Dean leveled his gun. But it was never that easy, was it?
The thing had literally materialized out of thin air.
"Sam, get out of the way!" Dean's order cut through the air like a bullet.
Sam would be more than happy to if he wasn't being dragged to the ground by two surprisingly strong hands. The man-witch, warlock, whatever-was a stocky ginger with a heavily freckled, round face. Sam could have sworn he'd seen him somewhere but couldn't place him. He appeared younger than he probably was, strangely adolescent, but that illusion of boyish placidity vanished as Sam was yanked down by the collar of his flannel. He landed, sprawled on his back on the park's hilltop. He coughed from the abrupt absence of air, his lungs seizing momentarily in his chest, before he gulped in a lungful.
Gun drawn, Dean sprinted forward through the desolate park. As the sun had dipped below the horizon several hours ago, the fleeting colors of dusk were quickly sucked away, throwing the world in obscure, trembling shadows. It was night with all of night's misjudgments. The two figures, despite their relatively difference sizes, had merged into one, leaving Dean with no idea who was who.
"Sammy, try to get away from him, man! I can't get a clear shot!"
With brute, in-human strength, the he-witch pulled Sam into a sitting position and surged off his lap. His high pitched, hysterical laughter gargled through the night air, raising the little hairs on the back of Sam's nape. Using the man's grip as leverage, Sam swung his legs around, twisting into a kneeling position, mirroring his attacker's stance and almost landed a punch to the freak's chin.
Almost.
The man caught Sam's fist in his palm and twisted his arm back. Sam suppressed a cry of pain before his limbs went as limp as a jelly fish. Magic. Shit.
The man shifted close to Sam, pressing their chests together, an awkwardly intimate position. Sam heard Dean's boots on the ground, the leaves crunching underfoot. Dean was closing in. Sam could do nothing but kneel limply, staring into his attacker's icy blue eyes, his sneering upper lip, the triumphant expression marring his pale features. His breath smelled like peanut butter. Oh, gross.
The man pressed his hand to the middle of Sam's chest, fingers spread wide. Dean shouted, but the sound was distant, like a dream. Viper quick, he pressed his full lips against Sam's eardrum.
"You will slink and slither, toil and wither, until you face your greatest fear. The thing you want is what you hold most near." The he-witch growled against Sam's ear, his voice whisky rough. Sam felt an edge of playfulness to his tone. It reminded him of the trickster. He felt the inexplicable urge to bash the little fucker's face in.
"Sam! Move back!"
The he-witch violently shoved Sam away and jumped up.
Dean was a yard away, gun raised. He squeezed the trigger.
In the same instance, the man dispersed into a thick plume of white smoke, the echo of a cackle following his unnatural departure.
"Shit!" Dean cursed, although he couldn't help but think that wasn't normal for witches. He watched the smoke turn into nothingness.
Sam blinked stupidly at the starry night sky. He clenched his fist and tried to move. Although he still felt sluggish, he dragged himself into a sitting position, dead leaves clinging to his hair and the cold autumn wind nibbling teasingly at his flesh.
When Dean's knees slammed against the dead, dried leaves, he couldn't feel any pain. He only felt the thrumming in his veins, his pulse pounding at his temples, the raw sensation of subdued terror crawling from his throat. Although Sam was not a child-hell, Sam had seemed to have matured significantly since Dean miraculously came back from the pit-Dean couldn't help but feel undeniably protective. Like a mother hen, Dean frantically patted Sam's chest, the back of his hair, hell, even his face, checking for any injuries.
"Do you feel anything?" Dean demanded. "I saw him. He touched you."
"No." Sam patted his own chest where the witch had touched him.
"What did he say to you?" Dean pulled his hands away.
The riddle flickered in Sam's mind, the last line searing like a stove burn. He couldn't tell Dean. What if Dean put the puzzle pieces together, what if he found out? Sam adverted his eyes. He felt his face flush. Dammit.
"He said, 'you will slink and slither, toil and wither, until you face your greatest fear.'" Sam said, swallowing thickly and pushed himself off the ground. Dean went with him.
"That's it?" Dean breathed.
"Yeah, that's it." Sam met his eyes, nodded.
"What the hell's that suppose to mean?" Dean scowled, glancing down at his gun, and clicking on the safety before shoving the weapon into his pants.
"I don't know." Sam plunked a couple of leaves from the back of his hair.
Dean looked up, eyes widening. "What if it was a curse? God, you know how those sons of bitches are."
They had taken this case near Portland, Oregon. Bobby had suggested it. A vacation, of sorts.
Earlier that day:
Bella Andrews woke to the sound of a bang. Or, at least, she thought it was a bang. The front door slamming shut. Or maybe the back door. Hard to tell. Her eyes snapped open, and she jerked up like a marionette doll. She was having a dream. 4th grade. Ashley O'Brien's birthday party. The one where all the girls were expected to wear pink sparkly dresses, but Bella never got the memo. She came in camo, fresh from the quail hunt that morning, blood still caked at the bottom of her boots, dead leaves decorating her coarse black curls.
She thought she could still taste the icing off that horribly decorated Barbie cake, but as her eyes darted across the small, dark bedroom, it was only the acidic taste of fresh fear that coated her tongue. Shadows danced. Dressers became giants. Chairs, watchful insects. A low scraping sound cut the silence. Her eyes shifted to the window. The moon shined a dull silver through billowy clouds. The tree's branches looked like the hooked claws of a witch's gnarled hand, scraping against the glass, desperate to get in. A shiver ran down Bella's back, but she pushed it away. If she was one thing, she was rational.
Her husband, Jonathan, was asleep beside her. His mouth was wide open and a pool of droll had settled on his pillow.
"Jonathan, wake up," she nudged his shoulder. He made a small sound of displeasure, his face contorting in momentary discomfort before becoming lax again.
"Jonathan," she snapped.
"What?" He slurred, not bothering to open his eyes.
"I think there's somebody downstairs."
"There's nobody downstairs, babe," he mumbled. "Go back to bed. Work in the morning."
He turned over. She stared at the back of his head.
"God, you're no help." She said, yanking back the covers. The cold sucked the warmth from the soles of her feet before she found her slippers, leaving her with the sharp blade of irritation, cutting away her fear.
"You know," she whispered harshly to Jonathan, "there could be an axe murderer downstairs and you would just lie there and let me die, wouldn't you? No, just as long as Jonathan gets his sweet, precious eight hours of sleep."
She jerked on sweatpants and a thick gray sweater, watching her life mate snore, wholly dead to the world.
She huffed, rolling her eyes, "That's just what I thought."
She headed down the flight of stairs, her heart in her throat. She strained her ears, listening to any odd noises. There was nothing but the gentle swoosh of the heater. When she reached the kitchen her cat, Milo, was sitting on the counter, her tail flicking lazily back and forth.
"What are you doing?" She cooed, scratching behind Milo's tall ears. The cat purred in appreciation. Just then, in the reflection of the refrigerator's dusky gray surface, she saw a shadow looming behind her. She let out a small gasp and spun around. There was nothing but a large houseplant sitting in the corner. Judging her.
"Jesus," she murmured underneath her breath. She had watched too many horror movies. Rolling her eyes, she turned back to Milo. But Milo was sitting on her haunches now, the back of her fur raised, an expression of pure feline terror had marked her features. Alarmed, Bella said, "What is it?"
She snapped her head around to come face to face with a hulking figure in a black ski mask holding a bloody knife. She raised her hands in horror, screaming.
The killer swiped the blade down, but Bella quickly jumped out of the way, falling and rolling onto the tile floor.
"God Dean," Sam said from the doorway of the motel's obnoxiously chrome bathroom, a toothbrush stuck in the corner of his mouth. "Why do you like that stuff? Aren't our lives already one big horror flick?"
Dean glanced up from the television as the woman raced up the stairs screaming bloody murder for her husband. Unknown to her that he was already dead, having been slashed to pieces by the killer. She slammed open the bedroom door and the camera panned to a grotesque close up of his mutilated body, dead eyes staring into nothing. She covered her mouth, her eyes bulging in their sockets.
"What? It's not that bad. Plus, look at her," he nodded towards the actress and whistled. Sam suppressed an eyeroll that would undoubtably cause Dean to call him a sissy.
Sam turned around, spitting a big glob of foam into the sink, and rinsing out his toothbrush. He slipped it back into his traveling case along with his travel sized bottle of mouth wash and toothpaste.
"Ready to hit the road?" Sam said, snapping the light off.
Dean begrudgingly turned the T.V. off and rose from the bed, wiping the perceived wrinkles from his black slacks. "Yeah, I guess."
"What's wrong?" Sam asked.
Dean pulled a face. "I mean, you said it yourself, Sammy. We should be trying to find and stop Lilith. To save some seals from breaking, not hitting up some case."
"This technically could be a seal." Sam said, pulling on his black overcoat and buttoning it.
Dean scoffed. "I doubt it." Dean grabbed his keys off the side table, clicked off the lamp, and walked to the front door, Sam close behind. Sam darted out a hand, turning off the main light, throwing the room into complete darkness.
"Not a pretty sight, is it?"
The brothers stared at the corpse's face.
Dean glanced up at the coroner. "I've seen worse."
"Really?" He looked incredulous. The coroner was a chubby man in his mid-forties, a bright red sucker stuck out from the corner of his mouth. How some people could casually eat candy while less than a foot away from a corpse was beyond Dean.
"But not often," Sam countered.
The man lying on the body tray was young, early twenties. His name was Daniel O'Brien. He had been a temp at a local insurance company. Two days ago, he had stood on his desk, shouted everything he hated about his job, and began to staple his mouth closed with a stapler. When a co-worker tried to stop him, the man jumped off his desk, ran to the nearest window, and took a sky dive off the fifth story.
Today they were Agent Peterson and William and although the coroner had seemed suspicious from the get-go, he hadn't said anything. He seemed to have bought what they were selling. Dean had let Sam lead this one from the start, as he always did when they were impersonating federal agents. With Sam's overgrown, disheveled hair and trusting face, people talked and, in the end, that's all he really needed from them: information.
"How many people have there been like this?" Sam asked.
"The fourth," he said, plucking the sucker from his mouth and licking his lips. "All seem to lose their minds at work and then, well, commit suicide. Never from the same company, though. And they all go out in different ways. One guy, construction worker, he shot himself in the head with a nail guy. One lady, she was a nail technician, drunk nail polish remover. The guy before this one was a chef, stabbed a meat cleaver right into his neck. Can you imagine the amount of willpower it would take to do that?"
"Were the victims connected in some way, do you know?" Sam asked.
The coroner's brow furrowed. "Not that I know of. But, hell, it's a small town. Everybody knows everybody, you know what I mean?"
Sam nodded.
"What do you think made them do it?" Dean asked.
"Honestly," he popped the sucker back out and waved it down to the corpse. "the economy."
Sam pulled a face. Dean scowled. The coroner laughed.
"I'm just joking, guys. Really, I don't know. Something in the water maybe? I'm surprised the feds are interested. You think it's a serial killer or something?"
How the man had jumped to the conclusion of serial killer was anyone's guess, but Dean plastered on a polite smile and said, "Or something."
The man popped the sucker back into his mouth. "Well, the dead might not mind waiting but they can only be kept for so long. You got any more questions?"
"No, but thank you for your time," Sam said.
He slid the corpse back into the refrigerator unit and closed the door shut.
The country coroner's office was located on the lower level of the city building, and the brothers headed for the elevator. A sign next to the elevator read: 'up one floor or down two? Take the stairs, your heart thanks you.' Sam gave him a look, Dean sighed, and they headed for the stairs.
As they started up, Sam said, "So, what are you thinking?"
"Well, I think all the vics have to be connected."
"Yeah, I agree."
"But why suicide? And why the, what, confessionals? How much they hated their job? It doesn't make sense."
"Maybe we're dealing with a vengeful-" Sam broke off as a jingling sound came from above them.
The brothers looked up to see a police officer coming towards them. He was red-headed and surprisingly juvenile in appearance. Sam thought he was probably a rookie. He carried a manilla envelope stuffed with documents. The jingling came from a ring of keys he wore on his belt. He nodded and the brothers nodded back. This was always the worst part of impersonating federal agents: the fear that a real law officer would sense that they weren't true members of the fraternity.
The officer continued down to the lower floor without a backwards glance and Sam let out a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding. "Like I was saying, I think it may be a vengeful spirit or demonic possession."
Dean nodded. "Yeah. Sounds like it. Let's go have lunch and we can do some research on the victims, see if there is a connection.
"By that, you mean I do research while you clean weapons and watch television?"
"Yeah, whatever. Same old, same old." Dean quipped. Sam suppressed a smile. Two short months ago, Sam would have never imagined he'd have Dean by his side again, saving people, hunting things. Dean had been doing the hellfire rumba for four long months and although Sam had gone down a dark road-a road he had yet had the courage to tell his brother about-he still had moments where he couldn't believe he was blessed enough to have Dean again. This time, Sam was never going to let him go."
They reached the main floor of the city building and although Mayfair, Oregon wasn't exactly a bustling metropolis, there were enough people going about their business for the brothers to postpone their conversation until they got outside. It was the first week of November, but so far the weather had been uncharacteristically mild. The drive to the diner was relatively quiet, Dean listening to Led Zeppelin and drumming his fingers on the steering wheel, Sam contemplating the case, scratching notes into his pocket notepad, kicking himself that he'd forgot to bring his laptop.
After lunch, which consisted of Dean shoveling in two bacon cheeseburgers, a basket of greasy waffle fries, and a large milkshake down his throat and Sam nibbling on a salad sprinkled with grilled chicken, they headed back to the motel as it started to sprinkle. By the time they got inside, both of their hair was soaked and their clothes damp. Sam got to research right away, not even bothering to take off his attire or dry his hair, his fingers itching for a keypad. Dean, who hated his "monkey suit," stripped right away. Sitting at the table with his laptop poised in front of him, Sam let his eyes wander over his screen to his brother. Dean's back was to him as he unbuttoned his jacket, gracefully shimming his shoulders and escaping the clothes' constricting confines. That's one thing Sam always knew about the suits: they were hindering during a hunt, even dangerously so, but damn had Dean always looked good in one. Dean tossed the suit jacket onto his bed and went for his button-down shirt. Soon, Dean had the shirt unbuttoned. He pulled the fabric away from his chest. Droplets of water dripped from Dean's wet hair, a trail snaking down his nape to his quickly exposed back. Dean's shoulder blades rippled as he discarded his shirt, quickly bending over to unbuckle his slacks.
Before, a rolling mountain of shame and disgust would bloom in Sam's stomach. In the early days, he'd even vomited, as if the thing inside him could be dispelled, exorcised, erased. This thing that he knew he could never have, this thing he knew he should have never wanted in the first place. Now, he only felt resignation. If this was how it was going to be, he could silently be the background to Dean's foreground, always watching, never instigating. Sam was a lot of things, but he wasn't willing to ruin the relationship he had with Dean because of his distorted, unnatural desire.
"Find any connection between the vics?" Dean said over his shoulder. Sam's heart kicked, the beating, heated waves of embarrassment surging against him. But Dean hadn't seemed to notice. He grabbed his duffle bag off the floor and threw it on the bed, unzipping the zipper and digging through the contents until he found jeans and a t-shirt.
"Yeah," Sam shifted in his chair. "There is."
Dean walked over, bracing one hand on the back of Sam's chair and the other on the table. On the computer screen was a headline dated five years ago: Man Run Over in Apparent Accident.
"It turns out our vics went to the same community college. They were friends. 'Last night at approximately 1:30 a.m. a man was struck and killed on the junction between Maple and 31st Street. The driver was twenty-year-old Daniel O'Brien. His passengers were nineteen-year-old Samantha Andrews, twenty-one-year-old Jose Garcia, and twenty-two-year-old Adam Wong. An unnamed minor was also in the vehicle. The victim has not been named at this time.'"
"Seems a little too 'I Know What You Did Last Summer,' don't you think?"
"Yeah."
"Think it's a vengeful spirit?"
"My money's on yeah." Sam highlighted the headline, opened a new browser, and pasted the phrase into Google. He scrolled down until he found a news article dated two days later. He clicked on the link and the picture of an elderly gentlemen popped up. He was at the lake, crouched down next to a little boy, his arm wrapped around the boy's scrawny shoulders. They were both smiling. They seemed happy.
"Says here the victim was eighty-one-year-old Dennis Carey."
"Burial or cremation?"
"Cremation."
"Shit. Of course." Dean huffed and jerked away. He went over to the bed and began throwing on his clothes.
"Unnamed minor. That means if it is a vengeful spirit, there's a good chance that he will be coming after them, too. Can you find out who the minor is?" Dean said, yanking on his jeans.
Sam furrowed his brow. "I can try, but unless we go find the records ourselves, I don't think I'll find it on the internet."
Dean sighed, flinging on his shirt. "I wish it were that easy sometimes, man."
"Yeah. What don't we check out Daniel's apartment? There might be something there."
"Like what?" Dean raised an eyebrow, sitting down and pulling on his socks.
"I don't know." Sam shrugged. "Maybe a clue to who the minor is and maybe a clue on if this is a spirit or not."
"You have doubts?"
"No, not exactly." Sam couldn't exactly pinpoint why, but something was telling him they might not be dealing with a spirit.
"Why don't we find Dennis' family instead? Find out if they have a stray lock of the man's hair in a Bible or something?" Dean dragged his duffle back onto the floor and shoved it under the bed with his foot.
Sam frowned. "Because Dennis didn't live here, Dean. It says he was traveling. He was from Florida."
Dean ran a hand through his damp, short hair. "It just keeps getting better and better, doesn't it? Well, let's wait until nighttime."
Sam couldn't disagree.
The apartment was in a more economically disadvantaged part of town. The brothers passed two run-down convenience stores on their way there, both looking like identical hubs for criminal activity. The apartment matched the surrounding cluster of homes: decrepit with chipped paint, cracked sidewalks, and a parking lot choked with dying vegetation. Sam couldn't imagine Daniel paying much for rent.
Having found Daniel's apartment number through a Craigslist listing, it took no time for the Winchesters to sneak across the parking lot and around the side of the building. The apartment was on the first floor and the window was blocked by several overgrown shrubs. It was relatively easy to slide Dean's pocketknife underneath the frame and pop the lock. Dean slipped in first, nearly falling on top of a recliner that he quickly shoved out of his way. Sam slipped in afterward. The silky white curtains blew inward like wayward ghosts, disrupted by the abrupt breeze. They clicked on their flashlights and the small, dark living room was enlightened by two beams of yellow.
The apartment was standard. Small and efficient. The walls were painted a dull yellow that reminded Sam of vomit. The place smelled like sweat and an underlying bitter odor, like decay. They cased the room, flipping open stacks of random books and peering under a thread barren, floral couch. Secondhand furniture. None of the décor appeared to match. The most expensive item in the room appeared to be a flat screen television. Game consol. Video games. Racy porno DVDs. Empty energy drink cans. Half-eaten bags of chips.
Sam jerked his head to the left and Dean followed his light to shine into a 70s style kitchen. They stepped into the small room, their flashlights glancing off lime green countertops covered with filth. Sam piffled through the cabinets while Dean searched the messy countertop.
"Sam, look at this," Dean said and the surprise in his voice caused Sam to turn around. He swung the flashlight to the object in Dean's hand.
"Is that a hex bag?" Sam said, surprised. He walked over to his brother and peered down at the object. Sure enough, it was a hex bag.
Dean smiled wryly, "I guess we're dealing with a witch. What do you think, maybe one of Dennis' family members out to get their revenge?"
"I don't know, Dean. Doesn't this seem a little bit too perfect?"
"What?" Dean tossed the bag into the air and caught it.
"Just finding this hex-bag behind the toaster? Most witches are a little more discreet."
"Yeah, well, don't knock a lucky horse in the mouth, Sammy."
"I think the phrase is 'don't look a gift horse in the mouth.'"
"Whatever." Dean said and sat the hex bag down on a stack of dirty dishes.
The lights flicked on. Sam's heart jumped in his throat. Dean reached for his gun.
"W-what are you doing in my apartment?!" Came a startled, deep voice.
They turned around and came face-to-face with Daniel. At least, the man looked just like Daniel. He was dressed in flannel pajama bottoms and a Green Bay Packers jersey. His hair was a disheveled mess on the top of his head. He smelled like liquor. Sam frowned.
"I'm calling the cops!" The man slurred. Dean, noticing there was no weapon in the man's hand, pulled his own hand off his gun and gave the man a placating gesture.
"Wait, wait, we're federal agents." Sam said quickly.
"Bullshit."
"Agent," Dean nodded towards Sam. "Show him."
"See." Sam said, pulling out his badge.
Daniel's doppelganger looked between Sam and Dean, clearly drunk off his ass. Dean pulled out his badge too. The man squinted at the badges before seeming to accept their authenticity.
"What do you want?" He grumbled, dragging a hand across his face.
"Okay, this is going to sound strange." Dean began.
"Stranger than breaking into my apartment?" The man quipped.
"Yeah. Stranger than that. We're here about Daniel's case." Dean said. At the mention of Daniel's name, the man's face twisted with undeniable grief.
"He was your brother." Sam said, more statement than question. He felt a pang in his chest. Sam suddenly felt guilty for knowing he got Dean back, but this man would not be afforded the same luxury.
"Yeah, he was my twin. I'm David. He is-was-Daniel." The man said, defensive in his grief.
"Okay," Dean continued. "So, there was an accident years ago. Your brother hit and killed a man. His friends were in the vehicle, too."
"So?"
"So, this case requires your full cooperation, David. There was a minor in the car. Who was it?" Dean asked.
David blinked. "What does that have to do with Daniel's suicide?"
"Please, Mr. O'Brien, your cooperation would be beneficial to our investigation. It is critical that we know the identity of the minor."
David leaned against the wall and ran a hand through his hair, pulling at the strands. "It's Ashley."
"Ashley?" Sam said.
"Yeah, Ashley Zusak. She and Daniel dated for a while." He nodded toward the refrigerator. "That's her picture on the fridge."
Sam and Dean glanced at the picture. It was of a blond woman in her early twenties, grinning into the camera.
"Does she still live in town?" Dean asked.
David looked his way, "Yeah, as a matter of fact she does."
"What's her address?" Sam asked.
David eyed them suspiciously but relented. "263 West Bash Avenue."
"Thank you," Sam said politely.
"Now can you guys, like, leave?"
Ashley lived in a much economically richer part of town. The house's spoke of shallow elegance, all almost identical to one another, the only unique factors being the model of cars parked in the driveways. They decided to park a few blocks away and although they had to walk through a park to get to Ashley's house, it was better than having her neighbors easily identifying their vehicle if she called the cops.
It happened like this: Sam and Dean were walking across the way, Dean stopped to tie his shoes. When he glanced back up, Sam was staring at something in front of him, something that quickly transformed into a man. Dean drew his gun and shouted, racing towards them. He saw the man touch Sam, he saw his mouth move, and he saw a hot and shameful expression cross Sam's face. But the man vanished before the bullet hit its target.
"Curse?" Sam said, still touching his chest. His heart was thumping quicker than a rabbit.
Now, Dean patted the wide expanse of Sam's chest. "Yeah, that's what I said. He could've cursed you."
Sam licked his lips, the man's almost sensual rhyme throbbing through his mind.
'You will slink and slither, toil and wither, until you face your greatest fear. The thing you want is what you hold most near.'
"If you feel anything weird, anything at all, you tell me, okay?" Dean said, glancing around, his senses still on high alert for another attack. "Let's go."
"But what about Ashley?" Sam said, shaking out the numbness in his limbs. He thought he could taste cinnamon at the back of his throat, the residue effect of magic.
"Screw it. The thing is after us now and I think it's a witch but, hell, witches can't just vanish into thin air, Sammy. And if the thing did something to you, we need to figure out exactly what it did."
Before Sam could protest, Dean grabbed his arm and practically dragged him to the Impala. It was dark, but Sam felt content with Dean leading the way. Dean never let go once, even when they crossed the street, and the owner of a Mercedes gave them a strange look. Dean's protective demeanor reminded him of when he was a kid. Dean holding his hand on his first day of pre-k. Dean patching up his busted knee when he fell in soccer. Dean picking shards of display glass from his shoulder when, at the age of sixteen, he'd gotten into a fight at school.
It was only when they were at the Impala that Dean let him go.
The ride back to the motel was full of speculations. Sam could have sworn he'd seen the man before. Dean said he didn't think he was a witch, but maybe he was a spirit. Then again, spirits usually didn't seem to possess a solid form. Sam scribbled the strange rhyme onto his notepad. By the time they got back it was nearly four in the morning. With all the protections placed on the motel, they knew at least the thing couldn't come into the room. Exhausted beyond measure, Dean tried to keep his eyes open as he closed the motel door behind him. The heavy wings of fatigue berated Sam's mind, threatening to pull him into the sweet oblivion of sleep.
"How are you feeling?" Dean asked as he stripped off his t-shirt.
"Normal." Sam admitted, trying not to stare at Dean's naked flesh. "I think we should get to sleep."
"You tired?" Dean said quickly, subdued anxiety straining his vocal cords. "Like, unnaturally tired?"
"No, Dean," Sam shook his head. "Just regular tired."
Dean's shoulders deflated and he took off his pants. "Okay, but you wake me up if you feel anything weird. We aren't out of the woods yet. Set your clock. Just a few hours. I can't think straight like this."
"Okay." Sam nodded. He stripped out of his own clothing and watched as Dean shimmied underneath the covers.
Dean glanced over at him, worry etched on his face. "Are you sure?"
"Yeah, I'm sure." Sam said and turned off their shared lamp, bathing the room in black.
"Night, Sam."
"Night, Dean." He said, although Dean was already fast asleep.
"Dean!" Sam's panicked shout of terror, a tone Dean couldn't remember hearing since Sam was just a little kid, ripped Dean out of sleep.
Dean's hand shot out, fumbled for the lamp switch. His head snapped towards Sam.
What he saw made his jaw drop.