Episode Seven
"Sanguis Sanctus"
Chapter Two

Ten Days Earlier

"Where the hell have you been?" Dean bellowed, shoving past the late shift officers drifting back and forth between their desks and the breakroom. This kid was gonna get it.

Sam rolled his eyes and gestured around them at the police station, not as busy as their daytime visit, but still populated. "Dean, it's been a long night-"

Dean frowned at Sam's face. "What the hell is that?"

Sam put his hand to the bandage at his jawline and frowned. "I got in a fight."

"Okay. Come on." Dean pulled Sam up by his good arm; Sam didn't protest. He seemed tired, he was probably hurting. Dean felt maybe a little bad about manhandling him, but dammit. He didn't care what Sam said. He couldn't just accept that shit was going to happen to them, to Sam. Not anymore. Not when he'd come so close to losing Sam so many times already. He stood Sam up and tried to look pissed instead of worried. "Let's see if we can get you home without you picking another fight-"

"I didn't pick a fight, Dean. I helped some woman with her bad boyfriend." Sam looked out into the bullpen. Dean raised his brows, followed his gaze to a woman in a red dress with a split lip, waiting in a chair beside an officer's desk.

"She's cute."

Sam sighed, looked off in annoyance, faint little flush of embarrassment-

"Real cute," Dean continued. "I bet she'd be grateful, huh Sammy?"

"Classy, Dean." Sam rolled his eyes, little amused smile just faintly etched there, which had been the point of the comment.

Dean grinned, glanced over as Sam tucked his notebook into his bag. She was a hottie, that was for sure. She looked up, saw Sam was leaving, looked disappointed. Dean gave her a salute. Sam needed a lay. Too bad he was too busy doing whatever to even think about gettin' happy. Well, whatever.

When they were in the parking lot, Dean shook his head over the roof of the impala. "Twenty million cops in this town, and you somehow get in a fight."

"Dean."

"I'm just sayin'-"

"Why are you even here? I called-"

"Yeah, like an hour ago. Saying you got held up but everything was fine. This is fine?"

"Dean, I-"

"Sam? Um, Agent?" The woman Sam rescued looked nervous to be interrupting them. She glanced behind her at the building lights and back. "I'm sorry. I heard one of the officers call you that. You're investigating the murders, right?"

"Um." Sam looked at Dean. Dean shrugged. "I can't comment on that-"

"I understand. I really just wanted to thank you."

Sam shook his head. "I'm just glad-"

Dean raised his brows. He saw it comin', with no time to warn Sam, and honestly, no inclination. She leaned up on her tiptoes to plant a nice juicy thank you right on Sam's mouth. Sam's cheeks went red almost instantly. Oh yeah. He was never gonna live this one down. Dean grinned. If this kept up, Sam'd be out of his funk in no time.

"Right," she said, stepping back again with a smile, looking away like she was surprised at herself. Dean approved. The shy ones were always the most ... creative. "I don't know what I would've- Anyway. Your partner's a brave man," she said to Dean.

Dean winked at her. Sam was staring.

"Yeah. Come on, hero," Dean said, grinning. "Our motel room's waitin'. Ma'am."

"She was pretty grateful, Sammy," Dean said, popping the tops off a couple of beers.

"Not interested." Sam took one of the bottles and held it against his jaw, slumped down to sit on the bed.

Drama queen.

"Come on, Sam. Tell me you gave her your number, man."

Sam rolled his eyes. Got up and left his beer on the bedside table to go poke at his bruising face in the bathroom mirror. "She'd just been attacked by her boyfriend, I stepped in." Sam waved at his face where blue and purple were already starting to spread out from under the bandage. "He ran off, I took her to the police station to make a statement. That's it."

"So what'd you find out?"

"Huh?"

"From Warner."

"Oh. He wasn't in. I thought I said that on the phone."

Dean frowned. "No, it didn't come up. You feelin' okay? You seem kinda... spaced."

"It's been a long night, that's all."

"You were gone for three hours and you didn't even talk to our lead? What the hell were you doing?"

Sam gave him a look. "I was a witness. They needed my statement. And some paramedic insisted on stitches." He started to pull the bandage away to inspect the stitching job.

Dean shook his head, got up to stand in the bathroom door. "Don't mess with that." He reached up to pull Sam's hands away from the injury.

"It's fine, Dean, just let me-"

"A paramedic stitches you up and you gotta check his work?"

"Get off, Dean, I just wanna see-"

"Just stop poking at it or you're gonna pull 'em out-" Dean took Sam's jaw in his hand and held the end of the bandage Sam had unstuck back down. Sam was tall, but he seemed to shrink at the minor defeat of his once-impressive strength. He looked at Dean like a defiant, untrusting animal, like he'd been betrayed, and Dean remembered having this kid at his mercy in a dungeon in their home, how Sam didn't back down, even when he didn't win. Dean let Sam's jaw go, disgusted with himself. Sam looked away, caught his breath, a hand on his chest and that meant he was struggling for air but didn't want Dean to know.

"I gotta... shower and stuff." He pushed past Dean back into the room. Dean watched him from the doorway of the bathroom, watched him move like a wounded animal, how he didn't meet Dean's eye. He slipped past Dean again, bag in hand, and said, "You wanna watch or what, perv?"

Dean blinked. "What? I mean, whatever. You need any help?" He nodded at Sam's shoulder. Not that Sam ever asked for help getting his shirt off. Not that he ever asked for help, period. And he wasn't even in a sling right now, which was gonna be another conversation. Sam didn't even answer his question, just gave him that my brother's a moron look that occasionally signified that they were okay but just now probably signified something more like my brother's a moron.

Or maybe it meant just leave me alone for a while, I got a dangerous substance to ingest.

Dean backed away, hands up. "Just checking."

"I get it," Sam said, leaning on the sink in front of the mirror. "But you can't waste your life worrying about me, Dean."

"No. I can't stop worrying, okay? Not with you."

Sam's face fell, stung.

Dean shook his head. "That's not what I meant-"

"You know just once," Sam said. "Just once I wish you could trust me. Just trust me and leave it alone. I know you can't. I know I've... let you down. In Boston, in - in general, but I-"

"That's not what I meant, Sam." Dean's heart, fuck. "You're my brother. My little brother no matter how freakin' big you are. I'm never not going to worry that something bad is gonna happen to you. I'm not built that way."

Sam nodded, hollow and loose like the way Dean never wanted to see again but kept seeing over and over; Sam didn't believe anything Dean said anymore, Sam didn't see how to dig himself out. Sam was keeping a secret, Dean could see it there in how he didn't meet Dean's eye, how he begged for Dean to trust in him when Dean hadn't said anything about not trusting him. How he kept his bag with him, even in the bathroom, how he disappeared, how he tried to scrub himself clean because maybe he felt impure -

And it didn't matter. Because maybe the alternative was that Sam just stopped moving one day, stopped bothering to keep breathing. Maybe he'd just stop being able to stand upright, maybe he'd disappear into himself. Maybe the thing that had torn him down years before was the only thing keeping him together now. Maybe the thing that was keeping him together was going to tear him down again no matter what Dean did about it.

The door closed and the shower started. Dean stared at it for a long moment before settling himself at the little table to pretend to be working when Sam came out again. Pretend and drink, and drink.

"Morning," Sam said when Dean rolled over.

"You're chipper."

"Told you. Made of sunshine." Sam tossed a bag of donuts into Dean's chest, held up a cup of coffee in evidence before he set it onto the little table. Dean had made some attempt at research the night before, either before coming to pick Sam up at the station or after they'd gotten back, but apparently Sam had taken too long in the shower, because the room was empty when he got back out, and then he'd fallen asleep before Dean got back.

But that was becoming routine for them. Dean had to leave, had to spin out in a bar somewhere where Sam couldn't see him. Dean didn't know how to stop worrying, how to let go, and who could blame him when shit just kept happening. Sam's plan was to fake it until Dean could relax, be sunshine until Dean could stop flipping out about every little thing. Until Dean could just forget.

Like that would ever happen. Still. Sam grinned and sat at the table, pulled up the newspaper articles and started sorting through the case files again while Dean figured out how to tumble out of bed.

"So what's our plan," Dean mumbled, rolling to sit up with his feet on the floor. He yawned, scratched his chest, hair stuck up. Smiled sleepily, blinked hard to see straight - a pretty good show. Dean was faking it too. Together they could probably have faked their way back to good. They'd done it before.

"Ahh," Sam hmmed. He frowned at a case file. "Go back to the station, talk to Warner."

"Right," Dean said. "And what are you gonna do?"

"You think we should split up?"

Dean levered himself standing, thumped toward the table for his coffee. "No. But you're gonna suggest it. So what are you gonna do?"

Sam sighed. "I thought I'd talk to some of the families. You know, the basics."

"Right right."

"You see anything in this stuff?" Sam asked, nodding at the mess of casefiles.

Dean lowered himself into the chair, dug a donut out of the bag and talked with his mouth full. "Just what you saw. Some of the symbols are Sumerian, some are Enochian-"

"Some are Meso-American, some are Druidic. Yeah. So, you got nothin' too, huh?"

"Yep." Dean frowned, looked up at Sam. "You spent some time at the station not really being like, outwardly investigationy, right? When you were-" He waved in Sam's general face direction.

"Being a witness to a crime? Yeah."

"You notice anything out of the ordinary?"

Sam frowned, dragged over the cooler to sit, thoughtful. "You mean like, since I wasn't actively trying to dig up dirt, were the cops a little less guarded?"

Dean shrugged. "Our main lead is this Warner guy, right? They're gonna be defensive if I just start asking. But maybe they let a little slip when you were there under other circumstances?"

Sam nodded. "Yeah." He shook his head. "I don't know. I didn't notice anything strange. I was kinda..."

"Yeah, I know. Getting stitched up by some paramedic. How you feelin' anyway?"

Dean nodded at Sam's shoulder and Sam put a hand up to it in reflex. "I'm good. I'm okay. They gave me an ice pack for it at the station."

"Oughta have it strapped up-"

"I hate that thing, Dean. I'm fine."

"Okay okay. Don't come cryin' to me."

"I definitely won't," Sam said. And it was a joke. But Dean looked away from him, and Sam felt suddenly terrible for saying it. They'd been strained since - well, since forever, honestly. Couldn't catch a break where they could just chill and drink beers and watch the game. Everything was life and death, and that was mostly Sam's fault. It was all Sam's fault, really. But the honest truth was, Sam couldn't go crying to Dean, not anymore. Not if he wanted Dean to be okay for once in his life. So he grinned. "I know what a sympathetic cryer you are."

Dean chuckled, then groaned. "Ow. Don't make me laugh." He drained a bit of his coffee and stood, turned toward the bathroom. "Okay. I'm showerin'. You heading out?"

"Yeah, I think so."

"You should take the car."

"No, I can-"

Dean turned back to him, serious. "You should take the car. If something happens - it's got a clean registration again thanks to Charlie."

"Dean, I-"

"No arguments, Sam. You shouldn't be driving a stolen car right now, and that's that. And if you start feelin'... whatever, you just pull over."

"I haven't had a seizure in like three weeks."

"But you still have dizzy spells - Sam just please. For me."

Sam rolled his eyes, picked up the keys from the table. "Fine." He turned to go.

"And Sam?"

"God, what?"

"You run into anyone's ex-boyfriend, you call me, okay?" Dean grinned, winked.

Sam chuckled. "Yeah. Okay."

Detective Warner was in a hurry. But was it an "I got more serial murders to keep off the Fed radar" hurry, or an "I just ran out of donuts" hurry? Dean straightened up, stepped into the guy's path when he tried to exit the break room.

"Detective Warner?"

Warner looked Dean up and down. "Can I help you?"

"Agent Bernson." He flashed his badge, glanced around like he'd rather be anywhere else. "I'm here about your crop of organ donors."

"Come again?"

"You got some bodies missing some parts. My partner and I are looking into it."

"How did-" Warner frowned at Dean. "Come on to my office."

His "office" was just a desk, but it was against the far back wall and had a window and a cubicle wall to give him some privacy. Dean whistled in mock admiration.

"Wow. You must be pretty high up in the department."

Warner stepped around Dean and seated himself at his desk. Looked up at Dean, unruffled. "I sent my report to the Bureau," Warner said, gesturing at a guest chair across from him. "I was assured we'd be allowed to handle the case."

"I thought they were unrelated."

"The cases, then. You wanna answer my question?"

"You didn't ask a question."

"Listen, smart guy-"

"My friends call me Agent."

"Agent. These cases are unrelated. A number of copycats. We were pressured to release details of the first case to the public, but you know as well as I do we tend to keep specifics out of the press. These murders fit the released details to a tee, but the missing organs and the weird satanic symbols don't match up." Warner smiled, smug. "They're copycats. Simple as that. Sorry to have wasted your time, but I did send my report."

"And what about the report on Bernard Hale?"

The detective rolled his eyes. "That incident was a misstep on the part of an officer of this department who is under review. Details about the first case got out that weren't supposed to. But that doesn't mean as much as I'm sure you'd like it to."

"And how's that?"

"In cases like these, we find the matter is as simple as copycats just not doing the work. There's a reason they aren't serial killers with their own resumes, Agent. They want to kill without the additional effort, but they also don't want to get caught. So they do the least amount of work that will give them a reasonable chance of having their murders pinned on someone else. In this case, the Bernard Hale story comes out, we get a copycat who does Adam Lawson using the published details. But we don't publish Adam Lawson's details, and the next copycat just notices a pattern of killings, doesn't search back to find the right details. Copycats are lazy. That at least makes them easy to spot." He waited a moment, narrowed his eyes at Dean. Then: "This was all in my report."

Dean sat back in the chair, watched the man. He wasn't as surprised as Dean had guessed he'd be - but of course he'd been assuming the guy was dirty, covering up a monster conspiracy. He'd assumed the guy would be spooked to find the Feds were looking into the case after the effort he'd gone through to put them off the trail. This guy was either awesome at playing it cool, or he was innocent and just kind of a dick.

"Right. Right. Well, as long as we're here," Dean said. "We might as well corroborate that report of yours. Mind if I take a look at your case files?" Of course they already had the case files. Dean watched for the guy's reaction, but he just sighed, put-upon.

"Fine. I'll have someone bring you copies. Where are you staying?"

"Lincoln Logs, Room 234. Cute town you got here," Dean said. "Lincoln Logs. Get it? Like the cabin?"

Warner didn't crack a smile. "Yeah. We're real cute." He frowned. "So where's your partner? Out getting more hair gel?" He glanced up at Dean's spiky hair with some disdain.

"Out on another lead," Dean said, shifting uncomfortably. Hair gel. He'd show this guy... hair gel. But it was an opening - "You'da met him if you'd been at work last night. I took the opportunity to check in at the front. You were on duty, Detective."

Warner looked at Dean like he was maybe a bit confused about why Dean would be so interested in his whereabouts. Again, either real good, or actually innocent. Dean was leaning toward innocent. "I had an emergency at home," he said. "May I ask why the Bureau disagrees with my report?"

Dean shrugged. "I dunno. They just tell us to go and we go."

"Right." Warner leaned in. "You know something, don't you. Something us here on the ground don't know. Come on."

Dean frowned.

"We both want the same thing, Agent. Now if you know something-"

"No," Dean said. "Sorry."

Mrs. Hopkins lived in a small one-story on the edge of town, fenced yard, girl's bike parked just outside the gate, a tree looming up behind the house. She was the third person on Sam's list, and he dreaded interviewing her; Emily's death was so recent, he was sure to get nothing out of her grieving mother.

But he sat on her couch and accepted coffee and nodded sympathetically. Jotted notes into his notebook, about Emily Hopkins having absolutely zero enemies, absolutely zero connections to the other victims, and absolutely zero "strange experiences" in the days before her murder. Dean should have taken this job; Ellie Hopkins was only in her late 30s, attractive. Dean liked brunettes, right? He'd have charmed her.

"What about you, Mrs. Hopkins?" Sam said. He smiled just a little. Yes, I know it's hard. Yes, I know you can't believe she's gone. Yes, I know I know, god I know. "Is there anyone who might want to harm Emily because..."

"Because they were trying to hurt me?" she asked, breathless like she hadn't thought of that before, and Sam wanted to take it back, pretend he hadn't put that thought into her head. Of course she hadn't thought of that.

"Maybe. Can you think of anyone who might be... holding a grudge," he suggested. "Or jealous?"

"No. My ex-husband, maybe, but he would never hurt Emily. For god's sake, she's who we fought over."

Sam pressed his lips together in thought. Wrote it down. It was unlikely, but if it had been an accident - spells and deals were practically booby-trapped to backfire on the people using them. The ex might have been responsible without even meaning to be. "Did your ex know the families of the other victims?"

"Not that I know of." She worried her hands in her lap. "I know I'm not being very helpful. I just can't understand how something like this happens. I-"

Her grief was heavy. It was too soon to do this to her. She'd given her statement, and Sam could never give her a real answer even if he did figure out what killed her daughter. Around the room were photos of the girl Sam had only seen in grisly crime scene shots - awards on display, a big-grinned child with long pigtails, an eager competitor in sports. Mrs. Hopkins would never watch her grow and get her heart broken and become strong from it, win and lose things, work her way through life. Sam closed his eyes briefly. That familiar sense of directionless loss, a waiting dark, adrift with no hope for help to come -

"I'm so sorry for your loss, Mrs. Hopkins."

"Will you call me Ellie, please?"

"Ellie. I'm going to do everything I can to find out the truth. I swear to you."

"Will you - can you stay, just a moment. I just." She looked around, she was on the edge of something terrible. Sam recognized the feeling.

There was one more family Sam needed to interview, but it was only eleven in the morning. He glanced at his phone: no calls from Dean.

"Please?"

Sam nodded. Thought a moment. The broken mother of another lost girl, Amber's face floated up- "What do you think about... getting out of here? I know it feels like a comfort to stay, but it might do some good to get out of the house. Lunch? On me."

Ellie frowned at him, nodded resolutely. "Okay. Okay that might be good. You won't get into trouble?"

"We haven't concluded our interview," he said, smiling warmly. "What's there to get in trouble for?"

She smiled at him, teary. "I need to clean up first." She gestured at herself, house clothes, hair in a messy ponytail. Sam nodded.

"Fine. I'm gonna step outside and give my partner a call, let him know I'll be late checking in. I'm just outside, whenever you're ready."

She disappeared into her bathroom, down a hall with a door that still had the name "Emily" in funny blue blocky letters on it, a room that would probably remain in a state of 17-year-old disarray until her mother drank herself into finally clearing everything out, or until she sold the house so she didn't have to walk past it anymore. Sam blew out a shaky breath. He had a headache. He should have let Dean take this one, definitely.

He waited until he was standing out on her front steps before pulling his phone back out to give Dean a call. There were probably catcalls in his future, moving in on the grieving MILF or something else equally gross. It was all an act, an attempt to get Sam to lighten up, and maybe one day Dean would realize it didn't work, but until then-

"Psst. Hey. Winchester."

Sam looked over, phone to his ear. Cancelled the call half a second later when it caught up to him that Ellie Hopkins' next door neighbor really shouldn't have known his name. Peering over Mrs. Hopkins' neighbor's hedge was a guy in a clean button-down suburban dad type, the obviously-possessed Mr. Gill.

He stalked toward the thing, fingering the hilt of the demon knife in his jacket. "You wanna maybe get out of that person and we can talk like grown-ups?"

Mr. Gill grinned. "Oh man. I can't believe I get to be the one to tell you this."

Sam wasn't due back for a few hours yet by the time Dean was finished with Detective Asshole at the station. He had plenty of time to kill, and the cable in the motel wasn't great on the porn. And yeah okay maybe having a real kitchen at home was starting to spoil him, sue him. He stopped on the way back to the motel for some groceries. Burgers for him that he'd make and eat before Sam got home, and something fresh for Sam, raw but full of the stuff he and Kevin had worked out would help Sam stay on his feet.

On his feet and maybe needing less assistance from whatever he was doing in the bathroom where Dean couldn't see him.

Anyway, he had the ingredients for a fruit and kale smoothie, a kind of trail mix Kevin had concocted, some multi-vitamins, a brand new mini blender thing he figured he and Sam could just take on the road with them from now on.

And he spread it all out on the table where Sam's research had been and looked at it with no small amount of pride. They'd come a long way from making ramen in cups with the motel room coffee pot for boiling water. It'd been a while since they'd had to make do with greasy food or nothin', which left Sam feeling slow and gross even if Dean was fine with it. He didn't know if Dad would have been proud of him for owning a portable smoothie blender or appalled, and he couldn't quite make himself care. Sam couldn't manage actual food, but by god he was gonna eat.

His phone rang as he was making up a patty for his burger. "Yello?" he said, catching the phone between his shoulder and ear.

"Dean."

"Sammy! Listen kid, I got a feast-"

"I'm not coming back."

"What?"

"Listen, I get it. You do what you think you have to, for me, for - for us. But this is just, it's unforgivable, man and I-"

"What the hell are you talking about?" Unforgivable? Yeah, like he was the one downing demon blood.

"I know about you and Abaddon."

Dean went cold. "Sammy, wait-"

"I can't believe you'd do something so stupid. Trusting a demon? Don't you ever learn?"

"Like you're one to talk - what about Crowley, huh? He's your little pet, not mine."

"Crowley's declawed, man. But Abaddon? You know she threw me through a window, right? Or do you just not care? Maybe you care about how I'm the one who lit her up and thwarted her attempt on Crowley's life, her chance at the throne. You know she's alive and kicking, you know it for sure and you don't think you oughta tell me? Considering she's probably pretty pissed at me? I mean you've done a lot of shit man, but I was just starting to think I could trust you to have my back. And it turns out I can't."

"Sam please-"

"Like I said, I get it." Sam's voice went quiet, thoughtful. "I understand that you do what you think you have to for me. But I can't get over this, not right now. Give me some time, a week tops, okay? And I'll come home and we'll talk it out or whatever. I need some space and I'm begging you to give it to me."

"Sam-"

"Please."

"Anything, but Sammy please. You said it yourself Abaddon probably has you at the top of her hitlist."

"I can handle myself Dean. I thought I'd proven that to you. Guess I have to prove myself again."

The phone went dead. Dean went numb. Slouched into the chair at the table. And now he saw Sam's laptop gone, the case files, gone. Sam's bag gone and his bed made. His toothbrush gone from the bathroom and Sam gone gone gone.

NOW

It had become easy, to swallow, to stomach. The glide of it down his throat, the press of it through his veins, the spark through his nervous system, lighting him up.

Easy.

He could do it without a headache now, without effort, he didn't need to be present, he didn't need to see, he closed his eyes and reached with the power coiled in the back of his skull, and another demon melted into hell. Let Dean come. Let Dean find him.