Author Note: This chapter came to fruition kicking and screaming and clawing and biting. But it came together because of an assist from Nova42, whose stroke of genius and brilliant characterizations you should be able to see in some of these words, as she helped connect some conversational dots that were being stubborn bitches. At the risk of detouring into a chick flick moment, I have to point out that not only would this chapter not exist without her, but this story wouldn't exist without her.


Maelstrom


Chapter Six

Bobby's lip curls as he attempts vainly to swallow the thick, hard lump on his tongue that's trying to pass itself off as food. He's not a picky eater, not by any stretch; life had never thought to allow him that luxury. But the al king chicken MRE? He wouldn't feed that to his worst enemy. Well, maybe his worst enemy. Meals Ready to Eat, my ass. There isn't one part of that label that isn't a fallacy. He bites back a sigh, setting the rest of his "food" aside in favor of giving what he's already managed to eat a chance to settle a bit before continuing this masochistic attack on his taste buds.

Sam is similarly struggling through his dinner, wincing as he chews mechanically, as though the very thought of it pains him. But Dean, hell, he's shoveling the crap into his mouth at a speed at which taste becomes irrelevant. Kid eats now like he's still making up for all of those long ago nights he gave away his dinner to his baby brother when they were left to fend for themselves.

Bobby had met back up with Sam and Dean just outside of a small, squarish former guest room looking little more than one stiff sneeze from collapsing in on itself. With the light all but gone for the day and the temperature dropping aggressively, neither put up any kind of protest when he'd suggested heading back to the lobby, to base camp, to grab some grub and maybe a drink, and thaw out a bit around the camp heater that's likely to give out before they next see the sun.

There's a tension hanging between the two of them, as thick as the snow that's resumed falling beyond these walls, and Bobby can taste it, bitter and cold, coating his throat and setting a heavy stone of dread in his stomach. Something had happened after Dean sent him out of that hallway before. Something was said, revealed, brought to light. Because of the curse or whatever the hell have you. Something big and hurtful, like a length of rusted barb wire shredding these boys to bits from the inside out.

His boys.

Sons-but-not he'd inherited from what he for a damn long time believed to be the most obstinate and stubborn jackass he'd ever had the displeasure—or alternately a mild pleasure, depending on the day and mood—of meeting. It wasn't until he got to know his boys, really got to know them, that he'd started to think, maybe John wasn't the stubbornest person he'd ever met. Or, at the very least, these two certainly have days when they would give their daddy a run for his money.

He has an obligation to Sam and Dean, and to John, to take care of them. Screwed that pooch but good, didn't he? Dean with one foot in the flames and all.

His eyes drift up to the two boys – two men – sitting in what has to be the loudest kind of quiet he's ever bared witness to, aware now of all manner of things, of thoughts and feelings within each other that not Bobby nor anyone has ever been made privy to. Some of which he's not sure he'd want to be.

The cold has gotten such that it's not as noticeable now, a not entirely unpleasant numbness settled in his extremities, but there's sure to be a stark reminder the very moment any of them steps away from what blissful patch of warmth the heater is providing. So they mutely linger, in no hurry to leap back into the fray. And to wash dinner down, to warm his belly and brace himself for the inevitability of the reemerging cold, Bobby takes a few swigs from his hipflask. For Dean, it's a couple of beers from the cooler, and reaching quickly for a third.

Sam, content for the moment with a bottle of water, gives a slight, almost reflexively disapproving shake of the head. As subtle a motion as the kid is capable of, but it brings his older brother drawing his hand back to knead his temple.

Dean catches Bobby eyeing him and drops his hands, shoving away his empty dinner packaging. "God, I feel like we've been here a week," he complains. He drops his chin to his shoulder and sniffs. "Smell like it, too."

The show he's putting on is not his best, but certainly not his worst, either. He's bobbing and weaving, riding the tide and nothing more. Bobby doesn't need Sam's derisive snort to know Dean's full of shit, but he gets it anyway. They both do.

Dean recoils at the sound of it, face hardening as he reaches once more for that third beer. Sam looks like he's got something to say about it, and it might break Bobby's own heart but he's about the last person to tell that boy not to have a drink or two to dull his pain. Whatever that pain may be.

Bobby narrows his eyes, draws in a mouthful of warm whiskey to match the pull Dean takes from his can. "How you doin', kid, really?"

Dean almost chokes on his drink, blinking wide eyes rimmed with dark circles of exhaustion. Because being knocked unconscious just ain't the same as sleeping. "What? Bobby, I'm fine."

Sam, equally wiped from the previous night's vigil, holds his tongue but makes another disgruntled sort of noise, and Bobby can't help but agree. "You don't look fine."

"Yeah." Dean's eyebrows bounce as he stares down at the beer in his hands. "Well, there's no accounting for taste."

Bobby might not be in any position to say much, but that doesn't mean he likes the way Dean's lookin' at that drink.

He's just like his daddy. Just like his damn daddy. Making all the same choices, the same sacrifices, and punishing himself in all the same ways without even realizing that's what he's doing. John giving his life and soul to save Dean was the last act of a desperate man hell-bent on righting any of a dozen wrongs.

Dean did it because he didn't know any other way. Saw no other option for himself.

"Have you got that low an opinion of yourself? Are you that screwed in the head?"

Harsh, but heartfelt words. True words, and even truer now. Screwed in the head is exactly what Dean is now, what they both are. The last thing Bobby wants to do is patronize these boys, or even give them that impression, but something's put a hell of a whammy on them and it's up to him, with the most experience and the only clear head in the bunch, to suss this all out and put things right.

He once more moves to unscrew the cap of his flask. "Think you two idjits can humor an old man to sit here a little while longer, before draggin' my ass back into the cold?"

"Sure thing, Bobby," Sam says.

Dean nods. "Whatever you need, man."

So at least they're on the same page for the moment. Bobby hopes he can keep them there. He takes a moment to swallow another pull of whiskey, watches as Dean winces and fidgets and Sam responds by scratching absently at the back of his head.

Bobby takes his time replacing the cap. "You okay there, Sam?"

"What?" Sam catches himself in the motion and frowns, drawing his hand away from the spot deep in his hair that isn't bugging him so much as it is his brother. "Yeah, I'm fine."

A strange look crosses Dean's face as he raises his beer to his lips, pained and pensive. Thinking, that one. Always thinking.

Bobby's eyes bounce back and forth, trying to soak up every snippet of evidence he can gather. They're surprised by this, so it's unlikely either of the boys had a hand in bringing it about, regardless of Dean's earlier instincts and accusations. Maybe amusing at first, but this had stopped being funny right around the time it became obviously the mental mashup is driving stakes of agony through their thick skulls. "So when exactly – and I mean exactly – did you geniuses notice something was up?"

"I don't know," Sam starts hesitantly, picking at the hem of his frayed jeans. "'Round the time we got here, I guess."

Bobby turns his eyes to Dean, who wiggles on his frozen ass like a caught little boy. "Dean?"

"Maybe a little bit before that," he concedes.

Sam shakes his head and exhales roughly. Frustrated, annoyed, verging on angry, even. Seeing this as just another problem his brother was trying to keep from him.

Dean frowns, feeling Sam's emotions as they parade through his head like a line of stomping elephants. "Wh – not long before that."

Bobby takes it all in, feeling no closer to an answer. Could still be any of a dozen things. A hex bag they haven't yet dug up, a spell that hasn't yet rung any bells. Something they drank, ate, or touched without thinking first. Before they met up with him or, hell, before he even called. Being snowed in certainly isn't helping much, and Bobby thinks a moment, prioritizing, shifting things in the line in his head. "S'it gettin' any worse?"

Dean raises his eyebrows and plasters on an unconvincing smile that has Sam turning to glare at him. "Define worse."

I'll take that as a yes. On a whim, Bobby risks aggravating his stiffest joints and shifts in his seated position, reaches over to pinch Sam sharply on the back of his hand.

Sam jerks away. "Ow! Bobby, wha – "

"Son of a bitch!" As expected, Dean sets about rubbing the back of his own hand. "What the hell was that?"

"Testin' a theory," Bobby says thoughtfully, not sure how to process the results of this experiment beyond the thought that, yeah, that's progressing quite nicely into a state of worse.

"Well, that's just…awesome." Dean throws a glance at his brother, at the reddened welt on the back of his hand and the lack of a mark of any kind on his own. "You got any other genius theories yet?"

Bobby lets this tone of Dean's slide in ways Sam has never been awarded, and he can see that it's ruffling some feathers that were already pretty well ruffled. "Nothin' solid enough to go gettin' you hotheads worked up over. Not yet."

The hiss and crackle of the small camp heater fills the otherwise thick silence that has pulled up a squat alongside them.

Sam glances down at his watch and a look crosses his face. It's one that is unique to Sam, that Bobby has seen before. A sour lemon look that usually precedes the kid saying something he's said already and was shot down for, but there's just no stopping Sam Winchester, not when something has wiggled its way good and cozy into his mind.

"So, Dean, you've got a couple more hours." Sam says with a casualness that even Bobby can tell is anything but.

Dean tips his wrist reflexively and glances down at his watch. "Til what?"

Bobby takes that in and files it away. Emotions, feelings, and a bit of pain transference, but not specific thoughts. Or, not yet, anyway.

Sam sighs, head tipped back. The hot puff of breath dissipates into the cold. "Seriously, Dean?"

Bobby shifts his gaze between the two. "Til what?" he parrots.

A sudden realization lights up Dean's face before his expression darkens and then altogether slams shut. "Nothing," he all but growls, quickly and forcefully, a meaningful glare shot his brother's direction.

Jaw set, Sam deliberately and with gusto ignores the look. "His birthday."

"Sam—"

Bobby sits back, astounded, and scratches his fingers against his bearded chin. "Well, damn, Dean. I all but forgot."

"And I'm okay with that. Really." Dean forces a smile that looks more like a grimace.

Sam rolls his eyes, in a way letting Bobby know Dean's smile was just as fake as he'd thought. "I know we already talked about this, and I'm not asking to pull out the party hats or anything. I'm just saying—"

"Well, don't. Seriously." Dean's gaze slides from Sam to Bobby almost pleadingly. "It's not a big deal."

Sam sucks his bottom lip in between his teeth, something more weighing on his mind, something that's yet gone unsaid. Under normal circumstances the subject would most likely be dropped, neither of them really willing to push the issue further, unwilling to cede any ground to the other. Dean hears what he wants to and Sam says what he wants to, but there's just no being selective now.

Bobby watches as a series of emotions flies across Sam's face at a speed and range he's not entirely sure a person should be capable of. "It is a big deal, Dean," Sam says finally, in a tone so loaded Bobby can't even begin to interpret the sentiment anchoring the statement.

Movement to Sam's left pulls Bobby's attention from younger Winchester to older as Dean's face scrunches up in nothing that can be described as anything less than pain, as he lets his head drop into his hands almost like holding it up is more than he can handle at the moment.

A soft groan, one Bobby's sure Dean didn't mean to give voice to, rolls past the kid's lips. "Jesus, Sam. Would ya pick a frickin' lane already?" Dean presses his palm against his forehead. "I'm getting emotional whiplash over here."

Sam's head jerks, second-hand tension drawing and marring a face that still resembles the boy he was. He's learned to set himself aside in ways he hadn't yet exhibited as the adolescent that stomped out of the door all those years ago, and he swallows, ducking his chin and looking guilty on top of the mad. "Sorry."

Dean releases a pained snort.

Bobby raises an eyebrow as it's driven home just how much is hidden beneath the surface of the masks these boys parade around in.

Sam all but throws his hands into the air. "What? Sorry!"

Dean shakes his head, barely suppressing another wince. "Nothin.' S'just kinda funny, hearing you say it when I know you don't mean it." He squints up at his brother through watery eyes. "You, uh, you do that a lot?"

Sam seethes silently for only a moment before retorting, "Well, Dean, you'd be the expert."

"What are you talking about?" Dean pauses, narrowing his eyes at Sam then drawing his head back. A familiar, cocky smirk twists his lips. "You think I do that? I mean what I say, little brother."

Sam doesn't back down. "But not what you feel."

Dean rolls his eyes, looking away. His gaze lands on Bobby and he drops it immediately to some chipped spot in the concrete between their feet. "Oh, God. Come on, Sam." He shakes his head, raising his chin to glare at his brother. "What do you want from me? A hug? Some friggin' hand holding? Maybe we can sit down and watch some sappy Lifetime movies together while I weep on your shoulder and talk about my feelings."

Sam curls his fingers into tight fists, presses them against his folded legs. He looks like a rocket preparing to take off. For a moment, Bobby toys with the idea of intervening, reminds himself just in time that as much as he might wish it is, it just isn't his place. These aren't boys, they're men.

"Jesus Christ, Dean." Sam shakes his head, face spilling over with disgust. "How about just some truth once in a while? Something real."

Dean gestures sharply between them. "What, this not real enough for you?"

Sam's cheeks puff, and he blows out another long, heated breath. "You know what I mean. God, Dean why can't you just . . ." Sam waves a hand above his head, searching for the right words like he could pluck them right from the air. "Just be honest with me?"

Dean levels Sam with a glare. "You know, Sam, I. Just. Don't. Know."

The response seems a bit odd to Bobby until he sees the way Sam's face morphs from annoyed to shocked, before slamming right passed angry into livid.

Dean's wrangled free from his brother the exact response he was hoping to.

But Bobby has to wonder, at what cost?


It's getting stronger. The spell, the curse, the…whatever the hell.

Dean realizes he's grinding his teeth for no discernible reason and forces himself to relax, unlocking his jaw with a painful and audible click. His hands are flexing at his sides, tightening into fists, fingernails digging into his palms. He shakes his head roughly, trying to dislodge the anger – Sam's anger – but he can't. He'd become aware of it, acknowledged it and labeled it. Fuck, he'd created it, and it's stuck his head now, much like a wad of gum on the bottom of his shoe that he can't scrape off.

Fantastic.

And, as Bobby's little experimenting back in the lobby has shown, it's not just the mental cues of each other's emotions anymore, but physical manifestations to match. Physical sensations. Pain. And that's just…wonderful. Just fan-friggin-tastic. There's not only anger but confusion in his head, too, loads of it, but it's not Sam's confusion that's putting Dean on edge. He can't explain any of it and the beers he'd drained earlier haven't done jack shit for dulling his senses, including this brand new and not-so-fun one.

Under the pretense of investigating a suspicious skittering that turns out to be a post-apocalyptic-sized cockroach, Dean allows his brother to walk a few paces ahead and stops in the middle of the hallway. He forces himself to takes a few slow, steadying breaths that fog in front of his face, caught in the maw of the prevailing cold leaching inside the hotel. He forces himself to compartmentalize, to sift through the deluge and pick out what's him and what's Sam. It's a task that proves nearly impossible, and sends a lightning bolt through his much-abused head that rips a groan from between his lips.

Dean sucks in a freezing breath. Oh, this is gonna get so bad.

He shouldn't have let Bobby split up from them. Again. The older hunter had cautiously begged off again nearly half an hour ago, saying the hotel was huge and they were losing light quicker than they were covering ground, and besides that, if he had to listen to the two of them bicker and pick at each other another damn minute he really was going to knock their fool heads together. His words. Of course, any hope of natural guiding light left them hours ago, so Bobby's excuse to move on had been flimsy at best. Old man probably – hopefully – just wanted to organize his thoughts in an environment that wasn't teeming with barely-restrained tension. Lucky bastard.

Dean should have put up a fight, should have shut the hell up except to insist they stick together. Bobby would have listened. But instead, he'd scoffed and shrugged and told Bobby to do what he thought was best. He knows now, that was Sam talking. Sammy's anger and temper, infecting his own mind and leaking out through his words. And now they're alone, with no buffer between them, Sam tipping the scales into new and treacherous territory, and this is gonna get so bad.

Oh, they're just battin' a thousand on this hunt. Dad would be rolling in his grave, if they'd given him one.

Ahead of him in the corridor – another dank, dark, narrow hallway that no longer smells funky to Dean and looks exactly the same as the last ten hallways – Sam stops and turns back to face him, and Dean holds his breath, feeling Sam's heartbeat racing on top of his own. The kid's felt like a dangerous concoction of confused, angry turmoil ever since dinner, and Dean silently wills his brother to calm down, especially with the fact this may all be Dean's doing, and not to mention that shotgun he's still got in hand.

Because Bobby'd been totally fine with leaving them alone with each other, sniping and bickering and armed. And why wouldn't he?

Gun's filled with rock salt. It's not gonna kill me.

Not exactly gonna tickle, either.

Dean shakes his head. Yeah, we're battin' a fucking THOUSAND.

Sam chuffs out a humorless laugh and jiggles the gun against his leg before dropping it with an alarmingly loud clatter to the floor.

The assault of outside stimuli should be a welcome change from the raging turbulence inside Dean's head, but it's somehow all the more startling and out of the blue. He takes an unconscious step away from his brother and curses himself for it, because he can feel how the motion has only served to exacerbate Sam's blossoming frustration.

"I'm not gonna shoot you, Dean." Sam squeezes his eyes shut, pressing the heel of his light-hand into his forehead, sending the beam pointed skyward and dropping half of the hallway into complete darkness.

Dean raises his own flashlight slowly, studying his brother. Sammy's complexion is difficult to discern fully, but seems pale, his face creased with frustration and exhaustion. With the very pain that is currently radiating through his own skull, and Dean's the one who'd kissed concrete less than twenty-four hours ago. But he's always been able to handle these kinds of things better than Sam, has a special compartment where pain goes, and it's covered by a locked, airtight seal. Sammy always begs to know and strives to be heard; he's too open and vulnerable, and the agonized look on his face is akin to those that tended to precede one of Yellow Eyes' visions. Those always took a hell of a toll on the guy, knocked him on his ass more than once. It's no wonder he seems to be succumbing to the ill-effects of this curse a hell of a lot faster and easier than Dean is. The pain he feels isn't dissimilar from his OWN vision he had of Cold Oak, like something crammed in that doesn't belong or quite fit.

"Never said you were," Dean says uneasily, forcing a grin. He glances down at his own shotgun clutched in a white-knuckled grip, and bends to prop it against the wall, hissing as that damned cracked rib reminds him that bending isn't a currently appreciated motion. Whatever's about to happen, and God if it doesn't feel like something is, there's no way it ends well with the guns in play, rock salt or not.

"You did," Sam grits, tapping his forehead. "In here. I felt it." He grunts and falls to the side, drops his Maglight out of play next to the pump-action and puts a hip hard against the wall.

Dean can no longer keep his distance while Sam suffers right the hell in front of him, because of him, and he steps forward, a helping hand outstretched to his brother and whatever physical issues of his own there may be pushed aside for the moment.

He's got the love and concern of a big brother and the instincts of a lifelong hunter. The love has him reaching out, and the instinct brings him ducking just in time to avoid the tree trunk of a forearm suddenly swiping the air where his face had just been.

As Sam's fist rebounds off of dusty drywall, it would appear that he has finally taken that last giant step off of the deep end. He groans and pushes both hands into either side of his aching head. "Get out of my head, Dean," he pleads, voice cracking from the strain.

Oh, Sammy. Would if I could. Dean presses himself flat against the wall and raises his own empty hands so his brother knows he isn't going to be making any sort of move here. He's got the skinny on the inside track, knows everything Sam is feeling, and that should help him to anticipate what the big galoot's going to do next.

Then again, Dean doesn't have much of a history of things going the way they should. And he doesn't think there's any way he could have guessed Sam would start swinging. Even as he's feeling it, he just doesn't have it in him to believe it.

But suddenly Sam's arms are darting forward and he's got him by both shoulders, and Dean feels his entire body tense but keeps still. He brings his hands up only far enough to exhibit complete capitulation. Sam is scared and confused and angry – always so angry – and he can call the shots here if he wants; he's more than earned it.

"Maybe if…gah." But Sam doesn't seem to know what it is he wants, and he shakes his head roughly.

Dean does all he can to let any and all emotion leak out of his body, because Lord knows how badly he screws the pooch dealing with them on his own, and he very well may be killing his brother here. He swallows roughly, wincing as Sam's bony-ass fingers dig into the meat of his upper arms. He's not really encouraged by the persistent wash of confusion clouding his own mental processes. A confused Sam is a mighty dangerous one, because they share the same hunter's instinct to strike fast and fierce when cornered, and Dean's gotta get him talking again. Gotta get him focused. Gotta bring him back. "Maybe if what, Sam?"

"Maybe if we can get far enough part…maybe we won't…feel it anymore." Every word is a struggle, and that struggle is playing out in both of their heads.

Dean winces. "We tried that, Sammy. Remember?"

Sam's head snaps up sharply, and Dean recoils, the back of his already-wounded head smacking the wall. Fireworks go off behind his eyes like the fucking Fourth of July, and Sam ducks his own head as he feels the pain for himself. Doesn't seem to be enough to clear anything else out of that melon, though.

"Remember, Sammy?" Dean tries again. He swallows hard, fighting the urge to vomit from the sharp waves of pain rolling through his skull, from the sight of the ashen tint of Sam's face, a shade he knows must only be rivaled by that of his own.

"Maybe it just wasn't far enough."

Head still pounding, still raging, Dean nods, nice and slow. No sudden movements, not when Sam's clearly jumped the turnstile and hopped aboard the crazy train.

"But maybe…" Sam jerks suddenly away like Dean's a hot stovetop burner, leaves indents in his shoulders, from the feel of it.

"Maybe what, Sam?" Dean encourages. He doesn't necessarily need the benefit of words to capture the gist of what's running through Sam's head, but he plays it cool. Plays it normal. Plays Sam just like he would any other time. Keep him talking. Bring him back.

"Maybe physical distance…maybe that's not gonna be enough?"

"You tellin' me or askin' me?" Dean inquires, lip tugging upward into a grin even while the pit in his stomach grows bigger and blacker.

Sam pulls farther away, takes a big step back and folds shaking hands once more over his temples. "Stop, Dean," he pleads. "Just…stop being so loud!"

Sam's cry is desperate and anguished, reverberating through Dean's battered skull with enough force to fuzz his vision around the edges. Little brother's not taking this well, in painfully obvious fashion, and so it's concern that floods now through Dean, well before any thought of self-preservation.

And when Sam's fist comes rocketing at his face, it's clear that maybe Dean shouldn't have been so hasty to back-burner a little self-preservation. Because as much as he hates to admit it, Sam's got three inches and thirty pounds on him, and all of them are muscle. Dean's quick but if Sam starts looking to put him down, there's no question he can make it happen.

Knuckles skim Dean's jaw, knocking his teeth together and throwing him back into a rotted wall that's having enough trouble keeping the building upright, and doesn't seem too keen on putting up with the additional burden of his falling weight at the moment. The edge of his shoulder blade takes a chunk out of the rotted plaster when he hits it, and for a moment he's stuck there in the wall, a sitting target for an enraged little brother who's looking to do little more than make him stop being so loud, and by any means necessary.

"Sammy, hey, man, Sam," Dean releases in a single breath, kicking against the floor for the leverage to get himself out of the hole he'd created in the wall. He thinks about calling for Bobby, about working his cell phone free and calling Bobby, but there's no telling how Sam will react to an additional player at this point. Maybe it's best to just keep Sam talking. "We'll figure this out, brother, okay? There's no need to – "

He gets himself free just in time to watch his brother send an elbow through the wall, an elbow that had clearly been intended for Dean's head.

There is no longer any way to think clearly here. Dean's own head is spiraling, a spin cycle in which raw fury and anxiety are mixing with fear and alarm. It's hard to know for sure what's his and what's Sammy's, so he does what he does best, and pushes right the hell past what he's feeling to focus on what he knows. Which is, they are monumentally fucked, Sam isn'tthinking straight, and he needs to bring his brother back to him.

Sam's distracted by the same mash of emotions Dean is struggling to get under control, grinding knuckles into his own temple with bruising force. If only a little bit of the logic would transfer along with the alarm. "I can't…Dean, I can't…"

Dean reaches out a tentative hand to his brother, gripping Sam by the sleeve at his upper arm. No threat behind the motion, only comfort.

It's not just that Sam seems to misinterpret the motion, so much as he doesn't seem to interpret the motion at all. As Dean's fingers close around the coarse fabric of his jacket sleeve, Sam's arm comes around and he belts his brother square in the temple.

Dean's spun on his heels and he sees the floor coming up, but he doesn't feel it when they meet.


To be continued...