From his position locked on the chair, Dean's eyes flutter over the group of survivors.
Sam's whole demeanor shifts as the newcomers move into the parlor. Like throwing up a switch. A sly, cruel smile curls onto his face. So un-Sammy like. More proof, Dean speculates, that Sam's sick. That's all. Nothing more than a rather stressful case. He can still fix this. There's still time. There has to be.
Dean feels a shift in the air. A crackle of suppressed, underlying heat, the brittle stink of ozone and sulfur. Some rising force pulsating underneath the current of space. The fine hair at the back of Dean's nape stands straight up. He represses the urge to shiver.
Jesus, Dean thinks. That's Sam. Sam's doing that.
He watches Sam curl his left hand into a tight fist, knuckles turning bone white. He then releases his fist, palm flat.
"Well, hello." Sam says.
Dean looks past Sam's wide form to four shocked, frightened faces.
Jerome. Shirtless. Loose gray sweatpants. It had been his voice who had broken the silence. He's the closest to Frank, his bare foot planted on one of the intricate curves of the Devil's Trap. In his hand gleams the machete, but it lies limp at his side. He's speechless, eyes so wide one can only see the whites. His eyes dart from Sam to Frank's mutilated corpse.
Beside Jerome stands scar-face. He looks wholly weaker in the dark, but perhaps that's because the man is in pajamas. Thread barren and red plaid. He has his Glock clenched in his fist. The gun is at his side. But Dean is not afraid. At least not of them. Perhaps because Sam is here. Although Dean doesn't want to admit it-with Sam leaking damnation like mother's milk-he feels a bit safer even with this warped, sullied doppelganger of his brother. At least Sam isn't dead (but what if this is worse than dead?).
Behind the two men file in Alma and Micah. Alma's emaciated face is twisted in ripe nervousness. She taps her fingers against her thigh. Micah, beside her, sways manically back and forth like a stalk of wheat on the wind, mumbling hysterically under his breath. There's a sheen of sweat on his face like wax. Reminds Dean of those wax figures of Jesus that Catholics love so much. His large eyes never leave Sam's face. Through the silence, Dean can pick up Micah's words."It's him. The man with the yellow eyes. Death bringer. Oh, God. Oh, God. I saw him. In my dream. Just like I said. Nobody would believe me. Nobody would."
"What are you doing in my house?" Sam says with a leveled, calm voice.
There's a moment of silence. Nobody speaks. Nobody moves.
"What?" Alma stutters.
Sam turns his gaze to her. "I said, what are you doing in my house? I didn't give you permission."
Alma licks her lips, glances at Jerome and scar-face. Their eyes are trailed on Sam. They do not look away. "Look, man. It's…it's nuts out there, okay?"
Sam cocks his head to the side. It's a startlingly animalistic gesture. When Sam speaks, his voice is like ice. "So?"
"So…" she swallows thickly. "We had to do what we had to do."
"Is that so?" Sam says. Sam's shoulders tense.
"Sammy," Dean whispers. "Don't."
With a flick of his wrist, Alma is lifted midair. It is like a scene from The Exorcist. She hangs there, suspended. She flails, eyes wide with panic, her mouth hung open in a silent scream. The motion reminds Dean of a bird caught in a spider's web.
The others scatter. In that split second, scar-face raises his Glock to Sam's chest. He pulls the trigger. Sam's left shoulder jerks back. A coppery spray of Sam's blood peppers Dean's face. A vice twists in Dean's chest. Oh, God. Sam's been hit.
But Sam doesn't react to the injury. With a flick of his other wrist, the Glock goes flying out of scar-face's hand. Scar-face is thrown against the far wall where, like a moth pinned to a board, he's stretched out against the paint, limbs overextended in every direction like a star fish. The move reminds Dean of Yellow Eyes. The man's moment of shock gives way to panic. He thrashes against his invisible bonds, jerking his head back and forth. Something gives in Dean's chest and, despite his best efforts, he feels wetness seeping from his eyes. A flair of shame follows, hot. Pussy. Fucking pussy. Do something.
Micah blubbers hysterically. Jerome looks between Sam and scar-face, crouched partway on the ground, weapon raised.
"Stop, Sam! Fucking…fucking stop it! Let them go, Sammy. Forget about them." Dean says quickly. Sam doesn't give any indication he's heard him. The back of Dean's skull gives a painful throb. He's opened the wound back up with all his own thrashing. A trickle of blood slips slowly down his nape and into the back of his shirt. Sam's gaze flickers to Alma.
"Sammy," Dean croaks. "Just put her down."
Sam doesn't. Alma's body violently soars towards the grand piano. Her beanpole thin thigh hits the edge of the piano bench with a sickening crack and (oh, God, that's bone, that's bone sticking out) her face and upper body smash against the front of the piano with a jarring tinkling of keys. Alma, the androgenous marionette of skin and bones. Her scream is piercing, nails against chalkboard.
"Shut the fuck up." Sam snarls. Her voice cuts off immediately. Dean's eyes glue onto Alma's face. She's screaming, but no sound is coming out. She claws at her throat, trying desperately to push words from her lips.
"What are you, man?" Jerome says.
A smile curls on Sam's lips. "I don't know. Maybe death. Maybe nothing."
Jerome shakes his head. "That's…real funny, man." But his voice is void of emotion. He takes a step back. Then another.
Sam's eyes narrow. Micah is in the corner of the parlor pressed against the grandfather clock. He won't stop murmuring to himself. His gibberish is the soundtrack to the carnage.
"Why don't you turn that blade into your neck?" Sam inquires, raising an eyebrow and baring his teeth in something nothing like a smile.
Jerome stops. Something passes over his face. Something calm. Final.
"Sam, no!" Dean shouts, wrenching at the invisible compulsion keeping him in place. Something in his thigh tears with an agonizing pop of fire. He squeezes his eyes shut. Tore something. Shit.
Maybe it's a mercy because Dean doesn't see the second Jerome, the mechanic, Jerome the widower with the dead wife and two very dead children, jabs the machete straight into his throat.
Dean opens his eyes. Arterial spray peppers the soiled floor in a spiderweb of crimson. The machete is sticking out the back of Jerome's nape. He's nearly torn his throat down the middle. His body shakes sporadically, nerves on fire. He slips the blade back out. Blood gushes against dark flesh, more red than red, gliding down his bare chest in a torrent. The machete slips from his limp grasp, falls to the floor. Jerome's legs give out and he drops to his knees. Dean sees the moment life leaves Jerome's eyes; the man tumbles face first onto the floor. Limp. Dead.
"You fucking bastard! You fucking fuck!" Scar-face yells, baring his silver capped teeth.
Sam steps between the bodies, makes his way to scar-face. Dean's eyes follow his brother's movements.
Sam settles in front of the man. With him pressed against the wall, feet hovering above the floor, they are the same height.
"You're one of those fucking aliens, aren't you?" Scar-face spits.
Confusion flickers across Sam's face before a mask of resolve solidifies into place. "You could say that."
Sam reaches up. Scar-face flinches. Sam grasps the back of his head, his fingers pushing into thick, honey-wheat strands. Scar-face stiffens, icy blue eyes sliding over Sam's feverish yellow. Questioning. Sam gives him an almost sad smile. Almost.
Sam squeezes. The back of scar-face's skull caves like a melon. A gurgle bubbles from his lips, a strange, obscene sound. His eyes roll back in his head. A trickle of blood slips down his nostril, laps at his parted lips. His eyes begin to bleed, too. Too much pressure. His body jerks. Death spasm. The jelly pinkish gray of brain matter squeezes from his ear holes like two bulbs.
Sam releases him. With that, the telekinetic lock is free, and scar face's body falls in a twitching heap at Sam's feet.
Sam turns on his heel, strides to Micah.
"No, no. Jesus. No. Not. Not now." The man presses up against the grandfather clock. The clock chimes. What time it is, nobody knows. In no more than a second, Sam snakes his hand out, wraps it around the man's throat, and twists. The crack reverberates in the silence of the parlor. He slides down against the space where clock and wall meet, eyes staring into nothing.
Sam's gaze snaps to Alma. The woman stops pawing at her broken leg, eyes wide and frightened. She opens her mouth and closes it again, but no sound will come out. Sam stalks her slowly, like a wolf upon an injured doe.
"Sammy," Dean whispers. But he knows it's no use. Sam is…Sam is too far gone. He's crouching down, he's reaching towards her chest, he's…
Dean squeezes his eyes shut. A jab of blinding white agony splinters out with each jackhammer of Dean's heartbeat. He focuses on the needles jammed behind his eyelids, electricity wired straight into his spine. He focuses on the agony through the violent crack of ribcage, the squelch of a rendering heart, the gurgle of shock not even contained by an unshakable compulsion.
Silence befalls them. Steps. Body heat.
"Dean, open your eyes."
It's not an order, but Dean can't help himself. Never could. Perhaps that will be his downfall.
Dean opens his eyes. Sam is crouched in front of him. His right hand a glove of red, tissue glistening under blunt nails. His left hovers over Dean's thigh, not touching, but wanting.
Sam reaches up. Dean flinches. Sam frowns.
"I'm not gonna hurt you, baby." Sam says. He swipes at Dean's blood splattered face with the cuff of his suit sleeve.
"How could you?" Dean croaks.
Sam shakes his head, dabs at Dean's temple.
"I told you, I'm going to keep you safe."
Dean stays quiet, eyes flickering over the wound in Sam's shoulder. A part of him-a part that's been in him the moment John thrust baby Sammy into his arms and told him to run as fast as he could-aches to check it out. Stop the bleeding. Pry out the bullet. Put some straight Vodka on the bitch. Needle and thread.
But something tells him Sam doesn't have to worry about it. Plus, there's more pressing issues. Like the elephant in the room. The wicked, bloody elephant.
Sam finishes wiping at Dean's chin. "There. Better."
Sam pulls away and rises.
"Let's get to bed, Dean. You must be exhausted."
Dean feels the compulsion locking his mind and body down unlock. He sits there, staring up at Sam's inhuman eyes. Sam's clean hand is outstretched towards him, an offering.
How could he sleep when his nerves feel like live wires? When his heart is jackhammering in his chest? When he's surrounded by five bodies. When Sam is…this thing.
"No." Dean shakes his head. "I'm not getting up until you tell me what happened to you."
"I will," Sam promises. "You sleep and I'll clean up this mess. Tomorrow, I'll tell you whatever you want to know."
Dean looks away, mind scrambling for an out. Maybe this would be a good idea. If Sam left him in the bedroom alone, Dean could slip out of the window, scale the house, and get away, distance himself from the shock and horror of his (demonic) brother. Maybe the world is in a heaping pile of apocalyptic shit right now, but if Dean can find a cure, maybe he could reverse whatever happened. Wishful thinking, sure, but his deck is empty, and his hands are tied.
"Okay," Dean breathes. "You're right. I'm exhausted. Sleep would probably do me some good."
Dean takes Sam's hand and allows himself to be helped up. Sam does not let go. A sincere smile slips on his face so painfully Sammy it hurts. Dean ignores the twinge in his chest as his brother leads him out of the room. Dean purposefully ignores the bodies, too. If he looks at them too long, he'd wrench his hand out of Sam's grasp and run. They ascend the stairs. Dean's gaze never leaves Sam's back. When they get into the bedroom Dean has called his for over three months, he notices the bed is the way he left it. Rumpled. Disheveled. Kerosene lantern knocked off the bedside table. Through the window, dawn is breaking.
Sam lets go of his hand and Dean crawls onto the mattress. He shimmies under the covers, lies down. It feels ridiculous, his murdering, Antichrist brother tucking him into bed.
Dean looks up at Sam. Sam gives him a look so affectionate, so bordering on worshipful, Dean thinks he might be sick. Sam can't look at him like that, not when Sam fucked up the world. Not when Sam tore asunder his own humanity, replaced it with whatever this is.
Sam leans over him and presses a kiss to his temple. Despite himself, Dean feels his eyes grow heavy. He can feel warmth spread from his forehead down into his core and out across his limbs. He's suddenly so, so tired. The bed is like a cloud. He practically melts into the sheets. It's so nice and comfy and to only give in, he could have the best sleep of his life.
Realization hits him and he glowers weakly through half-lidden eyes. Sam gives him a sympathetic look.
"You promised." Dean slurs.
Sam runs his thumb across Dean's forehead in tender, leisurely swipes.
"I'm not stupid, Dean. And this isn't mind control. It's just something to help you sleep."
Before Dean can respond, the darkness of sleep washes over him and pulls him under.