A/N: It's a busy time, but I will finish this story before uni begins again! It's hurtling towards its conclusion…only one or two chapters to go. Hope you enjoy! Let me know what you thought.

Chapter 8

Sam hopped out of the taxi and paid with a quick, automatic smile. He couldn't believe he was coming to his brother's rescue – no, not rescue! Just…coming – via a taxi. He silently promised himself never to tell Dean or risk never hearing the end of it. He turned towards the Parker's house and stopped short. There was the Impala sitting at the curb. That meant Dean was definitely still here.

"He's probably just tidying up," Sam assured himself under his breath. Ha! His mind automatically spat back.

Sam took a deep breath and strode to the front door, quickly retrieving his own axe from his bag to force it open. But it creaked ajar on its own. Sam hesitated. Was that normal? In their line of work, yes, Sam thought dryly.

He pushed the door the rest of the way open and walked into a dark house. "Dean?" he called out tentatively. No answer.

Sam moved his hand along the wall until he felt it pass over the light switch. He flipped it on. Soft light bathed a battered living room. Apprehension clawed at Sam's stomach as his eyes took in the charred carpet, the destroyed furniture, the large dents in the walls and the pocketed patterns decorating almost every available space thanks to the amount of rock salt Dean had obviously had to fire.

"Dean?" Sam called again, louder this time. More urgent. Still no answer. Dean wouldn't just leave his Impala parked out front. So where was he?

Sam moved quickly towards the steps. His foot crunched on something. Looking down absently, Sam quickly lifted his foot when he realized that he was stepping on Dean's phone. Or what was left of it, at least. Eyes widening, Sam now understood why the line had gone dead: No phone, no line. Jesus, what had happened here? Looking around at the remnants of the shattered phone scattered all over the floor, Sam noticed Dean's gun lying a few feet away.

Blinking at it dumfounded for a second, Sam frowned. Dean would not have left his gun behind voluntarily. Sam scooped it up and turned, hurrying towards the stairs. "You better be up there," Sam mumbled, ignoring the dread that was beginning to build in his stomach.

This way… a voice whispered in his ear just as Sam felt something tug at his sleeve. Sam whipped around, startled. He thought he caught a glimpse of long, blonde hair, but he'd blinked and now it was gone. Only an empty room stared back at him. Heart beating against his chest, Sam stilled his breath and listened for that soft, young voice. It didn't say anything else. But Sam let himself sink back against the wall as he realized that there was still someone haunting this place. They were still in danger.

He snapped back to attention, though, as a creaking noise drifted through to him from somewhere around the corner. Instantly alert, Sam leveled Dean's gun in front of him and carefully rounded the corner. In the room over – the kitchen – there was a door, slowly creaking back and forth to the whim of an unfelt breeze. It looked like it led to the basement.

Now, basic common sense told Sam that when a mysterious voice leads him to an open door that most likely leads to the basement in a haunted house, the smart thing to do would be to avoid said door and said basement. But Sam just…couldn't. Something wanted him to check down there, and it hadn't felt like whoever had whispered in his ear wanted to hurt him. Nonetheless, Sam grabbed a chair and propped it up between the door and its frame to stop it slamming shut on him. Hopping over it, he then slowly ventured into the dark stairwell.

"Dean?" he called out. "You down here?" Still no answer. Sam lifted out his arm and felt for the banister. Once he had a firm grip, he started walking down the stairs, his other hand moving along the wall, searching for the light switch.

He finally found it and switched it on. And froze. His breath caught in his throat and the colour drained from his cheeks as he looked at a bound, bloodied and battered figure, lying completely still. He'd found Dean.

"Dean?" Sam managed to whisper, a cold running through his body, clutching at his chest. No answer. No movement. "Oh god…"

Sam somehow managed to get control back over his body and ran down the stairs, almost stumbling in his haste. Reaching the dirt floor beneath, practically skidding to a stop, he slowly knelt at Dean's side, taking in all his injuries with a growing sense of anguish.

"Dean, can you hear me?" Sam asked shakily, reaching out touch Dean's shoulder but drawing back at the last second, afraid to hurt him more.

Dean was lying on his side, arms bound awkwardly, glistening blood matting the side of his hair, blood smeared across his face, running from his mouth, his eyes, his nose. Creeping out from beyond Dean's hairline, from where the blood matted the side of his head, ran a large bruise – a collage of black and purple – which blended into the smaller ones already marring his face.

Sam quickly moved to untie Dean's hands, hating that his arms were bound like that. Like he was a criminal. God, how could this have happened…

At Sam's touch, Dean stirred.

"Dean?" Sam asked, scooting back round in time to see Dean's eyelids flutter open. Sam almost cried in relief.

"…Sam?" Dean slurred out, staring up at him with unfocused eyes, and then closing them again with a small groan.

"Yeah, it's me. It's okay, Dean, everything's okay," Sam rushed out, terrified that Dean's eyes had closed again. And by how shallow and shaky his breath sounded. "Can you keep talking?"

Dean just lay there for a second, eyes still closed tightly, breath rattling past his lips. "Never known how not to," he finally managed to mumble.

Sam smiled a little, but strong worry still tugged at his chest. "Can you move, Dean?"

"Gotta untie me first, Sammy," Dean muttered, a wince robbing the words of their pinch as Dean tried to move his head to look up at Sam.

"Right," Sam said, rushing back to Dean's hands. Idiot, Sam berated himself. He tugged at the ropes, stopping instantly when he heard Dean suck in air. He looked down at how tightly they were pressing into Dean's wrists. How was he going to untie these without hurting his brother more? Sam took a deep breath and tugged at the ropes more quickly.

Dean must have noticed Sam pause and realized that Sam had heard him wince. He tried to cover it up with his usual banter: "Where's Prince charming when you need him. My knight can't even untie a knot," Dean coughed out. It sounded wet.

"Ass," Sam retorted lightly, keeping up the banter for Dean's sake, though he nearly choked with concern when he finally unknotted the ropes and saw that Dean's wrists had been rubbed raw. He took a deep breath and ran a hand through his hair, forcing himself to hold it together.

"Here, they're off," Sam said, hoping that he'd kept the tremor from his voice. In disgust, he chucked the rope into the basement's corner and returned to Dean's side as Dean slowly forced himself off the ground and into a sitting position, clenching his jaw and wincing with every movement. Once upright, he turned and spat some blood onto the ground.

Sam's heart sunk at the sight, and further still when he noticed the long, pink mark running around the length of Dean's neck. The sight instantly brought back memories of the marks left over from his own near-strangulation, by the poltergeist back in Kansas. He hated that it had obviously happened to Dean too, and that, unlike Sam, there had been no one there to help him.

"What happened, Dean?" Sam asked gently, rubbing Dean's back in slow circles.

Dean didn't answer for a second, blinking his eyes rapidly and shaking his head slightly, trying to clear his head and focus his eyes. "Take your pick," he finally said dryly.

Sam swallowed hard and nodded.

"And I'd really prefer you didn't touch my back," Dean spat.

Sam instantly moved away his hand, stung and confused.

Dean caught the look and quickly explained, not having meant for it to sound like that. "Back a bit sore, too."

"Oh," Sam said, because it was all he could say. Sam wasn't used to seeing Dean battered like this. It was scaring him. And so was the amount of blood that ran down from Dean's head and neck, leaving a large stain on his shoulder.

Realizing what had happened, Sam looked around and saw the discarded plank of wood lying a few feet away. Sam was torn between nausea and rage when he saw the circle of blood staining the end of it. He quickly turned back to Dean who was holding his head and rubbing at his chest absently

"Dean, you might have a concussion. Or worse. We have to get you out of here," Sam said urgently. Dean didn't respond – his eyes were blank, staring at something far off.

"Dean!" Sam said again, louder this time, jolting Dean back to the present.

"Uh, right, okay," he mumbled. "Considering I'm seeing two of you right now, not such a bad idea." A deep frown etched into his face, Dean grimaced as he slowly tried to pick himself off the ground.

Dean was teetering up onto his feet, so Sam quickly wrapped an arm around him to help steady him. Dean yelped and automatically shoved Sam away, wrapping an arm protectively around his ribs and bending over, a sheen of sweat appearing across his forehead. "Fuck, Sammy," he said.

"I'm sorry," Sam said quickly, eyes widening.

Breathing hard, trying to ease the pain, Dean looked up at Sam's stricken face and raised an eyebrow, as if really just noticing he was there.

"What are you doing here, anyway?"

"Uh, I came too see if you were okay," Sam said. "Which, clearly, you are – didn't need my help at all."

Dean rolled his eyes, straightening up. His movements slower than they should be. "You shouldn't have come. I came here to get him away from you, and you follow right after it. Jesus."

Sam let a frown crease his face, a flicker of annoyance almost detracting from his concern for Dean. Almost.

"I can't believe you're complaining about me rescuing you."

Dean shrugged. "Eh, it's what I do. Now we getting out of here or you waiting for the haunts to throw you a bon voyage party?"

Sam smirked, relieved that Dean's sarcasm was still in tact. "Option A," he said, reaching for Dean's arm to help him up the steps. He looked incredibly unstable, and Sam wasn't even sure if Dean knew he was swaying like that.

"Gerroff me," Dean muttered, lightly shrugging out of Sam's grip.

Sam backed off, not wanting to argue with Dean. Not able to argue with Dean when he looked this…hurt. It was unsettling him. Dean was meant to be charging up those stairs, guns blazing. Not wincing with each step and knees buckling under his own weight.

Wait a moment…caught by surprise, Sam quickly reached out to catch Dean but felt his fingers only graze Dean's shirt as he collapsed. "Dean!" Sam shouted, rushing to his side.

"God dammit!" Dean shouted, punching the ground and then grimacing at the shock the movement sent into his ribs. He glanced over to see Sam staring at him with wide, frightened eyes. Though he was finding it difficult to breathe, and concentrate, and to ignore the dizziness that was threatening to consume him, Dean forced a grin onto his face. "And all this time I thought you were the klutzy one."

Sam half-smiled, but it barely lasted a second. Dean sighed. "Help me up, Sammy," he finally relented. They'd be down here all day otherwise. With Sam staring at him like that all day. He could only imagine what he looked like for Sam to be consumed by such obvious concern. Thank god, then, Sam couldn't see how he actually felt. Being run over by a steamroller didn't nearly cover it.

Gathering up all the energy he had left, Dean forced himself not to grimace as Sam grabbed him by the arm and pulled him to his feet and quickly, but carefully, guided him up the stairs. Dean let Sam support most of his weight, silently grateful that Sam was playing it just as discreet as he was, not making a show of fussing over him.

After what seemed like a century, they finally reached the front door and Sam grabbed the door handle. Nothing happened. He pulled at it again. It wouldn't budge! Looking at Dean in disbelief, Sam grabbed the handle with both hands and tugged.

"Move, let me try," Dean said, swatting Sam away.

Sam's eyebrows raised and then dissolved into a frown. "You can barely stand yet you think you can open it when I couldn't?"

"I had my spinach today," Dean responded, grabbing the door handle and pulling. "Huh," Dean said, sounding genuinely surprised when it wouldn't budge. Sam snorted and shook his head, but instantly froze when he felt that icy cold wind flutter into the room.

He whipped around to look at Dean, who had tensed up, eyes alert.

"Fan-fucking-tastic," Dean muttered, before he felt a force grab him from behind and haul him across the room, slamming him against a wall. Dean gasped at the impact, feeling his ribs jolt and his bruises double. He fell to his knees, but struggled to his feet as he saw Brad materialize in front of him. Without even taking a second to offer a snide comment, Brad slammed his fist into Dean's stomach, forcing Dean to double over as he choked for air. He then used his preternatural abilities to send Dean hurtling through the air once again, crashing into the restored coffee table.

"Dean!" Sam called, shooting a load of rock salt at Brad's spirit who instantly disappeared.

"Son of a bitch!" Dean yelled, wrapping an arm more tightly around his ribs as he slid himself up.

Sam rushed to Dean and helped pull him from the rubble, ignoring Dean's objections, knowing that Brad would return any second and they had to move. "Come, on, Dean, we gotta go," Sam said urgently, grabbing Dean under the arm to help pull him along.

Dean tore away and grabbed the shotgun from Sam's hands. "Uh uh! No way! I'm killing that son of a bitch!"

"Dean, come on! There's no time for this!" Sam implored, expecting Brad's spirit to pop back into the living room at any second.

Dean ignored Sam, anger sparking in his eyes, his lip curled into a snarl as he pointed the gun and swung it around him. "Come out, come out, wherever you are, you crazy psycho!"

"Dean!" Sam yelled, grabbing him firmly by the arm and pulling him towards the stairs – escaping the house was proving impossible, so upstairs would have to do for now. He hated that he was using Dean's weakened state against him, but he needed to get Dean away from that living room. He half dragged Dean up the stairs.

Both stopped short when the lights began flickering. Sam gulped. Not good.

But Dean grinned. "That's right…come and get me."

A figure shimmered into existence in front of Dean. Faster than he should've been able to given his injuries, Dean lifted his gun and fired, rock salt tearing through the transparent spirit, forcing it to disappear.

"Not so fun when your prey bites back, is it?" he yelled.

"Come on, Dean," Sam said, worried by the way the lights were still flickering. Being trapped on a flight of stairs wasn't the safest place to be right now.

"At some point, you gotta take a stand - " Dean's remark was cut short as something grabbed him by the legs and pulled. Dean's back hit the ground as he was yanked down the stairs. Startled, Sam still managed to grab Dean by his shirt, while Dean's fingers latched onto the banister.

Sam's heart beat against his chest as he strained to pull Dean back up and keep him from being yanked down those stairs. Trying to keep his hold on Dean while positioning himself better, Sam was awkwardly able to wrap one arm around Dean's chest while grabbing the banister with the other.

His eyes widened when saw Dean let go of his own hold on the banister. Dean was instantly pulled forward, almost taking Sam with him, but Sam tightened his grip, straining against the strength of whatever force was latched onto Dean. "What are you doing?" Sam yelled.

Dean ignored him and grabbed for the gun he'd dropped. And fired. The pressure left his legs and both he and Sam fell backwards. Sam scrambled up and pulled Dean with him. "Come on," he said, the urgency ripping through his voice.

"I'm coming, I'm coming." Running on pure adrenaline, Dean managed to struggle up the stairs and ignore the pain that was now shooting through his back also. Goddamn house.

They reached the landing and both turned as the door at the end of the hallway crept open.

"In there," Sam said, moving towards it, pulling Dean with him.

"Whoa, you're kidding me, right?" Dean said, grinding his feet and wrangling his arm from Sam's grip, annoyed that Sam could so easily pull him along in the first place. "You seriously gonna walk into a room that's practically beckoning? After everything's that gone down in this house?"

Sam rubbed his forehead. "Look, I don't think Brad's the only spirit still here," he explained quickly looking behind Dean. The longer they stood out there, the more likely another attack would occur. "It was a 'beckoning' door that led me to you. Just trust me, okay?"

Dean sighed heavily and looked away from Sam's imploring gaze. "Fine," he grumbled, and began walking – well, limping – towards the room, choosing to trust Sam over the trepidation clawing at his chest.

The room was a small bedroom – dust had long settled over most of the items, but from the excessive amount of black and the barren decor, it looked like one of the teenager's old rooms.

Dean lowered himself into a chair, a wave of dizziness breaking through the adrenaline the instant he let his body relax. He lowered his head into his hands and waiting for the spell to pass.

"Dean?" Sam asked, looking up from where he knelt by his bag.

"I'm fine," Dean waved off, voice muffled by his hands.

Sam swallowed his concern and quickly resumed rummaging through his bag. Pulling out a canister of salt, he quickly proceeded to create a salt circle around the room. Dean looked up from where he sat hunched over the room's small table.

"You realize that's like using fly spray to ward off Godzilla," he pointed out.

Sam continued to carefully shake the salt around the room. "But it'll keep it from attacking us long enough to try and figure out what we're going to do."

"From attacking me," Dean corrected dryly. "Brad's not after you. He likes you."

"What are you talking about?" Sam said, finishing up the circle and making sure the ends merged perfectly to create a strong barrier against the house's spirits.

"Well," Dean sighed, "from what I gathered, not being too bright and all -"

Sam frowned at that, but let it slide, noting the sarcasm in Dean's voice.

" – Brad's feeling a bit guilty over shooting his brother – go figure – so, to make it up to dear old Bret, he's been killing people he thinks are like himself. I apparently fit the bill – I'm loud, I swear, I give you a hard time sometimes. He thinks he's protecting people like Bret from people like him. Personally, I'd prefer he'd take his self-loathing out on, you know, himself, but hey, that's just my opinion."

Sam frowned, not quite understanding.

"You're the one he's protecting, Sammy," Dean elaborated, seeing Sam's blank look. "He's doing some psychotic over-emphasising thing, where you're, like, Bret, and I'm, like, Brad, and he needs to protect you from me. Very Freudian of him."

Sam's mouth slid open a little, and he sunk down into the chair opposite Dean, the sinking feeling in his stomach making it impossible for him to remain standing.

His mind swung back to that memory of him wishing Dean wasn't so hot-headed as the air grew cold around him, and then barging into the motel room to find Brad trying to drown Dean. Oh my god…it was after Dean because of him!

"But…how…" Sam mumbled.

"Apparently he did some mind reading thing while you two were in the graveyard. Something you wanna tell me there, Sammy boy?" Dean said lightly, but he was watching Sam carefully.

Sam's head whipped around to look at Dean, frowning in shock. "No! God, Dean, how can you even ask that? I mean, yes, I get annoyed at you sometimes, I mean, you're annoying, but that's a far stretch from wanting you hurt."

Dean nodded, smirking. "I know that, Sam. Where would you be without me? Listening to bad music lost somewhere, is my guess. You don't want that."

Sam chuckled, but his eyes looked far away.

Dean cleared his throat, and said this next bit as nonchalantly as he could. "I think, actually, Brad thinks he's protecting you from me. Like, crazily enough, I'm wrecking your life, or something." Dean forced himself to laugh at the thought, but then glanced at Sam out of the corner of his eye. "You don't think I'm dangerous, do you?"

Sam smiled at this. "Dean, if I did, would I really be sitting here with you in a circle of salt trying to save your ass?"

"Hey!" Dean objected, a smile tugging at his own lips. "I don't need saving." Sam gave him a look. "Well, you know, down there in the basement was a one off thing. I wanted to see what it was like being rescued all the time – walk a mile in your shoes and all." Dean grinned.

Sam shook his head. But the smile left his lips as he again noticed how pale and bloodied Dean was. God…Dean had almost died because of something Brad had seen inside him, Dean's own brother.

"Sam," Dean said gently. "It really is okay. Not your fault. He's just latching onto surface emotions. If everyone who had someone annoyed at them died…well, there wouldn't really be any of us left. Really, don't worry about it."

Sam sprung up and ran his hands through his hair. "Or you'd be left with a freakily polite town with hundreds of mysterious deaths." He looked at Dean, "I burnt the parents' bones, why is Brad's spirit still even here? Is he just…refusing to move on? God…"

"Apparently him, Bret and their sister were brought back differently. The parents were just haunting this place for the hell of it." Off of Sam's questioning look, Dean elaborated: "It's amazing what the bad guys will reveal right before they try to off you."

Sam sighed and absently looked around the room. It seemed they were back at square one. His eyes were suddenly drawn by a bright red book sitting conspicuously on the room's single shelf.

"Red!" Sam exclaimed, moving towards the shelf.

Dean frowned. "Man, would you start forming proper sentences!"

"Red," Sam said again, looking at Dean excitedly, and then pulling the book from its shelf, quickly flipping it open.

"Or just shout the word 'red' over and over," Dean muttered, moving to see what Sam was so excited about, before a sharp pain forced him to sit back down again. Damn, he couldn't wait to destroy that Brad bitch once and for all.

"Bret said 'red' to me the last time I saw him. It has to be another clue about how to stop his brother. This book, Dean, is red. In a room full of black. And look," he pointed to the title, "Ancient Cult Rituals."

"Well, you're just making friends all over the place, aren't you? Does it tell us anything useful?" Dean rubbed his head, he was growing more tired the longer they sat there, his adrenaline quickly waning and leaving a mass of aches and pains behind.

Sam flipped to the dog-marked page and quickly read it.

"Oh wow," he said when he was done.

"What?" Dean asked impatiently.

"It seems like Brad got his hands on some serious black magic before he died. This here documents how to keep a part of you grounded after death."

"Like what that black symbol on the parents' graves was used for," Dean said, not seeing how this was any help.

"No. I mean, yes, but, this here tells you how to, theoretically, go further. Instead of using an item, like the parents' bones, to contain your essence, you actually leave a part of yourself alive and that is what keeps you from being destroyed. Using the right magic, Brad was able to physically kill himself and his siblings, but left their memories, personality and basic…essence…literally still grounded. They're alive…just…without the body part. And with, you know, all those abilities you get when in spirit form."

Dean frowned, frustration growing in his chest. "Dude, isn't that basically what being a spirit is? Just in fancy terms?"

"No, no," Sam said quickly, excitedly. Now they were getting to the bottom of this. "A spirit is a manifestation of some part of the person when they were alive. Brad, Bret and their sister…they're completely and utterly still Brad and Bret. Only without their human bodies. And that's why they could pass as the Palmers so easily – they're still so connected to the human plane that they can form temporary bodies. Brad managed to find a way to squeeze into that tiny gap between life and afterlife."

Dean raised an eyebrow, really too tired and worn-out to comprehend the logistics. "Whatever, dude. Does it say how to kill his half-dead self?"

But Sam didn't answer. He was lost in thought. "Brad must have known what he was doing before he killed himself. And his family must have agreed to it. Bret had no choice – he was already dead by this time. He must not agree with what Brad's doing – this…crusade to rid the town of people like himself – and that's why he's been helping us. And obviously Brad only had enough resources to bring himself, Bret and his sister back this way – he stuck to the less advanced method for his parents. Wow…"

Sam's memory flashed back to the engravings:

Bret's grave - Beloved son, devoted brother, tragedy was your burden, your gift – and then the one on Brad's grave - Brad Parker. Beloved son, devoted brother, in death he shall find the peace he missed in life.

Yep, the only whole family had appointed themselves town-protectors.

"Sam!" Dean yelled, jolting Sam back to the present. Dean gestured for Sam to pass him the book. He wanted to see if it said how to destroy them.

"He must have been a pretty smart kid to know about all this. Where would he even find this stuff?" Sam noted, passing the book to Dean.

Dean flipped to the book's back page. Smirking, he held it up for Sam to see. "Local library."

Sam scoffed, until he saw Dean wasn't joking. He choked in indignation. "Do they even monitor what they're lending people?"

"Calm down, Sam. You can join the angry PTA when we get out of this mess, now…" he began scanning the page Sam had been reading. "How to finish off what Brad started…" He squinted at the pages, finding it difficult to read. That wasn't good.

"Here, you check," he said passing the book to Sam. Sam reached for it hesitantly, his concern breaking to the surface again.

"Just read it," Dean said before Sam started asking him if he was all right again. He wasn't. But they could do jack about it until they left this house. And that meant destroying the Parkers once and for all.

Sam stole one last glance at Dean before quickly scanning the page again. After a minute, he flipped it over and read a couple more pages. He looked back up at Dean, stricken.

"…what?" Dean said after a pause. "Don't tell me we gotta go find ourselves some kryptonite or something?"

"No…no," Sam said slowly. "The only way to stop them is to turn them corporeal…turn them human."

Dean raised his eyebrows. "No shit, we know how to resurrect people, now?"

"No. Just them. Because of this magic they used, they're already part human. They're just lacking bodies. So, given it's done the right way, we can turn their temporary bodies into permanent ones. They'll be human again."

Dean let this sink in. No wonder Sammy was freaked. They'd never done anything like this before. "Okay, so we do a little Lazarus magic, and then we can finally kill that son of a bitch."

"We can't, Dean!" Sam said, shocked by the suggestion. "They'll be helpless, again. Powers gone. We can't just kill another human being. We'll have to call the police."

"And tell them what!" Dean said incredulously, angry that Sam was bringing his morals into something that so obviously didn't call for them. "We have a murderer here who was meant to have died 16 years ago, but that really didn't, he's been on a murdering spree instead, oh, and yeah, he hasn't aged a day since his apparent death."

Sam sighed. "I don't know, we'll think of something. But I'm not killing him, Dean. You aren't either. I wont let you. You won't forgive yourself if you do."

Dean rolled his eyes. "You need to watch more violent movies. Get yourself a bit more desensitized." He looked at Sam's set mouth and pleading eyes. "Okay, fine, whatever! Just do the spell already so we can go squealing to the pigs."

Sam smirked. But quickly became alert when a loud banging shook the walls around them. Dean hopped up from the chair, ignoring his body's protests as he edged closer to Sam, instinct again making him step protectively in front of Sam.

"Start whatever you need to do to turn this sucker human, Sam," Dean said quietly, lifting his gun in front of him.

Sam nodded and hurried to his bag as the banging increased, rattling against the walls, and causing the salt to bounce in place. Sam stared at the circle wearily. He hoped it would hold.

Dean was also watching the salt, and his eyes widened as a breeze from under the door scattered it. He quickly looked up as the door slammed open and he felt the gun torn from his fingers. He dived for it, but felt a force – an unforgiving rage – latch onto him and pull him from behind.

"Sam!" he shouted, reaching out for his brother as he was yanked from the room.

"No!" Sam yelled, but he couldn't reach Dean in time. He could only watch as Dean was pulled from the room with startling speed, the room's door slamming shut behind him.

Sam stared at the spot where Dean at stood a second ago in bewilderment, before running after him. Or that was his intent, at least. He ended up skidding to a stop and staggering backwards as Brad materialized in front of him.

Sam stood cautiously, watching as Brad stared at him. And then…Brad smiled.

Sam frowned, taken completely off guard.

"You don't have to stay. You can leave," Brad said.

Sam's frown deepened. "I'm not leaving without my brother!"

"You don't have to listen to him anymore. Go to college. Live a normal life," Brad answered, still staring at Sam with that disquieting smile.

Sam stared at him for a second, head tilted to the side, breathing deeply. He licked his lips and forced down his anger. "I cant do that without Dean, so please, let him go."

Brad frowned. "No…I know you want him dead. I'm helping you, don't you see? I'm sorry, and he'll be sorry too. Why don't any of you understand!" he yelled, his voice reverberating off the windows.

Sam backed up, realizing our precarious the situation was. "No," Sam breathed earnestly. He had to convince this thing that Dean didn't deserve to be killed. "Dean isn't like that. He's a good person. You don't want to kill a good person, Brad."

Brad's frowned deepened and his breath began to shudder. In the next second he was in front of Sam, placing his hand on Sam's head. Sam cringed, but instead of a burst of pain, again his memory was accessed. This time only one memory was pulled forward – of the Asylum. Of the anger. Of Sam pulling the trigger.

And then Brad removed his hand and stepped back again, staring at Sam in sympathy. "See, you wanted him dead, but he tricked you."

Sam's eyes widened as he realized what Brad was latching onto. Sam's words got caught in his throat as he struggled to explain. "No…you don't understand. I was possessed. I didn't mean any of that!"

Brad just smiled. "Don't worry, Sam. I'll finish the job for you." He turned and headed back for the door.

A chill ran down Sam's spine. "No!" he yelled diving after him, but Brad flicked his wrist and Sam felt himself slammed up against the wall. He slid to the ground, stunned.

Brad then held out his arm and the shotgun flew into his hands, then a pack of bullets from Sam's bag. Sam watched with widening eyes, a cold dread freezing his breath in his lungs.

"Bullets will work a hell of a lot better than rock salt," Brad said, pulling the line from Sam's own memory. He smiled at Sam once more and disappeared.

"No!" Sam cried, running to the door, tugging at it with all his strength. "You don't understand!" he shouted through it, banging on it with his fists. "Please! Don't! I didn't mean it!" He rattled the handle some more, slammed his shoulder against it. "It wasn't like that! Don't you dare hurt him! Dean! Dean!"

Sam backed away, fear and guilt and anger clawing at his chest. Struggling to breathe, he turned around in circles, trying to find something to open the door, to get to his brother.

There wasn't anything.