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They'd found hair tangled in the branches the next morning.
They'd been poking round the back of one of the houses they'd investigated the day before, standing at the edge of a forest. Dean had gone a little way into the trees; Sam had had a rough time climbing the fence, and was leaning against it with a face the colour of milk.
Sam hadn't mentioned what had happened the previous night, and Dean hadn't said anything. He'd had a couple more memory-jolt things; a skinny guy called Garth, distant impressions of a woman who could only be their mother. His memories seemed to be coming together, but huge peices of the puzzle were missing.
'Maybe your memories'll come back on their own,' Sam had said, tiredly, when Dean put it to him. 'Maybe not. But, look, there's a monster in this town, and it's hurting people. We need to finish this job, Dean. This isn't just about us.'
So of course that made Dean feel like a selfish dick for no reason whatsoever.
He'd found the hair caught in a patch of briars a little way into the woods. It was coarse stuff, reddish-tinted, animal. There was a certain scent to it, a certain feel- Dean knew. He'd checked in with Sam, asked his opinion on the hair, because the guy was clearly having some kind of crisis about feeling useless or whatever. And why the hell not?- after all, he was pretty useless right now.
But Sam just frowned and looked at him and said, 'Dean, I have no fucking clue and I'm a little concerned as to how you do.'
Dean didn't think that was funny, but whatever.
Still, it had been a solid lead. Sam has insisted on taking stakeout duty for the afternoon, watching the house they'd found the hair outside. And that means that Dean gets to stay behind in the motel, watching porn on Pay-Per-View and doing nothing on the side except a little research.
It feels good, actually. Sam has been exhausting him; the way the guy moved, folded into himself, did not demand attention, but it drew Dean's anyway. When he's with him he can not stop watching Sam, can't stop remembering (oh God the night before and Sam shuddering beneath him), can't stop wanting to plunge his fingers into Sam's hair and yank his head back and bite the shivering column of his throat.
By comparison, porn, pie and magic fingers is uncomplicated. Perhaps it's this that makes it two whole hours before it occurs to Dean to research them.
Because, hell, Sam isn't being exactly forthcoming, is he? Twenty-four hours, he'd said, and still Dean knows fuck-all about their lives. Sure, they hunt monsters, sure, they're obviously criminals, but Dean gets the sense there's more to it than that. He hasn't wanted to push Sam into anything- kid isn't exactly stable, obviously- but this way he can find out about them and Sam never even has to know. He doesn't have to say anything, after all. It's just a matter of... satisfying curiosity.
He Googles sam and dean winchester.
He reads through the top results.
Then he Googles winchester brothers. Reads through.
Googles sam winchester. Googles dean winchester.
Reads.
SPN SPN SPN
The Sam in the video is not the one Dean knows.
This Sam's hair is a little shorter. His clothes fit better. He's clean-shaven. But there's something mean about his face, his eyes; a cruel set to his mouth.
He helps Dean open-fire on a diner full of people. Then they make a chatty video about it on the phone they took from a kid they murdered.
The video, part of a news article on the Winchester killing spree, is only a year old. Sam's physical deterioriation must have been rapid.
Sam looks into the camera and says, 'I want the whole world to know what Sam and Dean Winchester are capable of.'
Dean shuts the computer screen. He's a murderer. He's shaking. Sam lied to him. Sam has gentle eyes and coughs blood, but Sam lied to him and Sam is evil; pure and inhuman.
It seems obvious in retrospect.
He gets up and paces the room once, then sits back down again. Then gets up and goes to sit on the bed.
Their death toll was in the hundreds, oh Jesus.
And if his memories come back? What happens then? He goes psycho again, screws his brother every night (because after that video there is no doubt to him that they're fucking, that's just another thing Sam lied to him about), and they go off into the sunset in that fucking muscle car? Everything in him recoils from it.
What does this mean? Is there something inside him that makes him a killer? Something in both of them that can't be resisted- something that's twisted them into people who protect each other with a ferocity that borders on the holy, yet destroys everything in its path?
Is Dean evil right now? If something happened to make him- like that- then perhaps as long as he doesn't remember it, he's safe. He's good. But what could make a person turn so spectacularly awful, unless the evil was already inside them?
The phone rings, and he picks it up like an automaton.
'Dean? Hello?'
Sam. His chest hurts.
'Hello,' he says. 'I mean. Hey. Sam.'
He can almost hear the frown. 'You okay?'
'Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine. Has anything happened?'
Sam coughs once, then says, 'Nothing. It's quiet- too qui-' He breaks off into another bout of coughing.
It repulses Dean to think about treating this creature with tenderness, but he doesn't want Sam to guess that he knows, so he asks. 'Are you alright, man?'
Nasty hacking. Then, 'Yeah,' his voice grates out. 'Fine.'
They sit in silence for a minute. Dean can hear the whirring of the room's fan.
'Look, ah, Dean,' says Sam awkwardly. 'I just- I wanted to apologise.'
Oh, God, no. 'About what, Sam?'
'It's just-' Sam clears his throat. 'I know I've been, you know, keeping you in the dark a bit over the past few days. And I know you... probably feel kinda messed up about that.'
Sweetheart, you have no idea. 'I guess?'
'I swear, Dean, you'll understand when you get your memories back, I swear. I've- I've done some stuff, is all. I mean, so have you, but I- I started- Just some bad stuff. Over the last few years. And- and people have been- been hurt. Y'know?'
Yeah, Dean knows.
'And- it wasn't- I was manipulated, I know that, and I never meant to cause anything and, Dean, neither did you, okay? I just want you to remember that when- when this is over.'
'Sam,' says Dean. He can't quite be gentle, but he can't make himself be harsh either. 'What's this about?'
A bitter laugh. 'Sorry. I, uh- I guess I just- you listen to me. This version of you listens to me. And I know it's because I'm kind of all you know, apart from, like, instinct and flashbacks and everything. But I need to say this and have you believe me.'
'Why are you talking like you're going to die?' asks Dean quietly.
There's a sound somewhere between a sob and a strangled laugh, and Sam says, 'It's kind of a really long story.'
'You're not, right?'
'W-what?'
'Going to die?'
Sam exhales. The hesitation- it frightens Dean, despite everything. His chest tightens. 'Dean, I- I'm sick, man.'
'Yeah, Sam. I know.'
'D-do you even want your memories back, Dean? Because lemme tell you- if you knew what was in them-'
Sam breaks off, and Dean had gone hot and cold all over in the instant where he thought Sam was about to say we're monsters, we're mass-murderers, and he can't help but push. 'What's in them, Sam?'
'Pain,' Sam says. 'Blood, and- and screaming, and grief and loneliness and things more awful than you can even imagine. And me, too. Lots of me. And I can't help wondering- do you have the slightest idea what you're taking on by getting them back?'
And although Dean's heart is trying to claw its way from his chest, he grips the edge of the desk and says, 'It's okay, Sam, it's okay. I'm not gonna give up, you hear me? I'm getting them back.'
There's a lump growing in his throat, and it's getting harder to talk around.
'But do you want them back?'
He's thrown. Sam can't know that Dean's discovered the truth- can he? Can he? 'Why the hell wouldn't I want them back?'
Maybe it sounds a little too defensive, because there's silence for a while. He hears Sam clear his throat.
'I dunno,' says Sam. 'It's just. Y'know. You aren't broken anymore.'
Just like that, Dean's throat seizes up.
There's a fucking universe of horror locked into that one sentence, and then he knows: Sam loves him. Sam is awful and vicious and twisted, but Sam loves him.
Fuck it. Fuck it. He hangs up.
SPN SPN SPN
Dean knows what he's going to do almost immediately. He goes through his bag, sets out everything he needs on the table. By the time Sam calls back- nearly two hours later- he's sitting by the door, gun in hand.
When the phone rings, he answers it on the fourth ring so as not to seem suspicious. 'Yup?'
'DEAN!'
'Sam-'
'Listen, Dean, I'm driving back, okay, I'm on my way to pick you up, be ready, please-'
'Whoa, buddy, calm down. What happened?'
'She was keeping the manticore in her fucking cellar- that old lady- Jesus Christ-'
'Hey, hey, cool it, c'mon.'
'Oh God, Dean, I- I heard a scream and I got out of the car and found the cellar and I think she'd been trying to feed it or something, it fucking ate her- Dean, I think it's the townspeople, they've been looking after the manticore for some reason-'
Shit. He really hadn't expected something like this so soon. 'Yeah, I'd say you definitely need me on the job.'
'Of course I need you- jeez, Dean, I can't even run a hundred metres without throwing up- look, be ready, okay-'
'You said that, dude. I'm ready and waiting, promise.'
'I'll be there in five-'
'Don't squash any deer, Sam.'
A shaky laugh, and a beep as Sam hangs up.
SPN SPN SPN
He never even has a chance. The second Sam bursts into the motel room, the butt of Dean's gun is sailing towards his forehead. He makes a little surprised sound as he collapses into a heap.
Dean hooks his hands beneath Sam's armpits and drags him onto the bed.
By the time Sam wakes up, Dean has handcuffed him to the chair.
The only thing signalling Sam's return to consciousness is the tiny intake of breath as he sees (recognises?) the items Dean is laying out on the desk.
Knives. Salt cartridges. Screwdrivers. Pliers.
'You're awake,' Dean observes.
Sam closes his eyes, then opens them, as if the scene will have changed any. Dean almost feels sorry for him.
His little brother draws in a shaky breath and the first word out of his mouth is 'Christo.'
Dean is nonplussed. 'What's that mean?'
'Oh, shit,' Sam mutters. 'You're not even a fucking demon. Are you a shifter?'
'No, Sam. Not a shifter. Just me.'
'Yeah, that's what they all say.'
Who is this Sam? He isn't the intellectual invalid Dean knows, isn't the psycho from the internet articles. He's hard-eyed, shut down.
'It's really me,' he says. 'I swear. Here.' Sam had told him about the properties of silver. He slices into his arm, looking Sam in the eyes the entire time.
It takes a second to really go through Sam's head, Dean sees. When it does, it's as if clouds part and a sliver of vulnerability- of something like betrayal- shines through as his brother looks up at him.
'Dean, cut me loose,' says Sam.
'No way.' He reminds himself of what Sam is, of what Sam's done. 'I looked us up, you dumb fuck. You're an idiot for leaving me alone to research. I saw what we did- the massacres, the killing sprees-'
Sam looks blank for a second. Then he presses his eyes closed. 'Oh, fuck. Fucking fuck.'
'Yeah,' Dean agrees.
Somehow, there's a knife in his hand, a big one with a serrated blade, and it's resting at Sam's sternum.
'Dean,' Sam says earnestly, refusing to look down at the knife, 'listen to me. The serial killers on the news? That wasn't us. Shifters, man. Not us. We stopped them.'
He laughs, though he files away what Sam says. 'And why should I believe you, huh? Sam, you haven't told me anything.'
'That's not true,' Sam protests. 'I've told you everything that won't make you run for the hills, okay? I've told you as much as I could.'
He can feel every heave of Sam's chest under the blade.
'Now I don't think that's entirely true.'
'So, what,' and Sam's voice shakes, 'you're gonna cut it out of me?'
'No. You're gonna tell me.'
'Fuck, Dean, I'll tell you, okay? You're probably not going to believe me, but you don't need to go straight to torture, fuck.'
'Okay,' said Dean. 'Here's how it's gonna go. You're a fucking monster and there's no reason why I should believe you. But you're gonna tell me everything, starting from the beginning, and then you're gonna prove to me that it's true and that we're not those psychos who went round killing people.'
Sam's eyes are huge.
'But lemme tell you, dude, given this crazy itch I have to slice you up right now, you might have a tough time convincing me.'
