A/N We're playing a bit with the timing of the next few chapters, and the episodes that surround them. Just roll with it, please.
The first scene in this chapter takes place shortly after the events in Chapter 44. The remaining of the chapter takes place sometime between s04e07 It's the Great Pumpkin, Sam Winchester and the two-part episodes 04e09 I Know What You Did Last Summer and s04e10 Heaven and Hell.
This chapter was originally much longer and not finished, but I thought I could get at least this part up as a just slightly late birthday present to Sam Winchester. Love you, buddy. Sorry about all this.
(I'm not. You were made to suffer, and we all know it. And love it.)
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Twin Oaks Motel
Thermopolis, WY
November 2, 2008
7:12 a.m.
Sam jogged around the corner of the motel feeling rather less close to death than he had when he'd run out of the room half an hour ago for his daily, "hour-long" run.
He'd woken with a massive headache and vague memories of having gotten horrifically drunk the night (okay, be honest, the morning) before.
He could remember practically throwing himself out of the still-moving car, screaming (well, groaning) at Dean to stop, and spending the next ten minutes ridding his body of everything he had eaten or drunk for what had felt like the last year.
He remembered Dean helping him to lie down on the backseat of the Impala, while his brother gave him mysterious reassurances that his blood was fine and it was all semantics.
At some point — after much less driving time than was typical, Sam was sure — Dean had found this motel, helped Sam into a shower and then tucked him into bed (like he was five).
His hangover hadn't been as bad as it had the right to be (thank you, natural healing abilities) and his decision to run despite how lousy he felt had been made partly in penance for the way he'd abused his poor body, and partly in an effort to jog (get it? he could almost hear Dean say) his memories of yesterday loose.
It had worked. He actually felt a bit better, the headache much improved with the increased blood flow to his brain and fresh air, and his memories of yesterday a good deal clearer.
Perhaps even clearer than he would have wanted, if he were honest.
He had Lucifer's blood in his veins. As if regular, garden variety Demon Blood hadn't been bad enough.
So much for being in any way remotely fucking Human, then.
On the other hand, he'd said his piece to Castiel and lived to tell about it, so… that was a plus. And if nothing else came of it, he'd done his best to keep the angel who had saved his brother safe. And that was something, too.
He was just about at the door when an increasingly familiar pressure in his brain brought him up short.
Castiel.
It took entirely too long for him to convince himself to go inside. He might've just stayed in the parking lot, but he was pretty sure Dean saw him, so not going inside would be… weird.
"Hey," he said, all cool and casual, as he stepped into the room and closed the door behind himself.
"Ah, Sam," Castiel smiled. "We were just speaking of you."
"Oh?" he full-on squeaked. So much for cool and casual. Dork.
"Yeah," Dean agreed and Sam looked at his brother for the first time, taking in the firm set of the Dean Winchester Jaw™ and the narrow, green-eyed glare his brother was leveling at the incredibly powerful angel in the room.
Oh, good. Dean's in a mood. That's what this day needed.
"We were just discussing," Dean continued, his voice hard enough to cut glass, "the incredible fucking hypocrisy of Heaven."
"Dean," Sam hissed, his eyes whipping back and forth between his clearly furious brother and the apparently serene angel he was facing. Or facing off, as the case may be.
"Yes," Castiel said mildly. "Dean was pointing out what he feels is… contradictory behavior. But before we continue that discussion," he cut off whatever stupidly antagonistic thing Dean was about to say, "there is something I find that I need to say to you, Sam."
"Umm… there's… not."
Castiel crossed to him and put a hand on one shoulder.
Sam blinked, confused and slightly disoriented. How did someone so much shorter than him always make him feel like he was looking up at them?
"It appears that a… comment… I made - entirely without thinking," Castiel hastened to add, "caused you some distress yesterday. I am sorry for it."
"I…umm…"
"Lucifer is not in you, Sam Winchester. I pray he never will be." The angel gave his shoulder a long, significant-feeling squeeze, then turned back to Dean. "You were saying, Dean? About the contradictory stance of Heaven?"
"It's not just contradictory, Cas," Dean continued where the argument had apparently left off, as if Castiel's fucking apology never happened at all.
Sam stood there listening, while still trying to wrap his head around the fact that Castiel had even cared about Sam's stupid feelings enough to even notice that he'd been upset, much less say anything about it.
"It's hypocritical and stupid. You SAW what I was doing when you 'raised me from perdition'," he continued in a deep tone that was both clearly mocking the angel and, in Sam's opinion, likely to get them both smited. Smote?
"Of course, I saw," Castiel agreed.
"Right. And what was I doing? I was torturing souls. And not demon souls, oh, no," Dean barreled on, ignoring the subtle restraining hand Sam placed on his arm. "I was torturing people. Human souls, helping to turn them into demons. It's SAM, here, who only tortures Demons who, by most people's standards, probably deserve to be tortured, given that I've yet to meet a Demon who wouldn't stoop to torture themselves!"
"Dean," Sam tried to interrupt, to absolutely no avail.
"But, noooo," Dean continued, dealing enough sass and attitude that, had it been Sam talking to their father, the younger Winchester wouldn't have been able to go out in public for a month, "I'm Heaven's chosen, and my little brother, who is trying to find fucking Lilith, to stop her from breaking the damn seals Heaven keeps screwing the pooch on, he's the dangerous, evil one. So, if I torture, it's all hunky-dory, but if it's Sam," he continued and began waving his hands in a truly embarrassing and spastic fashion, "oh no, somebody bled into his mouth, let's not let him do something useful, because something evil was done to him TWO AND A HALF DECADES AGO!"
"Dean!" Sam dragged his brother away from the angel. "Will you shut up," he hissed and kept himself firmly between his idiot big brother and the angel he was clearly trying to use in a suicide-by-Heaven plan. "I'm so sorry, Castiel," he said placatingly, "Dean is…"
"Quite correct," Castiel said with the same calm certainty he'd had through the entire exchange.
Sam's brain came to a sudden halt with the mental sound of a needle scraping across a record. "He is?" Sam stared at the angel, dumbfounded.
"I am?" Dean repeated, no less surprised.
Castiel gave an elegant, magnanimous nod. "He is. I must admit to having had… similar thoughts, myself."
"Really?" Sam breathed, all hopefulness and gratitude.
"Indeed," Castiel bestowed a nearly-there smile upon The Boy with the Demon Blood and Sam could hardly breathe. "Of course, I must remind you" he continued, and leveled an even, warning gaze at both Winchesters, "that Heaven's views on Sam's… extracurricular activities… remain unchanged. And should the behavior continue, I have no doubt that Heaven will order that The B —- that Sam be… punished."
"You mean killed," Dean snapped.
Castiel nodded again, frowning. "That may be the order, yes. However…"
"If you touch him, I will never do a damn thing Heaven or God or anything else wants from me," Dean vowed. "Not ever."
"HOWEVER," Castiel continued, narrowing his eyes just slightly at Dean, who finally had the good sense to just shut the fuck up already, "as I was the angel who did 'raise you from perdition'," he said, his voice going slightly deeper at the portentous words (and did Castiel's lips twitch into a smile just then? Sam wondered), "The Righteous Man is my charge, and any directives from Heaven which involve him — which involve you, Dean — come to me, and it is up to me to… discharge… any such duties. And since, of course, your loyalty and concern for your brother is well known in Heaven," and this time the angel was definitely giving a small, subtle smile, "any orders regarding Sam would also be left to me."
The angel fell silent, looking expectantly at the two humans standing side by side before him.
The brothers shared a quick glance.
Did he just say?
I think he did.
They exchanged quick and entirely mutual Holy Shit looks and turned back to the angel standing immovable before them.
"So, you're saying…" Dean began.
Castiel immediately frowned as severely as he could. "I am saying, that Heaven has decreed that Sam Winchester should not use his powers. And if he continues to do so, Heaven has also decreed that I would have to deal with it." He turned his attention solely to Dean and met the elder Winchester's gaze. "As a hammer," he intoned, "would perhaps have to handle… a recalcitrant wood screw, for example."
Sam frowned at the bright smile Dean suddenly flashed the angel. Hammers? Wood screws? Clearly, the younger Winchester had missed something.
"I understand," Dean nodded, still holding Castiel's gaze. "I appreciate the warning, Cas. And the explanation."
"See to it that you remember both," Castiel warned and with a sudden flutter of unseen wings, the angel was gone.
"Holy shit!" Dean laughed and clapped his hands together once before settling them on Sam's shoulders and shaking the younger man in what could only be triumph.
"What the hell was that?!"
"That?" Dean grinned at him, "THAT, little brother… was permission."
"Permission for what?"
"To keep doing what you're doing, Sammy. To keep using your powers to go after Lilith."
"What, are you high?" Sam pushed his jubilant brother off. "He said he'd deal with me if I keep using my powers!"
"Yeah, like a hammer on a wood screw."
"Got that. Made no sense, but I got it."
"Aw, Sammy," Dean threw himself onto his bed, leaning against the headboard with his hands behind his head and ostentatiously crossed his ankles. "That was code."
"Code," Sam repeated dryly. "For what, clear lack of understanding of basic material usage?"
Dean laughed and jumped off the bed to return to Sammy's side and pulled his brother into a side-armed half-hug. He leaned close, whispering in Sammy's ear. "Cas has doubts, Sam. He told me he's no hammer, just doing what he's told, without any thoughts of his own. And he just told us both he doesn't see you as something to be smacked down and smashed flat." Dean let him go and clapped him on the shoulder.
"We'll keep it on the QT," Dean grinned, "but, little brother, Operation Find Lilith and Kick Her Ass is a go."
Dean's grin was, as usual, contagious and Sam already felt lighter after Castiel's weird apology. In moments, he was grinning as widely as his brother.
"That's a terrible name for an operation!"
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Abandoned Farmhouse
7171 Turtle Pond way
Arlee, MT
November 3, 2008
5:56 pm
"You sure about this, Sammy?"
Dean glanced nervously over at the demon they had chained to the old cast-iron stove with iron chains that Sam had etched with sigils and demon traps, using nothing more than his mind (and wasn't that a kick in the ass, how much more powerfully his little brother became every day?).
Sam rolled his eyes. "You were there when I did it, Dean," he reminded his brother. "When I pushed the demon back inside, there was no one to pull forward. And the damage to that body… I think this son of bitch worked the poor woman over for kicks and only took over the meatsuit after she died."
"And you're sure," he pressed, twirling Ruby's knife in his hand while he stared at the blood-streaked face and torso of what still looked, if you discounted the gore and the obsidian black eyes, to be the sweet, innocent second grade teacher that actually owned — or according to Sammy, had owned — the meatsuit.
She looked to be just the kind of sweet thing that Dean would admire from across the restaurant, but know he'd never get a chance with.
Sammy might, though. If his idiot little brother ever even tried to get laid. That kind of sweet innocent thing always had a hard-on for his sweet, not-quite-so-innocent little brother.
"YES! Dammit, Dean, what's the hesitation here? There is no one but the demon in that body, believe me."
Something in Sammy's tone, some tension that hadn't been there through the entire hours-long interrogation (read: torture) that Sam had conducted, was setting Dean's teeth on edge.
This demon hadn't given them much more than they already knew about Lilith. They still didn't know where she was, but this demon was pretty sure Lilith had to break the last seal herself, and it would happen somewhere "in the east", apparently, not that that narrowed it down much.
Still, with what they already had, it was at least a small step forward, and Dean was proud of his brother for getting the information, using his powers for good.
Now, the demon had nothing more to give them, and Sam was clearly exhausted from using his TK and his magick. From the way the kid was frowning and squinting, Dean would've bet money that there was a headache building that the kid wasn't admitting to. And, since Sammy was apparently certain that the pretty thing that used to own the meat suit was already dead…
"All righty, then," Dean nodded and strode over to the Demon, putting his hand on the thing's delicate shoulder and bending to look it right in the eye.
"Gonna… torture me… more?" the demon asked. It was clearly meant as a taunt, but the way it had to force the words — and the wet, wracking cough that followed the words — took some of the sting away. "Use a… little of what… Alastair… taught you… huh, Dean-o?"
"You're not worth the effort," Dean smiled. "Besides, we both know you've given up everything you had to my brother."
The demon laughed. "'S matter, Dean-o? Scared… to use your skills… on this pretty, pretty… body? Letting… little brother… do all… all the dirty work?" the bastard continued, coughing now almost between every word. "Or… doesn't little brother… know… what you really… did… in Hell?"
"Oh, he knows," Dean assured him. He couldn't help himself, leaned forward to whisper in one small, shell-like ear. "How about a taste?" he whispered and stuck the knife in, just at the bottom of the throat and a scant half inch under the skin. He dragged it down, watching the faint yellow flashes beneath the skin with a clinical air, until he plunged the knife deep into the soft tissue beneath the rib cage and ripped the blade down to the top of the meatsuit's groin, letting the blood pour warm and wet over his hand as the meatsuit sparked and flickered and the demon inside died.
Dean pulled the knife out and stood smiling ferally over the dead demon as he wiped the blade on the meatsuit's pale blue blouse.
Behind him, Dean heard a gasp and thump and turned to see his brother on his knees, gasping, holding tight to the strands of his long hair.
Staring in horror at what Dean had just done.
"Oh, my god, Sammy!" He rushed to his brother's side, stuffing the knife into the inner pocket of his coat, and reached for him.
Sammy's eyes got impossibly wider as he flinched back from Dean's touch, staring at Dean's blood-soaked right hand as if it would rise up and choke him.
"I, I, I'm sorry," Dean stammered, and pulled his bandana out of his back pocket, hastily wiping the blood on his hands away (like anything would ever get his hands clean again, after what he'd done in Hell). "I'm so sorry, Sammy, I shouldn't've… I couldn't help it… I'm… I told you, man, I, I'm a monster, Sammy. What I did to those souls in Hell, I…"
Sam was staring now at the body behind Dean's back, at the brutality of what Dean had done, a look of complete horror on his increasingly pale face.
Dean shifted so he was blocking the sight.
Sam shook his head, gulped in a deep breath once, twice, then forced his eyes to focus on Dean's face.
Deliberately, Sam took the still slightly (always) blood-stained hand in his own and shook his head again. "No. That's not… It's you, Dean," he panted and craned his neck to the side a little to get another look at the demon's corpse. His pink tongue flickered out, licking over his bottom lip before he dragged his gaze back to Dean's.
"Get me outa here," Sam urged, his voice shaking. "Get me to the car."
"We have to…"
"Get me. Out. Of here." Sam ground out between clenched teeth and the grip on Dean's hand became painful.
"Yeah, yeah, absolutely," Dean agreed, stuffing the bandanna in a pocket before he helped Sam stand, pulling one of the kid's arms over his shoulders and wrapping his own arm around the trim waist, grabbing hold of a belt loop to keep the kid up, when Sammy's knees gave way.
Together, they staggered through the house to the back door, and down the sagging wooden steps to where they'd parked the Impala hours ago, out of sight of what little traffic went by on the side road that boasted mostly abandoned farms like the one they were at.
Dean helped Sam into the front seat and crouched beside him.
"You okay?" He placed his (clean) left hand on the kid's cheek.
Weakly, Sammy nodded and forced his gaze from the farmhouse again, finally looking Dean in the eye.
Kid looked beat, and so fucking scared, and Dean damned himself (again) for putting that look into those pale green eyes.
Sam shook his head. "'T's not you, Dean," he promised, still fighting to do anything other than pant in and out. "It's not you. I just… I need…" he leaned — or maybe just fell — sideways against the headrest, and closed his eyes. "I just need a minute."
"Dammit, Sammy," Dean sighed softly. "If the interrogation was too much for you to do, you should've tol —"
"That's not it."
Dean frowned. "Well… What the hell is it then?"
Sam shook his head. "Not now, Dean. Okay? Not now. Go… go get rid of the blo… body. Go burn the whole fuckin' house down. Just… let me sit, okay? Just let me sit."
Dean nodded reluctantly and tapped Sammy's cheek twice, freezing when one big hand came up and grabbed his wrist, giving what he was sure was meant to be a reassuring squeeze.
It probably would've been if the kid's hand wasn't shaking like he had some kind of old man palsy going on.
"Okay. Okay, Sammy, I'll… I'll be back," he promised and stood, waiting for a moment for Sam to roll himself sideways onto the seat, and tuck his long legs into the footwell so Dean could close the passenger door.
Dean went into the trunk, and pulled out the oversized backpack that was their burn kit, full of salt and kerosene and several books of matches. He threw a quick glance at his brother as he passed the passenger window.
Sam sat completely still, eyes closed, breathing in a steady, rhythmic way that's showed his kid was clearly struggling with… something that Dean didn't understand.
It was quick work to salt the school teacher's remains and dowse the meatsuit and surrounding area with kerosene, laying a trail out the back door to the top of the steps. Dean lit a pack of matches and flung them onto the liquid, then hightailed it back to his baby, tossing the backpack into the back seat and immediately starting the car.
He spun the wheel, doing a half-donut in the grass and peeled out down the overgrown driveway, throwing grass and gravel up behind him. He wanted to be well gone before the fire fully caught and made its way down to the oil-fired furnace in the basement.
They were three or four miles down the road before he saw the thick black smoke turn into a brief fireball, leaving behind a blue-white smoke as the fuel oil went up.
He glanced over at his brother, checking in now that the immediate danger was past. The kid was still leaning against the headrest, his eyes closed. Dean frowned, noting the tension in the broad shoulders and the fists held rigidly on the tops of Sam's thighs.
"Sammy, are you…"
"No." Sam turned his head slowly to look at him, and the broken look in his eyes stole his breath. "No, I'm not okay. Dean…. get me to Bobby's."
"Sam, what…"
"Get. Me. To Bobby's," he repeated, tears welling up in his eyes. "Now," he practically begged and turned to look out the passenger window.
Dean nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, okay, Sammy. Whatever you need, little brother, whatever you need," he promised and reached slowly over to put a hand over one clenched fist.
The big hand unfurled and clutched his and Dean threaded their fingers together as they sped on through the night towards their second home.
Sam held tightly to his hand for another 16 miles before he started to shake again.
"Dean," he panted. "Dean?"
"What? Sammy…"
"Pull over."
"What? Sammy, why…"
"PULL OVER!"
Dean cut the wheel sharply right into the wheat field running beside the road. "What's wrong?" he demanded. "Sammy, are you sick? You gonna be sick? Don't get sick in my car!"
Sam shook his head and turned to look at him again, pupils blown, forehead dripping sweat. "Get out."
"What?"
"Get out. Please," Sam begged, full out gasping for breath now, as he threw himself out of the car.
Dean quickly checked to be sure there were no cars coming, jumped out of the car and closed the door, then practically sprinted around the front to where his brother knelt on the ground, arms clutched around his stomach, rocking himself back and forth.
"Sammy…" he started to kneel, but stopped when Sam raised a hand.
"NO! Please," he gasped. "Don't… Stay away."
"Sam, what the hell man?"
"Get the… get the kerosene."
Frowning, completely confused and almost frantic with worry, Dean opened the backseat and pulled out the burn kit, dropping it to the ground and kneeling beside it, before he unzipped it and reached inside for the familiar canister.
"I got it," he reported, doubting that with the rocking and the way he kept his eyes clenched shut that Sam would know.
Sam nodded, jerkily. "Your bandanna."
"Right," Dean nodded and pulled it from his pocket, offering it to his brother.
He jumped when Sam recoiled as if he'd been struck.
"NO!" Sam gasped and curled himself up even tighter. "Burn it. Please, god, burn it. Burn it, burn it…" he kept repeating.
"Right, right," Dean nodded and pulled his Zippo out and set the fucking thing on fire, dropping it to the ground and watching it disintegrate into ash.
"It's done," he reported, but Sam's frantic rocking had already slowed and he seemed to relax slightly, lifting his head from where it had been practically buried against his knees.
"The… the knife," the kid panted, and his teeth began to chatter as shivers started wracking the long body. "Ruby's knife."
Cautiously, Dean pulled it from his coat, not offering it to his brother. "I've got it."
"Pour… pour the kerosene…"
"Right, I got it," Dean agreed and set the knife between his knees for a moment while he fumbled to open the kerosene. He picked the knife up and poured the kerosene over the blade, carefully covering the blade on both sides up to the metal guard. "You want me to light it?" he wondered and Sam nodded quickly.
Dean licked his lips and swallowed nervously — this was stupid, this was dangerous, what the fuck was this even for — before sliding his hand as far back along the handle as he could go and putting his Zippo to use again, lighting the kerosene that clung to the knife, watching it play along the metal, all the way to the metal guard, slightly heating the antler handle.
When it was done, he set the knife on the ground, and looked at his brother again.
Sam had uncurled himself, and was leaning against the open passenger door, clearly trying to get his breathing back under control. The shivering was mostly stopped and the pure unadulterated panic had left his eyes.
"You okay now?" Dean ventured cautiously.
Sam nodded. "Yeah," he sighed. "Thanks. Thanks, Dean," he smiled weakly and reached out a hand.
Dean grabbed Sammy's wrist and pulled gently until he had his arms full of slightly shaking little brother, and he held on until the aftershocks of Sam's… whatever that had been… faded away.
"Sammy, what…" he began but stopped when his brother whimpered and shook his head.
Dean's brain spun back over what had happened, trying to figure out what the hell was going on with Sammy.
The ruined meatsuit. The Demon-Killing Knife. The bandana he'd wiped his…
"Fuck," he breathed and shifted his hold so his hand was on the back of Sammy's head. "The Blood," he breathed.
Sam went stiff in his hold, and slowly pulled away, looking at the ground, the field, the interior of the car — anywhere but at Dean.
"That's it, isn't it?" Dean said quietly. "The demon blood."
Slowly, reluctantly, Sam nodded. Dean could see the effort it took for the kid to force himself to look at him. "I… I think… When I… When she…" he looked away again.
"It's okay," Dean promised and slid his hand to Sammy's neck, pulling their foreheads gently together in that age-old position that never failed to unite and comfort them both. "It's okay, Sammy. Just… tell me what happened."
"I was fine," Sam said softly. "The whole time I was… while I worked that demon over, I was fine," he said more firmly. "But once you… when you… It was… there was just so much." He pulled away and ran his hand roughly over his eyes before staring up at the darkening sky as the sun moved towards the horizon. "I could smell it," he admitted. "And it smelled… it was so… Oh, fuck," he half-sobbed. "That bitch!" He met Dean's eyes again and let loose a small, desperate half-laugh. "Now I know why she kept dosing me, even though I didn't need the power boost."
For a moment, Dean frowned, putting it together only a fraction slower than his brother had. His eyes widened, then his face crumpled in sympathetic pain as he reached for his brother again. "Oh, shit. Sammy."
Sam looked away again, pulling just out of Dean's reach. "When I smelled it, I… I wanted to…"
Dean tried — failed — to hide his wince at the pain he'd brought on with the blood he had spilled.
"And when you brought the knife near me," Sam continued through clenched teeth, "man, it was all I could I do not to grab it from you and lick it clean. Suck it off your fingers."
Dean flinched and swallowed hard as stomach began to roll.
"We gotta get to Bobby's, man," Sam breathed and used the door to drag himself up to his feet and back into the passenger seat.
"Sam…" Dean stood and looked down at his brother.
"Panic room," Sammy explained, and looked up at him, his eyes wide and glittering with some combination of desperation, fear and tears. "That'll hold me while I… I don't know. Come down? Detox, whatever."
Dean nodded, helplessly, and picked up the kerosene, stowing it and the cleansed knife in the backpack. "Pop the trunk," he called from the back of the car, and waited while Sam leaned over the seat. When the trunk opened, he threw in the burn kit. He paused and looked down at himself, at the bits of blood splattered on his clothes, at the residue on his hands.
He looked up and down the empty road, across the fields to confirm they were alone, then grabbed his duffle and quickly changed his clothes.
That done, he closed the trunk firmly, then he went to the backseat, reaching inside to pull a bottle of water out of the cooler.
Carefully, he rinsed his hands as thoroughly as he could, scrubbing at his skin and nails until he couldn't see a trace of blood.
Hopefully it would be enough.
When he settled in the driver's seat, he paused with his hand on the key in the ignition. "You okay?" he asked again.
Sam nodded, slowly. "For the moment, yeah."
"Anything else you want me to put in the trunk?"
Sam went still for a moment, then slowly met Dean's gaze.
Dean's eyes widened and his jaw went slack in shock as, slowly, wordlessly, Sammy pulled his Taurus from his waistband. They both stared at the weapon in Sam's hand, at the way he kept his fingers well away from the safeties and the trigger.
"I had a dream," Sam confessed, a slight tremor still in his voice, "just the other night. In it I…" he didn't finish, but Dean knew what he'd seen. "And you were there, screaming at me to stop, and I… I couldn't figure it out, man. You were right there. I still had you, Dean, why would I…"
A frozen moment while they both just stared at the gun.
"And now I know," he breathed so softly, Dean could barely hear.
Sam cleared his throat. "Give me your hand," he said firmly.
Dean reached one hand out.
Sam smiled sadly, then slowly lowered the gun into Dean's palm. "Hold onto that for me, will ya?" he asked, almost casually, as he let go and tucked his hands under his thighs.
"Yeah," Dean nodded and slipped the gun into the pocket furthest away from his brother. "Sure, Sammy, sure."
Sam nodded and lifted his haunted eyes to meet his brother's worried gaze.
"Drive," he said softly, then turned away to lean against the passenger door and closed his eyes.
Dean took a deep breath, then another. It was on the tip of his tongue to say his brother's name again, to try to talk to the kid — and that was Sammy's shtick, wasn't it? — but what would he, what could he say? Hey, it sucks that you're addicted to Demon blood, but it's nothing to blow your brains out over?
Dean turned the key and just drove.
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Singer Salvage
Sioux Falls, SD
November 4
2:12 pm
"I'm not leaving you."
Dean stood, legs slightly spread, arms crossed, a completely Immovable Object standing in front of the cot in Bobby's Panic Room.
Sam sighed, looking up at him from said cot, legs crossed beneath him, half-lotus style, hands forming fists in the thin blanket beneath him. "You have to," he said firmly, An Irresistible Force if Dean had ever seen one.
Dean shook his head, and suddenly crouched in front of his stubborn little brother, placing one hand on his kid's knee. "Sammy, I am not leaving you in here alone while you go through Demon Blood Detox, man. I'm not doing it!"
Sam sighed and pulled away, rolling himself off the other side of the cot from where Dean crouched, keeping the flimsy furniture between them. "You can't stay," he repeated for the umpteenth time.
Dean stood, shaking his head in frustration. "WHY, man? You just keep saying I have to go, but you won't say why. Just give me a fuckin' reason, Sam! Something other than that, that… fucking… martyr complex you've got going."
"Me, with the martyr complex," Sam scoffed. "Says the kettle who actually went to Hell for me!"
"Dammit, Sammy…"
"No. No! You cannot stay in here with me, Dean, you can't!"
"Repeatedly saying 'no' is not an explanation, Sam. Tell. Me. Why."
"BECAUSE I DON'T TRUST MYSELF!" Sam shouted. He huffed out a deep breath and looked away.
"Sam…"
Sam closed his eyes for a moment, and shook his head before turning back to Dean and looking him in the eye. "I don't know what's going to happen, Dean," he explained, forcing the words out through his clenched teeth.
"It's detox, Sammy," Dean said gently. "It's gonna suck."
A laughed escaped him before he could stop it, but Sam just shook his head again. "Well, yeah, sure, but… we don't know what suck looks like, here, Dean."
"Whatever it looks like, you're not going through it alone," Dean insisted.
"That's a great idea, Dean," Sam sighed. "And I appreciate it, I do. But we have No. Fucking. Idea. What detoxing off fuckin' demon blood even looks like!"
"Sam…"
"Do you know what regular detox looks like, Dean? What it's like to go cold turkey off, off, some fucking… normal drug? Because I do."
And that stopped Dean cold. Was Sammy saying he… Could his little brother have… No. No, he'd have known. Unless it happened while you were hunting with Dad. "You what?"
"I mean, not personally," Sam explained and rolled his eyes. "Well, yeah, personally, but not for me."
"Then what the f—-"
"Remember Brady?"
"Your college roomie? What abou— Wait," Dean scoffed. "Mr. Perfect was an alkie?"
Sam shot him a look of pure disgust. "He wasn't 'Mr Perfect', Dean. He was a good guy," Sam defended, then shrugged. "Until Spring Break, Sophomore year. You'd just left that Christmas. Hell, you'd just called that January to tell me 'goodbye'"
"I remember," Dean assured him. Like he would ever forget the worst phone call of his life.
"He came back from Spring Break… just… wrong, man. I don't know what happened to him," Sam admitted. "I think… He said he got mugged, down in Lauderdale. I don't… I think it might've been… more serious than that? But he never said," he conceded with a sigh. "Anyway, he came back, pretty messed up, held on for the rest of the semester, made it back for Junior year. Brady dropped out of Pre-Med, right after Thanksgiving. Said his parents had disowned him. He started partying pretty hard, sleeping around. It got… bad. I spent Christmas with Jess and her family, and… the week between Christmas and New Year's at your old cabin. Drying him out. Getting him off coke. And Meth and whatever the fuck else. Cold Turkey. So…. yeah. I got a pretty good idea what's ahead for me."
"Jesus," Dean breathed. He'd never really liked Brady, he supposed just on principle really, for the pretentiously named S.O.B., but he'd been a good friend to Sammy. At least, while Dean had been around.
"So I know that there's going to be anxiety, fatigue, sweating, vomiting…"
"All the more reason you shouldn't be alone, Sammy."
"Disorientation, shivering, feeling hot or cold, sometimes both almost at the same time."
"Not changing my mind, here, Sam," Dean insisted, rounding the cot to stand in front of him. "I'm not leaving you alone for all of that!"
"There's also hallucinations, Dean," Sam told him and noticed when that got Dean's attention solely trained on him. "Yeah. I'm not going to be able to tell what's real, Dean." Sam sighed and ran a hand over his face. "There were a couple of times Brady thought I was attacking him, when I was just trying to get him to drink some water. A couple of times, I'm not sure what he thought I was doing. What he thought I was. So, yeah, Dean. There's gonna be times I'm not going to be able to tell if you're real."
"Then I'll remind you," Dean insisted.
"What, when I'm throwing you across the room?" Sam challenged.
"What? What are you talking about?"
"All Brady could do to me was throw some weak, and frankly pitiful, punches. Seriously, guy had no form. But I have powers, Dean," Sam reminded. "And there's no way to tell what the detox will do to them. It could take them away, it could make them stronger. I don't know, and neither do you. The one thing we can bet on is that I probably won't be able to control it. And even if I can, then… dammit, Dean! What happens when I think you're trying to hurt me?"
"I'd never hurt you, Sammy."
"I know that. Brady knew I'd never hurt him — when he was in his right mind, but that's the point, Dean! He wasn't in his right mind, and I won't be, either. So, yeah, I know, you'll never hurt me. I know that now, Dean, but what about when I'm knee-deep in this? Who knows what…" Sam's eyes flicked over Dean's shoulder then back to his brother. "Who knows what I'll see?" he wondered, his breathing getting faster.
"You don't even know if you'll see anything at all!" Dean argued. "Detox is different or everyone, right? So, just because it happened with Brady, that don't mean it'll happen with you! You may not even have hallucinations, Sammy."
"Pretty sure I will," Sam said quietly, his voice reedy and thin as his gaze fixed somewhere behind Dean again.
Dean looked over his shoulder and turned slowly back to his brother. "Oh, crap," he whispered. "It's happening now, isn't it?"
Sam nodded.
"Sammy," Dean said firmly and stepped forward to put his hands on his brother's shoulders, grounding the kid as best he could. "It's not real. I'm real, Sam. But there's nothing here but us. Just you. And me."
Sam nodded again, slower this time. "I know," he said quietly. "But he looks… he looks awfully fuckin' real, Dean," he laughed a little hysterically.
"Who does? Who are you seeing, Sammy? Tell me."
Sam dragged his gaze back to his brother's and swallowed, hard. "It's John."
"Dad?"
Sam nodded again, and his eyes slipped past Dean, then back to his brother's worried green gaze. "He has the Colt," he said quietly.
"Jesus, Sam," Dean groaned and pulled the kid into his arms, pressing Sammy's face into his shoulder, ensuring that he couldn't see anything at all. "He's dead, man. And even if he weren't, I'd never let him hurt you again."
"I know," Sam nodded and fought to extricate himself from Dean's embrace. After a moment, Dean let go. "I know that, Dean. NOW. Half an hour from now?" he chuckled and shrugged. "Who knows? Maybe I'll think you've got the Colt."
"Sam…"
"I know, I know. You'd never. But…" he looked away (not at his father, still leering at him from behind Dean, relentlessly cocking and uncocking the gun in his hand). He shook his head. "Dean, I don't know what I'm going to see. And I sure the fuck don't know what I'm going to do. And I won't risk hurting you. I WON'T."
"Sam…"
"No, Dean, NO!" Sam pushed him away and stalked to the far wall of the Panic Room, back towards his brother, leaning his palms against the cold rough iron, dropping his head between his forearms. "I can already feel it, Dean."
"What, Sammy? What can you feel?"
"My power," he explained, his voice shaking now. His body starting to. "It's building. Remember I told you? That if I don't use it, it just comes out, sometimes?"
"Like a punch," Dean recalled.
Sam nodded and slid around to lean back against the wall, shoving his hands in his jean pockets. "It's already starting," he said, fighting to keep his breath even. "I can feel it. I don't know… I don't know if I could control this under normal circumstances, honestly," he almost sobbed. "We are not looking at normal circumstances, Dean." He took a deep, shuddering breath and forced himself to look into Dean's eyes, ignoring his father pointing a gun at him, pulling the trigger over and over, yelling at him to just die already, you demon bastard. "I don't want to hurt you, Dean," he half-sobbed. "Please don't make me hurt you."
"You won't…"
"I WILL!" he yelled and a sudden surge of power forced Dean back a step. "I'm already… Jesus, Dean, will you GO?!"
"No," Dean said, softly. "I told you. I will not let you go through this alone."
Sam closed his eyes and took another deep breath, letting it out slowly before opening his eyes and capturing green eyes with Witch Blue.
"Leave," he said firmly. "Or I'll make you."
"Sam…"
"LEAVE!"
"No, Sam, I won't… Sam!" Dean yelled as something grabbed him by the shoulders and dragged him across the room, towards the suddenly open hatchway door. "Sam, don't!"
Dean lifted off the ground, over the threshold and out into the basement, to be suddenly dropped to the basement floor.
He scrambled to his feet and lunged for the door, only to have it swing shut in his face.
"SAM! Sammy, open the door!" he yelled, pounding on the metal even as he heard the unmistakable sound of the interior lock spinning shut. "Dammit!"
He pounded on the door a minute or so more, then flung open the little peephole door, startling slightly at finding Sam standing just on the other side.
"Sam, open the door."
"No," Sam shook his head. "I can't. It's too dangerous, Dean. I'm too dangerous. You need to lock the door on your side, too."
"Sam…"
"Dean, please. Please, Dean. I can't… I can't trust that I'll stay in here, if it gets bad. And I can't…" He shook his head again and held Dean's eyes with his own. "You need to know," he said firmly, "and I already told Bobby, before I came down. I would rather die than stay strung out on this shit, Dean. I mean that. I don't want to be this."
"Sammy…" Dean shook his head, not even noticing the tears that were starting to run down his cheeks. "Sammy, no."
"Yes," he nodded. "I, I can't…" He closed his eyes again. "Can you feel me, Dean?" he asked softly. "Can you feel my mind?"
Dean hesitated, reached the way Sammy had taught him, and barely suppressed a flinch. "Yeah," he breathed.
"What does it feel like to you?" Sam wondered. "Because to me, it's… it's all just… wrong… and… I… I…"
"Squirming like a toad," Dean provided, swallowing back the nausea.
"Thanks, Jim," Sam snorted. "But yeah, that's good. With the window open like this, you should be able to feel me." He shrugged at the puzzled look on his brother's face. "Rick and I ran some experiments. Before Stanford. I needed to know… If I turned… If it went wrong, I needed to know that, that there was someplace safe. Somewhere I could be and you'd all be safe. From me. You can feel me, I can definitely feel you, but I can't unlock the exterior lock, even with the view window open. I tried, I can't. My power won't penetrate the iron."
"Jesus," Dean breathed.
"Lock the door, Dean."
"Sammy, I'm not…"
"Dean."
Dean made himself look into the pleading tri-colored eyes.
"You can feel how wrong I am, right now. Do you want that, with my power, out in the world? Do you really?"
Dean stared at him, sniffing back the tears that he couldn't hope to stop and slowly spun the wheel that locked the door.
"Thank you," Sam sobbed, and rested his forehead on the grate in the little observation window. "Thank you, Dean. When I feel… when my mind is normal again. When you can feel that I'm… That I'm me, again. Then you can unlock it. Until then… just… Dean, just stay away. Please."
"Sammy…"
"I'll see you on the other side," Sam nodded and turned away.
Dean's fist hovered over the door, then fell to his side. He shook his head, and turned away from the Panic Room, casting his gaze over the rest of the basement.
He smiled when his eyes fell on an old sagging armchair stashed in a corner and he dragged it to the front of the Panic Room door, settling himself down for a long wait.
"Dean?" Sam's voice echoed oddly through the observation window, about ten minutes later. "You're still there, aren't you?"
"Told ya, Sammy. Not going anywhere. Not leaving you alone to this."
"Dammit, Dean," Sam sighed and for a moment, Dean could see him through the window. He watched as Sam looked out at him, then turned his back again and sunk out of sight. Dean listened to the sound of his brother sliding down the metal door to sit on the floor.
Kid was less than five feet away, and Dean felt like it was the other side of the world.
"You can't stay." Sammy's voice filtered up through opening in the door.
"Sammy, I'm not…"
"Dean, I get it, I do," Sam admitted. Inside the Panic Room, he leaned his head back against the door, bent his knees up in front of him to rest his wrists on them, wearily. He was so damn tired, and his bones ached like he'd been stretched on a rack. "If you were in here, instead of me, I wouldn't want to leave either," he admitted. "But you're not helping me, Dean."
"Sammy, I know I can't do anything." Dean shifted in the chair, wiping his fingers quickly across his eyes, stopping the tears before they could truly begin to fall. "I know I can't make it better, I can't stop you from… going through whatever's gonna happen in there, but… I, I can't just… Man, at least you know you're not alone."
Sam laughed and shook his head. "No, I'm not alone," he admitted and looked across the room at Gordon Walker, who glared at him, spinning a machete in his hand. He forced himself to look away, concentrated on looking at his shaking hands. "It's more than that you're not helping, here, Dean," he admitted, quietly. "It's worse than that."
Dean stood and walked to the door, turning his back to it and sliding down, leaning his head against the iron and let himself pretend that he was leaning back against Sam's solid form. "Worse? How do you mean?"
"You can feel me," Sam reminded. "You feel that I'm… that my mind…"
"Squirming," Dean frowned and was unable to stop the little shudder that went through him as he reached again for the mind he knew almost as well as his own, felt the unrest, the way it pulled away from him (for the first time ever), twisting and turning as if it were trying to escape the head it was in.
"Yeah. I can feel you, too," Sam admitted. "And that's the problem."
"Wha— How do you mean?" If Sam could feel him near, that was a good thing, wasn't it? They'd talked about it, over the years — and especially right after Asheville — that having Dean nearby had made it easier for Sam, stopped the nightmares, the fear that somehow John would come after him, that they'd have to go back to the living hell that had been just existing under John Winchester's shadow. Even Dean admitted that those fears never really went away, for either of them. Not even after Dad had been dead, salted and burned.
"You…" He heard Sam pause, take a deliberate breath. "You have to try to feel me, Dean. Don't you?"
"Yeah," Dean nodded. "You know I do. You taught me how."
"I don't."
"Y— What?"
"I feel you all the time, Dean," Sam admitted. "Any time you're anywhere near me. I told you, the day you came back? I felt you long before you showed up at my motel room door. When we're here, at Bobby's? I can feel you, anywhere. When I'm out in the woods, and you're in the house, or working on the Impala. When I'm upstairs, and you're helping Bobby out in the garage. I've… I told you that Rick and I… we… tested some things."
"Yeah."
"Well, I tested some things without him, too."
Dean waited, but Sam seemed stuck.
"Like?" he pressed.
"Like," Sam sighed, "I've snuck down here, at night. I couldn't sleep, and you were out cold," he chuckled, "so I… I checked," he explained and Dean could almost see the sheepish, one-armed shrug that no doubt accompanied the words. "I can feel you, even when I'm in here. And you're up there. It's faint — fainter — with the Panic Room door closed. Through all that iron," he admitted. "Faint enough that I can block it out pretty easy, but... It's still there. And I don't have to try to feel you, Dean. I never have to try."
"O… kay."
"I can feel you," Sam reiterated. "It's… Dean, what it's like when you feel me? When you feel my mind. I mean, normally. Not now, now is…"
"Yeah," Dean nodded. "It's.. I… I don't know, Sammy. You're just, you know… there. I can't read your mind, or anything."
"No, and you know I can't read yours, either. But… there's more to a mind than thoughts, Dean."
"What, you mean, like, like emotion?"
"Yeah. Like that. When you reach out, and touch my mind," Sam asked gently, "do you feel my emotions at all, or anything?"
"No!" Dean scoffed. "And thank god for that," he laughed. "Your girly emotions would…" His brain finally caught up to the conversation. "You… you mean… you… Sammy, can you…"
"Yeah," Sam admitted softly. "I can."
"Like… always?" Dean shivered at the thought. The whole idea of it, of his feelings being… on display like that was… Sure, it was Sammy, and no one he trusted more, but still… It would've been better to have him read his mind, like Sammy had always insisted he couldn't (and Dean wasn't entirely sure that was true), but his emotions… that was different. That was… private… and stuff. It was… Crap.
Sam was talking and his brain struggled to catch up. "—ostly, I just ignore it."
"Wha — I'm sorry, what?" Dean panted.
"I said," Sam replied, and Dean could hear the damn smirk on the little bitch's face, "I could always get your emotion if I tried, but I don't. So, in the main, I only get your emotions when you're worked up about something. And I mean, I'm talking seriously worked up, Dean."
"Meaning…"
Sam sighed. "Like when we're on a hunt. I mean, actually going after the thing, in the fight itself. And that's good," he added hastily, "because I always know exactly where you are, and if you're good, or if you need me to bail you out."
"Hey! I bail you out a lot more than you bail me out, bitch."
"Whatever gets you through the night, jerk," Sam laughed.
"Okay, so, well, we're not hunting now, so why…"
Dean didn't need to see his brother to know the bitchface coming his way. "Right," Sam scoffed. "You're not worked up now, or anything. I mean, it's just your little brother detoxing off fucking Demon Blood, why would you…"
"Okay, I got it!" Dean snapped. "Yeah. Yeah, okay, I admit it. I'm a little… emotional… right now. Can you blame me?!"
"No, of course not," Sam assured him. "But… I can't just ignore it, Dean," he confessed softly. "Normally, that's not a problem, I do it all the time, even in the middle of a hunt, but… right now," he continued, his voice breaking. "I can't… I'm having… my, my brain…"
"Okay. Okay, Sammy, okay," Dean soothed. "It's okay. I get it." He paused and took a deep breath. "So, my being here," he ventured, "is not only not helping… It's actually… it's making it worse."
"I'm sorry."
Dean laughed. "You're sorry? Sammy, you got nuthin' to be fuckin' sorry for, okay? None of it. Not needing me to leave," he explained, wincing at the slight tremor in his voice caused by the whole concept of leaving his brother alone to the ravages of detox and, inevitably, Sam's own mind (and Dean was entirely aware that his little brother was, like he himself, all too able to conjure up horrors at the best of times), "not the demon blood, none of it."
"I trusted her," Sam sighed. "I was stupid, and… I kind of have it coming."
Dean pounded his palm against the door between them. "HEY! It's not on you, Sam. You were… man, I get it, okay? You were… you were alone," he said, gently. "I lasted two days, Sammy. Two. Days. And all in all, I'd have to say that making a demon deal was probably worse. So, I get it. Mind you," he added as sternly as he could at the moment (when his heart was breaking at the thought of leaving his kid by himself… again), "you should've stayed with Rick. Or come back to Bobby's. But I get why you didn't," he added, heading off the inevitable protest about 'protecting' their family. "I just… I don't blame you, Sammy, I really don't. So don't you blame yourself."
"All right," Sam said quietly, and Dean knew he would blame himself anyway,
And then he heard the hitch in his brother's breathing, the small grunt of pain.
"It's not real, Sammy," he said. "Whatever you're seeing…"
"That's not…" Sam gasped. "I'm not… It's just my stomach, man. No… hallucinations…" he ground out. "Not now. Jesus."
"Sammy…"
"You need to… Dean," his kid panted. "You need to… go… now. Please."
"Aw, Sam."
"Dean, please!"
"Okay, okay." Dean forced himself to stand and gave himself a minute to just stand there, facing the closed iron door. He pressed his forehead against it and concentrated on how much he loved his little brother, how much he believed in the kid, how much he, Dean, needed Sam to get through this, hoping that his brother could feel it all, could get some strength from it.
"Thanks." The voice was soft, but unmistakable.
"Listen," Dean said, suddenly hit with a brilliant idea, "I'm gonna send Bobby down…"
"No," Sam ground out. "Bobby… it's not as strong, but it's the same problem. I just... promise me," he practically moaned around the pain, "no matter what you hear, however much I yell or scream or beg you to come, you… you gotta stay away, Dean."
"Sam…"
"PROMISE."
"Okay. Okay, Sammy. I promise," Dean agreed, and there was no one to hide the tears from. Sammy would know anyway. Apparently.
"Okay. Go. Please."
"I'll… we'll come down to check on you," Dean said. "Every once in a while, not often, not long, but… We gotta know, you know?"
"Yeah. Okay."
"And you gotta unlock this door, Sammy. Your side, unlock it or I'm staying."
"Dean…"
"Unlock it, Sam. We won't come in if we don't have to. I promise. I promise, Sammy. But if something… happens…." He couldn't make himself continue.
Dean stood by the door waiting, unsure if he could get his brother to comply and unsure what he'd do if the kid didn't.
The lock turned, gave a heavy click.
"Now, you gotta go," Sam panted.
Dean hesitated, until he heard Sam shove himself to his feet, stumble over to the cot. He heard the creaking of the metal as 6'-4", 190 lbs of Hunter hit it.
Slowly, Dean forced himself up the stairs.
The last thing he heard before he closed the basement door was his brother's voice, weakly calling after him. "Dean! Thank you."
"Anytime, Sam," he whispered, and shut the door.
====SPN====SPN===SPN====SPN====SPN====
A/N
Princess of the Fae Oh, sweetie. I have only just begun.
On the QT is slang for keeping something quiet, just between the people involved.
His brain squirming like a toad is a line from the song "Riders on the Storm" by The Doors. When Sam calls Dean "Jim" he's referring to The Doors' lead singer, Jim Morrison.
Well, hell's bells, y'all. I messed up. Way back in Chapter 21, I had Sammy starting school in August of 2001. That would've made his Senior year, when Dean came to pick him up just before Hallowe'en, 2004, not 2005 as we all know it was. So, I've gone back and fixed that chapter (just updated the date on the first two scenes). I've kept the whole Brady thing in Sophomore year (2nd year of a 4-year U.S. college program), as the show indicated, but moved the Demon possessing Brady and getting the dude screwed up from Thanksgiving (late November 2003) to Spring Break (a couple of weeks in mid March 2004). I could've kept it at Thanksgiving, like with the show, but that would mean that right after the end of Chapter 25, where Sammy tells Dean on Christmas Day that he must go back to hunting with John, Sam would've had to go immediately from seeing his brother leave him, right into helping a friend detox, and I just had to give the poor kid a break. (Otherwise, I'd be mentally torturing him with mental torture no one in the history of mental torture has ever been mentally tortured with :D )
Spring Break is both a two to three week period, about half way through the second half of the school year, when U.S. colleges typically have no classes; and a tradition amongst students at said colleges to go with their friends someplace warm and sunny to drink, carouse, hook up and generally be loud, obnoxious, drunken and horny. Lauderdale is a nickname for the U.S. city Fort Lauderdale, Florida, which is known for sun, sand and many, many bars, where a large number of said college students go for Spring Break.