This time Dean wasn't too far away. This time he wasn't too slow. This time he wasn't a minute too late.
This time he was right there. This time Sam wasn't going to bleed out slumped in his arms, blood drooling from his mouth, the spark and light leaving Sam's eyes, and at the same time Dean's life and heart.
This time neither one of them were going to die.
Shouting, Dean swung around, fist plowing into Mr. Baseball Bat's face, knocking him back. The man stumbled backwards, lost his balance, and hit the pavement with a meaty thud.
Not waiting to see what Mr. Baseball Bat was going to do, Dean spun, going from standstill to a full spurt in two long, powerful strides. With speed born of desperation, terror, and sheer need, Dean slammed his shoulder into Knifeman. The two of them hit the concrete, sliding a few feet.
Sam's yelled plea of, "DEAN!" reached him in time. Rolling away from Knifeman, Dean reared back, kneeled on the arm holding the knife and punched the man repeatedly in the face. Knifeman got his hand free and swung wildly at Dean. A line of red followed as the knife sliced through his forearm. Ignoring the searing pain, Dean pounded his fist against the man, not caring where he hit, only knowing this lunatic wasn't killing his brother.
He wasn't watching Sam die again.
"Dean. Stop. You'll kill him." Sam's voice, deep and desperate, got through the haze of anger. Sam's hands grabbed at him, latching on and pulling Dean away.
Sam's best efforts went south. As soon as Sam yanked Dean back and he was able to stagger to his feet, he was hit with a boot to his middle. Doubling over, harsh grunt pushed out between clenched teeth, Dean nearly fell over when Sam darted around him, pistol up he planted himself between Dean and his attacker.
"I mean it." Sam snarled out.
The two men stopped, and for a few seconds seemed to think better of challenging Sam.
"You can't shoot us both." Mr. Baseball Bat had recovered his footing, and was coming at Sam, swinging.
Gripping Sam's shoulder for support, Dean straightened, wincing away the pull against his ribs from the bruising and pain blossoming out to circle his torso. Pulling his own pistol free, he put Mr. Baseball Bat in his sights. A quick nudge to Sam's side, and Sam's aim was immediately focused on Knifeman.
Coughing, Dean snapped at the men, "We don't know anything. We haven't done anything or hurt anyone. Go home."
Sam sucked in a breath and went very still beside him. The pistol in Sam's grip trembled ever so slightly. Dean watched as Sam's eyes flicked first across the two men, both of whom wore sports jerseys. Mr. Baseball Bat had the number ten emblazoned on his chest. Beside him Knifeman wore the number twenty-two. Each held one weapon high and in front of them. They were standing in such a position that they appeared to stand on either side of two doors in a building across the street.
2 1 0 2 2 1 1 2
Swallowing the acrid fluid trying to bubble up from his middle, Dean made good use of their hesitation, and the fact they were faced with two guns. Making a mental note to disarm Sam when they were safely inside their motel room, he pinched the skin over Sam's elbow lightly. The second his brother's eyes shifted to him, Dean jerked his head to the side. Sam lowered his weapon then tucked it behind his back.
Sam gave Peter a sour look but turned the boy around anyway and moved him ahead. Dean followed, keeping their attackers in his sites until they were half a block away.
The minute they were a safe distance away, Dean's arm was claimed in Sam's grip. He didn't fight it while Sam wrapped a rag pulled from his jacket pocket around the wound on Dean's arm. Gritting his teeth against the urge to pull back and snap out an I'm fine Dean reminded himself what shaky ground Sam had been on for months, even before Dean went away. Sam's quietly desperate actions since they'd been trapped here focused even more on Dean. The cut was minor, more messy than anything else, but Dean recognized the sense of security it gave his brother to give him a bandage, even a crude one.
"You all right?" Dean pulled his newly bandaged arm away, shifting so his hand landed on Sam's back. Sam swallowed and nodded. "How about you?" He tapped Peter's shoulder.
The boy looked up at him and beamed. "That was awesome!"
"Yeah." Dean grinned at him and wiped one hand over the boy's head. "Let's check out your house."
Peter nodded. Sam's sour look turned downright bitter.
Dean did his best impression of pretending to ignore them both while keeping a sharp eye on them.
It was a twenty minute brisk walk to Peter's house. Pistol held out and down, Dean crept up the front steps. Nudging the door open, he darted a glance at Sam who stood at the base of the steps, Peter in front of him. Sam's gaze skipped up and down the street then returned to meet Dean's, offering him a brief nod.
Dean stepped inside the house, did a quick scan before ducking his head back outside. "C'mon."
Sam and Peter each took the steps two at a time, coming to a halt beside Dean in seconds.
Peter slipped past them, heading toward the back of the house. "My room is back this way."
Moving quietly, Dean reached out, taking firm hold of Peter's shoulder. "Stay where we can see you." Peter looked from one to the other. "Okay."
Hearing Sam's sudden intake of breath, Dean turned enough to catch a look at his brother. Sam's fingers skimmed over something on a table near the door. He turned it so Dean could see. Two checks, number one-one-zero-one and two-two-two-one sat on top of a notebook with a large two printed across the cover. As calmly as he could, Dean reached over, pulled Sam's hand away from his hair.
1 1 0 1 2 2 2 1 2
Dean reached around Sam and turned the checks over. They moved first through the living room, Dean's eyes jumped from one thing to another, he saw Sam's go twice as fast. Everything his eyes landed on seemed to have some combination of the same sets of numbers, three ones, a zero and four twos. As they followed Peter through to the kitchen and hallway beyond, Sam moved more closely behind Dean. Dishes were arranged in groups of two's intermittent with single plates and a gap. Everything in the house was somehow arranged into the same numbers in different orders. Even the furniture and the sleeping bags Peter's family had set up had the same pattern of numbers.
When they reached Peter's bedroom door Dean felt the color drain from his face. A brief glance back at Sam had him hoping his kid brother didn't pass out; he was too big to carry. Peter's door was adorned with license plates from various states. The letters on the plates varied, but to a last each one had nothing but twos, ones and zeros.
"Dean." Sam whispered, pulling Dean's sleeve between two fingers and tugging for a few seconds. "We gotta get the hell out of here." Dean felt the tremors vibrating in Sam's hand.
"I'm gonna get some stuff." Peter was inside his room, throwing things into a backpack, oblivious to either Dean or Sam.
A few minutes later they were back outside, heading to their motel. Dean's chest loosened, the urgency crawling under his skin eased off. The feeling of a dead weight pressed between his shoulder blades lightened. From the looks Sam kept aiming in his direction, he figured the kid was experiencing the same feelings. Thankfully they managed to get to their motel quickly and without incident. Dean hustled them along, trying desperately and knowing he failed to shield Sam from the glares and pointed fingers aimed in his direction.
They needed out and needed out now before this got out of hand and someone got to Sam for real and during a period he'd be unable to defend himself.
Smokey Mountain Inn…
"Sam, gimme a hand with this stuff." Dean lifted one of their duffels and bumped Sam's chest with it.
"I'll help you." Peter jumped off the bed he'd perched on.
"No, you stay in here." Dean opened the door, arching an eyebrow at Sam until his brother moved forward, with hesitation Dean thought. "We'll be right there." Dean pointed out the door at their car.
Standing at the corner of the car, so Peter could easily see him but not Sam who came to a stop directly behind the car, Dean lifted the fake bottom of the trunk, dropped the duffel in after taking out a few knives and another pistol. Sam stood, hand on the trunk lid, leaning in a bit and watching.
How the hell was he going to do this, say this? Frozen threads of uncertainty fluttered through his insides, skipped from his intestines to his chest, slithered up his throat and dropped back to his stomach.
Wiping one hand over his face, Dean steeled himself, "Sammy…give me your gun."
"Huh?" Sam's forehead was resting against his hand gripping the trunk. He rolled his head sideways enough to look at Dean, startled.
"You can't…Sam you can't walk around armed."
Sam straightened. His confused expression flashed from angry to hurt in seconds. "Dean? Those people want to kill me, and you want me to walk around defenseless?"
"Sam, you're not exactly defenseless without a gun. You know I won't let them hurt you, but, Sam, you haven't exactly been yourself since we've gotten here."
The way Sam blinked at him, Dean knew he was pushing back tears. His eyes shimmered, lower lip pulled between his teeth, expression completely crestfallen now. "You don't think I can be trusted?" It wasn't much more than a whisper.
"Aw, Sammy, of course I trust you. But not an hour ago you were coloring on the kids' menu, then snapping crayons and looking like you wanted to kill a thirteen-year-old." Dean swallowed the barbs in his throat threatening to crack his voice. "Sam, something is wrong, and walking around with a loaded gun, Sammy…you can't."
"I didn't do anything to Peter, or anyone." Sam's arms fell to his sides, his shoulders slumped, his gaze hit between his feet. "We back each other up, how can I do that now?" One tear got free, splashed on the ground between Sam's feet.
Hand resting on Sam's forearm, Dean squeezed. "Sammy, you gotta let me cover this one. We can't risk an accident. You're hearing voices in your head from people not there." Releasing Sam, he turned his hand palm up. "I need the gun, Sam."
Without looking up, Sam reached behind him, took his pistol and laid it in Dean's hand. Dean wanted to curl into a ball on the ground and cry. He'd never felt so low or helpless in his life.
The fact Sam jerked away from him when Dean raised his hand, wanting to rest it against Sam's neck, sent spikes of guilt and hurt through every bit of him.
"I'm not crazy," Sam blurted, needing Dean to believe that so much.
Dean was right, of course. Sam's brain was scrambled and no matter what he did to unscramble it, it just tangled and wove into more knots. He'd never give a five year old a gun, especially if that five year old was him.
Sam's a bomb.
"I never thought you were." Dean's hand froze where it was. He didn't move toward Sam, didn't move away either.
His second best means of protection was being stripped away.
"Sammy," Dean's voice was rough and had a wet quality Sam rarely heard. "You don't need a gun to look out for me. I'm not going to leave you; I'll take care of the village idiots."
Nothing bad will happen to you as long as I'm around.
"I know." Sam did know too. It was one of the constants in his life; Dean always looked out for him. The question of his own safety never came to the forefront of his mind.
Took Dean, Hellhounds took Dean.
Dean put the gun carefully into the trunk and gently moved Sam back a step before closing it quietly. It was Dean questioning the safety of those around Sam that had his head spinning even more. He stood staring at the ground, not able to look at Dean, to see the disappointment he was sure covered his brother's face.
"Sam, look at me." It wasn't a command, or even a question, it was a soft, desperate plea.
Sam couldn't, he just couldn't. He'd let Dean down in the most horrible way imaginable. Worse Dean had lost enough trust in him to leave Sam open and defenseless.
"Sammy."
Nothing bad will happen to you as long as I'm around.
Shaking his head, Sam blinked back more tears and bit down on his lip. He and Dean were a team, and he'd dropped his end. Dean would always protect him, but now Sam was unable to protect Dean.
You're not a killer, Sam. It's not in your bones.
Dean let his arm drop to his side, bouncing it lightly off his hip a few times, then rubbed at the back of his neck. Sam didn't want Dean feeling worse than he probably already did, but he couldn't find it in himself to do anything but stand there.
He heard how Dean drew in a deep, shaky breath. "Don't stay out here too long, okay. And stay where you can see me, please?"
Stay behind me. Nothing bad will happen to you as long as I'm around.
"Yeah. Okay." Sam managed to get the words out, nod his head.
He watched as Dean walked away, shoulders drooped; head down…my fault Dean's gone. Once in their room, Dean said something to Peter, a warm, easy smile spread over his face when Peter replied. Sam felt his upper lip twitch, his hands bunched to fists without his permission. Not taking Dean.
Dean had been wholly correct about one thing, Sam didn't need a gun.
Sam's a bomb.
He moved slowly, trying to slip unnoticed into their room and settled in a chair. He shoved his hands in his pockets so Dean wouldn't see his white knuckles. His teeth dug into his lip hard enough pain lanced across his jaw…can't let go, never let go, hold on, hold on. Peter's fault…Peter's fault…Dean's in Hell, can't let go…I want you to have it…I love it Sam, this amulet is awesome…don't let go…Peter's fault.
"Sam." Dean's quiet voice right above him, his hand on the top of Sam's head made him jerk then go still. "Stop that." Dean's fingers wound around Sam's arm then insisted Sam sit back, sit still.
He hadn't even been aware he was rocking back and forth.
"You okay?" Dean's voice was low enough only Sam heard.
He flinched and nodded. I kill things all the time, Dean.
"I'm gonna—" Dean's thumb speared over his shoulder in the direction of the bathroom.
Sam nodded again, eyes following Dean as he moved back to the room door, shut it and double checked the lock, then wandered to the bathroom, giving Peter a thump on the shoulder on his way by.
Crunching further into his chair, Sam stared at his knees, grit his teeth together to keep from saying anything and dug his hands deeper into his pockets. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't silence the voice in his head telling him to get rid of Peter. The images were harder to ignore, Sam's hands around Peter's neck, snapping it.
Eyes flicking to Peter…easy, it'd be easy, be quiet…can't let go of Dean…Peter's fault…Sam shook himself, stood too fast and had to grab the chair as the room tilted and swam for a few seconds. Striding to the table, he snatched a book…I kill things all the time…backpedaled to his chair and dropped in it. With a huff he opened the book and threw it onto his knees at the same time. He's a person…kill things all the time…Peter's fault…took Dean.
"Do you have anything to drink?"
Sam's eyes jumped to Peter. "Yeah." He slammed the book shut, stood and strode to the door. Great he had to get the kid whose neck he was daydreaming of snapping a bottle of water from the car. "Get a grip Sam, he's a little kid." He muttered to the Impala.
You'd do anything for your little brother, wouldn't you? You're my big brother, there's nothing I wouldn't do for you. Peter's fault.
Deep breaths, he needed deep breaths and to banish the voices whispering through his head. Ducking into the back seat of the car, he nearly whacked his head yanking his upper half out fast. His shoulders slumped when he caught sight of Peter jogging down the street, away from their motel.
"Great." Sam threw both hands in the air, and looked into their room. Dean was still in the damn bathroom.
Sam's a bomb.
"I lost a stupid thirteen year old. I'm never living this down."
Slamming the car door shut, Sam took off after Peter.
Bombs go ka-boom!
"Little bastard." Sam growled, his own voice startling him.
Trailing after Peter, Sam tried desperately to shut the voices up. The more he tried, the louder they became.
Peter's fault…Peter's fault…You're my big brother, there's nothing I wouldn't do for you…Hellhounds took Dean…Sam's a bomb.
Sam started to run. Maybe he could outrun the voices.
I kill things all the time…Peter's fault…We don't kill people…Peter's fault…
Kill…kill…kill.