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Warnings Foul language, blasphemy

Guided by Voices

He pulls into the parking lot of the Seven-Eleven, creaks open the door, finds he's singing to himself as he saunters towards the store, finds for some reason he can't finger that he feels okay with life.

And then suddenly he's dizzy, and there's that whooshing in his head again, like the waves crashing in a seashell, static, white noise, sibilant whispering, distant voices. He reels, finds he's looking up at the sky, and it's endless, mysterious, purple black, clouds like the softest pale pink cotton candy, and he imagines himself buffeted about up there, floating, gossamer light, a feather carried on the breeze. And then he comes back to himself abruptly, gazes wildly around him, disoriented, does a one-eighty that has him looking back in the direction he came, at a bunch of assorted cars and trucks he doesn't recognize.

He fumbles in his pocket, pulls out his cell, speed dials. Voicemail, damn. "Hey. S'me. You need to fix that message, man. It still sucks ass."

He half turns, looks towards the lights. "I'm at a Seven-Eleven somewhere in Utah… Heber, I think. I'm – something's wrong. Something happened… I think I'm lost. Sort of. I dunno. And I feel like someone's watching me. Just – get here when you can. Hey? You there? Hello?"

He snaps his cell closed, chews his lip for a second, flinches because it damn well hurts there, it's split, and for the life of him he can't remember why, or how it even happened. He stares down at the phone, flips it open again, names, just names, taps number two. "Uh… Yeah. Sam? Is it? Uh… Seven-Eleven. No, sidetracked. Fine, why?"

The voice on the other end jabbers tinnily at him for a few minutes, and in his memory he's wading through thigh-deep mud that sucks at his boots, wading towards something, anything that might tell him who the fuck Sam is because he can't honestly remember, wait a second, hunter, friend, enemy, son, brother. Brother. Oh yeah.

The voice pauses.

"I am," he replies, now he has the chance to get a word in. "Well. I would, if I could just… look, this is gonna sound – what kind of car do I drive? Yeah, you heard me right. I just can't, I mean – I'm standing here lookin' at a whole bunch of cars, and I can't remember which one is mine. Impala? Okey doke. Yeah. No. S' fine, calm down. Yeah, I'll be careful. Did I hit my head, then?"

He runs his fingers across his skull, doesn't feel any sore spots, it's all at the front, his lip, his nose, his ribs, he kicks like a fuckin' mule. Or it was, because now he's rubbing at his face it isn't hurting at all, and he must have imagined his split lip because that doesn't smart like it did either, and he's sucking in deep lungfuls of oxygen without any tightness or pain. "Wait a minute, where am I coming back to? Oh… yeah." He reaches into his back pocket, pulls out the room key, squints at the fob. "Got it. Fifteen or so."

He slides his phone back in his jacket pocket, considers for a minute, walks back to the car and roots a pen out of the glovebox, writes the word Impala on the palm of his left hand just in case. The whispering in his head is getting louder, and he ponders it, thinks maybe it isn't really whispering, maybe it's more like the wind blowing through the trees, or through fields of corn, more like a rustling, like those stupid home-made maracas he made out of plastic soda bottles and Lucky Charms for his brother a lifetime ago, after they caught The Mambo Kings one Saturday afternoon in some crappy motel room in Scrote, Indiana. "It's the wind," he says to his baby. "The wind in the trees. Whispering pines. That's what it is. Not voices."

He looks up, around him, shivers because he can't shake the feeling something's watching him. He presses his palm against his ribs, the sigil, tracks his hand up to his shoulder to rest it on the other mark for a second. And he suddenly feels at ease, content, fulfilled, finds he's singing softly to himself as he starts walking towards the lit up storefront again. "I can feel you standing there, but I don't see you anywhere…"

An hour later Sam is pacing, calling his brother for the fourth time, muttering oaths as he's diverted to voicemail again. He has half an eye on the television, isn't really paying attention, and the words breaking news are flashing on the screen and a rumpled looking cub reporter is yammering into a microphone.

And there in the background he can see the sleek black rump of his brother's baby, police cars winking at her. His hand drops to his side as he takes it in, attempted robbery… Seven-Eleven… hostage situation… and it cuts to footage of a figure in a Kevlar vest, shot from a distance. The man is walking towards a brightly lit building, hands up, and now he's placing his gun on the ground, and he keeps walking right up to the door. Sam would recognize those bowed legs anywhere, and he gapes, mouth slack, as Dean disappears inside the store, and then it's back to the talking head, huge coincidence… one of the FBI's top negotiators driving through… lives on the line… extraordinary scenes here…

It's all over by the time the stolen Camry skids into the parking lot, and Sam wriggles his way through a modest crowd of onlookers to the police cordon. He can just make out his brother ten yards or so away, talking animatedly to a small platoon of reporters, lights flashing, cameras jostling for space, a modest cluster of attentive five-O huddled in back of him, hanging on every word.

He nudges a middle-aged man next to him. "What happened?"

The guy shakes his head. "Shoulda been here kid," he enthuses. "Hold up at the Seven-Eleven." It's said with due weight and gravity, like he's talking about the Gunfight at the OK Corral, and he gestures over at the camera crews. "Local pothead ran wild with a thirty-thirty, took a whole bunch of people hostage. Top FBI negotiator driving through talked him down, got them all out. It was pretty amazing. I saw it all go down."

Sam blinks at him. "Top FBI negotiator?" he echoes.

The man nods, leans in confidentially. "He's a real good-lookin' kid. Real – pretty. Sorta… glows."

The guy is wearing mascara, Sam could swear to it, and he pulls what his brother calls bitchface #six, jogs back to the car he liberated from the motel parking lot, twirls the dial rapidly through static and the requisite country music. And there it is, Dean's voice crackling over the airways, coming to you live from Heber, Utah, on KPCW, your community connection, and he freezes, can actually feel drool starting to pool on his tongue and threaten to drip out his mouth as his brother holds court.

"Ma'am, a hostage situation is a law enforcement worst case scenario," he's declaring confidently. "It puts innocent civilians at risk, but we cannot intervene with prejudice in case hostages are harmed by the perpetrators or by stray bullets. That makes the negotiation the most important aspect of any siege of this kind… I had to work to find out what the hostage-taker wanted and how we could solve this crisis without any bloodshed, while also ensuring the safety of the hostages."

And you did this at some risk to yourself? Woman's voice, breathless, and Sam can just picture her eating his brother up with her eyes. When Dean replies his voice is honeyed, chocolate brown, topped off with a rasp that sends a thrill racing up and down Sam's own spine as his brother hooks up for the night on national public radio.

"Yes… miss? Is it? Uh-huh, good… Karen? Well, Karen, hostage takers can be pretty angry and volatile… there's a lot of adrenaline flowing and that isn't good for hostages. Part of my job is to reason with them… never to argue. It involves using delaying tactics, and keeping a positive, upbeat attitude. I had to keep reassuring the perpetrator that this situation could end peaceably, while I chipped away at him in order to downgrade his demands and weaken his position until he—"

Fuck it. Sam snaps off the radio, scratches his head, fumbles for his cellphone again. "Something's definitely off with him," he barks into the receiver.

She turns about a yard away, steps back, reaches around and pushes something into his hip pocket. "My card," she murmurs, so close up he can smell the scent of Colgate on her breath. "I'd appreciate an exclusive, Agent Michaels. I'll be getting off in an hour."

Her lips are so close to his he feels his own tingle. "I concur, Karen," he growls, in his Dean Winchester like the fuckin' rifle voice. "I can offer you all rights… and I can personally guarantee that you'll be getting off in an hour."

And she smiles, licks her lips so her tongue just ghosts his, steps back and drifts into the darkness. He laughs out loud, spins on his heel and strolls back across to his, glances at his palm, Impala, only notices the gigantic figure in the passenger seat when he's got his ass planted on the leather himself.

There's a split second of silence, and then, "Jesus fucking Christ, Dean!" the other man snaps roughly, and he's running his hand through long hair that damn well needs cutting.

And he has to think through it all again for a second: hunter, friend, enemy, son, brother, Sam. "Lord's fuckin' name, Sam," he admonishes testily in return. "What's your point?"

The guy, his brother, makes a face like a bulldog chewing a wasp. "What the fuck, Dean?" he sputters. "Hostage negotiation?" His cheeks are puce. "What the fuck, Dean?" he repeats. "You could have gotten those people killed… you could have been killed yourself… Not that Michael wouldn't bring you back, but even so."

The guy, his brother, Dean reminds himself, stares hard for a second, like he's trying to figure something out, shakes his head, suddenly weary.

"What the fuck, Dean?"

Dean stares back, furrows his brow, and something clicks in his head, so loudly he's sure he hears it resound through the small space between them. And suddenly it's blank inside his brain, and tumbleweeds are blowing about in there, wafting in the dry desert breeze, and he can't remember what the hell his brother's beef is this time. "Hostage negotiation?" he bleats. "What the fuck? As in, what the fuck is this about? Sam?"

Sam saws the air with his hands, and his eyes are huge, frustrated. "Hostage negotiation, Dean! Agent Michaels! One of the FBI's top hostage negotiators, who just happened to be passing through this backwoods hole in the ground? Are you fucking insane?"

He frowns, thinks about it for a second. "It would seem so," he offers diplomatically. "Since I have no clue what you're talking about."

Sam flaps his lips. "You. What. You don't. Can't. You. What are you. What. The fuck? Dean?" He palms his face for a second, takes a few deep breaths. "Something's wrong," he mutters. "I knew it."

Dean leans back into the seat, rubs at his chin, feels a sudden surge of something inside, some feeling he doesn't quite recognize. "Damn right something's wrong," he snaps. "You got a vivid imagination, Sam. You been… you know? Sampling the local black-eyed peas or something? Sucking on things you shouldn't?" He doesn't know where the sneer comes from, but it's a fuckin' swashbuckling, sword-swinging, mustache-twirling, peg-legged pirate of a sneer, with a parrot squawking on its shoulder.

His brother's hand drops away from his face, and he looks crestfallen. "Why would you say that, Dean?" he says softly.

Dean snorts, shrugs. "Maybe I'm just petty," he drawls. "Maybe it's just getting to me, all those times that bitch climbed in the cockpit, and took out her sticker, and sliced into her arm, and little Sammy latched on and nursed like a baby while she patted his hair and told him that if he drank enough of her he could get his brother out of the Pit. And he fuckin' believed her lies, and…" His mouth goes dry and he stops, abruptly, because Sam is staring at him, white-faced, appalled, and there's a sharp needle of pain in his temple and he reaches up a hand, massages the spot.

"How would you know that, Dean?" his brother is saying, gasping really.

"I know everything," he mutters, and he rubs at that sharp, strobing pain again, tries to rub it away. "I know it all, things you don't even…" And there it is again, that blankness in his head. He stares back at Sam, and his brother is pasty faced, looks ill, and his heart burns rubber as it skids to a stop. "Know what?" he says, panicked. "Know what, Sam? You okay? Only you look like you're – not… Are you sick? Are you bleeding again?"

Sam's cocking his head and his eyebrows are meeting in the middle. "No,' he says, slowly. "I'm not sick, Dean. I'm not bleeding." His voice is tired, ragged. "Know that," he continues. "How would you know that, about Ruby, what she said, how it all started… how would you know she told me that? So I'd do it?"

He tilts his own head, wrinkles his nose in distaste, because hearing her name still has his gut twist uncomfortably inside him, still has him pissed to the gunwhales that his brother set him lower on the totem than his tame demon even if he knows it means Sam set him higher than his own humanity. Look where it got us, he gripes viciously inside his head. "What are you talkin' about?" he snaps with his outside voice. "Know what? Do what? What about Ruby? If I ever hear her name again it'll be too soon." He peers out the windshield into the dark, cranes his neck to look out back. Bright lights, Seven-Eleven, cops. "Where the fuck are we anyway? What's with the five-O? Jesus, no wonder I feel like I'm being watched. My head. Fuzzy. You sure you aren't bleeding?"

"Utah," Sam says faintly. "Just outside Heber. The cops aren't here for us. We're on the way back to Bobby's… and yes, I'm sure."

Bobby's, and he has to think about it, finally retrieves the image of a guy about five years older than him, dark hair, blue eyes, mournful expression all the damn time. "Trenchcoat dude," he says. "Tax accountant. Bobby. He does our taxes. Is it tax season?"

His brother leans across, very deliberately plucks the car keys from his hand. "I'm driving, Dean," he says firmly. "We're going to pick our stuff up at the motel and get back on the road to Bobby's."

He doesn't argue, shuffles his ass over into the vacated space, and the door slams shut as Sam gets in behind the wheel.

"My head feels weird, Sam," he says, and he presses the heel of his hand to his temple. "Spaced out. Fuzzy. Whispering pines. That guy in the trenchcoat isn't Bobby is he? He's… he's important. To me. But I can't remember who he is except that he sells ad space. And we don't do tax."

Sam slants his eyes over and he nods just barely. "We don't do tax, Dean," he says. "And it's Castiel."

He closes his eyes for a second, thinks, hunter, friend, enemy, brother. Brother. Oh yeah.

"He's important, Dean," Sam continues gently, carefully even. "He's real important to you. But don't worry. You'll remember who he is… we'll fix this, I promise."

He's clutching at straws himself by the time they get back to the motel room. "It was that movie," he suggests. "You know… the one about the bank job. Inside Man, that's it. That's where I got the spiel from. And the whispering's stopped. I'm fine."

His brother is grabbing handfuls of fabric, ramming it into the two duffels, pauses mid-stuff. "So it was whispering pines meaning rustling? Not the song? And you're saying you learned how to be a hostage negotiator from watching a Denzel Washington movie?"

It's suitably withering, and Dean laughs weakly. "Either that or I know everything all of a sudden."

Sam raises a skeptical eyebrow as he feeds more clothing in the bag. "That's what you said in the car. And you knew about Ruby. But you didn't know who Bobby is. Or Cas."

"I – forgot?" he offers. He bites on his split lip again, flinches reflexively even though it doesn't hurt any more. "You should roll that stuff up," he deflects, and his brother freezes, glowers at him. "It's how you're supposed to pack," he continues timidly. "It takes up less space and it doesn't crease so much."

Sam stares at him for a minute. "Since when were you the authority on packing, Dean?" he challenges.

He scrunches up his nose. "Uh. I don't know?"

Sam sits on the bed, tweaks at his chin, narrows his eyes at him. "How do you kill a wendigo?" he asks suddenly.

Dean eyes him back. "Uh. You lost me, dude. What's a wendigo?"

Sam watches him some more, speculatively.

"You're watching me," Dean accuses. "Speculating, contemplating, meditating, ruminating, hypothesizing—"

Sam's eyes widen. "Try this one," he cuts in. "How do nuclear weapons work?"

Dean makes a clucking noise with his tongue. "They release huge amounts of energy from the nuclei of atoms either by fission or fusion," he trots out automatically. "With fission, the nucleus of an atom is split into two smaller fragments with a neutron. You need to use uranium or plutonium if you do it that way. With fusion, you join two smaller atoms, usually hydrogen or helium, to make a big one."

His brother goggles at him and he shrugs. "That's how the sun produces energy," he finishes off faintly. "Fusion. Anyhoo, either way you do it you end up with a shitload of heat energy and radiation."

"Corinthians thirteen," Sam throws out.

He doesn't miss a beat. "When I was a child, I spoke as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child, but when I became a man, I put away childish things," he recites. "For now we see through a glass, darkly, but then face to face… now I know in part, but then shall I know even as also I am known. And now abideth faith, hope, love, these three, but the greatest of these is love."

Sam swallows hard. "Okay. Now, how do you kill a vampire?"

He snorts. "Vampires aren't even real. And everyone knows Corinthians."

"Not you, Dean," his brother parries sarcastically.

And for a second he's taken aback, maybe even hurt, definitely pissed, so he doesn't mince words. "Are you saying I'm stupid, or something?" he challenges. "Because, you know, stupid is as stupid does, Sam." He knows it doesn't take two years at Stanford to work out what he's talking about, and he sees his brother put two and two together right the fuck then, sees his eyes widen and his nostrils flare.

Sam flushes, and his eyes dart away. "No," he says, and he puts up a hand, placating. "No, Dean – I'm not. Honest, man, I know…" He looks him in the eye again. "I know you aren't stupid Dean," he says, firmer now. "Believe me, I know."

Sam's eyes are open and honest, and somewhere deep down inside it's a comfort, makes him feel warm, content, makes him feel like things can be like they were, and the strained awkwardness dissipates.

"Look," Sam continues. "A lot's happened, Dean, and we're both wiped. The room's paid for. Maybe we should get on the road in the morning, pick this up again after a night's—"

"I'm not tired," he declares.

As he says the words he can see Sam doing the math: he's been awake for eighteen hours straight, bar dozing in the car. "I feel fine," he insists. "Tan, rested and ready." And it's damn well true. "Ask me another," he smirks. "I feel lucky."

Sam thinks on it for a minute, raises an eyebrow. "Okay. Tell me something interesting about Europe."

"Much of modern western civilization is based on the events that took place in Europe," he fires back. " Significant events include the establishment and influence of the Roman Empire, the Roman Catholic Church, the plague, constant wars between France and England, the Reformation, the colonization of much of the known world by European powers, the Industrial Revolution, two World Wars—"

"Say something in… German," Sam races out, with something like desperation.

He nods, tents his eyebrows. "In German," he emphasizes. "Okay. Ich bin nicht ein fasan plucker, ich bin ein fasan plucker sohn… Ich bin nur fasane rupfen 'bis der fasan plucker kommt."

He smirks as his brother gapes at him, waits a beat before he sing-songs, "I'm not the pheasant plucker, I'm the pheasant plucker's son, and I'm—"

Sam shoots to his feet, hefts the duffels. "We're leaving," he barks. "This – it's. It isn't right. We're going to Bobby's. Now."

"Wow," he says weakly. "Sammy, you make me go all tingly when you—"

"You, in front." His brother motions to the door. "Where I can keep an eye on you."

He doesn't argue, he isn't sleepy, he feels oddly restless, wants to be on the road, on the move, and it's ringing in his head, he has an appointment, someone he's supposed to be meeting, something he needs to do. So he does as he's told, tools out of the room, through the ill-lit parking lot and up the sidewalk, hands stuffed in his pockets, shuffles into the office. He leans on the counter while his brother slams his hand down on the bell, and idly watches the old timer who's manning the joint stick his head around the door of the back office before creaking out towards them, leaning heavily on one of those fancy canes with four little feet at the end.

"It's two in the fuckin' mornin'," the man growls.

"We're checking out," Sam snaps, tapping the key furiously on the countertop. "Emergency. Can we get the security deposit back?"

The old guy mutters darkly about needing to check they haven't trashed the room, while he rummages about and finally produces a lock box from under the counter.

Dean gestures at the man's cane. "Osteoarthritis, buddy? In your hip there?"

The old man nods, spits tobacco on the floor. "It's fuckin' killin' me, son," he wheezes. "Meds they hand out are fuckin' useless." He starts laboriously counting out dollar bills and quarters, and the tap, tap, tap of the room key on the counter speeds up to frenzied.

Dean shoots his brother a scorching look that Sam steadfastly ignores, turns back, nods sympathetically. "You ever thought of joint replacement?" he says. "Only you can have that done right up into your eighties these days, as long as you're in good health. They do over two hundred thousand of those babies every year. In fact, seniors who get it done are twice as likely as those who don't to show improvements in physical functioning and increased ability to care for themselves, according to studies."

The old man pauses in his counting, cocks his head thoughtfully. "You don't say, sonny?"

"I do say," he confirms, and he winks, taps his chest. "Board-certified orthopedic surgeon. We can just scrape that diseased bone out of your hip and cement a little cup socket there, and then we take off the top of your femur, hollow out a little channel into the bone and sink a stem with a brand new ball joint on the end right in there." He makes a fist with his right hand, smacks it into the curled palm of his left. "Fits together just like that." He nods for emphasis, finds himself lacing his fingers, stretching them till his knuckles pop, rubbing his palms together. "Or better yet, why don't you just drop your pants and I'll take a look, see if I can—"

"Thanks!" his brother yelps. "Keep the rest!" And he reaches out and claws at the notes, sends stacks of coins skittering across the peeling formica, before he grabs Dean under the arm and steers him over towards the door.

"But I was just—"

"We're leaving!"

He cranes his head as Sam kicks the door open. "If you go for joint replacement you need metal on metal!" he hollers back. "Don't get ceramic on ceramic! They squeak, you can hear it from outside, there's even lawsuits about it, it's—"

Sam manhandles him into the car, flings himself in, screeches them out of the parking lot and up the highway.

"I could have fixed that guy, you know," Dean says balefully. "Had him pain free and walking again if you would have just let me—"

"No," his brother cries, so high-pitched it almost comes out as a shriek. "Enough, Dean. First you're an FBI hostage negotiator, and now you're a board-certified orthopedic surgeon? You get a straight A in nuclear physics and you can speak German, but you've forgotten what a wendigo is? What the fuck is going on with you?"

And he gets that feeling again, a strange snaky coldness coiling itself around his brain. Whispering pines. "Chillax, Samantha," he sneers. "If your panties bunch any tighter, you'll be draining me and hiding my body in the trunk like you did with that nurse."

The tires squeal and he has to brace himself, hands on the dash and elbows locked as the car fishtails and comes to a messy, dust clouded halt at a right angle to the deserted road. He glances across, and Sam isn't looking at him. He's hunched over, hair hanging down and hiding his face, his knuckles stark white as he clutches the steering wheel, and he makes a low, choked sound.

Dean leans across, pokes him. "You know, the nurse," he hisses. "The one you drank so you could raise the devil. Cindy, or whatever her name was."

And his brother is gone, almost falling out of the car onto the grass, scrabbling away on his hands and knees, and he hears the sound of retching from somewhere in the dark. And he smiles, considers all that he has made, and thinks that it is good.

There isn't much to bring up, and Sam spits oily saliva into the dirt, wipes his mouth on his sleeve, tenses as he hears footfalls approach from behind. And then he almost jumps out of his skin as the hand starts rubbing his back.

"Fuck's sake Sammy," his brother is husking out above him. "You should have said if your guts were still bothering you. You aren't bleeding again, are you?"

He holds himself taut, ready. "No," he mutters. "No bleeding, Dean… it's fine. Just. All catching up to me, I think."

Dean huffs out a sigh in response, plants his ass down on the dirt next to him, hugs his knees. "Christ, Sammy," he says softly. "I don't know what to do. I'm officially at a loss. This is all going south faster than a fuckin' snowbird in Winter, and Cas was… he…"

Sam eases himself up slowly, cautiously.

"I don't know what to do, Sammy," Dean says again, and he rests his brow on top of his knees. "Where are we, anyway?"

Sam pushes up onto his feet. "Utah," he says flatly. "Just outside of Heber."

And then he brings the barrel of his Taurus crashing down on the back of his brother's skull.

TBC

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