A/N: Reading through this to get it ready for posting, I realised I've been Kripke'd. I wrote it in the break between Seasons 3 and 4, and I'm a spoilerphobe, so the ears thing? MINE! Nothing else is... except the goat. Again. Oh, and, as usual, I'll post music credits at the end of the story rather than by chapter.
Three hours earlier
The Impala slows, crawling into the empty driveway as I let her coast to a stop, staring at the deserted farmhouse in front of us. It's huge, magnificent, awesome – and it's falling down. The roof sags so far in places a god could use it as a soup bowl, and the chimneys, all four of them, list threateningly at different angles. There isn't a single window that doesn't have at least one smashed pane, the curtains long since rotted away so that the tattered remnants frame black, gaping holes glaring out balefully at us. Beside me Sam gulps audibly. I quickly suppress the shiver of fear that tries to ripple down my spine and turn, smirking at him.
"What's the matter, Sammy, scared of the big ol' haunted house?"
He glares back at me and replies solemnly,
"No more than I was of the monster in my closet."
I can't really answer that, and anyway, he truly is scared, I can see it in the way he ducks his head to let his long hair fall, masking his eyes. Something about this hunt, something about this place has freaked him out, and it's starting to get to me too. I can't stop the second shiver. Neither of us moves to get out of the car, reluctance surrounds us making us hesitate. We both just sit there silently, staring at the ruined house and I know he's wishing he could get the memory of the crime scene photos out of his head just as much as I am. I don't dare blink, as if the images will drown me in the dark; suffocate me in the blood and horror of the murders that took place thirty years ago.
So instead I rake my stare over the building, until it catches on the letter box beside the door, one of the old fashioned iron cupboards with a flap in the top that was once bolted to the wall and now sits, leaning at a crazy angle against it. The name painted neatly across the flap is barely legible now, eighty-four years of weather have worn much of the paint away, but it's enough to read the name already familiar from hours of research. Hawkes' Hill Farm, seeing the faded, flaking letters conjures a new picture into my head, one without blood or death, but it's this that makes me scramble from the car, bile rising in my throat. I swallow it down, spit out the bitter taste and lean back against the car, shaking a little, sucking in the cool air and trying to get the picture of the three generations of the Hawkes family, sat or stood in front of the house, smiling at the camera and squinting against the bright sun light out of my head.
The car shifts against me, a door creaking loudly.
"Dean?"
"I'm fine."
I shove myself away from the car, let the walls drop into place again as I swipe one hand across my cheek, wiping away the moisture there.
"Let's just get this done."
My brother watches me for a moment longer, but the story of this place, of the family who built it, lived in it, and died in it has effected him just as much as it has me, so he lets it go, joining me at the trunk as I glance habitually around before opening the hidden compartment and pulling out a pair of shotguns and a bandolier of salt-shells. I hand him one gun and he checks it quickly, automatically, long fingers familiar and easy as he breaks the barrel, rams home the shells and snaps the piece together again. He stuffs a handful of spare shells in his jacket pockets, grabs the can of salt and a book of matches, all of it in silence. There isn't much to say, none of the usual banter that eases the tension before a hunt seems appropriate now and the slam of the trunk as I close it is loud enough to make him jump just a little.
I heft the shotgun in my hand, settle the bandolier comfortably across my shoulder and listen to the gas in the can held in my other hand slosh about as we start towards the house. He falls in behind me, close enough that I imagine I can feel his breath on the back of my neck and I know we're too close, that we present a single, perfect target for anything or anyone out to get us, but I don't say anything. It's not that long since the open space at my back literally hurt, not that long at all since I spent my nights listening to Dad's slow, steady breathing coming from the bed where Sam should have been. I can't help but remember that picture again, recalling the subtle confusion in my brother's voice as he told me the story, how Daniel Hawkes came back to his childhood home ten years after leaving suddenly and murdered his family in their beds, dragging his brother out to the barn and literally tearing him to pieces before he threw himself from the hayloft. The entire Hawkes family died that night, but they'd left something behind, a spirit that had killed twenty-one people since. Two a year, every ten years, the first on the anniversary of the day Daniel Hawkes ran away, the second six days later, on the anniversary of the night he'd returned, ten years later.
After tonight it was never going to kill again.
We slip quietly onto the long, wrap-around porch, boots nearly silent as I hand my brother the gas can and my shotgun, and pull my lock picks from my inside pocket. As far as we know, no-one is here now but the farm has been sold, making our job infinitely harder, and I work quickly, grinning a little as the tumblers click into place. I stand, slide the picks back into their case and slap it victoriously against Sam's chest. He rolls his eyes and hands me the gun and the gas and I push through the door, my smile fading away as the familiar cold sweeps over me, another mask, another wall between me and the world. Every sense sharpens, sounds become razor-edged, the gloomy room barely lit by the quarter-moon outside becomes crystal clear and the wooden stock of my shotgun is warm and comfortable in my hand. We pause, just inside the door, and my lips tighten, as I almost growl at the sight of a neat stack of suitcases waiting at the bottom of the stairs.
I curse the rushed research that's led us here, unprepared for the place to be occupied already, wishing we'd had the time to do some proper re-con and figure out a way to get the new owners of the haunted farm out, but this is the anniversary of the night Daniel Hawkes came back. We'd already been too late to save the real estate agent, killed when he fell from the bridge across the narrow gorge that marked the boundary of the property, and I would damn my soul to hell before I would let anyone else die here. My jaw clenches so hard my teeth ache and I jerk my head at Sam, sending him up the stairs to get whoever has moved in, out. I stop him for a heartbeat with my hand on his arm.
Sammy, be careful.
I don't need to say it aloud. He nods, stares intently at me for a moment.
You too.
Then he's gone, edging up against the wall where there is less chance of the steps creaking and giving away his presence. I force myself to turn away and head deeper into the house, searching for the ancient scythe Hawkes had impaled himself on, that had been hung on the wall as a macabre decoration by the first victim of the spirit. I hear a muffled shriek above me and tense, worrying about my brother, glad he's the one dealing with the no doubt terrified woman he's just woken up. It takes a few minutes, but he leads her down the stairs, giving a low whistle to grab my attention and subtly flashing the badge he's slipped through his belt. We're federal marshals tonight then, searching for the dangerous fugitive we believe might be hiding in the farm. Behind Sam comes a woman, and oh my god I wish I'd been the one to go and deal with her because she is without a doubt the most gorgeous creature I've ever laid eyes on, short, dark hair that spikes around a pale face and velvet-soft eyes – that are fixed adoringly on my brother's back. He smirks at me, and I ignore him, tipping a quick nod to the woman as they step down to the ground floor.
"Take her out to the car, deputy. I'll keep looking."
His smirk turns into a scowl as she turns her attention to me when she hears me call him 'deputy', her gaze reconsidering. I smile at her, ignore the death-glare Sam's aiming at me and gesture at the door. His glare turns into that intense stare again, and I nod at him, give a one-sided shrug and a lop-sided grin.
I'm always careful.
He rolls his eyes, escorts the woman out through the door and I turn back to the house, prowling through the warren of rooms, picking my way carefully over the rotten floorboards, cringing every time they shift beneath me. Seventy-four years of neglect has turned the once proud house into a death trap, and I have to wonder just what the woman who brought the place thinks she can do to restore it. I shrug again, it doesn't really matter to me, as long as we totally can the spirits ass before anyone else gets hurt, I'm good. I pause in the doorway to a large room, grinning quickly at the sight of a long, slightly curved, wooden handle with a lump of rusty metal attached to the end, hanging over the huge fireplace.
"That's why they pay me the big bucks."
But I only get to take one step into the room before the temperature plummets, the end of my victorious mumble misting into a cloud of vapour.
"Crap."
Another cloud, but this time it doesn't dissipate, it shifts and roils and turns into a damn face, right in front of mine. I pull back, start to lift the shotgun, and the face made out of my own breath opens its mouth and screams, so loud I'm certain my ears must be bleeding. Unable to stop myself, I drop both can and gun, desperately clapping my hands over my ears. The sound goes on and on, getting louder and impossibly louder until it literally batters me back away from the room and I stumble, my head spinning under the onslaught, my feet tangling together to bring me crashing to the ground.
As soon as my ass hits the deck, the scream stops and I can just about hear my brother above the ringing in my ears as I huddle against the wall, holding my head because it feels as if that scream hasn't stopped at all, it's just moved inside my skull and is working on splitting my head in two.
"Dean! Dean, oh god. Hey, hey, are you okay? Dean?"
A blurry face shoots forward, stops inches from me and I flinch, half-expecting it to scream or something. Instead it slowly clears, resolves into Sam, all wild hair and scared eyes as he grabs my arms and hauls me upright. The world spins around and I tilt over in the other direction, falling into his strong grasp, trying to get it together enough to say something to take that fear out of his eyes.
"M' f''n, Ss'm."
It doesn't work too well. I shake my head to try and clear it, wincing as I realise that maybe that isn't such a good idea, so I lean back against the wall, waiting for the world to slow down enough to let me climb back on. Sam holds on to me, his long fingers digging into my arms but since he's about all that's holding me up right now, I let him. After several long painful minutes, as the echo of the scream gradually recedes, I lift my head without it falling off, and push against his hands.
"Lemme up, S'mmy."
Okay, so I'm not quite clear yet, and the world still spins lazily around me, but he lets me up, steadies me and stands right next to me.
"Foun' the scythe."
He gives a huff of laughter at my declaration, and I elbow him lightly in the side.
"You c'n go get it, college-boy."
Sam pulls a face at me and I resist the urge to stick my tongue out at him. We stand and eye the doorway for a moment, my shotgun and the gas sitting nonchalantly just inside, then we sigh almost in unison, and he brings the shotgun up to aim it steadily at the room, nodding to me. I ease forward, keeping out of his shot, shoulders tight, ready to jump back at the first hint of cold, at the first wisp of vapour. It never comes. I reach my gun, stoop and grab it, cock it and carry on into the room. By the time I reach the fireplace I'm sure freakin' rats are running up and down my spine, and I close my eyes as I reach up for the scythe, cringing as I pull it from the wall.
Nothing happens.
I turn back to the open door, feeling more than a little sheepish and my heart damn near stops as I see the once gorgeous woman standing right behind my unsuspecting brother. Her face is twisted into a silent scream, ugly and hateful and broken by the blade buried in her throat, its twin raised directly above his back.
"DROP!"
Sam doesn't hesitate, just face-plants on the floor at my shout and I lift the shotgun and fire it, breaking into a run in the same movement. The salt pelts the woman's face and she staggers back, wailing as the spirit possessing her reacts to the condiment. Sam rolls over, adds his own blast to the smoke twisting up around her as her skin burns and she shrieks, falls back into a crumpled heap and is still, the spirit driven out of her. I stumble to a halt next to my brother as he pushes himself shakily to his knees, his shoulders slumped in dejected failure. I pat him awkwardly on one of those shoulders; waiting as he sniffles a little, not knowing what the hell I can say to make it better when the guilt is gnawing at my guts too.
Finally, Sam wipes his nose on his sleeve and shuffles to his feet, turning angry, determined eyes to me.
"Let's finish this thing."
I nod. It's easier to just agree when he gets on a roll, even though I'd really like to just go back to the motel on the edge of town and sleep for a week while he researches exactly what we need to do to stop this spirit. Maybe I'd sleep for a fortnight. Then the goblin who'd taken up residence in my head might have given up on his ambition to become a drum soloist. We trudge back out of the house, carrying the scythe between us, since it's a damn heavy lump of wood and metal. We haul it to the barn around back of the farm, and I wonder tiredly if we're following in Daniel Hawkes' bloody footprints as he dragged his brother struggling through the night.
The barn makes the house look like a palace. Most of the roof is actually missing, the walls are as much thin air as they are wood and when Sam hauls the big, sliding door open it rolls along its sliders and falls off, landing with a crash next to him. He looks at it, turns and blinks at me shocked, and I just smile back weakly, all too aware of the images of his feet sticking out from underneath the heavy slab of wood and metal that are playing out in my head. The goblin pulls off an impressive drum roll to accompany them as my heart slams wildly against my ribs. He lets out a shaky breath, part sigh, part hysteria and lifts a trembling hand to shove his hair back out of his eyes.
"Jesus,"
He mutters as he shifts his grip around the scythe, pulling it – and me – with him as he squares his shoulders and strides purposefully through the great hole where the door used to be. I glance down at the door as I pass it, look back to see him glaring at it, eyes a little too wide, a little too bright in the dark.
"Ding dong the witch is dead," I mutter in a sing-song sotto voce, just loud enough for him to hear and he twists round, brow furrowed as his gaze darts from me to the fallen door a few times before settling on me. I smile brightly, hoping he can't see how much of a lie it is but he stares blankly at me and I keep grinning at him until his lips twitch and he snorts, shoulders shaking a little as he turns back with a muttered, "Jerk."
We walk on into the barn, and my reply dies on my lips as the atmosphere crushes in on us. It's cold inside, more than just the cold of an old, ruined building in autumn, even more than the cold of a wayward spirit. It's the cold of blood spilt when it should have been cared for, the cold of secrets and hatred and family turning on one another. I shiver, hunch my shoulders up and my mouth goes desert-dry as I realise that inside, the roof is intact, the walls solid, hanging with a truly terrifying assortment of blades and tools.
"Sam. You seein' this?"
He nods at me, not looking round, his gaze turned up to the hayloft a good thirty feet above our heads. I gulp, somehow knowing that we're standing exactly where Daniel Hawkes died and my eyes drift down, searching out the dark stain on the floor. My stomach churns as I see it, guilt turning bitter in my mouth as I look back at my brother.
I never should have come to Stanford, Sammy. If I hadn't, then maybe Jessica would still be here, and you'd still be rockin' the white picket fence with her. Hell, maybe you'd be married by now, 'cause I saw the way you looked at her man, I saw the way you put your arm round her shoulders, like she was yours and you were hers and nothin' else mattered. And then after the fire, you just stood there, like you didn't see me as I held you back, like you just wanted to run into the fire to find her. And I never told you, Sammy, but it was just the way Dad looked, after mom. I'm sorry, Sammy, sorry I screwed it up for you.
He half-turns towards me and I see his eyes, too bright again in the dark, glittering with unspoken fears and unshed sorrow, and I can read them, read his guilt as easily as I know he can read mine.
I hurt you, I know it now. I hurt you so much when I left, walked away from you after everything you've done for me, everything you've given up for me. And I know you said it doesn't matter, that it's your job; it's what big brother's do, right? But it isn't. 'Cause Daniel Hawkes killed his little brother. You never even got mad at me, not once, not really. I'm sorry, man. I'm sorry I walked away from you, because I knew how much it would kill you to let me go but I didn't give you any other choice.
I watch him watching me and I wish I knew a way to take the pain out of his eyes. I wish I could turn back the clock and have him believe me when I silently promise him everything will be alright again, just the way he used to when he was small enough to fall asleep on my lap watching TV while I waited for Dad to come home. Hell, I wish I could just find a way to say I'm sorry, but if the words to apologise for everything that's happened to us exist, I don't know them.
And then it all goes to hell.
The bone-deep cold turns suddenly bitterly arctic, biting at exposed skin, sending piercing pains shooting through my still tender ears. Something above us screams as if it was the end of the universe, the floor beneath me literally shaking as I drop to my knees, digging my fists into my ears again but the sound is too much for anything to block it out, so much worse than when it was limited by the physics of the woman's voice and I can feel blood trickling out under my hands. I know I'm yelling, I can feel the air leaving my lungs, feel my throat strain with the force of the cry but all I can hear is the scream going on and on and on until Sam, who fell to the floor seconds after I did turns into freaking Rambo on me, forcing himself to his feet, mouth gaping wide in a yell as silent as mine as he grabs a shotgun in each hand and fires straight up.
The salt rains down over me, a silent, stinging rain that dries my throat as I struggle to get my breath back and suck it in with the cold air. I almost jump out of my skin when a hand grabs at my shoulder, but I recognise the touch a bare instant before I ram the knife from my boot into his heart. Sam peers into my face, lips moving, eyes wide but I still can't hear anything. I shake my head, wince as the goblin takes his cue again and I point at my ears, blood on my hands, trickling down the sides of my neck. He looks at it, pales, and I don't need to hear him to understand what he mouths.
Oh crap.
I nod fractionally, swallowing hard, trying to clear the pressure in my ears. He mimes yawning at me, looks a little defensive when I glare at him and holds his hands out helplessly.
I don't know what else to try. Sorry.
I sigh, pat him on the shoulder;
It's okay. It'll be alright.
I prop myself up, leaning on his shoulder as I clamber to my feet and he holds still until I'm steady, if listing a little. Then he follows me up, concerned eyes watching my every move until I reach up, not looking, and smack the back of his head.
Work, Sammy! Watch out for the pissed off spirit.
He sneers at me, but at least he stops watching me, turning his gaze back out to the barn. We don't have long before the spirit comes back and we both know it. So we dump the scythe down on the ancient bloodstain and I pour gas
over both as he piles on the salt. The fumes rise quickly, stinging my eyes, making them water and my already pounding head spins as I stumble a little. He plucks the matches from my hands before I can do more than tear a couple off the strip and holds them up out of my reach when I grab for them, scowling ferociously at me and jabbing one finger at the workbench beside the door.
I glare back, just long enough for him to know he didn't win at all, then I go and hoist myself up on to the bench, trying not to let out a relieved and grateful sigh that I can't hear as I lean back against the wall and stare at the dust sifting down from the hayloft above. The pounding goblin in my head takes the opportunity to impress the screaming fans that seemed to have taken up residence behind my eyeballs and I frown a little, close my eyes and pinch the bridge of my nose. It doesn't really help.
I give in to the sigh as I hear a voice join in the thumping metal concert playing inside my skull, sliding down on the bench until I'm half-lying on it. It's only when I feel the wood jump beneath me that I realise the voice I'm hearing isn't the ringing inside my head at all – it's my brother, yelling frantically, desperately for me. I push myself up and off the bench, landing in an ungraceful crouch on the floor beside the large hammer that just hit the bench, and that's what saves me from the large saw blade that whirrs through the air so close it takes a few of my hairs with it and embeds itself in the wood of the bench where I'd been slumped. I spare it one glance, then I hear a cry, wavering in and out of my barely functioning hearing and my head whips round of its own accord, in spite of the searing pain my brain puts up in protest at the rash movement. I find my brother, pinned down in the corner of the barn, an assortment of blades hovering in front of him, occasionally darting forward only for him to swipe them out of the air with the metal bar he's holding.
Iron. Good boy, Sammy.
I scramble across the floor, keeping so low I'm more on my knees than my feet and scoop up the shotgun, praying it's loaded as I swing round, aim across the empty space in front of my brother and fire. The salt roars faintly, leaves a rushing sound in my head as it scours the air in front of him clean and carries on to pepper the low door of a pen I hadn't noticed before. Something kicks back at the door, but I don't have time to wonder what, as something else – namely, one seriously pissed off spirit – materialises right in front of me.
"I wish you'd stop doing that."
It growls at my snark, fists long hands in my shirt and I pull the shotgun up between us, jam it under Daniel's chin and pull the trigger. The spirit hesitates, grins nastily as the pin clicks down on an empty chamber and hoists me up, tossing me up onto the hayloft. The dust that was once straw, cushions my fall, then rises billowing in a cloud, choking me. I'm spluttering on it, trying to find a clean patch of air to breathe when the damn spook reappears to kick me in the side and send me rolling back in the direction he's just thrown me from – straight towards the edge. He kicks again and my legs swing out over the long drop as I grab at his foot, catch hold and hang on with all my strength. For a spirit, he looks more than a little surprised. I'm hanging there, clinging on to a ghost's foot for dear life when I feel a shotgun blast rip the air above my back apart.
Oh, crap.
Daniel dissipates and I scrabble wildly at the dust, dropping a few feet before my frantic hands latch onto the edge. It's rotting, crumbling away beneath my fingers, and it's easily the most wonderful plank of wood I've ever held.
"Dean!"
"Sammy?"
I can just about hear him shouting, can't quite make out what he's yelling but I don't really need to.
"Finish the job, Sam! Burn him before he comes back!"
The anger in his shout comes through loud and clear.
"SAM! Finish! The! Job!"
He's silent for a moment, though I guess he's probably muttering something along the lines of pain in the ass big brothers who think they're freakin' invincible and leave it to me to pick up the freakin' pieces. I grin faintly as I feel the heat of the fire below; dare to peer down between my arms at the floor and the scythe burning merrily. The fire twists below my boots, the barn suddenly whirling around it as my vision blurs and the muscles in my arms try hard to turn to jello.
Not a good idea, Dean.
My arms are shaking, the tremors working their way down through my back and slowly, one at a time, my fingers start to peel away from the edge. My grip fails in the same instant that his hands clamp around my wrists and he hauls me up, grunting with the effort, dragging me over the edge until we lie sprawled on the floor, side by side, panting for breath. His hands are still locked around my wrists, tight enough that I know I'll have bruises tomorrow. I grip his arms back, just as tightly.
Slowly, the burning in my lungs fades, my heart rate eases to something vaguely approaching normal and I sit up, squinting over at him.
"Thanks."
He shrugs, mutters something and frowns as he sees from my face I didn't hear it.
"You're still not hearing?"
"Some things. Not quiet things."
He looks worried.
"It'll be alright, Sammy. I promise. Okay?"
Wonder of wonders, the worry fades a little, as if my promise is all the reassurance he needs to hear, just like it used to be, and for a moment I can feel the weight of him in my lap again, hear the soft, kiddie-snores he used to deny. I smile and he quirks a brow at me.
"Nothin'. Let's get the hell out of here."
"Yeah."
We stand together; make our way carefully to the rickety ladder. I go first, not trusting the rungs at all, feeling them creak and groan under me as sweat breaks out across my forehead and trickles down my spine. It turns icy as Sam gasps above me, the short sound full of horror. I look up at him and he's poised at the top of the ladder, wide eyes fixed on something on the other side of the barn, mouth working soundlessly and I know that this time it's not just that I still can't hear properly, but now he really isn't making any sound at all. I turn, wobbling on the ladder as it flexes under me, and then I see what my brother's gaping at.
"You gotta be kiddin' me."
The low door, scarred by my shot earlier, holds in a seething mass of fur and horns and wild yellow eyes, barely visible through the smoke writhing across the far side of the barn.
"The hell, Sam?"
"Move Dean!"
His voice is a damn sight closer than it should have been and I look up in time to snatch one hand out from under his foot, scrambling a few rungs down as he keeps climbing after me.
"Sam!"
"Move!"
I don't have time to yell back at him, don't even have time to deliver the slap to his ankles that my hand is itching to give before the ladder shudders one last time under our weight, and tears away from the wall.
"Ah, crap!"
The yell bursts out of me as I ride the ladder down, clinging on desperately, hearing Sam's frantic shout above me. The ancient wood peels down in a series of jolts and jerks that almost pulls my arms from their sockets, and dumps us in a heap on the floor, Sam sprawled on top of me in an unceremonious tangle of arms and legs. I lie there, trying to breathe with his weight on top of me, feeling his heartbeat race against mine and I have to fight not to hold on to him as he stirs with a groan I can feel vibrate through his chest.
"Sammy? You okay?"
"Yeah."
He sits up, holding one hand against the side of his head, looking more than a little dazed.
"Sure?"
He glances at me, blinks a little, as if he's startled and I try to see if his pupils are equal, but in the dark they're all but invisible and he glowers at me.
"I'm fine."
The fact that he starts coughing a split-second later isn't particularly convincing. Then again, so do I, the billowing smoke finally reaching us and it hits us both at the same time. The fire burning Daniel Hawkes' remains has spread, caught in the wood that's tinder-dry even in the damp autumn. I can feel the heat against my face as I scramble to my feet and start for the door, only to be almost yanked from my feet by the hand that wraps around my collar. I stagger back and Sam hauls me round, shouting into my face.
"The goats!"
"What?!"
"We can't leave them, Dean!"
"Sam, the building is burning to the ground!"
"Exactly!"
I gape at him but he's got that stubborn look, the one that turns his puppy-dog eyes to steel and I throw my hands up with a growl of resignation and stomp off through the smoke, face buried in the crook of one elbow, trying to filter the air a little. He hurries past me, all but bouncing, and dashes to the door, cooing over it. When I get there I have to hide my laugh in my sleeve. He's reaching out to the goats, clucking frantically, while they glare at him from the far side of the pen and refuse to move.
Guess they got a good helping of Winchester stubborn…
"Dammit, come on!"
"Take it easy, Sammy. You don't cluck at goats. That's chickens."
He throws me a look I can't decipher.
"Well, what the hell do you do?"
"I don't know! Yodel?"
"Yodel?"
"I guess."
This time I'm glad I can't work out the expression on his face.
"How the hell do you yodel?"
"Aw, come on Sammy, I know you've seen The Sound of Music!"
He flushes, cheeks turning bright pink and turns again to the goats, casting a doubtful glance back at me as he does.
The sound he lets rip with is worse than the spirit's screams. The goats flinch en-masse, letting out a chorused, accusatory bleat, glaring with those freaky yellow eyes at me.
"Hey, it ain't my fault!"
They don't look particularly convinced, but when I reach past my scarlet brother and flip up the catch on the gate they charge forward, stampeding past us in a whirlwind of fur and hooves. We watch them go, waiting until they disappear through the door.
"Sam?"
"Yeah?"
"Can we go now?"
He nods, and we take a step forward, only to freeze when I hear a terrified bleat from behind me, almost hidden in the thunder of the rest of the room giving way and crashing to the floor behind us.
"Aw, come on!"
I yell at the world in general, shoving hard at Sam's shoulder and turning back to see a pair of small, dark eyes gaze up at me from the back of the pen, the beams above it smouldering threateningly.
"Dean?"
"Go! I got it!"
I dart in, ducking low as the heat from the beams singes my hair and snatch at the kid goat. It squirms, wriggling in my arms and tries to lick my face but I'm a little preoccupied with the cracking sounds above me. I look up, and see the beams come loose, a mass of wood and fire hurtling down towards me and I throw myself back, landing in an undignified, breathless heap at my brother's feet as he pulls out his camera phone.
And that's when I consider fratricide for an instant before my mind catches up with my fury and I remember why we're here in the first place, remember the grief buried deep beneath the guilt in his eyes, grief for everything he's lost, and for everything I've lost too. Even deeper, the fear, raw and searing, of losing what little we still have left, and I know it's the one thing I can never hide from him either, the one thing he can always see. So I push myself up, staggering a little as the baby goat in my arms struggles and we run, boots thudding against the floor in perfect time as I fall in behind him, the need to put myself between my kid brother and danger burning as hot and as fierce as the fire that edged its way towards the old fuel and fertilizer tanks in the far corner of the barn.
A/N: Sammy's tortured emo rock - Corner, by Staind.