IV
The sky is vast, my little one
And night is cruel and cold.
The hollow trees, they cannot know
How much of me you hold.
He held out for a long time. It was admirable. It was brave.
But eventually, he broke.
It happened when he was locked in the attic, with only a barred window for a view. He drank in the outside world with his eyes, took in the trees and the leaves; the sky and the clouds. He had no idea how long he had been in this hell of a place. Outside, he saw two boys run by, probably in a game of tag. And like that, the walls crumbled down and it came like a flood, filled his senses until there was nothing left. He realized that even if he did leave, he would never find his brother again. It was too long. His brother wasn't a baby anymore. He wouldn't recognize Sammy even if he passed him in the street.
Despair settled into his bones, and for the first time, he broke into uncontrollable sobs. They kicked the breath from his lungs, hammered against his chest and his back until he was left whimpering on the floor. His heart was ripped from his chest, and his cheek rested on the dirty floor as he once more mourned the loss of the last of his family.
Even if he saw Sammy again, he was too broken to be a part of his little brother's life.
He didn't move at the sound of footsteps of the stairs, or the lifting of the latch, or the turn of the knob. When Alastair gripped his shoulders and lifted him from the floor to ask that fatal question, he looked wearily into the man's eyes and answered,
"Yes."
In less than a year, he had become Alastair's favorite, his star pupil. The culmination of his work was when he tortured one of Alastair's graduates, Meg, for five hours straight, keeping her awake for it the entire time.
"I carved you into a new animal." Alastair purred, admiring the symbols Dean had carved into her pale skin. Meg's breath moved in wheezing, wet gasps, her lungs having been punctured about fifteen minutes ago. Dean raised his knife, ready to end her life, but Alastair stopped him.
"Don't sully your hands, my boy."
Slowly, he ran his bloodstained fingers through her dark hair, and just like that, he rammed his own knife through her heart.
"You are destined for far greater things."
"State your name for the record, please."
"My name is Dean Winchester. I'm an Aquarius. I enjoy sunsets, long walks on the beach and frisky women."
"Cute." says Ash, tossing the remote to Gabriel. Sam, Ash, and Gabriel sit back in their chairs, watching, on a grainy screen, Dean Smith's deposition against Alastair. It's strange, watching the tape. Dean Smith was sixteen years old at the time, but there was something so empty in his eyes. His answers to the FBI Agent questioning him were humorous in form, but there was no mirth in the dark, green eyes. Sam saw the yellowed bruises fading from underneath the boy's freckled skin, the healing cut above the eyebrow, the seemingly relaxed posture, and it just made him sad. Dean at sixteen was broken. Dean at sixteen was already beyond saving. And thirteen years later, the horror he began was at work again.
"What was your involvement with Alastair?"
"Well, he made me carve for one. He'd take me and the other kids, and he'd go cruisin' for 'new initiates.' And he'd tell me to get out of the car and get the kid to ride with us. And I would. And when we got back to the house, we'd put them on the rack until they broke. Or he'd bring back some guy or a lady, and he'd show us how to do as he did. He'd make it a hands-on lesson. Said it was the best way to get us to learn. And when he figured we'd learned enough, he'd finish them off right before our eyes. Sometimes I can still hear them screaming."
His eyes lost focus as his fingers traced small patterns into the table he was seated at. He was tired physically and mentally; the records of the youth facility he was placed in indicated that Dean, while he was in custody, had not had a good night's sleep for an entire week. Despite that, he continued to answer the agent's questions; providing nightmarish details in subtle, round-about ways, only explicitly stating the facts when asked. As they reached the end of the deposition, the agent said,
"Thank you, Dean. We'll make sure no one will ever hurt you like that again."
Dean's gaze on the table hardens for a moment, a trace of bitterness crossing his face. Then his eyes snap up, and behind them is pure defiance.
"Michael, right? Well Mike, let me tell you something. You can't promise me jack shit."
Part of Sam, a small part that had been whispering to him ever since the bodies were discovered, aches and mourns what Dean Smith could have been. In the transcripts of the other children and teens under Alastair's thumb, Dean was always mentioned as a protector; a hero. Sam tried to silence that crying part of himself; ignore it, quash it down, anything to get it to shut up. But it wouldn't.
Don't fool yourself. You know who he is. You know what he is. It whispered.
Five years ago
Sam walked purposefully down the upper hall of the Courthouse. Long practice brought him to the door that he sought, and he knocked three times before entering. A young man was seated behind the front desk. He blinked up at Sam in surprise, not that Sam could blame him. He was in a filthy uniform; had cuts and bruises on his face; a bandage on his hand that still was soaking up leaking blood, despite the fact that it was only a few days ago that he had injured his hand; and in his good hand he clutched a manila envelope.
"Can I help you?" the young man asked tentatively.
"Yes," Sam glanced at the placard on the desk, "Alfie. I need access to certain files."
The law clerk frowned, then picked up the placard and flipped it to read the name. He groaned and muttered briefly to himself, before looking back up at Sam,
"What kind?"
"Mine. Sorry. That wasn't exactly clear. I want to access my sealed adoption records. I know I don't have an appointment to talk to Judge Moseley, but I know she'll see me. Is she in?"
"Yes," Alfie stood up, "I'll check with her first. Officer…?"
"Wesson."
Sam didn't have to wait long. Soon, he was seated on a comfortable couch with a cup of tea in his hand, shifting uncomfortably under Missouri Moseley's piercing stare.
"Shouldn't you be in the hospital?"
"They released me yesterday."
She took a hold of his chin, shifting his face back and forth, examining his wounds. She'd always been like a mother to him. His adoptive parents were always kind enough to him, but he'd always felt a connection to his neighbor, and would pester her frequently throughout the years. Now, was no different from when he was ten years old and begging shamelessly for oatmeal cookies.
"Sam, what fool thing do you want to do, poking around in your own adoption records? You never felt the need before. Why now?"
He sighed, wincing at the soreness in his ribs.
"There's something I need to know."
She sighed, taking out his petition from the envelope and taking a pen from her desk.
"You shouldn't go poking around in things best left alone."
She signed the authorization and passed the petition back to Sam and gave him a hug, patting him gently on the back.
"I hope you find what you're looking for."
He thanks her and walks out the door, not once looking back.
Present
Sam runs a hand through his hair and sighs. When he walked out on Ash and Gabriel the other day, he called the department psychiatrist and scheduled an appointment. He needed someone to talk to then, and he still needs a person to talk to now. So now he sits in a waiting room. He picks up one of the magazines on the coffee table and flips impatiently through the glossy pages. He doesn't actually want to know "25 New Tummy Tucking Techniques," so he tosses it back to the table. Before he can make another impulse decision, the door opens and the smiling face of Dr. Sarah Blake peeks out.
"Hey, Sam! Come on in."
Inside, he sits in the chair by the window, and she takes a seat near the door.
"So, how have you been? How's Jess?"
"Um, Jess is good. She's happy at her job as the school nurse at the elementary school. We've been doing good. We're planning to visit her parents when I get some more time off again."
"That's good. Spending time with family is important," She leans forward in her chair, "But I get the feeling you're not sitting in here with me because of in-law jitters."
Sam stares down at his hands before answering.
"I really need someone to talk to."
She sits cross-legged in her chair, giving him a sad smile. This is not the first time they've been here, and it probably won't be the last.
"I'm here."
He thinks over his words carefully before continuing,
"This case that I'm working on…I think I'm compromised. Scratch that. I know I'm compromised."
"What makes you say that?"
He opens his mouth to answer, but stops. He doesn't want to say it. Reading it and knowing it is one thing. But saying it…
"Sam, look at me."
He meets her eyes. There he sees the warmth, and caring, and reassurance he needs.
"What's said in this room does not leave this room. It's like Vegas. It's okay."
He gives her a brief smile.
"Dean Smith is my older brother. It wasn't a problem before because I only found out after we got him in custody. But now..."
"With the copycat killer, you're doubting your ability to be impartial." She finishes. Sam nods silently. She stretches out her legs and crosses them under her chair.
"I'm assuming you haven't told anyone else on the case," she tilts her head, considering, "If you honestly believe that you can't work this case, walk away Sam. I'll back you up and tell the Commissioner something. If you think you being on the case is helping more than hindering, then I think you should stay on it. I'll still be here to listen if you need to air anything out. It's your call, and I'm here for you, either way."
"Thanks Sarah."
"No problem," She sits back in her chair and smiles, "So, you sure you don't want to talk about those in-laws? I have some phenomenal tips for how to deal with them."
Sam smiles and laughs, feeling a little less over-whelmed and a little more like himself.
"Nah. I'm supposed to be at the Public Defender's after this."
"Then I better let you go. Also because our time is almost up."
As he rises from his seat, she wraps him in a tight hug.
"It'll be alright. Remember, this doesn't change the fact that you're still Sam, and you're still a good man."
The Public Defender's office lies on the west wing of the third floor of the Courthouse. Sam walks up the wide stairs, past a sea of black suited attorneys walking briskly with environmentally-friendly cups of hot coffee and case files tucked under their arms.
Standing outside the door of the Public Defender's office was a woman with shoulder-length black hair holding two steaming cups.
"Detective Wesson?"
"That's me."
"Your associate, Detective Miles, said you'd be coming. Let's head inside."
He holds the door open for her, and, once they are both in, she hands him one of the cups and strides purposefully past a huddle of black suits into a quiet, corner office.
It was different from the other offices he had seen. Madison's was a place full of light colored, welcoming furniture; mildly chaotic in its organization, but ultimately navigatable. The DA's office was clinically cold, with slick black surfaces and stainless steel. Tessa Dellamorte's office ran more along the lines of old elegance, with dark wood bookshelves and leather seats. Once they are both comfortably seated, she says,
"What can I do for you, Detective?"
Sam jumps, slightly, in his seat,
"I'm sorry, could you repeat that?"
He had gotten distracted by a macabre ink print of a raven perched on a dark, twisted tree. Tessa smiles kindly and repeats her question. Sam frowns in confusion,
"Detective Miles didn't tell you?"
"I'd rather hear it from you."
Sam steals one last disturbed look at the raven tree.
"I need any information you can give on how Dean Smith chose his victims, possible explanations for his movements, how he planned his kills and how he managed to avoid capture for so long, if possible. From all accounts, the two of you were close for the duration of his trial. You even visited him the first couple months of his imprisonment."
She gazes at him from behind her desk, picks up a pen and taps it against her desk.
"I'm not sure I can help."
"Attorney-client privilege can be waived since you'd be providing information to prevent a crime."
"I'm pretty sure that's not the proper usage for how that exception applies, but that's not what I meant."
She looks away and lets out a huff of breath. Her brow creases slightly as she slips deeper into thought, trying to find the right words.
"Dean is…unique, to say the least. He probably could have gotten a lighter sentence on an insanity defense, but he was very adamant that he wasn't a "psycho" and he wasn't going to say he was one just to get off."
"You actually think he deserved a lighter sentence?"
She gives him a flat look to tell him just how stupid she thought that question was.
"Of course. You may not be able to understand this, but over the course of his trial we became friends. Even now, I wouldn't invite him over for dinner, but we're still friends. So yes, you're right to think that of the people you can talk to, excluding Dean himself, I'm the person who knows him best."
Sam leans forward, wishing she'd get to the point.
"Will you help or not?"
She sighs and looks away, briefly gathering her thoughts. She leans over her desk, almost conspiratorily.
"What you need to understand is that Alastair was an occultist. He believed in magic and curses and spells. And Dean believed in it too. He didn't see those people as people at all. In his eyes, they were necessary sacrifices to completing a spell."
She looks at Sam with a raised brow.
"You see what I mean about the insanity defense. Anyway, he never told me what the spell was supposed to accomplish."
She opens her desk drawer and pulls out a file. Sam leans further forward to watch as she flips through the papers within the file. She pauses at a yellow sheet from a legal pad, and gently lifts it out.
"On the last day of his trial, when the judge gave him his sentence, Dean gave this to me. I had hoped I would never have to look at it again."
The first belongs to the mother and child,
The second to the heavenly maiden,
The third shall go to one swollen by pride,
The fourth to the hungriest demon,
The fifth is given out of love,
The sixth out of deepest friendship,
The seventh is for the brothers by blood,
And the last for the hunters now hunted.
"Based on this, our copycat is on his fourth. Dean saw Dick Roman as 'the hungriest demon?'"
"Under Dean's logic, a politician notorious for taking bribes would fit the bill. Actually, that might fit with a lot of people's logic. Anyway, I don't know how much this will help you, but-"
"It does. Believe me, Ms. Dellamorte, it does."
"Good luck, Detective Wesson."
Babybro,
There are monsters in this world. You have to be brave. You have to face your fears. Monsters don't expect the meat to bite back.
Sam jogs into the station, ready to share his new find and see what Ash could make of it. He comes to skidding halt at the smirk on the desk clerk's face.
"Something up, Inias?"
"No sir." The desk clerk continues to smile, this time even wider. Sam frowns, and starts to walk up the stairs at a slower pace. Maybe Gabriel had set up a prank. Again. In which case, Sam had better find some way to protect the "spell" from whatever Gabriel had planned for him. He pauses in front of the door of their shared workspace. He can hear the sound of Ash laughing, Gabriel talking, and-
"-that's what happens when you're not three hundred mil."
"Jess!"
Sam bursts in through the door, startling Gabriel from the tail end of his joke. Jess is seated comfortably in Sam's swivel chair, and she turns it around slowly, still giggling over the punch line. Sam makes his way over and kisses the top of her head, reveling in the smell of perfume and pure Jess.
"What brings you to my neck of the woods?"
"I made us lunch." There are two brown paper sacks sitting between his piles of paper with both their names written in marker. He gazes adoringly down at her.
"What would I do without you?"
"Crash and burn."
Sam ignores the kissy noises Gabriel makes as he holds Jess's hand, supporting her as she got up from his chair. Ash leans forward from his desk, calling,
"Hey, before you leave, how was the public defender?"
"Well she's crazy."
"Wait. How crazy? Like, Dingo-ate-my-baby crazy?"
"I wouldn't have put it that way, but yeah. I think that about sums it up. She gave me this, though." He takes the paper out of his pocket and passes it to Ash.
"Hopefully you can make something of it."
"I'm on it, amigo. Have a good lunch."
Sam returns better than he'd felt all day. It isn't often that Jess is able to visit him, and the world always seems like a brighter place when she does. Ash is at his desk, typing away at his laptop and scribbling into a notepad. Gabriel still hasn't returned from his lunch. Sam's ready to get back in the game, but first he has to take care of business.
"Hey Ash," The detective glances up from the diagram he'd been working on, "I'm sorry about the other day."
"No man, we're cool. I wasn't really thinking when I suggested it."
"No, but-"
"Sam. It's fine. Enough with the puppy eyes. The fact that you're even able to work this case is impressive. Don't get down on yourself. That's no bueno. Besides," he tucks his pencil behind his ear, "we have worse things to stress over.
"If our copycat is following this, as Smith supposedly was, it's gonna be harder to catch him before he kills again. The first through the fourth were all people who had little to no ties to Smith; they were outsiders. But starting here: 'The fifth is given out of love;' that was Layla Rourke. They were friends. She had a brain tumor. 'The sixth out of deepest friendship,' Jo Harvelle, they were both in the same foster home, before Smith ended up with Alastair. They maintained contact with each other, even after that. And the last victim, Benny Lafitte, his buddy in the army. These last three were victims personally tied to Smith himself. There's no way of predicting who our copycat will choose."
They both whip their heads towards the door as Gabriel swings it on its hinges and slams it as he strides inside.
"We have a problem. I just got back from a crime scene." He tosses a note in an evidence bag onto Ash's desk.
Dearheart,
There are monsters in the world. Do not worry. I'm facing them down. I'm fighting back.
Sam and Ash gaze down at it in horror. Sam picks it up gingerly, wincing at the feeling of the residual glee left behind by the copycat.
"Who-?"
"Dick Roman. Business man. Guy had the same name. What were the chances, right?" He slumps down into Sam's empty desk chair. His posture oozes frustration.
"Sam," he snaps from where he slouches, "I understand how you feel, and I understand that you don't want to see him-"
"Gabe-"
"-but you are going. Ash is right and you know it. Suck it up and play your role."
"What the hell am I supposed to ask him about? Ash can bring you up to speed on this, but the copycat is going to pull from people he knows now. What good will it do the case for me to go there?"
Gabriel's eyes flash as his patience grows thin.
"I asked around," he growls, "Dean Smith had a cellmate. They were close. Intimately close. Smith started a riot when he got released two years ago. It's what landed him on Death Row. Ask about him, if nothing else."
There's enough tension in the room to stifle an elephant. Ash's eyes flick from Sam to Gabriel, as if observing a silent tennis match. Quietly, Sam says through gritted teeth,
"You can't give me orders, you're a civilian." There's a beat of silence before Gabriel quips back,
"I'm a washed up ex-FBI Agent who still outranks you in awesome, so there."
Gabriel grins, and stress wheezes out of the room like air from a balloon. They burst into the laughter that comes only out only times of desperation and relieved anger. They laugh until their sides ache from the pain of it and their lungs refuse to push out more air. Finally, once their lungs have settled, Gabriel says,
"Castiel Novak. Remember that name. Ask him about Castiel Novak."
A/N Good grief! this chapter is long (by my writing standards). The "300 mil" is a reference to a running gag between my friends and I.