Chapter 5

"This is stupid, Dean." It's not the first time Sam's said it, and it won't be the last time Dean ignores it.

"It's been less than a week. You should stay in the hospital." Dean shrugs and walks—creaks—steadily toward the Impala.

"God! It's like the rawhead all over again," his brother grinds out. "When your stitches pop and you die, I am going to freaking kill you."

Been dead; can't recommend it, Dean thinks but doesn't say. A different thought occurs to him. "What was it like for you?" he asks. "After Cold Oak. You were dead for three days. Do you remember where you were?"

Sam stops and stares. "I can't believe you. What the hell difference does it make where I was?"

"I figure you must have gone to Heaven, had Thanksgiving with Stephanie what's 'er name about a hundred times." The memory of what he'd found out about Sam's definition of Heaven had filtered in through a dream, a very unsettling and unhappy dream. It had stayed with him when some of Dead Dean the First's other memories had not. He reminds himself that it's not going to happen. Not anymore.

Doesn't change the fact Sam's Heaven consisted of other families' memories.

"Dean?"

He jerks back to the here and now to see Sam is frowning at him. "There are times," Sam says, "when I really think you're a changeling, some kind of Dean-from-an-alternate-universe."

This time Dean laughs out loud. "You wouldn't be the only one, dude," he says before slowly and carefully levering himself into the passenger seat. "C'mon, Sam, don't want to be late for the party."

The witches are in Palestine, Illinois. It's a six- or seven-hour drive from Memphis for a law-abiding citizen. Dean would've made it in five, but Dean's unconscious in the passenger seat. Stubborn bastard should've stretched out in the back. Sam's not above taking advantage, though. He's got his iPod jack in and is playing soft, dreamy guitar that requires no effort. Dean would've totally bitched at him about the tunes and Sam's half-surprised that the very calmness of the music hasn't disturbed his crotch-rock addicted older brother. It doesn't. Dean goes on sleeping. Lulled there, perhaps, by the familiar crooning of the Impala's engine.

Sam also uses the time to look at his brother, really look. Seeing the wrinkles, slightly deeper, and the frown that never quite goes away. The freckles are thick over Dean's face, standing out more than they usually do.

There's grey in his hair.

Just a few strands, but enough that, even a couple years ago it would've started a prank war. Sam would've had the hair color in the shampoo so quick… Or maybe that bluing stuff old ladies use to make their hair go white-white instead of yellowy-white. Sam smiles, wondering what Dean would do in retaliation. Sam's smile falls away because it's not two years ago and he's not sure they'll ever have another prank war.

Even when Dean manages to sleep in the car, it isn't very healing. He needs something to take his mind off the stupid fucking itchy scab that is his healing wound—and the painful weeping sore that's his relationship with Sam—so he spends some of the trip designing new badges for them to use once they're in Palestine. He even goes so far as to do a mock-up on Sam's laptop.

Sam frowns when he shows him the rough draft. "Food and Drug Administration. Dean, seriously?"

"Who else would inspect tainted food?" he answers with a smile he knows doesn't reach his eyes. It would be a challenge—FDA investigator badges aren't common—but Sam just shakes his head. That's okay. Dean isn't committed to the idea anyway.

He's still drooping by the time they reach Palestine and the half-hour or so it takes Sam to locate the first victim only increases the temptation he feels to stay at the motel and let Sam do all the footwork. Except he has to direct his brother to the evidence and he can't do that from bed. So when Sam, like the mother-hen he is, suggests he stay behind, Dean puts on the macho-bullshit act he's perfected for moments like these and forces himself to change into the suit.

The first sacrifice is Luke Wallace who, as Dean had predicted, ate candies that turned into razor blades in his mouth and throat and stomach the morning they arrive in Palestine. Dean consoles himself with the idea that if it hadn't been the husband, then someone else in the house would've died in an equally gruesome way. There was a baby, he remembers. What if the spell had turned the boy's mush into acid or something? Dean couldn't have handled that. Kids getting hurt has always been a weak spot.

He looks at it, the Wallace's home. It's a nice, well-cared for two-story Victorian typical of the Midwest. It's currently decked out for Halloween, with Styrofoam tombstones and plastic bones. People would probably mistake the crime scene tape as part of the decorations except for the squad car out front. "Maybe we should talk to Mrs. Wallace first," Sam suggests again and Dean can see him looking at the stairs.

Fucking stairs, Dean sighs, but he still drags himself out of the car. "Nah," Dean replies, "I doubt she has much to add other than 'we live in horrible times' or something along that line." And then he climbs up the fucking stairs. He could definitely live without stairs.

They flash their FBI badges to the young patrolman. The guy, who looks barely old enough to shave, gazes at them in awe and waves them in. As soon as they step into the house, Dean remembers. He actually has to pause as the memories solidify and sharpen in a way that's fucking dizzying.

"Dean?" Sam's voice is concerned.

Dean tries to focus but all he sees is this hand coming for him with something shiny and he doesn't think, just reacts, backing away from the threat. Sam drops his hand and Dean sees that it was his brother's watch, catching the afternoon sunlight. He looks up into Sam's face and sees hurt and betrayal and anger.

He can't take the movement back and he can't think of an explanation. "Give me a moment," he says, stalling for time. "Something just… hit me."

"Another vision?" Sam moves closer, blocking Dean's view of the room. Or maybe blocking the room's view of Dean. Either way, Dean's blocked in. He very deliberately doesn't move away because this is his brother.

"Something like that, I think." He takes a breath. "Look for a hex bag."

"Where?" Sam asks before he answers himself; "The kitchen is the logical place because that's where the spell kicked in. The locals would've been all over it, though."

"So we look where they wouldn't think to," Dean responds and that's exactly what they do. They look in the cupboards—the ones containing dishes as well as the ones containing food—and they look in and around the oven and the dishwasher. At least Sam looks around; Dean mostly leans against the counter and tries not to puke from the pain in his gut. He hates healing.

"Yahtzee," Sam exhales, bending his huge frame to pull at a ribbon sticking out from under the fridge. It doesn't budge. He pushes the fridge forward and gets the hex bag, holding it in triumph. Dean smiles back while wondering if he can convince Sam that knowing the names of the witches is part of his 'vision'. Not likely, he decides.

Now he has to get back down those fucking stairs.

Dean makes Sam bring him back to the motel, claiming his stomach hurt, which it does, but not as bad as he'd made out. He actually wants to do some research into how they can banish a demon of Lilith's age and strength. So he suggests, casually, that they could use some provisions knowing that Sam, in his overprotective nurse mode, will run off to the nearest Winn-Dixie. Cheap tactic to use on an easy target, but Dean doesn't have the energy to be creative.

While Sam's out getting supplies, he hits a couple of his favorite sites. Filled with ancient arcane lore and crap, two of the sites are hosted by True Believers. The other one handles the information like it's all a big joke. Of course, it's the one that's fully indexed and searchable. It also lacks the eye-searing neon colors, for which Dean's eyes thank him.

Dean rejects, with great reluctance, a neo-wiccan tract that utilizes the summer solstice and nudity. It's fall and the results are unproven. He similarly rejects an eighteenth-century ritual involving nine virgins and cannibalism, but without the reluctance. Then he hears the Impala pull up outside so he erases the history and closes the browser and tries not to wonder why he's hiding his activities from his brother.

By the time Sam enters with two plastic bags of supplies, he's lying on the bed, staring at the ceiling. It's quiet between them as Sam puts the food and beer in the room's small fridge. Dean follows his brother's movements as he opens a beer then the laptop and finally the hexbag.

He doesn't want to go to sleep again. Too many fucking dreams when he's sleeping, so he breathes and tries not to scratch.

"Don't scratch," Sam says, like he can see out his ears, and Dean obediently stops. Sam's leg is jiggling like one of those dashboard hula girls.

The younger man turns in his chair to face Dean. "You were right; we're definitely on a witch hunt."

Dean grunts an absent agreement—he's still trying to figure how to do the big reveal without his brother calling bullshit.

"This isn't your typical hex bag," Sam continues, picking up a dried flower from the bag. "This is goldthread, an herb that's been extinct for two hundred years. This," he holds up the coin, "looks like a real Celtic coin, like six-hundred-years-old real. This is the kicker, though." He holds up a small, charred stick-like thing.

"Bone?" Dean asks.

Sam nods. "The charred metacarpal bone of a newborn baby." Dean grimaces. "Relax. It's at least a hundred years old."

"Doesn't make it better, man," Dean sighs. He'd forgotten about the bone, but it's his way in. "So who have we got as potential Luke-haters?"

"I talked to the wife and she seems on the level."

"How about the baby-sitter?" Casual, casual, casual…

Sam nods excitedly. "That was a good call. They do have a babysitter." He looks at his notes, "And she's not as wholesome as she made herself out to be when she applied for the job. Tracy Davis has got a temper. She got a warning from some mall cops and she's been written up twice at her school for having 'violent altercations' with one of her teachers."

Dean knows this is his chance. "Which one?"

"Which teacher?" Sam asks. When Dean nods confirmation he looks at his files. "Um… Don Harding, the art teacher, both times."

"Art teacher, huh?" Dean hopes he sounds innocently curious. "What do we know about him?"

"Uh…" the younger hunter clicks open a few files. "Huh." He sits back in surprise. "He transferred in at the same time as Tracy showed up." He clicks through more screens. "And he's from the same town."

"Coincidence? I don't think so," Dean says from his bed. "That bone you found. How hot would the oven have to be to char it like that?"

Sam does his Google-fu. "About five hundred degrees Celsius; too hot for a kitchen stove."

"How about a pottery kiln?"

Sam smirks. "They're in it together."

"Yahtzee," Dean agrees. "And if your research is correct they have to kill someone today. We stop the death, we stop the ritual."

"Which one do we watch?" Sam asks, "Because there's no way I'm letting you behind the wheel. You're paler than those sheets—and they're not very clean."

Dean lifts his head and twists to get a look at them: Sam's right. He lets his head drop, uncaring. "I vote for Tracy. As an emancipated teen she has a lot more freedom and a lot fewer eyes watching her. Today is, whadyacallit, Devil's Night, right?" Sam nods. "I bet she's going to a party."

"Huh," Sam grunts. "No bet."

They decide to put on their Fed suits to confront her. Sam tries to talk Dean out of coming: he should stay, heal up. Dean just gives him a flat look and levers himself carefully off the bed. It's hard for Sam to stop himself from helping his brother, but the only thing that would happen is that he'd get his hand snapped off. That it's normal for Dean to be snarky when healing doesn't reassure Sam at all, because usually Dean does better than this. Usually he shrugs off injuries quicker. Of course, Sam explains to himself, usually Dean hasn't spent the equivalent of forty years in Hell and hasn't been stabbed by his brother. Either one could explain why he's a little slower bouncing back.

He decides he needs a shower and knows that it's another retreat. He does need one, though; he's been sweating like he's got his own personal raincloud hovering. And he's got the shakes. It took him three tries to hit ctrl-F because his fingers were twitching. It was better in the car. Between the engine and the radio and the soothing familiarity of it, he'd been better able to maintain.

He looks at himself in the mirror and admits that Ruby had lied to him. About the blood, at least. He's still not ready to agree with Dean about killing Lilith, but Ruby had definitely lied about her blood being safe. It hadn't been safe. It was addictive and now he's suffering withdrawals, and if she popped up in front of him right now and offered up a vein, he'd have a hard time saying no.

He lets his head drop against the mirror.

He's fucked up.

He's fucked up. Dean's fucked up. They're hunting two powerful witches to stop them before they raise one of the most evil demons ever known. The world is heading toward Armageddon and angels expect them to stop all of it.

'What else can they pile on?' he wonders with a sigh.

He finds out when he exits the bathroom in nothing but the thin motel towel and finds Castiel and some other guy, a big black dude who glares at him as if he's body lice. "Sam Winchester," the new guy—probably an angel, Sam thinks—acknowledges the hunter's entrance. "Glad to see you've ceased your extracurricular activities," he sneers before turning away to look out the window. "See that you keep it that way."

"Dean?" he asks cautiously.

"Yeah," Dean answers voice tight with anger. It doesn't help calm Sam down any. "So Castiel you already know. The other guy is Uriel. He's a 'specialist'."

Sam recognizes that tone. "What does he specialize in?" he asks, though he's got a pretty good idea.

"If we can't stop the witches from raising Sam Hain, he's going to wipe out the whole town." Which is the explanation Sam was expecting but it's still heart-stopping to hear.

"That's it?" Sam stutters in protest because there's no way. "That's your plan, you're gonna smite the whole friggin' town?" No way. No frigging way.

It's Castiel who answers. "We're out of time, this witch has to die; the seal must be saved." His voice is subdued, as if he regrets what he's saying.

"There are over a thousand people here," Sam points out, thinking it will make them reconsider. After all, they are the frigging good guys!

"One thousand two hundred fourteen," Uriel interrupts. His voice is calm, as if he's counting toothpicks.

Sam glares at his back. "And you're willing to kill them all? You can't do that," he says and even he doesn't know whether he's ordering or pleading. "I mean, you're angels. Aren't you supposed to… You're supposed to show mercy."

"Says who?" The dark angel glances over his shoulder and Sam shivers at how cold his eyes are, how far removed from anything human. "This isn't the first time I've–" he pauses dramatically "–purified a city."

"We must protect the Seal," Castiel says firmly. "Too many have fallen already."

"That won't be necessary," Dean says. "We know who the witches are. We know where they are and we've got a plan."

"Yeah," Sam breaks in eagerly, upset by what he sees in Uriel. "We'll stop them before they summon anyone. Your seal won't be broken and no one has to die."

"We have our orders," Castiel says and he's staring at Dean. In his eyes, Sam can read apology, shame, and… hope?

From his spot by the window, Uriel exudes impatience. He turns around, marching to stand next to his fellow angel. "Castiel, we're wasting time with these mud monkeys." His voice drips contempt and dislike.

Okay, Sam thinks, that was unfriendly. He finds he's shifted his stance into a defensive one. With just a towel around his waist, it's probably ridiculous, but something about the dark-skinned angel makes it necessary.

Dean doesn't shift. He's tense, but it's anger, not fear. "You're not going to do anything, junkless, because if you smite this town then we're going with it. See, I figure I'm worth something to your bosses, since you angels went to so much trouble busting me out of Hell, which means if you wanna waste me, go ahead. See how the big guys dig that."

Holy shit, Sam thinks. Dean's facing down a friggin' angel.

Uriel's brow lowers and he takes another, more menacing, step forward. "I will drag you out of here myself."

"To do that, you'll have to kill me." Dean smiles mean and sharp. "Then you've got the same problem."

Sam can practically see the big angel vibrating with rage. "I will not allow you—" he growls and this is it. Sam's going to have to watch his brother get killed again.

Castiel holds up a hand and it freezes the other angel in place. "Uriel, you know our orders." The black angel shifts and sneers before moving away. "Dean, I suggest you move quickly."

"I know what's at stake, Cas," the hunter responds. He glances at Sam, "We both do. We'll call if we need you," Dean says pointedly.

Castiel looks at Dean. To Sam, it's as if he's trying to see into his brother's soul. Dean doesn't flinch and finally, the angel nods cautiously. "Very well. I look forward to hearing from you."

Between one blink and the next the angels are gone and there's nothing left but the faint sound of wings beating. Sam rounds on his brother. "What the hell were you thinking?" He knows that his anger at Dean is misplaced and is probably—mostly—caused by going cold turkey, but he practically dared an angel to kill him, right here, right in front of him. "Do you want to get yourself killed?"

Dean's staring at him, eyes hooded and hidden, but at that comment he barks out a laugh. "No, Sam, I don't want to get killed, but it kind of happens anyway."

That doesn't help Sam control his fury. "Why do you always have to be the hero?"

It's an accusation and Sam knows it and it makes him feel petty and small and jealous like when he was a little kid and they'd spar behind wherever they were living and Dad would praise Dean but not him, never him. He takes a breath pulling himself back into a sort of calm. "Why do we have to save everyone," he asks. "We could let the angels take care of this, go keep looking for Lilith…"

It wasn't a serious suggestion but Dean's already shaking his head. "We can do it, Sam."

Now it's Sam's turn to laugh bitterly. "Yeah, sure. You're injured—don't think I don't see you hunching over your gut—and I'm strung out—" Shit, he hadn't meant to say it out loud. He stares in wide-eyed horror at Dean, waiting for the rant and the lecture.

"Yup, we're pretty fucked up," Dean gives him a lopsided smile. "Know what else we are?" Sam closes his mouth and mutely shakes his head. "Too stubborn to give up. Now go get dressed before that towel gives up trying to cover your fat ass and falls off. I love ya, man, but I don't want to see that."

And they're okay again. At least for a while.