In one moment, Dean was leveling his pistol at the creak of the wooden stairs, at the long shadow consuming the daylight from above.
In the next, Sam was collapsing with the stability and resistance of a shorn doll.
Hesitation tore at his chest for only a heartbeat—Dean slid across the floor to his brother's side, sacrificing his ready counter aim even as he glimpsed the double barrel of a shotgun angled toward Sam. He couldn't afford the weapon a second glance—not yet—as his brother seized on the ground, his eyes rolled back to a veined, pale white, edged in a sleepless pink.
The world was colored and hazed in panic and concern, terror, fear, helplessness. For what felt like eternity, the emotions replaced all thought, all action—Dean knelt paralyzed over his brother, horrified.
"Sammy?" he finally breathed, but the word was swallowed up in the clamor of the tight convulsions, of the meek, agonized grunts and moans of pain as his brother's throat shared in the violent tremors.
"Hey," a gruff voice from behind him was already shaded in impatience, as though it wasn't his first attempt at garnering Dean's attention, "I said get away from him, now."
Dean somehow managed to tear his gaze away to glance backward, toward the stairs. The sudden motion caused the man—an old man, his face lined with wrinkles and mars, his thin hair whiter than snow—to adjust his grip on his shotgun.
"Back up," the man repeated, accentuating the order with a gesture of his gun.
"Please," Dean held up his hands, eyes flicking briefly to his gun lying several feet away, where he'd dropped it in a blind haste to his brother's side. Resisting the urge to glance toward it, Dean knew Sam hadn't drawn his weapon—he hadn't seen or heard it clatter to the floor. It'd still be tucked in his waistband—which was far closer than Dean's abandoned one. "He needs help—"
"Shut up," he interrupted, gaze notably scanning over Sam. "His gun—slide it over, slow. You try anything, I blow both your heads off."
Dean's heartbeat droned loudly in his skull as he looked down at his brother, still shaking madly. This wasn't the time for posturing or for demands and explanations. Still, he needed that gun off Sam regardless—before it misfired and shot through Sam's spine. As gently as he could, Dean rolled Sam to his side, deliberately slow in removing the taurus and obligingly sliding it toward the man. He didn't even spare a glance in the guy's direction, holding Sam on his side as his little brother issued sounds like he was choking on his own spit.
"Sammy, hang in there," Dean urged, his muscles stiff and coiled with utter helplessness as his brother's limbs spasmed and trembled as though hooked to an electrical current. He wasn't sure if Sam could hear him at all—if he was conscious as the seizure commandeered his body. He wasn't sure which he hoped for.
"Back away from him," the man ordered again, maintaining a cautious several feet of distance.
Dean shook his head, otherwise ignoring the command. Uncertainty and desperation clouded his mind. He clenched his jaw—Sam's convulsions weren't stopping. It wasn't the first time his body had succumbed to a seizure—it wasn't the first time Dean had held him amidst such violent spasms, either. It had happened in Bobby's panic room, as another cruel symptom of the withdrawals. Dean had noticed Sam seemed to be declining over the past few hours, but he'd blamed it on a rough day, a lack of sleep. He was on schedule and hadn't missed a dose, after all, so he should be improving.
Except… maybe Sam truly had miscalculated. How could Dean expect he'd be able to determine a proper recovery schedule on his own, with precious little experience to draw from? This had to be the blood. It was too much of a coincidence to be otherwise.
"He needs help," Dean ground out, "Listen, we're hunters. You're Gideon, right?"
From the flicker of recognition and thread of skepticism, Dean knew he'd guessed correctly. The man scoffed, "If you're a hunter, you're a rotten one."
Dean scowled, confusion coiling with impatience, "What?"
"You couldn't even tell what he is," Gideon gestured to Sam with the gun, only momentarily sacrificing its fix upon Dean. Dean didn't dare lunge in the opportunity—not from this distance. If he'd failed to shove the gun far enough aside, a panicked shot might strike Sam—or it might kill Dean. Except… it wouldn't kill him, at least not in any permanent sense. It'd just condemn him to rise as a demon again. Something neither of them could afford.
"What are you talking about?" Dean demanded. What could Gideon possibly know? The older Winchester dared to release Sam to rise and face the old hunter—a motion the man didn't seem to appreciate, given the shift of his grip and scrunch of his face.
"You still can't see it?" Gideon cocked an eyebrow, as though unimpressed.
"Listen, we can talk—" even as he started the sentence, Dean's raised, open-palmed hands snatched the barrel of the gun and yanked it away harshly, forced to send it flying across the room with the angle of the throw and the haste and intensity of his momentum. Even as the gun took air, Gideon retreated a few steps, his hand reaching toward the small of his back. Yet, his motions slowed when he realized Dean was already sweeping back towards his convulsing brother, who'd rolled onto his back.
"C'mon, Sammy," Dean swallowed hard, panic poisoning his every breath. He worked his jaw uneasily, feeling the weight of every second of indecision drag heavily on his soul, before he reached inside his jacket. The metal was warm on his fingers—bizarrely warm. He didn't have time to think on it as he began to unscrew the cap of the flask, pain clawing at his heart at the sight of the agony contorting Sam's face.
"The hell is that?" Gideon muttered, his tone disturbed and wary. Dean didn't hazard a single glance backward to determine if the man had pulled the pistol assuredly waiting in the back of his waistband.
Gingerly, Dean straddled Sam's body to try to control the spasms as he pressed the heel of a palm against Sam's forehead to tilt it back. He almost dropped the flask and winced in surprise. Sam's skin was hot like he'd just been pulled from a furnace. Treacherously warm, if not fatally so.
"Sammy," Dean cursed, his organs knotted in guilt and regret and raw, roiling fear. He should've never let Sam out of the bunker, not in his state. Should've never heeded his brother's insistent demands, his coiling, yet blinded reason.
He pried open Sam's jaws, a task that proved difficult single-handed, against the convulsive tremors that chattered Sam's teeth in their violence. And then, with the flask positioned over Sam's lips, Dean hesitated. He wasn't due another dose for hours; Dean hated the thought of giving him even a drop. But the entire point of the slow detox was so the withdrawals wouldn't kill him—and right now… Dean bit back a scream through gritted teeth, tilting the flask only a dash, sending a few droplets falling onto Sam's tongue. He didn't know if it'd do anything, but he couldn't risk much more all at once, else Sam would choke on the very thing that might deliver his salvation.
He dared a few more, a dark bead catching upon Sam's lower lip, before cascading onto his teeth. Dean couldn't help but think it grimly ironic that the very act that now might save him, was the same that cursed their family into an inescapable nightmare those decades ago.
The cacophonous ring of blaring gunfire caused Dean to flinch. The sudden jolt of force sent the flask clattering across the floor, free of Dean's grip. Blood splattered and pooled across the cement, seeping rapidly through the hole punctured in the thin metal. Dean's gaze snapped back toward Gideon, whose pistol was aimed at Dean's suspended hand.
"I don't know what you're trying to do, but you're duller than a rock if you are a hunter, boy."
Dean cursed the old man, but when the hunter lowered his weapon, Dean's attention returned fully and immediately to his brother, gently cradling the back of Sam's head so it wouldn't bash into the concrete amidst the shifting intensity of his convulsions. He couldn't die—Dean couldn't lose him.
"I'm not sure how he got past the devil's traps," Gideon continued, glaring at the brothers in something not far from derisive disgust, "But that's a demon, plainer than day."
"He's not—" Dean recoiled, almost more surprised at the accusation than at the abrupt gunshot that struck a mere inch from his fingers. He looked down at Sam, but his little brother's eyes had surely rolled white, not black. "He's not a demon."
The old man shifted his pistol to his left hand, reaching down his shirt collar with the other to withdraw a small, golden cross, linked on a thin chain around his neck. He tapped it with a grimy nail, "I've never run into anything else that reacts like that to this."
Dean's scowl deepened—what? Demons might sometimes flinch at the name of Christ, but he hadn't heard of one seizing at the sight of a cross. It wasn't even true for vampires, despite the myths. Had the hunter gone mad? Then, realization dawned as his periphery took in the warded boxes around them, and his gaze sharpened on the necklace.
His words acquired a similarly narrow edge, worry honed to anger, "Get that thing away from him."
It wasn't a mere pendant; it was a cursed object—or perhaps a blessed one, he supposed. His eyes darted back over Sam. If it was attuned to demons… maybe Sam had drunk enough demon blood lately to share in its ill effects.
Gideon issued a chuckle, "Why would I do that? Listen, boy, your friend's probably already dead; the demon probably killed him a while ago. Trust me; it's better this way."
Desperation infiltrated Dean's words, melding with his compounding frustration. His gaze flicked over the pistol, still in Gideon's ready grip. "Look, I know what it looks like, but I promise: he's not a demon. I can explain, just… please. You're killing him."
A snort. "If we're lucky."
Dean cursed. "He's not a demon; he's my brother. He's a hunter, like you and me—he's just… caught up in something. But it's not his fault." He wasn't sure what compelled that addition, but he felt the need to clarify it. "He's not a demon."
Gideon frowned, "Brother?" His eyes slid between the two, brows furrowing, then raising, "You're the Winchesters."
Dean nodded, relief sparking—but only for a second, as the man immediately angled his gun toward Sam and raised it to fire.
"Hey, hey, hey, hey—stop!" Dean immediately lunged in front of Sam, positioning himself between the gun and his brother as he raised his hands pacifyingly.
"Get outta the way."
Dean, still on his knees, shifted his foot slyly beneath him to ready a spring toward the gun yet again, if a clearer opportunity arose. Sam needed help, now. The risk of taking lead to the chest might be one he had to take, before he risked losing Sam. "I'm not gonna let you hurt my brother. Put the gun away, and turn off the necklace." Or I swear, I'll rip your frickin' head off. He barely managed to withhold the biting threat, unwilling to hazard the challenge while Sam's life hung precariously.
Gideon held Dean's gaze through narrowed eyes, "Don't be stupid, boy." Dean gritted his teeth. Could he live without a pancreas? He wasn't sure. But he was worried Sam wouldn't live much longer if he didn't do something, fast.
Perhaps reading the resolve building on Dean's face, and perhaps unsure exactly how the reckless Winchester's plan would end, Gideon lowered his weapon, "Tell you what—you slap those Enochian cuffs on the demon-boy, and I'll put the charm away. For now." He tilted his head faintly toward the hooks on a wall, where a few handcuffs waited with familiar, intricate Enochian engraving.
Dean paused, tempted to yank the necklace from the old hunter's neck and ignore his directives. Only… he wasn't sure how to disengage its curse, and he didn't have time for trial and error. So he merely nodded and crossed the distance as quickly as he dared, snatching a pair from the wall and pausing briefly to glance over the etchings on the iron. He couldn't be sure if they were identical to the ones the brothers had in the Impala's trunk, but the pentagram was the same, and the other marks looked familiar enough. His eyes flicked up toward Gideon, "These aren't going to hurt him, are they?"
The old hunter chuckled almost in disbelief, "Not unless you put 'em on too tight. They just stop him from using any de-monic powers on us, if he wakes up."
Dean rolled his eyes, but he didn't read any deceit in Gideon's face. If the hunter truly wanted them dead, he supposed, he could've just shot them both through the skull. He restrained Sam enough to negotiate his wrists into the cuffs, and after the notable click, turned toward the hunter with a taut command, "Now make it stop."
Gideon stepped backward, keeping his gaze fixed on the Winchesters as he selected a warded box and made a show of removing the necklace and carefully depositing it inside. Almost as soon as he'd closed the lid, Sam's tremors slowed and rapidly surrendered to the occasional twitch—aftershocks, perhaps, of the violent earthquake that had battered his body.
"Sammy?" Dean whispered, brushing the hair out of his face, but his little brother's eyes had drooped limply closed. His own heart hammered loudly as he gingerly positioned his two forefingers along Sam's neck, holding his breath until he felt the thready pulse. Pressing his palm against Sam's flesh for even the few seconds required to trace a heartbeat was enough for his reflex to urge his hand to withdraw from the heat, but he resisted until he was sure the heartbeat was real.
"We've gotta cool him down," Dean gently tested the temperature of Sam's forehead, gritting his teeth when he found it still similarly impossibly hot, glistening in a sheen of sweat.
"Demons are pretty hardy—usually takes more than just the charm to finish 'em." Gideon dismissed indifferently, maintaining a few yards between them.
"He's not a demon," Dean repeated, ensuring Sam's lungs persisted unhitched in their task with a hand suspended loosely over his nose and mouth.
"Good as one," Gideon muttered, "Maybe even worse."
"The hell's that supposed to mean?" Clearly, Gideon knew something. Sam's… curse wasn't exactly isolated knowledge among hunters. Given some of the notes in their father's journal, it seemed several had known even longer than Dean—and had attempted to… take preventative measures, based on their knowledge. But how much did Gideon know?
"Some say he's the antichrist," Gideon's eyes flicked over Sam, narrowing as another twitch jolted his body, "For a while, demons used his name like that of a messiah. Almost believed it back then, when I heard he set the Devil loose."
"And then he put him back in the Cage." Dean bit back, monitoring Sam's brief flinch every dozen or so seconds—as though his body still possessed an electric charge that had yet to expire.
"That makes it all better." The hunter's lip curled, his tone mocking.
Dean clenched his jaw but didn't pursue the point. He didn't have the attention to spare for a debate on the guilt weighing on Sam's soul. And he didn't want to drudge up the past; didn't particularly want to reminisce on that period of their lives. He checked Sam's temperature again, unable to detect a decline. He jerked his chin toward the box wherein Gideon had deposited the cross. "What exactly did that thing do to him?"
The old man shrugged, "Hell if I know. Just know that it hurts demons something good—makes 'em writhe 'n…" he seemed to mull over his phrasing, then added, "Gnash their teeth, I guess, if they get too close. Never leave the house without it."
"Good for you," Dean muttered, then asked louder, "You got any ice?"
"Sure. Probably." Gideon tilted his head toward the stairs behind him, gesturing toward the kitchen.
The older Winchester hesitated before budging an inch. He didn't exactly want to leave his unconscious brother alone with a hunter who seemed to be contemplating whether Sam was the antichrist. One who had jars of monsters' body parts lining his shelves. "You gonna shoot him if I go and get it?"
"Would it kill him?" Gideon returned, the question only somewhat rhetorical.
Dean shook his head, impatience dancing across his skin, "Look, if you're planning on killing him, you might as well shoot me now, cause—"
A slurred mumble and soft swish of fabric on concrete made Dean's head snap back toward his brother. Sam's eyes remained closed, his body still not free from the flinching aftershocks of the seizure. But, more than that, his eyes rolled beneath their lids, his body lurching faintly as though snared in a dream. His parted lips shaped a few disjointed syllables, embodied by a low, shallow breath.
"What kind of devil-tongue is that?" Gideon scowled darkly.
"The angelic kind," Dean retorted, snark curling his words. He knelt beside his brother, trying to distinguish the muddled words, to recall and identify any old patterns. Unease stiffened his muscles—he didn't like hearing the angelic language on Sam's lips. It usually meant Sam was bound in a nightmare of the Cage. What did the little cross do to him?
"Sammy," he whispered, the name a plea, the tentative, hopeful cast of a lifeline, a prayer desperate for a reply.
At the word, Sam mumbled something entirely incoherent, brow furrowing faintly, eyes still closed, but flicking left and right.
Warily encouraged, Dean caressed his brother's hair softly, "Sam—you gotta pull through, man." He wasn't sure if Sam's twitch was in reaction to his voice, so he added, patting his cheek gently, "Come on, nap time's over."
Sam's eyelids finally began to flit, fighting drearily to open more than a fraction of a millimeter. When light reached his pupils, he squinted immediately, groaning as his body reflexively tried to both curl protectively over itself and shift to rise. After a heartbeat, before Dean could speak, his relief and confusion intertwining in a blurry haze, Sam lurched backward, panic suddenly crackling in the air around him almost visibly, eyes flicking about in a mad, fervent search.
"Hey—Sammy," Dean tried to level their gazes, "Calm down."
Sam's brow creased, his confusion and isolation screaming in his silence, his endless scan of the room heralding his apprehension. He trembled visibly, his skin pale as a snowstorm and yet drenched in sweat like he'd been laboring beneath the heat of a blazing summer day. With every passing second, he tried to mask it, but his eyes shone pain and raw fear. What did that charm do to him?
Finally, he stammered out, "Dean…" his gaze darted about the room in an utter lack of recognition, his voice betraying the fear behind such turmoil, "Where…?"
"Nebraska. You, uh… you found a lead." Dean cast a glance toward the old hunter, "This is Gideon."
Sam followed his gaze, blinking slowly as though the pieces gradually began to align, when his eyes slid back to Dean, his breath heavy, voice thin and weak, "How long?" At the furrow of Dean's brow, he clarified with a cough, the words trembling, "How long was I out?"
Dean paused, expression sinking somewhat, "I, uh… I dunno, a few minutes, maybe?"
Sam nodded, moving to brush his fingers through his hair in an attempt to occupy his quivering hands, when his gaze immediately dropped to his wrists—bound in warded handcuffs. Why… why was he cuffed? His breath hitched when his eyes skirted over Dean's hands, finding them unrestrained, and Dean unreactive to the cuffs binding his brother. Sam swallowed hard, then his scowl of uncertainty and dread sank further—at the dizzyingly intoxicating tang lingering on his tongue.
"Are you okay?" Dean asked carefully, certainly noticing Sam's observation of the restraints, but apparently hesitant to broach an explanation.
Ignoring the question, Sam touched a finger to his lip, drawing it back to frown in unquenched horror at a faint dab of crimson. "What… what happened?" The alarm in his tone heightened plainly, despite his attempt to control it.
"You… started seizing," Dean began slowly, casting another glance toward Gideon, "I didn't know what to do, Sam."
Sam nodded in strained understanding, expression twisting as he forced the question, "How much?" His gaze slid to the flask several feet away, and the pool of blood surrounding it. It was slow to congeal, the dim light reflecting off its dark surface, its sulfuric aroma scenting the air. His brain, still burning in raw emotion and alight in pain, urged him to crawl to its side, to bend low and lick it from the floor. If only to calm the surging horror and panic terrorizing his mind, taunting him with awful memories he'd long since suppressed. He squeezed his eyes shut and turned his head.
"Just a few drops." Dean replied tautly, the thread of guilt audible in his words.
"And that… did the trick?" Sam frowned in confusion. A few measly drops—certainly they couldn't do much. Except, he supposed… a few measly drops were all that it took to curse him in the first place. Still… maybe the seizure had simply passed on its own. That'd make more sense, surely.
"Not exactly," his brother's gaze again flicked toward Gideon, who was watching Sam with the rigidity and affection of a gargoyle. Unease laced Sam's veins upon meeting the man's gaze—who seemed to stare through Sam's skin into his very soul, and to scowl upon the depravity he saw.
Sam shuddered involuntarily, closing his eyes momentarily and releasing a slow, shaky breath that he fought to steady. He hadn't quite remembered the withdrawal seizures that way, but then, he supposed… his brain didn't have hell to work from, back then. He felt sick—nauseated, like he might vomit at any moment. Cold—wretchedly, unforgivably cold. He was off on his dosage—he knew it; the most blatant explanation. It wasn't safe to go with Dean on a hunt like this—a fact supported by the old man looming at the stairs, a pistol in his grip, and the Winchesters' guns at his feet. He was lucky he didn't get Dean shot.
Perhaps motivated by Sam's furtive attention, Gideon cleared his throat and spoke, "How'd you get through the devil traps, boy?" His voice was rough, his attention almost entirely fixed on Sam, his posture rigid and wary.
Sam frowned, hearing the words, but they might as well have been spoken in another tongue for all the sense they made. "What?"
Even as Sam glanced toward him, not trusting his own comprehension, Dean ground out, "I told you: he's not a demon."
Sam blinked, his gaze dropping as he attempted to digest the accusation. The hunter thought he was a demon? Because, what, he was seizing? Or… did he recognize the demon blood, still staining the concrete—smell the sweet reek of sulfur lingering in the air?
"Maybe not full-blooded." Gideon muttered in slight concession, and Sam's quiet, shaky exhale seemed to spark Dean's irritation.
"Look—you can splash him with holy water if it'll make you feel better. But I'm telling you: he's not a demon."
The old hunter seemed to ignore Dean, his gaze still glued to Sam, "I know who you are. What you are. The things you've done."
Sam didn't meet the hunter's eyes, his gaze flicking tentatively over the room once more as his thumb subconsciously worked into his left palm. He… he didn't know the things Sam had done. Sam knew that for certain. Maybe he didn't know about the demon blood, though. Maybe he just knew about the apocalypse.
"So what are you doing in my house, Winchesters?" Gideon asked with narrowed eyes. He jerked his chin toward Sam, "You come for the Book?"
Both Winchesters' gazes flicked upward, then Dean glanced toward his brother. Sam could read the thoughts on his face. The guy's basement was full of crap—and seemingly full of cursed objects, to boot. Sam hadn't mentioned the object of their quarry in his emails and voicemails.
Sam tilted his head faintly, evidently sharing Dean's skeptical confusion, "Which book?"
"Don't play dumb with me, boy," the old hunter scowled darkly, his hand still ready on his gun, "I know what you're after—the Book of the Damned."
Sam's eyes widened a degree, sharing another glance with Dean, whose frown deepened. How did the old man possibly know that they were after some old tome, amidst an easy hundred, two hundred other artefacts stuffed in his basement? From Dean's expression, it didn't seem that he'd told him.
As though in answer to the Winchesters' silent question, Gideon scoffed, "Your kind have been after it for decades." A snide smirk pulled his lips, "Not one of 'em's laid a finger on it, though. And I can promise you—that ain't gonna change today."
"I'm not a demon," Sam's voice was quiet, confused, his protest low. It felt strangely feeble on his tongue, though it was true… wasn't it? Then again, maybe… maybe the line wasn't so clear anymore.
"Does saying that make you feel more human?" Gideon countered, searching Sam as though in true sadistic curiosity of the answer.
Sam only gritted his teeth, eyes still low. Dean made no effort to conceal his irritation, "Back off."
"I get it—it must be hard when it's your brother." Gideon shifted his attention to Dean, voice stern, but perhaps belayed in a modicum of sympathy, "He's got you wrapped around his little finger, don't he?"
Sam tried to force another steadier breath as the pungent heat of brimstone filled his nostrils. He could still taste the lightning in the air. No, he… he needed to focus. With an exhale, he tried to grasp onto the hunter's words.
"But he ain't one of us. He's gonna burn the world to the ground."
The old hunter was delusional. "If I wanted to end the world, I wouldn't have taken—" he paused, finding the word even harder to force out than he expected. "Lucifer back to the Cage." Dean glanced over his brother at the whispered name, the hesitation preceding it, the dropped gaze and tremble. Sam could feel his emanating concern from several feet away.
Gideon's reply came cutting and quick, "You should'a stayed in hell with him."
Sam winced, falling silent. A few minutes ago… it'd felt like he'd never left. Maybe Gideon was right—maybe that would've been for the best. There was a chance it meant Jason Kim, Ashley Williams, and Jayden Davis would still be alive, their families happily taking their company for granted instead of mourning the senseless loss, staring down a future with a gaping hole that hadn't been there a few days before. Maybe Dean wouldn't have that accursed Mark on his arm—maybe he'd still be living happily, safely with Lisa and Ben.
"You don't know what you're talking about," Dean ground out, his agitation sharp.
Gideon spared the older Winchester a glare, sneering, "He might think his intentions are good. But he doesn't even know what he is."
Sam's gaze remained fixed on his hands, from which he couldn't banish the visible tremor. His bones still groaned with the lingering agony; his brain still buzzed with the unshakable panic. His body felt thin, like it might snap or crumble at any moment—his mind felt no sturdier, no safer.
Dean took a step closer, his frustration compounding in an almost a visible cloud, "Shut up."
"And you definitely don't know what he is," Gideon continued, shaking his head, "Or at least, you won't admit it to yourself. Don't matter if he tries to fight it. Thought your daddy would've taught you. All monsters are the same—they can't change what they are."
"You might be right," Sam's voice was barely a whisper, and yet it startled to silence both Dean and Gideon. He forced his eyes upward, toward the old hunter, "But we need the book."
"I don't care what you think you need it for—I ain't giving it to the bloody antichrist."
Dean cast another glance back toward Sam, his eyes flicking notably to the handcuffs. It was a signal, slight and silent, almost imperceptible to another eye. Dean knew Sam had a lockpick in his jacket—if Dean managed to distract the old hunter, Sam could pick the cuffs in maybe a minute, if he could convince his hands to still. And yet, he didn't move.
"Sam isn't perfect," Dean dared another step closer, his voice terse, "But he's always trying to do the right thing."
The old man scoffed, then his cold eyes bore holes into Sam's, "If you really want to do the right thing, you should take care of the problem yourself, before you condemn us all."
Sam didn't move but for the relentless tremor, allowing the words to sink slowly, to settle deep in his core.
Dean, however, was a surge of motion. He closed the distance faster than even he himself expected, the Mark singing as he snatched the barrel of Gideon's gun and shoved its aim toward the vacant wall in case Gideon managed to squeeze the trigger before he wrested it away. The bang rang in his ears as his hand suddenly burned, yet he didn't dare withdraw, despite the screaming in his skull to ensure the shot hadn't struck Sam. Without wasting a heartbeat, the moment the gun was freed to the air, Dean hurled a punch across the old man's face—probably with greater abandon than he should've permitted, given the hunter's age. Gideon collapsed backwards against the stairs, and Dean snagged his shirt, yanking him upward to ready another punch. He could almost hear the Mark's encouragement as an audible hum in his ears. But the man's head lolled limply against his shoulders, eyelids flitting dizzily. Hissing through his teeth, he tossed the old man back onto the stairs, and his eyes finally flicked back toward his brother.
Sam hadn't budged an inch. His eyes were glazed, glassy, distant. Hands, still shaking. Skin, still layered in sweat. But the only blood seemed to be that spilt from the flask on the floor, several feet away.
His gaze constantly returning to Sam in a wary monitor, Dean stalked hastily toward the old workbench, snagging another pair of warded handcuffs from the hook and returning to the old hunter, who pressed his fist to his bloody nose as he blinked madly and fumbled to regain his composure. Dean roughly snatched his hands and clapped one of his wrists in the cuffs, looping the arm through the gap of the stairs before snapping the cuff on his other wrist and shoving him harshly back into the ground.
Gideon grunted with the force, swaying unbalanced, dazed. Neutralized enough that Dean could afford a longer glance toward his brother, who still hadn't shifted. His immobility was eerie, almost like he'd succumbed to another spell.
"Sammy," Dean couldn't keep the irritation from bleeding into his concern, kneeling in front of his brother. Surely it had to be better than the seizure, yet… He clasped Sam's face to find it still unbelievably warm. It was a wonder he'd been conscious with a fever this high. "Sammy, come on, man."
Finally, Sam's eyes focused enough to allow Dean an exhale. He just needed Sam to hang in there for a few more hours. He wouldn't let him out of the Bunker again for weeks. No more close calls; they'd play it safe, like they should've been doing from the start.
Sam's eyes slid drearily between Dean's, haunted and pained and utterly weary. Dean couldn't be sure where he'd drifted off to; a couple minutes ago, he'd seemed relatively aware, albeit a little jumpy, a little disjointed. He hoped his brother wasn't sparing a single thought to Gideon's aspersions—hoped that wasn't what set him withdrawing. Not an abnormal reaction for the kid, but… one Dean couldn't say he particularly liked.
Just a few more hours, and he'd be back, safe in the Bunker.
The older Winchester hazarded a glance toward Gideon, who had managed to haul himself upright, groaning as he squinted toward the Winchesters.
He turned back toward Sam, grabbing the handcuffs binding his wrists, "You got a pick?"
Sam nodded, reaching into his pockets with minor difficulty, given the restraints. Satisfied that he was in motion, now, Dean stood, scanning over the warded boxes.
"Where's the Book?" Dean demanded, turning toward the old hunter.
Gideon spat a bloody glob of saliva to the floor.
"You really want me to open all these to find it?" Dean gestured around the room, glaring at the hunter. At his silence, Dean rolled his eyes and muttered, "Of course you do."
He started toward the nearest box—would it even be inside a box?—when his brother's quiet voice broke the silence.
"Dean." The older Winchester obliged him with his attention, even as Sam freed a wrist from the cuff's hold. His focus lingered at a fixed spot on one of the dozen bookshelves, his voice strained and distant, "That one."
Dean cocked an eyebrow, looking back toward Gideon, whose expression darkened. Dean's followed suit, "How do you know?"
Sam's eyes slid to the remaining lock on the handcuff, his words a mumble, "The sizing's right."
Gideon hacked another gobbet of blood, remarking coldly, "Like calls to like."
The words gave Dean pause, despite their speaker. He couldn't help but look over Sam, who seemed more occupied with avoiding Dean's gaze than springing the lock.
Trying to quell the palpable sense of unease swelling in his chest, he approached the box, slowing as he neared it. He tilted his head in bewilderment. It was almost like he could… feel… something tugging at the edges of his mind. Something that made the Mark hum in the way it only did when steeped in blood and violence. Undeniably unnerved, he forced himself to grasp the box, to pick the lock and unfold the latches, and slowly raise its lid.
A book stared back. A simple book, bound in leather, gouged with a few veiny patterns on its covers. In an instant, Dean knew with utter certainty that this was the book they sought. His eyes found nothing abnormal, but his soul felt cold and nauseated in its presence, the Mark itching madly. Hastily, he snapped the lid closed and sealed the Book's prison, uncomfortably aware that its chilling, dark aura had somehow pierced the box's protective sigils. That Sam could apparently feel it too. Dean didn't want to know what that meant.
"Boy," Gideon's voice was stern and rough, yet underneath it lay… desperation. "Put that thing back, now."
Dean ignored the order, moving to fetch his and his brother's guns from where they'd been scattered across the floor.
"I'm warning you," the hunter continued, his worry only escalating, "That thing ain't safe to read. It's evil—raw evil."
"We appreciate your concern," Dean muttered sarcastically, tucking his pistol back into his waistband and, after glancing over his brother, pocketed Sam's gun.
"You don't let him near that thing, you hear me?" Gideon insisted, sincerity weaving along the concern, "You keep it away from him."
Sam's eyes flicked toward Gideon, his face otherwise unreactive. Dean couldn't help but think he would've been better off gagging the old hunter than restraining him.
"Come on, Sam, let's go." Dean beckoned, gaze alternating between his brother and Gideon to ensure the former complied while the latter remained neutralized.
The warded handcuff clattered to the concrete with a ring, before Sam pushed himself to his feet somehow almost silently, as though afraid to impose the scuff of his boots upon the echoing room. His brother's gaze skated over the still drying pool of demon blood several feet away on the concrete, then to the warded box tucked beneath Dean's arm. Without a word, he started up the stairs; as he passed, Dean could see the trembling rise and fall of his chest.
"You listen, boy," Gideon tugged against the handcuffs, "You swear you don't let him near that book." Maybe it was the fervent edge to the hunter's tone, maybe it was a mere poor decision, but Dean hesitated at the stairs, looking down at the man. "It'll turn even good men mad. I can't imagine what it could do with someone like him."
Dean's lip curled, "We'll keep your book safe, gramps. And Sam's gonna be fine. He's not what you think."
"Or he's exactly what I think," Gideon rebutted quickly, even as Dean started up the stairs, "Just neither of you are willing to let yourselves see it."
Dean held his gaze only for a moment, anger crackling and Mark singeing his flesh, "If I didn't think you'd be dead in a few years anyway, I might just save some monster the effort and end your miserable existence right now." He added in a mutter as he marched up the last steps, "Enjoy the rest of your life, old man. However long you've got left."
He heard the front door swing even as he stepped onto the landing, glancing back to find Sam disappearing outside. With a scoff, Dean hastened after him, finding his brother steadying himself with a hand on the car, his head drifting in small, dizzy circles.
Dean moved to the trunk, fitting their guns away inside, before tucking the warded box between their stuffed duffel bags and locking the trunk's lid.
"You okay, man?" He finally asked, moving to the passenger side of the Impala.
Sam glanced toward him—recognizing him, at least—then dropped his focus flicked to the dew-flecked grass.
It was a stupid question; Dean knew the answer, of course. After a moment's pause, he stretched out a hand to test the temperature of Sam's forehead. Almost as soon as the back of his hand brushed Sam's skin, the younger Winchester gently batted the arm away, dismissive.
"Sam, you're still burning up," Dean tried to position himself in Sam's line of sight. It wasn't just a mild fever. His temperature was easily over a hundred four.
Sam shrugged it off, "I'm… just tired, Dean." His voice was raspy with fatigue, but its edge betrayed the stubborn resistance against admitting how miserable he truly felt.
Dean looked him over again, shaking his head. Could he drag Sam to a hospital, despite his… condition? He probably couldn't afford to risk it—who knew what modern medicine would do for, or to, Sam, if anything. Not to mention, Sam seemed… strangely upright for his temperature. Not okay by any means, but not as incapacitated as he'd expect.
Sam clearly noticed Dean's attention, releasing a shaky exhale before pulling open the passenger door and sliding into the seat with a faint grimace. Dean circled around to the driver's side, slipping into his seat and drawing the door closed, before pulling off into the long hours of silence.