself consider anything beyond that.

What happens next occurs in brief snippets, fractured glass that could be cut away and traded, mirrored images that reflect on for an eternity. The world has narrowed down to this barn at this moment as if nothing else in the universe exists. Nothing but the heat of Sam's anger, the hunger of the shifters, the glint of moonlight peeking through the cracked rafters, shards of yellow. Yellow eyes watching in the distance, and there's a foreboding sense of coming full circle.

A distant certainty welling up inside that it's all been in preparation for this moment, Sam coming into his own, blinders removed from his eyes, some crucial distraction snatched away and now that it's finally gone, Sam can't even remember what it was in the first place. The one thing that kept him from this, blood on his hands and promise in his veins, nothing but strength and cunning. The thought feels a bit banal but it reverberates like fact, like stone one. Pull that away and it all comes tumbling down. So Sam doesn't stop to consider why or how. He just acts, the way a wolf would prowl into a flock of sheep.

Dead things already, they just don't know it.

Sam knows how to keep the anger and fear and spite he feels clamped down, shoved away into some box. Locks have been added through the years when the old one gets too worn. He tried not to think about the day he might lose control, always assumed it would be a slow process, a downhill slide.

He never expected to lose all those years of carefully maintained control in a single blurred movement, between one second and the next.

All that anger, all the darkness brewing that's been kept tightly locked away since he was born, turned into little else but splinters. It's not how Sam thought it would be when it finally happens, inevitable of course, always that. But he hadn't expected it to be so freeing. And faced with the truth of what he is, what he holds inside him, Sam feels the guilt fall away like it was nothing more than a coat to shrug off.

His barely moves a muscle, a twitch in his jaw, dilation of the eyes until they are almost black, closer every day, shoulders tense but that is all. That's all it takes anymore.

And then there is even more blood than before, stretching upwards into the air, hot splatters of it coating the walls. Sam takes a long deep breath, scenting the tang of copper and death and his own distinct scent, burning and alive and so powerful he could killing anything. He wants that, misses the taste of demon on his tongue and can't remember why he ever went without for so long, why he kept himself hanging on like an addict without letting go and abandoning himself to the gluttony. For now, Sam settle for grabbing the lighter in his pocket, testing the scratch of flint, the burn of flame. He gives it a careless toss and it falls down into the hay. A hungry blaze follows, everything dry and sheltered from the damp air outside, ready to burn.

There's something else prickling at the back of his mind. The sense only of something important, something vital forgotten. The more he prods at it, the further it slips away. Sam sneers at the bodies littering the floor. He did this for a reason after all, didn't he? Dead and there is solace to be had in that because they'll be safe. But that's wrong because there's just him. No one else around, just the shifters and something about all their faces... a rush of wind at the door and Sam feels the prickling sensation of eyes on his back, burning through his disguise and seeing...something. Eyes from above looking down and Sam fights the urge to flinch into himself. He straightens instead, defiant, eyes still training on the bodies like a hook carved into his mind, keeping him grounded. Remember. An echo reverberating back around. Remember. But he doesn't.

He wishes they were alive so he could kill them again just to impede the sense of frustration. Sam backs away from the flames, ignoring the doubt, ignoring the unease that screams he is doing something wrong wrong wrong. In a last ditch effort, he tries to retrace his steps, to account for this night. Why is he here? It's all sharp grey smoke and gaping blanks. Waking from a vivid dream and losing it piece by piece the harder he tries to remember. Maddening. Sam stomps out.

Someone stands in the snow, a pulse of darkness emitting from the skin she wears. She has a familiar face- round in a way that would look soft and innocent on anyone else. Meg. A slow trickle of memories wait behind closed doors and could be his if Sam were to probe a little deeper, but he can't find it within himself to care. Sam ignores her, still drunk off the bodies that lay prone behind him, not from their blood, not this time, but from the act itself.

The girl-Meg- starts to talk and Sam can't understand the words coming from her mouth but the shape of her lips, the way she throws her hands back and forth, is frantic. She looks towards the barn that has now been completely surrounded by flames and gasps.

There's one word, one name she keeps repeating, screaming desperately over and over. Meaningless, forgotten, probing its fingers into his mind, refusing to let him leave. The hinges of his mind are rattling, bones fighting their locked joints. Everything inside him wanting to get out. He forces his way past her but the name doesn't stop. Dean dean dean dean. A thousand images conjured and not one that makes any sense. Leather and freckles and safety and home.

Sam snarls and she lets out a grunt of pain, eyes wide, limbs trembling, nothing but fear darkening her black eyes as she stares into his, held tight by invisible ropes of power. Sam presses down, just a little, just enough. Her face goes as white as the snow around them, broken by a trail of red when her nose begins to bleed. Her mouth gapes wordlessly, a fish tossed from the ocean. Sam holds it, a faint tremble set over his skin from the pleasure of it all, from the absolute control he holds over her, over the rest of the world, over anything that might dare cross his path. After a life of bruises and broken bones, being untouchable is like having ecstasy injected into his bloodstream, overwhelming and irreversibly addicting.

She falls to her knees, clawing at her throat, at the frozen ground, at the air, anything, anywhere to make it stop. The life is bleeding out from Meg's vessel, almost a corpse, almost. She summons up the rest of her strength and gasps out the name one more time.

Sam's frown is ripped away as agony explodes through his skull, pressure finally released in a bewildering blur of memories and emotions. His entire life in a single word. One name. Dean.

Sam remembers like ice being injected into his veins, sudden and horrifying at once. Meg is released, a balloon cut from its string. Sam snaps back into himself, the feeling of all that strength drained down to nothing more than a memory. Hollow bones like a bird.

Time slows like it does when the blood is just about to hit. It takes years for him to turn, years to step towards the flames, longer still to force his way inside, taking no heed of the heat, the flames licking at his clothes, his skin. He doesn't feel any of it, eyes flickering back and forth, watering from the smoke wafting heavy and dark in his face, searching for Dean. For the real Dean. Not like the others. Unconscious but alive. He throws a prayer heavenward. Let him be alive. Let him be alive. He'll pay any price. He might be frozen for the rest of his life. He might burn where he stands.

And then Sam sees him, too close to the flames but it's Dean. Knows without testing him with silver or holy water, knows in a way that goes beyond being family, as deep and engraved as instinct. He stumbles over, tremors beneath his skin rising, gaining strength, sapping it all away. Black spots dance across his vision. He looks around for Meg. She's gone if she was ever there at all.

Dean is pinned down, pressed into the floor by a fallen beam and Sam's hands shake violently as he tries to pry it off. The skin on his hands tear and burst. Something wet falls from above, the reek of iron. Another blink and it's gone.

One of the shifters smile his way, still wearing Dean's face but his mouth is too wide, teeth jagged and curled into a Cheshire grin. Look what you've done. Sam bites back a sob and presses his palm against his eyes until fireworks explode behind them, until the voice stops screaming at him. When he opens them again, the shifter is dead once more. The air vibrates around them, the barn groaning and shifting. There are holes burnt through the ceiling and darkness above it. The shadows crawl around his ankles, begging him to stay, to grow roots right here. Right here, down and down.

There is pain, still more distant than what's inside his head but it's growing louder, trying to make itself known, crawling over the back of his legs and he realizes that the smell of his burning clothes and skin is real. It's enough to get him moving, enough to shove the rest of the furniture out of the way, to grab hold of his brother's arms. Sam pulls Dean though the fire, smoke clogging his lungs, burning its way down his throat, into his nose. He keeps going, one foot in front of the other, not sure now if he's making his way further in or out. The smoke darkens everything or that could just be his own eyes. Screams all around and it might be the growl of hellhounds, the snap of their jaws when they try to drag Dean away. Sam's fingers are shackles around Dean's wrists, digging in hard enough to press bruises, to shift bone. The blood in his veins is boiling and he is so very thirsty it's hard to make sense of little else.

He only knows he's make it outside when a cool burst of air hits his face. He looks up and all around is darkness. The world is alive and angry and Sam is not untouchable anymore. Seconds tick by and his vision clears enough to see the pale moon waxing, a handful of stars scattered like glitter.

The sharp edges of adrenaline have abandoned him completely, smoothed clear out and Sam only now realizes just how much he's shaking, how weak he feels like the muscles in his body have turned to water. His legs threaten to give out any second but he still drags Dean further from the building, ready to topple, the skeleton of it the only thing stand, the rest eaten up. There are burns on his arms, angry sizzling marks, the stench of burnt hair, burnt skin in his nose, dizzying and cloying.

Pain is there as well, further off. Sam is used to that.

And Dean lying unconscious, bleeding from a wound on his head, Sam is used to that too.

He huddles next to Dean, afraid to touch, afraid not to, settles for pressing his hands against his brother's body in barely there touches, testing his ribs, his arms and wrists. Nothing is broken, not even dislocated. The wound on his scalp looks shallow but it keeps bleeding like head wounds are ought to, turning the snow around them bright red. Splashes of their blood here and there, mixed so that it looks interchangeable. But Sam thinks he can see the difference, his own a shade of two darker than Dean's. He pushes the thought away. Now is not the time for that.

Dean is alive. They both are. Realistically Sam knows that his own wounds are more serious but he can't sense them anymore, just a buzzing at the back of his mind.

Easy to push away because Sam will heal. Already is.

But Dean- Sam tore the shifters apart with no thought in his mind for Dean. Burned the barn with the simple desire to reduce it to ash. He might have killed his brother and not even known.

But more than that, Sam thinks about how he came so close to leaving Dean, letting him burn alive, how Dean might be a pile of bones if Meg hadn't come. By the time Sam realized...

He thinks about Meg's words from the week before. The warning that seemed absurd at the time because he would never hurt Dean but now- his stomach clenches, burn of bile and that's the only warning he gets before emptying the meager contents of it onto the snow.

It's growing darker still and the temperature is steadily dropping and Dean still hasn't moved. Sam knows he should start the trek back to the car and then the drive back to the motel where he will carry Dean inside to get him clean and warm and bandaged and lay a guard of salt around both their beds. But he doesn't move except to pull Dean a little closer because the world waits for them just beyond the field and Sam is tired and sleep is nowhere to be found.

So Sam curls his fingers around Dean's jacket in a suicidal grip and listens to the pulse of his brother's heartbeat and tries not to think of anything at all.