Chapter 8

They reach Windom in time to grab a late dinner at the local Biggerson's. Sam still has the little plastic card giving them Free Food for a Year and there are a couple days left. Dean turned over the wheel a couple hours after leaving Kripke's Hollow. Sam was sure he'd heard him muttering "treat 'im like an adult, damn it" but it hadn't made sense so he'd ignored it, too surprised at being allowed to drive the Impala while Dean was able to be vertical.

Except he wasn't, really.

As soon as he'd climbed into Sam's usual seat, Dean had stretched out with a pained grunt and closed his eyes. He'd been rubbing his temple like his head ached and holding his side like it hurt too. Despite the Dagg-whatever Syndrome, Dean isn't healing very fast. Or maybe it was all the supernatural interference with the process—first angels then witches then angels again.

Sam stares down at Dean, sleeping curled slightly against the passenger door, and doesn't wake him. Years and worries have fallen from Dean's face and it could almost be three years ago when they had nothing more on their minds than finding Dad so they could find the thing that'd killed Jessica, and Mom, of course.

…you are more like him than I will ever be.

Is he really like Dad? So focused on what he wants and needs that he ignores everyone else's feelings, ignores Dean's?

Dean wanted revenge on Azazel for their mom but he hadn't been willing to pass by anyone in danger to get ahead of the bastard. Sam would've. If Dean hadn't been there, wanting to be a hero… A lot of people owe their lives to his brother.

…you were angry all the time.

Was he angry enough, all-the-time angry, that it actually blinded him? Is he still angry? Because, even though Dean hadn't said the words, Sam had still heard them.

Ruby had lied: about her blood, about Lilith. And Sam had forgotten her promise to save Dean, distracted by the more familiar promise of vengeance. The promise that he could kill the thing that had hurt him, taken Dean from him. He still wants to kill Lilith, but because of Dean, he isn't going to be able to. And yes, that does make him angry. The way the angels are playing with them pisses him off. The way Dean won't tell him why he changed after Carthage has him fuming.

And the way he'll grab at any excuse to be furious is beginning to scare him.

There's lead in his stomach, hot and half-liquid, but still a huge ball weighing him down. Nothing he can do about it now since Biggerson's is closing in an hour and they still need to find a motel. Then there's the research to be done, weapons to clean, truths to tease out of his big brother.

Dean shifts—tiny twitches in his brow and his fingers. A small sound escapes his lips and Sam thinks he might be sinking into a nightmare. They're less frequent than before. Whether it's the visions or remembering everything, Dean's sleeping a little better, and he's not drinking as much either so definite bonus there.

Why does he feel like there's another shoe waiting to fall right on them?

He leans down close to his brother's ear. "Dean. Man, get up." Dean comes awake with a jerk. His eyes are wide as he assesses for danger. Only after he knows they're safe does he groan at moving stiff muscles and half-healed wounds.

Their dad used to do that too, Sam remembers. John would go instantly from comatose to physically hyper-alert. Once he'd realized they weren't under attack his eyelids would fall and they'd barely be able to get a grunt from the man until his second shot of caffeine. Used to scare the shit out of Sam when he was a kid. He'd refused to poke Dad awake since he jumped almost as much as his dad. Instead he'd stand at the side of the bed calling 'Dad, Dad' in a progressively louder voice until it finally got through and woke John up. Doing it that way hadn't changed their father's reaction, unfortunately. John still jolted, Sam would jump, and Dean laughed at them both.

He hadn't thought about that in years.

"Did your vision give you instructions on how to kill ghouls?" Sam holds the door open for his brother who's now fumblingly half-asleep again—his brain following several steps behind his body.

"What else? Take the head."

Sam confirms they can use the card and they get a table in the back. Where civilians won't hear them talk about taking heads and all the other details that go into hunting the undead, but only after Dean orders a huge 'Bigger Man' breakfast. "I'm just waking up so it is my breakfast," Dean, defends his food choice, although Sam didn't say anything. There are vegetables mixed into Dean's scrambled eggs, and potatoes are like multi-vitamins when raw, so some of that healthiness has to have survived being deep-fried, right?

Now Sam watches his brother enthusiastically shovel eggs and hash browns and sausage into his mouth. Table manners are a thing of the past.

"Sam!"

Right. "Umm." What had they been talking about?

"I said, from what I remember, the ghouls started out doing the usual ghoul stuff."

"Scavenging in graveyards," Sam says to show he's been listening.

Dean nods. "Then they moved on to live meals but I don't—I wasn't shown, the names of any of their victims or the towns. I know they come here looking for payback against Dad." Sam laughs suddenly and Dean stops mid-chew.

"Dude, mouth."

Dean closes his mouth but keeps looking at him. Sam sighs, no getting out of this now. "Don't you think it's a little ironic that Dad, who took up hunting to get revenge on the thing that killed Mom, is targeted by monsters who want to get revenge on him for killing their father?"

Dean's eyes get that weird faraway look that's become all too common lately. "Everybody has parents, Sam, even monsters."

Sam's sure there's more to what Dean said than the mere words, but before he can call his brother on it, the server's at their table asking about the food and pouring them more coffee. She's cute, perky, and interested, but Dean barely glances at her. Sam hides his concern behind the lukewarm decaf—something he's not going to miss from Biggerson's once their year is up. Despite the content warnings, their coffee is never hot.

"So how do we find them?" he asks. "Wait here until they show up?"

"Well, Windom is where this starts and ends, so it might just be the center, too."

"So we read the local newspapers." Easy enough.

They head to the counter where Sam presents the little magic card and waits for the manager to be called to approve the credit.

It's another reason he's not going to miss eating here. Having the manager come out to approve the transaction always calls attention to them, makes them memorable, more memorable. He's six and a half feet tall and Dean is… Dean. Women usually remember his brother. Like the hostess currently standing behind the cash register. She's pretty and she's looking at both of them in appreciation. Sam smiles carefully back because, yeah, if the timing was better, he'd tap that. Dean barely looks as he pays cash for some coffee to go and a package of gum.

"You didn't get her phone number," Sam says as they leave the restaurant. He tucks the Biggerson's card carefully back in his wallet since there's still another thirty-six hours on it and they'll be here at least a day.

"Whose?" Dean asks before he gets it. "Oh, the cashier? Nah. No point. Not going to be here long enough and besides, not sure if that's the best activity when recovering from an abdominal wound."

"I thought it was always a good activity?" Dean had been nineteen, huge gash in his lower back, but he'd insisted on keeping his date with a cheerleader. Sam had been concerned. Dean had shrugged it off with a leer and a swagger. An attitude he'd carried on with almost up to when… when he'd died.

Sam's pretty sure this new, resurrected Dean won't respond the same way.

"Maybe when I was younger," Dean replies and confirms Sam's guess. Or his fear. Sam's not sure which one it is.

He's looking up at the sky so Sam looks up too. There are streetlights and clouds, so most of the stars are blocked from view.

"Look, there's Jupiter, just by Sagittarius."

Sam obediently looks where his brother's pointing and sees the ball of extra-brightness that he would've taken for a plain old star. Dean had always been more aware of the night sky. He's the one who stole a book about it and dragged Sam outside when they should've been sleeping. His big brother may have hated camping but he could navigate through the wilderness just fine as long as he could see the stars.

By the time he's ready to call Dean on his 'when I was younger' comment, Dean's already walked to the driver's side. "Sam. Keys."

He thinks of arguing, he does. Sam thinks of all the things they haven't talked about and probably should. He thinks about it.

Then he throws Dean the keys and gets in the car without question, like he always does.

"Okay, so what's the plan?" Sam asks as soon as they settle into the motel room. "Once we find the town, how do we find the ghouls?"

Dean rubs his head. All that food has made him dopey.

"Dean?" Sam's voice is sharp.

"I dunno, Sam," Dean confesses. "We can figure it out tomorrow. They're not going to take out Dad's…" He almost says 'girlfriend', except they weren't. And he can't bring himself to say hook-up because he doesn't want to think of his father and casual sex in the same sentence. "They're not going to take out Adam's mom, tonight."

Sam huffs out a breath. "How do you know?"

"Cuz I do." He's already got his boots off and is shrugging out of his shirts. He knows the knife wound is healed again but that doesn't stop it from itching like a son of a bitch.

"Dean…" It's Sam's 'you're being childish and annoying' voice. "You dragged us here. Now you're not going to take this seriously?"

"I'll take it seriously after I get more than three hours sleep. Horizontal," he adds as Sam opens his mouth. "In a bed. Come on, man. You can use the down time too. The pistons in your brain are wearing themselves out, I know it." He keeps his tone light, suggestion only, and is rewarded when Sam agrees to doing only a quick search while Dean's getting ready for bed. It helps that yawns are contagious and it doesn't matter that it's just the brain's way of getting more oxygen. Yawning equals sleepy. He yawned then Sam yawned, and it was settled. Sleep now, research tomorrow.

In the bathroom he decides to do the full routine: shower, floss, brush, shave—he even cleans his nails. He doesn't know why until he recognizes a memory of a future full of too many nights dropping onto their beds fully dressed. Exhaustion, caution, or alcohol had—will have—made them uncaring of comfort or cleanliness. If he actually strips down to his boxers, he thinks, he's denying the urgency and despair that had, or will, grip him—grip both of them—next year. Or maybe it would have been next fall that it got so bad. Lucifer up and the Horsemen loose, and Ellen and Jo…

They could go see Ellen and Jo, he realizes suddenly. They're still alive now and Ellen doesn't know he got out of Hell, unless Rufus has already told her. Still, if he calls now, it could save him an ass-whooping later. It sounds like a better idea than hunting ghouls even to save his unknown half-brother's life. Except saving his mom was a big reason Adam said yes, or will say yes in that other future. The future that isn't going to happen now.

And there are all those other people the ghouls killed. They're alive right now. It'd be nice if they could stay that way.

He leaves the light on when he goes into the sleeping area. Sam's sitting at the computer but he shuts it down when he sees Dean and heads to the bathroom for his turn. Then he pauses, looks at Dean's boxers and T-shirt.

"You sleeping in that?" There's a world of surprise in Sam's voice and his eyes linger on the scar Cas left behind that's just peeking out from under his sleeve.

"Yeah. Jeans suck to sleep in."

Sam has to agree but Dean can see he's still baffled as he goes to get ready for bed. It's such a small thing, sleeping undressed, but it means that he's letting himself be vulnerable, that he doesn't expect an attack, that this is a job not an obsession. That they're normal guys travelling the country, not supernaturally cursed, dysfunctional idjits who don't know when to stop. They have a life outside hunting and being hunted. Sam might not have seen all of that in how Dean was dressed for bed, but he obviously saw enough to make him pause.

Good. Maybe it'll make him think too.

He peels back the covers and slips between the rough, cold sheets. They smell like detergent, which is a step up from the sour sex, old booze and stale cigarettes of the place in Kripke's Hollow. 'Not as nice as the soft, warm sheets of Lisa's bed,' the thought drifts through his mind. And certainly a step down from sleeping next to soft, warm Lisa…

He's pulled out of grey mist by warmth—not heat, not pain—but warmth, comforting arousing warmth. Warm, soft body on top of him, rubbing. Warm, soft lips pressing down on him, sucking. Warm, soft breaths flowing over his skin…

Oh yeah. Now this is his type of dream.

Lisa runs her strong hands over him, caressing the sensitive skin around his scars and making him shiver. She nibbles on his skin with strong teeth and moist tongue and it doesn't take long until he's pulling her up to capture her mouth with his. He lets his hands roam over familiar territory, relishing her soft moans. He rolls them so he can move over her body more easily, reach all the places he enjoys. She's panting, calling his name. Her voice gets stronger, deeper…

And turns into a semi's air horn being blasted on the road beside the motel.

Son of a bitch!

He scrubs shaky hands over his face, through his hair. He'd been enjoying that. Much better than dreams featuring angels, demons or ghosts. Speaking of which… the air around him is chilly and his breath fogs in the death-cold room.

Aw, shit, Dean thinks and lifts up onto his elbows.

The ghost is standing beside the bed, looking unfinished and thin. Dean swallows bile because this one had been gruesome. His ghost's missing bits of itself, which means he is missing bits of himself: a hip, some ribs, parts of his hands, his face… It's like he's a jigsaw puzzle that hasn't been fully assembled. What Dean can see is covered in blood.

He glances over at his brother, but Sam is a lump of steady breathing.

"How long?" he asks quietly.

"About six months," his spirit answers. Dead Dean, the edited version, rubs a quick hand over his mouth then over what there is of his scalp. "They take Sam. Just over a month from now. They fucking grab him off the street and take him because he didn't tell me Lilith's been stalking him." His ghost's voice rises in anger, fear, exasperation, and a hundred other emotions that Dean doesn't take time to identify. He glances over at his sleeping brother, but Sam's chest still rises and falls softly and steadily.

"Where'd they take him?" he asks.

His ghost shakes his head. "We couldn't find him. I'm not sure the angels even fucking tried. Except Cas, and they punished him for it." The spirit self flickers as if the emotion is causing a short circuit. "It turns out that Sam doesn't have to be the one to kill Lilith. He just has to be in the area, overflowing with demon's blood, and he has to say yes."

Oh.

He remembers a memory that's not really his. He sees pale Jimmy Novak chowing down on a burger or three, explaining how he'd consented to Castiel taking over his body. "He said yes? Sam did that?"

"He must have, because Lucifer was definitely wearing him."

"Why?"

His ghost shrugs, which looks odd with only one shoulder. "Maybe they tricked him or made him promises—convinced him somehow—I don't know. I just know he was the Devil and he killed me, us… again." The missing shoulder joint flashes into existence. Dean, the Abridged Version, looks over at it. "They're finding all my—our parts. Then they're going to salt and burn, so we don't have much time."

"Okay," he agrees, knowing his ghost wouldn't have come back if he didn't have an idea or information or something. He hopes.

"That idea you had, about banishing Lilith? You need to get on that."

Dean nearly laughs, "I'm looking, man, but I can't find anything that can handle a demon of her power."

His future self nods, agreeing, "I know. It was hard, but they—Cas and Bobby—they found one. The book is by Gabrioli Imbroglione and it's called… Shit," he snaps his fingers impatiently but there's no sound. "Manuale per lo spostamento di Demoni Potenti lontani. It translates to 'handbook for banishing powerful demons' or something.

Dean tries to repeat the name back but knows he's messing it up terribly.

"Crap," his ghost says, "Okay, I'm going to give you just this memory and that's it. I don't want to mess with the memories you got from the first of us." He feels a light touch on his forehead—a flash of memory: musty, dark, dust… reading a book… reading the reference to the ritual… trying to locate it. The memory stops when the white-suited figure steps into Bobby's study. "Hello, Dean."

"Got it?" his ghost asks.

What he remembers most right now is that image of Sam/not-Sam, smarmy and self-righteous, but the memory of the book is there, planted in his brain, so he nods.

Abridged Dean returns the nod. "Good, great." Except they both know it's really not. The spirit tilts his head, either looking at or listening to something only he can sense. He's complete now, no missing bits. "They've got the lighter fluid," he announces, which means it's good-bye.

"Hey," Dean asks, "Where do we go?"

His ghost laughs bitterly. "The answer hasn't changed since you asked Zombie Lunch." Dean shrugs in embarrassed apology. His future dead self smiles at him. "Good luck, Dean."

"You too," he whispers as his ghost flares and burns right in front of him.

"Holy shit," the voice comes from beside him, from his very awake and astonished brother. "Holy shit, Dean. That was you."

It's reassuring to know that Sam's grasp of the obvious is excellent at way-too-early in the morning.

"Yeah."

"You were a friggin' ghost," Sam points out.

"Yeah, I know." Dean says agreeably. Sam turns to look at him, eyes sharp and intelligent, and Dean is reminded that his baby brother had earned a full ride to Stanford. There's a brain behind all that hair and the demon's blood thing. He looks away.

"That's how you knew," Sam says. "It's not visions; it's visits from your ghosts."

It's an accusation and Dean doesn't bother answering, instead he asks a question of his own. "Does it matter?" He needs a drink but he'll settle for water.

"How many?" Sam demands, following him to the bathroom door, and then he waits. Sam can wait in silent demand for hours.

"This is the third. Kind of like that Dickens Christmas movie, huh?" Dean checks his brother but Sam isn't smiling.

"That's why… That's why you killed Ruby," Sam says slowly. "Because your ghost told you to. Convinced you—"

Dean raises a hand to cut off that line of speculation. "Nobody told me to kill Ruby."

Sam hasn't finished. "The night you walked in on me and her exorcising demons. When you came back to the room, you'd seen one then."

"Yeah, that night," Dean agrees. "That ghost, he was from about four years from now. He'd seen what happened when Ruby stuck around, talking you into drinking the demon's blood."

"And what did happen, Dean?" Sam's practically vibrating with anger.

Dean turns away, hiding his eyes. "You killed Lilith and her death opened Lucifer's cage. The Four Horsemen rose and it was literally turning into Hell on earth: disasters, disease, the works."

"I did…" Sam swallows and Dean hears the click. He knows that Sam's anger has drained away and horror has likely taken its place. "Did I say yes?"

"No, not right away." Sam's eyes widen and he sways on his feet. Fuck, Sam might just pass out, Dean realizes. It'd be like a redwood going down, he thinks, but even he can't work up a laugh. He grabs Sam's arm and steers him towards the bed, pushing him down. "Later, a long time later, you said yes but it was part of a plan to take Lucy back down below. It worked."

"I went to Hell?" Now he's looking at him like a little kid, wanting reassurance that the bogeyman wasn't real.

"It's not going to happen now." Dean sits back on his rumpled bed wishing he could've stayed in his dream. "Ruby is dead and she was the only demon close enough to you to get you to the church on time."

Sam bounces up. "I married her?"

His voice vibrates in outraged horror so close to a comedy screech that Dean's tempted to jiggle his ears in reply, like in the cartoons. He realizes that it wouldn't be appropriate. Instead he reaches out and drags his girlie-brother back down onto his bed. "Nah, man. That's just where the ritual took place. In a convent chapel, actually."

Sam sits there, breathing hard for a bit, scrubbing at his face, trying to get his heart back under control. Dean can relate. He stands up and gets Sam some water, knowing that the cool liquid will help his brother's throat. Sam drains the glass, one swallow, and gives it back. Before Dean can go back to the sink, his wrist is caught in a giant hand. "So that's it. We're safe now?"

Shit.

"We're not."

Dean shakes his head. "As long as Lilith is out there, the demons can still open the cage. That means they need you. You're the only one who can, I dunno, hold him for any length of time without burning up from the inside. The only way to get you clear of this is if we banish Lilith. Then the pressure will be off both of us, and all we'll have to deal with is old-fashioned monsters like spirits and werewolves and shit." He rubs his hand over the wound. It's itching again. "No more angels, hopefully no more demons, or at least they won't be quite so focused on us. A chance to, I dunno, start over."

"You're still on about banishing Lilith," Sam says in disbelief.

Dean stares at him, eyes hard. "And you're still thinking I plucked the idea out of my ass?" he counters and Sam has the grace to look away. "Lilith can't die, not if we want to keep Lucifer in his cage."

"But you said she's the last Seal, the final one," Sam turns to him eagerly. "What if we kill her now? There's only a dozen seals broken. If we kill her out of sequence maybe it won't have the same effect."

Dean watches his brother. Hazel eyes are flashing with fury and his voice is clipped with fervor. He's like some hellfire and brimstone revival preacher imbued with the power of the Lord. He needs to break Sam out of this obsession he's got for killing Lilith, but he's not sure where it came from. Now Sam wanting to kill old Yellow Eyes made perfect sense. That bastard killed Jessica right above Sam, above their bed. That made it personal. But Lilith? Dean can't quite understand that one and he thinks he needs to.

The only way to find out is to ask…

"Why is it so important to kill her?"

"Because… because of what she did to you." Dean frowns at him, confused, so Sam explains. "She had your contract, man. She set the hounds on you and… and you were safe. I mean, not safe safe, but they were blocked out." Dean's shaking his head and it just makes Sam talk faster. "We could've figured something out except she opened the door and she let it in and… and it ripped you apart."

"I know, dude. I was there." It's said simply because Dean still doesn't get it.

"Of all the times I watched you die because of the Trickster, none of them, none of them matched that one. I couldn't move, man. I couldn't… You were being ripped apart and I could do nothing." Sam stands up hastily, turning his back and Dean realizes that he's close to crying.

"It's okay," Dean says, unsure what he should do.

"No. It's not," Sam responds, voice sharp, biting. "All these special fucking powers I'm supposed to have and I. Couldn't. Do. Shit. Fucking useless, just like always." The last bit is low enough that Dean knows he isn't supposed to hear it, but he does. He stands up, hand out, hovering close to Sam's arm. Once he would've just pulled his baby brother into his arms and to hell with his masculine image, but he doesn't know how to close that distance any more.

"It's not your fault, dude," he says, struggling, as always, to find the right words. "It was a set-up, for one thing, and we were going in blind." Sam shakes his head still not looking at him. "It's my fault I made the deal." That gets a reaction.

Sam turns fast as a snake. "Damn right it's your fault. You should never have—" he stops and catches his breath. Turns away so that Dean won't see how wet his eyes are.

"I know, I know," Dean agrees, he does, but he'd still do the same thing. Probably. "But I did and there was nothing you could've done to stop Hell collecting on the debt. But I'm alive now and killing Lilith…" He gives an awkward laugh as a thought occurs to him. "Killing Lilith might actually reverse that." Dean stands, trying to be a solid, supportive presence and fears that he's failing utterly.

"Someone should pay," Sam insists stubbornly.

For some reason he thinks of his first days in Hell, suspended by huge fucking anchor chains in the middle of an unending nothingness. The only sound had been lightning cracks and him screaming his ass off for Sam and so fricking scared he'd wanted to puke. He hadn't even been aware of how much pain he was in, not until he'd realized that his brother wasn't getting him out anytime soon. That's when he realized the metal he hung on was eating away at his flesh, pulling him slowly apart. Then he had thrown up but there had been no gravity and so his vomit had hung there next to him, stinking witness to his humiliation. Forty years later, it had become one of the least horrible things he smelled

Fuck, he needs a distraction, right the fuck now.

"I don't want my whole life to be about death." It doesn't take Sam's bark of ironic laughter to make Dean realize how stupid that sounded. "I mean…" What does he mean? "I mean up until now, the stuff we kill has been to save people. This crusade to kill Lilith… isn't. It changes who we are, what we are."

Sam can't deny it, doesn't even try. He paces away from Dean then back. His jaw is tight and his shoulders are lifted as if he's getting ready to fight. He stands in front of Dean a moment and it's one of those jarring disconnects where the reality of Sam being half a head taller hits Dean with breath-stealing oddness. Sammy's the baby, the little brother. Except he isn't.

"Okay, say I go along with this…plan. Do you even know how to banish a thing like Lilith? Because she's not some corner-store demon that runs from holy water or can be trapped in a circle." His voice is belligerent, daring Dean to answer positively when he knows that just a couple days before, Dean didn't have a clue.

"Actually, there's a book," Dean answers mildly, "and Cas, or maybe Bobby, will know where to find it."

"Just like that?"

"It's what this last ghost came to tell me. It's called 'manual per lo spotimento demonic potenti long time-o' or something." Sam's eyebrows rise at Dean's mangled pronunciation. "Shut up. I can't say it but I can spell it. Then we just need to get Bobby to find it."

"And if he can't?"

If Bobby can't find it then Sam will kill Dean again and take the whole world with him.