Chapter 18 – the good son

So sweet, Lim whispered softly. It sat in the shadows just one step away from reality, miles away from the cabin. The demon threw his head back, rocked back and forth as raw emotions flooded over him, made his slick grey skin darken to purple and ripple with pleasure.

Ah, Samuel, I am so very glad you found your brother…


"Pain," Sam heard himself murmur. "I give it gladly, now and later."

Green eyes. They were dazed, but bright green, not that darker color. Definitely, positively Dean.

Thank…God. Well, that was wrong. God didn't have a damn thing to do with this, but Sam couldn't think of anything else. The strain was murderous.

"Porro quisquam est qui dolorem ipsum quia dolor sit amet, consectetur, adipisci velit..."

The veins in his arm, from his hand all the way up to his shoulder, were raised up, rock hard, and distended. Pressure built up inside Sam's head, filled his eardrums.

"There is one who loves pain itself, who seeks after it and wants to have it, simply because it is pain..."

His muscles ached, clenched tight from the effort. The air around Sam vibrated with unseen tension; inside he felt light and jittery. The corners of his mouth twitched upwards in a manic grin, and on some level he knew that wasn't right. His mouth stretched wide, filled with way too many teeth, but he couldn't help himself.

Sam couldn't identify what he was feeling at first, and then it hit him.

He was happy.

He tastes so good, Samuel.

Dean's eyes widened. A part of Sam, oddly detached from all of this, noticed the look (afraidhe'safraidofme) and that thought was promptly pushed deep down, swamped by the rising tide of Sam's excitement.

Dean's back. He's here, and I'm helping him.

"Don't worry, Dean. Don't worry. I got you." Sam whispered. "I got you…"

Such a handsome, broken child.

"Sam…no…" Dean shook his head, pushed himself back into the chair. There wasn't anywhere else for him to go, but he did it anyway.

Do you know how much your brother really loves you, beauty?

"I can heal you," Sam murmured. "I can do this…" He pressed his hand even flatter against Dean's skin, felt his brother's chest hitch a little with the effort as he hooked his fingers into claws. Sam's fingernails dug into Dean's black t shirt. Five crescent shaped marks marked Dean's skin.

"…no…"

Dean's heart beat faster: Sam could feel it. Stronger.

"…get off me…"

Working. This was working.

It was all he'd thought about in the hours since Dean had come back. It was all he ever wanted to do for the last four years. Mom was taken from him, and he was too little to even remember what she looked like. Jess was taken, and he couldn't stop it. And now Dean was back, after all these years.

"…get the hell off me…"

"I can make you feel better…" Sam was babbling now, but he didn't care. "Take your pain from you."

Dean was here. He was back.

"…stop…Sam…"

And maybe, with a little more effort, maybe he could pull that bastard Gabriel out too.

"…yuh…" Dean gasped. The back of his head thumped against the high wooden back of the chair. "…you're…killin'…me…"

Sam chuckled. "No, I'm not."

Dean stared at Sam so hard it seemed he was looking right through him. It was weird and awkward, and Dean didn't blink. Sam didn't dare. Gabriel could come roaring back in a heartbeat.

"Sam?"

That sounded like Dad. Dad didn't do this. Dad couldn't do this. All Dad could do was disappear during the night. He came back, all right, because he needed Sam. He nknew he couldn't do this without Sam.

"Sam? What the hell are you doing?"

Bobby. He was worthless too.

Dean blinked then, and Sam was relieved when his eyes stayed bright green.

killing him…

Dean's heart thumped against the underside of Sam's palm, but the beat was slower now. Sounded like a kid tossing a tennis ball against a brick wall.

I'm killing…

Dean slumped forward. His eyes closed, his eyelashes impossibly long and dark against his the freckles of his skin. That long hair of his formed a curtain around his face. That was Gabriel's hair. Not Dean's.

"Christo!" John roared.

None of that mattered. Sam laughed. He was going to pull Gabriel out, all the way out. He was going to watch as the bastard shriveled up and crumbled to dust in his hands. Then it was all gonna be okay, Dean could get a haircut and they could go back to being brothers, just like they were before. Sam opened his mouth to tell Dean it was okay, that he shouldn't look so scared.

Dad was there, right beside him, and so was Bobby, and they were going to spoil this, Sam knew they were. John tried to knock Sam's hand off Dean's chest, and Bobby was pulling at him, yelling. He hadn't done anything for them to yell at him like that. He was doing Dean some good. They hadn't.

Sam raised his head, meant to look at John and tell him so, and as just as he did John raised his fist.

That was the last thing Sam remembered seeing for a while.


Lim howled.

The connection was broken. He was cut off, too soon. Release came too quickly, stuttered through his body in an awkward sideways jerk as he crouched there and clawed at the shadows around him.

When he opened his eyes he could taste Dean on his tongue. Samuel provided the link the moment he touched that freckled skin. It was a simple matter to go behind those wide green eyes and show the eldest exactly how much his younger brother loved him.

There would be more. Lim was sure of it. Samuel's debt to him was not completed. It would be, one way or another. Samuel Winchester had gained a dark reputation in the last four years, all in the name of his long lost brother. He was also known for paying his debts in full.

The pain in both brothers was exquisite, unusually potent in ones so young. Samuel was a treasure, and the other brother, that Dean, was more than Lim could have hoped for. Ah, the life that one had led for the last four years! So much death, effortless and gleeful, and he was dimly aware of his part in most of it. His anger towards Samuel was surprising, but Lim had learned all these years that humans nearly always behaved in unexpected ways.

That made feeding off them so pleasureable.

There was a feast inside each and every human, and this was the best meal Lim had in years.


Christ Almighty, John thought to himself. What a fucking mess.

The blond man in the chair stirred a little. He wasn't even fully conscious, but he leaned back in the chair, twisted his wrists against the ropes. John was sure that if he was conscious he would probably lean down and try to gnaw at the ropes with his teeth.

He wasn't a praying man. Not even over in 'Nam. You found out what your enemy's weakenesses were and you put him down permanently with appropriate force. You did the best you could each and every damn day and hoped for the best.

God works in mysterious ways, huh? John liked Missouri, but if he ever got face to face with her God, John supposed he would probably pistol whip the bastard and demand some answers.

Dean coming back fucked up was a given. But Sam?

Bobby was with Sam now; they'd tied him down to the bed in the other room. John couldn't deal with him now, and if that sounded cold blooded then, so be it. Dean was the whole point of them being out here.

John waited.

Sam had regained consciousness at the last moment. That wild glint in his eyes unnerved John; he had never seen his youngest son look like that. "I did it for Dean, Dad. I was helping him." That's what he said over and over again.

The thing was, John believed him.

When the wounds ran so raw and deep, and every waking day becomes unbearable, a person starts thinking about deals and ways to get back what they'd lost. If that was what happened, he couldn't fault the boy. It was a hazard of the line of work they were in.

The crossroads at Lloyd's Bar seemed like an option for John at one time. That phone call from Missouri stopped him in his tracks and turned around.

Mysterious ways, my ass.

John watched and waited. Dean or Gabriel lifted his head, and those ridiculously long eyelashes blinked open.

Green, John thought. Better be green…

"D-Dad…" Dean breathed.

Well. Maybe he wouldn't pistol whip Him after all.

John smiled. "Hey, kiddo." He picked the water bottle off the table nearby, unscrewed the cap and leaned down.

Dean stared at him. "Are you…"

"Am I what?"

"Are you real?" The whisper was soft and hesitant, as though Dean was uncertain what the answer would be.

"Yeah. Yeah I am," John muttered softly.

"I need a haircut." Dean whispered hoarsely. He cleared his throat. "Damn hair gets in my eyes."

John nodded. Dean flinched, just a little, as John raised his hand and very slowly, very gently pulled Dean's hair away from his face.

It was awkward as hell. Dean dropped his eyes, stared at his knees again.

"Son, it's okay." John said quietly.

Dean didn't look convinced. John knew his son. Never mind what he'd gone through the last four years, never mind the drugs and the effect of being possessed by a spirit had on him. John knew Dean, and he knew Dean was ashamed.

Ashamed of being seen like this, with that long blonde hair that didn't suit him, ashamed that his clothes didn't fit him like they used to. Ashamed of not being of control of his own body. Being tied up in that chair was a constant reminder, and there was nothing they could do about it now.

John raised the bottle to Dean's lips, tilted it back just enough. "Easy now. Small sips. Don't rush."

Dean closed his eyes as he drank. John stared at his son's face, at the spray of freckles across the bridge of his nose, the paleness of his skin. After all this time he'd dreamed of being able to be this close. That moment was here now, and it still wasn't over yet.

"Where's…where's Sam?"

"In the other room with Bobby." There was no need to mention that Sam was tied up and Bobby was guarding him. "Dean," John said slowly. "Do you remember what happened when Sam was here?"

Dean's face blanked. He stared down at the floor and very pointedly refused to look John in the eyes. That told John all he needed to know: I remember it. I remember it all.

"I fucked it up. Fucked everything up," Dean said simply. It wasn't a question, to Dean it was a fact. It was better to turn attention to some perceived misdeed of his; even now, after all this, he wouldn't let Sam bear any blame. The words came out in a rush that twisted John's insides. "They were just…just people. I should have been able to fight. Dad, 'm…'m sorry. Sorry this happened. Sorry I screwed up."

"Dean, it's okay."

"They were people. Just people." Dean shook his head.

John sniffed noisily.

Dean stopped and peered at John owlishly. "Why's…why's your…face wet?"

"I'm just…glad to see you, that's all." John hesitated. "I missed you, bud. I did."

Dean looked wary.

"I never stopped looking for you, Dean. I want you to know that. I love you, son."

Dean's eyes narrowed skeptically. He quirked an eyebrow, and except for the hair, he looked almost like his old self. "Is this really you talking?"

"Yeah. Maybe I don't tell you as much as I should, but I do." John shrugged. "This isn't...this isn't the life I wanted for you, or for Sam."

"Christo," Dean whispered.

John laughed.


"He told us not to come back here," Clyde Fletcher whispered. "Mr. Winchester is going to be pissed."

They sat in the darkened truck and stared at the cabin nestled in the clearing below. The place was miles away from the highway, and the back roads were like a maze, especially at night.

Brother Emmett huffed. "Didn't you say it yourself that they needed all the help they could get?"

"Well, yeah, but…"

"Yeah, they'll be pissed, at first, but they need us here." Emmett picked up the shotgun on the floor down next to his seat. "We weren't followed. I know we weren't, not the way you drive."

Emmett had just enough time to see a flash of something yellow on the other side of Clyde's open window. Clyde coughed, and there was suddenly so much blood, spraying out of his mouth, splashing on the steering wheel and the dashboard. It gushed like a river out of that hole in his throat. Clyde turned towards his brother, eyes wide and staring helplessly, as he clawed at his throat and his hands and clothes ran red with blood.

That young girl in the bloody yellow dress stood there in the moonlight. She was smiling, a big old grin from ear to ear.

Emmett raised the shotgun up just as his door flew open. Fingers hooked his jacket collar and he went flying through the air. When he hit the ground on his back he saw silver in the air above him.

Knife, Emmett thought, and he raised both hands to stop it. At least, he tried to raise his hands. He was too slow.

Something kept hitting him in the chest and stomach. It didn't hurt, and for a brief moment Emmett thought that maybe he'd been wrong. Maybe this dude was hitting him with his hand instead. He looked up into the eyes of the old man who crouched over him. They were cold and merciless, and they were the last thing Emmett Fletcher saw in this life.

Dying didn't hurt either. That was a surprise too.

Abraham Bender got to his feet, slowly. The upper half of his body was covered in blood, dark and slick. He wiped the knife blade clean on the dead boy's trousers and stood up.

Missy took another swipe at the dead boy sitting behind the wheel of that big black truck. She laid his cheek open with the edge of her knife and thought about what she'd do when she met up with that man in the blue car, the one with the trucker's cap who'd hit her with the door and helped the others take Gabriel away.

She really wanted to see him again.

"Come on now, Missy," Pa rumbled. "We gotta go get Gabriel."

Missy skipped around the front of that big black truck. She was happy.


Next post Saturday.