Whispers-
Captured lies-
Come now, make your move.
Do the clothes make the man?
Does the soul understand?
I do-
~~HoC~~
"Well that was weird."
Dean watched Sam from the corner of his eye as the gun in his hands twitched across the empty space where the angel had just been.
Sam didn't answer.
"Sam? You okay?"
Flicking a glance at him, the younger man took a hesitant step forward, as if he expected to bump into Castiel. Shrugging, Dean decided the silence was Sam-speak for I'm fine and turned to see Kate and the children tucked into the corner.
"How you guys doin'?"
She looked back at him, mouth twisted into a weary grimace in the dark. He caught the glint of battered silver between Tommy's fingers and sniffed at the air.
"Jelly sandwiches? You made jelly sandwiches and didn't save me any?"
Sam huffed, strange mixture of laughter and annoyance as he slipped his gun back into his waistband.
"No. We didn't save you any. Make your own."
"Hey! Walking wounded here!"
"Walking trashcan is more like it."
A timid giggle came from the shadows in the corner of the room and Dean smiled. It felt good to be able to make the kid laugh, to be able to fake the banter with Sam. It wasn't much, but it was enough, for now.
"Fine!"
"Fine."
"Freakin' starve to death 'round here."
He kept up a steady mumble as he awkwardly slathered grape jelly on dry bread, trying to hide the way his stinging hands hovered near his Colt, resting on the counter at his side. Forcing down a huge bite, he grinned at Tommy as the boy crept out of the corner and came to stand before him, looking back once to Kate, cradling Petey in her arms as the infant whimpered tiredly.
"Hey dude," the hunter mumbled around a mouthful of bread and jelly. "How's it going?"
"Okay. I guess. Did you…"
Small fingers spun the flask around, over and over, working against the smudged metal. Dean sighed, swallowed hard, smile gone as if it had never been born.
"No. Sorry kiddo. But they might just be hiding really well, or maybe they got out and went to get help."
He spared a look at his brother, wondered if Sam at that age had been able to see through his lies.
"He said you'd figure it out."
"He did, huh?"
Tommy nodded, face pale and solemn.
"Well, he was right. Here."
Not hungry anymore, he handed the boy his plate, walked quietly to where Sam crouched beside the bed, rummaging through the weapons bag. Metal clattered together as his hands trembled and his voice was a rough mumble when he spoke.
"Was he right?"
Dean blinked.
"What?"
"Castiel. What he said."
The older man frowned, lifted a hand to the back of his head, fighting off a shiver that crept down his spine.
There is no place in God's work for such abominations.
He opened his mouth, closed it again, dropped his hand and gazed blankly at the smear of blood on his fingers, the raw abrasion on the heel of his palm. His stomach flipped once, a slow, oily roll at the edge of hurt in his brother's voice. Sam suddenly looked very young, scared, like he did months, years before when they stood beside a lake and Dean finally gave up the secret that had been eating him alive. Am I supposed to go dark side?
He looked betrayed, and there was nothing Dean could say that would make it better.
Rolling his fingers into a fist, the hunter chewed at his lip. Sam sighed, hands going still for a moment as he stared down at them, finally looked up again.
"Lemme see that."
"I'm fine, Sam."
The younger man just reached up, grabbed his shoulder and pulled, twisting him and bringing him to a rough crouch. Dean smirked as he caught the eye-roll, the band locked around his chest easing a little. Then he winced, flinched away as Sam prodded the small gash in his scalp.
"Hold still."
"Quit poking at me then."
"Wussy."
Rough fingers probed through his hair, tiny sparks of pain flickering away from their touch as Sam tutted softly.
"There's some glass in there, but it's not too bad."
Suddenly tired, Dean shifted awkwardly, pushed up against his brother's hand to perch on the edge of the mattress. Sam leaned away, stretched over to the bags dumped between the beds, dragged the first aid kit up with him.
"Gonna end up wearin' most of this," he mumbled, no heat in it and Dean grinned wearily, letting his shoulders droop, propping his elbows on his knees and wincing a little as it pressed rough denim into the scrapes on his knees. Squinting, he saw the new holes in his pants, fringed with blood, a few dark specks of grit clinging to the ragged threads. He sighed, closed his eyes as Sam pushed his hair away from the gash, murmured a soft, idle question and he wondered who his brother was trying to distract.
"What did you land on, anyway?"
The hunter jumped as cold metal slid into his skin, twitched and gritted his teeth as his brother worked.
"Think it might've been the coffee pot."
"Great. We've gotta fight off demons and Hellhounds without caffeine now?"
He chuckled once, a ragged huff of black humor.
The hand spread across the back of his head tightened for a moment. He rolled his eyes in the dark, could feel the worry pouring from his brother. Paired with old guilt, it was a thick weight, a solid presence between them.
"Don't, Sam. Okay? Whatever he was talking about is not your fault."
"He said… the ghede. He said it was my choice. He said there was no going back, whatever it did to you. To us."
Dean's jaw tightened until he thought his teeth might shatter.
"Sam, I know. I remember."
The younger man froze behind him and he could feel the surprised glare heating the back of his neck.
"I never told you, I'm sorry. I guess… I wasn't sure it was real. Then back at Thief Lake, you told me you thought he'd done something."
'I'm scared, Dean, 'cause I think whatever it was he did is taking you away again'
"And I knew it was real but… I don't know. Everything was just jacked and I just couldn't, Sam."
"You never do. I thought you were…"
He waited for his brother to finish, remembered the dark, the ice dragging him under and somewhere a million miles away a voice that sounded like burning in the night and then a touch that screamed in him.
Dean opened his eyes, watched his hands in his lap, listened to Kate settling Tommy down in the cushions next to Petey as the infant slept, the older boy bleary-eyed and quiet as he fell asleep. Slowly, Sam dug the glass out of his head, reached down and turned his hands over, fingers gentle and quick as they probed the raw skin on his palms. He twitched irritably away when Sam tugged at the bloody tears in his jeans, scowling as his brother calmly and implacably dug grit from the scrapes on his knees. Neither of them said another word until the younger man sat back.
"Go take a shower. I'll put some cream on that once you're done but it doesn't need stitches."
"Sam –"
"Go."
He turned, met his brother's eyes over his shoulder and wanted to run screaming at the anger and icy compassion brimming there.
"Sam, we'll figure this out. We will."
Sam looked back at him and the hunter felt the iron band lock down around his chest again.
He never believed the lies. Not once.
The thought hit him like a blow, like an angel's voice.
"Yeah. I know."
Swallowing hard, he held the younger man's gaze for a moment, then looked down and rolled off the bed to his feet. His boots crunched shattered glass as he walked to the bathroom, pausing once at the table, tapping two fingers on the scorched cover of the laptop, feeling the sullen anger beat against his back, laced with fear now.
When the door clicked shut between them, he tried not to feel relieved.
He put his back to it, flattened his hand across the thin wood and gazed at the ceiling. He could feel bruises on his spine tightening, stiffening, newer contusions from falling under Castiel's voice overlapping older ones from collapsing against the car under the weight of the Hellhound, and older still, from angels and demons pounding on him and jumping through freakin' church windows.
Dean slid to his haunches with a soft groan, elbows propped on his knees again, face buried in his hands, just wanting to shut the world out for a while.
He shuddered as a howl broke the evening, distant and ragged.
Wearily, he shucked his clothes, left them in a pile on the floor and stepped into the shower, turning the water as hot as he could stand it, gritting his teeth as it stung fiercely in the raw, bloody skin on his palms and knees, burning along the stitches that tracked around his forearm. The dressings on his chest and abdomen crinkled, water beading on the waxed gauze and sliding away, frictionless. Bracing both hands against the wall, muscles bunching and twitching down his spine as the spray hit his skin. He closed his eyes, ducked his head under the water, let it pelt down on his aching back and sighed, rolling his neck, shrugging then wincing and pulling one hand away from the already slick tiles to rub at his left shoulder.
Empty rooms flickered across the dark behind his eyes, spattered with black stains, buzzing shrilly with flies that swarmed him every time he opened a door. He shivered, scrubbed at his arms and chest, skin crawling with the remembered sensation of the insects alighting on him as he searched, block after block, as thoroughly as he could stand.
There was nothing to find.
He opened his eyes, stared blankly at the water swirling around his feet, gray suds foaming around the plughole.
No bodies, no survivors, just blood scrawled across the walls and floors, over-turned furniture and even the remains of drinks in the bar on the far side of town. He swallowed, wished for the bottle he'd drained as he searched the building, swallow after long, scalding swallow that did nothing to dull the too-sharp edges of what he'd seen or to hide the smell that clung to him.
By the time he'd finally given in, he felt like someone had stuffed him into a meat-suit two sizes too small, skin tight and joints stiff with weariness as he made his way back through the town, keeping to the shadows and the back streets out of instinct more than caution.
He pulled one hand away from the wall, stared down at the blood dried to black under his nails; the dirt ground into his fingertips and wondered how many locks he'd picked that night. Turning his hand he curled it into a fist, hissing between his teeth as the raw skin on his palm burned. He held it under the shower, opened his fingers to let the water pool in his cupped palm, the red, angry wound spinning tendrils of crimson through the tiny puddle. Tilting it up, he watched the water spill out of his grip, spiraling down his wrist to his elbow, a pale mirror of the dark stitching on his other arm.
The fading edges of the fear that had gripped him when he heard Petey wailing from three blocks away skittered along his nerves and the arm bearing his weight against the wall shook. He'd run blind, numb, not seeing the loose surface of the road until he sprinted around the corner into the motel and his footing simply vanished, sending him flying. He'd caught himself and all it cost him was all his breath and half the skin from his palms but he barely even noticed, lost in the panic of the infant's sudden silence.
He ducked his head under the spray, tried to let the pounding water drown out the surreal sight of his brother holding a gun on an impassive Castiel. Truth be told, he hadn't been able to believe what he was seeing until his heart skipped a beat as he registered something… off in the angel's cool, blue gaze and he'd stepped forward, unthinking, wanting himself between his brother and the threat, reeling with the old, old parallel, almost expecting to see Castiel's eyes glow yellow. But he wasn't even sure which way the danger was coming from anymore, not until the angel shouted and knocked him clean off his feet.
He grimaced, kneaded at his left shoulder again, still aching fiercely from the jolt of landing in a heap of chair and shattered glass. Thin, watery blood left trails from his skinned palm across the blade of his shoulder, washed away, ignored as he remembered the fear, pure and unbridled that made him just want to stay down. Instead, he'd dragged himself to his knees, then his feet, locking trembling knees against the rage that beat at the air around the angel, edged with a faint compassion that both infuriated and terrified the hunter.
Leaning forward, he folded his right arm across the tiled wall and rested his brow against it. The ache still pounded against the backs of his eyes, somehow ice cold, the steady weight of the water on the back of his neck easing it slowly, draining the tension out of his neck. He sighed, let his head slide over his arm until it hung low between his shoulders, water streaming over the back of his neck, across his face. The hunter opened his eyes to slits, unfocussed, watched silver fall from his jaw and temples, splashing over the tiles and staining them pink. He shook his left hand out, felt the dull pins-and-needles sensation in his fingers and sighed, tucking his arm against his side.
There is no place in God's work…
It whispered under the sound of the water and he grimaced angrily. Froze as he recognized the expression from his brother's face.
I'm a whole new level of freak.
"Dammit," he growled, spitting water, tipping his face up into the spray. One-handed, he fumbled with the soap, eyes stinging as clean suds found their way past his lashes. He scrubbed his hand through his hair, feeling the grit and dust that had clung to his scalp wash away. Leaning out of the spray he sniffed, gagged as he tasted the lingering smell of the blood he'd picked through still rising from his skin.
"Crap."
He whispered it to the floor, pressed the back of his hand against his mouth as his gorge rose again. He could only wish that he didn't recognize the smell, that he didn't know that no amount of washing would cleanse it. That he didn't know that he'd never stop trying to wash it away.
He swallowed another curse, ducked his head under the spray again. Squashing the soap in his hand, he scoured his skin until it was red and the water ran cold. Wrenching at the taps, he slowed the shower to a dribble, shivered once as he climbed out and snagged a towel, scrubbing himself dry, sniffing gingerly at his arm and sighing. It twisted into a yawn, jaw cracking loudly. Licking his lips, swallowing, he wondered what had crawled into his mouth and died without him noticing. Absently, he reached for his toothbrush, ducking away from the haggard stranger in the mirror as he brushed away the foul taste.
Leaning back against the wobbly towel rail as he brushed, he stared at the corner where the walls met the floor, the tiles cracked, grime worn into the narrow creases until they made a black web, scrawled over the grayed surface. If he squinted, it almost made sense, like there was a pattern there, if he could only see it.
He sighed again around a mouthful of toothpaste.
Story of our lives.
Leaning over the sink he spat, rinsed his mouth and looked up at his reflection.
"What you gonna do, huh?" he murmured. "This whole damn mess you're in. Gotta figure it out."
He tried to ignore the rasp in his voice, tried not to see the way the scars around his throat, almost faded away to nothing, still shone glaringly to his eyes. He wondered, sometimes, if Sam still saw them. Lifting one hand, he traced them slowly, hesitantly, shivering as a chill uncurled along his spine.
In the mirror, something danced in his eyes.
He snatched his hand away from his neck, heart pounding at his ribs, adrenaline slamming through him, whirled as he heard a whisper, a laugh that sounded like cracking, shattering stone behind him.
Glaring at the empty bathroom, he snarled.
"Come on!"
The shower dribbled a few, stray drops that fell to splash noisily on the tray.
Chest heaving, air racing in and out of his lungs, he sagged back into the sink, scrubbing a trembling hand over his mouth.
"Fuck," he mumbled into his fingers. "Freakin' hallucinating now. Perfect."
"Dean?"
He bit down the yelp at the call from the other side of the door.
"What?"
The pause was fractionally too long.
"You fallen in or something?"
He heard Tommy giggle sleepily, heard Kate snort and his brother's worry in the jibe.
"Nah. Just cleanin' up after you, princess. You gotta stop leaving your tissues lying around, man. Downright unsanitary."
In the other room, Kate gasped and this time it was Sam's wry laugh that drifted through the door. Dragging up a smirk, Dean pushed away from the sink, pulled on shorts and pants, carried his boots and shirt with him as he walked to the door and through it.
He grinned at Sam, sprawled on the bed, leafing through one of Bobby's purloined books and the younger man rolled his eyes without looking away from the page. Shrugging, Dean dropped his boots with twin thuds, stuffed one arm through a sleeve and tugged his shirt over his head. Turning to the corner, he smiled at Kate who glared at him, the corners of her mouth twitching in a reluctant smile.
"You guys want coffee?"
Behind him, Sam huffed.
"You landed on the pot, remember?"
"So? Kettle still works, don't it? Ever had trail coffee, Tommy?"
Sam made gagging noises and Tommy peered around Kate's knee, eyes wide, darting between the brothers. Dean crossed the room on silent feet, stepping carefully around the patch of carpet that glittered with shards. Leaning hip-shot against the counter, he filled the kettle and flicked it on, spooning powder into a jar.
"What's trail coffee?"
The hunter shrugged.
"It's what cowboys drink. You want to be a cowboy Tommy?"
In the corner of his eye, he watched the boy shake his head.
"'Stronaught."
"Spaceman, huh? That's pretty cool. Why don't you c'mon up here, Major Tom."
He reached down, picked the boy up and swung him up to perch on the counter.
"My name's Tommy," the child corrected him solemnly. Sam snorted.
"Yeah, laugh it up, chuckles," Dean muttered as the kettle boiled and clicked off in a cloud of steam. He poured the boiling water into the jar, stirred it until it turned dark, acutely aware of Tommy's stare on his hands. He gnawed on his lip, fiddling restlessly with the spoon.
"Did the dogs get mommy and daddy?"
He froze. Something twisted in his throat, a memory he thought he'd forgotten.
'What happened to Mommy, Dean?'
'There was a fire. It took her away.'
'Is it gonna take Dad away too?'
Seven years old, he hadn't known how to lie. He looked up, met his brother's gaze, over-bright in the dark room, wide and shadowed and knew Sam was hearing the same answer in the silence now as the toddler had then. He closed his eyes and twisted away so Tommy couldn't see the way the muscles along his jaw jumped.
"I don't know, kiddo. Maybe."
"Dean."
Sam sounded choked, voice thick and ragged.
"Somethin' you should see."
The older man nodded jerkily, poured the dark brew into two mugs and carried them to the beds. Handing one to his brother, Dean dropped onto his own bed, feet planted in the carpet, resting his elbows on his knees. Sam slouched against the headboard, the book on his lap apparently forgotten as he took a sip of the coffee and grimaced, shaking his head as Dean smirked wearily. The younger man set the mug on the small table between the beds and Dean dropped down to perch on the edge of his mattress, elbows digging into his thighs as he stared into the coffee, watching his own black-eyed reflection, feeling his brother's gaze rake over him. He knew Sam was worried, fear for him rolling almost visibly from the younger man but he couldn't look away, drowning in the dark, dark eyes that stared back at him.
This is what you're gonna become, his dream self had snarled and he'd refused to let himself believe it. But he'd turned into something worse, gone willingly in the end and in his head, he could hear laughter through the screams, recognized it faintly and shivered as the hollow at the base of his spine shifted, swelled and rolled against his skin.
:: ::
Sam hesitated, suddenly indecisive. He watched the hunter for a while, one hand straying to finger the pages of the book as his gaze traced the bruises layered across Dean's face, the scars peeping over the collar of his shirt and looping faintly around his throat. His brother didn't look up, just stared, lost somewhere in the dark liquid, trembling in the cup wrapped in his hands.
How much more of this?
The question whispered through his mind, echoed with How I feel? This… inside me… I wish I couldn't feel a thing. I killed him. I sat out here one night, and I almost called you.
How much more can either of us take?
He tore his gaze away, down to the book resting against his thigh and lifted it carefully, cradling it in his hands. For a moment he hated it, hated the angels and the demons, with a cold fury that shocked him, left him stunned in the too-thick silence of the empty town. Licking dry lips, he flicked a glance over at the far corner where Kate sat against the wall, watching the door, the children sleeping at her side and nothing, not even the hounds broke the heavy quiet.
"Sam? What is it?"
He jumped a little, twitched back to face his brother, looking back at him, bruised and pale, hands still trembling in the corner of his eye. He remembered the way Dean had flinched when they woke to hear the howling that could never be mistaken for anything natural, remembered the way his brother had stared at nothing as he whispered that months old echo: Hellhound.
Remember what Dad taught you. Sammy, remember what I taught you.
We fight.
"Yeah," he murmured, answered the old memory and the edge of worry in his brother's voice. He sat up, turned the book in his hands to face the hunter. Dean took it, skimmed the page.
"What am I – "
The younger man watched him slam to a halt, saw the color drain from his brother's face, saw his eyes tighten, a muscle in his jaw ticking.
"Yeah," he whispered, dragged his gaze away, looked down at his hands.
"A seal? A freakin' seal?"
He shrugged. Dean snorted.
"Great place to rest up, Sam."
Sam frowned, shot his brother a quick glare. Dean smirked, quirked an eyebrow in apology.
"You still think it's coincidence? That we're here on the night they come to break it?"
The older man sighed, scrubbed a hand over his head at Sam's question.
"I dunno. No such thing as coincidence, right? Maybe Cas… maybe he did something to us. To make us stop here. Not like he'd ever just freakin' tell us there's a seal here."
"Legend's pretty vague. Something that was buried here, maybe? That they have to find to break the seal?"
Dean looked back down at the book and Sam watched him read, forced down another gulp of the bitter mess in his cup. He clenched his teeth against a yawn, knew if he gave into the urge Dean would insist he sleep and no matter how much he longed for it, the shadows bruising his brother's eyes, the lines etched around his lips and between his brows were all he needed to see to know that Dean needed sleep more.
Time to stop running.
He almost nodded, caught himself in time, blinked and tried to look alert as Dean grunted softly.
"Huh."
"What?"
The older man glanced up.
"Devil's Shores."
Sam frowned, tried to follow his brother's thought.
"Not something buried. Something in the lake."
"Yahtzee," Dean murmured, yawned so hugely his jaw cracked.
"Get some sleep, man," Sam ordered gently, not moving from his perch on the bed. His brother stiffened, glared at him and yawned again. Sam smirked, held out one hand. "Sleep, Dean." Knew his brother heard what he wanted to say; Stop running.
The unspoken command hung there between them in the silence until Dean pulled a face and handed the book back with a sigh. "See what you can find. You're better at this shit than me."
Sam grinned, the smile fading as the older man started to twist, aiming for the pillows and froze with a grimace, one hand darting to his left shoulder, hovering just above the joint.
"Dean?"
"'M fine. Just a little stiff."
"Getting old, more like," he forced out, couldn't mistake the bitter twist in his brother's smile for anything other than tired anger. He locked his hands together around the book as Dean shuffled awkwardly back onto the bed, one leg dangling over the side, boot planted firmly on the floor. By the time he'd flipped over two pages, Dean was asleep, the faint, ragged edge to his breathing that had been there since Arriba skittering along Sam's nerves as he worked, kept one eye on the window and one ear on his brother.
At the edge of the town, he heard the hounds begin to bay again.