A/N: This actually hasa bit of action in it. Sorry for the delay in posting, I've had company and haven't had much time to write. Hopefully I'll post again tomorrow. :)
WARNING! This chapter contains descriptions of graphic child abuse and violence. PLEASE do not read if you are triggered by this sort of thing!
"So, as far as I can tell, a simple banishing ritual should clear out the poltergeist." Sam announced, hunched over his laptop in the corner of the room. Dean was cleaning his gun and loading up on rock salt rounds, preparing for the evening's hunt.
"Sounds pretty straightforward." He announced, peering into the chamber of his weapon. There was a momentary silence, then Dean cleared his throat and put the gun down.
"We should be done here quickly, and we don't have another gig lined up. Why don't we check out whatever it was that you saw in your vision – even if it's too late for one person maybe we can still get the fucker and save future victims."
Sam stiffened, his fingers stilling on the keyboard. His jaw clenched, and Dean recognized the look of his little brother digging in his heels.
"We already talked about this Dean, I told you there's nothing we can do. It's over, and there's no way to find the… monster that did it." Dean didn't miss Sam's hesitation, and the use of the word 'monster' sounded strange and oddly emotional.
"For fuck's sake, Sam, we didn't already talk about this – I talked, you clammed up. Now what the hell is going on with you? Normally you can't follow these visions fast enough – now you're avoiding them?" Sam sat frozen, staring at the tabletop in front of him like it was all he could see.
"Dean. Please, just drop it." His voice was thick and strained, and Dean could tell he was clenching his teeth. "If I thought there was anything we could do, you know I'd make every effort to help, but there's nothing we can do, and talking about it just makes that more apparent and frustrating."
"Fine," Dean sighed, taking in his brother's tense posture and anguished eyes. "But you need to snap out of it and focus, Sam, or you'll start making mistakes that'll put us both in danger."
Sam's fists clenched where they rested on the keyboard. There was a gleam of anger in his eyes, but he gave a jerky nod and remained silent. Dean watched him for a few more seconds, then stood and began gathering his supplies.
"It's almost dark – we should head out and finish this. I wanna have time to hit the bar and make some cash before we leave."
Sam finally looked at him, his face an emotionless mask. They stared at each other for a moment, then Sam turned away and began preparing the satchels for the banishment ritual. Dean felt inexplicably angry with his brother – he knew there was more to it than the younger Winchester was letting on. Something was eating away at him, and there was nothing Dean could do to help if Sam wouldn't open up. He could only hope that that would happen before his his little brother was permanantly damaged.
Sam shifted slightly side-to-side, staring at the decrepit old farmhouse in front of him. Dean stood to his right, a shotgun held loosely in his hands. The roof was sagging in the middle, making the two front windows angle like angry eyes. The ravages of time on the building before him conjured echoes of Cindy, rotting and crumbling to bones.
Stop it, he ordered his brain, Dean's words at the motel ringing in his ears. He had to focus. Their safety depended on it.
"Well, no time like the present!" Dean exclaimed, cocking the gun and moving towards the front porch. Sam could see the familiar mix of excitement and caution in his brother's eyes as he followed him up the hazardous front steps towards the front door. As they moved closer to the threshold, the door rattled in its frame, ancient paint chipping and dusting into the air.
"This little bastard's not wasting any time, is 'e?" Dean grinned before pulling his foot back and kicking the door open. He advanced into the house before Sam, weapon at ready, eyes scanning the vacant room. They had decided on a unified approach – Sam would place the satchels in the walls while Dean stood watch against possible attack. Sam knew his brother was thinking of his near-strangling in Lawrence when he laid out the plan, but he hadn't argued. He still remembered the knives embedded in the table Dean had used as a shield, and he honestly felt better keeping his brotherin sight.
"Go, Sam." Dean ordered, gesturing towards the Southern corner with the shotgun. Moving swiftly, Sam darted for the wall. He kicked out at the wall, the old wood giving easily under his foot. Slamming the satchel into the hole, he moved back into position beside Dean.
A sudden small cyclone of dust kicked up in the center of the room and an angry keen filled the room.
"Get ready," Dean cautioned, "He's pissed now. Move fast."
Like you need to tell me that, Sam thought wryly, moving into the next room. It appeared to have been a kitchen – rotting cabinet doors hung haphazardly from rusted hinges and a smattering of more recent beer bottles and trash littered the floor. As Sam hurried toward the corner of the room, bottles began to rattle and tremble around the room. As he was kicking a hole in the wall the first bottle exploded, glass shrapnel pinging off the floor. Dean cursed, and Sam threw the satchel into the hole, anxiety filling him at the sound of his older brother's pain-filled voice.
Another bottle burst violently, and Sam felt the sudden sting of glass biting into the back of his calves. He ducked his head, shielding his face with his arm and running alongside Dean towards the door. They cleared the threshold as the rest of the bottles exploded, shards shooting up with enough force to stick in the ceiling. They took only a moment to catch their breath – the longer this took, the more likely the chance that they would be seriously hurt.
"Come on," Dean panted, blood dribbling down his chin where a piece of glass had nicked him. The remaining two satchels clutched in either hand, Sam straightened and followed his brother into the next room.
As he stepped into the shadowed room, an electric tingle raced through his legs and body, into his head, where it exploded into a blinding pain. He cried out, the satchels unintentionally dropping from his hands as he stumbled and grabbed uselessly at his skull. He heard Dean call out to him but couldn't reply, his breath stolen from him. This can't happen now, he thought desperately, but the thought had barely formed before it was washed away on a tide of white light and a new vision flashed onto the inside of his eyes.
The room was lighter, cleaner, but somehow still neglected looking. A sparse looking bed sat against one wall, a boy of roughly eight laying prone underneath. His little hands clutched at a toy truck, but his eyes were full of fear and anxiety. The floor reverberated with heavy footsteps, coming closer, and the boy flinched with each thud.
He squeezed his eyes shut as the door banged open and a large, dark-haired man stumbled into the room.
"Toby!" he barked, his face a mask of anger. "You little shit! Where the hell are you?" His eyes narrowed as they came to rest on the bed, and in one swift move he darted an arm under the hanging covers and yanked the boy into the open. Toby whimpered like a puppy, cowering and trying to sink into himself.
"What did I tell you about playing with my tools, you little fuck!" the man snarled, shaking the boy viciously. Toby's head snapped back and forth on his neck and he wailed.
"Shut up!" The man backhanded him and threw him to the floor. Blood from his split lip spattered Toby's chin and he scrambled, trying to get under his bed again, moaning in terror. His teeth bared in fury, the man began kicking the boy, delicate bones snapping under his heel. The toy truck clattered across the floor, falling from tiny hands suddenly gone limp. Toby stopped moving, stopped making any noise. A lazy bubble of blood and spit formed at his lips and burst with a horrible finality. His eyes rolled to the side, unseeing.
The man kept kicking, kicking, kicking.
Sam came back to himself with a sharp cry of denial and pain, his body jolting with shock. He was lying on his side on the floor, facing the rusted bed frame that still rested against the far wall. He gasped, his chest tight with grief. The toy truck, coated in dust and cobwebs, lay on its side under the bed.
He felt the vibration of running footsteps in the floorboards under his cheek and flinched. Someone burst into the room behind him and he whimpered, but could not tear his gaze from the little toy truck in front of him. Hard hands grasped his shoulders and he tried to jerk away, anguish building in his throat.
"Sammy! It's okay! I've got you." Dean's voice filtered through the panic and the pain, and Sam stilled, shaking and panting. His brother pulled him into a sitting position and the room spun, Dean's image blurring and warping. He squeezed his eyes shut, hot tears plopping onto his cheeks.
He saw the toy fall from Toby's hands, his last breath bubbling from him, and a great, broken sob burst painfully from his throat. Hands drew him against Dean's chest and he clutched desperately at the fabric of his brother's shirt. He was distantly aware of Dean rocking him gently as he buried his face in the familiar warmth and wept, for a life cut brutally short, for the horror of once again bearing witness.
Dean held his brother as he cried, rocking him gently and rubbing his back. When Sam had dropped to the floor, Dean had reacted instantly, grabbing the satchels and making quick work of finishing the banishment. Leaving his brother on the floor, unprotected, had been like tearing out his own guts. But he knew the best way to protect Sam was to get rid of the poltergeist and get him out of there.
He had returned to the bedroom to find Sam disoriented and afraid. There was an awful agony in his eyes, and the tortured sob that had burst from him made Dean's chest tighten with sympathy and worry.
Now Sam's hands were fisted in his shirt, the force of his sobs quaking his body, and Dean felt agonizingly helpless. He had never seen his brother cry like this, and a heavy seed of panic grew in his gut. He was more sure than ever that something wrong was happening with Sam, but for the life of him he had no idea what.
Sam was quieting somewhat, his wrenching sobs reduced to gasping whimpers. Dean pressed his cheek to the top of his brother's head and squeezed him close. He was fully aware that this was a colossal chick-flick moment, but Sammy was so broken that he was afraid if he didn't hang on to him,Sam would fly apart like the bottles in the kitchen.
"It's okay, Sammy," he repeated softly, "It's gonna be okay."
He wasn't sure who he was trying to convince.
A/N: Thank you so much for all the wonderful reviews – I want to answer them all personally, but I've barely had time to write at all, so please accept this generic but very sincere thanks to everyone who reviewed – I wouldn't have the willpower to write this without you!