The quiet chirp of groggy crickets and cheery songbirds welcomed the gradual dawn of the morning sun, the light framing the long shadows. Overhead, the faintest stars fought amidst the softening navy shades in a night reluctant to depart. Dew clung to the tall blades of grass, beading like tears that threatened to fall, casting the field in an ocean of glistening starlight.
Sam inhaled a slow, deep breath of the crisp morning air, his eyes fixed on the fading glory above. In the quiet dawn, it seemed the world was at peace. Lost in beautiful, blissful tranquility. He closed his eyes, trying to banish the raging tempest of thoughts plaguing his mind—the faces—to pretend for a mere moment that peace was something within his reach.
After a few seconds, he released a sigh and tore his gaze from the sky, glancing through the Impala's windows. From his angle, he could glimpse Dean's head peeking over the seat, slouched against the passenger door. Every dozen or so seconds, the older Winchester twitched, his face contorting in muted fear or anger. A nightmare—of what, Sam could only guess. It wasn't as though their lives offered scant material from which their brains could devise twisting torments. The thought of waking him crossed Sam's mind, but he didn't shift the thought to action. If they woke each other every time they caught the other in a nightmare, they'd cut their already minimal rest in half, at least.
Still—they probably needed to move soon anyway. Sam checked the time to confirm what the sunrise announced, resolving to give Dean only a few more minutes. He leaned against the car, stifling a yawn as he resumed his surveying gaze over the land. It was probably beautiful in the spring, when the wildflowers would likely sweep across the field with the haste of an incoming tide. Weeds, to be sure, but only because someone had decided they were unwanted. In their bright, simple cheer and almost evangelical mission to multiply, he thought them no less lovely than another, more treasured flower.
Staring at them, at the rising glow of the sun… he couldn't help but think about those who wouldn't be waking up, today. About the families that would be greeted with another day of lonely questioning and misery, for what he'd stolen from them.
He tried to catch his thoughts before they raced too far, distracting himself with a glance at his phone that confirmed no new updates from Castiel. Sam wasn't expecting a text alerting him that the angels had secured Cain already, in the mere span of a few hours, but… it'd make things easier, if they had. If Cain didn't know anything helpful, it'd be better to clear him as a lead quickly. It felt like with every failed attempt, they inched closer toward the inevitable. Like… like they were running out of time.
Sam rubbed his arms against the chill, wiping the back of his hand over his forehead to clear the collecting sweat.
But maybe Cain would know how to remove the accursed thing—he shared the Mark with Dean with apparently little difficulty. Cas was right; it wouldn't be outlandish to think he might know how to undo what he'd done. Or maybe their own lead would pan out—maybe this ancient tome would contain a purification spell strong enough to lift even the oldest of curses.
After a dozen minutes, the creak of the car door made Sam turn, finding Dean stepping onto the ground with wobbly legs. He stretched with a grimace in a clear attempt to ease the cramps that had settled into his coiled muscles from sleeping slouched in a car seat. He glanced around their surroundings, then squinted at Sam, his voice gravelly from his slumber, "You get any sleep?"
Sam nodded, averting his gaze, "Yeah, some."
Dean might've been too groggy to catch the lie, or perhaps just too groggy to pursue it. He rolled his arm experimentally, his fingers touching the bandaged wound gingerly.
"How's the shoulder?" Sam prompted. It was a deep bite—one they'd need to monitor to ensure it avoided infection. Dean was lucky it was his left arm—it probably stung something awful every time he raised it.
"Peachy," Dean replied tightly, digging into his pocket until he fished out a small orange, prescription bottle. He popped two painkillers and swallowed them dry, then, noticing Sam's watchful gaze, tilted the bottle toward Sam in offer. The younger Winchester waved a hand in refusal, and Dean stuffed the rest back into his jacket.
"I was thinking…" Dean started slowly, taking a few shuffling steps closer, "Maybe we could get you some methadone or something. Might help."
"For the… the addiction?" Sam asked with a cocked eyebrow, disbelief tainting his tone, his voice a whisper as it freed the word that felt like a confession.
Dean nodded, watching Sam's reaction through narrowing eyes.
Sam chuckled with little mirth, "We're talking about demon blood, here, not heroin. You really think some prescription drug is gonna cure me?" His voice edged harsher than he intended—an inclination occurring all too frequently, lately. He knew what Dean meant; he was just trying to help.
Dean scoffed, "Yeah, well. Figure it can't make you any worse."
Sam shook his head, but let it drop. Dean was right—it probably couldn't hurt to try. Though, he wasn't sure how, exactly, Dean planned to score it. It wasn't like he necessarily trusted Sam alone for long enough to sneak some from a hospital. And Cas certainly had enough on his plate—surely Dean couldn't ask him to navigate a hospital or pharmacy to find some, amidst his demon hunting and attempts at curing the Mark of Cain.
He wiped his hands over his face, trying to strip the heavy exhaustion that clung to his eyelids. "We should probably get moving."
Dean nodded, stretching once more—as though his body demanded such a reprieve at the thought of cramming itself back into the car for even another half hour.
Sam moved to the passenger's side, ducking into the car and shoving his hands into his jacket pockets so as to conceal their jitter.
"You ever get a hold of this guy?" Dean asked, easing into the driver's seat and keying the engine.
"No… tried calling again this morning. Nothing."
Dean glanced over, "How old did you say he was?"
"Seventy-one. Couldn't find an obit or a death certificate on him, so…"
"So you're saying we might find a weeks-old dead grandpa inside?"
Sam shrugged, "Or he's just… gone off the grid, or something."
Dean said nothing, pulling onto the road and revving the gas.
After a few minutes of silence, he asked tersely, as though warning Sam to use caution in the phrasing of his reply. "You check in with Cas?"
"Yeah. Spoke with him last night."
"And?"
Sam hesitated—what was Dean hoping he'd say? Dean had seen the angel's condition a few days ago, and Castiel wasn't going to improve until he got more grace or they'd found some other solution. "He's, uh… he didn't sound great, but he's hanging in there, I think."
Dean nodded, apparently satisfied. "Good."
The hum of the car was the only sound for nearly half an hour, absent Sam's occasional relay of directions. Dean's gaze seemed almost glued to the road—a blessing Sam was grateful for. Maybe his brother didn't catch the all-too-frequent yawns and chills and shudders.
Not soon enough, the car eased to a halt before a small, antiquated cabin. Towering trees seemed to guard the property, the once paved garden overrun with weeds and overgrowth. An old, rust-speckled pickup truck slouched in the crumbling driveway. Sam glanced around the barren land—the nearest neighbor might be a few miles away, at least.
Dean parked the Impala and stepped out, surveying the area in a slow, careful scan. Apparently finding nothing of interest or concern, he moved to the trunk, quickly pilfering through their weapons for his nickel-plated colt. He tucked it into the back of his waistband, passing Sam his taurus before closing the lid and stalking toward the front door. Sam followed suit, pulling his shirt and jacket over the exposed grip, even as Dean rapped his knuckles against the door.
After a few seconds, the older Winchester knocked again, louder.
Silence.
Dean inclined his head, signaling it was Sam's turn.
"Gideon Ward?" Sam shouted, trying to peek through the yellowed windows for any sign of movement, "It's Sam and Dean Winchester—we're hunters, like you. We could really use your help."
Both went quiet to listen for the sound of a creaking footstep, but none came.
"Back up," Dean directed, stepping back as though to wind up a solid kick.
"Woah, hey," Sam held up a pacifying hand, the other digging into his inner jacket pockets until he found the tool hidden inside. He held it up, and Dean stared at it a moment, as though the concept hadn't even occurred to him, before he relaxed his posture and retreated another step to give Sam space as the latter crouched in front of the door, fitting the pick inside the lock. It took longer than it should have—his fingers fumbled over the thin metal, the inescapable tremor waging war against the fine control. Surely Dean noticed—hopefully he just blamed it on exhaustion. Sam didn't have to check his watch to know it was another four hours till his next dose. Still, in just over a minute, a satisfying click announced his success, and he pushed the door wide.
Dean peeked inside the doorway, head spinning hastily as he scanned the space. Quietly, he withdrew his pistol, treading carefully inside, "Gideon?"
Sam followed after him, drawing his own gun, but keeping the barrel pointed low.
"You in here?" Dean continued, carefully advancing down the hall. After prodding open two bedroom doors, Dean lowered his weapon, "Clear."
Sam nodded in understanding and agreement, tucking his gun away.
"Well," Dean shrugged, "No dead grandpa."
Sam glanced over the small living room and adjoining kitchen, both scattered with debris. Dirty dishes, ridden with scraps of food and congealed sauce littered the counters, with lines of ants trudging across the surfaces. The air was stiff and cloying, portending the infestation of mold. He wouldn't be surprised to open a cabinet and find a rat nibbling on the corner of a box or something dead hidden beneath the ragged couch.
"Doesn't seem like he's been here a while," Sam noted, glancing over the assortment of papers strewn across the small dining table and coughing against the stale air.
Dean held the back of his hand to his nose as though to temper the stench, "Maybe he got wise, moved to a retirement community." At Sam's glance, he explained, poking at a few unlabeled VHS tapes stacked by the television, "They've got a buncha widows there, at least. Gotta be better than watching pornos and eating TV dinners on the couch."
Sam shook his head and turned back to the scrawled notes, squinting to decipher the scribble.
"If we ever get old, that's what I'd do." Dean remarked, meriting another glance back and cocked eyebrow. "What? Even you could get action at an old home. Might need a wig though, after you lose all that hair."
Sam rolled his eyes with a scoff, but he withheld the somber doubt that getting old wasn't something they needed to worry about. Right now… they were lucky just to make it to tomorrow.
Trying to squelch the dark thought, he tapped the table, "Got some notes here about some hunts. A couple skinwalkers in Colorado. A witch in North Dakota." Sam frowned at the text he thought to read: burned her alive.
"The guy's still hunting?" Dean asked, voice tempered in disbelief.
"Not sure—these don't have dates."
Dean snorted, pointing at the ceiling above the door, "Guess it doesn't get any easier to leave the life."
Sam followed his gaze to the devil's trap painted overhead, then nodded his agreement. He glanced back toward Dean, "You think maybe he died on a hunt, then? Some monster finally got him—made him disappear?"
Dean shrugged, "Wouldn't be the first hunter to go out that way." No, dying of natural causes would be a far more revolutionary way for a hunter to go.
Dean ambled into the bedrooms down the hall, eyes scanning every inch as he walked. Sam heard the closet doors squeak open, then draw shut. Sam resumed skimming over the pages, searching for any mention of this ancient tome, though deciphering the small, scratchy words was granting him a headache.
After a few moments, he heard Dean's footsteps creak down the hall behind him, and he glanced back to find his brother frowning. "If he's a hunter… he's gotta have a stash somewhere. Dad had storage units full of his crap. This guy's in his seventies… where's he keeping it all?"
"I couldn't find any other properties under his name," Sam stood from the table, pinching the bridge of his nose briefly, "I mean, he could have a storage unit like Dad. We could check the nearest ones, but if he used an alias… unless he's got some kind of paperwork around here, or a key maybe, we're not gonna find it—if it exists."
Dean snorted and turned back toward the bedrooms, his irritation almost tangible in the air, his footsteps heavy—then he paused.
Sam frowned at the sound, and the brothers shared a glance. Dean tapped his foot along the floorboards, kneeling to feel along the lines of the wood. Digging his fingernails into the crevice, he raised a small trapdoor.
Dean looked toward Sam with a self-satisfied grin, "Bingo."
Sam joined Dean at its edge, squinting into the dark basement below.
Dean planted a fist on his open palm, cocking an eyebrow in playful—hopeful?—challenge. Sam rolled his eyes and hung his legs over the hole, bracing his fall with his arms atop the floorboards before he dropped into the basement. When his feet hit the cement floor, he coughed, waving a hand over his face as he glanced up. A folded set of stairs was latched atop the basement ceiling, against the rim of the hole. Stretching upward, Sam snagged a rung and pulled it free, yanking it down until it locked fully extended.
As Dean treaded downward, ducking under the ceiling, Sam began treading carefully among the space, flicking on the flashlight of his phone. A large, sturdy workbench sat beneath a hanging, unlit lightbulb. Shelves lined the walls, with a few more intruding into the open space. Assorted books, bottles, artifacts, weapons, and boxes painted with sigils and protective warding flooded almost every inch. The dancing shadows and dusty air were dizzying. Oddly, the room felt… warmer.
Dean flicked a switch, and the lightbulb flashed into a dim, yellowed light. "Know what this thing's supposed to look like?"
Sam shook his head, eyes skating over another devil's trap painted on the ground.
"Think it's in one of these?" Dean pointed at the boxes ridden with warding.
"Hope not," Sam muttered. Cursed object roulette wasn't exactly ideal, but without labels, they'd have to open any box of the appropriate size and shape.
Dean uttered a noise of disgust, and Sam glanced over to find him prodding at a collection of glass jars. Unlike the boxes, a strip of masking tape and scrawled sharpie identified the many hazy contents inside. Dean looked back at Sam as the younger Winchester approached, "Does that say siren mucous?"
Sam scowled, eyes flicking across the other jars. Wraith claw. Changeling ashes. Vampire fangs. Ghoul tongue. Werewolf heart. Djinn flesh. Witch bones. Nausea curled his gut.
"Are these trophies?" Dean asked, his face contorting with shared disgust, "Or for some kind of spell?"
"I dunno," Sam slid a fogged jar aside to secure a better view of another. Demon eyes. Through the cloudy preservation liquid, he could glimpse the bulbous orbs floating inside. He choked back a gag.
Dean's gaze slid over Sam, but he stepped aside to poke among the books on another shelf, his lack of investment clear in the hasty skim over each item.
Sam similarly withdrew from the shelf, struggling to avoid another glance at the macabre jars. Instead, he focused on carefully scanning the shelves before every step—he sucked in a breath and froze as he barely noticed the glint of light from a thin tripwire racing a few inches above the floor. Without moving, he traced the wire upward, winding to a higher shelf—and the trigger of a shotgun. Gingerly, he withdrew his pocketknife, stepped to the side of the barrel, just in case, and slit the wire.
Releasing a slow, shaky exhale, he carried on toward the bookshelf at the end of the room, every step careful and measured. He wiped the sweat from his brow, wringing his head in an attempt to clear the fog clawing its way to the forefront of his mind. His blood burned—when he glanced down at his forearms, he almost expected to see the fluid melting through his very flesh.
Alarm sparked within the skull at the possibility they'd triggered some kind of curse. "Dean," he tried to garner his brother's attention, but the sound came out as a mere mumble, his throat resisting the command. Dean must not have heard the barest hum of a noise, rummaging through a row of books boredly. But the elder Winchester didn't seem ill—or cursed, aside from the Mark's brand—in the slightest. He gritted his teeth, suppressing the worry. More than likely, it was merely another symptom of the withdrawals—of his body falling apart in the deprivation of what it craved most. That, and maybe several days without sleep didn't grant him any grace in resisting the symptoms, either.
When he'd reopened his eyes, as though ordained, they inexplicably slid to a dark, iron box etched in detailed, potent warding, barely visible through the maze of other items shielding it. Beneath his gaze, it seemed to whisper in the shadows, his eyes finding it almost instantly once again, even after he forced himself a glance back toward Dean.
His heart resounded unusually loud in his skull, quickening with the moment. As he began to approach the shelf, his foot fell upon its side, and he stumbled a step, catching himself on one of the shelves' supports.
The noise of the clumsy slip garnered Dean's attention instantly. He looked over Sam, still struggling to straighten free of the shelves' aid, and frowned, voice taut with wary concern, "You okay, man?"
Again, Sam didn't reply. His blood itched angrily in answer nonetheless. He wasn't okay; he… he needed more. Perhaps he was lucky his throat wouldn't carry his words, for his mouth might plea for the blood's salvation on its own. It wouldn't be abandoning recovery, he'd just… he'd miscalculated the dose. All he had to do was… was get the book, and then he could—then he could worry about the rest. His legs carried him another stiff, uneasy step, his knees locking to prevent his complete tumble.
He just needed to reach the book, and then… it'd be okay. He'd reach the book, and then… then, Lucifer would offer sweet praise with breath of ice in his ear and—and heal his body before cleansing its defilement once more with another bout of justice. His brow furrowed, face twisting—no, just the book, he merely had to reach the book, else his father would retort with a sting sharper than words. His vision wavered, confusion coloring the tumultuous sea within his skull. Not John—his father wasn't here; he'd died almost a decade ago. No, he needed to focus on the book—the book, and the blood… the blood, Ruby would reward him with a river and a kiss—Ruby? He wrung his head, but the motion only quickened the spin of the world.
Distantly, he couldn't help but wonder if the book itself sparked such a disorientation, but it was sealed securely within a warded box. A hunter so cautious wouldn't err in the inscription of such sigils. If it was even the book within the box at all.
Sam tried to force another step, but his legs wouldn't comply, rigid as a statute, though his body listed forward a few degrees in the absence of motion. He only managed to stay upright from his pale grip on the metal rod framing the bookshelf. He knew he was close, now—he was so close to this all being over.
"Sammy," Dean hissed, and Sam somehow managed to turn without collapsing in the dizzying sway. He could barely distinguish the silver gun Dean withdrew from his waistband, before the older Winchester leveled it at the top of the wooden staircase. Sam's vision spotted heavily, his fingers reaching instinctively for the gun at his back to mimic the reaction, but they merely slipped over the gun's surface.
"Sammy?" The voice retained its thick weave of desperate frustration, but it bore a heightened pang of confusion and worry, this time, as though Dean had looked back and noticed the rapid decline at his back. The scuff of feet across the concrete floor betrayed Dean's worried haste toward his brother, despite the gun in his hand.
Then, an unmistakable click echoed across the walls around them. Sam finally forced his eyes to focus enough to glimpse the depths of the barrel of a shotgun, aimed squarely at his eyes. The sight was like an invitation of a doting friend, extending a hand in offer.
Before he could reply to such generosity, Sam felt his body crumple, and his muscles clenched and seized painfully as though ignited in the glory of lightning, as his eyes rolled back into unending darkness.