Wait. What?

Alcohol and Blood Loss fic

cece_away — Wed, 16 Sep 2015 17:24:10 GMT

I guess I should put trigger warnings for self-harm. Kind of, but not really. And spoilers up through Season 10. My take on what the Darkness could be. This is my first M rated fic mostly for the triggers, though it's not really that bad. Mostly drunken angst. Could just as easily be PG13 +++ Gen

Usual Disclaimers of non-ownership applies.

Alcohol and Blood Loss

The Darkness rode over the Impala, jostling the vehicle.Dean kept steady pressure on the gas, hoping the shaking from outside might somehow rock them out of the pothole and plunge them forward and out of the vaporous gray. It pressed against the windows like flattened curls of fog covering the glass. Their only light came from the instrument panel on the dashboard.

Dean met Sam’s worried gaze. Younger brother had one hand braced against the dashboard, his back pressed against the window, lips tight.

“Sam!” Dean cried out as a tendril snaked between the glass and top of the car behind Sam’s head. Sam jerked away from the ashy haze twining in the air. Several more tendrils got between the gaps above the window, and others smoked in through the vents. And hell, the odor. Decaying corpses doused in old lady perfume.

“Gah!” Sam cried out and clutched his head. “Dean!” His back arched, shoulders grinding against the seat as the coils of fog touched him.

Twisting in the seat, Dean grabbed Sam’s wrist. The kid’s arm was locked hard, muscles straining, hand practically knuckling into his temple. Horrified, Dean watched another vine of gray push through the driver side window and pass him by to go straight for his brother.

Sam cried out again. Dean snapped his attention to his brother’s face, heart pounding. Blood was dripping from Sam’s eyes, his nose. On a harsh shudder, Sam folded over, head scraping along the dashboard.

“Sam!” Dean held onto the back of his shoulders. He didn’t know what to do. All the curls of darkness that got in were arrowing straight toward his brother, leaving him completely alone. He didn’t know what to do. It was killing Sam. Why wasn’t it affecting him?

The Mark. Dean had been the key.

Was that it? He was untouchable, but his brother… Screw that. Dean’s foot left the gas pedal and he lunged across Sam, curling over him, a human shield against the Darkness. He didn’t know if it would work. If the cloud could get into the car, certainly it could get past him. He wasn’t near large enough to cover all of Sam, but he had to do something!

“Just hold on, just hold on.” Dean felt Sam panting beneath him. The tension in his back was incredible. Dean pressed himself into Sam harder, his cheek flat against the bumps of his sibling’s spine. Just holding on, riding it out.

It seemed to be working. Dean felt the coldness of the fog touch him and then retreat like a living aware thing that was wary of getting too close to him, even to go after Sam.

The strain in Sam’s muscles loosened even as the tremors in his limbs increased. Dean dared to lift his head, saw the last of the mist pull out of his car the same way it had gotten in, joining the rest of the rolling gray cloud as it washed across the windows and moved on, scouring the horizon behind them. And then it was gone.

And Sam was scrabbling for the door handle, toppling out of the car, and puking into the wind-scorned dirt.

Dean scrambled out and around the car. And stopped cold.

Sam wasn’t just vomiting. He was heaving out runny black goo, trembling and shaky, his sweaty hair falling around his face. Dean opened the trunk, grabbed a water bottle and crouched beside him, offering quiet support. He was a little shaky himself.

That stuff had gotten inside of Sam. His chest squeezed tighter at each pout of heaving. He tried to look anywhere but at the black mess, willing Sam to get it all out of him, and hating that he had to go through this.

Finally Sam pulled back, sitting dejectedly on his knees in the same position he had when Dean held Death’s scythe over him less than thirty minutes ago. Dean stared straight ahead, unable to look at him, on the threshold of emptying the contents of his own stomach.

“Here,” he croaked, holding the water bottle out sideways to Sam. Sam didn’t take it, didn’t stir.

Dean took a sidewise glance and swore. A line of blood trailed from beneath the long hair where Sam’s ear was hidden down his neck and along his clavicle. “The hell.” Dropping the water, he turned Sam’s face to him. Blood was everywhere. Coming from his ears, nostrils, his eyes. And still coming. No, actually those were tears, mixing in the blood coated on his face. Miniscule tremors punctuated each shallow wet breath. His bloodshot eyes were unfocused, wholly not there…and wrong.

A terrible unease kicked the inside of Dean’s gut with steel-toed delivery.

“Sam.” He took his brother by the upper arms and twisted his torso to look at him. “Sam!” He shook him. “Snap the hell out of it.” He shook him again, hard enough to wrench bones out of sockets. “Sam!”

That did it. On a loud inhale, Sam came back, his eyes widening in shock, and then his entire countenance crumpled. “No,” he wailed, thrashing out of Dean’s grip and crabbing backwards away from him. “No, get away. I saw—” he trembled on a breath. “I saw—”

“What?” Dean scrambled after him. “What did you see?”

Sam’s head yanked up, a devastation pulsing so clearly in his eyes it made Dean reel back. He’d never seen anything like it, not after the cage, not after being soulless, not after Jess’s death.

“The…the Darkness.” Sam began shaking so hard that his hands scratched zigzags in the dirt. “I saw…I saw…”

“Hey.” Dean inched closer. “Whatever you saw, it’s gone now. We’re okay.”

“But…”

“We’re okay. It can’t be any worse than anything we’ve already seen. And we dealt with those.”

Sam shook his head, his lips quivering, on the verge of losing it.

“You lasted through the cage. It can’t be worse than that.” He hated saying that, but he had to get Sam out of whatever this was now.
Sam’s eyes latched onto his. His entire body was trembling. “Worse. It’s worse, so much worse.” His chest rose and fell in hard gasps.

“Sam?”

He flung his hand out to stop Dean’s approach. “I did this I did this stay back get away from me I did this…”

“Sam, you got to calm down, bro. Just take it eas—shit.”

Sam’s rapid breathing finally stalled. His eyes rolled back in his head and he crumbled to the dirt.

~~~SPN~~~

Apparently he’d been out of it for two days. When Sam awoke in the bunker, it was to his brother’s worried unshaven features. They didn’t speak much. What was there to say? You killed Death. I let out the Darkness. Dean brought him up to speed. There were no off centered news reports of anything the Darkness might have tripped. Only one sighting of a dark rolling cloud from a farmer. No unusual deaths. So far the world destruction Death had foretold came to a big steaming pile of zilch. The world kept going on as it usually did.

They hoped the last horseman had simply been spewing an empty threat to manipulate them, but they would research the Darkness and keep their ears to the ground for anything that proved otherwise.

Maybe this was a win for them.

And pigs could fly.

At least no one had been killed by the Darkness.

Just in unleashing it. Sam’s fingers curled over the old tome he was reading, seeing Charlie’s shrouded form instead of the Sanskrit he was trying to translate. He reached for the Johnny Walker Black next to him and drained what little left was in the bottle, willing the smoky warmth to dull the ache in his heart.

It was funny. He usually didn’t bury himself in alcohol. That was Dean’s way, but Sam couldn’t seem to lift himself out of his funk without the constant buzz, while Dean right now was cold sober. At least he thought he was. He actually hadn’t gotten a close look to know. When Dean entered a room, Sam left. And when Sam was somewhere and Dean came upon him, he grabbed what he needed and walked out. Neither speaking or really taking a close look at each other. Dean could be on a bender of his own for all Sam knew. It had been going on like this for three days. Or four. Maybe five? Sam honestly didn’t know.

He closed the old tome and scooted the chair back. A wash of dizziness hit him when he stood and staggered away from the long table. The contents of his stomach sloshed and the dulling he craved felt more like nausea. It wasn’t working. He still felt…bad. He didn’t know why he couldn’t climb out of it and grasp onto the hope that they could fix it. The Mark was off Dean. They were alive. This was a win, right? Better than most wins they’d counted. He’d saved his brother for once. They had hope for the future. They still had hope, right? So why couldn’t he feel it?

Maybe he was making himself too sick to feel it. He needed to get some food into his sloshing stomach. He’d eaten. He knew better to drink on an empty stomach. He just couldn’t remember when the last time he ate was.

He drug himself into the kitchen, looking to see if Dean was in there. He hoped not. He wasn’t ready to face his brother, not yet.
Seeing that he was alone, Sam made it to the table and slouched into the chair. What had he come in here for? Oh right, food. Open beer cans and bottles of whiskey littered the counters and tables. It looked like someone had one hell of a party.

There was a wrapped loaf of bread beside the cutting board on the table. The kind Dean got from the local bakery that was fresh and unsliced. Sam unwrapped it. A third of the loaf was already gone. Dean must have been making himself sandwiches. There was a time when Dean would have made him a sandwich too. When Sam got into research mode, Dean always made sure he ate. He wouldn’t do that now, because now Dean wanted him dead, wanted him on a burning pyre in Charlie’s place. Wanted to slide Death’s scythe across his throat. He wondered if Dean had intended to put him on a pyre after that or if he and Death would have just vanished, leaving Sam’s corpse to rot on the dirty floor of that cantina.

Not that he didn’t deserve that. He did. He’d gotten Charlie killed. His fault. No one else’s. Just like always.

He’d gotten his mom killed too. Somehow the bread knife was in his hand. He carved a careful notch into the cutting board.

Then Jess. Another notch.

Dad. Then D-dean. He’d gotten Dean killed. Pamela. Three more notches.

Marshall Hall. Jim. Caleb. He cut into the wood gently for each one. The names kept coming. So many deaths on his hands.

Ash. Andy. Ava. Jo. Ellen. Amy. Bobby. His vision blurred behind a wet sheen, yet he kept slicing notches.

Adam. Kate. Rufus. Annie. Kevin. Sar—Sarah…

~~~SPN~~~

Dean’s eyes blurred. He couldn’t look at the computer screen any longer. Besides that, nothing was turning up. Perhaps they really had dodged a bullet this time. It didn’t match with their usual luck, but he’d take it for now. Regardless, he needed a break.

He avoided the library where Sam had been holed up most of the week. Brainiac had been quiet once he’d woken up. Too quiet, but Dean let him be. At least he hadn’t woken up shaking and wailing about the Darkness and it being his fault. Okay, yeah, a big part of it was Sam’s fault, but he didn’t know about the Mark being a key, and could Dean really say he wouldn’t have done the same?

But crying that he’d seen the Darkness and it was worse than the cage. Dean’s fists clenched. What could be worse than the cage? Standing over your kneeling brother ready to take his head off, that’s what. A tremor rolled through Dean’s core. No matter how hard he tried to scrub that image away, it stuck. Just looking at Sam’s broken body language brought it back, so coward that he was, he was avoiding Sam. Not that Sam seemed to mind. His brother didn’t appear to have any inclination to be around him either.

He paused in the entrance to the kitchen, seeing Sam there. The big guy’s back was to him so Dean could ease out and his brother would never know he was there. But no, this was stupid. They needed to talk this out sometime and although Dean wasn’t ready for that now, they could make a start by being in the same room with each other for more than two minutes.

Resolved, he walked into the kitchen and passed Sam to get to the fridge. Room smelled like a brewery. The empties made it look like someone had a hell of a party in here. Sounded like a good idea. Dean hadn’t had a drink for…who the hell knew how long?
He pulled out a can, one of only two left, popped the lid and turned to leave. That hadn’t been so bad. Now if he could only muster the cajones to look at Sam, say a few companionable words, they could start the process of getting back on even ground.

“Uh, look, Sam…” Dean lifted his gaze from the beer and onto Sam and the tiles rocked out from under him. “What the hell are you doing?”

In one stride he flicked the blade out of his brother’s grasp and had his palms circled around the bleeding arm, pressing tight. “What are you doing?” Shock and fear colored his tone with anger.

Sam blinked up at him as though he had no idea why Dean was freaking out. “I’m making notches.”

“In your arm?”

Sam flinched. “What? No. In the cutting board.” He was looking up at him in that way that begged to be believed.

“News flash, nimrod. Breadboards don’t bleed.”

Furrowing his brows, Sam looked down at the board, giving it the weighty consideration it deserved. Blood continued to pool between Dean’s fingers. He couldn’t tell how deep any of the cuts were or how many. Everything was red. This could be bad. This could be real bad.

Sam was looking at his arm now, shaking his head.

Dean peered into his face, studying. “You really thought it was the cutting board?” He didn’t know which answer scared him more.

“I thought…I thought…I didn’t know. I didn’t even feel it.”

Because he was drunk. “Okay. I believe you. Just sit here for a sec.” Dean released his hands long enough to dash to the sink and grab the dish towels out of the drawer. When he turned around Sam was gone.

“Sonofabitch.”

The trail wasn’t too hard to follow what with the splattered drops of blood and bright red fingerprints where Sam had used the wall for support. He caught up with him in a matter of seconds.

“Sam!”

Sam stopped at the command, and turned, grabbing the wall to steady himself. He held his hand out at Dean’s approach. “Stay away from me.” Blood dripped off his fingers onto the floor.

Dean paused, holding up the towels. “Just want to get pressure on your arm. If not, you’ll bleed out.”

Sam shrugged. “Maybe that’s for the best.” Exhausted, he slid down the wall, one long leg folding awkwardly beneath him.
Dean took that as his cue to advance. Drunk, petulant, bleeding younger brothers didn’t get to tell him to stay away. Sinking beside him, he circled Sam’s arm with one of the towels and applied pressure, and leaned against the wall next to him. “So what were the notches for?” He had to keep him talking, compliant, and in place. His brother, always a flight risk.

“People.”

“Okay. What people?”

“Everyone I got killed.”

That brought Dean up short. He lifted the saturated towel to see if the blood was slowing. Sam had nicked himself with little cuts from elbow to wrist. That was a lot of people he felt responsible for. At least he hadn’t been trying to hurt himself because Sam was nothing if not thorough. He would have gone deep in one long furrow up the vein and bled out before Dean found him. Tamping down the lurch of fear that thought caused, Dean used the second dish towel and added pressure.

None of the cuts had looked too deep. Only a couple looked like they needed stitches. The rest would be okay with butterfly bandages. One or two might have nicked a vein but Dean knew how to handle that as well. If Cas would ever show again, he’d get him to heal the whole damn arm so they wouldn’t have to look at it. Like Sam needed to be reminded every day of the people they’d lost, people he blamed himself for. And who had had a hand in making him feel like that?

Dean glanced up at the wall across from them and winced at the hole. They were directly across from the place he had tried to take a hammer to Sam’s head. He hissed between his teeth.

“Sar—Sarah had a child, Dean. Did you know that?”

Dean closed his eyes. He did.

“And Charlie, she…” Sam hung his head. He tried to shake Dean’s hands off of him. “I’m going to go lie down. I feel funny.”

“Yeah, you moron, alcohol and blood loss will do that to you.”

“Let go.”

“Not until the bleeding stops. Then I need to stitch you up.”

Sam looked over at him, incredulous. His wet eyes speared into Dean’s heart. “Why does it matter? I’m so tired, Dean. I just want it all to stop. I can’t do this anymore. All I do is hurt people. I hurt you. Everyone around me gets killed.”

“Sam, no. You didn’t—”

“But Charlie—”

Time for bluntness. Nothing else was going to get through. “Charlie would have died in the Apocalypse same as everyone else if you hadn’t stopped it. Even Sarah and her little girl.” Dean couldn’t believe he was saying this, but he had to get through to Sam. Fight his Sam logic with more irrational logic. “If anything, you gave them a few more years. Look, I know what I said…”

“That you wish I was dead,” Sam whispered like saying it loud solidified it somehow.

It didn’t matter. The quiet words were a punch to Dean’s chest. He sighed. “I didn’t mean that.”

“I deserved it. She’s dead. I’m here and I shouldn’t me.” He wiggled his arm, trying to release Dean’s hold. “I’m gonna go lie down.”

Dean held him in place, more than a little worried it was so easy. Sam had no fight left in him.

“Dean, please. Let me go.”

Relentless bastard that he was, Dean couldn’t give him what he wanted. “No.”

Sam wilted against the wall, resigned. Which was more frightening than when he was arguing his point with him. He was going to have to be with him twenty-four seven or risk letting him fade away.

“Sam.”

No response. Sam just stared at his lap. His lashes lowered. They were almost black against the chalkiness of his cheeks.

“Sammy,” Dean said quietly in the same tone he’d used when Sam was a child.

This time Sam responded, looking up at him with eyes so full of despair it physically hurt. There it was, Dean realized. Or rather there it wasn’t. Why Sam’s eyes seemed wrong. Wrong from the moment the Darkness attacked him. Every single other time Sam looked at him like this, it was with the glimmer of hope that Dean would make it right. That if they were in this together, it would be okay. When they were in that warehouse and Sam didn’t know what was real, he’d still looked at him with unwavering trust and hope.
That hope was gone. Completely gone. Dean studied him, searching. All he found was self-loathing and despair.

“Sammy, we keep fighting, right? No matter what.” He tested the theory that was forming in his mind.

Sam shrunk away. “I don’t know what to fight for anymore.”

Because what’s there to fight for when your stone number one wants you dead? Dean had effed up badly. He’d taken a sledge hammer to Sam’s foundation. Yeah, maybe it wasn’t really him, but the Mark’s influence. He could work on his own self-loathing later. Right now he had to fix this, somehow convince Sam that he was still the brother he’d do anything for. Him and Sam against the world.

How did it come to this? Sam was usually more resilient, able to shake things off and forgive on a monumental scale. Pragmatic to the core, he could see things for what they were, internalize it, and move on to save the world again and again. Why couldn’t he pull himself out of the fog this time?

Fog. Dean groaned. Stupid stupid. It was there looking him square in the face all this time. The Darkness had swarmed all over Sam, had been inside of him, would have killed him if not for Dean being the key. What if it wasn’t an unleashing of monsters or ghosts or some supernatural crap like that, but something more sinister? A mass cloud of despair and depression that overshadowed any resolve of hope. Burned it out of a person.

It was right there in Sam’s eyes all along. And Dean had left him alone to cope with it. They needed to rethink what they were looking for, search out higher frequencies of suicides…

Letting go of Sam’s towel covered arm with one hand, he pulled Sam close. “I’m sorry, kiddo. I’m so sorry.”

He nearly wept when Sam let his head drop onto his shoulder. His damp hair tickled his chin. “It’s going to be okay, I promise. Just keep fighting. That’s all you have to do. Keep fighting.”

All Dean had to do was give him something to keep fighting for.

Fin

Blood of My Brother

cece_away — Mon, 04 Aug 2014 18:08:25 GMT

Been enjoying several fics on how Season 10’s dilemma might be resolved so thought I’d throw my own in the mix. I’d say watch out for spoilers, but nah, don’t worry about that cuz this is much too easy a fix for the show’s writers. But do watch out for brotherly angst. Enjoy.

Blood of My Brother

“How did you find me?”

Sam studied Cain over the porch railing between them. He wasn’t what he expected. Worn farm clothes, suspenders, faded brown hair long over the ears, grayish beard, unassuming manner. There was nothing about Cain to indicate he was the First Knight of Hell.
“No demon activity in the area, or unusual omens,” Sam gave him the honest answer. “Only acreage in a hundred mile radius that is thriving in the recent storms while the rest of the farms are suffering from root rot.” Sam shrugged, trying to keep the hope brimming in his chest from squeaking out through his voice. “Tiller of the earth and all. I took a chance.”
Cain snorted and crossed back over his porch to sit in a rustic rocking chair. He placed his elbows on the arms, taking an easy posture, though there was no easiness thrumming through the tense lines of his body. “You’ve wasted a trip. I have nothing for you, Sam.”

Sam expected Cain to say this, but his chest tightened just the same. He lifted his foot up to the lowest porch step. “Take it back,” he growled, a shadowy reflection of his brother’s tone of impatience.

Cain leaned forward in his chair, eyes hard and piercing. “You don’t make demands of me. Boy.”

Sam internally flinched, but kept his composure outwardly quiet. “Tell me this: Is it even possible? Could you take the mark back if you wanted?”

Cain’s lips thinned. He stared at Sam for an indeterminable moment. “I don’t know. But it doesn’t matter because there is nothing above or below that could convince me to try.”

Nodding, Sam swallowed. He knew it wouldn’t be that easy and truthfully he couldn’t blame Cain for wanting to remain free of the mark. “Is there…is there anything you can tell me? You were able to control the anger, you set the blade aside, tossed it in the ocean, fell in love…”

Cain’s hands curled tightly upon the arms of the rocker. “You want to know if your brother can control the effect of the blade.”

Sam nodded.

“He can.” Cain rose out of the chair, leaving it to rocking. “Given enough centuries.” He stepped forward to the edge of the porch, towering above the young hunter. “Unfortunately you’ll never see it and then all Dean will have is his regrets.”

“Is there a way to remove the mark? Any way at all?” Sam knew he sounded desperate. Why wouldn’t he? He was desperate.

Cain took a step down toward him. “Son, right now your brother’s emotions are being fed the desires of the first blade. It craves madness, anger, and misery.” Cain’s voice held a faraway pitch. “It wants blood. As much as it can get. And more specifically, your blood.”

“My blood?”

“You haven’t figure that out yet? You didn’t realize why your brother got as far away from you as he could?”
“I suspected.” Sam ran a hand back through his hair.

“But you didn’t want to believe it.” Cain nodded in understanding. “Denial won’t help you. Not in this. The first blade was created by the taking of my brother’s blood. Once it lapped up Abel’s blood, then I created the Knights of Hell and lay siege to the world, its thirst was finally sated. For a time. It went dormant. For centuries. That’s how I was able to resist the rage. But now with a new bearer of the mark… Another set of brothers… Son, you don’t want to get anywhere near that unholy blade. The only thing you’ll find is death.”

“Unless I can find a way to release Dean from the mark. Is there a way? What can I do?” Sam hadn’t realized he’d climbed up the remainder of the steps until he was on an even level with the First Knight of Hell.

“There is no way.”

“There’s always a way!” Sam’s chest lifted and fell with the weight of his desperation. He looked Cain straight on not budging. He wasn’t leaving without answers. And then he saw it, indecision in Cain’s eyes, the miniscule twitch of his jaw. He did know something, or at least had his own suspicions of a way.

Sam’s pulse roared to life, flooding his ears with the rapid pounding of his heartbeat.

Cain stared back at him, unflinching, as though in challenge for Sam to come to it on his own. Had he already given him the answer? Sam went back over everything Cain had just said, every inflection, every nuance of his body language…until it hit him.
Stunned, his legs buckled. He stumbled, his foot fell to the step just below until he caught his balance. He turned wide eyes up to Cain, his voice a strained mixture of hope and disbelief. “Can it really be that simple?”

“Simple?” Cain barked out a harsh laugh. “There’s nothing simple about it. I suggest you go on about your life and forget about your brother.” He turned to go back to his chair.

“Did you?”

Cain stopped, one foot on the edge of the porch. The lines of his back stiffened. He looked back over his shoulder, his face so creased with sorrow it hurt to look upon. “Did I ever forget my brother? After several millennia?” He shook his head. “No. Not one day.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~BLOOD OF MY BROTHER~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He got there in the late afternoon and worked as quietly as he could, his heart in his throat the entire time he pulled up the edges of the worn carpet and painted the devil’s trap on the dirty floor beneath. All but the last line. He couldn’t have the demons figure out they were trapped until Dean was there or it’d blow the whole set up. Sam scanned the dingy 8 by 10 bar room, the turned up ends of the dingy carpet and the paint beneath encircling almost the entire rectangular room. He’d give it a good half hour to dry before he tacked the carpet back down. This was going to work. This had to work. His intel was good. He’d gotten a lucky break. One of the demons he’d nabbed actually knew something. He’d carved the information out of him so viciously there wasn’t room for lies between his screams. Crowley was meeting a bunch of his cronies here tonight and the demon swore Dean was going to make a rare appearance. He didn’t know why. Hell, Sam didn’t care. It was enough that in a few hours Dean would be walking in through that door.

Sam straightened from his crouch, the spray paint can loose in his long fingers. He’d finally get to see his brother, speak with him. He’d tried to summon Dean so many times these past months, but it had never worked. His older sibling was as elusive as water running through sand. Even the demons rarely saw him and when they did, they wished they hadn’t. They feared him. Sam worked moisture back into his throat, worried. What if the rage of the blade had consumed him? Would he be so much different? Would Dean even care about him anymore? It didn’t matter. Sam set the paint down. He had work to do.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~SUPERNATURAL FOREVER~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was late before the first demons arrived. Sam remained hidden inside an unused broom closet, watching through the uneven space where the warped door didn’t quite align with the doorjamb. He’d been there before the bar tender arrived—demon—and switched on the low lights and began setting the bar up for customers. Not that there’d be any of the paying kind coming tonight. Sam watched for any indication that the guy noticed something out of sorts. He told himself to relax. Few people or demons would notice old carpeting had been pulled up and then tacked down again.

Ten or so demons had come in as far as Sam could tell as they moved in and out of his narrow limited view. Smoke soon hazed the air. What was it with demons and cigarettes? They were a rowdy bunch, tossing back drinks, and bragging about how many humans they had taken out. Hearing the obscenities, Sam’s jaw was tense by the time Crowley sauntered in and the atmosphere of the room settled.

“Well now fellows. Good of you to come.” He sounded like any administrator beginning a work meeting.

One of the more belligerent demons puffed his chest out. “So where’s this Knight of Hell? When do we get to see how tough he really is? Where’s Winchester?”

Sam flinched, hearing his name. For a moment he thought they’d found him out.

“Relax, boys. All in good time.” Crowley held his hands up and then crossed to the bar. “You’ll get your crack at him if that’s what you really want.”

“Of course that’s what we want.” Loudmouth turned to follow Crowley’s movement to the bar, scowling as Crowley calmly tested the scotch set out for him. “New player, an ex-hunter at that, waltzes in and thinks he’s better than us.”

Crowley looked in his drink. “He is better than you. The lot of you. But don’t bother to take my word for it.” Crowley’s eyes flicked up over the rim of his glass. “I’m only your sovereign after all.”

So that’s what this little meet and greet was about. A pissing match for dominance. Sam wondered if this was Crowley’s idea or Dean’s though it had Dean’s way of doing things stroked in bold red letters. Every new school they’d been to if there was a problem, Dean had narrowed down the ring leader, challenged him to meet with a group of his friends, just enough people to see the ring leader’s ass kicked, and spread the word that there was a new badass in school. In the darkness of the closet, Sam grinned. No matter what the mark was doing to him, Dean was still Dean.

He heard the main door swing open again. All the heads in the room swiveled. The wedge in the closet door didn’t give Sam a view of the door. His breath stilled in his chest.

“Which one of you is Dunghole?” a deep growly voice challenged everyone in the room and sent Sam’s pulse to racing. Dean. How he’d missed his brother’s voice.

“Name’s Dunhill.” The loudmouth burly biker type demon flicked his cigarette to the floor where it started to burn a dark smudge into the ratty carpet.

“Whatever,” Dean said and finally stepped into view. Sam sucked in a breath. He didn’t know what to expect, hints of demonic rage ravaging Dean’s presence maybe, but his brother looked good. Strong and fit, the lean lines of his hard body pulsing with energy while his muscles were loose in that quiet predatory manner that was sheer unadulterated Dean. A croc lying in wait at the river’s edge. He held the first blade along the side of his leg. Dunhill was an antelope about to get pulled into the Nile.

Sam soaked the sight of his brother in like a hit of caffeine. Before he could recalculate the odds of what he was doing, he pushed the closet door open.

Everyone was so focused on the two men in the middle of the room no one noticed him behind them.

“Let’s do this, Winchester.” Dunhill began stripping his leather jacket off.

Rolling his eyes, Dean turned slightly toward the bar and Crowley as if walking away from the confrontation, his signature move when throwing his first punch. Take ‘em by surprise. His fist bunched, arm rotated forward…

“Dean.”

…and stopped midair. Dean’s head jerked. Every gaze in the room swiveled and clamped onto Sam.

No one spoke.

A myriad of emotions flashed across Dean’s face before settling into one of anger.

Before either brother could say anything, Dunhill sneered. “How sweet of you. You brought us a pretty plaything for the celebratory afterparty. Almost makes me want to break your bones quicker than I’d intended just to get to dessert.” He cocked his head. “Or maybe I’ll take my time anyway. Now that we know where he is, little Sammy can wait his turn. Boys…” He didn’t take his eyes off Dean. “Grab the kid.” Three of the demons started toward Sam.

“My name…” Sam toed up the edge of the thin carpet that he hadn’t tacked down. “Is Sam.” Crouching, he took the spray can and filled in the final line of the devil’s trap and then stood to watch the demons come within inches of him and slam into an invisible barrier. Was that a pleased tilt to Dean’s lips?

The demons snarled, pushing against the barrier. The others tried to flee out the door, shoving at each other to get out or trying to get at Sam who stood just outside the devil’s trap between it and the broom closet. Dean remained calm, a lone figure in the center of the room. Crowley leaned against the bar, watching the show.

“Sam.” Dean’s voice carried over the mayhem. “What are you doing here?”

“I came to talk.”

Dean shook his head. “We have nothing to say.”

The demons quieted, looking from one brother to the other, realizing this wasn’t a trap the Knight of Hell had set, but a trap for him.

Dean walked to the main door, the demons parting for him like he was a shark cutting through minnows. “You need to stay away from me, Sam.” And Dean stepped over the line they both knew was beneath the ratty carpet.

Sam’s heart dropped to his toes. The devil’s trap couldn’t hold Dean and Dean had known it. What the hell kind of demon was he?

The others howled, must have realized that with Dean out of the trap, Sam would simply walk away, leave them trapped indefinitely—or exorcise them.

“Dean, wait.” Sam put every note of pleading he could muster into his tone. It must have worked because Dean paused, his palm on the door. “Please, just hear me out.”

Dean lowered his head as though holding on to his last dregs of refusal. “Sam.” His voice caught. He pulled in a heavy breath. “Leave it be.” He looked up and to the side, met Sam’s gaze on the other side of the room. “Don’t look for me again.” His throat column tensed. “I’m not the man you knew. I’m no longer your brother.” He palmed the door partway open.

Sam’s already breaking heart shattered at Dean’s words, even knowing why he said them. The blade craved Sam’s blood so Dean was putting as much distance as he could between them. If he let Dean walk out that door, he would never see him again. He had no doubts about that. But Sam was desperate. He knew what he had to do.

“Then it won’t matter to you if I cross over this line.”

“Every muscle in Dean’s shoulders tightened. He let the door swing back closed. He turned, scowling. His eyes flashed a menacing black. “Don’t test me.”

Sam was past the point of tests or games.

The demons stilled in anticipation.

Staring at Dean, Sam crossed into the devil’s trap…and all hell broke loose.

It seemed like every demon in the bar rushed him. Before Sam got in more than four or five punches, the demons were thrown off of him, ripped away in a stream of power.

Lowering the protective arm he’d lifted in front of his face, Sam straightened to stare at the scene happening just a few scant feet away. Stuck in the devil’s trap, the demons were now fighting for their lives. Sam was no longer a concern for them, but rather rushing Dean en masse in order to survive. He was relentless, a blur of movement, tossing some into the invisible wall and holding them there with his power while taking on several more the good old fashioned way with blade and fists because Dean enjoyed taking his pound of flesh out of anything that threatened his brother.

He swirled and cut, the lethal jawbone sluicing liquidly through flesh, and then continued through with the path the blade was committed to. Screaming black smoke streamed around him. Dean had always been extraordinary in a fight, yet this was a thing of magnificence. Beautiful in the lethal ebb and flow. Sam couldn’t take his eyes off him.

Suddenly Crowley was standing beside Sam, his own round eyes riveted on the fight. “So Moose, what’s this all about then?” Crowley’s accent pulled Sam back to his purpose. He blinked, swallowed. “I’m…I’m getting my brother back.”

“Ah, yes. Good plan, get him all riled up using the blade on demons and in such a violent state he won’t have any control. Sam, I tell you this for your own good. Run while Dean’s busy. Has your sheer stubbornness blinded you to the fact that Dean’s only wetting the first blade’s appetite. Once he gets going, he can’t stop. Not even for you. That thing wants to take your blood.”

Sam flinched at the warning. “It can’t take my blood. Not if I give it.”

“Give it? What the soddin—”

But Sam didn’t hear Crowley anymore, his voice, the grunts and flesh impacting flesh of fighting, faded to a low murmur of echoy sound. He was moving in. Dean’s side was to him, the blade sliding through a demon’s neck and moving on a downward arc to punch into Dunhill’s abdomen. Dunhill, who Sam shoved out of the way and took his place.

The first sound Sam heard clearly again was his own grunt. Everything came to a standstill. The air seemed to shimmer.

He looked at the gnarly teeth of the jawbone, the other side of the sharpened edge beyond sight beneath layers of flannel and cotton and his own flesh. His hands held the blade next to Dean’s on the handle.

He lifted his gaze to horrified green eyes.

“Sam,” Dean rasped.

Then Sam was falling, sliding off the first blade. Pain radiated through his stomach when he hit the floor.

Dean stared down at him in a state of shock and horror.

“No, Sam. What did you do? Why would you do that?”

Dean dropped to his knees, the blade still rooted to his palm, crimson with blood. The blood of demons. The blood of his brother. “Why would you do that?”

Sam tried to speak, winced, tried again. “To save you.” It was the sheen of a whisper.

Dean’s lips parted, his hand hovered over Sam as though afraid to touch him. His expressive features crumpled with devastation and denial. Whatever the mark had turned him into, Dean was no demon.

“Dean.” Sam lifted his hand away from the long wound in his stomach—what did keeping pressure on it matter—and reached for his brother.

A stifled sob hitched from Dean and he latched onto Sam’s proffered hand like a lifeline, clenching so tightly it hurt, but Sam reveled in the pain, refocusing it from his abdomen and squeezed back just as hard, feeling calloused skin slick with blood between their palms.
“Just…hold on.” Dean husked. “Hold on to me. Focus on—mahhh!”

Dean suddenly curled over his knees, his forehead hit and ground into Sam’s thigh, the hold on his hand became fierce enough to snap bones. Tremors rolled through Dean. The mark on his arm, the one still clenching the first blade started to glow. The surreal light pulsed through the sleeves of his jacket and shirt.

“Dean,” Sam gritted, attempting to push up to somehow help. “Dean.”

The tremors racketing Dean’s body scared him. This was what he wanted, right? The mark scored off, if that’s even what was happening. Dean’s limbs were locked up so tight Sam feared he might have just killed his brother.

“Guh!” Sam cried out, the bones in his hand breaking within Dean’s superhuman locked grip. It was worth it. All worth it. Broken hand, his blood pooling on the aged carpet beneath him, the slippery feel of detachment of slipping away…

“Sam!” Dean cried for him in his agony. His head jolted up, jerking violently and he fell away to his back, wrenching his hand away from Sam’s where he shuttered and jerked upon the floor. It was terrible to watch, helpless to do anything for him. Then on an intelligible cry, Dean arched off the floor, back bowed, head grounding, and the first blade lit up, one sharp burst, then dulled and slowly dissolved away until there was nothing left but bone dust.

Dean screamed and screamed and screamed, a guttural marrow-deep mallet of awful sound. A gathering of what looked like crackling sparking light engulfed him completely, head to toe, then flickered away, leaving Dean a shaking, shivering husk on the bar room floor.

“Dean!” Sam cried out. “Dean!”

Dean’s fingers twitched, one leg straightened. Then he rolled to his side, groaning and scrabbled to pull his sleeves up over where the mark should be. His shaky fingers grazed over unblemished skin. Trembling, he dragged wonder-filled eyes onto Sam.
Tears leaked onto Sam’s cheeks, trailing across his nose and into his hair with how he lay on his side. He spoke past the lump in his throat. “Dean? Are you still…?”

“There’s no demon in him.” Crowley’s footfalls lifted dust from the carpet.

Human. Sam’s vision hazed with sudden tears. Human. His brother was human. Nothing else mattered. Dean was okay. He’d be okay now.

“Back away,” Crowley hissed.

Sam tilted his head to see the King of Hell had his arm stretched toward Dunhill and the only other surviving demon who were edging toward Dean.

“Back away or I’ll exorcize you myself,” Crowley warned them.

Unhappy, but wary, the two demons backed to the other side of the devil’s trap and waited, glaring.

To Sam’s surprise, Crowley came behind him and sat on the floor and pulled Sam’s head and shoulders into his lap, mussing his tailored suit. “You need to keep pressure on that.” He maneuvered Sam’s limp arms across the gaping wound and pressed his own hands down on them.

Sam moaned at the pressure which drew Dean out of his stupor. He pushed up to his hands and knees and began crawling. “Get away from him, Crowley,” he growled.

Crowley tsked. “I’m the only one here who can keep him alive.”

Dean’s slow crawl stumbled at that.

“No,” Sam quickly cried, though it tumbled past his lips more of a whimper. “No demon deals. I just got you back. Please, Dean, no. This is…worth it. It’s worth it. I finally saved you.”

Dean got close. “It’s not worth it to me.” He cradled Sam’s face between his palms. “I didn’t want to be human. Not like this. Sam, what did you do?”

Sam’s eyes drifted closed, heavy. “Saved you.”

“Crowley, what do we got to do?”

Panicked, Sam forced his eyes open. “No, Dean, no. Promise me. You have to promise me. No deals, no possessions. I can’t do that again. Pleeeease. Dean, please.” He wasn’t against openly pleading over this because he couldn’t…he just couldn’t. Not again. “Please. Promise me.” His throat was coated with tears. His voice trembled.

Dean stared at him devastated, caught between keeping Sam alive and keeping his trust.

“Sam.” He closed his eyes, bowing his head as though the weight of choices was too much to bear. “Okay.” His voice was a small fissure of wretchedness. “Okay. I promise. Your hear me, Sam, I promise.” A small tear rolled down the side of his nose.

“Thanks, Dean.” Sam felt himself drifting away again, secure in the knowledge that he’d finally done something right. He saved his brother from an eternity as a demon. And if the cost was his life, he was okay with that. He had known how it would play out before he walked into this bar and he was content.

“Well that was all fluffy kittens and rainbows.” Crowley’s voice floated like clouds above him. “So no deals. Deals with you muttonheads tend to backfire anyway. When I said I could keep Sam alive, I meant transport him to hospital. No deals. No muss. If regular human doctoring can save him, good for them. If they can’t, I’ll send a floral arrangement. But it’s a better alternative than bleeding out here on the floor. All you have to do is release me from this sodding devil’s trap and I blink us all to the best trauma center in the west.”
Dean stared at Sam, his eyes full of desperate hope. So human. Sam gazed back, waiting for Dean to answer Crowley when he realized that Dean was looking to Sam for permission. So much love and trust swarmed into his chest it hurt.

“Please,” Dean stared, pleading when Sam didn’t say anything. “You got to give me this. No deals, like I promised, but you got to give me this.” His entire countenance lifted at Sam’s faint nod. His shoulders slumped in relief and then he was a whirl of action, rushing to get over to the devil’s trap and scrape through the lines, then he was back again, nodding at Crowley and holding onto Sam, murmuring, “Just hold on. Keep fighting for me, gonna get you fixed up…”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~SPN~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Moose bleeding out over here,” Crowley bellowed.

Dean blinked. They were in a curtained area of an emergency room. Sam was on a gurney, his long body curled into itself over the long jagged wound.

Personnel in scrubs all turned to look at them.

“Chop chop, people,” Crowley reiterated, his fine dark suit standing out among the stark whites and pastels of everything in the place.

“The boy needs help here.”

The room erupted into a flurry of action and questions. “How’d you get in here? What happened?”

Crowley answered them with the ease of an eternal liar while Dean stared at the activity in a daze, Crowley’s voice echoing in the surrealness of it all. “…driving down the road…waved me down. These farmers…tell by the flannel?...this one fell on haying equipment…no cell service…I, being a good Samaritan brought them…”

Everything became a humming burr as IVs were hooked up, vitals and blood swiftly taken, oxygen given, until a nurse tried to get Dean to move from where he’d been standing at the top of the gurney with his blood-crusted palm on the crown of Sam’s head.

“Sir, we need to take him now.”

“Take him?”

“To surgery. Weren’t you listening?”

“I…”

“Someone will be in with the paperwork soon, but we can’t wait. Please, this way.”

Sam’s broken hand lifted, searching, until Dean took his hand in his own. Those light hazels latched onto him, accepting. Sam’s rapid breathing fogged the inside of the oxygen mask.

Dean looked to the nurses. “Can I stay with him?”

The nurse looked at the anesthesiologist for support, then sighed. “Just until he’s out.”

“Which should be in…” the anesthesiologist started counting down. “Four, three, two…”

Sam’s eyes drifted shut. His hand went lax within Dean’s.

“Okay, let’s go.”

Reluctantly, Dean placed Sam’s hand on the gurney and watched as they rolled him away, helpless to do anything.
Another nurse came and showed him where the surgical waiting room was. He signed papers at the arrows, not really knowing what he was signing…just the hope that they could save his brother, but all their faces and glances toward him had been respectful. They didn’t have high expectations.

No one else waited for a loved one in the special waiting area. He didn’t know where Crowley had gotten off to, couldn’t recall the moment he was no longer there. Scooting to the edge of the chair, he rested his elbows on his knees and interlocked his fingers at the back of his neck. Time ticked away.

A hand curled over his shoulder. “Dean.”

He twisted his head to the side to look up at the angel. “Cas.” He had no emotion left to summon at seeing his friend again.
Castiel smiled sadly. “You look…”

“Human,” Dean supplied tiredly.

“Worried.” Castiel sank into the chair beside Dean. “But human too, yes. It’s good to see you.”

Dean nodded. “Why are you here?”

“Do you not know?” Castiel squinted sideways at Dean. “I’m here for Sam. When Crowley told me—”

“Crowley sent you?”

Castiel nodded. “I found it strange as well. Nevertheless, I am going to heal Sam.”

The lethargy flew out of Dean at that. When Castiel appeared it should have been the first thing Dean asked, but he’d been too numb, too full of despair for it to have entered his mind. He latched onto Cas’s arm. “Can you? You will?”

Castiel looked at him like he was trying to decipher how much humanity remained within Dean after months of being a demon, puzzling why he needed to ask such a thing of him. “Of course.” He inclined his head. “Would you like to accompany me?”

“The doctors…”

“Will not see you.”

“Yes, Cas. Yes. I want to come.”

In the space of a breath they were in the operating room. Above his surgical mask, the surgeon’s eyes were grim. The atmosphere was subdued, anxious.

Between surgical cloths, Sam’s stomach was open, mangled red internal organs and brownish betadine colored skin. Dean turned away, choking down his gag reflex and focused on Sam’s face. They had his hair in one of those flimsy shower cap things and his nose and mouth covered by an oxygen mask, another tube ran out the side of his mouth. His dark lashes fanned out below his eyes in half-circles.

Out like this, he looked peaceful. Dean couldn’t remember the last time he had seen Sam at peace. A hard coil pressed hot against his sternum. His brother was a miracle. He didn’t give up. He kept at it until he found a way. Sam had saved him. He still wasn’t exactly sure how, but he had done it. Tears prickled at his eyes.

He glanced at Castiel who was staring at the open wound in concentration. Lines furrowed his brow. His lips turned down. His hand hovered over Sam’s abdomen. “I cannot do it.”

“What?”

Castiel looked to Dean, his eyes carrying a heaviness he hadn’t seen since before he released the Leviathans and had been lying to them for months. “It’s a supernatural wound, caused by the first blade. My powers have no effect.”

Just then the constant bleeping of the monitors sped up. The surgeon’s and the technicians’ heads all jerked up before they exchanged worried glances.

Dean’s heart sped up right along with the blips of Sam’s pulse.

Castiel’s lips thinned, taking on a determined line. “I cannot heal the wound itself, but I can moderate his blood pressure.” He waved a palm above Sam’s chest and the machines started slowing. “And enhance his immunities, take away the start of any infections…”

“He’s stable again,” one of the nurses stated. “BP is…”

Dean scrutinized every word she said, studying the monitors to make sure she got every stat right.

“All right people, we’ve given him the best chance we have,” the surgeon stated. “The rest is up to him. Let’s close up.”

“Wait.” Castiel leaned close to the surgeon. “You’ve missed something.” He actually took the surgeon’s gloved hand and moved it over to the far side of the wound, pressing the thin instrument he held in deep. “There is a small tear still bleeding from his spleen.”

Dean couldn’t bear to look into the wound so he glanced at the screen that showed the small surgical camera feed instead, trying to see what the angel felt was wrong.

“Wait,” the surgeon echoed Castiel’s words. “I missed something…”

For another thirty minutes the surgical team worked while Dean paced, his nerves frayed, until Castiel finally announced that they were finished, echoed by the surgeon exclaiming the same.

“Close up. I’ve got to go speak with the brother.” He began stripping off his gloves.

Dean knew he didn’t have much longer so rested his palm across Sam’s covered hair and leaned in close to his temple. “You keep fighting for me, Sammy. You hear me? You beat the mark of Cain. You can beat this.” His voice choked. He cleared his throat. “I’ll be right with you the whole time, little brother. We’ll beat this together.”

He kissed Sam’s forehead then looked to Castiel. “Take me back to the waiting room.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~Brothers Forever~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Voices drifted around him.

“From my interpretation of human behavior, bedside vigils are not meant to be rushed.”

“But they’re boring.”

“Do not awaken your brother before he is ready. His body has been through a great—Dean.”

Sam felt knuckles graze along his cheek and a voice close. “I’m his brother. I say when he’s ready to wake up and he’s ready now. Aren’t you, Sammy? I saw your nose starting to scrunch.”

Dean.

Sam tried to open his eyes but barely got a flutter, which was fine by him. He was so tired.

“Come on, I see you trying. Got to do better than that.”

It sounded like Dean was right there with him, which was nice, amazing really. He’d give anything for it to be true.

“Sam, come on, man.” Exasperation tugged at Dean’s voice, making Sam smile.

He opened his eyes to a worried green gaze. “Dean?” His brother looked so real, yet he couldn’t be. He had to save him. He knew how now. Cain told him… “Dean?” His forehead tightened. He tried to sit up and shards of ice stabbed inside his belly. The loopy happy feeling seeped away.

“Hey.” Strong hands eased him back down. “Take it easy. You with me this time?”

Unnerved that he was having a really vivid hallucination, Sam trembled. “No. I’m not with you. I have to save you.”

“Sam.” A pause. “You did save me. Don’t you remember? You walked right into the first blade when I was swinging it, which by the way, was incredibly stupid. You could have died.”

“Which was the whole point. I was supposed to—” He stopped, blinked, as everything that happened ran through his brain. He had done it? “Dean?”

Dean’s smile brimmed with affection. “Yeah. You getting it now?”

Sam looked from Dean to Castiel behind him, realizing they were both there. They were both really there. “You’re real? And…human?”

“Yeah, Sammy. I’m here. You’re here. We’re both—oooofff—”

Sam didn’t let Dean finish because he was too busy pushing up again, heedless of the pain and wrapping himself around his brother, clinging like he hadn’t since he was a child, his face pressed hard into the familiar scent of laundered cotton and Dean.

Dean’s arms snaked around Sam, holding on just as fiercely. He lowered his jaw to rest on top of Sam’s head. “Yeah, okay. I gotcha. We’ll talk about how little brothers aren’t supposed to sacrifice themselves later.”

FIN

Usual Disclaimers: Don’t own these characters or the Supernatural world at all. Just having a grand time playing.

Grain Elevator, fic

cece_away — Wed, 06 Nov 2013 17:05:19 GMT

Grain Elevator

The mulchy rotting floor of the grain elevator circled below him. Blinking, Sam fought his way to consciousness, the spinning blurry floor and close wooden walls created a swell of nausea bubbling inside his gut. Thick ropes clanked and swayed beside him. His legs knocked against something metal as the ground spun.

No, it wasn’t the ground twirling. It was him. He spun, dangling high in the air at about fifty feet up like a fish on a hook. His entire body dragging on one arm, it felt as though it was going to rip out of his socket.

He twisted his head upward to see what he’d gotten hung up in, and pain exploded across his stomach, brutal and sharp, the hard feel of a foreign object jabbing up into his skin, between his rib bones right where his heart was, a stationary pole or stick that was tearing the edges of his flesh as he dangled, spinning around the object jabbing up into him.

The scrape of it along his bones had him heaving out the contents of his stomach, making the jab of pain pierce more forcefully with each shudder. If it went in farther, stabbed his heart…if it hadn’t already…

“Gah,” he wheezed, flailing his un-trapped hand out blindly, groping for something to stop the spinning.

His fingers found wet metal, slipped around it. He grabbed on. His body jerked to a stop, jarring whatever he was impaled on farther across his bones, tearing more of his flesh. Sam sucked in a hiss, clenching his muscles against the brutal shock of pain.

Breathing through it, he closed his eyes, hoping that when he opened them again the world would have settled. Sweat trickled off his face, down his hanging hair. He curled his fingers tighter into the metal, his anchor in this tide of nausea and pain, and opened his eyes to take in the situation he was in.

First and foremost, where was the Prangor he’d pepper sprayed before he went over the edge? Usually salt was their thing but for the ape-like monsters, blinding them long enough to get close to the heart was the plan of action for the day. Wha…where was Dean? They shouldn’t have split up when the tracks got too muddled around the abandoned granary. Dean went low into the storage area while Sam went high toward the barge unloader above the river.

The metal he had a hold of was part of the bucket conveyor that scooped grain from the boats on the river below and carried bucket loads up to fill the silos that were above him on the hill. Or at least would have been before the barge loader was abandoned and a monster claimed the area as its personal hunting ground.
The dampness he felt on the metal was blood. His own, he was sure of it as he felt along the roller chains that once moved the conveyor belt, felt where the metal alignment holding the chain in place had been broken and bent a long time ago in the past when the length of the metal workings had warped and twisted, breaking up like brittle rails snapping off their tracks.

It was just his luck to fall right on to one.

Except his luck hadn’t been all bad. Whatever his arm had been caught up on to stop his fall short, had also spared his heart from being completely impaled by the twisted rail. As it was, he estimated by the feel of it against his bones and where the other part of the rail had broken off still lying flat against the conveyor, it had only gone up into him less than an inch.

He could deal with less than an inch.

Hell knew he’d dealt with worse.

Swallowing, he tilted his head to get a look upward and once again his muscles clamped tight and his head swam with dizziness, nearly taking him under the blackness creeping around the edges of his vision.

Exhaling through the grip of nausea, he made another attempt, this time moving slowly, lifting his head ever so gingerly until he could see a bit of what was above him and the sight nearly had him upchucking again.

His entire arm was red and bleeding, twisted in the barbed wire of the fence the troglodyte had pushed him into. The chain-link fence that was supposed to keep unsuspecting idiots from falling into the abandoned grain elevator. The fence that had given way and dragged him down with it into this mulch pit. The fence that was now twisted and caught up on the broken wooden shell of one of the buckets attached to the conveyor above him.

The only thing holding the fence was a broken bucket hanging onto the warped conveyor and the only thing holding him to the fence and keeping him from dropping and his heart being skewered like a shish kabob was barbed wire cutting into his arm and turning his flesh into wet kibble.

He sucked in a nervous breath at how close he’d come to biting it and felt the stab of metal move sharper into him. Okay, no more of that. Shallow breaths moron. First things first. Get off this stabbing hunk of metal. Worry about getting down after that. And hope to hell that the monster had offed itself in the fall because he was in no shape to tackle one of the beasties now. He was barely remaining conscious.

Blinking through his salty sweat and long bangs, he scanned the area below him, looking for the monster. Although his vision was blurry, he didn’t see any shapes in the debris below that fit a fallen Prangor, but it could just as easily rolled down the sloping floor, gone through the open hatchway and into the river.
Now that would almost be worth falling, given the monsters’ aversion to water.

‘Course if his bone and muscle mass was made of sheer lead, he wouldn’t be signing up for swimming lessons at the Y anytime soon either.

Okay, he was hanging along a broken slanted conveyer with scooping buckets attached at about seven feet intervals. There was one a few feet above his head and then another broken one seven feet above that which the warped chain-link fence was now precariously draped across. If the fence came loose or the bucket broke completely away from the weight, he’d drop on the piece of metal and have a shank pierce through his heart.

So whatever he did had to be quick and gentle enough to not dislodge the fence.

Just a sunny jog in the woods.

He tried looking up again, craning his neck farther to see more of what was above, exactly how precarious the fence was draped, but his vision blackened, his muscles clamped tight, and a sledgehammer rammed against the inside of his skull. Fighting the grayness back, he let his face drop again. He wasn’t sure if it was a head injury or his spine or the way the metal jabbed at his chest when he moved, but tipping his head upward was out of the question.

Didn’t matter. He had to do something. That barbed wire wouldn’t hold his weight all day. If it didn’t tear away from the fence, the prongs and wire would eventually tear through his arm. Either scenario would rip the metal up into his heart.

He swallowed. He purposefully hadn’t been thinking of that glimpse he’d had of his own mangled flesh, had been ignoring how he couldn’t feel his fingers anymore and how he could feel every minute burn of wire cutting and scraping into his arm, the drag of his weight on his armpit, the slide of blood running along his flesh.
Hissing through his teeth, he shut it all down, closed out the image, and focused pointedly at the river lapping into the slanted floor below where barges once anchored to offload their cargo. He could do this. He had to do this.

Steadying his one arm on the roller chain, he pushed himself up, straining. The piece of metal moved upward with him.

Shit, shit. He lowered back down, shaking from exertion, unnerved by how little strength he had. The metal rail scraped inside his flesh, squeezing more blood out to drip down its length. Nearly blind with agony, Sam shifted his knee up, trying to find purchase on the conveyor belt. Both legs were uncooperative, his whole body sluggish. If he didn’t do this now, he wouldn’t have the strength to make another attempt.

Gritting his teeth through the pain, he pushed his knee up, feeling with his leg, the toe of his boot for any kind of leverage. There. He felt a gap, some kind of hole in the other side of the conveyer belt. He wished he could see behind his leg to know what he was dealing with.

He wedged the heel of his boot into the little gap, braced his hand, and pushed, straightening his leg. Every muscle in his body trembled. Perspiration poured down his face and neck, dampened his shirt. Red dots swam across his vision, closing in to cover everything in a sheen of crimson.

It wasn’t working.

Roaring with effort, Sam dug deeper, pushed harder…and the conveyor moved. Just a fraction. Bracing his muscles, he straightened his leg more, pushing hard, so very hard…with everything he had.

The conveyer hitched downward again, a minuscule movement, but it was enough to pull the rail out of his chest. Sam screamed. He didn’t remember it going in but it hurt like a mother coming out. The air froze in his lungs. He couldn’t breathe. It hurt so bad, the pain beyond anything he’d felt before and he wasn’t altogether sure anymore it hadn’t nicked his heart.

Blood gushed out of the hole in his chest, coating everything within his view.

The fence screeched above, rocked. It jerked so hard it felt like his arm tore off. Twisting, Sam scrabbled for whatever was within his grasp, grabbed onto slick metal as the fence slid off the broken bucket and fell, scraping and screeching along the conveyor and ropes in metal sparks from friction, towing him with it, ripping his fingers from his hold. The bloody metal rail ripped across his shoulder, narrowly missed his cheek, and pulled across his scalp, ripping strands of his hair out by the roots as he dropped past it, flailing for something to grab onto.

The shriek of a Prangor clanged against his eardrums, the reverberations falling with him.

His fall jerked to an abrupt stop, dislocating his shoulder in a howl of misery that sent a shock wave through his body. Still dangling, the fence must have caught onto something else. The pain was so horrendous, he almost wished he would have hit the ground. Wetness dribbled down his arm, pooling into the crook between his neck and shoulder. His arm was a mass of throbbing burning hammered meat.

Reaching up with his other arm, he grabbed onto the twisted fence to try to take some of his weight off and came face-to-muzzle with the Prangor.
He flinched back, sending more jolts of torment through his shoulder that nearly cost him his consciousness. He fought to stay awake, breathing so hard his lungs filled to bursting, and let go of the fence to go for his gun at the back of his waistband. The drag on his arm nearly pulled him under again.

The beast screeched, thrashing about, rattling the twisted fence. Its bulbous leathery flesh was caught up, twisted into the length of barbed wire, pinning it to the heap of fence. It must have been above him all this time, out of his range of view, biding its time or possibly unconscious. The wire pulled tight in the brown flesh, lost in its folds of skin, red blossoms puckering where the barbs were buried. The more the Prangor fought, the more the wire embedded itself. The arms were trapped in a way that the beast didn’t have its usual reach otherwise the fatal claws would have already made mincemeat out of the chain-links. Would have made mincemeat out of him.

Blind eyes turned toward him, wide apish nostrils flaring, shooting warm huffs of air that stunk of decay and death. At least the pepper-spray had done that much.
Sam’s hand brushed the small of his back. Empty, his gun gone, most likely fallen, buried in the rotted grain below. He followed along his belt, finding his k-bar secured in its sheath at the back of his hip. With no hesitation and no mercy for the beast, Sam plunged the blade, hilt-deep and then some, straight into the monster’s heart. Noxious gray blood poured over his hand.

The Prangor shrieked, clawed at the air, thrashing against the broken fence, wild with panic. He grinned, even as he barely hung onto consciousness from the shrieking noise and the shaking metal and the pressure on his tearing arm, and twisted the knife harder into the chest cavity of the beast, before wrenching it out.
The ape-beast carried on as though it didn’t feel it, thrashing and twisting, its body writhing into shapes the hulky size shouldn’t be able to twist into. Not caught in the wire as it was. Tough SOB.

Sam’s arm couldn’t take anymore. Dropping the knife, he grabbed onto the chain links to relieve the pressure and the entire fence shifted, tilting downward. He and the Prangor dropped about a foot, his arm jerking once more.

Sam’s head pounded. His arm was a screaming mass of agony. His sight blackened, and then rushed back into a dizzying gray fog. The barbed wire bit into his arm.

Nauseated and weak from blood loss, he dangled, flopping like a puppet with the frenzied movement of the dying animal. Or was it the fence moving? He lifted his head to try and see what was happening and pain jabbed behind his eyelids.

He fell.

The screech of metal ground around him, bumping and crumbling like tin foil along the warped catwalks and wavy ladders scaling the close walls. The monster screamed, its high-pitched wail equaling the hiss of metal as fence, monster and man hurdled toward the ground.

There was nothing he could do to stop it.

The fence slammed onto the bucket conveyor. The Prangor took the hit, breaking apart a bucket.

Sam hit the ground in a paralyzing thud, pummeling the air from his lungs. Old grain flew up in dirty brown clouds just as the rest of the broken fence fell over him and the monster smashed into the floor inches away and kept going, sliding down the slanting concrete, dragging the fence and Sam with it.

Shit, nonononono. Fingers gouged at the mushy grain. That’s all he had, the fingers of one hand. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move. Couldn’t tell how bad he’d been hurt by the fall or if he’d simply had the wind knocked out of him, but he couldn’t freaking move, and the weight of the monster and the fence dragged him into—
His chest tightened at the slap of freezing water.

He swam one-armed and kicked against the drag of metal and monster bearing him downward. A jolt dragged on his body when they hit the bottom of the river and the metal fence settled in a plume of disturbed silt and swaying vegetation that caressed like silk across his arms.

Sam yanked and yanked, desperate to free his arm. Visibility sucked. He could see less than two feet around, couldn’t see where the monster was, but felt its frenzied thrashing, shaking the tangled metal. Streams of blood swirled in the water from the lacerations on his arm. So be it. It was his arm or drowning.
His lungs burned, closing, the weight of an iceberg crushing his chest. The panicked sensation to take a breath damn near overpowered his ability to think. Bracing his knees in the sinking mud, he pulled with everything that was in him. He…had…to…free…his arm.

The wire bit deeper into his flesh.

His blood coated the murky water.

Icicles jabbed every nerve ending. Everything was dimming.

He pushed down on the wire, forcing it down into his arm. He couldn’t see if it was working. The blood was too thick. The feeling in his arm was gone. He wouldn’t give up. Not without a fight. That’s not how he was made.

The monster didn’t get him.

Neither would the river.

His dad and brother trained him better than that.

Keep fighting.

Except…A tremor ran through his body. The iceberg crushing his chest shifted, squeezing out any remaining air and his sight blackened. Just before everything went dark he thought he saw the grimly set face of his brother coming toward him.

He came to on a swirl of agony. He thought having the oxygen wrenched out of his lungs was painful, involuntarily trying to refill them was beyond torturous. Sonofa—

“Damn it, Sam, breathe already!”

Wuhh. He was floating in the river, his boots dragging his legs down, every limb felt weighted with lead. His face was barely above water, the back of his head pressed against the curve of someone’s shoulder while an arm snaked partway around his side, and legs tangled with his, kicking, pulsing the water around them, keeping them both afloat. Barely. Whoever had him was breathing heavily with the effort.

“I said breathe!”

He was trying. Damn he was trying, but his chest was locked tight, unable to release and the pain was a monster hollowing out his lungs.

“Breathe!”

A wide pair of fists locked together rammed up into his diaphragm, quick and hard. His lungs expanded in a painful spasm that threw him forward face first into the water. Hands clawed at his shirt, pulling him back up to the surface where he vomited…and vomited again. Volumes upon volumes of dirty river water so hard he swore his ribs were pressing into his spine until finally, finally...he drew in a breath that didn’t feel like his lungs were turning inside out.

Wet gurgling gasps of sweet blessed humid air. He floated, buoyed up by competent hands, the top of his head pressed hard against the collar bone of whoever was helping him. He squinted up at a sharp chin silhouetted in the overhead sun.

“Are you good now? Have it all out?”

Dean. He tried to twist for a better look but he was completely drained and sluggish. He tried to lift his arms but didn’t have the strength to get them out of the water.

“Whoa, hey. Don’t. It’s pretty bad.”

What was bad?

“Just…just stay still and let me do all the work. We’re almost there. You don’t want to look at it.”

Look at it? His arm. A sick slide of dread coiled in his gut. He’d been sawing the barbed wire through his arm to get free. Oh god.

“Stop. Just stop.”

He hadn’t realized he’d been trying to lift his head, trying to see the damage.

“Trust me, it looks worse than it is. You don’t want to see. Let me get us out of the water and I’ll take care of it.”

Take care of it? How could he take care of that?

“Please Sam, trust me.”

The heartfelt plea spoken at his temple broke through.

“Dean,” he croaked out.

“Yeah.”

“How?”

Their knees bumped into slurpy ground. “I’ll tell you all about it once I get you on dry ground. Just…let me get you out.”

He felt Dean shift away from him, before the hands were back, lifting him from beneath his armpits and dragging him up out of the river and onto a bank of coarse river grass. The movement slogged his brain around in his skull.

Dean went to his knees before rolling onto his back beside him, utterly spent. Constantly saving his ass took a lot out of an older brother.

They lay there, water dripping into the grass, numb with cold. Sam let his head roll to the side to get a look at his arm, bracing for how bad he suspected it to be.

He knew what he’d been trying to do. Every working muscle in his body tensed.

Dean was immediately leaning over him, fingers on his chin, trying to turn his face back. “Hey. I told you not to look at it.”

“But…”

“Don’t look. I’ll fix it.”

Because he didn’t want him to know. Panic rose in his chest. He tried to flex his fingers but he couldn’t feel anything. Because…because…

“Hey.” Dean’s eyes bore into his. “You’re okay.”

“But…”

“You’re okay.”

Dean’s gaze flicked lowered on Sam’s torso and widened. “What happened here?” His palm flattened over the hole above his heart and Sam jerked, biting back a whimper he was too late in hiding from his brother.

“You’re bleeding like a stuck pig. How deep is this? Sam, how deep is this?”

Sam’s jaw clenched around a new tide of pain. Shit, Dean, quit pushing on it.

Dean’s face softened in sympathy. “Damn, sorry man. It’s just…I got to keep pressure on this. Geez, you’re a mess.” He stretched his neck, taking in their surroundings. “Impala’s about a mile away.” He went quiet, obviously considering their options.

“I’m going to get this bleeding stopped, then I’m gonna have to leave you for a bit, get the car as close as I can it to this slope then I’ll get you fixed up and warm. Okay?”

Fading, Sam nodded, wondering why being warm mattered anymore. If his hand was gone, he was already bleeding out anyway. He was so cold and numb. He just wanted Dean to stay with him while he slipped away.

He blinked up. “Monster?”

Dean grinned. “You got him. It was floating feet up, well, paws up, dead, strapped to that fence.” A muscle in his jaw ticked. “I got there just in time to see you all slide into the river. I thought I wouldn’t be able to…” Dean looked away, back out into the fading day.

Sam slid his working arm across the ground to bump Dean’s knee. He was going to lose him anyway. He felt the life flowing out of him.

As though he knew what Sam was thinking Dean looked back down at him, his features taking on a fierceness. “Don’t do that. Don’t you dare.”

“But my arm…gone.”

Light brows winged up, then scrunched just as quickly. “Sam…is that...?” All the color leached out of Dean’s face. “God, no. No man, you didn’t.” He suddenly reached across him. “Feel that? It’s still there Sam. You feel that right?”

Sam shook his head, his eyes filling with tears.

“You can’t feel…? Aw Sam, I’m sorry. I didn’t know you thought you…” Dean’s Adam’s apple bounced. “Here. Look. Do you see?” Gently, Dean brought Sam’s arm up so he could see.

Sam swallowed in relief and started shaking.

Still there.

His entire arm looked like mashed up pulp, but he still had an arm, still had a hand, everything intact. His wrist was swathed in the soaking remains of his sleeve that Dean must have ripped off to use as a makeshift bandage where the cuts must be fairly deep. Not that he could imagine worse than the parts he could see. Blood-tinged water flowed down his fingers dripping into the dirt. He focused on the tiny drops, mesmerized.

“You can’t feel it?”

Sam shook his head against the ground, too overcome to speak.

“Okay, that’s okay. I know it looks bad, Sam. I had to force the barbs down your arm and it took a bunch of skin with it.” Dean’s uncertain pitch wasn’t reassuring. “It will be okay. You are okay. You’re just cold and numb, probably going into shock, that’s all. The bleeding’s almost stopped and I’m going to run and get the car, get blankets, the med kit, anything you need. It’s going to be okay. I will fix this Sam. You believe that right?” Dean’s gaze held his, waiting for an answer.

Sam blinked up at him and spoke wetly. “I believe you.”

“You bet your ass.” Dean’s cupped hand tapped his cheek affectionately before he shifted away. “Don’t go anywhere.” Grinning, he winked.

Sam would have rolled his eyes if he wasn’t at the final dregs of his endurance.

“Hey.” Dean shook him. “Five minutes, Sam. Stay awake. Just give me five minutes and everything will be okay.”

Sam gave him a smile, the only thing he had control of, but it was enough. Dean’s eyes creased with worry, but he nodded and shot off like the wind, leaving Sam on the bank in the grass with the sound of the splashing river passing beyond him..

Sam’s eyes slipped closed, but he immediately forced them back open. Five minutes. It was little enough Dean asked for and Sam was damn well going to give it to him.

FIN
Usual disclaimers apply. Just having fun in Kripke’s sandbox.

Blast from the Past cuz I love Dia de los Muerte

cece_away — Sat, 02 Nov 2013 16:42:05 GMT

Wrote this back in 2010 but bringing it forward cuz I have no time to write a new November 2nd fic. Sigh. So for those who missed it the first go around...enjoy!

Day of the Dead

Just a Scratch 2/2

cece_away — Thu, 06 Jun 2013 20:14:48 GMT

Back to Part One

EMTs arrived within five minutes, being such a small town and had taken only another five to rush Sam to the small one emergency room medical center. The cover story had been simple, but Dean found sometimes the lamest stories raised the less eyebrows. They’d been in the bayou fishing, gotten off the beaten path and lost their way. That would keep any concerned law officials out of the old sewage tunnels until the tanahogs could be dealt with.

Dr. Willet frowned at the still-reeking dried brown muck covering Sam’s wounded leg, one black brow arching when Dean said they’d crawled through a mud pit, but the young doctor didn’t call him on it, more intent on getting Sam’s blood pressure evened out and fever reduced.

Being such a small hospital, they let Dean stay, for which he was grateful that he hadn’t had to fight to do so. He was so weary and just wanted Sam to wake up and be okay.

By the time Dean followed the gurney into a private room, he had as much energy as a walking corpse. A chair against the wall beckoned him, but now that all the nurses were out of the way, he wanted a closer look at his brother for himself.

They’d cleaned him up some, stripped off the ruined clothes, put him in a faded blue hospital gown and had him hooked up to an IV, oximeter, heart monitor, the works.

Dark lashes fanned over too pale skin like bruises. Dean laid the back of his hand on Sam’s forehead, lips tightening at the heat.

“His fever hasn’t come down yet.” The doctor’s voice right behind him startled Dean.

The lines in Dr. Willet’s forehead creased. “We’ve started him on the first course of antibiotics…” His words filtered off leaving an unspoken ‘but’ drifting in the air between them.

Dean’s heart seized up like a broken engine. Turning, he faced the doctor head on as though challenging the bad news out of him would make it less painful.

The Adam’s apple in Willet’s throat column bounced. “We have some decisions to make.”

“We?” Dean’s voice came out gruff, a raw and bleeding match to his insides.

The doctor nodded. “Your brother—“

“Sam.”

“Sam.” Willet smiled kindly. “The infection in his leg has taken hold. Frankly, I’m not sure how he’s lasted this long.”

“But he has,” Dean growled.

“Yes and we’re doing everything we can to ensure he continues to.”

The doctor stared pointedly at Dean with the unflinching resolve of someone accustomed to giving bad news straight out. “If we can’t get a handle on the infection, we’ll need to take his leg. But in Sam’s weakened state, that still may not be enough.”

The room closed in around Dean, squeezing the air from his lungs. A small burning pressure pushed at the base of his skull and he realized Dr. Willet was guiding him back to sit in the chair.

Dean sank onto it woodenly, starring at the floor as the color in the tiles faded while the doc kept a hand on his shoulder.

“So…” voice cracking, Dean stopped and tried again. “So, you leave his leg and Sam dies, but if you cut it off, he still might die? That what you’re saying?” Please don’t be saying that.

Features pinched, the doctor nodded. “I need you to be prepared. I have the surgery scheduled for the first thing in the morning.”

“If…” Dean squeezed his eyes closed then opened them with a heavy sigh. He couldn’t believe what he was about to ask. “If he’s in danger of death, why not take him to surgery now?” The words tasted as bitter as ashes blown off a funeral pyre.

“We need his blood pressure evened out and more fluids in him. If we attempted surgery now, he wouldn’t survive it.” Willet’s dark fingers curled over Dean’s shoulder. “We still have a small window of time for that to happen and I promise you, I’ll do everything in my power to give Sam the best chance he has.”

Dean didn’t nod, barely registered the doctor taking his leave. Dean sat unmoving in the chair, staring at the wall, numbed by the quiet beeps of the monitors and intermittent hum of the IV machine pushing antibiotics into his brother’s veins. Earlier he wanted so badly for Sam to wake up, show him he was still fighting, but now he feared Sam waking because if he did, he’d have to tell him…

He couldn’t. But he also couldn’t stand the thought of Sam regaining consciousness after the surgery to find his leg gone either.

Wouldn’t matter. Dean clenched his fists, shaking. He wouldn’t let it matter. If it kept Sam alive, it wouldn’t matter. They’d deal with it head on. Therapy. Artificial limb. Whatever Sam needed, Dean would deal with it. That’s just how it was going to be. Screw everything else.

The IV drip continued on. Hours passed. Dean didn’t move.

The door creaked open and a heavy-set black woman came through backwards, pulling a loaded cart with her.

She zeroed in on Dean. “Don’t just sit there. Help me haul this cart in so we can get to saving your brother’s leg.”

That got Dean back on his feet, the colors of the room slamming back into full vibrancy.

The woman was already at the side of the bed, pushing down the sheets and gently pulling the saturated gauze away from Sam’s thigh and peering at it intently.

“Mmm-mmm, is as bad as they say.”

Dean came alongside her, ready to insert himself between her wide girth and his brother, not daring to hope. “Who are you?”

Her gaze snapped on him, round face smoothing as she took in his ragged worried appearance. “Don’t fret now, bébé. Nina Jae’s here to take care of everything.”

“But Dr. Willet—“

Her smile grew indulgent. “Who do you think suggested that maybe I come in for my shift two days early?” She patted his cheek before pulling the cart closer and lifted a white towel off a porcelain bowl filled with noxious brown mud.

Dean’s brows knifed. “This is the same stuff that was on Sam when I found him.”

“Was it now?” The woman’s lips puckered. “Jambyjamby.”

“Come again.”

“Jambyjamby. Found deep in the swamplands. It’s probably what kept him alive so long.” She went to the door and closed the shutters on the window and came back. “Someone—or something—helped your brother.

“I’ll need you to hold him down when he awakens.”

“He hasn’t woken yet.”

“He will.” Nina Jae pressed the morphine drip button that shot an instant dose into the IV. “This will give him a few moments, but morphine acts quick, bébé, lasts only a few moments with so much pain.”

Dean nodded, fear for his brother growing the more she spoke.

“This will be hard. I’ll understand if you want to leave.”

“I’m not leaving.”

Nina Jae gave him another once other before moving him to the other side of the bed out of her way. “Be ready then.” Going back to her place between the bed and the cart, she pulled plastic gloves on and used a scalpel to reopen the raw puckering wound on Sam’s thigh.

The kid still didn’t stir. Smelly pus immediately began seeping from the reopened wound,

“Such a small scratch to give us such problems.” Setting the scalpel down, Nina Jae began systematically kneading the bloated flesh around the wound, pushing more of the thick pus out.

It looked painful as hell. Dean winced, relieved Sam remained unconscious until that reprieve was blown as Sam’s eyes started rolling beneath his lids. His jaw clenched on a moan and his head rocked from one side to another.

Nina Jae glanced up at Dean. Get ready. She kept kneading the seeping wound, squeezing more and more of the sickly sweet smelling goo out. And Sam shot up off the mattress, back arching, his scream so raw and guttural it tore through every layer of Dean’s soul.

He grabbed the kid’s combative hands before he unconsciously struck Nina Jae in his fight or flight reaction. Fight since the Winchesters always came up swinging.

“Sam, stop. I gotcha!” Dean wrestled with his arms while Sam continued to scream and moan. “Won’t this bring the other nurses running?”

“They know not to come in here when I've lowered the blinds.” Steady as a rock, the woman continued to work. “Do not mention this to the doctor either.”

“But I thought you said…”

“He knows about this, but must also work under medical restrictions. He doesn’t ask, and I don’t tell. You understand?”

“I got it.” He did, but was more concerned with his thrashing, screaming brother at the moment. “Stop fighting, Sam, it’s okay. She’s helping you. She’s helping you man.”

Dean grabbed both of Sam’s hands and held them between their bodies as he pulled Sam close against him. “It’s okay, just like the time I got that rasta venom in me at Lake Chuckawak and you and Dad had to squeeze it out. Just like that, Sam. I know it hurts, but it’s just like that, I promise.”

Gradually Sam’s struggles slowed. His hands unclenched and clenched against Dean’s stomach before snagging into the hem of his T-shirt, his fingers burning hot against Dean’s skin, and the top of Sam’s head pressed hard into Dean’s collarbone. Letting go of Sam’s wrists, Dean brought his arms around the kid’s overheated shaking frame.

“Keep…keep talking,” Sam hitched out on a raspy sob.

Dean did. He talked and talked until he was hoarse, retelling old stories, sharing escapades with girls Sam didn’t know about and some of the solo hunts he’d been on the past couple of years while Sam was at Stanford, not caring that Nina Jae heard every word. He didn’t let up even when Sam stiffened so tight Dean worried his bones would break, all the while Nina Jae kneaded his thigh working every ounce of the pus out without mercy until the blood finally ran clear and Sam’s lean body sagged into Dean.

~~~SPN Forever~~~

These boys were getting to her. Nina Jae worked tirelessly, determined not to lose this one. She couldn’t do any less, not with how the older brother worked to keep the kid grounded with him.

Their auras were strong, these two, and entwined in a manner she’d never encountered before.

If she had to work all night until her old joints stiffened, she was going to save these two. But finally the blood ran clear and it was up to the goddess whether this boy kept his limb or not.

While the older sibling carefully settled his unconscious brother on the mattress, she spread the Jambyjamby generously across his leg, pushing it down into the wound where it could do its work and draw the infection out. “Now we will see,” she murmured, snapping the plastic gloves off. “Now we will see.”

“This will work?” The open hope in the older boy’s eyes broke her heart.

“If the goddess wills.” From the tightening of his lips she could tell he was a nonbeliever. She smiled kindly. “He has a good chance. Let the Jambyjamby do its work until morning. Now you need to be off your feet. You’ll be no good to him if you drop.” She fisted her hands at her waist.

He had no intention of letting down his guard, but he also was too weary to fight her. Thinking he was compromising, he grabbed the hard chair from the wall and dragged it over.

“No bébé.” She guided him to the recliner in the far corner of the room. “I want you rested.”

“But…” He was afraid he’d fall asleep if he got too comfortable. She could see the thoughts working in his expressive face.

“I’ll be here.” She pushed him down into the chair. “If he needs you, I’ll wake you.”

Frowning, he eased back. “I’ll sit, but I’m not sleeping.”

Nodding, she crossed to the door. “I’ll be back with fresh linens.”

In the hall, the nurses manning the nurse’s station glanced up expectantly. She gave them a tight smile and went into the supply closest, fishing out her phone. While it was true Dr. Willet had called her, he wasn’t the only one.

A few minutes later, she returned to the room with the new linens and a cup of tea. Dean was still in the recliner and still awake, his expression as worried as when she’d left him.

“Here.” She pushed the warm cup into his hands.

“I’m not thirsty.”

“I didn't ask. Drink. You need your strength if you’re to watch after your brother all night.”

With that he took a sip, and then another as she stood over him until he was finished.

“Bossy.” She caught the murmured growl as he settled back into the recliner, mutinously folding his arms to wait out his brother’s recovery.

~~~SPN~~~

Thirty minutes passed before Nina Jae heard the door creak open. He swept into the room like a shadow, first glancing at the boy on the bed and then to the young man sleeping soundly in the recliner. Dark eyes lifted to her in question.

“He fought the effects of the tea, but he’s out,” she reassured him. “You have some fine boys, Johnny.”

He strode over to the recliner and curled his large roughened hand around the boy’s shoulder. “I do.” His smile was small, almost too small for the weight of pride resting there. He squeezed his son’s shoulder before turning away to check on his youngest.

Pulling back the sheet, John Winchester leaned in to inspect the wound first before his palm slid onto Sam’s cheek while he slipped the back of his other hand over the boy’s forehead to gauge any remaining fever. “He’s warm.”

“Do not worry, his fever is going down.”

John nodded, his eyes tight. “And his leg, did it work?”

Nina Jae came up beside him, noting how John’s hands remained on his son. “I believe his life is no longer in danger, but his leg…” She shook her head. “I do not know.”

John flinched, barely perceptible, but his son must have felt it for his head turned into his father’s palm and his lashes started fluttering.

“Shhh, son, it’s all right.” In all the years she had known the hunter, Nina Jae had never once heard the quality of gentleness in John’s tone. She wouldn’t have believed the man was capable of it.

Sam’s eyes slipped open, a glossy hazel. “Dad?”

“It’s okay, son. You’re okay.”

“Where…where you been?”

John smiled sadly. “Listen to me carefully, Sam. You’re strong. You’re going to keep fighting this. Do you understand me?”

Drowsy eyes struggled to remain open. “Keep fighting.”

John patted Sam’s cheek. “That’s my boy. Now get some rest.”

As though his father’s words compelled him, the boy’s eyes slipped closed again.

John watched him a few more moments before turning his full attention on Nina Jae, transitioning from a worried father to hardened hunter before her eyes.

“I’ll clean out the beasts that got into the sewers, but your people have to do a better job of keeping the wards up around town. People died. My son was hurt.”

“We’ve protected this town for decades and kept the tanahogs protected in the bayou as well,” Nina Jae snapped. “I don’t know how they got past the wards and into the city.”

“Someone got compliance and let their wards age. Or stopped believing and didn’t maintain them altogether. That can’t happen again.”
Shame for whoever of her people had grown lax burned in her gut. “It won’t.”

John turned away, stopping when she touched his elbow.

“The beasts, they are not evil, just beasts.”

The hunter’s lips tightened. Men like him only saw creatures that could kill. “A wolf is only a beast as well, but when a wolf discovers the sheep pen, the animal is killed.”

Nina Jae shied away from that logic. “It was one of these creatures that saved your boy. Do not be so quick to forget that, Johnny.”

He held her gaze, considering, before nodding. “I’ll take care of the beasts in the sewers. Replace the wards. The rest of the tanahogs are your responsibility. Keep the wards vital. Are we clear?”

She nodded.

And John’s features softened, weary. “Thank you for what you’ve done for my son. It won’t be forgotten.” With one last glance toward the bed, John Winchester slipped out as quietly as he came in.

~~~SPN~~~

Dean awoke with a crick in his neck as he took in the unfamiliar pastel green wall he faced. Hospital pastel. He jerked up in the recliner, remembering where he was and more importantly why.

“Sam?”

He scrambled out of the chair, unnerved that he’d fallen asleep, and went to his brother’s side. No one else was about. The room smelled different of hospital disinfectant and shampoo odors instead of the overwhelming scent of sickness and that brownish muck. Sam was clean, his hair damp, his skin less gray. The bedding was fresh. He pulled back the sheet to check Sam’s leg. The brown gunk had been washed away, no trace of it left. Dean gently peeled back the gauze to check the wound. It was still ugly, but no longer swollen or seeping yellow pus.

Next he rested his palm along Sam’s cheek while checking for fever with the back of his other hand on his forehead. Kid still felt a little warm, but nowhere close to putting out the heat waves he had been before. He spilled out a breath in relief. “You’re doing better, Sam. Keep fighting, buddy.”

Sam’s eyes fluttered. His face turned into Dean’s palm and his lashes lifted, revealing those shiny hazels. “Dad?”

Dean chuckled, near giddy at hearing Sam’s voice. “Try again, kiddo.”

“De’n.” Sam’s lips curved into a smile. “Where you been? I lost you.”

“Been right here the whole time. How are you feeling?”

“Tired. Wha’ happened? Where’s Dad?”

Dean frowned. His brother was still out of it, not remembering things right. “Are you in pain?”

Sam’s forehead scrunched as though he had to take inventory. “Leg hurts.”

Worry notched up a rung around Dean’s spine. Pain was good, right? Feeling something? “How bad?” He reached for the morphine button.

Sam’s fingers fluttered on his mattress. “S’okay. Not bad. Tight. Where’d Dad go?”

“Sam, Dad’s not…”

“Was here. Told me…keep fighting.”

Well, Dean wasn’t going to argue with that. If Sam dreamed of their dad telling him to keep fighting, he wasn’t going to take that away. But he did have something else to warn his brother about. His leg, the scheduled surgery, if everything Nina Jae had done last night didn’t work… “Look, Sam, I, uh, need to—“

The door swung open and Dean’s nightmare walked in dressed in surgical scrubs and cap. “Morning, gentlemen, I see you’re up. You’re both up.” Dean tried to gauge by Dr. Willet’s expression where they stood.

“Listen, Doc.” He blocked his way to Sam. “Before you take him, I’m requesting that you run a few blood tests first. He’s looks better. Things could have changed…”

Dr. Willet squeezed Dean’s bicep. “Actually, we already have, early this morning. I tried to wake you, but you were completely under. I…” He glanced down at his scrubs, realizing what Dean must be assuming. “I just came from an emergency Endoscopy. Little girl swallowed a nickel that got stuck in her esophagus.” He shook his head. “What I’m telling you is that I already postponed your brother’s surgery and as long as he keeps improving we won’t need to reschedule in the foreseeable future.”

Every emotion Dean had been harboring over the last couple of days crashed through him, turning his limbs to butter. He sank down to steady himself on the edge of Sam’s mattress, hoping his rubbery legs would hold him.

Sam’s wide-eyed gaze fixed on him. “Surgery?”

Dean shrugged. “Cosmetic. Figured while you were out of it, we could do something about that ugly mug.”

The hazel eyes rolled, unimpressed. “You’re such an ass.”

“And you’re a bitch. What of it?”

Sam yawned and sank farther down into his pillow, his eyes closing. “You were worried.”

Dean grinned. “Shut up, Sam.”

“And we are going to talk about this.” He yawned again. “You can hold my hand if it will make you feel better.”

Willet shook his head, grinning and Dean laughed. “Shut up already.”

“You’re such a girl,” Sam murmured, getting in the last jibe before going under again. And yeah, Dean admitted to himself, when it came to this kid, he was as sappy as it came.

~~~SPN~~~

A week later, Dean crouched down in the center of the tanahog’s refuse lair beside the charred remains of at least four of the large beasts. They’d been burned down to their bones.

“Is she?” Sam waited at the entrance because even though his leg was healing nicely and the kid wasn’t even limping, Dean still didn’t want him having to shuffle his way through the debris field of discarded belongings. Hell, he didn’t want Sam down in the sewers again at all, but Sam was adamant about coming and watching Dean’s back. They’d come loaded for bear, er, tanahog, but hadn’t expected that another hunter had come along and taken care of the nest sometime during Sam’s recuperation.

“It’s hard to tell, but all these bones look larger than the female. I don’t think she’s here.”

Sam nodded. “It was Dad. I told you he was here.”

Dean’s head snapped up. “Then why wouldn’t he let us know he was around? No Sam, I gotta believe if Dad was here, he would have let us know.”

“Who knows why Dad does anything?” Pained acceptance filtered Sam’s tone. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe it’s just coincidence that another hunter got wind of a hunt down here.”

Dean could tell his brother didn’t really believe that and was just saying what he thought he wanted to hear, because damn it, Dean wasn’t about to believe that their Dad would come check on Sam and not stick around when he knew they’d been looking for him for months.

His good mood at discovering this stupid job was completed soured and he was ready to get out of here, get Sammy out of here and back on the road. “Well, whatever man, let’s go.” Swinging to his feet, he strode out of the lair, passing his brother only to stop when he realized Sam hadn’t moved to follow him out. He turned. “Sam. She’s really not there. I promise. I think your tanahog nanny made it out.”

“Yeah, okay.” Turning away from the foul lair, Sam lifted sad dewy eyes to Dean. “Just wish we could know for sure.”

Dean walked back to Sam, taking his elbow to prod him into leaving. “Well, brother, some things you just have to take on faith.” He grinned like a cat with a mouth full of feathers.

Not taking the bait, Sam continued to frown, but walked steadily on at Dean’s urging.

Dean was just happy to be leaving. Once outside, he filled his lungs with the fresh, albeit muggy air, rolling his shoulders before making the small hike out of the edge of the bayou when he had the distinct feeling of being watched and noticed that Sam had stilled too.

Following Sam’s gaze, he saw a flash of light where a small piece of metal hung from the branch of a cypress tree and just beyond that in the shadows the female tanahog watched them. They stared at each other for a long while until Sam took a step toward her and the tanahog flinched and then quietly edged back into the swampland out of sight.

FIN

Just a Scratch

cece_away — Thu, 06 Jun 2013 20:03:37 GMT

Just A Scratch

He slammed out of unconsciousness like a man thrown off a building, crushing every bone.

Not every bone…just his leg…the pain concentrated there, radiating outward to clench up every muscle, every tendon in his body.

“Gah,” he exhaled through gritted teeth, fisting his hands in…he didn’t know what. Garbage? Dry leaves? Didn’t matter. He just needed the pain to stop.

It was dark, the air moist, humid, hot…burning hot and smelly. He was wet, his layers of shirts soaked through, sticking uncomfortably to his hot skin. Perspiration dotted his face. He felt tiny droplets slide down along his hairline.

A whimper echoed close, skimming across cement walls.

“De…,” his plea sounded like a whimper of his own. He let his head flop to the side toward where the noise came.

A pair of swollen eyes stared at him from about two yards away. He could make out a huddled shape of fur in the low light streaming in from a grate high in the curving wall.

A dog. It whimpered again and sniffed gingerly at the wet dirt, or blood, possibly both on its misshapen hind leg.

“It broken, fella?” Sam’s voice crinkled rice paper thin. “I know the feeling.”

The mutt put its head down on its front paws and whined low in its throat.

Rot and sickness floated upon the cloying wet air like a sheen of oil skimming swamp water, misting the surroundings. A dark curved tunnel or sewer. They were in a sewage system in Louisiana, hunting…he squeezed his eyes into a squint. What were they hunting?

His gaze swept the dark tunnel, searching for clues his memory wasn’t giving up.

He was in a short tunnel, below another one if the drops of water and light coming from the grate indicated. Each end of the tunnel opened to a T-section in the sewers, neither he could see beyond the openings or where they led in either direction.

He felt exposed and vulnerable, lying helpless against the wall on a nest of garbage.

Anything could come through either of those entrances at any time—whatever it is they’re hunting—he prayed the first thing through was his brother.

His chest pinched with worry. There weren’t many things that could keep Dean from being already here. What had happened? How did he come to be injured in this small section of the tunnels with an injured dog and…he scanned about. There were more shapes pushed up against the walls, small and unmoving. A dead bird, its black wing fanned out stiffly. There were several skeletons of birds and rodents mostly. A decomposing cat. It looked like someone—or something—had dragged injured or dying animals in here.

He jerked, seeing a baby gator.

Pain ripped through his leg at the slight movement and a sudden flush of agonized tears blurred his vision. His breathing carved through the ache, sawing respirations with jagged tearing teeth.

~~~SPN~~~

He awakened to the sensation of something watching him. He didn’t remember passing out.

A large dark shape crouched near, leaning over him, blotting out most of the light coming in from the grate. A thick musk clung to the beast like a moist pelt.

Sam shrank back in his nest of garbage and the familiar sharp pain shot brutally through his leg. A giant paw-like hand reached toward him.

Sam whimpered when the beast touched him, pushing its large hand beneath the back of his head. Unable to defend himself, Sam’s face was lifted toward the creature, and…

A battered tin pan pressed to his lips, the side sweating with water.

Sam firmed his lips tight. No telling where the thing got that water from and tried to turn away, but the beast held him firm and continued to tip the pan.

As the creature drew closer, luminous gray eyes came into view, round as tiny moons, the black pupils slitted like a cat’s. Female. He had the vague feeling that she was female.

The palm beneath his head gave a tug on his hair, forcing Sam’s neck to arch. He gasped and the water drained into his mouth.
Swallow or choke. He swallowed.

At least the water was sweet, felt clean, not thick with mud or algae, but the danger of parasites crossed his mind even as he gulped the water down like a weak baby bird.

He actually stretched up for more, water on his dry lips and filling his belly a physical relief.

With his internal heat and the fever sweat drenching his skin, infection and dehydration would get him long before any swamp parasite took him out. At least the water was clearing his head of fuzz. If he could think, he could figure this out, maybe remember what happened to Dean…

The creature’s moon eyes blinked and Sam felt her lower his head gently back down. She had given him water and by the look of the menagerie of wounded and dead animals along the walls, Sam placed all his hope in an assumption that the beast didn’t want to harm him. She had probably carried him here after he was injured.

The hulking creature shifted back and stood. Blinking, Sam looked way, way up. She was huge. Wide shoulders, tufted in fur, hunched. Her head tucked in to avoid scraping the rounded ceiling.

Sam swallowed, his throat once again dry, and watched the thing lumber to the other side of the tunnel where the dog rested, and got his first clear look as the muted light spilled over the beast. She was broad, covered in fur that looked like it was shedding in spots, shiny and soft underneath like a grizzly’s that loses its thickest coat after a long winter.

Tanahog. Though they were less hogs, more a cousin to the sasquatch or yeti, but preferring the rich hunting grounds of marshes and swamplands, and twice as vicious.

If a tanahog had captured him, he shouldn’t be alive, but rather torn to shreds, and the rich marrow sucked from his bones.

Yet the creature across him, though large and strong enough to break his spine with one snap, sat placidly stroking an ill dog’s side with gentle care. She watched him with those big moon eyes. She, because he could see her clearly now. Definitely a female.

It didn’t add up with the Intel they’d gathered. He was remembering.

Gunthor, Louisiana, a small one-motel town on the edge of a thick bayou. Several people had gone missing, only one body recovered, sliced and diced with bite marks that didn’t fit a gator.

He and Dean had tracked the evidence to a pack of tanahogs that had left the swamplands to take up residence in the sewage systems, preying on the easy pickings of townspeople and any unfortunate pets that had gotten loose.

They were systematically searching the interconnecting sewage tunnels when…

He couldn’t remember what happened, how he got injured, or what became of his brother.

If Dean was okay, he’d be coming for him.

He needed a way to let him know where he was. Sam squeezed his eyes closed in irritation. Stupid. His brain really wasn’t firing on all cylinders.

Shakily, he moved his arm to get at his phone in his front jeans pocket. Such a small movement shouldn’t be taking this much energy out of him. Closing his fingers around it, he drew it out. The simple act of lifting it above his face so he could see the screen just about did him in. He couldn’t recall ever being so weak and shaky that it took everything in him just to look at a damn cell phone and all for nothing. The phone was dead, not just low signal dead, but out of juice dead.

He’d had a full charge before they entered the sewers. How long had he been down here for his battery to die?

He let his arm fall to his chest, let the phone slip form his fingers and slide down his side into the bedding of garbage.

~~~SPN~~~

He blacked out again. He must have because something was different.

It was hot, scorching furnace hot. His skin was dry like thin parchment and itchy from old dried sweat. No longer perspiring, but dehydrated with fever.

If he didn’t do something, he was going to die down here. His leg was swollen tight in the leg of his jeans.

He lifted his head, barely raising it up a few inches to see and move d his hand toward the bloody slit in the denim on his thigh. His hand shook.

Suddenly the creature was beside him, large sure hands pulling him up to lean his shoulder and head against the curve of the wall. It hurt, any jostle to his thrumming leg brought barbs of lightning agony jolting through his body.

Breathing hard through his nose, he set his teeth against it, hoping the tunnel and creature would soon stop revolting around him.

“Th-thank you,” he rasped, his voice as wavery as his stomach. She was his own Florence Nightingale.

Somehow sensing what he wanted to see, the tanahog snagged the tip of her claw inside the torn denim slit and ripped the material further. Sam cried out as dried blood and pus tore away from his skin. A black haze ground against the edges of his vision.

Lungs heaving, his entire focus bottomed out to the sharpness of the pain. Everything else dulled until the beast suddenly latched onto his shoulders and dragged him back down to lie flat and began throwing the garbage over him.

He didn’t understand what was going on. What had he done to incite her strange behavior? All he could do was lie there and breathe through the agony concentrated in his leg. Was she done with him and burying him alive beneath layers of filth? Beneath the pain and the raging fever, he couldn’t reason it out—until a different noise shuffled into their tunnel.

His tanahog whirled around to face a much larger one, lumbering into their space.

Hiding him. She’d thrown refuse on him to hide him.

The new tanahog roared, the thick guttural racket reverberated across the walls, loud and angry.

Trying to quiet his panicky breaths, Sam peered between moist newspaper and clumping leaves. The creature was huge, a head taller than the female. It’s furious round eyes glowed orange like the insides of jack-o-lanterns.

The female crouched in submission at the larger beat’s feet, which seemed to pacify his anger a bit. At least he stopped the eardrum-shattering bellows.
Except the abrupt cut off exposed the dog’s whimpers. The orange eyes locked onto the poor pup, and shoving the crouching female out of its way, the tanahog grabbed up the injured dog and snapped its neck.

The female wailed and lunged up to take the limp dead dog back, but the beast held it aloft like a school yard bully.

The female made a grab for it again and the creature shoved her hard enough to throw her across the tunnel next to Sam, where it leaned down to get into her face and growled, lips curled back over stiletto sharp incisors. He was so close, Sam felt the heated wash of fetid decaying ripe breath.

Moon eyes glazed in fear, the female curled over in a demonstration of submission, trembling and whimpering.

Satisfied with his dominance, the male swung the dog up and took a huge bit out of its side, watching the other creature for defiance, which never came. Still chomping, the tanahog grunted and shuffled out of the small access tunnel.

Florence curled over her knees, large head dropping to the floor as her wide shoulders shook with sobs.

Sam eased up, though the slight movement streamed agony through him. Leaves and bits of soggy paper slid off as he reached out and placed his palm on the tanahog’s elbow. “I am so sorry.”

Her head lifted, sad gray eyes turned toward him. She stared for a long moment before lowering her cheek near Sam’s side and let him stroke the top of her head.

~~~SPN~~~

He next awoke to a pungent odor. Not that there wasn’t already enough nasty smells, but this was new, sharper, overpowering the rest like burned or boiling broccoli.

He fought to flutter his eyes open and then fought even harder to get them to focus. He didn’t remember falling asleep again. His life had become disjointed moments of waking, hurt and alone.

Not alone.

Florence was here, slapping and smoothing some sort of brown leafy mud over his swollen leg. His entire thigh was encased in it.

“Flor…wha…?” His voice was transparent, a ghost of sound.

Seeing him awake, Florence pulled his shoulders up and began shoving some of the stinky mud into his mouth.

He didn’t have the strength to fight her. He was completely limp, unable to raise his arms or lift his head. It flopped back against her thick forearm.

He swallowed the mud, choking on the taste and was relieved when she gave him water next. He didn’t know when he’d eaten last, but he wasn’t hungry, was just too weak and nauseous. Probably wouldn’t be able to keep this crap down anyway.

He wasn’t going to last much longer.

He moved his hand across the litter pile to bump the creature’s large furred knee as she hovered over him. Seemed like since she lost the dog, he had now become her fixation.

“I need…outside. C-can you take me? My brother…”

The wide lips creased downward. The protruding line of her brow wrinkled and she gurgled a low kind of cooing.

Sam tried again. He had to make her understand he’d die if he stayed down here any longer. He was so weak, felt his life draining out with the hot moisture beading on his skin. Next time he closed his eyes, he feared there’d be no more waking moments.

“Florence, please. Please.” His head fell back with the last of his strength and his eyes closed. She wasn’t going to help him. She didn’t understand… and he still didn’t know if Dean was safe….

Then he felt himself lifted, large arms curling beneath his legs and shoulders and his world swayed back and forth by the tanahog’s slow slumberous gait.

~~~SPN~~~

Dean’s knees threatened to buckle. After three days of searching the old twisting hedged-together sewage system, he’d found it, the place the tanahog’s discarded their refuse. It was disgusting, much like the area beneath the nest of an eagle where cleaned bones, fur, and feathers of their prey were haphazardly discarded.
Except now that he found it, Dean couldn’t go in. His gaze landed on the muddy torn remnants of a lady’s pink sweater. He couldn’t…if he found Sam’s boot, or shirt…or anything…

Sweat pooled at the vee of his throat. He couldn’t. He just couldn’t find anything here of Sam.

But he had to be sure.

Bracing himself for the gruesome job at hand, Dean stepped into the dead-end tunnel and began sifting through the inedible remnants of lives lost.

Three days. Three days he’d been systematically marking the tunnels and searching for the kid. He wasn’t sure how they got separated in the first place. One second Sam was right behind him, chasing after the damn tanahog and then there was a second roar in an adjacent tunnel and Sam…Dean shouted for them to stay together but by the time he looked back his brother wasn’t there. Whether he was taken, or didn’t hear him over the racket the tanahogs made and went after the other, he just didn’t know.

Sam was simply gone.

But Dean would find him. He lifted a sleeve torn from a striped shirt and his breath stilled in his chest. Not Sam’s. Sweat dribbled down the side of his neck while he stared, trying to force the flow of air to move in his lungs again. Not Sam’s.

He moved on toward the back of the tunnel, his search through the rubble picking up speed as relief buoyed him, finding nothing of Sam’s here.

“That’s good, kid, that’s good.” If he wasn’t here, he was still alive. “But where the hell are you?” His growl bounced along the concrete walls.

He’d searched almost the entire system. He’d only gone to the surface once to check back at the motel in case Sam had made it out another way. He’d allowed himself two hours of sleep, filled a smaller duffel with weapons, energy bars, a few basic first aid supplies and water, lots of water, and a spray can of paint for marking and had been searching ever since.

He left the disgusting room, mentally noting how to get back to it for clean-up later, and picked up his search, moving into the lower older sections of the drainage tunnels. Within ten minutes he rounded a bend and came face to face with one of the beasts. They both froze where they were, staring at each other. Dean’s heart thudded to a stop because the creature had Sam.

In the monster’s massive arms, Sam looked like a sleeping child, his head resting on the furred shoulder, dark hair spilling forward over his cheeks and forehead. His arms hung loose, as did one leg. The other leg was straight and unbending, swollen tight inside the leg of his torn and filthy jeans.

Dean could smell the sickly sweet odor of infection from where he stood.

“Put him down.” Dean trained his Glock on the beast. He wouldn’t risk the shot if he had to, but the tanahog was so massive he could easily wing a shoulder or leg. He just didn’t want to startle the thing with a shot that might make her snap Sam’s spine in a knee-jerk reaction. “Hey, I told you to put him down.”

The way the tanahog’s arm curled around Sam and covered his chest, he couldn’t tell if the kid was breathing. He shoved that direction of thought down. Of course he was breathing.

“Now!” Dean barked again and this time the creature growled, squeezing Sam closer into her body.

Then her eyes flicked up just as Dean felt a stirring in the humid air behind him.

Jerking around, he found one of the large males coming up the tunnel.

“Whoa!” Gun up, he backed up toward the female and Sam. She was hissing, about as pleased to see the beast as Dean was.

Head lowered, the male gurgled out a string of growls that could only be demands, orange eyes intent…crap… intent on Sam. When Dean was standing right here in its path as easy pickings.

The female edged back a step, whining, and a terrible chill swept across Dean’s neck. The male howled.

This wasn’t about an easy meal. This was about dominance. The male wanted the female to give up her prize.

Not. Happening.

Another growl echoed behind them. Dean shifted sideways just enough to glance behind the female’s shoulder and still keep the male in front of them in his sights.

A second male was coming up from the other end of the tunnel.

Really? He hadn’t seen a tanahog for days and now all of a sudden they were gathering for a party.

The smell. The infection in Sam’s leg must have drawn them.

The female edged back against the curve of the wet wall, trying to make herself appear smaller, whining in distress.

When the male reached around to pluck Sam out of her grasp, Dean shot it point blank in the head, which usually got some kind of reaction...like dead. The bullet bouncing off the thick forehead and ricocheting into the wall wasn’t it.

Holy crap.

He couldn’t stop to take that in as he whipped his gun the other way and shot the first creature lunging at him, this time aiming for the hopefully less impenetrable leg. Lame, then maim, if you couldn’t outright kill.

Meanwhile the female set Sam on the wet floor and was rocking, sobbing while the other beast roared over her rounded back. Not good. Dean feared he’d lost his only ally and the only thing between Sam and the other creature.

The other beast stumbled but didn’t go down and Dean kept firing, emptying his entire clip into the same leg, whittling it down like wood, until finally the creature got the message and lurched back, growling its displeasure as it limped off into the dark, having a new wariness of Dean’s weapon.

“That’s right, bitch, stay the hell back until I figure out how to gank you!”

Pulling out a second clip, Dean shoved it home, swerving back toward the other beasts.

The female was on her knees, sniveling, but the male…

“Nooooo!” Dean shot the male pulling Sam up off the ground. Dean’s bullet hit the creature in the meaty part of the shoulder and the beast flinched back, roaring and dropping Sam, then grabbed for Sam again, catching his brother’s ankle in its claw—and that’s when the female roared to life.

Submissiveness gone, she barreled into the larger beast, throwing it back a few paces. Stunned, it took a second hit until the shock wore off and the two creatures really got started.

Which left Sam finally in the clear and Dean wasn’t losing that opportunity. Gun in hand, he dashed to him, worry and adrenaline tangled like acid in the back of his throat.

“Sam!” The relief of finally having hands on his brother after days of fearing the worse threatened to drag Dean’s legs out from under him. He pushed that down, knowing he only had seconds to get the kid clear of here.

Sam lay on his side, the pool of water beneath his cheek doing nothing to revive him. Heat radiated off Sam’s dry skin. Sweat-dried curls lay dark on his pale face. Dark lashes fanned over equally black smudges beneath his eyes.

But he was breathing. Kid was still breathing.

“Sam.” Dean shook him. With that leg he’d have to carry him anyway, but he wanted—needed—Sam to wake up. “Come on.” He slid the duffel off his shoulder and started pulling Sam up to haul him over his shoulders, glancing quickly at the snarling commotion behind. Beasts were still full on going at it, blood matting both.
The female had oozing wet slices across her chin, but she wasn’t backing down, had in fact, gotten herself between them and the male who was slowly losing steam.

A hot dry palm slipped onto Dean’s wrist, wrenching his attention back to Sam.

Kid’s eyes were open, looking at him in distress and disorientation. Thank God. The icy fear Dean had carried through the tunnels with him started to thaw. He held Sam’s chin. “Don’t try to talk. I have you now.”

Once more he leaned in to pull Sam over his shoulder, startled when the female reached over them both and plucked Sam up off the ground and took off down the tunnel she’d first emerged from.

Sonuabitch.

Dean had no idea where the other creature had gone, obviously run off by the female. He ran after the beast, pulling his Glock on her bulking retreating back.

“Stop!”

The creature plowed on, Sam swallowed up in front of her. The only thing he could see of his brother was his straight swollen leg bouncing with the tanahog’s stride.
“Stop! I will shoot you.” He would, hoping the beast wouldn’t fall forward onto Sam.

Suddenly she stopped. Dean stopped, the echo of his footsteps fading and he heard Sam’s raspy weak voice pleading with the creature.

Sam had somehow gotten her to stop. The creature swung around to face him, features sorrowful.

Dean shoved the gun into his waistband and held his hands up. “Please don’t take him. He needs help. If you hide him away again he’ll die.”

Weak and shaky, Sam’s fingers splayed over the creature’s heart, his soft eyes pleading. “My brother…please let…me go.”

Looking down into Sam’s face, the tanahog whined.

“Please.” Dean could barely hear the soft hush of Sam’s plea, while his heart ran a mile a minute, praying the kid’s patented eyes would work on the creature.

Rumbling low in her throat, she started walking back toward Dean, clearly saddened.

Holding his breath, Dean let her pass him and followed closely behind. She took him into another tunnel system he hadn’t yet scouted and turned into a dead end where another tunnel, more of a drainage pipeline, about four feet in diameter was set in the wall six feet up.

Daylight filtered through the slope from an opening Dean couldn’t see. The beast walked steadily to it.

“That the way out?” Dean asked. He would never be able to lift Sam up into that on his own.

A roar had both the beast and Dean spinning back toward the tunnels. The two males were back, a united front, fury shaking through their bulky masses.
The female screamed at them, turned and shoved Sam up into the pipe before rushing headlong into the other creatures.

Dean stared, momentarily stunned before he pulled out his gun and shot at the males, winging their arms to either side of the female. He didn’t want to get too close to the female who had gone berserk, whopping on both males.

He wasn’t sure she could be brought back from that rage and decided the better part of valor was getting his kid out of there while her fury was giving him that chance.

Taking a running leap, he caught hold of the pipe’s edge and pulled himself in. He crawled up and over Sam, careful of his leg in the confined space until he was on the other side of the kid’s shoulders and began pulling Sam farther into the pipeline while he edged backwards.

Sam screamed in agony, stiff leg scraping along the concrete. Dean hated doing it to him, but the pipe wasn’t big enough for him to reach down and support Sam’s leg. He had to get him out of this hole as quickly as possible and then get the kid help.

Pulling Sam beneath his armpits, Dean edged them both along backwards into the shaft of graying light. Glancing over his shoulder he saw a grate a few yards ahead. A wet sticky breeze washed into his back.

Snarls and growls echoed around the cement, chasing after them.

Weakly, Sam tried to turn back. “Have…have to…help her. Saved me.”

Dean didn’t see it that way. If the beast hadn’t hidden Sam away, he would never have gotten so sick. The infection had taken dangerous root.

“She’s holding her own, Sam. Can’t worry about her right now.”

“Bu—“

“No buts.” Dean hauled Sam back again, not that his brother had any strength to resist him. Every muscle went rigid along Sam’s sides. Sam’s head rocked back, digging hard into his sternum while the kid gasped breathlessly in pain.

Howls exploded across the cement. The male rammed its huge body against the sides of the pipe, reaching into it to get at them.

Dean scrambled backwards, dragging Sam’s long legs farther out of reach and felt for his Glock, though the female leaped onto the monster from behind, pulling it back in a jumble of shrieks and roars.

Sam’s pulse banged like a freight engine beneath Dean’s arm. His back thumped into the rusty grate. Dean twisted, slamming the flat of his hand against it. It didn’t budge, locked or screwed shut.

Beyond it he glimpsed wet dirt, ground sloping up on either side. The pipe spilled out into some type of banked ditch.

He slammed the heel of his hand against the grate again, the left side gave a bit rattling looser, or more rusted there.

“We’re close now, Sammy.”

He placed the nozzle of his gun right on the weakest bar and curled over Sam’s head in case the bullet bounced back, and fired.

Sam flinched at the close gunshot on metal and not wasting any time, Dean shoved it open with his fist and squirmed backwards, dragging them out of there until they lay in water-logged sand, looking up into a canopy of lean cypress trees. The noise from the battle within the sewage tunnels cut off, sound-proofed by the whistling hum of cicadas and rustling of wind through the trees.

They were in a ditch. The back of Sam’s head and shoulders rested on Dean’s stomach, the heat radiating off him hotter than a furnace.

He’d gotten Sam out of the sewers, but not out of danger.

His cell phone battery had died a day ago so getting help was going to be tricky. With a gentleness reserved only for Sam, he rolled him off him to the side, resting his palm over Sam’s shoulder. “I’m not going far, just a few steps to see where we’re at.” He told him, surprised when Sam murmured. He hadn’t expected any kind of response. Relief spilled into his chest, loosening the tightness there. “Hang on.”

The sight that greeted him at the top of the rise nearly dropped him to his knees.

A jogging path.

He knew this place, had scouted it out before entering the tunnels on the other side of town. It was a little city park on the edge of the bayou. He stepped onto the jogging path, nearly colliding with a woman in a cropped sports top and shorts, running to music blaring from her ear buds.

She jumped back with a screech. A couple guys playing Frisbee in the middle of the lawn area jerked around.

Dean held up his hands. “Help, I need help. My brother…” he stepped back to be non-threatening and glanced back down over the edge. “He’s hurt.”
Wary, the jogger sidestepped to look over the edge, eyes widening. “Oh my—“

The Frisbee players were making their way over.

“Do you have a phone?”

“Yeah, yes, of course.” The woman started reaching into her sports top. Normally, Dean would have stopped to consider that, but right now it wasn’t even a passing thought. “Call an ambulance and stay up top to show them where we are.”

He didn’t wait for a reply, scrambling back down the slope, quickly divesting himself of gun and blades which he stashed beneath a rock and got back to Sam.
Sam hadn’t moved, was still baking, still drifting in only slight fluttering whiffs of breath, but Dean had him now and help was coming. Help was coming and Dean had Sam now.

Part Two

Wait. What?

cece_away — Mon, 07 Jan 2013 17:30:25 GMT

So I'm re-watching "We need to talk about Kevin" and right after Sam tells Dean he hit a dog, Dean exclaims,"Hey, the rules are simple, Sam. You don't take a joint from a guy named Don and there's no dogs in the car."

And then Amelia's husband ends up being named Don. Was that foreshadowing of Sam's past year being all an acid trip or just random weird?

Ghosts, Wendigos, and Winchesters

cece_away — Thu, 13 Dec 2012 03:16:35 GMT

“’ean, son. Wake up.”

The world was sloshing side to side, a raft in turbulent waters. Cold freezing water, slapping his face.

“Dean.” A rough garbled voice urged beneath the swells. “Open your eyes.”

His eyes were closed? “Now son.” Dad. It was important to do what Dad said. Not doing so could get you killed.

He struggled to obey, moaning, and the water receded, the side-by-side sloshing stopped. What replaced it was the headache from hell, tight plunging pain at the back of his head that was so much worse.

A heavy paw jostled his shoulder and the world sloshed back and forth again, eliciting another moan, this one with bile curling up from his gut. Not on the water then, but being bodily shaken. The cold slapping hand moved back to his cheek. “Dean, I need you.” Whispers, only whispers, that struck like sledgehammers inside his wounded skull.

But his dad needed him so he bore down against the raging sumo wrestler slamming inside his head and lifted his five thousand pound eyelids.

His dad’s face swam into view, literally swam, watery and indistinct, a reflection in a pond, the dark eyes larger than normal but the worry radiating off the man was sharply in focus, breaking past the edge of haziness.

“You with me, boy?” John’s voice echoed.

“Yeah.” Dean pinched his brows together. Even that hurt. “Yeah, I’m with.”

But where he was with, was an altogether question. Some place freaking cold. And windy. Inside barely. If you could call the half-standing shack inside. A biting wind howled through the missing boards in the walls, whipping dark limbs of shadowed pine trees in the forest right up to the walls, reclaiming the ancient forgotten structure. What was left of the ceiling was already more forest canopy than wood and thatch. They lay on a hard-packed dirt floor, cold seeping into them from the ground, Dean’s head resting on John’s thigh.

“Where?”

“Some old blacksmith’s forge far as I can tell. What do you remember?”

Not a blacksmith’s place, that’s for sure. He saw it now, his unfocused gaze tracked over an old rock forge and the torn remains of a billows, nearly buried by dry fallen pine branches and caved in ceiling. It looked like something right out of the eighteen hundreds, abandoned and forgotten, even the tools of the trade remained scattered across the dirt floor—long-handled tongs and flat ended hammers used to flatten and shape hot metal. He didn’t remember any of this at all.

Last he remembered…”Wendigo,” he slurred. They were in the pine forest on the trail of a miner turned cannibal, he’d thought. It was raining. That’s what came to mind. He frowned up at his dad, waiting to be supplied with the answers of what was up with the shack.

But John needed answers from him. “I know you’re hurting, concussed, but I need you to think hard. I need you to remember. Sam. What happened to Sam?”

Dean’s world plunged under water again, echoy and dark.Floating. Sam? Something happened to Sam?

Alarmed, he tried to push himself up and an ice pick stabbed inside the back of his head, bringing him back to the surface. Curling over, Dean pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, dragged heavy clinking metal across his chest. What the…?

A manacle circled his wrist, no joints or screws in the warped metal. It looked like it had been forged on, same as the heavy thick links that, angling his throbbing head, he followed across the floor and up, up, where the other end, a larger metal cuff was attached to one of the thickest ceiling beams he’d ever seen. Dilapidated shack or not, that beam wasn’t budging or breaking. Another wide cuff circled the beam attached to chain links that fell down and encircled his father’s wrist.

He could see that the links were solid, yet he pulled on it just the same. “The wendigo did this?”

“No.” John shook his head. “There’s something else here. A spirit.”

“Vengeful?”

“Vengeful enough to knock us both out and bring us here.”

Fear slithered through his gut like a snake. “It bring Sam too?”

John’s lips thinned and he shook his head. “I need you to remember. You need to concentrate. We had the wendigo cornered. It got the jump on me…” He tried to prod Dean’s memory, worry lines digging deep into the corners of his eyes and bracketing his mouth and Dean’s heart stuttered, realizing what was goading their dad’s fear. If Sam wasn’t here, it was likely the wendigo got him. Oh God. They had to get out of here, had to go…

He was already pulling to his feet, pain flaring red hot in his head, stabbing behind his eyes. And fell right back down again into his dad’s waiting arms.

“Think, Dean. What happened to Sam?” His dad was desperate. Afraid.

Dean tried, he really tried, forcing the memory. It got the jump on Dad. His head pounded, brain sloshing like water. Like water. They were by the churning rain swollen river. The wendigo came out of nowhere. It was fast, tossing Dad into the trees and brush. He didn’t get up. Dean fired his rifle, heard Sam shout near his right by the river and the whoosh of fire erupting as the kid fired his flare gun. But the wendigo was too fast. Dean turned, shouting for Sam to watch out and a giant of a man appeared between them out of the air, head lowered and racing for Dean. Sam cried for him to watch out, taking his attention away and the wendigo, lighting quick surged into Sam—

Dean gasped, clammy sweat coating his skin. “The river. The wendigo, it went after Sam, it tried…”

“Tried…?” John’s Adam’s apple bounced hard, his brows knit together.

Dean shook his head. “It, the wendigo and Sam, they went into the river.”

John leaned back, his features stunned.

Worse case, the wendigo had Sam tied up somewhere, hopefully in a cave or something out of the weather. How bad did life suck when you hoped your younger brother was hanging in a cave? Pretty sucky. Worser case, he’d made it out of the river, but was now in the forest alone, wet and exposed to the plummeting elements. Unthinkable scenario, Sam didn’t make it out of the river.

“Sam’s a strong swimmer,” Dad echoed his fears, his tone shaken. Yeah, good idea. Don’t even look sideways at Door Number Three.

Dean yanked on his chain again, while scanning the room for anything they could use to free themselves. Lock picks were useless against something that had no locks. Gun? He’d dropped his rifle and the Glock wasn’t digging into the back of his jeans. He felt around his waist and boots for his hidden blades, and came up empty. What the hell was going on? How did they get in here and in chains?

Dammit, anything they could use—anvil, tongs, hammer, give him a gaddamn rock, was far out of reach.

“Dad,” he pleaded as though the mighty John Winchester could get them out of this. Maybe he could. He was up to something. He had his boots off and was unlacing them. Slowly though, as if taking the laces out was a job needing infinite care. No, not careful. His fingers kept missing the laces.

Dean looked closer at his father, really looked at him like he should have before now. Wet blood made a slow crawl down the side of his face, skin gray, eyes glassy, mouth set in hard lines against pain.

Shit.

If he was anywhere as disoriented as Dean. Shitshit. This was bad.

“Dad?”

“Give me your laces.”

Of course. They could lasso something and pull it over to them. Dean reached to take off his boot when John grabbed his arm. “Possum.”

It only took one hissed warning for him to obey and Dean lay his head back on his dad’s thigh—he’d never gotten up too far to begin with—and closed his eyes.

The door slammed open. Heavy footfalls trudged across the dirt floor. Dean slipped his eyes open into slits to see what kind of ghost they were dealing with. Dude was huge, the guy from the river, legs like tree stumps, soiled leather blacksmith apron over buckskin, bearded. All he needed was Babe the blue ox.

The ghost shuffled over to them, lifted and checked the chains, grunted, nudged Dean’s leg, and then left, back out the way he had come. What was that?

“He’s done that a few times,” Dad rasped. “As long as we don’t move, I think he’ll leave us alone til we can get out of here.”

“Great for us, but how we going to help Sam if we’re stuck in here?”

“Dean, calm down.” John’s cold fingers pressed into his wrist. “We’re going to get him. Sam’s going to be okay.” His eyes, glassy moments earlier, were fierce with determination. “Laces.”

They both went back to working the laces out of their boots and then tied them together so they had a good length with a small noose at one end. That John handed the laces over to Dean to try to lasso something proved just how bad John’s head and vision were, not that Dean’s own headache wasn’t screwing into his left cornea like an iced over drill bit. He decided to try for the end of the long blacksmith tongs, closer than any other tool scattered on the floor. They might be able to wedge it between one of the chain links and break it open. He wished he still had his rifle.

He’d just gotten the loop over the end and was about to pull the noose tight when the door creaked. He and John instantly lay back down and the door slammed open, bringing swirling wind and leaves inside.

Eyes closed, Dean listened to the blacksmith lumber across the dirt-packed floor, stop near them, but instead of checking the chains again, something heavy thudded to the ground, nearly making Dean flinch, and then the steps shuffled away, and the door banged closed.

Beside him, John made a strangled noise and Dean’s eyes flew open. About a yard beyond their feet, Paul Bunyan had dropped a muddy, wet, bedraggled floppy haired kid.

“Sam!” Scrambling to his knees, Dean rushed to get to him, but was stopped short by the manacle on his wrist. Dean stretched both arms to their limits, but Sam was still a few feet out of reach. “Sam!”

Lying on his side, facing away from them, one arm bent behind, Dean couldn’t even see his face. He was covered in mud from head to toe, plastering his wet hair to his head and neck. His clothes were sopping, leaking brown water into the hard ground, and he was missing one shoe and sock, probably dragged off in the river.

“Is he breathing?” John had crawled up beside him.

Dean’s head snapped up so fast it sent another spike of pain digging into his skull. Of course Sam was breathing! Dean wouldn’t allow anything less. Although…he couldn’t be sure. Sam was so still and with the way his jacket was bunched up and how he was on his side…he couldn’t tell. Come on, Sam, just one sure inhalation, come on, kid.

Dean reached back for the boot he’d taken off and threw it at Sam’s back. No response. Not a twitch, amping up his anxiety. He and John shared a terrified glance and then Dean was stretching out on the floor, desperately hoping he could reach him with his legs. His wrist pulled roughly against the metal of the cuff, cutting into his skin.

His socked toe touched Sam’s shoulder.

“That’s it, son,” John encouraged. “Just a little more.”

Teeth clenched, wrist now trickling blood, the jagged edge of the manacle hadn’t done him any favors, Dean stretched his leg for all he was worth and wriggled his toe beneath Sam’s arm and jammed it into his armpit and began bending his knee, pulling Sam toward them. If Sam was conscious, it would hurt like hell. Maybe it would wake him up. Dean’s thigh muscles were on fire, his foot locked, trying not to slip out. A few inches and he adjusted his hold, wiggling his entire foot into the vee between Sam’s arm and side, and managed to pull the kid over onto his back. Sam’s head flopped over with the jerky movement, giving them their first sight of his face.

The kid was well and truly unconscious, the sharp angles and contours of his young face more pronounced under the thick coating of black mud.

John was on his knees, uncuffed arm stretched out, ready to grab Sam the moment Dean got him within reach. “You’re doing good, just—“ he groaned. ”Almost…” He got his fingers curled into the wet material of Sam’s jacket and heaved, pulling Sam across to them.

The relief on Dean’s leg was immense as he spun back around and latched onto Sam’s shoulder, helping their dad pull him up between them. “He’s so cold.” Dean rested his palm across Sam’s belly, waiting for the lift of air.

John didn’t say anything, lips tight, his concentration focused at his two fingertips he held at the side of Sam’s neck. All at once his shoulders dropped and he dragged in a shaky breath. “I’ve got a pulse.”

Dean nodded, colors seeping back into his world as he felt a minute rise and fall beneath his hand. “He’s breathing. Hell.”

“Get him out of these clothes.” John was already guiding a limp arm out of the soggy jacket and lifting Sam up to get the jacket off around him. Sam’s head flopped back on a boneless neck. Dean took over on the other side. Working together, they got him out of jacket, overshirt, and T-shirt and then pulled his water heavy jeans off him. He was covered in bruises, one nasty one on his chest, but nothing felt broken. They found his pocketknife and lighter still in his jacket. Good to know.

Sam’s skin was freezing, an icicle, his skin pale and lips turning blue. Without thinking, Dean pulled his own jacket off, but was stopped by the manacle. Dammit! They couldn’t leave Sam exposed.

Pants. They were close to the same size. Sam was growing, already an inch taller, but still thinner. Dean pulled his own jeans off and he and John got them onto Sam. They were a little loose on his waist, but hey, he didn’t think Blacksmith Bob would be rating them on fashion. And they were dry and warmer on the inside from Dean’s body heat Next he pulled off his one dry sock and slipped it on Sam’s foot. It was a block of ice so he held it, trying to get some warmth back into it. His other sock was wet from being in Sam’s arm pit.

Without words passing between them, John took off both of his socks and layered them onto Sam’s other foot. Then he put Dean’s boots back onto Dean’s feet as though he were friggin five again, before slipping back into his own. Well, yeah okay, Dean was so focused on Sam, he wasn’t thinking about himself.

All this was helpful, but Sam still hadn’t so much as stirred. Who knew how long he was in the river or how long he was lying exposed on the river bank after he crawled his way out. Hypothermia was a real danger here. They had to get his core temperature up better than this. Shrugging back all the way into his jacket, Dean laid back down on his side and spread his jacket open as much as he could along the ground, and with John’s help, got Sam on top of it and his arm and pulled him in close. At least it got Sam’s bare side off the ground and his head and chest pressed into Dean’s warmth, what little there was of it, though it left them both exposed from above, until John pressed in close, dragging his arm and side of his jacket over across the top of Sam.

Between the two of them they had him covered, even though Dean knew with the way John was angled, there wasn’t much left of his jacket between him and the cold ground. He looked across Sam’s stiff hair into John’s worried eyes, understanding how much the man was willing to endure when it came to his boys.

There wasn’t much else to do but wait for Sam to revive. If he revived. Dean bit off that thought as soon as it surfaced.

The cool air was frigid across Dean’s naked legs. Water from Sam’s cold wet hair seeped into Dean’s shirts. He kept his fingers curled around Sam’s wrist, feeling his faint pulse. It was a miserable hour or so before the kid’s fingers curled into the material of Dean’s shirt.

He looked over at John’s closed eyes, sleep when you can, and nudged him. “He’s waking.”

John’s eyes instantly opened and he shifted up to look down on his youngest. “Sam?”

“Mmnnph.” Fingers tightening, Sam burrowed closer into Dean. One side of John’s lips hitched up in a half-smile. Dean had no idea what his own expression must look like. How would getting back the kid who was your whole damn world manifest across one’s features?

“Sam?” Dean lifted his shoulder beneath Sam’s head to nudge him. “Come on, bro. You’re freezing me. I’d like to get out of here now.”

Sam’s face scrunched into a frown before his eyes started fluttering open.

“Hang on.” Using the bottom of his T-shirt, Dean wiped at the mud coating Sam’s lashes.

Sam blinked, finally able to open his eyes—and wasn’t that a relief?—and his hand went immediately to the large bruise on his chest. “Ow. What happ—ow.” He hissed in a breath.

“Sam,” Dad said and Sam’s face whipped up, then his eyes tracked across the sunken broken ceiling and pine boughs. His eyes immediately began sinking.

Dean nudged him again. “Stay awake. We need you.” He said the same thing his dad had said to him and it worked just as well on Sam.

His brother’s lids lifted again, though he still looked completely out of it and ready to go under again. “What’s going on?”

“A lot to explain, kiddo.” Dad lifted his arm, dragging the clinking chain links up. “We need your help first.”

Sam’s eyes bugged out at the chain. He bolted upright, wavered, and would have fallen back if not for Dean, all the while his gaze traveled over the manacle on John’s wrist, then to the other on Dean’s and up the links to the thick rafter where the larger cuffs were attached.

“There’s a hammer over there.” John pointed toward the old forge half buried in dead branches. “We need it. I know you’re still unsteady so crawl if you have to.”

Sam nodded, trying to shift up and Dean smiled, proud of the effort. Standing at the same time, Dean and John got him to his feet, steadying him as far as their chains allowed.

Sam frowned down at this bare chest and borrowed pants, then to Dean’s bare legs, questions in his expression, but he had a job to do. Explanations could wait. Get the hammer, then John and Dean could crack open these chains and better take care of Sam.

Dean winced at Sam’s first step away from them, expecting him to topple to all fours. Sam moved slow, socked feet swishing through dry pine needles and debris, but he kept on his feet. He saw the tongs with the shoelaces looped on the end and bending, slid it across the dirt to them before going for the blacksmith hammer.

Picking it up, something on the other side of the forge caught his eye. “There’s a skeleton back here. Long one.”

“Got a leather apron?” John asked.

“Yeah.”

Dean smirked. “Well that saves us the trouble of searching for bones.”

“There’s an axe over here too.” Sam scooped and picked that up as well. “Must have died out here alone.” Only Sam would feel any kind of sympathy for a hundred-year-old ghost.

“So why’d he go demented and chain our asses up in here?” Dean demanded.

“Who knows why spirits do what they do,” John said. “Could have once been a nice guy.”

“Should be easy to burn,” Sam said, shuffling back. “He’s covered in dry pine needles. Anyone got,” He swayed and Dean was sure he was going down. “…any salt?”

“Actually.” John rooted around the inside pockets of his jacket and pulled out a little packet of table salt. “Not much, but should do the trick.”

Dean looked at him skeptically. “He’s a pretty big guy, uh ghost, guy.”

Axe in one hand, hammer in the other, Sam made his way achingly back toward them, halfway across when the door ripped open and Paul Bunyan stood in the open frame.

Everyone froze.

Shriveled eyes like walnuts took in the scene, landing on the only one of them so far unchained, and letting out a bellow as loud as Babe the blue ox, gigantor ghost launched all his weight toward Sam.

“Sam!” Both older Winchester’s shouted, pulling at their chains.

Eyes wide, the kid reacted, tossing the hammer toward them and swinging out the axe, passing through the ghost in a dispersion of sparking light.

Dean’s heart pounded hard against his ribs, though the kid did good. He did real good. Dean wished his pulse would clue onto that fact already.

“Sam, there’s not much time.” John tossed the salt packet across to him. “You’re going to have to do it.”

Catching the salt, there wasn’t much, Sam nodded and held his hand out for the lighter. John tossed that as well and then bent, reaching for the hammer Sam had thrown toward them. It was still just out of reach.

But Dean had the tongs now. He hooked them on the head of the hammer and dragged it over. Now they were talking.

While John went to work pounding one of the thinner chain links, Dean kept an eye on Sam, watching him edge back around the forge and sprinkle salt over the bones. He had the lighter in hand when the blacksmith reappeared behind him and tossed Sam into the wall by the door. The wood groaned, splintering before Dean could call out a warning and half the wall fell over Sam, but Paul Bunyan wasn’t finished yet.

He yanked Sam out of the debris, showering the room with leaves and broken boards, lifting the kid high over his head. Dean didn’t know how Sam still had hold of the axe, but he did and swung it down through the blacksmith’s fat hairy head, dispersing the ghost in watery sparks like splitting the red sea. Unfortunately the axe continued on its uninhibited arc, slicing across the side of Sam’s thigh as he dropped.

“Sam!” John shouted behind Dean. The chain was tough, tempered metal, too hard to break apart easily, but their dad wouldn’t give up.

Groaning and panting, Sam curled over on himself, clutching his thigh, and the damn ghost came back at him, kicking the kid, rolling him across the floor. At least he was going the right way, coming toward Dean.

And the wendigo dived in through the ceiling, clawing through the branches, getting between Sam and the ghost.

“Are you kidding me?” Dean shouted over John’s, “Sam, look out!”

The wendigo and ghost both went after Sam, the cannibal grabbing the kid about the waist and dragging backward while the ghost thrust into them both, breaking them apart.

“Sam, here, over here,” both Dean and John were shouting, beckoning him to get to them while the monster and ghost were entwined. Sam shook his head to right himself, disoriented at the direction their voices were coming from. He lunged to his feet and promptly slammed back to the ground, his leg going out from under him.

“Sam, crawl dammit!” Dean urged, his heart lodged in his throat. Pinpointing his voice over the wendigo’s growls, Sam headed their way on all fours, nearly making it. Dean had his hands on the kid’s arms when the wendigo broke away from Paul Bunyan, slashing between them, slicing claws across Dean’s arms.

Dean howled, but no way, NO WAY, was the beast taking off with his brother. Using what he had, Dean swung his chain around the wendigo’s neck and twisted. The beast shrieked, eyes bulging, clawed fingers swiping out. It was strong, too strong for Dean. He felt the monster pulling the length of chain off his neck, but John was there, tripping them both to the ground, with a shout of “Dean move!” and as Dean rolled away, he glimpsed the hammer swing down full force, heard the crunch of bone, and looked back to see the head of the heavy hammer plunge down inside the skull like breaking pottery, flinging gore and brain tissue across Dean’s bare legs.

“Thought fire was the only way to take them out,” he gasped.

John wiped gore out of his eyes. “Never been able to get this close.”

Fire whooshed across the room. Sam leaned over the forge like it was the only thing holding him up. How did he get over there? Where was Bunyan?

Never ask a question you don’t want the answer to. Bunyan was right there, his meaty hands going around Sam’s neck, lifting him off the ground. He wasn’t burning. Why wasn’t he burning? Not enough salt?

Sam’s legs scrabbled in the air, hit the forge and tried to kick off, gaining leverage, but it was no use. He couldn’t break the blacksmith’s hold, couldn’t break…

His legs stopped kicking, his arms fell to his sides, limp, and Dean’s heart fell with them. He couldn’t do anything but stand there watching a sick ghost squeeze the life out of his brother. Behind him, John hit the chain furiously with the hammer. Chink-chink-chink. And then it happened. Maybe there was just enough salt, the small amount took a longer time to absorb. The meaty blacksmith shrieked, going up in a plume of inky flames and Sam dropped out of view behind the forge.

Please, no, not in the fire. Not in the fire. “Sam!” Dean cried. The hammer hits continued on behind him. Chink-chink-chink. “Sam!”

Then the hammer stopped. Breathing raggedly, John stared at the impregnable links. He hadn’t made a dent. They looked at each other. This couldn’t be happening.

No. No! Looking around the ruined shack, Dean saw the axe not more than a few feet out of range. Grabbing the tongs, he reeled it in. Rusty old thing had Sam’s blood on its edge. Growling, Dean lifted it and went to work on the thick beam the other end of their chains were hooked around. It took twenty minutes to get through it. Twenty minutes that Sam could be burning or choking on his own windpipe.

The fire spread, rose higher, the dry pine needles catching quick and the flames catching on the dead branches with thick smoke billowing outward. Concentrated near the forge where Sam had fallen.

Dean hacked through the last wedge of wood, dropped the axe and pulled the large chain cuff from the split beam for all he was worth. He didn’t wait for John to do the same, but took off into the smoke and fire, trailing a length of chain behind him.

He found Sam trying to crawl out of the smoke, disoriented to the point he was going the wrong way, while at the same time coughing up a lung. Eyes burning, Dean couldn’t see a blamed thing. How he ran straight to Sam as though he knew right where he’d be was a mystery they didn’t have time to puzzle out. He just knew.

Heat blasted across their skin. The metal on Dean’s wrist burned hot. Fire raged above them, around them. Hollow orange muted in black smoke. He didn’t care. The only thing he focused on was getting his brother out of here. He pulled the kid up, arms around his stomach and ran, legs and chain tangling with Sam’s limbs. They didn’t make it more than four steps before they crashed back down. The wood groaned around them, ready to cave.

Choking down smoke, Dean couldn’t breathe. He curled over Sam while at the same time trying to pull his dead weight up, and suddenly he was lifted to his feet. Sure and strong hands shoved him forward, but Dean wouldn’t go. He couldn’t leave. There was something important that he couldn’t just leave.

A shoulder butted into him and got him moving. This time he went, sensing that whatever that important thing was was taken care of. He cleared the smoke, was steered toward the hazy outline of a door and burst into breathable rain-soaked air with smoke billowing after them like a plume of steam. John ran beside him, carrying Sam around the middle like unwieldy luggage.

They fell to their knees, coughing and gagging. Dean tilted his head sideways to check on Sam. The kid was conscious, how could he not be with all the hurling his body was going through? John knelt behind him, holding him up. It went on for hours, okay, maybe ten minutes, but by the time Dean was done, his stomach muscles felt like they’d turned inside out, and Sam was still hacking, grayish fingers clawing into the spongy leaf-litter, his ribs pressing hard against his bare skin with each heave. Smoke inhalation was doing a number on him. He needed oxygen.

Finally the worst of the hacking coughs stopped and Sam sagged over John’s knees. Their dad quickly took his jacket and overshirt off, dragging the sleeves through the long coil of chain—those were going to be a bitch to get off—and draped both over Sam. His large palm curled over the kid’s dirty hair, while his other moved to inspect the damage on Sam’s thigh. “Try to take in large breaths. You need it.”

Dean met John’s eyes, passing on the silent question: He going to be okay? And John answered with a solemn nod.

They sat there for a long time, watching the fire claim the shack, scanning the encroaching trees to make sure that the forest wasn’t in danger of going up in a blaze. The leaves and rain seemed apparently too wet and saturated to catch, keeping the fire contained to the dry wood and pine needles inside.

They were cold and wet, even this close to the fire, but alive. They were all alive, a little worse for wear. Sam had lost all his clothes and shoes, had flame-broiled lungs, and was sporting a nice gash in his thigh. John and Dean both had concussions, and new long-assed bracelets, but, hey, they took out both a ghost and a wendigo. A two for one hunt. Didn’t get much better than that.

“Hey, Sam?” He waited until the kid’s head lifted from their dad’s knee to focus exhausted eyes on him. “I want my pants back, bitch.” Then he waited some more for the humor to catch in Sam’s eyes, waited to see the moment Sam grasped on to the fact that if Dean was giving him a hard time, then everything was going to be all right. Boiling lungs and bleeding thigh or not, he was all right.

And there it was. The tight lines around Sam’s mouth smoothed, transforming into something new when he grinned and then laughed, or rather coughed and laughed, which is when John joined in, his laughter shaking both he and Sam. And ah hell, Dean found himself laughing right along. It wasn’t often there was anything on a hunt that even remotely cracked John Winchester’s stoic demeanor, but Dean having to walk out of the forest in a singed leather jacket, boxer briefs and boots?

Yeah, that was worth an entire Winchester clan laughfest.

FIN

Disclaimers: Crossroads demon wouldn’t deal, so… I don’t own Supernatural or any tales of Paul Bunyan and Babe the blue ox.

Fic: Persephone Deal

cece_away — Wed, 14 Nov 2012 17:06:49 GMT

Takes place following 8:06 Southern Comfort.

I don’t believe for one minute that Sam simply left Dean hanging, not without being coerced or promised some kind of help if he dropped hunting and laid low.

There’s a reason Sam didn’t try to find a way to get Dean out of Purgatory and since we won’t know what it is for a while, I’m just making up by own for the meantime.

Persephone Deal

Dean dropped to the floor just as Sam sailed over him and smashed into the already broken window.

Sonuvabich, this spirit was going down. Dean tossed the antique locket into the already salted and blazing fireplace just before Miss Henrietta Crazy Butcher Bitch lifted him off the ground, feet pinwheeling in the air, until Miss Henrietta burned up in a roaring flash of blue flame and Dean dropped to his button the floor. Plumes of dust swirled up around him.

“Sammy.” He immediately looked to where his brother had been tossed.

“Present.” Sam pulled himself up by the window frame. “You?”

“And accounted for.” Unlike Sam, Dean decided that sitting on the floor for a few minutes more was a phenomenally good idea until a sucking hiss from Sam brought him instantly to his feet.

Sam was half bent over and twisting toward his side.

“What’d you do?” Dean stomped over.

“Nothing,” Sam gritted, twisting harder to reach around his own back. “Piece of glass.”

“Don’t rip it out, genius. Let me have a look.”

“I got it.” Sam spun away from him, giving Dean a flash of a hand-sized shard of dirty window embedded in the back side of Sam’s waist.

“Sam.” Not to be put off from a stubborn hurt little brother, Dean grabbed Sam’s reaching arm, shoved him face first against the wall and grabbed the bottom of Sam’s shirts for a better look of how deep the glass had gone in.

“Hey!” Sam pushed back, but Dean held his arm across his back.

“Quit being a little—” Dean got the shirts up only inches when his stomach dropped to his feet.

Wrenching away, Sam glared at him. Jaw tight, he reached for the shard of glass and yanked it out, hitching over and Dean winced on his behalf.

“Sam?”

“Don’t. It’s nothing.”

“The hell it’s not.”

“Dean.” Sam raised a hand then dropped it, letting the glass fall to the floor. “I’m gonna get back on my own from here.” Shoulders tense, Sam turned and strode out the door, trailing little drops of blood behind him.

Dean stared after him, stunned. Because he’d seen it. Scars and wounds covered the kid’s lower back, probably the tail ends of wounds higher up across his back. And they weren’t healed, not by a long shot, judging by the pink puckering skin ready to break open at the least jarring. Weeks old maybe, at the most, a few months.

Dean thought about how stiff and slow Sam had been this entire time since he’d found him at the cabin after escaping Purgatory. He thought Sam had just been his usual tight-ass self, maybe feeling an inkling of remorse for abandoning Dean, which served him right…

But if he’d given up hunting for a year, where the hell did he get those wounds?

He drove around the area, keeping an eye out for a lanky brooding—and bleeding—pain in his ass, unsure of what he was feeling. Anger definitely. That had been an underlying current for weeks. He’d fought an entire year to get back to his brother, while Sam had left him to rot. He hadn’t even looked, so yeah, Dean was pissed, even though he’d kept any remarks to himself after the haunted penny made him nearly shoot Sam and Sam’s patience of taking it finally broke, because even under all Dean’s anger, his biggest fear still was Sam walking out on him.

And wasn’t that the whole crux of the matter anyway, because when Dean needed Sam most, when he was at his most vulnerable in Purgatory, Sam had walked away.

Dean’s hands tightened around the steering wheel. The hell with it. The hell with Sam. Who needs him? He certainly didn’t need him in Purgatory. He turned into the lot of the first bar he came to.

~~~SPN ROCKS~~~

He rolled into the motel a little after three in the morning, not as drunk as he wanted to be. It was hard to get the whiskey down with the image of those unhealed wounds twisting his throat. Wounds Sam wouldn’t let him see or help him take care of. Oh Sam had been straight up with him from the jump, all right. He rolled his eyes.

Well, he was done with that. Dean was getting a look at those scars and Sam was coming clean right the hell now.

Except…Sam wasn’t in the room.

Dean’s gaze immediately flicked to Sam’s duffel by the wall and then to his laptop on the scuffed coffee table.

Sam never made it back?

He checked the bathroom even as he pulled his cell out, punching Sam’s number.

Busy.

Flying back out to the car, Dean retraced what he thought should have been Sam’s route. It was a small town, their motel wasn’t that far from Miss. Henrietta’s haunt in the seedier section of town. But no sulking brother, so Dean went in the opposite direction, criss-crossing streets. He checked the other bars in town, half of the hotels, he even woke up a nice old lady who ran the B&B, before he checked the single hospital and the two local clinics.

And came up terrifyingly empty.

Dean dragged back into the motel around six in the morning, scowling at the two empty beds, and called Sam’s phone for the hundredth time. Still busy.

That’s when he really got to work, getting on the laptop, first in an attempt to track Sam’s burner phone, without any luck, and then researching any old cases, any indications of weird that signified their kind of job here that could have gotten the drop on his wounded and unsuspecting sasquatch of a brother, but the small town was quiet, inactive. There was nothing here but crazy Henrietta and they’d already taken care of her.

Dean stayed in town two more days, canvassing, interviewing anyone he thought might have seen Sam, but the trail was cold. It had never been warm to begin with.

Walking toward the Impala, Dean tried Sam’s cell once again, like he had at least fifty times every day, and froze mid-step when it actually rang.

Heart pounding, Dean waited for Sam to pick up, but it rolled over to voice mail, one recorded just for him.

“Dean.” Sam’s voice was scratchy. “I’m okay.” Dean’s muscles went all syrupy with relief. “I can’t…I can’t keep doing this. I’m sorry. Just…don’t look for me, all right? And Dean, be careful.”

Dean stared ahead, frozen on the sidewalk, a cold numbness seeping into his bones.

Well, that was that then.

After everything they’d been through, Sam simply took off and couldn’t be bothered to tell him until three days later on a friggin voice mail.

Anger imploded every nerve cell Dean had in his body, yet on the outside he remained coolly still.

Fine. Sam was done with this life. Done with him? He was done with Sam.

Throwing his cell phone against the wall of the barbershop hard enough that it shattered, Dean strode to the Impala, drove to the motel and packed his things, leaving Sam’s duffel behind, and drove out of town.

~~~I LOVE SUPERNATURAL~~~

The first week, Dean took care of a wendigo in Phoenix, frying it extra crispy just because he could and it made him feel better.

The second week, he got a vague hit on Kevin Tran and followed it into New Mexico. Turned out the honor programs prophet had been there, but after three days of searching, Kevin and Tiger Momma were long gone, half-way to China if the airline itinerary that had been planted for him to find was to be believed. Kevin was too smart to leave stuff like that lying around so it had to be a code, one he could use Sam’s help in figuring out.

Dean’s gut clenched at the thought of his little brother living the white picket happy as a clam without him.

And as the Impala’s fender turned east toward Texas, Dean told himself he just wanted one glimpse of the girl Sam was willing to leave his brother’s ass in Purgatory for, not that he couldn’t get the sight of Sam’s injured back out of his head. So what if they were the last thing he closed his eyes to every night and what he woke up to every morning?

Because yeah, he was furious with Sam, but those wounds…they didn’t add up.

He was at least going to get an explanation for those. Sam owed him that much.

~~~WINCHESTERS~~~

Amelia Richardson of Kermit, Texas was not difficult to find. Dean followed her from the veterinary clinic to a modest one-level 1000 square foot home.

She was a pretty little thing, wholesome, a girl who fit right into normal. He got why Sam would be attracted to her.

He waited outside in the shadows between two neighboring houses. The Impala was parked three blocks away out of sight.

As it darkened, he grew anxious to get his first glimpse of Sam, make sure the kid was okay before he drilled him a new one. He glanced at his watch, annoyed at how late Sam must work at his apple pie job, when a tall shape moved onto the sidewalk.

Sam?

Dean squinted. Just some guy out for a smoke. Except the guy was watching Amelia’s place like someone casing the joint. The hackles on the back of Dean’s neck rose and another man shifted into view on the opposite side of the street.

Watching Amelia. Waiting to ambush Sam? Keeping to the shadows, Dean eased closer for a better look, noting telltale giveaways to subtle movements. He’d been in the company of a vampire long enough to recognize their kind when he saw one. The way they hitched their heads at the slightest whisper of movement, the way their faces lifted, leading with a caught scent instead of sound.

Dean’s fingers twitched. What were vampires doing watching his brother’s place? He itched to have his Purgatory blade and slash through them, but it was blocks away in the Impala’s trunk. Besides, answers before beheadings.

He drew back and made a wide circuit around the houses, hopping the short chain-link to come through Amelia’s back yard. The door wasn’t locked, sills weren’t salted. Dean’s jaw clenched at the carelessness and entering, eased the door closed behind him.

A black and white mutt yipped and scurried under the couch. Leave it to Sam to have a chicken dog.

At the fridge, the woman turned. Dean was on her before she could cry out, pinning her against the counter, hand over her mouth.

“Don’t scream.”

Eyes wide, she nodded.

Unconvinced, Dean lifted his hand barely a fraction. “Where’s Sam?”

“You’re not one of those…” Her eyes flicked toward the front window. “You’re not a vampire?”

So she knew about vampires. Dean removed his hand and gave his head a tight shake. “Where’s my brother? Where’s Sam?”

If possible, her eyes widened even larger. “Dean?”

He gave her a little shake. “Sam.”

Her lashes blinked rapidly. “If he’s not with you, then he’s back with Him.”

Amelia’s hands started fluttering. “The…the main vampire. The one in charge of all the others.” She turned back toward the counter and grabbed a bottle of scotch. Good idea.

“Pour me one too.”

She glanced over her shoulder and nodded.

Sighing heavily, Dean sank into one of the kitchen chairs. “This vampire, you seen him?”

“Once.” She brought over two glasses and nodded.

“Black guy. Bald. Takes two seconds between every word?”

“That’s him.”

The Alpha Vamp. Dean pointed for her to take a seat. “Talk.”

“It’s a Persephone Deal.”

“A what?”

“Sam called it that. You know Persephone from mythology?”

“Lived six months with Hades, six months up top. Yeah, I know. What’s that have to do with Sam and the Alpha Vamp?”

Amelia took a big swallow. “Sam made the same deal with the vampire. Just not on the same time schedule.”

Stomach clenching, Dean nodded for her to go on.

“He’d been with the vampire for a while the first time, before I met him. I don’t know what he did to Sam, but he was messed up—more emotionally that time, I mean—not thinking clearly. He hit a dog.” Amelia smiled sadly.

“Two months pass and Sam all of a sudden says he has to go, that he’s sorry, he never should have gotten as close as he did, and then he leaves. I thought I’d never see him again, but a few more months go by and these guys drag him to my door. I didn’t know they were vampires at first. Sam explained later. Much later. He was—Dean, they hurt him. Bad. But it was weird. The head guy…”

“Alpha Vamp.”

“He looked almost…regretful, like he’d gone too far and couldn’t help it. Anyway, he told me to do what I could for Sam and that he was entrusting me with him for a few months. He said to keep him healthy while he replenished until he came for him again, then he left, but I’ve had vampires watching ever since, I think to make sure I don’t run off before I’m needed for Sam again.

“It’s been like that for months. I get Sam just about to full health and then they come for him again and Sam always goes without protest.”

Dread filled Dean’s belly as she talked. “But why? Why make a deal with the Alpha Vamp?” He had the sinking feeling he already knew.

Amelia’s gaze snapped up. “Don’t you know? He didn’t tell you?” Her chin quivered. She was getting angry. “For you. He made the deal to get you out of Purgatory.”

“For a whole year?” He didn’t want to believe it. He’d thought Sam not caring and walking away had hurt, but this? It was so much worse.

Sam willing to be the Alpha Vamp’s whipping boy to get him out? Shaking, he rushed to what he hoped was the bathroom—it was–and fell to his knees before the porcelain throne. By the time everything he’d eaten for the past few days was swirling down the toilet and he’d splashed water from the sink over his face, Amelia leaned against the doorjamb and handed him a towel.

“Thanks. Do you know exactly what this Persephone deal entails?”

“Only that the vampire as a true denizen of Purgatory would be able to open a gateway on a specific day in a yearly cycle. I don’t know what the vampire wanted from Sam. He wouldn’t tell me.” Her lips tightened. “Just the pleasure of beating him I guess.” She stared hard at Dean.

Blood, was Dean’s first thought. The vampire wanted Sam’s blood. Or a simple drawn-out revenge.

He walked past her toward the back door. The dog whined.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m going to get my brother.”

She nodded. “Good.”

“Actually, I could use your help.”

“I’m always watched.”

Dean’s smile turned wicked. “You won’t be after ten minutes.” Grabbing a pen and magnetic shopping list paper off her fridge, he jotted down an address. “Think you can get here?”

She nodded.

“Good. Grab any medical supplies you think Sam might need and wait for us there.” He met her gaze. “Are you willing to do that?”

“You take care of those vampires out front and I’ll be there.”

“My pleasure.” He needed their cell phones anyway because he was betting at least one of them had to call in reports to the Alpha and once he had that number, he’d have the location.

He slipped out the back, heading for the Impala. The Purgatory blade was going to get some action tonight after all.

As he walked, he pulled out his cell, punched the number and waited for the other end to pick up.

“Benny. One question and you better answer me true. Did you have any upside help getting that gateway to work?”

“Whoa, brother, what are you getting at? Only help I had was yours amigo.”

“All right.” Dean sighed. “Had to ask.”

“What’s going on?”

“Benny, I need a favor.”

~~~SPN FOREVER~~~

It was a different mansion in a different state, but it had the stink of the Alpha Vamp all over it. Like he had done with Sam a year before, Dean took the direct route and busted in through the front door, Purgatory blade swinging. By the time he found the Alpha Vamp in a large study, Dean had swung the crossbow up from around his back.

“Dean. I wondered how long it would take you to figure it all out.” The ancient vampire sat calmly in the center of a leather soda, one leg crossed on top of the other, a crystal goblet of thick blood in his hands.

“I just want Sam.” He lifted the crossbow fractionally. “That’s all.”

“He’s here of his own volition.”

Dean shook his head. “I’m back now. Deal’s off.”

The vampire set the blood down on a side table. “It doesn’t work that way. Dean.”

“This cross bolt says it does. See, funny thing: Leviathans are gone, but if you look hard enough, you can still find their products laced with SucroCorp sweeteners. Bet you really have to watch what you eat nowadays.”

The vampire’s eyes tightened, looking at the wet end of the bolt in Dean’s crossbow, before his gaze shifted minutely to the side.

Dean reacted instantly, going for his Purgatory blade in his belt to lob off the new threat, but before he had the crossbow lowered, the intruding vampire’s head detached from its neck in a spray of blood. A second vampire coming up behind Dean froze in his tracks.

As the body hit the carpet, Benny grinned at Dean. “Started without me?” He swung back toward the Alpha who was now on his feet. “You. Stay.”

The vampire stopped, dark eyes sharp on Benny. “You betray your brethren.”

Benny shook his head. “My brethren betray me.”

“And me? It’s not possible.”

Benny twirled the bloody machete in his hand and shrugged. “I owe no allegiance. Cool trick, since I’ve returned from Purgatory, all your one-way chatter in my head…” He flicked his fingers like an explosion. “Gone. I’m my own man. Well, vampire.”

The Alpha looked Benny over with a calculating gleam that Dean did not like. “Interesting.”

Dean shifted in front of Benny. “Not your concern. Sam. Now.”

“Very well. Dean. I’ll let you see him.” He nodded to the other vampire. “Bring Samuel in here now. Quickly.”

Dean watched the vampire go, his thumb twitching on the crossbow.

The Alpha Vamp sat back down as though he hadn’t a care in the world. “I’ll never give him up, you realize. He’s become a bit of a…necessity to me.”

Dean’s heart sank. “Meaning you’re addicted.”

The Alpha frowned. “A distasteful term, yet I suppose fitting.” His face took on a blissful expression. “You have no idea the quality of your brother’s unique blood. Like ambrosia. And the power behind it.” He visibly shivered and Dean was going to be sick. “I can offer the same terms to you, Dean, as I did with the little veterinarian. You can have Sam at your side, roaming the countryside in your quaint little car… For a time. I only need him for a few months now and then to sustain me.”

He was serious? Dean looked harder and saw it. King Vamp was afraid he’d grow reckless and inadvertently kill Sam, halting off his special blood supply. He needed Sam away from him to heal and replenish the blood loss.

“No.”

The doors opened and even though Dean knew it was going to be bad, he wasn’t prepared for the limp bloody form being dragged in between two vampires. The urge to drop all weapons and rush to Sam was overwhelming. He was shirtless, head hanging down so that Dean couldn’t even see his face, but he knew Sam was in pain. Even without the way his bare foot dragged inward and his fingers were slack, the myriad of yellowing welts and slices—and damn lash marks—across his torso bore testimony to the agony Sam had endured, was still enduring. Dried blood ringed jagged bite marks above the insides of each wrist.

“If this is about his blood, why the beatings?” Dean seethed, ready to release the bolt into the vampire this minute. The moment Sam was clear...

The vampire shrugged. Fucking shrugged. “Another addiction of sorts.” He stood and went to Sam, lifting his face so Dean could see more bruising and blood running down the side of his face. “Samuel is so beautiful, lovely when he cries out in his pain.”

Every muscle Dean had went rigid. Sick bastard.

“Samuel,” the Alpha vamp purred. “Wake up.”

As though even his consciousness was trained to obey the vampire, Sam’s head bobbed, then lifted, disoriented eyes flickering in fear and resolve to what he’d be enduring next. Dean felt like howling.

“Samuel, your brother’s here.”

Sam’s body jerked against the monsters. His eyes tracked wearily around the room, resting questioningly on Benny, until he found Dean. His features crumpled. “No, De’n. You can’t be ‘ere,” he slurred. “De’n, you ‘ave to go.” Then to the Alpha: “You promised. I kept my part. You ‘ave to let De’n go.”

“I kept my word. Dean came here on his own. Tell him, Samuel. Tell him that you belong to me by your own choice.”

“De’n.”

“No, Sam. You listen to me. Your pal here is lying. He didn’t open any gateway. He didn’t get me out. Benny did. So this deal you got going, it’s void. He didn’t live up to his end of the bargain. Look at his face, really look. You’ll see I’m telling the truth.”

It was a herculean effort for Sam to tilt his head up, but he did, and Dean knew the moment he saw it, the gloating lies written all over the smug son of a bitch.

“Oh God,” Sam whimpered, realizing how he’d been played.

“Benny.” Ready for this to be over, Dean nodded for Benny to retrieve Sam while he kept the bolt tipped with the SucroCorp corn syrup steady on the Alpha.

Benny shifted forward, but anticipating it, the Alpha grabbed Sam from between the other vampires in a blur of speed and held him against him with an arm across his chest that Sam slumped over. “I told you Dean. I’ll never give him up. I own little brother. I’ll drain him dry in front of you before I let you walk out of here with him. Do you want that for him, Dean?” Tilting Sam’s head to the side to expose his neck, the ancient vampire’s teeth dropped down into sharpened points.

And Dean released the bolt. It was the only thing he could do. Not into the Alpha where he knew it wouldn’t do any good, not really, but into Sam’s leg.

“You’ll be dead after your first hit of blood.”

The Alpha reared back and in a burst of rage, slashed his nails across Sam’s stomach, and let the kid crumble to the floor. Knowing Dean would have to choose between not letting Sam bleed out or chasing him, he fled out of the room.

Growling, Dean ran after him long enough to see the vamp’s fleeing back before racing back for Sam. While Benny grappled with one of the vampires, the other crouched low over Sam, eyes wide and dilated. Dean lopped his head off with one swing of his Purgatory blade. The second head bounced into his shoulder and away as Benny dispensed the other.

“Sorry mate.” Benny dropped down beside him. “How is he?”

Dean shook his head. He honestly didn’t know. Sam was out again and breathing shallowly.

But Sam flinched when Benny yanked the crossbow bolt out of his thigh.

“This doesn’t have that SucroCorp shit on it at all.” Benny tossed it down. “You were bluffing.”

Dean shrugged. “Can’t find that crap anywhere.”

Benny laughed. “That’s why you shot Sam. If you shot the Alpha, he’d know immediately. You’re one crafty S. O. B.”

“You should see me at cards.”

“I got him. You take point.” Benny said, lips curling down when Dean didn’t start moving. “I’m a vampire, I can take his weight easier. You watch our backs long enough to get out of here. You with me, brother?”

Dean nodded. Now that the Alpha Vamp was gone and he had Sammy, his adrenaline was crashing. He couldn’t stop staring at all the wounds pebbling his brother’s flesh.

“Good. Go.” Benny gave him a shove to get going. “We’re not out of this yet.”

Right. That got through to him and Dean pulled Sam up by his arms, steadying him until Benny got him over his shoulder. They moved through the mansion quickly, Dean taking out two more vampires who got in his way. Halfway across the expansive lawn, Benny called out from behind.

“Dean. I can’t.”

Dean spun around expecting another vampire attack, but it was only Benny, slowing, an agonized look on his face.

“You got to take him.” Benny’s head canted, his jaws cracked. The sharp row of vampire teeth dropped down. Instinctively, Dean lifted his blade.

Benny’s gaze flicked to it and he shook his head, lowering to shift Sam off his shoulders. “Just take him. His blood…with all these open wounds… The Alpha was right. It’s intoxicating. Take him and go. I’m sorry. I can’t be near him like this.”

Nodding, Dean slipped his blade back in his belt and went to grab Sammy. Too heavy to lift, he pulled Sam’s arm over his shoulder and hitched him to his side. “You going to be okay, Benny?”

Bent over, hands on his knees, physically fighting the draw of Sam’s blood, Benny nodded. “Yeah, I’ll cover your backs here, and then disappear into the wind. Sorry, brother, until he’s all healed up, I can’t meet up with you as planned.”

Lips pressed tight, Dean nodded again. “Right. Be good, Benny.”

“Been on the wagon this long.” Straightening, he grinned.

Dean grinned back. “Thanks. For this. I owe you.”

“We owe each other. Now go.”

And he did, practically carrying Sam along with him until they burst out of the ornamental gates and he got Sam into the Impala, scrunching the long body into the passenger seat, with his head on Dean’s knee while he sped away, stripping out of his outer shirt and pressing it tight against the open gashes the Alpha Vamp left in Sam’s stomach.

“Come on, kid, just hold on. I’m getting you to help.”

~~~SPN~~~

“His blood pressure’s too low. We’re going to have to transfuse him right now.”

Fortunately, Amelia had been prepared for that, and had the equipment already set up in the motel Dean had sent her to while she waited for them. They worked in tandem, cleaning out wounds, stitching the worse ones up. Despite all the bruising, they only found one broken rib, a few fingers in Sam’s right hand broken, and his ankle was twisted. With rest, the transfusion, and baring any infection, Sam would eventually be okay.

Dean frowned down at his sleeping brother, wondering really how either of them would ever be okay again.

The dog whined, scratching at the bathroom door. Dean had put him in there, afraid he would interfere with the sterile environment Amelia had set up across the clean sheets on the bed when it was clear the mutt wouldn’t quit trying to jump up and lick Sam’s face.

Amelia drew him out of his quiet musings. “I’ve checked into a room a few doors down. I don’t want Riot carrying on all night and disturbing Sam. That’s the last of the plasma. You know how to detach it once it’s finished?”

Dean nodded. “I got it. Thanks. Really Amelia. Thank you for all this… And for taking care of him when I wasn’t here.”

She smiled tightly and pushed her wild hair back. “I know a lot of this wasn’t my choosing, but for what it’s worth, for Sam…” She looked down at him. “I would have done it any way.”

Yeah, Sam had that kind of effect on people. She reached up and kissed Dean on the cheek. “Thank you for coming back and making this nightmare end.” Then she sat down next to Sam, smoothed his sweaty hair back from his pale face, and leaned down to kiss him.

Dean looked away, giving her at least that much privacy. Sam didn’t stir, just slept on. Nodding to herself, Amelia got up, went to the bathroom and grabbed the dog by the collar before he could bound up on the bed and undo all their hard work. She stopped at the door and looked back at Sam. “He’s going to be okay.”

“I know. He’s tough.”

Swallowing tightly, she dragged the dog with her out the door, closing it behind her with a sharp click. He had the vague impression that this was the last they’d be seeing of Amelia, that when he checked on her in the morning, she’d be gone, escaping to her own life of normal, free of monsters…and his heart took a little tumble at the hit this would take on Sam’s already bruised heart.

Dean stared at the door. Sam could have done worse. He could have done a whole lot worse. Pulling the chair over to the side of the bed, Dean sank down, wondering when he’d made the decision to let Sam have his normal life and his girl, if that’s what they both wanted. And feeling immensely sad that Sam wasn’t going to get the choice. Because Dean could read people. The girl was going to be long gone.

It was around two in the morning when Sam started stirring. When the uneasy moaning turned into all-out thrashing, Dean worried Sam would pull out his stitches.

“Hey, easy.” One knee on the bed, Dean checked Sam’s forehead for fever. He was more cold than warm, but blood loss would do that. That left pain and nightmares.

Amelia had left plenty of meds on the nightstand and Dean had two Oxycontin out and ready.

“Sam, come on, wake up. I’m gonna give you something.”

“No. No more.” Sam turned to his side, and stiffened in pain.

Nightmare then.

And thrashing around while every side of your body, front and back, was riddled in wounds couldn’t feel good. He had to stay still and Dean had to get him calm and awake enough to swallow the pain pills.

So Dean climbed into the bed, back against the headboard and pulled Sam up against him, wrapping him into his arms.

“It’s okay, it’s okay, just calm down. I have you.”

“De’n?” Sam finally went still, his long torso burrowing across Dean’s chest so that the side of his face rested along the side of Dean’s opposite arm. Dean brought his other hand up around the kid’s shoulder.

“Yeah, it’s me. You’re safe now. You’re never going to have to go back.”

“But…”

“The Alpha Vamp’s taken care of. I promise. You’re never going back.”

A long shudder rolled through Sam and his breathing grew shallow. Dean felt warm moisture on his arm where Sam’s face was pressed. Hell, Sam was crying and that undid him in ways he couldn’t have imagined. Big Bad Purgatory Hunter brought to his knees by his kid brother. He was glad Sam couldn’t see the tears in his eyes.

“I never stopped, Dean.” Sam’s voice was soft, wet with emotion. “I never stopped looking for you.”

Dean rested his cheek on top of Sam’s head. “I know, Sammy. I know.”

Fin

Usual Disclaimer applies: Duh. Don’t own nuttin.

Quick question

cece_away — Tue, 13 Nov 2012 19:57:15 GMT

What is the name of Sam and Amelia's dog? It will not stick in my head every time I hear it. Need it for a fic.

Book Review: Nightlife

cece_away — Wed, 19 Sep 2012 18:19:19 GMT

Several people who know my reading tastes recommended this series to me about Cal Leandros and his brother Niko. Boy, did they have me pegged. I love this book! And yay me, there are seven more I get to devour. Their relationship is so much like Sam and Dean's, it's scary.

So Caliban Leandros is the offspring between a gypsy mother and demon-esque monster of nightmares they dubbed the Grendels. Cal’s been spawned specifically by the monsters for a purpose the brothers haven’t figured out, but have been running from their entire lives. When the Grendels take Cal to fulfill that purpose, the plot hits the fan in an ingeniously simple destroy-the-entire-over-populated-human- race ploy.

Aside from the action that clocks in at light-speed, the characterization and narrative voice shines. Cal is snarky, witty, and has a hard time not thinking of himself as a monster, except for the unwavering redeeming belief of his sword wielding, martial arts expert, older brother Niko who grounds him in his humanity. The relationship between brothers is spot on—leaping in front of monsters while calling each other a-holes in the same breath. They leave the touchy-feely talk outside the door, yet know exactly that each would do whatever it takes to save the other. And that unique brotherly bond is tested to its full endurance in this one.

Don’t even get me started on the secondary cast of characters. An ethereal psychic Cal is crazy for, but deems himself unworthy to get near, a sludge monster chowing down on muggers in Central Park, a noble vampire black widow, and a millennia-old scene-stealing Puck who is as hilariously annoying as he is amorous, yet lonely as only a long-lived monster hiding among humans as a car-salesman could be.

This book isn’t just character-driven. It’s character-rocketed. The plot could be as dull as mud (it isn’t) and I’d still read the rest of the series just to hang out with the characters and their wit and interactions.

Good times. Bravo and applause. Rob Thurman just catapulted to the top of my favorite authors list. Think she'd ever want to write a Supernatural book? Nah, guess not.

My reviews of several of the Supernatural novels.

Meat Hook

cece_away — Thu, 28 Jun 2012 17:23:58 GMT

This is my attempt at writing in First Person Present Tense. Not my comfort zone, but fun to attempt something new.

Sam’s 10, Dean’s 14

Meat Hook

Sam shuffles from foot to foot, big eyes expectant and taking in every detail. It’s an easy hunt, Sam’s second, more of a training exercise really.

I’m bored, ready to get on with it, find whatever is keeping the spirit here and take care of it, but Dad’s on one knee beside Sam, guiding him through what he needs to look out for.

The meat packing plant is old, dilapidated and abandoned, built into the side of a hill, overgrown with brush. Dad unfolds the copy of the blueprints, going over each room. He skims over the long freezer room where the bodies were discovered, hanging on large hooks like slabs of beef. Those have been long removed—Dad wouldn’t bring Sammy if they weren’t—and salt and burned, yet something was definitely keeping the crazy butcher’s spirit around. It wasn’t his bones. Those had been cremated.

Whatever it is, it’s the perfect puzzle to teach Sam how to sift through clues on his feet.

“We could start in the butchering hall.” Sam touches the lines of one of the largest rooms. “Maybe he’s attached to a favorite cleaver or something.”

“That’s good thinking.” John folds the paper and puts it in his shirt pocket. “We’ll start there.” He stands, scooping up the crow bar from the ground. “You boys have your iron?”

I nod, lifting the chain cutters and Sammy shows Dad his battered, mostly crooked nine-iron. His lips are tight and serious, yet I can feel the excitement pouring off of him.

I suppress a grin. You’d think we were hunting something cool like a werewolf, not some lame ghost that hadn’t killed anyone for years.

“Salt?” Dad’s head is cocked, one eyebrow raised.

Sam nods vigorously and pulls his little pouch of rock salt from his pocket.

“Keep it open and in your hand,” Dad cautions.

“Yessir,” Me and Sam say at the same time and I catch Sam slide a glance my way.

I roll my eyes though I can’t blame the kid for wanting to be like me.

“All right then.” Dad flips his penlight on. “Let’s do this. Which way, Sammy?”

Sam beams. “The side doors.” He glances sidewise at me for confirmation.

I nod and Sam’s lips twitch, pleased. “It’s the closest to the hall where they carved the meat.” He looks to Dad this time and I’m suddenly uneasy, images of a butcher with a cleaver in his mitts.

Dad adjusts the blade on his belt. “Sounds like the best place to start. Let’s go. Keep sharp, boys.”

Dad takes point while I naturally move to the rear, keeping Sammy between us. His young shoulders bunch and he grips his rusty golf club tight. He glances back and I see nervousness in the way his eyes dart around, though whether he’s afraid of the hunt or disappointing Dad I’m not sure.

I give him a reassuring grin before moving past him to Dad who waits at the chained door. My chain cutters make easy work of that and we move inside and down the hallway into the carving room. It reeks of old meat. You’d think the stench would be gone by now, but I guess it soaked into the walls.

Our boots and Sam’s sneakers slap on the cement floor. Dad’s flashlight beam passes over dusty tables covered with brown stains. Old brown blood also forms splatter marks all over the floor.

I pull my own flashlight out and switch it on. There’s not much in here—tables mostly, some plastic wrapping, and butcher paper. No meat cleavers or any abandoned tools and I can’t help but feel a little relief about that.

“Sam, you’re with me,” Dad says, and guides the kid around the room, pointing out every crack something could have been stashed into, and any blood stain that doesn’t fit the pattern of beef guts hitting the floor, which is a joke ‘cause nothing is in here. It’s a dead end. I can feel it.

It’s out there. I move back into the hallway and icy prickles crawl along my spine.

I raise the bolt cutters. They’re a little wieldy, but old school, made of iron. I poke my head back in the room. “Dad.”

Both Dad’s and Sam’s heads swivel up. I blow out a breath and they see it fog in the cold air. We’re not alone.

Dad nods, and shifts imperceptibly in front of Sam.

I step back into the corridor, eyes peeled, senses on alert and wait for Dad and Sam to join me.

“See anything?” Dad’s presence fills the doorframe. He has one hand behind him, fingers tucked into the shoulder seam of Sammy’s T-shirt.

“No Sir.”

We shine our lights into the hallway, waiting. After it appears the butcher is a no show, Dad moves out, pulling Sam in front of him between us.

“Okay, where to now, Sam?”

Sam stares, mesmerized by the cloud of cold air, emphasizing Dad’s question. He knows it identifies the proximity of a spirit, but he’s never seen it before.

“Sam?” I nudge him before Dad grows impatient.

Sam blinks. “Uh, the storage freezer?”

I jolt, uncertain why. The freezer is empty, we already know this, but for some reason I don’t want Sammy going in there. I expect Dad to pick up on the same eerie vibe, but he nods to Sam and we head off.

I’m spooked by shadows now. A swaying branch scratches against glass and I flinch. Jumpy. Scowling, I tamp the feeling down, get my head in the game.

Maybe it’s me not ready for my ten-year-old brother to go on hunts. I get Dad wanting him to be prepared, not vulnerable due to ignorance—I do too—but he’s just a kid.

We come to the freezer and stop outside the large open door.

The power’s off, plant hasn’t been used in years so it shouldn’t be this cold, but it’s freezing inside. Sam wedges in between us. “Could he be attached to those?” His words trail fog.

Our light plays over the large hooks hanging from the low ceiling, still and rusted, except the last time they were used it wasn’t to store slabs of beef. The ghost of Butcher Crazy slammed several people onto the hooks, piercing right down their spines and left them there to marinate.

I’m rarely squeamish, yet bile floods my throat and my eyes dart to the corner in case I hurl, but I don’t go there. I tamp everything down. Shut everything down. I blame the smell. Old rotting meat odor permeates the entire building.

“It’s possible,” Dad says coolly, with no indication that anything’s out of the ordinary. It must just be me. “However…”

Sam’s brows draw down low enough to be seen beneath his long bangs. I can practically hear the gears in his brain screeching. “These were installed a couple of years after the original murders. After they thought there wouldn’t be any more, until the last batch a few years ago.” Atta boy, he was working through all the information we’d gathered. He sounds so much like Dad that I stare at him.

“So it couldn’t be these.” Sam’s features sink. “Then what are we missing?”

Which is the question stumping even Dad, because we are missing something. The place was wiped clean. I bristle at the way Sam’s eyes lower. Kid tries hard to please Dad. He shouldn’t be expected to figure something out that me and Dad haven’t been able to.

I go to say something, but stop. Dad studies Sam with more than training in his gaze. There’s a cautious hope. Dad really believes that Sam will be able to pick up on something that neither of us can see.

I stare at Dad as he watches Sam and understand. He’s hard on Sam. Hell, he’s hard on me. But now I glimpse his confidence. He trusts that we can do this job. I also see a little bit of worry that maybe we can’t.

Sam’s lips purse tight. His gaze hits the floor. His shoulders pull in as he thinks.

We wait. Patient. Anxiety pulls off Dad like perspiration, but he remains still.

Finally Sam lifts his face, uncertainty shimmers as shiny specks in his dark eyes. “This place is built in the side of a hill, right?” He wants to get this right so bad it tears an ache in my belly.

The creases leave Dad’s face as he considers.

Sam rushes on. “And there wasn’t electricity. When it was first built, I mean.”

Dad’s countenance lifts, completely transforming him. He smiles, nodding, getting where Sammy’s going, though I admit, I haven’t caught on yet.

“Before electricity, before freezers, any meat would have been stored below ground.” Dad cups a hand over Sam’s shoulder and the kid melts under the unspoken praise.

I think of the blueprints. “There isn’t a basement.”

Dad rubs his jaw, sending the beam of his penlight arcing across the ceiling and the hooks. “Could be an old cellar, not on the blueprints. All right, boys, look for anything that might indicate a door in the floor or a stairwell.”

We search the old plant. It’s mostly empty so it doesn’t take long, then we go outside to look for an outdoor entrance. Dad finds the old wooden door at the side of the hill, overgrown with brush.

It takes a few moments to clear it before we climb down old wooden steps that creak and groan under our weight. Dad goes first, carefully testing each plank. Only one cracks under foot and Sam and I step over it.

The air is musty with mold and age. My throat closes against the dirt coating the air. And the smell. Like something more than cattle crawled in and died down here.

The cellar is as big as the rooms upstairs, though far older. Our lights play over dirt floors, walls also hewn out of the hill and then covered roughly over with flaking cement.

There’s a few rooms. The first is empty. The door is missing from the second room and we freeze at the opening.

Oh God. My heart drops. It’s the earliest cold room, complete with hanging hooks. Except… bodies hang from these hooks, pierced through their spines, clothes rotting off decomposed shrunken corpses. The cops never found these victims.

I hear a soft gasp. Shit. Sammy. He was never meant to see this. He’s sandwiched between me and Dad, peering through the bent vee of my elbow. His eyes are huge and frightened.

I whirl, bringing Sam with me away from that entrance. I crouch in front of him and take his arms. Shock slackens his features.

Dammit, he’s only ten. “Hey, you okay?” I ask lamely, not really knowing what else to say. I can’t make him un-see it.

Sam nods. His chin quivers. As far as I’m concerned, this training exercise is over.

Dad’s palm comes down. Wide and scarred fingers curl over Sam’s small knob of a shoulder. “I’m sorry, sport. I didn’t expect there’d be others.”

Sam and I both look up. Dad’s features are tight.

“Do you… Are they…” Sam’s eyes track toward the cold room. “Are they what’s keeping the ghost here?”

My heart breaks a little at how Sam pulls it together. I’m proud too, but I bleed for every piece of innocence he loses over this life. Lost smiles replaced by a solemnness that shouldn’t be there.

Dad squeezes his shoulder, his way of tossing out pride and affection, and we scramble for it like ducks pecking up bread. “Could be. Could be something else.” Dad steers Sam away from the cold room and I’m glad for that.

“But you don’t think so,” I say, going along with Dad’s attempt to get Sam focused on the job instead of hanging corpses.

Sam’s brows scrunch tight. “What about whatever made those holes?”

“Holes?” Dad and I stop. Our eyes meet before shifting back to Sam. “What holes?” we say in tandem.

“In the…” He points back toward the cold room, though he doesn’t finish.

“On it.” I swivel on my heel, and head back. Sure enough, every one of the corpses has a pair of one-inch holes in their sides, tearing through clothing and what’s left of their dried flesh. In-and-out holes, like something pierced through and then out the other side.

I go back and report.

“Good eye, Sammy.” Dad seems pleased and we move off down the hall. Hopefully there won’t be any more gruesome surprises. I take point just in case.

“What do you think made them?” I ask. Our footsteps thud along the hard packed dirt floor.

“The holes?” Dad’s in the rear so I can’t see him, though I imagine the thoughtful creases bending his forehead. “Could be anything. A lance or stick. Better question is why?”

“I think Sam’s right. Whatever made them could be the thing we’re looking for.” I stop and aim my flashlight into a room to our left, casting the beam over earth-carved walls and nothing else. Sam presses nearly up against my back. His breath tickles the back of my arm. “The thing that’s keeping our ghostie around.”

Dad nods. “Keep an eye out for anything with a half-inch or more diameter.”

That’s our cue to head on. The air grows cooler, if that’s possible. I wish I’d worn my jacket, but it was warm outside. We come to another room, also empty, but I have a weird vibe and step inside. The temperature drops substantially.

“What do you got?” Dad pushes into the room beside me, peering about and a fissure of pride swells my lungs that Dad takes my instincts into consideration.

I sweep the flashlight beam across the empty space. “I don’t know…something…”

Dad lifts his hand back, fingers splayed. “Sammy, stay in the hall.”

“Yes, sir.” His voice sounds as small as he is, a slight shadow dwarfed in the wide doorframe.

This room’s walls are braced in weathered, buckled and warped plywood. Anything can be hidden behind them. Dad and I make quick work of prying the boards away, finding mostly packed dirt walls behind, until…

“Bingo,” Dad says and drops a plank to the ground, revealing a gaping darkness beyond.

Moving to his side, I push the flashlight in the hole between planks, casting about. It’s a small room, about four by four, crammed with old watches, a woman’s shoe, jewelry, wallets, trinkets of forgotten lives. Whatever is anchoring the butcher’s ghost has to be among those scattered items.

I meet Dad’s eyes. Showtime. This is about the time the nasties make an appearance to stop us. By nonverbal agreement, I brace the bolt cutters in my grip, on guard, while Dad places the end of the crow bar between the remaining boards. Adrenaline kicks in. This is it. He pulls the board off the wall and stills. Our eyes meet again, before tracking about the room, expectant. I look at Sammy, still in the doorframe, fingers tight around his misshapen golf club. I want him over here, near, but I also want him there out of the way when the angry ghost makes his appearance.

Nothing happens. Dad must be right. This will be an easy case. Burn whatever’s in this hidey-hole and get out of here.

Dad positions the crow bar beneath the next board and we hear a faint gasp.

At first I think it’s the creak of the plywood until Dad’s head whips toward the door.

I jerk my head that way too.

Sam’s still there, looking down at his side. The curved end of one of those rusted hanging meat hooks is pushing out from his bunched T-shirt. Behind him, the chain on the other end of the hook is stretched tight.

I blink, unable to make sense of what I’m seeing.

And Sam is jerked backwards off his feet into the hallway.

Dad and I both shout. I’m not sure who’s saying what, and we race toward that door.

I’m out first, ready to kill, ready to grab Sam, but there’s nothing there.

There’s freaking nothing there.

Panic crashes through my muscles, dulling my reactions. I stand there in disbelief.

Dad latchs onto my shoulder, hauling me with him. “We know where he’ll take him!”

The cold room.

Hot blood rushes into my veins, snapping me out of it. The cold room is only down the hall. We sprint toward it, heels sliding across the dirt floor as we turn into the room.

They’re not there.

The corpses hanging on the hooks sway as though a wind has recently blown through.

“Upstairs!” Dad and I both call out and rush through the basement, up the rotting stairs and out into the warm autumn air. It’s dark now, but we know the way.

We scrabble up the incline, practically on hands and knees in our desperation to get back into the main floor of that packing plant. Heedless of our sown safety, we slam through the main door.

Sam’s screaming. Relief that he’s close and alive battles my fear. It pulsates through me, pumping my heart and legs. I run faster down the hallway than I’ve ever raced. Dad’s inches behind, his breaths heaving out in loud bursts. The bent golf club spins on the floor as though just dropped.

I bank hard, skidding sharply into the freezer.

The largest ghost I’ve ever seen holds Sam high, about to slam my brother’s spine down onto one of the hanging hooks. The kid’s fighting for all he’s worth, kicking, goughing at the butcher’s eyes.

The butcher’s meaty arms flex, lift fractionally higher…

Dad doesn’t hesitate.

He flings the crow bar across the room. It slices above the top of Sam’s head, ruffling hair, and catches the chain, sending the hook swinging.

Sam crashes down onto empty air.

I’m moving. I don’t know how, working on pure adrenaline and anger. The bolt cutters are in my hands, stabbing through the ghost. My momentum carries me through him as well, while he disperses like cold mist across my skin.

I spin.

Sam’s on the floor, screaming. He’s pulling out the hook in his side. He’s going to tear himself up.

I fly at him, grab his hands. “No, Sam. Stop!”

He doesn’t see me. “Out! Out! Get it out!” Tears pour down his face. His hands are strong, scrabbling beneath mine.

Doors slam, reverberating from the long hallway. Lock down. We’re trapped in here until we end this butcher.

Dad’s arms close around Sam from behind. Big hands fold over thin wrists. Sam appears even smaller, engulfed within the circle of Dad’s body. Dad’s stubble-dark cheek presses against Sam’s sweaty temple. “We’re going to get it out. Sam! Calm down. We’re going to get it.”

In full-blown panic, Sam keeps fighting, keeps pulling at the hook beneath our blood-slick hands. I hold and he pulls. I know we are causing damage. “Sam, stop it,” I cry. “We’ll get it.”

His feet scrape the floor. “Now! I want it out now!”

“Okay,” Dad grounds out. His features are tight, gray in the creases. “Right now. Let me get it. Right now, son.”

It’s the first I can tell we’ve gotten through to him. His hands still beneath mine.

“Pr-promise?”

My gaze snaps to Dad. We both know removing the hook now, here, is not a good idea.

“You have my word,” Dad says, so that’s it.

Sam stills completely, except for the ragged gasps expanding and collapsing his chest. He lets me pull his hands away and Dad’s hands immediately replaces ours over the embedded hook and torn bleeding flesh.

“Dean,” he says. “Keep an eye out.”

I shift to my knees and upend my salt pouch in a tight circle around Dad and Sam. I wish I had enough to make it thicker, although that won’t make any difference. I retrieve the crow bar Dad threw and stand guard above them.

Sam makes awful hissing noises. His heels ground across the floor, disrupting the salt line. I don’t tell him to stop, not while Dad pulls an eight-inch curved hook out of his side.

“Got it.”

I look down just as the hook and chain disintegrate from Dad’s hands as though they never existed. Damn ghost things.

Sam’s right. That hook, the real one, is what’s keeping the butcher here.

Sam’s face is pressed hard into Dad’s chest. His entire body is trembling. Dad’s hands are pressed over the wound, red seeping between each finger.

“Take Sam.”

That’s the easiest order to follow. I put the crow bar down and sit in front of them and Dad leans Sam over to me. Sam clutches on, fingers digging into my shirt.

In minutes, dad has his outer shirt off and I’m pressing it into Sam’s side. Dad realigns the salt circle around us and hands me his salt pouch and places the crow bar within my reach.

“You know what to.”

I nod. Keep the damn spirit away from Sammy.

Dad smiles tightly, scoops up the bolt cutters and is gone.

Not two seconds later, sicko butcher reappears, bringing a buzz of energy with him.

Sam’s fingers flinch in my T-shirt.

The butcher launches his hook at us, but it disappears the moment it sails over the salt line and reappears as it swings back. Persistent, the ghost rams us himself and disappears. He’s back in moments, glaring at us, the hook swinging from his fist.

Sam looks over my shoulder with wide eyes.

“Don’t look at him,” I coax. I’d turn his head, but my hands are pressing Dad’s wadded shirt against the still weeping puncture wounds.

Sam doesn’t look away. “I wish we could shoot it.”

That’s my bro. Scared shitless and hurt, but head’s still in the game. “Me too. Bam, he’s gone.”

“Wh-why don’t bullets work?”

“Too small? Too fast?” Hunters hadn’t figured that one out yet.

Sam finally tucks his head in. “Wish we had salt bullets.”

I smile. “Or how ‘bout sling-shots?” I look over my shoulder at the scowling spirit. “Ka-pow, you’re dead.”

Sammy snorts. He’s not shaking as bad. “He’s already dead.”

“Soon to be dead dead.”

“But Dean.” His voice drops to a whisper. “What’s Dad gonna do? The hook is in the basement and we’re locked in up here. So is Dad.”

“Dad will get it. If he has to punch a hole between floors, he’ll get it.”

Sam looks up at me, gauging my confidence. I grin for him, then feel it slide from my face as I get a good look at his eyes. They’re glassy and unfocused. Overly bright against his paling skin.

“Hey.” I nudge him with my shoulder. “How do you feel?”

His lips hitch into a pout. “How do you feel?”

“No, really. Tell me.”

Tiny lines pucker his forehead as though I asked him something hard. “Weird?”

Alarms clang across my scalp. “Weird how?”

“I don’t know, Dean. Weird. Leave me alone about it.”

Whiny and pissy equals really hurting and scared about himself, but trying to cover. Dad better hurry.

“Okay. That tells me nothing. You’re always weird.”

Sam huffs. He lowers the top of his head to rest against my collarbone. Outside the salt circle, the ghost crouches down to our level, peering at us inches away.

I glare right back, anger pounding at my temples. Sick bag of pus hurt my brother, tried to skewer him. “You know you’re ended, right?”

Sam’s head moves along my chest. He faces the ghost and a tremor rolls through him. “Make it go away,” he slurs, which shoots anxiety up my spine for altogether different reasons.

I could get rid of the ghost for a second. The iron crow bar is right here, but as long as the vengeful spirit is here, staring at us, Dad’s clear to torch the hook.

“Naw, we want to see when this monster goes up in flames, don’t we Sammy?”

Sam lifts his face to mine, questioning. I see the moment he gets it and he turns toward the ghost head-on. “Yes.” His chin trembles. “We want to see that.”

I’ve never felt so proud.

The ghost growls, feints toward us and we both flinch back.

Sam doesn’t look away, though he shakes so hard I feel it through my bones.

Several more minutes pass with the ghost just sitting there close, glaring. It’s unnerving. And not the usual modus operandi . They normally go after whoever is closest to ending them, which in this case is Dad. Unless Dad isn’t any closer to finding the hook.

A few more minutes pass. Sam’s shaking subsides and his head is heavier against me.

I hitch my shoulder forward to nudge him again. “No sleeping, Sam. I need you alert.” And not passing out from blood loss.

He mumbles and does not lift his head. I’m worried. Dad’s taking too long.

I frown at the butcher. What is his deal? He’s no longer glaring. His eyes are fixed on Sam’s limp arm. I follow his gaze down where Sam’s lax fingers sit in the line of salt. One startled flinch and the line will be broken.

“No,” I say and let go of the wadded shirt to pull Sam’s arm closer.

Sam jerks. His leg kicks out across the salt and I fly backwards.

The butcher is in my face, lifting me high by my collar. I kick. I yell. I stab my thumbs in his face. A hook’s going to stab up my back any moment.

Sam’s screaming. He runs through the ghost with the crow bar, pushing him back, pulling me with him and the spirit erupts.

I fall flat on my back. Air pummels out of my lungs. Black spots dot the air. I can’t breathe. Something squirms under my legs, pushing them off. Sam.

“Dean,” he wheezes. His face comes into my line of sight, stained with worry. “Dean!” He curls over his side. He drags the crow bar with him across the floor.

Droplets like rain fall over my chest. He dumps the last of his salt over me and claps his palms around my cheeks. They’re cold and bloody.

“Dean, get up.”

I try. I really try, but I can’t drag any oxygen back into my lungs. It’s like they’re stuck.

“Dean.” Sam’s crying.

I redouble my efforts and heave. It feels like a Mack truck runs over me, all sixteen tires, but at the end of the ordeal, I can breathe. The black dots are bigger, my vision hazy, but my lungs expand.

Sam’s looking down at me, his face pinched, and suddenly his head jerks up and he shouts.

The butcher’s in my peripheral. I grunt, using everything I have to twist around. I’m not fast enough.

Sam’s wrenched away, tossed in the air. I hear an awful thud.

Butcher’s over me, raising the hook and chain to swing.

He erupts in shrieks and blue flame.

It’s over.

The air is unnaturally still.

I flop onto my stomach, uncoordinated. The room does a counter-clockwise rotation around me. Fireworks explode across my brain.

I squeeze my eyes to focus, to find Sam. I hear him wheezing. The room finally rights itself and I see my brother, close, on his side, face against the wall.

I crawl.

Footsteps echo, getting louder. “Sam! Dean!”

Dad’s boots skid to my side, then his knees as he crouches. “Dean?”

“I’m okay,” I heave. “Just…wind knocked out of me. Sam—“

Dad’s gone, already over to Sam.

On hands and knees, I steady myself, pulling in deep breaths, and watch as Dad scoops Sam up in his arms and whisks him away.

By the time Dad comes back for me, I’m steadier and have made it to the door. With his help, I make it to the car without any more dizziness. Sam’s curled up in the back seat with every blanket we own around him.

“I want you in the back, keeping pressure on those punctures,” Dad orders, as though I would have done anything else.

I slide in next to Sam and he immediately turns to rest against me. His face is wet and scared. He knows this is hospital bad.

Dad fills us in on our cover story, a simple fall on a pitchfork hidden in an overgrown field we played ball in, then we all go quiet, until dad pulls into the Emergency bay and runs for help.

Sam lifts pleading eyes to me. “I don’t want to do this.”

“Hospital?” I squeeze his arm. “No one does. But they have the good stuff. You’ll feel better and as soon as we’re home, we’ll make sling-shots.”

“No,” he whispers like he’s about to spill his worse sin. “Hunting. I don’t want to do this.”

My throat clogs. I don’t know what to say because right now with bleeding holes in my little brother, I don’t want him hunting either. Not yet. Tonight scared me.

His eyes are bright, penetrating. He waits for me to say something, but the moment’s gone. The back doors jerk open and people in scrubs are reaching in.

But it turns out this hunt must have scared Dad too, because it’s a long time before we take Sammy out on any more hunts.

Quick Canon Question

cece_away — Tue, 26 Jun 2012 14:15:15 GMT

Is there any exact reference as to what age Sam was when he first started hunting?

He was 8 when he learned about hunting from Dean, but I'm not sure they let John know right away that he knew.

He was 14 when they hunted a werewolf.

He was 12 when he was left in the car while John and Dean went hunting another werewolf (I think it was a werewolf as told by Dean to Gordon) so it is implied John knew Sam knew about hunting by that time.

So, I'm thinking 9 or 10?

In the pilot, Sam said John gave him a gun when he said there were monsters under the bed. He had to have been much younger. A pissy exaggeration on Sam's part?

Fic Reccomendation

cece_away — Sat, 12 May 2012 15:34:10 GMT

Wanna Cry today? This is written by SparkieBunny and it is one of the most beautiful, sensitive pieces involving a character death I've ever read. I don't even like character death fics. Sam has cancer and Dean helps him die. Have tissues on hand.

Rivers and Roads

Along Came the Rain

cece_away — Thu, 10 May 2012 15:50:16 GMT

Lovely banner created by undefined reggie11 aka Ceejay (don't know why it's saying undefined--link works though)

This is a request from Promise777. Actually she came up with the entire premise and plot. I just got to run with it. All mistakes are my own and however far-fetched any of these medical conditions are, and they are far-fetched, just pretend I know what I’m talking about. I don’t, but that’s the beauty of being able to suspend disbelief.

Set sometime in early Season 5

Along Came the Rain

Rain pounded the roof. Or was that the shower?

Man, Sammy. Dean blinked his eyes open, gritty with fatigue and instantly stilled, hunter instincts screaming to the surface.

What the hell?

This was definitely not their motel room. Come to think of it, he didn’t remember going back to the motel.

Thunder boomed outside. Okay. Dean reached behind his back for his gun, taking in the papers strewn across dirty tile, an empty nurses station, faded OR 2 painted above wide double doors, a row of plastic chairs along the wall—one he currently occupied—and swore under his breath when the search for his weapon came up empty.

Rain pelted the windows behind the nurses station, rattling the rhythm of Dean’s rising pulse.

He knew where he was. It was the next stop on their weird and wacky tour of the macabre. Saint Lebewiesen’s Hospital of Good Hope, permanently closed in the late sixties when the newer state-of-the-art facility was built across town.

Dean didn’t think it had anything to do with the case, but Sam was insistent they at least check it out.

Sam.

Dean’s eyes shot to the double doors of the OR, his senses picking up on exactly where his brother was. He launched to his feet, all caution in hostile surroundings inconsequential to the little brother bat-signal punching a hole in his gut. He slammed through those doors and his heart crashed to a splintering stop.

His brother lay on an old operating table, one of those rolling carts pushed up beside it with bloody rags, bloody scissors, discarded surgical gloves, and big-ass syringe on it.

A hot blinding pressure squeezed Dean’s temples, hard enough to burst. He flew to that table, shoving the cart out of the way.

It was worse up close.

Sam’s arms were strapped down at his sides, his bare chest heaving in rapid pants. Another strap was cinched over his thighs to keep him in place. One of those doctor caps had been placed on his head, as well as one of those flimsy masks over his mouth and nose.

Worse, blood ran down his chest and side, dribbling into the filthy stained mattress from a long cut just above his heart that had been stitched together with thick black thread. He could only imagine the size of the needle needed for that size of thread.

Sam’s eyes were open, frightened and pleading. Tear tracks laid a wet trail from the corners of his eyes down the side of his face and Dean saw red.

Whoever cut and sewed Sam up did it while the kid was awake.

Dean choked down his rising bile and pulled the mask down Sam’s chin. Anger flared anew at the bandana gagging him, hidden beneath the doctor’s mask.

“Hey, easy, easy.” Loosening it, he pulled the dirty cloth down to Sam’s neck as well.

“Get—get it out,” Sam panted, pulling against the restraints. “Get it out.” His voice was dry, raspy and heading into full-blown panic.

Everything inside of Dean froze. “Sam?”

“He put—” Fresh tears spilled. “He put some—something inside me. Dean, please, Dean, get it out.”

“All right, I will, but you got to calm down.” He started unbuckling Sam’s closest wrist. “Okay, you with me?”

The moment his wrist was free, Sam flung his hand up, lightning quick.

Dean caught it before he could gouge into the wound. “Sam!” He was going to cause more damage. “Sam, get it under control, man.”

Sam pulled against him, his other hand fighting the restraint.

Dean leaned over, getting right into Sam’s face, trapping both their arms between them. “Sam. I. Will. Get. It. I’ll get it. I promise you.”

Sam’s heartbeat banged rapidly beneath the back of Dean’s hand. Blood and the rough black thread tickled his knuckles.

But he kept his hold on Sam’s arm and his eyes sharp into Sam’s, waiting him out.

He felt the moment Sam was with him. Long fingers quit fighting, latching onto Dean’s instead like a life ring. Glassy eyes latched onto his, held.

Easing up, he straightened Sam’s arm, felt him clasp onto the hem of his jacket.

“I’m going to check it. Hang tight.”

Sam nodded, his neck straining.

Dean ran light fingers around the stitches, no longer black now, but red with blood. Sam flinched when he pressed in. Dammit. Something was definitely in there. Hard, flat, the size and shape of a domino.

Sam’s breathing picked up again. Chest rising and falling hard.

Dean pressed down on his shoulder, holding him in place and searched his pocket for his knife. Gone. Keys and cell too. Dammit to hell.

He glanced at the bloodied scissors on the cart, not thrilled about using those dirty things on Sam, even knowing that was his brother’s blood already coating them, but Sam’s gaze was pleading. The wound was fresh, not anywhere closed, easy to cut the stitches, spread apart and dig out whatever was in there.

“You get a look at him?” He asked more to distract Sammy than anything. Details could come later because if it was the last thing he did, he was going to rip the spine out of this thing. It cut Sam open while he was awake.

Sam nodded, his throat working. “Not a…” His voice cracked, parchment thin. “Not a ghost…like we thought.”

“Not Doc Goatface?” He cleaned the scissor blades as best he could on the inside of his overshirt.

Sam’s gaze locked onto them. “Doctor’s brother.” His fingers curled tighter into Dean’s jacket.

Dean frowned. “Doc Waverly’s brother isn’t dead. Not a ghost.” Not yet. He cut through the first stitch, then the second. The raw edges of the wound sloughed apart. So the old goat faced physician wasn’t their monster. The next stitch was tighter. He pushed the tip of the scissors beneath the thread, scraping something hard and Sam lurched up, gasping.

Then fell back. Every joint in Sam’s body stiffened, shaking like he got hit with a jolt of electricity. Veins bulged along his stretched neck as he arched off the table, shoulders and head grinding into the mattress, his jaw so tight there was a real danger of breaking teeth or biting through his tongue. Dean dropped the scissors and dove onto Sam, pinning him from falling off the table with his own upper body. Sam’s legs kicked the air, arms flailed, one wrist buckled down. Thunder bellowed around them.

Finally it receded—whatever it was—and Sam’s muscles went slack. His chest rose and fell raggedly, his heart crazy rapid beneath Dean’s palm. Dean lifted off, giving his brother the once over. Pallor graying, eyes wide and frightened, bracketed in lines of pain. Pupils blown.

Dean cupped his palms around Sam’s clammy face and looked into his eyes. “You’re okay.”

It was a damned lie and they both knew it, but Sam latched onto it and gave his own lie back. “Okay,” he shuddered out on a gasp.

Dean smiled for him and patted his cheek before letting his hands slide away to work at that last buckle holding Sam’s wrist. “Let’s get out of here.” He hauled Sam up, guiding the long legs to hang over the side. “Okay?”

Sam nodded, head drooping and bangs obscuring his eyes, while his freed hand pushed on his chest. “I just need to—”

“Sam, no—” Too late.

Sam spasmed, his body locking up hard, eyes rolled back and he flopped off the table, Dean going with him, trying his best to cushion the back of Sam’s head. C’mon, kid, he gritted, while Sam thrashed and flailed on the dirty floor, bringing horrible strained gasps from deep in his throat. More blood bubbled up from the wound.

All Dean could do was hold on and ride it out with him.

Finally, the tremors subsided and Sam lay in Dean’s arms, a sweaty shivering panting mess.

“Don’t—” Dean’s voice cracked, scraped tight by the closing muscles of his throat. “Don’t touch it again.”

Sam blinked miserably up at him.

Sharp laughter gritted across the air like shards of glass digging into Dean’s senses.

“He’s in here with us.” Leaning over Sam, Dean picked up the scissors he’d dropped.

He got to his knees, pulling Sam up with him. “We’re out of here. Now.”

“But Waverly’s brother?”

“Oh, don’t worry. I’m coming back for him.”

“But—“

“No, Sam. Priority one: Get you out of here and that . . . whatever it is . . . out of you.” He hauled Sam up to his feet.

Sam clenched his jaw, breathing through it. “Okay, agreed, but—”

“But nothing.” He pulled Sam’s arm across his shoulder. “You don’t think I can handle him on my own?”

“He already got the drop on both of us once.”

Which unsettled Dean to no end. “Ain’t happening again. To nobody.”

Sam nodded at that.

He guided Sam out of the OR, kicking the swinging double doors open, relieved to at least get his brother out of that room. His gaze tracked down both darkened hallways, looking for either the sonvuabitch that nabbed them or more importantly, a way out. Heavy rain pelted the windows like pebbles. Swaying branches slapped at the panes.

Dean took the hall to the right. Though his head bobbed with each step, Sam kept pace, his chest expanding in sharp inhalations. Around a corner, a long row of glass doors ran the length of the small hospital’s entrance, handles chained and padlocked. Dead plants in tall pots stood on either side.

He eased Sam down to sit with his back against the wall. “Don’t touch that,” he warned before going to check out the chains, wishing he had his gun or bolt cutters from the trunk.

Which turned out to be a non-issue since the chain on the last door was already broken. Must be how their new sociopathic friend brought them in.

Grinning that something was finally going their way, Dean pushed the door—

Sonuvabitch. It wouldn’t budge. He shook it, shoved against it, kicked it, tried the other doors. Grabbing one of the pots, he smashed it against the glass. The pot cracked, dirt spilled across the floor, but the door remained intact. He threw the second pot into the windows. The pot shattered.

“Dammit. You sure this wasn’t a ghost, Sammy?”

Sam winced up at him. “Supernatural lockdown?”

“Tight as a virgin’s legs.”

Sam pressed his hand on his collarbone, a little too close to the black stitches. “Wasn’t a ghost.”

“Demon?”

“Don’t you think I tried exorcising—“

“You were gagged.” Oh, right. Sam’s psychic mojo crap didn’t need any incantations. Dean tamped down the anger that arose any time he thought of his brother’s extracurriculars.

Sam watched him with hooded knowing eyes, braced for recriminations.

Dean sighed, scrubbing his palm over his jaw and crouched beside his brother. Focus on the task at hand. Priority one so far was a bust.

“Okay, what do we know?” He ticked off one finger. “Not a ghost.” He ticked off the middle finger. “Psycho drags people off, operates on them, then when he’s done playing, dumps the corpses out in the woods.” Which is why they thought it was the ghost of crazy Doc Waverly. He’d been known to go experimental on his patients while alive, lost his medical practice over it and then committed suicide. And since the Doc practiced at the newer facility across town they’d focused the hunt there.

Dean ticked off his ring finger. “Our culprit is the Doc’s brother, janitor of this highly esteemed facility. So what’s a janitor doing playing doctor?”

“Getting back at his brother.” Sam slumped sideways into Dean’s shoulder.

“You know this how?”

“Told me.”

“’Course he did.” Bastard.

“Waverly was always putting Floyd down.”

“Brother’s name is Floyd?”

Sam nodded.

“Small wonder he’s messed up.”

Sam huffed on a grin. “Floyd was never good enough, smart enough, just a janitor…”

“So little brother is set out to prove that his experiments are just as sadistic as big doctor brother’s. That’s just great.” Dean froze, reminded that when he’d found Sam strapped to that OR table, he’d had on a doctor’s mask and doctor’s hat. “Or to big doctor brother.”

Sam’s head bobbed, his hair rubbing across Dean’s neck. Anger burned a path of red across Dean’s vision. He took a long shuttering breath to focus. “So what’s with the ghost lockdown? How’s he doing it? He has to be harnessing some wicked powerful supernatural crap to do that.”

Sam lifted his head and scrunched his forehead in that I-just-thought-of-something way of his. “His neck is scarred.”

“Scarred how?” Dean searched his memories, thinking up every evil SOB they’d ever come against with scars.

“Scars. Like he’d barely survived a fire.”

“Burn marks.” Shit. No. No, no, no, no. “Sam, these scars, were they patterned like spikes on a collar, blackening at the tips?”

Sam squeezed his eyes closed as though remembering something painful. “Yeah.”

“Dammit.”

“You know what it is?” Sam angled his face toward him, the first ray of hope reflecting in his gaze. “That’s good.”

“Yeah, I know what it is and no, it is not good. It’s the opposite of good.”

“Dean?”

“It’s an iberra, all right?”

Sam blinked. His forehead wrinkled in little half-loops.

“Oh come on, that giant brain of yours doesn’t know what an iberra is?” He wanted Sam to already know on his own. He didn’t want to tell him just how effed up they were.

“New plan. Gonna stash you someplace safe. Floyd isn’t a ghost so he can’t float through walls. We find a closet or something—”

“Dean.”

“Barricade you inside—”

“Dean! What the hell is an iberra?”

Dean blew out a breath. “Dad and I hunted one back in Baltimore.”

“Kay. And…”

“And they suck, Sammy. They’re bad mothers.” He pulled the scissors out of his belt, turning them in his palm. “They’re like wendigos, man. They start out human…”

“Until going cannibal turns them into monsters.” Sam nodded, getting it. “So an iberra is a human who did something so demented they change into a monster?

“Surgically implanting time bombs in people is pretty demented.” Dean’s fingers slipped into the holes of the scissors, their one weapon that wouldn’t do squat against an iberra. “Kill enough people and they become something else.”

“Something that harnesses the energy of those he killed. Ghost energy.” Sam’s teeth worried at his bottom lip. “Hence the supernatural lockdown. So how did you and Dad kill the other one?”

Dean clenched his jaw. The wind howled, whipping branches across the window glass.

Sam hitched himself up higher, hissing against the movement. “You salt and burned all its victims, voided its power, then you could kill it.”

Dean frowned, confirming Sam’s guess. They couldn’t get out, even if they knew where all the bodies were…and Sam had a friggin electrocution devise implanted in him! Dean’s own heart ratcheted up.

Sam started to push himself up the wall, legs shaking.

“Sam.” Dean shot to his own feet, taking Sam’s elbows to steady him. The fact that Sam allowed Dean to maneuver him so easily betrayed just how much being shocked by that damn thing had taken out of him--twice.

Sam inhaled heavily, his arms shaky. “We’ll just have to find another way.”

Dean shifted in close to Sam, ready to start him walking. Sam held his hand up. “Without stuffing me in a closet. I’m fine.”

“You are not fine,” Dean growled.

Sam closed his eyes momentarily then opened them again. “Look, my chest feels like roadkill, but I’m still on my feet.”

“Barely.”

Sam frowned. “We gonna fight each other or gank this thing?”

“Come on.” Dean took a step, letting tough guy Sam balance on his own. Stubborn ass. He’d get his brother out of here and on corpse burning duty if they had a way out…which dammit, Dean, use your head. They did have a way out.

“Cas,” he prayed. “Castiel, get your feathered self down here.” Outside, thunder boomed. For all his bravado, Sam sank back against the wall.

A rush of wind whined past them. “Dean.”

Dean spun, suddenly nose to nose with Castiel.

“What do you need?” Cas asked flatly, his gaze drawn over Dean’s shoulder. “Sam, you look unwell. What’s happened?”

Before Dean could quip at the understatement, Cas moved around him, arm outstretched, and flattened his palm on Sam’s chest.

“Wait—”

Both Cas and Sam went down, both spasming on the floor. Dean knocked Cas aside and the angel immediately went still, sprawled across the dirt-splattered tile.

Pulling Sam up against him, Dean waited for the tremors to subside. “Dammit, Cas, ask next time.”

Cas flopped onto his stomach, forehead wrinkled. He pushed up to his hands and knees. “What’s happened? What is that inside of Sam?”

“Now he asks.” Dean rested his palm over Sam’s chest, feeling his rapid heartbeat and the last of the tremors roll through him. Sam stared up at him, mouth slack, eyes glazed. Dean squeezed his arm. “Just lay still for a minute.” Then to Cas, “Short version: An iberra put something inside of Sam. Anytime we so much as blink at it, it shocks him. So no touching. You got that?”

“I see.” Sitting up, Cas adjusted his trench coat. “My vessel did not enjoy electrocution.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Just beam us out of here, Scotty.”

Lips pressed in a hard line, Cas leaned forward, placed his hands on both Sam and Dean…and nothing.

“Uh, Cas?”

“I’m blocked.”

“They got pills for that.”

And he thought angels couldn’t bitchface.

“Something’s blocking my powers. I’m cut off.”

“Meaning, you’re as trapped and weaponless as we are,” Sam rasped, and Dean took a breath, relieved that Sam was back with them and coherent.

“This iberra must have killed hundreds to attain the power to cut off an angel of the Lord. I don’t like this.”

“None of us do,” Dean muttered. What now? Priority one still stood. He was getting Sam out of this. Just had a little iberra ganking to take care of first. “We find the bastard. Come up with a way to kill it.”

“The bastard with the mojo of hundreds of spirits,” Sam deadpanned.

Dean’s anger flared. “Got a better idea. I’m all ears.”

Both Cas and Sam looked away, then Sam stiffened. “Um, Dean, I know where he is.” Sam’s voice was strangled, his eyes hard. Dean followed his gaze down the hallway where crazy Floyd Waverly stood watching them, wearing his dead brother’s lab coat and a feral smile that lifted the tiny hairs at the back of Dean’s spine.

So this is the bastard that cut into Sam. A terrible rage filled him. Dean twisted, flung the scissors. They slammed point first into Waverly’s stomach.

He shrieked and fled down the hall.

“Good shot,” Cas said while Dean ran after Waverly, bellowing for Cas to stay with Sam.

Papers flew in the air. The chairs started rattling, sliding across the floor. File cabinets behind the nurses station crashed over, old plaques fell from the walls, a hundred trapped ghosts unleashed through Waverly’s emotions.

Dean skidded around the corner and slammed through the OR doors.

Waverly spun, flinging his elbow over his head in defense, the end of the scissors bobbing at his abdomen. Even with all the power he had and what he’d become, the man, iberra, whatever, was a coward.

“Not so brave when we’re not drugged!” Dean ran at him, not exactly sure what he was going to do and Janitor Bob shrieked, throwing out his arms, a purely defensive move, yet it harnessed everything he had in a good ol’ fear-induced adrenaline storm hopped up on ghost channeling.

Dean sailed back, ripped off his feet and smacked into the wall and bounced to the floor. Holy shit. Dude packed a punch.

Waverly stared, eyes wide as though he just now realized the amount of energy he controlled. He straightened, all traces of cowardice sliding off his features, morphing into something predatory.

Perfect. Dean pushed up to his feet. Mord-sith didn’t know what he had in him until now. Just his lucky day.

Staring at him across the OR, Waverly slowly pulled the scissors from his own gut, emitting squeaky sucking noises and leaving gruesome holes. No blood. The iberra looked down at the scissors in his pale hand and then back at Dean. His lips thinned into a vicious smile.

“Oh shit.”

The scissors floated off Waverly’s palm and shot forward.

Dean dove to the floor, hearing the blades whine above him and embed in the wall.

The doors slammed open. Cas and Sam rushed inside. The iberra flung his arms toward them. Cas leapt in front of Sam, flinging his own arms out, palms flat. It looked like he held back a cyclone. Cas leaned forward, feet skidding back on the floor. Wind buffeted his coat, it pulled Sam’s hair back. The operating table shimmied. The cart rolled into Cas and overturned, spilling surgical implements across the floor.

Cas stood firm, chin tucked forward in concentration. Cas couldn’t access his power, but he was still strong as an ox.

Using the angel as a wind-break, Sam’s feet slipped on the floor. His face was scrunched, eyes squinted against the wind flow. His chest had to be aching under the stress.

Cas took a step forward and Sam lost his footing, his feet slipping out from under him and crashed to his knees. He clutched at his chest, curling over, head on the floor.

On his hands and knees, Dean pushed against the supernatural storm, inching toward his brother.

Cas took another step forward. And another, nostrils flaring, body thrown forward like a bull. And suddenly broke through. The wind died.

Cas charged ahead, throwing the table out of his path.

Waverly tried a new tactic. Veins purpling, he tossed up his arms and Cas spun through the air.

Waverly flung out his fists, right, left, like an air boxer and Cas rolled, right, left, taking invisible punch after punch.

Horrified, Sam and Dean glanced at each other and then surged up at the same time, tackling Waverly…

Shrieking, Waverly punched out, arm colliding with Sam’s bare chest…and a jolt of electricity burned through Dean, throwing him off. From his stomach he snapped his head up. Sam and Waverly were locked together, both jerking and thrashing, caught in a charged livewire.

Roaring, Cas plowed into them, breaking them apart.

Sam dropped like a brick.

Waverly fell to his knees, hair standing on end, skin blotched and smoking, not quite out, but definitely weakened.

One look at Cas advancing on him and Waverly fled, screaming, stumbling out the doors. Cas marched after him.

Dean scrambled to Sam, searching for residual shockwaves.

Sam lay deadly still. Terror sank like a deep root into Dean’s soul. His hand shot to Sam’s neck.

“Come on, come on.” No pulse. No gaddamned pulse. He wasn’t breathing either. The shock from that damn devise was finally too much.

Without hesitation, Dean cleared Sam’s mouth, bent and gave three breaths. Lifting, he shouted for Cas and pushed on Sam’s chest, then back to rescue breathing all while a fervored litany screamed through his head. Come on, come on, come on. You don’t get to do this, not after everything.

A hand curled around his shoulder. “Dean. What’s happened?”

Dean jolted in the middle of a breath. Sam’s head rolled to the side. “Cas?” The raw scrape of his voice surprised him. “That last shock…it…Sam’s not…”

“Sam’s heart has stopped.”

“I know dammit.” Dean went back to compressing on Sam’s chest. “Do something!”

Castiel squinted at Sam for a moment, then gently nudged Dean aside. Slowly, Cas pushed his hand all the way through Sam’s chest.

Nausea bubbled up Dean’s throat. Cas’s hand inside his brother sickened him. “You got your angel juice back?”

“No, but I can compress his heart from the inside. Breathe for him, Dean.”

He didn’t have to be told twice. Leaning down, Dean gave Sam his life-saving breaths.

Minutes passed with no change. The storm raged outside, lightning speared the dark room in short bursts of brightness. They worked on Sam, neither willing to give up. Dean’s counts between breaths grew more desperate and choked. “One, two, come on, Sam, breathe, come on.”

He bent to blow more air and Sam’s eyes snapped open. He gasped, head wrenching back against the floor.

“He’s back,” Cas informed unnecessarily. “His heart is pumping.”

Dean’s had stopped cold. He cupped Sam’s face in his palms to get the kid to look at him. “Hey, you with us?”

Cas released his hand from Sam’s body.

Sam’s gaze tracked to Dean. He nodded and then passed out again.

“His heart has stopped again,” Cas intoned.

Dean’s fingers flew to Sam’s neck. “What happened? We just had him.”

Cas slipped his hand back inside of Sam. “It appears Sam’s heart can’t sustain a rhythm without aid.”

“What?” Dean checked to make sure Sam still breathed, flinching as Sam came to again, heaving up on a gasp. “Gaaa.”

Dean nudged him back down. “Easy, easy.”

Sam rolled his head against the floor, features tight and gray with pain. “Nuuuh. Stop.”

Cas took him literally. “If I stop, Sam, your heart will cease beating.”

Sam’s chest rose and fell hard around Cas’s wrist. His eyes were wide with terror.

“Not helping, Cas.”

The angel’s gaze shot to Dean, uncomprehending. “That devise made Sam’s heart stop. It will take something just as drastic to jolt it to working on its own.”

“Shut up, Cas. Just shut up.” Dean cupped his palm behind Sam’s neck, and looked into his brother’s frightened eyes. “It’s going to be okay. You hear me?”

“De…” The raggedness to Sam’s voice betrayed the extent of his pain.

“Shh, we’ll fix this.”

“Take…take it out.” Saying that little bit exhausted Sam and he clenched his teeth against the agony.

“Of course.” Cas nodded. “I’m going to take the devise out now.”

“What?” Dean grabbed the angel’s arm. “Removing that thing will shock him.”

“Exactly.”

Dean’s brows furrowed, getting it and hating it. He nodded to Cas and clasped Sam’s hand. Sam’s throat bobbed, features clenched and scared. It was like looking into heartbreak.

“Do it,” Dean ground out.

Sam immediately screamed, thrashing. His eyes rolled back in his head and his limbs flopped up and down, muscles coiled so tight every vein in his body bulged out blue. Between their joined hands, tremors rolled through Dean.

Cas was spasming too, arm locked tight and unmovable, his eyes rolling side-to-side in their sockets.

Kicking out with the sole of his boot, Dean kicked Cas away.

The angel flopped backward, his hand pulling out of Sam, fingers twitching, clenching and unclenching around the little rectangular strip of tiny circuits with two bloody wires dangling.

Sam seized again and then went still.

Dean kicked Cas’s hand, knocking the circuit devise away. It rotated, skidding across the floor.

“Sam, Sam!” Dean dove for Sam’s chest, palm flat, searching for both a pulse and breathing. Sam’s chest lifted and fell. Dean laid his cheek against the bare flesh, listening—waiting.

There.

A tiny flutter, then stronger, already evening out. Dean took the first breath in what seemed like hours that he breathed entirely for himself.

“Cas,” he asked over his shoulder, not taking his eyes off Sam. “Cas, you okay?”

There was shifting behind him and finally Cas answered. “I do not want to repeat that.”

Dean smiled, relief making his muscles go loose.

Cas crawled over. “Sam?”

“He’s okay. I think he’s okay.”

Cas rested his palm over Sam’s wound. “His heart is beating on its own.”

Dean nodded, his throat tight. Everything in him felt heavy and old. He looked around the floor, at all the implements scattered when the rolling surgical cart overturned.

Smoothing Sam’s hair back, he spoke to Cas. “Stay here with him.” Rising, Dean scooped up the surgical gloves Waverly had used while inserting that awful thing in his brother. He pulled them on, grimacing at the blood coating them. Sam’s blood.

“What are you doing?” Cas asked, his palm resting on Sam’s arm.

Dean shrugged. “Going after the bad guy so we can get out of here. It’s what I do.”

“Yes, but how are you going to do it? While the iberra is harnessed to its victims, it can’t be killed.”

With the plastic glove, Dean scooped Waverly’s circuit devise off the floor. “Can’t it? It seemed to take a pretty nasty hit off of this when Sam ran into him.”

Cas’s gaze narrowed.

Dean didn’t have time for the angel to think it through. “Just stay here with Sam. I mean it, Cas. Do not leave this room.” He spun on his heel.

He had an iberra to fry.

Dean stormed down the hall, anger raging as furiously as the winds outside. Floyd Waverly was going down. No way did the bastard get to mess with Sam like that. No way.

He turned the corner and came face-to-face with the mad janitor.

Before he knew what hit him, Dean flew across the foyer, smacking into the glass doors and fell to the floor. Damn things still didn’t buckle.

Dean’s head snapped up to Waverly’s legs just in front of him, walking away.

“Coward,” he snarled. “Pathetic good-for-shit excuse for bones.”

Waverly stopped, turned.

“You’re not a doctor. You don’t have it in you. Now your brother…he was a damn fine physician.”

Waverly came at him, full on, his ugly mug contorted in rage.

“You’re a worthless, junkless, bag of shit. Never amount to—oompph!”

Dean was hauled off the floor, slammed back into the glass doors. Waverly’s hands came around his throat, strong enough to break his neck with one twist, but Dean thrust his gloved hand into the iberra’s chest, held.

Waverly jolted, shrieked. His body cinched tight, limbs jerking, eyes bulged. His screams rattled inside his throat. Gray slobber spilled from his mouth.

Shouting, Dean held on, pressing the devise in harder and harder. This was for Sam. This was for Sam.

Waverly’s arms dropped. He dropped. Dean fell with him, still pushing, still shouting. Thunder bellowed through the hall. Energy built around them, raising gooseflesh across Dean’s scalp.

Waverly’s skin ripped apart. Light burst out of the seams, ghosts, spirits, hundreds of them, lifted out, shrieking their anger and pain and shooting up into the ceiling, surging down the hallways. Their energy buffeted into Dean.

He shrank back, shielding his head with his arms as spirit after spirit poured past him.

Suddenly all went quiet. Waverly lay still, a shrunken hollow steaming husk of flesh. Dean leaned closer for a better look, nudging Waverly with his boot.

The glass exploded out of the doors. Shattered pieces sprayed the floor. So much for being on lockdown.

It was over.

Lunging up, Dean high-tailed it back to the OR.

Cas’s head was lowered, his palm across Sam’s forehead. Dean skidded to a stop, heart squeezing. What now?

Sam jerked up on a gasp, eyes wide, kicking Dean back into motion. He slid to Sam’s side. “What is it?”

Cas tilted his head. “I assume you took care of the monster. My powers are no longer cut off so I repaired any residue damage to Sam’s heart.”

Dean swallowed, not wanting to know how extensive the damage had been. “You did?”

Cas nodded. “You seem surprised.”

“No.” Just touched. He pulled Sam’s head up across his thigh and the kid’s eyes closed again, scaring Dean.

“Shall I take you to your current motel?”

“No.” Damn it was hard to speak around the lump in his throat. “To the Impala.” Wherever the hell his baby was. He had no idea when and where Waverly had snatched them from. But there was salt and accelerant in her trunk. They had clean-up to do. “In a minute. Just…give us a minute.”

Sam stirred against him, glassy eyes blinking open, tracked about the room and came back to Dean. His lips turned down in a frown. His throat worked, Adam’s apple bobbing up and down before he could figure out how to speak. “How…how much did I miss?”

Dean laughed. “Not much. Not much at all. Just your awesome brother once again saving the day.”

Fin

Disclaimers: Don’t own anything. Seriously, check my pockets.

Who wants to make a banner for this?

New Art

cece_away — Thu, 19 Apr 2012 21:52:04 GMT

I received some lovely new art for this fic from thoughtyouknewr I love it when people make me nice things.

A random thought that popped into my head

cece_away — Tue, 20 Mar 2012 18:08:15 GMT

Do the Leviathans want to cure cancer the same way ranchers don't like their cattle diseased?

Writer's Block: Sh*t Happens

cece_away — Sat, 11 Feb 2012 19:35:30 GMT

Even though shit happens, shit also washes off

A Heart for a Heart

cece_away — Mon, 23 Jan 2012 16:05:51 GMT

A Heart for a Heart

I finished the bear of a book I've been frantically working on the past few months so this is my own little reward to myself. Just a little self indulgent one-shot to put the Winchesters in peril. No plot, just a lot of chasing and whumpage.

Pre-series. I picture Sam at 16 and Dean at 20.

It was ripping Dean's heart out. Literally.

Sam heard the thud of bodies hitting concrete across the sewage tunnels and whipped around. Dad was a crumpled mess at the bottom of the manhole ladder. His empty hard hat spun on the slick ground.

And Dean… The edana held Dean against the grimy wall, spindly fingers burrowing into his chest where blood blossomed like an opening flower.

Sam didn't think, just reacted.

He'd been assigned duffel carrying duty, so duffel carrying he did, charging straight on at the edana and swinging the heavy bag into the black-hooded creature, knocking it off center.

Dean gasped, dropping like a brick.

But Sam wasn't finished. He swung the bag again. It stopped mid-arc, jolting his arm.

Not caught off-guard this time, the cowled corpselike monster grabbed the duffel and with uncanny strength tossed it aside, wrenching Sam off his feet with it.

Sam rolled to a stop on the floor and scrambled up to hands and knees.

The excuse for a zombie-ghoul hybrid strode toward him.

Dad was down.

Dean was down.

The chalk markings for the ritual to get rid of the thing weren't anywhere near complete. There was only one thing Sam could do.

He bolted, coming off the ground like a sprinter off the mark. He fled into the dark sewer passages, hoping the monster would follow, terrified the monster would follow.

Footfalls echoed behind him like loud gunshots reverberating off steel. Sam's heart took up the rhythm. Slap slap slap slap.

Gauzy light filtered from drainage grates in the streets above, slanting across wet mold-covered walls. Sam skidded into a T intersection, wrenching his shoulder, and banked left.

Their only chance, his only chance, was to give the edana something to chase long enough for either Dean or Dad to come to and perform the ritual that they hadn't even started yet.

Sam's sneakers slapped through water. A rat squealed underfoot. It was a terrible plan. The edana could outrun, out-endure any human being. Sam didn't have an ants chance at a cricket party.

His foot slid out from under him and he went down hard on a knee.

Get up get up.

Footfalls splashed behind him, a steady unhurried cadence. Sam hauled himself up, nearly fell again when he placed weight on the leg. Toppling into the wall, he held himself upright using the wall for support and hobbled down the passage as quickly as he could.

The edana was gaining on him. Sam felt the thing's presence flowing close behind him like a black wing.

He ducked into a shorter smaller sewage pipe the height of his knees and army crawled on his elbows and legs. His knee throbbed. Slimy water soaked his front, splashed into his face. He half-hoped the monster would not follow him in here, but the splashing, breathing, eerily heavy presence continued on behind him, growing closer, more menacing as the gap closed between them.

Sam reached the end of the pipe where it spilled down into a larger passageway. Sludge dripped from the lip of the pipe, smearing Sam's shirts as he crawled out and dropped to the floor.

Chest heaving, he rolled to his back, watching the pipe while he caught his breath. Please don't follow please don't follow. A long crooked pasty white hand crept out of the dark pipe and grasped onto the lip. It clenched, pulling and the white greenish orb of the thing's rotting face emerged from the dark. Silver eyes tracked the passage and latched onto Sam. Cracked peeling lips curved up in maliciousness.

Sam's heart lodged in his throat. Move, move now, his brain screamed at his protesting muscles.

Scrambling backwards, he twisted to get up, his side hitching in pain, his knee a flare of misery, but he couldn't give into it so he ran, at least tried to.

He ran into a narrower passage, moving sideways in the cramped space. The edana was practically breathing down his neck. The footfalls came on like the freakin Terminator.

Sam came to an intersection of sorts of five passageways. He took the one to the right, hoping to lose this thing. Several steps in, he paused to hide his own footfalls, hoping the creature would take another passage. His chest dragged up and down in erratic breaths that he tried to quiet. His pulse boomed in his ears.

Footsteps crunched behind him and Sam slammed a fist against the wall. He was so tired, so achingly tired.

Shoving off the wall, Sam limped down the passage as fast as he could possibly go. Every step shot agony through his leg.

The footfalls grew closer. He felt the creature draw near like a dark cloud.

Sam bore down on the pain and quickened his pace. He moved beneath another grate that striped the wall in muted moonlight. Trash, old cigarette butts and broken beer bottles crunched under his sneakers.

A sudden strike between his shoulders knocked him into the wall. Hands grabbed the back of his head and bashed his face into the concrete.

Pain exploded behind his eyes. Bones crunched. Blood ran down his face, over his lips and chin. His vision darkened.

He came to to acute pain in this chest. Flat on the floor beneath the edana, silver eyes tunneled into him. Sharp brutal torture drilled into his breast where spindly stiletto fingers broke through his flesh.

Oh God, the edana was going after his heart.

He tried to twist away from the agony. The creature's other hand pressed down on his shoulder, holding him easily in place. Sam latched onto the creature's wrist, trying to hold it off his heart.

Moonlight splashed across his vision. Tears leaked from the corners of his eyes. The pain was unimaginable. His heartbeat strained beneath the monster's grip.

Sam really didn't want to die.

Blood and tears streamed down the side of his face into his hair. His free hand scrabbled across the gritty cement through the garbage.

A blunt stab sliced into his palm. He grasped onto it like salvation, fingers closing around a cold cylinder. A broken bottle.

Without thought he plunged the bottle upward. The jagged edges slid into flesh—or whatever.

The silver eyes widened. Peeling lips parted.

With everything he had left, Sam pushed on that bottle, inching the glass in farther.

A heart for a heart.

Sam's arms shook. He let go of the edana's wrist to use both hands to push on the bottle.

Something shifted. The bottle slid in deep.

The creature shrieked, threw back its head and splintered into a million pieces—like coal dust that dropped onto Sam, coating him in dark sooty granules.

Sam still held the broken bottle upright. A shriveled blackened heart skewered on the jagged bottle, still pumped.

One arm flopped to the floor, the other stiffly held the bottle and heart upright, a living beating sinister trophy of ugly.

Sam's lungs pulled and exhaled, his breaths panting like gills on a fish out of water. His heart throbbed inside a chest that spasmed brutally cold. He threw everything he had into breathing around that pain-- Just breathe around it.

A cloud drifted overhead above the grate, dousing the silvery moonlight. Synthesized music ricocheted off the passage walls for a few beats then died.

Sam panted—in, out, too rapidly, too short. He couldn't breathe around the tight concentration of pain. The cloud passed and soft muted light striped across his eyes. The edana's heart pulsed at the end of the bottle, a mockery of the rhythmic breaths Sam couldn't produce.

The music played again, the same eight beats. He knew he should know what that meant, but he couldn't think beyond breathing against the torment.

It was too sharp. Too concentrated. Too much. His entire world whittled down to the point above his heart. His entire body clenched like a tightening fist around it.

The music rang again.

Footfalls clapped across concrete.

Sam's fear spiked. His heart squeezed impossibly tighter. The edana had re-materialized? Was coming for him again?

A muted voice carried across the air. "I hear his ringtone. Dad, he's down this way."

The steps splashed through water, traveled through trash. The chink of a bottle scraping across the floor chimed out.

Something warm touched Sam's temple and he jolted.

"Easy, easy," a raspy voice soothed. "God, that's…that's a lot of blood."

Dean's face leaned into view, obscuring the grate and light above. Still gasping, folding his body rigid against the pain, Sam could only blink.

"You're gonna be okay, it's all going to be all right. You understand me?" Dean said it with enough conviction to force everything to be all right, and damn if Sam didn't believe him.

A wide palm pressed over his heart and Sam cried out. Every nerve erupted in misery.

"Sam! Sam!"

But Sam couldn't respond. He couldn't tell Dean to stop.

And then something happened. The pain eased. He didn't know if it had simply run its course, if his muscles were somehow relaxing, or if it was just…Dean.

An audible gasp broke through. He was able to lift a shaky arm and latch onto Dean's wrist in the same way he had the creature's.

"Sam." Suddenly his dad was there, steady and strong enough to make Sam stay with them with just his voice alone. "Look at me, son."

Oh, but he couldn't. He was too afraid. If he took his eyes from Dean, the pain might come back.

"It's okay. He's with us, Dad."

A hesitation. "You're sure?"

Green eyes stared into his. "Yeah. Right, Sam?"

Sam blinked. That's all he could give him.

Dean's hand—the one not above Sam's heart holding him together—slipped into his hair, a warm reassuring pressure on his scalp.

"Okay." Dad again and Sam wanted to tell them how glad he was that they were both there, that they'd found him. Long fingers curled over Sam's unyielding hand, gently prying his fingers from around the broken bottle. There was something wrong about that. He had to hold it up, keep pressing the bottle up into the monster. His hand clamped more tightly. "It's okay, son. I got it from here."

His fingers were uncurled and the bottle taken from him. A large calloused hand took its place and Sam clamped onto his father's palm like the last twig in a tumbling landslide.

"What is this black stuff all over him?' Dean's voice started to sound echoy, like he spoke from a far distance. Sam screamed for them not to leave him, but all that came out were punchy gasps of air.

"I think . . ." Dad's voice floated farther away like the distant footfalls that would forever plague him. "I think that's the edana."

"But the ritual didn't work."

"Sam found a way." Their voices were fading. "The heart . . ."

"Pour this over it." He didn't know if they meant the creature's heart or his own. He couldn't tell who was speaking anymore, their voices indistinguishable and blurring.

Until burning liquid splashed over his chest and everything crashed back in startling clarity. Muscles jerking, his shoulders slammed off the floor.

"Whoa, whoa. Easy." Dean. "Just holy water."

Hands grabbed him from behind before he could fall back, keeping him upright, the pressure of each one slightly different. Dad's hand below the left shoulder blade, Dean's to the right.

Sam was sandwiched between both men and couldn't think of a safer haven.

Air began to flow more deeply through his lungs. His chest throbbed like a massive dull ache, but Dean's hand still rested over his heart and Sam let his fear ease. His coiled muscles relaxed and the pain lessened. His dad still held his other hand, even though the cut from the bottle bled between their palms like a shrouded promise.

"D-dad." He managed to finally croak out.

His dad leaned into view and Sam flinched, startled at the deep-seated lines of worry straining the usually calm self-possessed hunter's brow.

John's lips stretched in a semblance of a weak smile. "You're okay now." It was a statement, making it the truth. Sam had no other course but to comply. He gave the obligatory nod and his dad's smile lightened, his shoulders expanded as though he, too, could finally breathe easier.

"All right. Good. That's good, son." His dad's Adam's apple bounced. "I want you to stay here with Dean. Keep breathing steady like you're doing. In and out. You can do that, son. That's all you have to do."

Sam nodded again and John smiled again and pulled back. The sudden withdrawal of his arm at his back and palm against his felt the same as when their voices were drifting away so Sam kept watchful eyes on the man, making sure he didn't fade as John picked up the shriveled pumping heart by the bottle and walked down the passage until the darkness swallowed him. Sam imagined he was going to perform the ritual on the heart or splash it with holy water, something to put it to rest once and for all.

Dean edged closer, filling the absence Dad had left. "Shit, Sam, taking off like that—What were you thinking?"

He'd been thinking that no way was that creature going to take Dean's heart. But that was too large an emotion to put into words, so instead Sam let his forehead roll onto Dean's chest, just above the ripped material in the shirt and listened to his brother's patience heart beat.

Fin

Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural or The Terminator. If wishes were fishes though…

Hell's Angels complete

cece_away — Sat, 19 Nov 2011 16:43:14 GMT

Go back to Beginning

Chapter Seven
"Gonna get you on your feet." Dean's heart was running a full-out marathon. Last time he'd been this close to a hound of Hell, their teeth were ripping through his chest cavity. Having their snouts this close to Sam, hot breath puffing across the kid's face, noses nudging at his side, had a cold sweat breaking out across the back of Dean's neck.

Dean pulled Sam to his feet and the dogs growled low in their throats, red eyes flashing. Both brothers froze.

"They're gonna let us through, right?"

Sam's eyes widened. "You think I know?"

Dean felt his sibling's heart pounding where his hand was fisted in the kid's shirt to help steady him. "Well, they're kind of acting on your orders."

Sam stiffened. His answer was quiet. "I didn't order them to pull me out of the Cage."

Dean wet his lips, having no answer for that. He hated knowing that if Sam had the choice he would have remained in the Cage to protect Adam. He got that. Got that Sam being Sam wouldn't have left the kid for anything, but it still made Dean sick to his stomach thinking about Sam sacrificing himself like that.

Together, they took a small step forward and the hounds shifted to let them through. So far so good.

"Kay, they're moving," Bobby said from the other side of the phalanx of shoulder-high dogs. "Just take it slow."

They made it to Bobby and began inching their way towards the truck. The mutts moved with them like guards on duty. The closest one stopped just before Sam swayed and would have gone down if Dean didn't have a hold on him. "Sam?" he asked, staring into the glowing eyes of the hound, noting the puckered skin of an old scar across the nose. He had the uncanny feeling that the mutt sensed Sam was about to take a tumble before it happened.

Dean tore his gaze away to assess Sam. Kid's jaw was clenched, eyes tightened to slits, face pale. Head must be throbbing. "You with me?"

Despite the pain lines etched into his features, Sam grinned. "I am."

"Am what?"

"With you." Sam nodded. "I'm with you."

The significance of those words reached Dean, spreading warmth through his chest. He swallowed. "Good. Let's keep it that way." Hell's not going to get you again.

Bobby yanked the truck door open and the hounds recoiled at the grinding squeak. The scarred mutt pushed itself between the brothers and the truck.

"This could be a problem." Bobby climbed inside and scooted across the bench seat to the driver's side.

Dean nudged his brother. "Tell them you need to get in the truck."

Sam lifted his head, his eyes barely focusing, yet he found the scarred dog's gaze. "Do whatever my brother says," Sam slurred and Dean felt him lean closer into him, his strength depleted.

Dean stared the dog down, which was no easy task with the hound being nearly at eye level and a couple hundred pounds larger than him. "You heard him, move out of the way."

The Hellhound stared back before he gave a short bark and shifted back, allowing Dean and Sam room to get into the truck. Oh yeah, scarface was definitely the leader.

Not wasting time, Dean pushed Sam into the truck, and climbed in beside him. He felt a lot more comfortable with Sam wedged in between Bobby and himself as though their flesh and bones made any kind of barrier if the dogs wanted to get at his brother.

Bobby's hand hovered over the horn as though a short blast would get the hounds to move like a herd of cattle. Rethinking, the old hunter dropped his hand to the ignition. "Hospital?" He eased the truck forward. The hounds moved out of the way, only to lope by the side as the vehicle picked up speed.

"Your place."

"You sure? Kid took a bullet to the . . ." Bobby's hands tightened on the wheel, obviously as unsettled by the close call as Dean was.

"Not even bleeding," Sam piped in. He was slouched in the seat, long legs taking up all the room in Dean's side of the footwell, eyes closed and head resting against the seat.

Bobby glanced at Dean for confirmation.

"We were lucky." Damn lucky. Dean squeezed his hands into fists to stop the shaking. "Bullet barely grazed him. Looks more like road rash. Might need to shave off his hair just to make sure."

Sam phiffed out a breath and Dean smiled.

Bobby pulled the truck onto the main road that would take them to the turn-off and the little country road that led to the salvage yard. This late there were only a few other cars sharing the roadway and Bobby pressed on the gas pedal, doing at least seventy with the hounds of Hell easily keeping pace.

"That demon wanted me dead." Sam still hadn't opened his eyes. "She talked about a change in management. And then the Hellhounds . . ."

"They saved you, Sammy."

"But why . . .?"

Dean and Bobby looked across the boy to each other.

"Am I . . .?" Sam pressed a hand over the wound on his head.

Dean looked past Bobby out the window at the bunching muscles of the running pack. He'd seen a lot of things in his lifetime, yet it still unnerved him to witness Hellhounds flow straight into and out the other side of oncoming vehicles.

"They pulled you out of Hell, boy." Bobby tugged the rim of his old cap. "They're following your orders."

Worse and worse. Dean wanted to cover his ears and shout la-la-la I can't hear you. "You're saying that the Hellhounds dragged Sammy out of the Cage because they recognize him as the King of Hell. So why didn't they just drag Satan out?"

"I don't know. Guess they like Sam better. Or maybe because Sam bested Lucifer when he took control and jumped into the pit. Dogs don't tend to get all messed up into political issues. They simply look to the Alpha, the strongest. It's instinctual.

"Or it's possible that since the Cage was built especially to hold in a fallen Archangel, they couldn't free Lucifer, so went with the next best thing. Haven't exactly run across a situation like this before."

Sam's eyelids slid open. "If this is true, if I'm the big Kahuna of—"

"You're not." Dean didn't want him to be, didn't like the ramifications.

"If I am," Sam continued. "Then I can go back and order the demons to let Adam out."

"That's a big if, Sam."

"Notwithstanding . . ." Bobby pulled onto the country road. "If that crossroads demon aiming the colt at your head is anything to go by, you don't exactly have the winning vote downstairs. Just because a pack of Hellhounds recognize you as Alpha dog, doesn't mean the entire population of demons are gonna let bygones be bygones. With Lucy locked up tight and you suddenly out, the top frontrunners for the position of Hell's ruler are going to be gunnin for you and I wager their smear campaigns will be more about smearing you all over the pavement."

The muscles of Dean's throat tightened. Sam went quiet.

Bobby stared out the windshield. "Son, I hate to be the one saying this, but you can't go anywhere near the Cage."

"Stop the car!" Sam jerked up. "Bobby, just pull over." Sam reached across Dean, grabbing for the door handle. Dean shoved his arms away.

"All right. Hold on." Bobby pulled the truck to the side of the road and Sam shot out the door, nearly dragging Dean with him as he climbed over him.

The hounds immediately circled Sam, pressing in close and casting wary glances out toward the darkness. Sam ran his hands back through his hair, palms squeezing his temples. "None of that matters, me being King or not."

Dean edged closer, not wanting to spook the dogs—or Sam. "Of course it matters."

"No." Sam's forehead was lined in concentration. "That's not the point. Whether I am, whether I'm not, the Hellhounds—at least this pack—are doing what I ask them to do."

"Yeah." Dean stepped closer. He didn't know what Sam was getting at, but no way was he going to let Sam figure out how to get back into the Cage.

Sam's eyes lit up. "It's so simple." He searched the hounds until he found the scarred one and looked him straight in the eye. "Free my brother Adam from the Cage. Gently."

As though he understood completely, the Hellhound turned, muscles bunching.

"Wait," Sam called and the hounds all looked toward him. "Bring him here. Right here." It was apparent that Sam didn't want Adam to come out somewhere alone and confused like he had.

Scarface barked and as one the hounds took off, running full out until they flashed into fiery streamers that zipped away into the curve of the nearest hill.

Dean stared after them, hope tangling with the ever-present worry residing within his chest. Could it be that easy?

Chapter Eight

"How long is this going to take?" Dean growled.

"For a pack of Hell mutts to drag your half-brother from the pit?" Bobby scratched his head. "By my calculations should be a few more friggin I don't know minutes."

Shaking his head, Dean glared at the dark treeline in the distance. "Sam couldn't have waited to send the pack after Adam til we got to your place?"

Bobby's lips curled. "Would've been more convenient." The old mechanic glanced back at Sam, sitting sideways in the truck cab, his long legs dangling outside the open door. "We're like sitting ducks out here in the open."

"Yeah, well. Done is done and we're not moving til the hounds get back." Dean shoved his hands in his pocket, glancing at his brother. Sam's cheek pressed against the back window. It was hard to tell if the kid had fallen asleep or just had his eyes closed. They'd insisted he wait in the truck after Bobby pulled it into the field and then he and Dean grabbed spray paint from the back and painted several devil's traps in the grass around the truck. It wasn't perfect, but any demon that tried to get close to Sam would find himself bottled up before he could get near him.

Impatient, bored and worried, Dean wished for the hundredth time Bobby kept a cooler with his truck's arsenal. Instead, he strolled over to the side of the vehicle and leaned his back against it near the open door.

"Hey," Sam croaked, his voice as wasted as an eight-pack-a-day smoker's. "How long?"

"Only a few hours. How's the head?"

"Good," Sam said a little too fast. "Well, considering."

Considering he'd come out with only a graze path in the side of his head when the crossroads demon had the Colt's muzzle pressed at Sam's forehead. Dean's stomach heaved. Okay, forget the beer. He would have just upchucked that anyway.

"Dean." Sam slid across the seat to get out. "They're coming."

Dean snapped his gaze toward the dark field, not seeing anything. "You sure?"

"Yeah. There's a rumble to the air."

Dean went very still, listening. "Okaaaay." Bobby sidled next to him, rifle in hand, gaze shifting across the area. Headlights drifted over them as a car passed on the roadway behind them.

Standing, Sam gripped the door as though he needed it to steady himself. For only a moment, then he pushed off and started walking.

"Sam?" Dean followed after him, Bobby close on their heels and BLAM . . . the Hellhounds materialized around them, hind quarters swirling like bright smoke until they solidified into legs and tails, flanks heaving and glistening with sweat. The brothers shared a worried look before spinning in opposite directions to search among the pack. "Adam!"

Dean pushed through the large dogs, bent to look beneath them, seeing nothing but sleek hound legs and grass. "Adam!" he called out, hearing Bobby and Sam calling the same. Craning his neck, Dean looked across the backs of the hounds in a wide circuit until he found Sam. The largest hound, the leader with the scar across its nose, crouched at Sam's feet, front legs and muzzle low to the ground in a gesture of submission. Failure. Dean's hopes plummeted to the ground along with the beast, knowing Adam wasn't there.

He made his way through the pack to Sam.

Sam looked up at his approach, pleading eyes shining like liquid in the moonlight. Lips stretched thin, he gave a quick shake of his head.

Dean cupped Sam's elbow, ready to do more at the slightest indication that Sam's strength might give out, but so far he was holding his own. "Hey, that doesn't mean it won't work or that we're not going to try again. For all we know, they missed the designated visiting hours."

Sam's eyes widened, staring hard at his brother, his brows bunching.

"All I'm saying is that we don't know why this didn't work. Could be a number of things. But we're going to figure it out and we're going to get Adam. I promised you, right?"

"Yeah." Sam's head started bobbing. "Yeah, you did."

"Okay then."

Chapter Nine

Sam threw himself into research, scouring every resource Bobby had that even remotely touched on Hell. There had to be something in some text that would give them a clue on how to retrieve Adam from the pit.

He'd sent the Hellhounds after the kid two more times, hoping the first failure was just a fluke, but each time the pack returned without Adam and seeming utterly dejected at the failure to their master.

So much so that Sam had taken to reading a lot of the books and printouts outside where the hounds seemed less uneasy with having him within their sight.

"Time for a break, Sammy. You're pushing yourself too hard." Dean pushed a sandwich in his face and sat down beside him on the porch steps.

"Every minute it takes us to figure out is days Adam's stuck in there."

A firm hand curled over his shoulder. "I know. Believe me I get that."

Sam stared at the scarred Hellhound lounging at his feet on a lower step.

"Look, we're not going to stop until we get him back. I promised you, Sam."

Bolstered by his brother's determination, Sam smiled. "Yeah, okay. Yeah. Did you find anything useful in the Graduations to Temptation index?"

Dean grabbed the chewed-up tennis ball on the porch and tossed it into the yard. The Hellhound shot off in a puff of smoke. "No, it reads like an instruction guide for newbie cross-road demons. I'm not even sure the author wasn't a demon."

The Hellhound reappeared and dropped the slippery ball at Dean's feet. "Good boy, good doggie." He rubbed the large glossy head affectionately behind the ears.

Sam's brows rose. "You taught him how to fetch?"

Dean shrugged. "He's a quick learner. Aren't you, Alfred? There's a good dog."

"You named him?"

"Couldn't just call him 'it'. It's undignified."

"Naming him after Batman's butler isn't?"

"He likes to fetch. Like a butler. What?"

Sam kept his features neutral, but warmth spread inside his chest. God, he'd missed his brother.

He picked at his sandwich, feigning complete seriousness. "Okay then, but just so you know, since the Hellhounds think I'm their master, that makes me Batman. You're Robin."

"What? No." Dean's eyes widened comically. "It doesn't mean that at all. I'm the one who taught him how to fetch."

Dean slid the large book Sam had opened on his lap out from under the sandwich plate. "No more studying until you eat." His voiced lowered to a gravelly rasp. " And I am the Batman." He closed the large book. "Wish the hounds could just go off and fetch all the answers we need."

Everything inside of Sam went very still. "Dean." That was it. He shoved the full plate back at Dean and stood up, ran both hands back through his hair. "Dean, that's it."

He ran into the house, into Bobby's dining room slash office, his gaze roaming the piles and shelves, searching for—he didn't know exactly—something old.

Dean ran in after him, plate and book still in hand. "What? What is it? What'd you figure out?"

"You did." Sam pulled a fat tome from a pile stacked on a wobbly kitchen chair. "Look. For whatever reason the Hellhounds can't bring Adam out like they did me, but they might be able to fetch other things."

Dean shook his head, wearing a not-following-you expression.

Sam set the book down and grabbed another. "Knowledge, Dean. These books here . . . they were written by men, knowledgeable men, but they were still guessing at best. You want to know something about monsters, you go to the source."

"You've scoured the Bible, Sam. The Quran and Apocrypha and who knows what else and came up with a truckload of squat."

"Heaven's books, Dean—also written by man."

Dean shrugged. "Supposedly prophets. Like Chuck."

"Fine, but that's still Heaven's books."

Sam saw the moment it clicked in Dean's head. His brother's eyes glinted with that little spark of pride reserved only for him. He wondered if Dean even knew he did that. "You think there's books in Hell, written by demons for demons."

Sam cocked his head. "Or written by fallen angels. Hell's Angels. Even Crowley said that he's bound by certain rules. "

"Okay. So what are we looking for?"

"Something old—on parchment maybe, that might have a similar scent or texture to a book down under."

Dean stretched up to one of the higher shelves. "Like this?"

Sam looked over his shoulder, his mouth curling down in an unconscious shrug at the scroll wrapped around two sticks Dean held.

"That might work."

They hurried outside where Alfred waited on the porch, always alert when Sam was out of sight. His body visibly relaxed. Sam took the hound's head between his palms, bending only slightly to get face-to-face with the gigantic canine. "Alfred, I don't know if you even understand what I'm telling you, but I need you to go into Hell and bring me back the oldest text you can find." He took the scroll from Dean and held it up to the hound.

Alfred leaned forward, large nostrils expanding. The scar across his nose bunched as the Hell-beast seemed to concentrate. With a loud woof, Alfred turned and dashed away in rapid streamers of smoke. The other hounds in the yard lifted their heads and trailed off after their leader, disappearing like speeding zeppelins.

Sam stood on the steps, staring at the empty salvage yard. The hounds' departure was a thing of beauty he'd never get tired of witnessing.

Dean's hand curled around his arm, tugging him back into the house. "Now will you eat?"

"Uh, sure." Why not? Sam turned his back on the yard until a low vibration skittered across the back of his neck. He swung back around.

The Hellhounds burst into view. Alfred had a very long, very old scroll between his wet teeth which he nudged into Sam's chest.
"That was," Dean said. "Astonishingly fast."

Sam took the scroll gingerly from between the Hellhound's teeth, his pulse banging inside his eardrums. Ever so gently he unrolled the top.

"Is it?" Dean leaned close.

Sam shook his head. "I can't read it."

Dean reached over. "That symbol is Enochian."

"Yeah, you're right, but it's a varied form. Wait." His throat was closing up. "Enoch was the great great, however many greats, grandson of Adam. They were contemporaries."

Dean pulled back to stare at Sam. "That many greats, how could they be contemporaries?"

"People lived long back then. Adam didn't die til he was like nine hundred years old."

"You're kidding me?"

"No. I'm not. Dean, I think this is written in the Adamic language. This has got to be the oldest document on the face of the planet."

"Well now it is. It's been in Hell all this time."

Sam glanced sideways at Dean before settling his gaze back onto the parchment. "If Enoch knew Adam, then Enochian would be closely related to Adamic. I think I can figure this out."

"That's great, Sam, and I'm going to do whatever I can to help just as soon as you eat that sandwich."

Chapter Ten

Dean stretched his back and attempted to roll the tension from his neck. They'd been at it for three days straight. Sam and Bobby had worked out a kind of cipher between Adamic and Enochian (which Sam had apparently become semi-fluent in during his stay with the winged Bobsey twins.) You can take a geek out of Kansas. . . .

Days ago, kid had broken out in a sweat, face lost all color and his hands started trembling, scaring the beejebas out of Dean. Turned out Sam had merely translated the title. What they had was the actual law book of Hell. All the rules and ordinances that governed the realm of darkness from what transgressions precisely justified eternal damnation to the limitations and power wielded by the official who sat on the throne.

Hell was full of laws and red tape.

"Must be why so many lawyers feel at home there," Dean had snarked and Sam rolled his eyes.

Most of the book was boring rhetoric, though pre-law Sammy was in his element, only frustrated that they couldn't translate fast enough or that what they had uncovered so far still didn't tell them anything about how to free their youngest brother from the pit.
They left huge chunks of symbols untouched once Sam determined by a few lines which passages would go on and on about crossroad deals or the loopholes within tempting mankind.

At the moment, Dean worked at the kitchen table with Bobby on a few photocopied segments Sam thought might have potential.
He just happened to glance over at Sam who had a large portion of the scroll unrolled across Bobby's desk in the study. Sam's posture all of a sudden straightened. His fingers followed lines of text and then lifted to drop back down and follow alone the same lines again.

"Find something, Sam?"

Sam jolted nearly out of his seat. "Uh, yeah. No. Maybe. I'm not sure yet."

Bobby looked up.

Dean got up to go look over Sam's shoulder. It still all mostly looked like chicken scratch to him. What Sam could translate in minutes, took Dean a good half hour and Bobby wasn't much better.

"I, um . . ." Sam pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger, eyes squeezed tight. "I think I need a break. I'm seeing double."

"Yeah." Dean nodded, not buying it. Okay, the seeing double maybe. Sam had been at this non-stop, barely eating or sleeping. Bobby threatened him with a loaded tranquilizer last night to finally get the kid to turn in. "Why don't you go get some rest?"
Nodding, Sam stood and shuffled toward the living room. Halfway, he turned back and shoved his hands into his pockets. "Dean?"
Dean didn't like how Sam wouldn't look him in the eye. "Yeah?"

"Just, um . . ." Sam did meet his gaze then. "Just thanks, you know . . . for not giving up on me. And not giving up on Adam."

So that was it. Sam had reached the point of being overwhelmed and sought reassurance from big brother. Everything inside Dean softened. "You know how it goes. Us Winchesters are a stubborn lot."

Dimples came with that and Sam dipped his head. "Yeah. Thank God for that."

Dean laughed. "Get some rest. Bobby and I will keep working." He watched Sam head up the stairs, the slump to his shoulders concerning.

"Hey, Bobby," Dean spoke quietly and fingered the part of the scroll Sam had been working on. "What do you say we work on this section for a bit."

#

Sam sat on the edge of the bed, long fingers steepled together and stared despondently at the wrinkles puckering the worn rug on the hardwood.

He'd been desperate to find a way to get Adam out . . . now that he had—He pressed his hands over his face—he didn't know if he was strong enough to go through with it.

He sat there for hours, waiting for evening, until he heard movement downstairs, chairs scraping across the floor, and knew Dean and Bobby had gone into the kitchen to rustle up dinner. Silently, Sam padded down the stairs and eased into the study. Very carefully he rolled up the scroll, freezing when he heard the tiny snick of the gas stove and a pot sliding across the burner. He looked up to see Bobby at the stove, his back to him. He and Dean must be spent. They weren't even talking.

Backtracking, Sam slipped out the front door and down the steps, avoiding the places he knew creaked.

The hounds came immediately alert. He didn't have to call them, which made things much easier.

"Going somewhere?"

Dean walked around Alfred's hulking form and patted the Hellhound's side.

"I . . ."

"Save it. I know exactly what you were going to do. Bobby and I did a little translating of our own. A challenge, Sam. Really?"

Sam winced. "It's the only way. Once a challenge is made for the throne of Hell, it has to be met, unless forfeited."

"So what, you think you're gonna just waltz down there and extend a challenge to Lucifer and he'll be . . ." Dean lifted his palms upward. "Lucy will magically be released from the Cage to accept an alpha dog bitch match for the throne?"

Sam shifted from one foot to the other. He should've known Dean would sense something was off and figure everything out. "The law is explicit on that. It's the one unforeseen loophole that can open the Cage. Once open, I grab Adam and we hightail it out of there via the Hellhound Express."

"Except for one thing." Dean crossed the distance between them. "I'm not letting you do this."

"How you gonna stop me?" Sam's hands curled down by his sides.

A beat passed.

This wasn't the way he wanted to leave Dean. Sam exhaled, uncurled his fingers. "This is our best chance." He gave a half-laugh. "It's our only chance."

Dean's stance softened too. "It's too risky. It runs the potential of a million things going wrong. Even if we brought the Horsemen's rings, there's no way Satan's dumb enough to willingly jump in a second time for you to close the Cage, and I'll be damned before I let him take the wheel of your noggin again. Plus, a challenge to the devil? You may have to actually fight him—an Archangel. Sam, I can't—" Dean shook his head. His eyes glistened with moisture. "I can't lose you again. I can't."

Sam's chest hurt as though a bruise formed around it. "Dean, that's why I have to go. I can't leave Adam there. I promised him. And you promised me."

Dean rubbed a palm across his jaw, but Sam was determined to roll over any objections. "If it was me still down there, you'd go."
Dean went very still. Sam knew the moment he had him when his brother's eyes dipped and all the strained bravado left the rigid line of his shoulders.

"Please, Dean." Sam cringed at the desperation in his tone. He needed to do this, but he also needed Dean to support him in it.

"All right, Sammy," Dean said so quietly it felt like a caress on the chilly air.

Relief so powerful it almost dropped him to his knees, slammed into Sam. His throat clamped up so tight he couldn't speak, just stood there nodding, blinking back tears.

"I'll . . ." He swallowed past the closing muscles cinching his throat. "I'll bring him back." Sam turned.

"Oh. You're not going alone."

Fear stiffened Sam's spine. He was more than willing to risk himself over this, but not Dean. "No, Dean. There's no reason for you to—"

"There's every reason!" he practically growled. "Just like you won't leave Adam there," Dean threw Sam's own argument back to him. "I won't let you do this without me."

Sam's lips slipped open, stunned. Part of him was scared to death for Dean, knowing his sibling was beyond protective and would throw himself in front of either younger brother at the first indication of anything going south, yet another part of him was just so damn glad.

Sam stretched out his hand. "Together then?"

Dean clasped his arm, curling strong fingers around Sam's elbow. "All the way."

"Alfred." Arms still locked, Sam held Dean's gaze. "Take us into Hell."

#

Before Dean registered what was happening, Alfred tossed his large head and Dean was thrown onto the back of one of the pack, his grasp ripped away from Sam's as the kid was likewise tossed onto Alfred's back. Hellhounds apparently didn't wait around to discuss business, just got to work. Dean could respect that.

He didn't even have the time to say 'what the hell?' before they were hurtling across the ground at blurring speed. To say it was a smooth ride would be a monumental exaggeration. The large muscles bunched beneath him, rocking him like a cork in a stream.
Leaning low, Dean wrapped arms around the huge neck and just hung on, screaming when they pushed through earth and rock and the cells of his body seemed to implode. He wondered if his body had transformed into smoky wisps the same as the hounds, but found he didn't care just so long as they made it through this solid depth of rock.

They burst through into the dark glow of Hell fire and agonized screaming—the type of grating hopelessness Dean wished to never hear again. As he rode the beast's back, Hell sped before him like horrifying suppressed memories jammed together in blurring succession—bloody pulps strung on hooks and chains, unrecognizable bodies stretched on racks and left to rot, monsters fighting over scraps with creatures too hideous for even Dean's imagination to conjure.

His vision grayed, too much too fast to take in. He swallowed down bile, tasting of Hell's acid in his throat and curling his fingers within the sleek fur, he sought the one thing with any ghost of a chance to ground him. Turning his cheek to rest on the rolling muscle, Dean looked sideways and found Sam.

His brother rode Alfred in a mirror position to Dean's—laying forward and hanging on for his life—and staring back at him.
With that look, all the memories crashing around him faded away.

They were in Hell, but they were not defeated. And they were together.

Impossibly the Hellhounds slowed, hind quarters solidified into tail and legs until they stopped altogether in front of a pulsing shimmery box no larger than the size of their standard motel rooms.

Opaque behind the wall, two Archangels argued, hands gesturing wildly. Dark and light, both beyond beautiful.

The light angel guided someone farther behind him, turning slightly as he shouldered the dark being away and Dean caught a glimpse of who he shielded.

"Adam," he breathed, every muscle in his body turned to putty.

Chapter Eleven

"Adam." Every muscle in Dean's body turned to putty. He couldn't believe it. The kid was right there. Dean slid from the Hellhound's back, his boots hitting on solid rock.

So this was Lucifer's Cage? All bright and shiny and so elastic looking, it amazed him that such thin transparent walls could keep the two most powerful Archangels in existence imprisoned.

"Little Sammy Winchester." A ruddy-faced demon walked towards his brother with several more demons at his back. "You've got large ones to come back down here. And look." His black eyes tracked toward Dean. "You brought us a snack."

All the demons laughed, perched on the balls of their feet, muscles bunching in preparation to leap.

The hounds moved in front of Sam and Dean, growling low in their throats.

"Easy." Dean patted Alfred's side and felt the deep vibration humming through the animal's lungs.

Sam lifted the scroll. "I've every right to be here."

Wary, the demons shifted back, glancing one to another. Murmurs rolled through them.

As though they were beneath his notice, Sam turned his back on the horde to face the flowing box. Dean wondered if anyone but him noticed how Sam fisted the scroll so tightly his knuckles turned white.

"Lucifer!"

Within the Cage, the Archangels turned as though this was the first they noticed anything outside the box.

Adam stopped dead still. He looked from Sam to Dean, disbelief and hope warring across his young features. All at once he started trembling.

Lucifer sauntered toward the wall, robe flapping behind him like dark wings.

Sam's throat worked. Coming face to face with his constant nightmare would unnerve anybody. Dean saw the twitch in his jaw, the tightening of muscles in Sam's arm, the little sway as Sam fought the urge to retreat back.

Moving quickly, Dean went to Sam and stood arm to arm at his side. This is what he was here for.

So slight no one else would notice, Sam nodded once. His chest expanded with resolve and he lifted the scroll higher.
"I challenge you, Lucifer, for Hell's throne. By law, I claim my right as King of Hell."

The demons roared. Dean couldn't tell if the sound was triumphant or horrified. Probably a mixture of both. More and more demons appeared. Coils of smoke buzzed across the air, solidifying into mock representations of smoky humans as the cavernous space filled with the inhabitants of Hell.

Dean swallowed, knowing however this went down, getting out of here was going to be a bitch.

Abruptly, the demons quieted. A piercing whine shrieked upon the air. The Hellhounds whimpered, rubbing forelegs across their ears as though flicking away flies.

The whine pierced the center nerve in Dean's skull. He covered his ears and saw Sam do the same.

The ground rocked. A second time. And a sharp crack splintered the air.

Blinding light spilled through the cavern. The demons screamed. Coils of smoke sped away.

Dean's shout for his brother was torn away in the cacophony. He looked up to see the Cage rippling. Light and energy poured from long jagged cracks.

A thunderous boom washed over them, knocking Sam and Dean off their feet.

The light blinked out.

The ground and air settled. Dean wrenched his head up.

And the Cage was . . . Gone.

Lucifer strode forward and dragged Sam off the ground.

"No." Dean shouted though it came out as a mangled hiss.

"Sam!" Adam's voice struck louder. The blond Archangel, Michael, pulled the kid back, restraining him from rushing to Sam.

Lucifer held Sam up by his collar as easily as if he were a child. Sam's feet dangled above the ground. "Thank you, Samuel." Satan almost looked amused. "I must say, I never expected to see you again. And certainly not issuing a challenge for my throne."

"It was the only way to get Adam out of the Cage." Sam didn't even bother to lie. But then after hundreds of years playing the serpent's games, Lucifer would spot a lie in a second.

"Ah." The dark angel set Sam back on his feet and dusted Sam's shoulders off like the coating of sulfur and who knew what else on the kid offended him. "But a challenge really? When I can break your neck with a snap of my fingers?"

Dean pulled slowly to his feet, his heart lodged in his throat and looked around for something, anything to help Sam.

"I demand a fair fight, brother." Michael stepped forward, pulling Adam with him.

Lucifer swiveled. "Fair?" He laughed. "I'm the strongest of all beings. Should I not use any angelic powers, I still have endurance the boy will never have. He will never have a fair chance and well you know it." He turned back to Sam, true concern etched in his expression. "Sam, rescind your challenge. Remain here with me. I'll be kind."

"The challenge has been issued. It has to be met." He shoved the scroll at Lucifer's chest even as his hands shook.

"Don't force this, Sam. Believe it or not, I've missed you. I've missed our time together. I'll make it easy on you, Sam." Satan cocked his head and took the scroll. "Rescind the challenge, stay here with me willingly and I'll allow one of your brothers to leave. I'll even let you choose which one."

Sam slanted a helpless glance toward Dean. Dean held it. I'm with you. All the way.

"It's a good trade." Lucifer reached out and ran a lock of Sam's hair through his fingers, lingering at the ends by Sam's neck. "The alternative is that I win, and I get all three Winchesters as my pretty playthings for eternity. "

A tremor rolled through Sam, but he lifted his chin. Dean had never felt more proud or more terrified.

"No," Sam whispered.

Lucifer tapped his lips. "Can't say I'm surprised. Especially since I know you plan to ride the Hellhounds out. But you forget, once I win, I'll be the master of the hounds. They won't listen to you anymore."

Dean stiffened. Oh crap.

"Sam," Satan's tone was placating, almost gentle. "I'm an Archangel. You know you can't beat me."

"I know." Sam looked to Dean again. "But right this second, the hounds still listen to me. Alfred! Get Dean and Adam out of here. Never bring them back!"

Before Dean understood what was happening, his shoulder was in Alfred's mouth and they were soaring across the swollen expanse of Hell. Dean pulled at the oversized jaw to get free, to just drop anywhere in Hell and he'd fight his way back to Sam, but the hound only clamped down harder. Alfred would probably tear through his muscle if that was the only way to obey Sam's last command.

"Alfred, please. Take me back, take me back," Dean plead against the muzzle, staring into the red eyes.

The walls and passages blurred around them in a nauseating rush. Dean tried to find Adam among the phalanx of bunching and stretching muscle, but the speed they traveled made it too disorienting to lift his head and look at anything beside the large mutt's shiny rolling coat. The nausea grew worse as the pack passed through rock and impossibly dragged them with them up through layers and layers of stone and earth. Dean's teeth rattled. He was on the barest edge of remaining conscious when all at once the pressure ceased.

Like a switch had been flipped, sensations shifted. The world no longer moved around him or tried to suffocate every cell in his body. Warm air blew across his skin. The honking of a car alarm sounded from a distance. His palms and knees pushed n dirt, so sensitized he swore he could distinguish larger granules. Bright daylight stretched his shaky shadow across the ground.
Gritting his teeth, Dean pushed up and ignited a headache that chiseled behind his eyes. Someone retched behind him.

Sam.

Dean swung around so fast the chisel at his skull went on overdrive.

Not Sam. Adam. The realization crashed into him like a tsunami wave and Dean didn't think he'd ever resurface.

On his knees, Adam wavered, about to take the plunge into his own waste. Crawling, Dean got to him and hauled the kid back. They were in an empty unpaved parking lot in the back of a bricked building.

"Sam," Adam wailed. "He's still in there." He lunged sideways and started clawing in the dirt. "We have to get back there."

Dean wanted to howl and start digging with him. Instead he grabbed Adam's arms, shook him. "There's a million tons of rock between us and Hell. The Hellhounds are the only way to get through it." Jagged pain lanced through his heart at having to say those words.

Adam shoved him away and kept digging. Dean sat back on his heels and let him expend his energy.

When he had a hole up to his elbows Adam sagged back. "He stayed behind to get us out." His entire body shuddered. He lifted tear-filled eyes to Dean. "Why would he do that?"

Because that's exactly what he would have done. Unable to voice it, Dean simply shook his head. He dug through his pockets to find his phone, vaguely wondering if riding into Hell would've had any effect on the life of its battery.

Bobby barked when he answered. "Where the hell have you been? You dumbasses up and disappear. No Hellhounds around—"

"Bobby," Dean croaked and the old man instantly quieted. "I need you to come get us."

His fingers tightened as he realized that the "us" didn't include Sam.

Chapter Twelve

Weeks passed. Adam poured all his energies into research. Turned out he also had picked up an ear for dead languages while in Hell, but no longer having the scroll of Hell's Laws, he wasn't finding anything useful.

Dean came and went. It hurt to stay around the salvage yard to see Adam hunched over old texts in the same chair Sam had preferred.

He tried to summon crossroad demons, but no one would show. In fact all demonic activity was quiet. He screamed for hours for Alfred to come back, even yelling out promises of the largest ball of twine to fetch, but the Hellhounds never burst onto the scene and the implications of that, that Sam was no longer their master, or Dean by default, plummeted his last grasp on hope.

Lisa left several voice messages, but Dean couldn't bring himself to replay them. As much as he cared for her, he couldn't go back to her as though everything was the same.

Nothing was gaddamned the same.

Which was why Dean found himself back at Bobby's, sitting on the Impala in the dark, drinking flat beer and missing Sam so badly he thought his heart would splinter under the weight.

Footsteps crunched on gravel. Adam reached to touch the hood of the car, yet held back as though he didn't have the right to touch her. "I miss him."His tone was quiet.

Dean stiffened, hearing inflections of Sam. Canting his head, he studied Adam through the corners of his eyes and his heart hitched at the sloping creases in the kid's forehead. He'd known Adam as a ghoul and as Michael's vessel, but only for a few brief moments as himself, angry and sarcastic, wanting to believe Zachariah could get him back to his mom. Dean hadn't known that Adam's eyes could appear so damn vulnerable . . . and look so much like Sam's.

He looked away.

"You know . . ." Adam shuffled from one foot to the other. "One of the things Sam missed the most down there were the stars."

Dean took a pull from his beer. "He told you that?"

Adam nodded. They both grew quiet, thoughtful.

"He also liked hearing about my mom." Adam's smile was sad. "He wanted to know everything. What brand of mac and cheese she made, was she the kind of mom that liked sports? Did she read bedtime stores or sing lullabies?"

Dean rolled the neck of the bottle between his finger and thumb. "Yeah. Sam would want to know all about those kind of things." He didn't want to hear this, not from Adam. Yet, he was desperate to hear anything about Sam.

"Yeah." Hands in his pockets, Adam rocked back and forth on his heels. His face lifted skyward.

Without looking to the side, Dean passed his beer to Adam and nodded when the kid inched closer and hesitantly took it. "So, did she?"

Taking a swallow, Adam handed back the beer and edged over to sit on the hood beside Dean. Sam's spot. "She what?"

"Your mom—Kate. Was she into sports?"

Adam's lips quirked into a genuine grin. "Pro wrestling."

"You're kidding."

"Every Saturday. She knew every wrestler and all their drama. She'd yell at them through the TV."

Grinning, Dean nodded, reconciling his brief image of ghoul Kate with the petite nurse rooting for her favorite wrestlers.

They talked on, each relating their own stories. By the time Dean told Adam about John mistaking a little old granny for a soul-sucking harpy and sputtering apologies after nearly gutting her while she whacked him repeatedly with an umbrella, Dean and Adam were both holding their stomachs in laughter.

When the laughter ebbed, Dean turned to look at Adam. Sam loved this kid and the kid loved Sam, had given Sam something to fight for. Adam's presence in Hell was probably the only thing that kept Sam from breaking—because he couldn't afford to. That meant something. As an older brother, Dean got that.

"You know," he said. "Sam was determined to get you out. Him being in there isn't your fault."

Adam's eyes lifted to him and he nodded once, though Dean could tell he didn't really believe it. They slipped back into silence and looked up at the stars.

#

Two days later, Dean was in the basement, searching for a pig's snout. No demons would deal. He couldn't believe he was resorting to witchcraft. Bobby said the ritual could at least give them a glimpse into Hell, like a weird crystal ball, and they'd at least know what was going on down there. Witchcraft or not, it was worth it to Dean. He hoped Bobby got back soon from gathering more of the rarer ingredients from Rufus.

"Dean!" Adam's shout raised all the tiny hairs on the back of his neck. The tone was full of terror. "Dean!"

He'd never gotten up the stairs so quickly. Gun drawn, Dean slammed out of the front door.

There in the yard with his back to him, stood a golden haired man in thick robes.

Adam, also with his back to him, stood between him and the stranger. A swell of protectiveness surged into Dean.

"Adam, get back."

Adam turned.

So did the stranger. Angel. Michael.

The robes swirled with his movement, revealing what the Archangel held. Dean's breath caught in his lungs.

Sam.

Michael cradled him like an infant, dark head resting on his chest, long legs and arms dangling limply. He was filthy and bloody, clothes torn, and for one horrifying moment Dean thought the Archangel was returning Sam's corpse.

Dean flew down the steps, shoving his pistol back in his waistband, and not caring about the recklessness of it, grabbed Sam out of the angel's arms.

He immediately went to his knees beneath the dead weight.

Adam was there, easing them both down before they could topple. The kid pawed at Sam's torn shirt, pushing it up to get to Sam's stomach. "Where's he hurt?"

Michael placed a hand on Adam's shoulder. "I healed him. He merely sleeps."

Dean's head shot up. His heart flared to life. "So . . ." His throat felt like gravel. Michael healed Sam. Sam was okay. "So, Sam won?"

Michael's features turned sorrowful. He shook his head. "He had no hope of winning. Your brother fought long and hard while my brother played with him like a cat to mouse. Yet every time he was beaten down, Samuel got back up. For such a fragile insignificant species, I have never witnessed the like."

"So, what?" Adam asked, apparently undeterred by the faraway look on Michael's face. "Lucifer just let him go?"

"Oh no." Michael's gaze flickered into something hard. "My brother would never have let his vessel go."
"Then how . . .?" Dean cried. Sam's head rolled on Adam's arm.

Michael smiled. "The moment Samuel could no longer lift himself off the ground, the Serpent won his throne and in so doing was bound by all the irrevocable laws of Hell, including the Law of Innocents."

Dean frowned, wishing Sam would wake up. Why wasn't he waking up?

"Hell cannot keep a soul who has not been damned."

Adam gasped. "Sam beat the devil by losing to him?"

Michael beamed. "Lucifer is as imprisoned by his throne as he ever was inside the Cage. All is as it should be. The Morning Star reigns his kingdom, and I . . ." He looked fondly down at Sam. "I've much to redeem myself for. Beginning with the chaos left in Heaven."

The Archangel lowered, robes puffing up around him, and rested his fingers on Sam's cheek. "Awake, Samuel." And with that he disappeared in the sound of fluttering wings. A huge draft of air ruffled the brothers' clothes and hair.

"Mmmmmph." Sam moaned and the heavy piece of ice that had been Dean's heart for weeks started to thaw. He met Adam's tearful gaze, then shifted back to Sam who was rousing against him.

"Sam." Dean kissed the top of the dirty sweaty hair. He couldn't help it.

The dark lashes fluttered, lifting, finally revealing those soulful hazels he thought he'd never see again.

"Oh Sam." Breaking on a sob, Dean crushed him to him and felt Adam's arms slip around them both. Dean snaked his arm between Sam's side and arm to grab onto Adam's back and haul him in closer and felt the kid silently sobbing.

This. This was right.

These were his brothers.

Both here and together and alive. And his.

FIN

Usual disclaimers apply

What's So Right About That?

cece_away — Thu, 27 Oct 2011 22:25:56 GMT

What’s So Right About That?
Another one I never posted to my own journal. I can be so lame.
Tag to Criss Angel is a Douche Bag. Season 4: Episode 12 as Part of the LJ Summer of Sam Celebration 2010
The usual disclaimer: Don’t own a thang.
~~~
The Blade skipped across Ruby’s arm, leaving behind a soft trickle of red. Sam stared at it, shifting uncomfortably in the passenger seat. Bile rose in his throat. He didn’t want it. Didn’t feel a pull toward it. Just the opposite.

Ruby lifted her arm. “You said you were ready.”

Sam’s gaze snapped to her dark eyes. “I know. I am. It’s just . . .” People are going to die, Sam. Oceans of people.

“I thought your dad taught you better than that.” Ruby’s lips twisted downward.

Sam shook his head. “You don’t get to talk about my dad. You know nothing about him.”

Ruby stared ahead where a light wind blew a battered paper cup against the windshield. “I know he taught you better than to go into battle with an untried weapon.   Have you ever walked into a hunt with a dull blade? Or a shotgun without rounds, Sam? Yet you’re all too willing to run after Lilith with your gun half-cocked.”

“Ruby. It’s not like that.” Sam frowned. “These powers, what’s inside me, are . . .”

“What? Evil? They’re a weapon, Sam. To be used. Is a gun evil or the man holding it?”

Sam stared ahead out the window. “It’s not the same and you know it.”

“See the thing about real magic, is it’s a whole lot like crack,” Dean had said to Jay. “People do surprising things once they get a taste of it.”

Sam dropped his gaze back to the slice on Ruby’s arm. The blood was sliding down toward her wrist in tiny rivulets. It made his stomach curdle. And Dean . . . Dean would never understand. It was all black and white to him.

“Listen Jay, you know Charlie was never going to give up what he was doing. Ever.” Dean didn’t so much as blink. “You did the right thing.”

“You sure about that? You know Charlie was like my brother and now he’s dead because I did the right thing. He offered me a gift and I just threw it back in his face. So now I have to spend the rest of my life old and alone. What’s so right about that?”

“You gonna to do this or what?” Ruby snapped. “Cause I don’t really enjoy cutting myself for nothing.”

“Yeah.” Sam tempered the queasiness coating his throat, took the demon’s small arm in his hands, lifted it to his lips. He hated this. Hated the coppery smell. Hated that Jay killed his best friend to do the right thing. Sam knew this was betraying Dean’s trust, but he’d risk that, hating doing it, because it was the right thing.

His phone buzzed in his pocket and he flinched back, dropping Ruby’s arm. They stared at each other as the call went unanswered, both knowing who it was.

As soon as it quit buzzing, Ruby sighed. “Look, I know you think you’re letting Dean down, but you’re wrong. This is helping him. Lilith keeps walking topside, people die. And you know Dean. He’ll get in the crossfire and he’ll be one of the casualties. This-- being ready to take on Lilith will keep Dean from being killed. It’s the right thing. It will save so many lives. He just can’t see it.”

“I know.” Sam’s voice was husky. “But once I cross that line, and . . . I don’t think Dean will ever . . .” He couldn’t even say it.

Ruby’s features softened in that way that made Sam forget that she was a demon riding inside a vacant coma patient. Her voice melted into a dewy pitch. “He’ll understand, Sam. Not right away, but once it’s over and once he’s thinking straight. Since Dean escaped the pit, all he can see is hell. His sight is broken, Sam. He’s broken. Right now Dean can’t see any redemption past the dark and screaming and evil and blood. I know, I was in hell a long time. I didn’t believe there was any good . . . until I saw you.” Her fingers smoothed over his cheek. “I saw you, Sam. You are good. You are good. This power inside you doesn’t overshadow that. And when he’s able to look for it, Dean will see that too.”

Sam squeezed his eyes shut. He ached to believe that, anchored on to it like the last root in a falling landslide. Resolved, Sam curled his long fingers over Ruby’s hand on his cheek, pulling her arm closer, and drank.

#

Stepping out of the car, Sam closed the door without so much as a “see ya later”. He’d only taken a few gulps. That was all he could handle. “Take it slow,” Ruby cautioned. He didn’t want to take it at all, didn’t want to go back to that balanced tip where the demon blood awakened that dormant power lying within. He’d walked away from it before when Dean returned from hell, but it’d been damned hard. But this time, there’d be no walking away. He was in this until his powers killed Lilith or killed him in the process, maybe both.

Not anywhere ready to face Dean, Sam walked aimlessly along the streets, seeking peace, though even the weather seemed to pace his riotous thoughts as the wind kicked up around him, blowing loose garbage across the sidewalks and flapping awnings over shop windows. Instead of following most of the people who were escaping the sudden wind storm inside the cafés and bars, Sam turned onto one of the little paths that led into the small park.

The phone buzzed inside his jacket. Blowing out a breath, he debated answering. He wasn’t ready to speak to Dean because he never was good at hiding anything from his brother. But he also couldn’t avoid his calls either, because that would alert Dean to something being
up quicker. He dug the phone out of his pocket.

“Hello?”

“Why haven’t you been answering your phone?”

“Uh, sorry? Didn’t hear it.” Sam squinted. “It’s really windy out here.”

“You’re still walking? Well, you need to get back. We got problems. Where are you? I need to know exactly where you are.”

Sam stopped walking, picking up on the agitation in Dean’s tone. “I’m over at that park a few blocks down from the hotel. What’s going on?”

“The park with those freaky statues?”

Sam smiled, glancing up at a smooth white sculpture that was the center point of the lapping pond. The modern art could either be entwined lovers or possibly snakes swallowing each other. Even he couldn’t tell though he didn’t admit it when Dean said it was a figure eight with faces. Seeing it in the moonlight with the glow reflecting off the water, it did look like a figure eight. “Yeah, that park. So what’s happened?”

“Okay. I need you to stay right where you are. I’m coming. Don’t go anywhere. Don’t even move. We’re not finished here.”

Unconsciously, Sam shuffled closer to the pond’s edge and placed a hand on one of the giant statues ringing the pond in artistic symmetry. His stomach was roiling from the effects of demon blood. Like the first time, unaccustomed to it. “But Charlie’s gone. The Immortality Spell was broken.”

“I found a Tarot card in my jacket.”

Sam’s blood went still. Damn. They’d figured the second spell ended with Charlie’s death as well. “The Death Transference spell is still in play. You think Jay slipped it on you?”

“I don’t know. I doubt it. Could have been Charlie before Jay ganked him. Or Vernon for all we know.”

“What card was it?”

“What?” The jangle of keys was heard over the line.

“Oh. Um, The Chariot.”

“Dean!” Sam lurched away from the sculpture. “Don’t get in the Impala.”

“What? Why?”

Sam could picture the brows drawn together in surprise. “Just don’t. Look, we know that what happens in the Transference Spell isn’t actually based on the Tarot card, but a loose interpretation. The Chariot is more about taking the reins of your life, about control.” Sam paused, struck at how fitting that was for Dean.

“How do you even know that?” He heard the pad of Dean’s footsteps. “Your head is a compendium of all things freakiness.”

“The good news is that with the spell tied to Jay, it’s more about something bad happening to him, and then being transferred to you. As long as he’s safe, you’re safe. And he’s not doing his magic tricks anymore. As long as he doesn’t get in any random accidents . . .”

“Since when does our luck hold that good? So you’re saying that if Jay gets run over by a bus or something, I’m the one taking the hit.”

“Right. So Dean, go back to the hotel. I’m heading there now. You need to stay put.” Sam started walking back down the little cement path.

“No can do. Besides, I’ve taken care of it. The card is gone. I’m good.”

“What? How did you . . .?”

“Called Bobby. He knew the reversal incantation. Turned out we only needed to soak them in cemetery dirt, and . . . listen, Bobby told me something else. There’s seventy-eight cards in a Tarot deck, right? With the three used on the magicians, and the one on me . . . I only un-spelled seventy-seven. Sam, I need you to check your pockets.”

Sam’s pace slowed. He stopped within the ambient light shining up onto another sculpture.

Dean’s voice was still badgering across the line. “I have the incantation. Bobby emailed it and I already took care of the rest of the deck.
Sam?”

“Yeah.” Sam’s voice was a hushed whisper, barely registering above the howling wind. “That was smart thinking.” His fingers closed around the thin card.

Dean had stopped jabbering. “You found it, didn’t you?”

“Yep.”

“What . . . which one is it?”

“Eight of Cups.” Sam stared at the picture of a man surrounded by water, walking away from the bounty in the cups into a barren wasteland. The symbol of sacrifice and purposely heading into a bleak and uncertain future.

“That’s good, right? That doesn’t sound so bad. At least it’s not one of those sword ones.”

“Yeah, it’s fine. I’ll be fine. I’m headed your way.”

Again, there was a pause. “Sammy, I know that voice. What does that card mean?”

“Nothing. It’s just . . . Jeb’s card was the Hangman and he hung. Vance was impaled with the Ten of Swords in his pocket. Mine is a water card.” Sam looked around at the path he was on, at the path that wound neatly around ponds upon ponds upon ponds. He was surrounded by water.

And by the hitch of breath he heard over the phone, Sam knew that Dean realized that too.

“Don’t move. Not even one step. I’m coming.”

#

Twenty miles away, Jay stared out across a man-made lake out in the middle of a barley field. He’d killed his best friend. Vernon would never speak to him again. He’d done the right thing, and the right thing had destroyed him.

He pushed his hair back, straightened his tie and tugged down the sleeves of his best tuxedo. After securing the chains to his hips, he slipped the rest of them around his body. It didn’t matter how tight they were, he wasn’t going to slip them. It just mattered that they were heavy. Tossing the small keys he usually kept hidden on his body into the grass, The Incredible Jay walked into the lake to give his final performance.

#

Dean ran down the sidewalk, adrenaline pumping his heart as surely as his legs. The wind whipped around him, snapping the fancy Magic Week banners on the light poles. Darting into the street, loud shrieks by his ear made him spin, flinching at the hooves pawing the air inches from his head. Throwing his arms up and ducking, Dean gaped at the horse, bucking within the harness attached to one of those fancy carriages intended for tourists.

“Whoa, Gert!” The driver pulled on the reins. “It’s only the wind.”

Dean put a shaky hand on his chest, blowing out a breath. “Freaking chariot.” He had to get to Sam.

Lurching forward, Dean ran across the street, skidding into the park, and rushed down one of the little pathways between ponds.
“Oh thank you,” he panted, slowing when he saw Sam, safe and alive, a short distance away, standing still just as he’d told him.
Sam turned, a little hesitant. His posture was different, lower in the way Sam ducked his head not wanting to look at Dean straight on. Even in the dark, Dean could tell something had changed, shifted from when his brother had stepped out to take a walk. Oh, crap. What now? They were in for another PMS moment, he just knew it. He rolled his eyes. Yep, couldn’t wait to deal with that back at the hotel.
“You got the card?”

“Yeah.” Sam reached into his jacket pocket, and the wind roared to life in a sudden mini cyclone, exploding light bulbs, and breaking large branches off trees in a path bent straight toward—

“Sam!”

Dean raced to him, fighting against the wind and flying leaves and branches, unable to see through the kicked up water and dirt while cracking and splintering wails shrieked by. As quickly as it had appeared, the cyclone ripped away, cutting a path across the shallow water.

“Sam!” Dean scanned the path of wreckage. A tree was splintered nearly in two, large branches covering the pathway and churning water.

The fallen half of the trunk had crashed into one of the sculptures, pushing it into the pond, but Sam was no where . . . Shit! Shrugging out of his jacket on the run, Dean flung it aside and ran into the pond. It was less than three feet deep, but there was Sam on his back, hands pushing against that ugly statue pinning him down.

“Hang on, Sammy, hang on!” Dean shouted as though Sam could hear him. Wrapping his arms around the sculpture, Dean groaned, pulling with everything he had, but it didn’t budge so he quickly moved to Sam’s head, grabbing him under the arms and pulling. If he could just get Sam’s face above the water. “Come on, Sammy.”

Sam was staring at him, long hair waving in the water. He shoved at Dean’s hands, pushing Dean away. “Stop it, Sam! Stop.” Sam got hold of his hand, pressing his own into Dean’s palm. Paper. Wet crumbling paper. The Tarot card! Dean grabbed it. He ran out of the water to his jacket, pulled out his phone and the plastic bag of cemetery dirt. Upending the dirt over the ruined fragments of the card, Dean whipped open his phone, and punched in Bobby’s I.D., and put it on speaker, screaming when the old man answered.

“Bobby, do the incantation. Over the phone now!”

“What?”

“Just do it!”

Bobby didn’t hesitate. His voice began shouting in Cantonese and Dean set the phone down by the torn card and raced back into the water.
Sam wasn’t moving. His arms floated, resting on the surface. No. No! Plopping down in the water at Sam’s head, Dean pulled on his brother. He kicked at the sculpture. “Somebody help me!” he screamed, hoping somebody, anybody, was out in the windy dark. “Help me! Fire! Fire!” he rasped. “Fire.” Sam was drowning and he couldn’t free him by himself. Nobody was around to help him. “Fire!” This couldn’t be happening. This couldn’t be happening. Not Sam. Not Sam. Not like this. Not Sam.

Bobby’s voice screamed on, then suddenly stopped, the incantation complete. Dean kicked on the statue and felt the roll. He kicked again. The sculpture rocked. Encouraged, Dean braced both his legs and pushed out with all his strength and the statue shifted. Sam’s arms lifted and fell with the waves the settling piece of crap art made and Dean locked his arms around Sam, pulling, pulling, pulling, his jaw locked, pulling some more until Sam’s head cleared the water. Just a little more. Dean shoved the sculpture away, off his brother and dragged Sam free. He hauled the gangly body up onto the pathway, turning Sam over, pounding his back.

“Come on come on come on.”

“Dean? Dean? What’s happening?” Bobby shouted over the phone speaker.

“He’s not breathing! Come on, Sam.” Dean flopped him onto his back, checked his mouth, tilted Sam’s head to open his airway and bent close to listen. No breath on his cheek. No chest movement. Training took over, though it did nothing to push back Dean’s panic.

He pinched Sam’s nose, and sealed his own mouth over his, giving Sam a breath that made his chest rise. Watching it fall was terrifying. He breathed again, feeling his own life pour into Sam’s.

“Come on come on. One, two, three, four . . .” The heels of his hands, fingers interlaced pushed Sam’s chest.

“CPR?” Bobby yelled. “Where are you? I’m getting an ambulance out there . . .”

Dean couldn’t answer. He was back to breathing for Sam, until suddenly Sam jerked, his arms floundering. Dean pulled back, yanked Sam over onto his side where Sam gagged, choking, hacking up water. It was a heart wrenching, wonderful sound.

“Bluaaaa,” Sam finally squeaked out and rolled onto his back. Dean shook all over, giddy with relief.

“We’re good now, we’re good.” Dean pulled him up, letting the back of Sam’s wet head rest against his soggy stomach, wrapping his arms around the wide shoulders and allowed himself a moment to relax, to breathe and soak in the fact that Sam was okay. Sam was alive. He had him. He had him. Dripping wet and huge and shivering and breathing on his own.

“Boys!” Bobby’s tone was anxious. “You answer me! You all right?”

Dean picked up the phone, held it close. “Yeah, Bobby. We’re good.”

“Didn’t sound good. I heard everything. Sounded like a whole lot of bad.”

Sam blinked up at Dean questioningly. Dean shook his head. “We’re good. Listen, I’ll call ya later, okay.”

“Yeah, well.” Bobby sounded reluctant, but he understood about cleaning up fast after a hunt, even though he didn’t know exactly what had just happened or if there was clean up involved. “You better.” And he clicked off.

“Are we?” Sam sounded weak, his voice raw.

“Are we what?”

“Good.”

“Yeah.” Dean squeezed Sam’s wet arm. “We survived yet another day, so I’d say we’re good.”

“Is that what you see?”

Dean frowned. What was going on in his brother’s head now? “Is what what I see?”

“When you look at me.” Sam’s forehead wrinkled, his eyes intense as though this was the most important question in the world. “Good. When you look at me do you see any good?”

The question startled Dean. He pulled back to really look at his brother. “Sam? You need to not think so hard after you almost drown. You’re not making any sense.”

Sam’s features wilted, the expressive brows lowering and bunching together. Nodding against Dean’s belly, Sam looked away.
Instinctively, Dean wrapped his arms more tightly around Sam, feeling as though something indefinable had just slipped past him, though he couldn’t fathom what it was or how to grasp it back.

Sam mumbled something and Dean lowered his head to hear. All he caught was “ . . . just trying to do the right thing.”

FIN

Fear of the Soulless

cece_away — Thu, 27 Oct 2011 18:02:05 GMT

So I never did post this to my journal after the summergen 2011 reveal.

Recipient: greeneyes_fan
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: set in 6.01. Sam is soulless, yet doesn't realize it yet.
Summary:
Takes place before Sam saves Dean from the djinn poison. Sam is hunting
solo, but something isn't quite right. Prompt at bottom to avoid
spoiling.

Thanks to my terrific betas: wallflowerlady and glimmerella

Usual Disclaimers: Just playin

Fear of the Soulless

Sam tore down the dark alleyway after the werewolf, exhilaration pumping through his veins as thickly as blood. He hurdled a tipped-over garbage can, his boot splashing down in a puddle. A woman screamed and Sam dodged into a narrower alley between fenced back yards. Slowing, gun drawn, he studied the backyard sheds and garbage cans placed out for early morning collection, listened for growls and heavy panting. His senses felt heightened, muscles coiled in anticipation, the thrill of the hunt overriding everything.

He was made for this, made for the hunt and was damn fine at it. John Winchester had been right: the hunt was what was important, wiping every evil creature and monster off of the planet. Sam's lips twitched, recalling arguments between them. He remembered having a sensation in his chest—a yearning for something more—but that feeling was no longer there, a disconnect he didn't understand, yet wasn't concerned by.

He knew he'd come back from Hell different. It was Hell. Who could come out of the pit and not be changed? But he was better for it as well, faster, stronger, more calculating and focused. Like a blade forged in fire and stripped of all impurities, Sam left the flames of Hell stripped of . . . something . . . whatever it was that had held him back from reaching his full potential.

A whimper floated across the air. Sam snapped his attention to his left and moved into the narrow space between the back of a garage and a tool shed. A flash of eyes reflecting a street lamp flicked up.

The werewolf curled around a gasping woman. For a moment he thought he recognized her. Curly dark hair and long slender legs gouging dirt. The monster glared at Sam protective of its prey. The woman gasped up blood. More blood gurgled from her torn throat. Guess he'd have to put her down too. She shouldn't have gotten in the werewolf's path.

Sam aimed and shot the werewolf in the heart. It spasmed backwards and thudded to its back, returning instantly to human form.

The woman stared up at Sam, chest heaving. Sam lowered the gun to the woman's heart. Dark liquid eyes stayed on him, pleading. His head tilted, brows bunching together. A memory—Madison—flitted through his mind and Sam pulled the trigger.

He frowned down at the two bodies and debated clean-up options. He'd have to hotwire the closest car he found: no way was he dragging a dead smelly ex-werewolf into the Charger. After he did a little salt and burn in the nearest field or dumpster, he'd come back for his car. Not like he had anything better to do. Not like he slept anymore.

Sam looked down the alley for a suitable vehicle, then glanced back at the bodies. The woman sat up.

The hell? He swung his gun up.

Her forehead puckered, head tilting to the side. She blinked up at Sam as though he was a puzzle she couldn't figure out. Once again, Sam had the impression he'd seen her before.

She lifted her arms for Sam to help her up and he shot her, again. She slumped back over the werewolf and Sam shot her once more for good measure, this time watching long enough to make sure her chest didn't rise.

Forget finding wheels. These two were getting burned right here. If anyone came outside to see what was going on, Sam just might have to shoot them too.

~~~

Two days later, Sam ran into a burning warehouse after a vengeful spirit. A pyromaniac vengeful spirit who liked to trap a dozen or so people and burn them alive. As far as hunts went, ghosts were his least favorite. Fleshed-out monsters worked on basic animal drive, predictable habits and patterns, an innate instinct for survival. Sam got that. He could reason out a monster's next move and get ahead of it every time.

But ghosts? Ghosts were unpredictable, unstable, a whole other kind of whackadoodle. Logically, Sam couldn't piece together the motivation for an average suburban housewife –without any evidence of a lifetime trauma—to stick around after death and burn people. That disconnect, that missing something, left a vacancy in his thought process he couldn't quite access. Whatever. So he didn't get a spirit's unstable feelings. Wasn't important. He still knew all the methods of getting rid of it. If one didn't work, he'd try the next. It was a stupid hunt with little purpose anyway, but Sam had plenty of salt rounds and nothing better to do this evening. Plus, taking out ghosts was part of the job and Sam was damn good at the job.

Screams floated above the roar of flames. Smoke rolled along the ceiling, pouring out of one of the rooms at the end of the warehouse. Fire flickered off of the walls. Sam ducked inside, finding a cluster of people trapped between sputtering lines of flame.

"Help us! Save us! Please!"

"Where'd it go?" Sam shouted over the roar. He headed toward the opposite door.

A woman cried, her sooty face tear-stained. Sweat-drenched curls stuck to her face. "You can't leave us!"

Chills swept up Sam's spine. She was familiar.

"How can you leave us? You have to save us!"

Pausing at the door, Sam scanned the adjoining office for indications of the crazy ghost. He called back over his shoulder, "Don't worry. I'll be back." Now where had that spirit gotten to? Getting it was the first priority.

He stepped into the room and was thrown back through the doorway. Sliding nearly into the fire, Sam got off two rounds. The fat lady ghost shrieked and flew toward him. What kind of ghost was impervious to salt? She lifted Sam, slamming him into the wall even as he stabbed out with a giant railroad spike. She shrieked again and flames shot out around them. So much for iron.

She tossed Sam into a metal desk. The window above him shattered. A dark form leaped into the room, onto the desk and jumped to the floor, dragging the flowing end of a long industrial-sized hose through the open window. Water sprayed over the fire.

The ghost screeched, flickering in and out. Sam's eyes widened, taking in the newcomer's wide-leg stance as he battled the fire. "Dean?"
This wasn't possible. His brother could not be here hunting. It didn't make sense.

"Ghost is a daccubus, Sam. It feeds off people's suffering."

Daccubus. Okay. The deceased variation of a succubus, which preys on energy ripples coming off fear, pain, grief, that sort of thing. Why wasn't Dean freaking out about seeing him alive?

Sam's gaze flew toward the burning screaming people. He had completely missed the clues. He would have gotten to them eventually. Saving people was part of the hunt. It just never occurred to him that they should have been the focus.

"Saving people is the purpose of the hunt!" Dean snarled as though he heard Sam's thoughts.

Sam glanced from the wavering ghost to the civilians. He had messed up, nearly botched the entire hunt. If it hadn't been for Dean . . . Sam scrambled up from the floor, tipped the desk over onto its top and shoved it over a line of flames so the people could run across the top of it. He pulled a child out, reached for another and found himself clasping the arm of the brown-haired woman. Not letting go and not moving, she stared at him.

And the ghost threw him against the wall. Sam's head wrenched up. The spirit materialized above him. "You're not fast."

Suddenly the werewolf was there, powerful hands around Sam's throat. "You're not strong," it growled. Sam's hands curled around the werewolf's wrists to pry him off. "Pathetic."

Black streaks ribboned across his vision, wavering in and out. His lungs burned, couldn't draw in air.

"You call yourself a hunter," the witch he'd ganked two months ago cackled. "You have no instinct."

The rugaru bit into his hand, teeth ripping off Sam's pinkie. Sam screamed though only a wheeze pushed out through his collapsing windpipe beneath the werewolf's grip. He'd screwed it all up. Thought he had it all under control, but he had missed the big picture, the larger scope. His clouding mind couldn't even reason out why.

This didn't fit any patterns. None of this made any sense. He'd missed something more. Think. He wasn't hunting a ghost, couldn't be. Or a daccubus. Had to be something different. He really wasn't the hunter he thought he was if he'd missed something this huge.

"You blew it, man." Dean looked impassively down at him, hose spraying water over Sam. "You never did have a knack for this gig . . . you failed."

"No!" Sam shouted. "I'm a better hunter than you ever were."

Samuel smirked at him. "No, Sam, you're not. You're ruthless, but you never grasp the complete picture, don't have the smarts." Samuel tapped his head and slammed a four inch needle into Sam's chest.
~~~

"A djinn?'

"Yeah," Samuel tossed his grandson a water bottle. "Lucky Mark found you."

"We weren't even tracking a djinn . How'd it make me as a hunter?" The curly-haired woman flashed to his mind. He had seen her before. She had checked him in at the motel. She was the djinn, had to be. She'd poisoned him somehow.

"They. There's an entire pack of them. And from what we gathered, it looks like they targeted you specifically. Think of any reason why?" The chair Samuel pulled up next to Sam's cot creaked.

"Dean and I killed one several years back."

"Vendetta. Could have been the pack's daddy."

Sam shrugged, unconcerned. "So you got them?"

"A couple. Rest went to ground."

"So. Let's go get them." Sam pulled his boots out from under the cot.

"Didn't you hear me? The rest went to ground."

"Also said they were out for revenge." Sam slipped a boot on.

Samuel's eyes narrowed. "Dean. They'll go after him next. We've got to warn him."

"Or we can watch him."

"You mean use your brother as bait?"

Sam paused at lacing his boot, feeling Samuel's disturbed gaze bore into him.

Sam let his eyes wander up slowly enough to allow time to adjust his expression to a concerned one that once came so naturally. "No, of course not. He's my brother. I just don't want to ruin the whole white picket fence thing he has going on by showing up out of the blue. So we'll watch him, protect him, and if any djinns show up, we'll take them out and Dean won't have to know anything about it."

Samuel frowned, unconvinced. "You sure? Might be a good time to bring him in. With all these new breeds of monsters, we could use him."

"No," Sam snapped, and then forcefully smoothed out his voice. "Dean deserves his peace." Except . . . Sam had royally messed up. He hadn't given the daccubus's victims more than a passing glance, or the woman the werewolf killed. He hadn't thought to, when the answer of the djinn lay there all along.

Then again, it had all just been a djinn-induced nightmare.

Fin

Awesome prompt: (6.1 based) Sam got dosed with djinn poison when he had no soul. He can't dream, he feels no fear or love. What DID he hallucinate?

Don't Cry for Me ~ 3/3

cece_away — Mon, 19 Sep 2011 17:52:55 GMT

Chapter Three

Jo sat on the bed next to Dean, legs stretched out along his, pillows wedged between her back and the headboard as she flipped through channels on the television, not really watching anything.

Dean had fallen asleep again. She toyed with untying his wrists while he was out to move them into another position and rub them for circulation, but she knew he'd wake up the moment she did. Couldn't risk it.

For the thousandth time, she glanced at Dean's cell phone lying silent on the bedside table and willed Sam to call with the reassuring news that the banshee was taken care of and he was okay. This waiting around was ridiculous and for a moment she got why her mom was so adamant against her hunting. Not knowing what was going on grated across her already frayed nerves. She should be out there hunting this thing, figuring out a way to get rid of it herself.

This was her first job dammit!

The Winchesters would have to shove their way into her gig and Dean would have to go and get himself attacked by a make-you-go-crazy-and-kill-yourself banshee.

Her heart squeezed. Oh Dean.

She splayed her palm over his chest to monitor his even breathing, worry gnawing at her belly. He had to beat this thing. He could beat this thing. He had the strongest will of anyone she'd ever known. Her lips curved upward. Too strong at times.

Dean Winchester was the most headstrong, stubborn, royal pain in the…and she'd kissed him. God, she couldn't help herself. Heat flushed through her veins thinking about it, about the way he kissed her back, all hunger and claiming. When she pulled away his eyes had zeroed in on her like he could clutch her back through magnetism and will alone.

And hadn't that been about right?

What was she thinking? Letting her guard down like that? She was drawn to Dean like no one else before. No one else had the power to break her heart the way Dean could either. Inevitably would if she wasn't careful.

She smoothed damp hair off his forehead. Who was she kidding? She was already fruit loops over the guy. Every time he came to the Roadhouse and then left again it hurt.

Jo edged off the bed, pulling away both physically and emotionally and ran to the bathroom where she splashed cool water over her face, fortifying her resolve. She stared at her wet face in the mirror.

She was a Hunter. A damn fine one.

She was not a silly little girl, pining for the slightest notice from one Dean Winchester—never mind how her heart sped up and heat raced across her skin every time he looked at her.

Taking a steadying breath, Jo stepped out of the bathroom and came face to face with Dean's chest. Before she could think, he shoved her back into the bathroom against the counter.

~~~

The wind picked up, tearing through the trees. Wet leaves kicked up beneath Sam's boots. The iPod switched to the next track and Sam flinched at Robert Plant's sudden wailing cry, mistaking it for the banshee.

Blowing out on a shaky exhale, Sam braced himself. His heart pounded in rhythm with the staccato riff of Zeppelin's guitars. Sweat or rain water or both pooled between his palm and the shotgun and Plant crooned about the hammer of the gods driving their ships forward from the land of ice and snow.

The rain poured harder, riding the wind on a slant, soaking Sam to the bone as he walked against the thrashing air currents. The skin prickled at his neck and he spun around, nearly slipping on the wet leaf-litter to peer into the charged darkness behind him.

It was eerie—dangerous—walking through a howling storm unable to listen to anything above the blasting music. In normal circumstances, not being able to hear movement in his surroundings could get him killed.

But this circumstance was about as far from normal as it could get.

Swinging back, Sam strode forward, determination thundering with each step, coiling his muscles when he saw the little stream, swollen with rain water and flowing more rapidly than it had before.

Fingers curling harder around the sawed-off—not that salt rounds were any good against a banshee—Sam followed the flow of water to the spot they'd found Dean lying facedown in the dirt and glanced around. Except for the trees and vegetation, the area was empty. No screaming apparition. No washer woman. No sign of animal life either though that didn't mean much. With the rain shower they would have gone to ground anyway.

How soft your fields so green, can whisper tales of gore.

She had to be here. His brother's life depended on it.

Sam flung his hands wide, hoping to draw her out. "Come out and get me!" he shouted, unable to hear if his voice carried over the storm.

Nothing.

Temptation to pull the mufflers and earbuds away rolled through him. He needed all his working senses. What if the woman's weeping flowed through the thicket right now, drawing him to her like she had Dean, but he missed it?

One hand swept up to the headset, the other bringing the shotgun forward. Resisting, Sam let his hand drop from his head, leaving the mufflers in place and followed along the stream. As a conduit for all things on the spirit wavelength, staying near the water was his best bet, especially looking for a fabled washer woman of the ford.

Rain pelted him. His soaked T-shirt clung like a second skin.

A chill colder than the rain skittered up his spine like frozen fingers.

Sam spun back around and saw her.

Right there where he'd just been, where he and Jo found Dean.

Her back to him, she crouched over a wooden bucket, her slim arms moved back and forth, scrubbing bloody jeans across the ridges of a slanted washing board. The wind whipped her silver hair around her slight form. Tremors ran through her. Her shoulders hitched up and down from obvious weeping that Sam couldn't hear behind the electric whine of Page and Bonham.

Pulling the Celtic cross from around his neck, Sam held it out in front of him and edged toward her.

The gray gown billowed up in a sudden lift of wind. He eased forward, the cross nearly touching the back of the spirit's head. Leaves swirled between them. His heart thundered with the pulse of the music.

Sam leaned closer.

The woman disappeared.

He stumbled forward, hitting his toe against the wooden bucket, making pinkish water slosh over the sides.

He spun, swiping the cross outward in an arc.

The woman reappeared, her face inches from his neck, her mouth pulled back in a soundless scream.

Sam plunged the cross into her chest, his hand slipping through her insubstantial form and burying the Celtic symbol into her lungs and…nothing happened.

Eyes wide, Sam stared down at her and swung the shotgun up, but before he got off a shot, the apparition's arm slammed forward and Sam sailed backwards, hitting against something solid—had to be a tree—and bounced to the ground, gun and cross flying out of his hands.

~~~

"Dean!"

How did he get loose? She never should have taken her eyes off him for a second. Jo's butt squashed against the bathroom counter, her spine arcing back with the hard length of out-of-his-head Dean pressing into her.

His sweaty chest moved up and down, pulling in hard ragged breaths. His lips were slightly parted, throat working and his wild eyes flitted about the small space, never landing long on any one thing. Until…

Jo knew the moment he found it though she doubted he even registered what he'd been seeking. Her purse.

Leaving her weapons bag safely locked in the trunk of her car, the only other weapons in the hotel, besides Dean's knife she'd hidden behind the television cabinet, were her own knife and Glock she carried in her purse, which she'd purposely stashed on the tank of the toilet in the bathroom to keep away from Dean. Great job on that, she raked herself over the coals.

He lunged forward and she shoved him back with everything she had. The force rammed him out the door and into the wall. No way was he going to get his hands on a weapon.

She let the momentum carry her forward and flung her arm across his collar bone to hold him in place. "Dean! Stop it!" Her voice was guttural with fear.

In a move she couldn't identify, Dean yanked her wrist forward, spinning her around in a smooth circle that shoved her out of his way. He lunged toward the bathroom again, but his speed was no match for a woman who was scared out of her wits.

Completing the spin he'd sent her on, Jo dove in front of him, tripping him up and they fell forward, sliding on the bunching bathroom rug. As though she wasn't even there, Dean clamored over her, reaching up for the purse, but Jo wrapped her arms around his hips, twisting her legs around his and hung on, keeping him on the floor.

But even under a banshee's spell, the guy was determined. He stretched, knees digging against the floor, feet pressing against the tub and counter for stability while he twisted, trying to throw whatever was stopping him—which happened to be her—off. Her elbow jarred hard against the tub, sending a streak of lightening through her arm, loosening her hold.

Dean's long body surged upward. No no, nuh-uh. Twisting around, Jo grabbed hold of Dean's legs and pulled, wincing at the crack of his chin on the toilet's edge as he flew back, finger snagged in her purse strap and the contents of her bag spilled across the floor—cosmetics, phone, paperback, mirror, tissues, mints, knife… Gun.

~~~

Dazed, Sam blinked and struggled upward, one hand pushing against the pebbles at the bottom of the rushing stream. He made it to all fours and the banshee ripped him from the soggy ground.

Slight though she was, she held him aloft like he weighed nothing. Her fingers dug into his head, substantial enough to do damage, thumbs curling into his temples. Sam swung out, arms passing through her head like water. How was that fair? Spirit matter trailed his arms, pulling from her face and shoulders, making her blur like an abstract painting. Sam's legs bicycled in the air, finding even less to connect with.

Rain slapped them. The wind flung the banshee's hair forward into Sam's face and then back again to stream behind her.

The banshee lowered him toward her. Her pupils flashed red, flaming pinpricks Sam couldn't look away from. He struggled to get out of her iron grip. It was all so surreal, the storm lashing around them while pulsating drums and straining guitars screamed through the earbuds. The banshee's lips curled back in a snarl—no, in the beginnings of a scream.

The iPod gave a silent click, scanning to the next track. Suddenly the storm was in his ears. The wind wailed, rain pounded the ground and trees, making branches snap and crack.

A low vibration rumbled through Sam's bones like an electrical current. The barest edge of a shriek assaulted Sam's head, blinding him to everything as the specter blurred in front of him and his vision faded. The screech changed tone, pulsing through him…and was cut off abruptly by the opening drums of Breaking Benjamin's Evil Angel.

Blinking out of the sudden stupor, Sam punched the banshee again with the same non-effect of passing right through her. Her mouth hinged impossibly wide with her keening shriek. But the music was working. As long as Sam couldn't hear her cry, it no longer had any effect on him.

The banshee pulled him as close as a lover, mouth impossibly wide in a pulsing scream. Frigid breath washed over him. The vibrations rolled across his skin in tingles. Her eyes widened, the glow within them dulling and changing to brown as her brows pinched together in confusion.

Without warning, she hurled Sam to the side. He slammed to the ground like a rag doll, all floppy limbs and air pummeled out of his lungs. He heaved in a breath at the same time an invisible force flung him back, rolling him in the tumultuous air to land with jarring force in the stream. He blinked up at the woman standing demurely above him, her gown flapping around her, a smug smile curving her lip.

He was in a crapload of trouble. The banshee didn't have to shriek him to death. She was more than strong enough to bat him around and let the trees and ground break him like a ball caught in a pinball machine. And he still didn't know how to get her curse off his brother.

~~~

Loud. So damn miserably loud. All Dean knew was that he had to get to that gun to make it all stop. It all had to stop. Everything. It would be okay then, everything would be just fine once he got the gun and made it all stop.

His head hammered with the noise, every tendon of his being trembling and focused on getting hold of that weapon though he didn't understand why exactly that was so important—just that he had to. He couldn't think beyond anything past the painful assault in his brain.
Yet something was trying to stop him, pulling, keeping him away from the shiny little Glock that meant everything. He kicked out blindly, hearing a pained exclamation that drilled down through the noise, shocking his senses. That shouldn't be right, should it? What was happening? He didn't understand what was going on.

A new surge of pain erupted behind his eyes, making the edges of his sight go dark and murky and he slammed his fists against his forehead, trying to press the agony away. Shut up shut up shut up! The urge to grab the gun, make it all go away intensified, crushing all other thought beneath grinding agony. Get the gun, it will stop. Nothing else was as important as getting the damn gun. Nothing else mattered.

With a roar of pain, Dean elbow-crawled forward, dragging the pulling weight wrapped across his legs with him. Vaguely, he heard other screams below the screech of the woman pulsating through his head.

Shaking, he winced against it. Sweat dripped from his hair, caking his forehead as he stretched, cracking his bones, growling with effort and…

His hand curled over the cold metal of the gun.

The shrieking ripped through him, tensing his shuddering muscles so tightly he thought they'd tear. He lay on his stomach panting, holding the gun—his prize—without knowing why or what was supposed to happen next. Something. It was crucial.

A horrific whine punched through his skull and instinctively to protect himself against it, Dean brought his quaking hands back to his head. He barely felt the cold hard muzzle dig into his heated cheek, didn't realize his finger quivered near the trigger.

~~~

Sam crashed headfirst into the bush, falling through thin pointy branches that snagged and tore through his clothes and skin. Twisting, gaining more scratches, he clawed out of the brush on all fours, scrabbling to get away from the furious banshee, the classical rock strains mimicking the wild thuds of his heart.

She was hurling him around like a shot-put. His battered body couldn't take much more. He still didn't know how to stop her and help Dean. Between being thrown around and rattling landings, he could barely think. He had to get out of here. Getting himself killed wouldn't help his brother. They needed another plan.

He staggered to his feet and was immediately hauled backwards and slammed against a tree, the breath knocked out of him. Bark dug into his back. Pinned by nothing he could see, the banshee floated toward him and locked her hands around his throat, further choking off air.

Red eyes bore into his, her face a gruesome husk of mottled rage. He grabbed for her wrists to pull her hands off him, but he couldn't get a hold, kept passing right through her arms like clawing through frigid streams of air.

Black sparklers exploded across his vision, his lungs compressing to draw in life-saving oxygen. Benjamin Burnley crooned of surrender, surrender.

The banshee's mouth opened wide, lips trembling in a scream Sam couldn't hear. … can't I breathe, evil ang… Mist curled out of her throat, washing cold across Sam's face like smoke blown from a cigarette. Blinking hard against both the eerie vapor and the rain water, Sam worried if seeing the scream was as deadly as hearing it, though with his vision blurring and unable to pull in a breath neither would be a problem much longer.

He felt his back slide against the tree, his strength waning, arms flopping to his sides with only the banshee's brutal hold dragging him up. His eyelids fluttered, obstinate determination to not give in the only thing keeping him conscious.

The banshee slapped out, snapping Sam's head to the side. His teeth tore through his lip. Her nostrils flared, chest heaving up and down in frustrated pants and shoved him away. Sam hit the ground hard, the last of his air pummeled from his lungs.

He rolled onto his back, sucking air into his swollen throat and saw a wall of leaves and branches crashing down on him. Rolling again, Sam scrambled away and more branches flew at him.

Crap, crap! Tired of batting him around the trees, the she-devil was throwing the trees at him!

Crawling across mud and wet leaves, Sam's hand fell upon the Celtic cross. He grabbed it up on a spin and an ancient log rammed into his side and plowed him across the ground, mud spraying his face, ripping the ear mufflers off and driving him into the shallow stream. His head banged against the washer woman's bucket.

Coughing out water, Sam turned to his back at the same moment a mass of bark slammed down on him.

~~~

"Dean. Listen to me." A soft voice floated to him, strained in fear. Jo?

He rocked onto his knees, scooting across the cold tile, cool metal pressed into the hollow of his cheek. He was friggin holding a gun to his head. Shaking, he couldn't let go, had to pull the trigger so the lady in his head would shut up. Shut the freakin hell up. This was all so wrong.

"Jo?" He spoke her name like a sob. Like a wounded animal. This was all so wrong. He just needed the banshee to stop screaming so he could think, figure this out. He moved the gun to his temple, hitting the side of the barrel over and over against his head as though he could beat the screeching out of his brain.

Hands closed over his, trying to wrench the gun from his grasp.

No! He needed it. He had to stop the screaming. Had to! Lunging forward, he threw his attacker backward and fell over the top of it.

Sprawled over the thing trying to yank his salvation away, Dean wrestled for the weapon. The banshee's shriek intensified, drilling a hole in his head. Everything went out of focus except for the shiny gun. But the monster wasn't letting go. He dragged the gun around, the other set of hands locked around it. He got the muzzle turned, burrowing into his chest. His finger pulled.

~~~

Everything hurt. Water gurgled and sputtered over Sam's legs. The wind shrieked, slapping slender branches from the tree pressing across him. Guitars whined from a distorted distance. He'd lost the iPod in his desperate scramble and the music was blaring through the earbuds somewhere.

Pushing up, Sam bit back a cry, a spike of pain radiating from his side, but the tree covering him lifted a bit. With effort he could scoot out. Where was the banshee? He looked around, craning his neck to see through the bouncing branches and leaves. The washing bucket sat tilted near his head, wind-whipped suds splashing over the side.

He had to get out of here. Without the earbuds he had no protection against the banshee. Nothing. His shotgun was out of reach under the fallen trees somewhere. He still had the little Celtic cross gripped tightly in his grasp. Great. He'd managed to hold onto the most useless thing.

Sam lifted his head and shoulders out of the mud, clenching his jaw against an abrupt flare of pain. Breathing through it, he dragged himself backwards, sloshing his hips through the water. Live to fight another day. He groaned, pulling his foot loose from—whatever it was that was pinning it. Tangled tree limbs he supposed.

He almost had it free, would be able to scoot out from under this tree…if he could just twist his ankle…a…little…more…

The shriek drilled inside his head with the force of an electric screwdriver. His muscles clenched, spine went rigid. Shaking with effort, he clamped his palms over his ears. It was incredibly loud, stealing thoughts and images. All Sam could focus on was that keening screech. Resembling the moan of a bird and shattering glass, the sound pulsated into him, a possession of limb and heart, body and mind. He was helpless against it, constrained within a pressing barrage of noise and crushing vibration that closed around him, squeezing tighter and tighter like the coils of an anaconda.

He screamed, the slight sound torn away beneath the ratcheting keen in his head. If this was even half of what Dean had been going through, small wonder his brother had been out of his head batshit crazy.

Nuuh, Dean.

Sam couldn't give in to this. If he did, his brother would die.

He pulled his eyes open, blinking through tears of effort. The banshee stood near his thigh, gray skirt flowing like incandescent smoke through the fallen tree. Tears streamed down her cheeks, no longer angry though her pupils sparked red and her mouth stretched in an elongated cry.

Sam had to do something. He couldn't just let her keen at him until he went crazy and tried to off himself too.

Clenched muscles trembling, he lifted the cross toward her skirt, even knowing touching her with it hadn't helped before. Shaking his head as though that could pull him from the stupor, Sam suddenly twisted, stretching, screaming at the hitch in his side and plunged his fist, Celtic cross and all, into the washing bucket.

And the shriek intensified a thousandfold. Sam bucked against the assault, every cell in his body on the verge of exploding.

The water in the bucket churned, spitting outward. Sam plunged his hand in all the way to the bottom, his body curled over. The wind kicked up and the banshee screamed. Her hair billowed upward. Coils of snapping light crackled around her, slapping outward like whips. Sam flinched beneath each strike that hit him. The wet ground sizzled.

With a last deafening shriek, the banshee arched backward and exploded in a blinding funnel of light.

~~~

The banshee's shriek intensified, shrilling through Dean's head with terrible strength and then abruptly stopped.

Head pounding, he blinked rapidly in an attempt to right his vision. Slowly everything settled into a wavery view.

He lay sprawled up top of Jo. Strands of hair stuck to her face, wet with sweat and tears. Her jaw was clenched tight and she suddenly wrenched the gun that was between them from his lax hands.

"Don't you do it!" she screamed, tears spilling from her distressed eyes.

What had he done?

Dean pushed up onto his elbows, taking some of his weight off her, though he felt nauseous and weak. His palm slipped over her cheek, tracing the bruise at her temple. Her wince was a jolt to his gut. "Jo?"

She pulled the pistol closer to her chest, cradling it with both hands, and blinked up at him. Her throat worked.

"Are you…you?"

"Yeah." A muscle in his jaw ticked. "Yeah. I think so. Banshee quit screaming."

Jo frowned, unconvinced. Her glassy eyes were unsure.

They stared at each other, taking inventory. Dean searched his brain for any lingering trace of the banshee. "Sam must have gotten rid of her." He stiffened. Sam. His kid brother was out there alone. "Where's my phone?"

~~~

In the passenger seat, Jo held onto the dashboard with a white-knuckled grip as the car bounced and swerved on the narrow dirt road, pitching her around in the seat.

Dean sped down the road, not seeming to care that he was driving, well, a Porsche nine-eleven GT3. The only thing he cared about was that it was fast and was getting him to his brother.

Spying a huge pothole ahead, Jo shrieked. He swerved around it, getting close to the ditch. Water splashed across the windshield.
"Come on, come on, pick up," he grumbled into the phone pressed to his ear. He'd been calling Sam since they ran out of the hotel, only getting voicemail.

"Dean, we're here," she called out before he drove right by the turnoff. Fishtailing, he swung the Porsche onto the even thinner road, sliding on mud, and quickly correcting for it, straightened the car onto the road. Jo locked her arms tighter against the dash.

Dean pulled in front of the large house, skidding to a stop behind the Impala. He flew out of the car like a bullet, punching Sam's number again as he ran to the monster car, boots slouching in the mud and jerked the door open to look inside.

The glove box was rattling. Leaning over, not caring that he was getting his seat wet, he yanked open the box. Sam's vibrating phone lit up the interior.

"Dammit." Dean slapped his phone shut. "Sam!" he shouted into the storm.

Stiffening her spine, Jo headed around the dark house, sloughing through the soggy grass. Dean's long strides easily caught up as they ran through the backyard and into the trees, racing to the area Dean had first gone in.

"Oh no." Jo ground to a stop.

It looked like a tornado had touched ground and then suddenly lifted off again. Trees and bushes, torn from their roots, lay scattered around the small space.

"Sam!" Dean's voice teetered on the brink of panic.

Without a word, they both scrambled into the destruction, pulling up loose branches. "Sam!" They called out in unison.

"Wait." Jo heard something. Music. Faint and tinny.

Dean stilled, his features laced with worry.

"Here." She followed the sound, pulling through debris, scraping her arm across sharp broken tree limbs, and pulled out . . . an iPod? She lifted it to show Dean.

Frowning, he shook his head and called out for Sam before plowing back into the destruction.

She knew when he found him by the strangled noise Dean made deep in his throat. He started throwing branches and foliage aside. Jo waded through the wreckage to get to them.

"Sam, Sam. Come on." Dean was knee deep in a tangle of branches. A shock of brown hair was visible among torn foliage and leaves. Jo pushed aside tangled bushes and branches, finding a fallen tree across Sam's stomach. His legs were in the churning stream.

"Wake up, come on, Sam." Dean shoved more of the foliage away, his actions jerky with desperation.

Jo unburied Sam's arm from the mud, shocked at how cold he was. "Dean, we got to get him warmed up."

Dean's head snapped up, his gaze zeroing in on the offending log pinning his brother. Pulling his jacket off, he covered Sam's chest and went after the tree. "Help me." He lifted the trunk up a few inches. The stream slurped around Sam, mud crumpling beneath him, sucking him farther into the water.

Jo dug her arms in the mud, hooking her hands beneath Sam's armpits. "Got him. Lift." She pulled while Dean lifted, both grunting, neither giving up until Sam's legs were clear. Jo fell back on her butt, the back of Sam's head hitting her stomach.

Face flushed, Dean plopped down beside them.

"Sam, come on."

Sam's head rolled to the side. Jo curled her arms around him before he slipped off face-first in the mud. He groaned.

Dean edged forward, leaning over them and when Sam's lashes lifted, Jo's breath caught at the sudden transformation of Dean's features.

She'd witnessed firsthand the many and varied sides to one Dean Winchester. Sometimes in hunter mode he could be downright scary while at other times when he allowed his guard to slip, she'd glimpse a rare vulnerability that made every female instinct she possessed want to pull him into her arms and just hold on, and then there were those other moments . . . when he looked at her like she was sure he never looked at any other woman that made her shiver and want to throw caution through the window—but this—this baring of soul that she wouldn't have seen if she wasn't so close to Sam—stunned her.

She'd never have believed so much potent emotion could be conveyed with one look. It physically hurt.

And then it was gone, shuttered away behind an expression of worry and soothing words that she couldn't make out with her world reeling from the intensity of one moment passed between brothers.

"Come on, Sam." The weight was lifted from her legs. Dean drew Sam's arm over his shoulder while the younger man found his footing and together starting climbing through the rubble.

Pausing, Dean looked back. "Jo?" Sam's head slumped lower.

Jo shook herself out of her daze. Sam needed help, the least of which to get warm and there she sat in the mud. Pushing up, she fitted herself beneath Sam's other arm and helped Dean get him through the collision course of fallen trees, past the old house and settled into the back seat of the Impala and covered in every blanket and jacket they had in their respective trunks.

Dean closed the back door and stood in the rain, staring through the window at his younger sibling, an unreadable expression stilling his features.

Jo felt like an intruder even approaching him. "I'll, um, follow you back to the hotel."

He jolted, seeming to come out of his own stupor and shook his head, flinging rain water. "Yeah. We'll . . . " The look he turned on her then was young, hopeful. "He'll be okay?" He said it like a question desperately needing the right answer.

Jo bobbed her head, needing just as desperately to give him that. "Yeah." She smiled, her heart breaking just a little bit more. "He's just cold and tired. He'll be fine."

Dean wiped a hand across his mouth and nodded. "Yeah, okay." His features settled into a sad smile. "Okay." He opened the driver's side door before stilling. "Hey Jo." He finally looked at her. "Thank you."

She shrugged, all sorts of feelings jumping around in her tight belly. "Sure."

Dean grinned and flowed into his car and as the Impala pulled onto the road, Jo wept.

~~~Fin~~~

Sam's banshee-fighting playlist:
Bad to the Bone by George Thorogood and the Destroyers
Immigrant Song by Led Zeppelin
Evil Angel by Breaking Benjamin

Don't Cry for Me ~ 2/3

cece_away — Mon, 19 Sep 2011 17:41:39 GMT

Go back to Part One

Chapter Two

"Dean!" Sam lowered Dean to the pillows when he went slack in his grip. What the hell was going on? Waking to his brother's stifled call, finding him not on the bed where he was supposed to be, but rocking on his knees on the bloody bathroom floor was freaking him out.

Jo kneeled on the other side of the bed. She brought extra towels and the first aid kit. "What has he done to himself now?" Her tone was curt, but she looked worried.

"I don’t know." The blood on Dean's head, chest and towel tangled around his hips seemed to be coming from a gash in his hand. It didn't look that deep. He grabbed one of the towels and lifted Dean's hand to apply pressure to the wound. Even though he was unconscious, Dean's features were tight with pain.

Jo dug out antiseptic cream and bandages from the kit. "Think it needs stitches?"

Sam lifted the towel to look. "No. It's not that deep. The small butterfly bandages should be enough." What was going on? Dean could still be suffering from his earlier smack on the head from the ghost, went to shower and blacked out, slicing his hand as he fell, but Sam didn't think so. Not with Dean asking over and over to make it stop. Make what stop?

Sam had the niggling feeling that this was connected to the ghost. The spirit had done something to his brother, or—Sam frowned—was still doing something.

He held Dean's hand steady while Jo cleaned off the blood. "Don't worry, Dean. I'll figure this out."

Jo glanced up at him, lips pressed tight, and nodded.

~~~

As soon as they had Dean patched up and the blood cleaned away, Jo went into the bathroom while Sam pulled the bloody towel away and wrestled sweat pants onto his brother.

Jo stared at the bloody handprint on the floor a moment before soaking a washcloth and wiping it away. She'd have to call room service to bring up more linens.

She looked around, trying to figure out what Dean sliced open his hand on, and was surprised to see the open pocketknife at the side of the toilet. That didn't make any sense. Picking it up, she noted the blood on the knife's edge and wiped it off with the washcloth. Dean had just gotten out of the shower, was in nothing but a towel…so why would he have taken his knife out? And how did he slice himself?
Dean could be a childish jerk, but he wasn't careless around weapons, even small ones like this.

Sam was right. Something weird was definitely going on.

She reentered the room and found Dean cocooned beneath the blankets and Sam sitting beside him, back against the headboard, and scowling at his laptop.

"He cut himself on this." Jo held up the pocketknife.

Sam's brows angled together, making him look young.

"Find anything?" She closed the blade and set the pocketknife on the nightstand.

Sam shook his head and glanced sideways at her. "What do you think it is?"

"Best guess, that ghost is somehow still attached to him. She may have gotten to him in the bathroom. That's why he pulled the knife."

Sam's face paled. He looked down at Dean. "If she can get to him here… We've got to salt the room."

Jo nodded. "I have a little. More in the car."

"We've got a can in the trunk." Sam set the computer aside and got up, grabbing his sneakers off the floor. "You'll watch him?" He jammed one shoe on.

"You know I will."

"Yeah," he smiled, embarrassed. "Be right back." He zipped out the door.

Jo took his place on the bed beside Dean and lifted the laptop, seeing a listing of suspicious deaths filed. She lifted a brow. Sam had obviously hacked into the local police case files. She scrolled through a few of them, looking for something to stand out. The files online only went back to the sixties. If Dean's guess about the crying woman's clothing was right, they'd have to go to the library or county records to dig through the older files and newspapers.

A knock at the door startled her. In Sam's haste he hadn't taken a keycard. The noise roused Dean and his features screwed up tight. She hated that look on his handsome face.

Setting the computer aside, she hurried to let Sam in.

"He wake up?'

"Just stirred a little. You got it?"

"Yeah." Sam handed a rusty can to Jo as he passed to get to his brother and placed a palm on Dean's forehead.

"There's no fever," she informed him.

"Yeah." Sam blew out a breath. Jo sympathized. It'd almost be better if Dean was sick, even delirious. They could deal with that better than… whatever this was. If they couldn't figure out what this ghost was doing…who knew what she wanted or for how long this would go on? Or what might happen if it stopped.

"Mmmm." Deans eyelids fluttered. Jo moved up behind Sam. Dark lashes lifted to reveal mossy green eyes. God, Dean had the most beautiful eyes. They lifted to his brother. "Sam?"

Sam knelt down to get closer. "I'm here. You okay?"

Dean's features scrunched together. "Head hurts. Lady is loud."

"Lady? Is that what you hear?"

"She's crying and screaming." Dean squeezed his eyes shut.

Jo leaned over Sam's shoulder. So it was the ghost, had to be. "Do you hear her right now?"

Dean shook his head on the pillows and opened his eyes again. He smiled sloppily. "Hey, Jo."

Warmth blossomed in her chest, pleased he was glad to see her, though he still looked completely out of it.

"Do you hear her now, Dean?" Sam repeated her question.

Dean broke the connection of their gaze and Jo felt suddenly bereft. "No. Not right now." He pinched the skin between his eyebrows. "But man, she was screaming so hard I thought my head was gonna implode. Ghost has a wicked set of lungs on her."

Sam smiled.

"We thinkin some kind of vengeful ghost still?" Dean's eyelids lifted a little, still not completely open.

Sam stood, paced across the room. "Best guess, she's what killed those vics, attached to them somehow, made them crazy—I don't know—they went to that house, probably heard the weeping just like you and now they're dead. Suicides."

Sam stopped pacing, looked at his older sibling.

"The salt will keep any spirits out." Jo knew Sam was worried. "We're not going to find any answers on the computer."

The young hunter's frown deepened. "I know." He didn't move.

Jo sighed. "Take a quick shower, I'll order up some breakfast. By then county records in this town should be opened."

One side of Dean's lip curled in amusement. "I'll come with."

"No," both Sam and Jo said.

"What?" Dean pulled up to rest on his elbows. "I'm not going to stay here."

"Yes, you are." Sam folded his arms over his chest. "Until we know who this spirit is and what she wants, you're on lockdown."

"That's stupid."

"Look. She's attached to you somehow, already got into your head, so you're not leaving."

Dean rolled his eyes. "So what? I'm supposed to let you go off and face down the crazy crying ghostie without back up? No way."

"I'm just going to county records." Sam lifted his hands in exasperation.

Jo looked back and forth between them.

Dean's Adam's apple bobbed. "Fine." He jabbed a finger in the air toward Sam. "But that's it. You bring back what you find and we'll go from there."

"That was the plan." Sam grabbed up his pack and headed toward the bathroom, muttering, "Jeez, dude. Wanna hold my hand next time I have to cross the street too?"

"I heard that." Dean tossed a pillow, missing the closing bathroom door.

~~~

Keeping the volume low, Jo flipped through the television channels, every now and then pausing at a station that caught her interest. Her focus kept straying to Dean, slumbering fitfully in her bed.

He'd been out for hours since they'd eaten breakfast and she'd tossed her keys to Sam. His eyes practically strained out of his sockets at the thought of taking off in her pretty little rented Porsche. She wasn't actually sure she would have been able to get him to leave his brother otherwise. The Winchester's had some serious trust issues when it came to relying on others.

She glanced back over at Dean to find him gazing blearily at her.

"Oh, hey. You're up."

He didn't say anything, just stared at her through red-rimmed eyes.

She vacated the chair to get him a glass of water and brought it over to him, his gaze tracking her the entire time.

"Dean?"

Something wasn't right. There was always some form of emotion whenever he looked at her—usually annoyance, sometimes on the verge of something else she couldn't quite decipher—but he'd never before watched her with this…void.

It was eerie. She wanted to snap him out of it. "Hey." She jostled his shoulder.

He sprang.

Quick as a snake, he grabbed her wrist, rolling her backwards as they both tumbled to the floor. Water spilled over them. The glass in her hand broke as it slammed against the wall. He pinned her to the carpet, his eyes no longer vacant, but wild and disoriented.

A jingle for toothpaste sang from the television beneath their heavy exhalations.

"Dean!" Jo shoved up against his hands trapping her wrists. Her pulse thrummed hard through her veins. "Dean, snap out of it!"

His eyes flicked up to a spot on the floor just over her head. Jo wrenched her neck to see what had captured his attention. The jagged bottom of the broken glass. It looked like a small crystal crown of razor points.

In one fluid move, Dean let go of her, grabbed the glass and plunged it toward his heart.

"No!" With a speed born of fear, Jo shoved his arm forward on its path, making him miss his bare chest. The glass blazed across his shoulder and flew out of his hand.

As though it was the most important thing in the world, Dean twisted after it, scrabbling on all fours across the carpet.

Heart roaring, Jo leaped onto his back. He was scaring the crap out of her, so intent on harming himself. There's no way she was letting him get that broken piece of glass. "Dean! No! Stop it! Dean!"

He rolled her beneath him, but she wiggled out, grabbing his legs as he went for the broken glass again. He slapped out, attempting to peel her off, but she held firm, lunging up from her knees to stop him. They rolled in a tangle of arms and legs. Jo's head thumped on the carpet. No more games. She threw a fist toward his jaw, wincing as his head rocked back and threw a leg over his hips, shoving him over.
Straddling his waist, Jo blocked his flailing arms. God he was strong, but sloppy, uncoordinated in whatever daze had a hold of him. She slapped him, hoping to knock him back to his senses. "Dean!"

Fingers gouged into her arms, plunged into her hair. She could hear it ripping from her scalp.

Ow ow ow ow! Her neck was being pulled sideways. "Dean!" She really didn't want to do this, but he was leaving her no choice. Grabbing his head at the temples, she lifted and then slammed his head on the floor. Once. Twice. His beautiful eyes rolled back into his head and his hands dropped, pulling her down as fingers dragged in her hair.

"Sorry. Sorry. I'm so sorry." She smoothed a palm down his still cheek, almost expected the heat of fever, though he was merely sweaty and warm from exertion. Blood smeared across his shoulder and arm from where the jagged glass had scraped across him.

Jo glanced at the broken glass, rocking on the floor a foot away and a knot pulled tight in her belly. She shied away from the image of Dean trying to plunge that into his heart. She pushed sweaty hair back from his smooth forehead. What was going on?

~~~

Sam stepped out of the hotel elevator with bags from the deli down the road from county records when his cell phone vibrated in his pocket. Shuffling the bags into one hand, he pulled his phone out and read the display.

Dean.

He grinned, relieved that his brother must be awake and okay and probably bored from being cooped up inside. Sam placed the cell to his ear. "Dean."

"You need to get back here." Jo was on Dean's phone, worry coating her tone.

"I'm just down the hall." Sam shoved the phone back into his pocket and took off running. The door yanked inward as he got there with Jo standing inside, looking like she'd gone ten rounds with a cyclone. Her clothes were askew and her hair fluffed out.

"What happened?" he asked, rushing past the girl to see what was going on with his brother.

Dean lay unconscious on the floor, hands tied together and to one leg of the overstuffed chair with strips of a torn towel. Another downy strip kept his ankles together. Watery blood dribbled from his shoulder where a jagged line ran across it. Next to Dean sat his cell phone and the ice bucket with a pink-tinged towel draped across it. Jo had obviously stopped washing the blood from the wound when she went to open the door.

Sam dropped the sandwich bags on the bed and lowered to his brother's side, inspecting the wound, and asked again, "What happened?"

"The salt isn't keeping whatever has a hold of him out of the room. He woke up, or at least I think he did. He wasn't himself, Sam. He tried to jam that glass—" Jo pointed to a sharp-pointed bottom half of a glass on top of the tall TV cabinet. "—into his chest."

Sam flinched.

Jo paced back and forth between the side of the bed and the chair, shoving her tousled hair back from her face in agitation. "He wouldn't stop. I had to knock him out. Had to tie him up. I couldn't lift him onto the bed." She glanced down at Dean, her throat working.

Sam got up, walked around his brother and grabbed Jo by the arms to stop her pacing.

She hissed sharply.

Brows rising, Sam lifted the short sleeves of Jo's shirt up a bit where the early stages of dark bruises the shape of oval fingers were forming.

"Jo." Sam felt ill and knew Dean would feel worse about it when he came back to his senses. "Are you hurt anywhere else?"

She brushed her sleeve down and his hand away, features pinching with annoyance. "No. I've been banged up worse than this. What are we going to do about Dean?"

"Get him on the bed for one thing."

"No kidding, professor."

Sam lifted a brow, unaccustomed to Jo like this. Apparently she and Dean had more in common than they thought. They both covered worry with snapping sarcasm.

"What'd you find out?" Her fists rode up her hips to her waist where they planted themselves in a challenging pose relaying you-better-have-found-out-how-to-fix-him.

"Not much. Help me get him on the bed." Sam untied the strips from the chair leg. "There were only three suicides within the late 1800s, early 1900s—that there were records of. A dozen deaths that looked suspicious." He had notes on a folded paper in his back pocket to go over again.

Sam lifted Dean from beneath his shoulders while Jo took his legs and they lifted him to the bed. Sam checked Dean's bindings, making sure there was enough circulation. He hated this. He didn't want to have to secure his brother to the bed, but… Sam's gaze strayed over the cuts on Dean's shoulder. If he had plunged that glass into his heart… He swallowed against the dryness in his mouth.

"Sam?"

Dean's eyelids fluttered.

Sam sat on the bed, hip next to Dean's. "Hey. You with us?"

Dark lashes lifted, revealing glassy green orbs. His brows creased as his hands tried to pull apart. "Loud. Make her stop." His gaze slid to Sam like a plea.

"You hear her now?"

Dean brought his bound hands up to cover his face.

Sam pulled them back down. "Dean, talk to me. What's happening?"

Dean's head rolled on the pillow. He tried wrenching his hands apart, angled his fingers toward his temples.

Sam covered his ears for him, pressing his head tight between his palms and leaned close over his brother. "Is she here now?" He glanced back at Jo standing at the end of the bed.

Dean's back arched, tremors rode through him. "She's screaming. She's so loud. The water's bloody. Guh, shut up!"

"Water? Dean?"

"Shut up! Shut up! Just stop, quit washing—"

Sam pressed Dean's head tighter, hoping the pressure helped. "Just hang on, man. Ride it through."

Dean sagged back, mouth open in harsh breathing, skin flushed and sweaty.

Sam's heartbeat thundered in his head, sifting through what had just happened. Unknowingly, Dean had just given him their best clue.

~~~

"I think I know what this is." Swiveling off the bed, Sam grabbed the laptop off the desk and sank into the chair, his leg bouncing while he waited for the computer to power on.

"What is it?" Jo sank onto the arm of the chair, leaning close to see into the screen.

Sam typed bean nighe into the search bar.

"A banshee?" Jo questioned. "How do you figure?"

"Dean said she was washing."

Frowning, Jo shook her head.

"Look. Banshees are sometimes called washers at the ford. They hang around deserted streams and wash blood from the clothes of those who are about to die."

Jo's hand curled onto Sam's bicep. "Is Dean?"

Sam jolted. "No," he snapped a little too brittle. "No. I don't think she's foretelling it. I think she's causing it."

The webpage loaded to an artist's rendition of an old woman in a wispy green gown and long grey hair with a veil covering her hollowed out features. Sam scrolled down to the article.

"There's butt-loads of legends about them from all over the world. Bean sidhe, bean nighe, siths. They show up as beautiful young woman or sometimes old hags, sometimes naked carrying a bowl of blood. Could be a fairy, could be a ghost."

"Then how do we narrow it down?" Exasperation coated Jo's voice.

"Dean already did." Sam brought up a link that showed a drawing depicting a woman bent over a blood-stained cloak of a Scotman's plaid. Her shoulders were curled inward in sorrow. Long silver hair flowed over the scrubbing board and into the flowing stream. "We're dealing with a spirit. A very powerful, very insane spirit."

"You know this how?"

Sam tapped the screen and Jo read, "…spirits of women who either died giving birth or were murdered."

"Or whose murder was made to look like a suicide," Sam interrupted.

Jo met his gaze before continuing reading. "These poor souls are doomed to wash the blood of the dying…" She stopped, sat back. "You think this is the ghost of some woman who was murdered?"

"Yep. Her death was probably made to look like a suicide."

"That's good. Sam, that's the best news ever. Spirits are easy to get rid of."

Sam glanced up at her. "Not after they've morphed into a banshee. Even if we could pinpoint who the woman was and what's keeping her spirit earthbound, a woman who has become a banshee is a whole other entity. I'm not sure they have any humanity left or remember who they once were, so taking care of any remains won't really stop her."

"But she's attached to Dean?" Jo flung off the chair arm and went to the bed, taking a defensive position near the unconscious hunter. "How do we get rid of her before she makes Dean--?" Her skin paled.

Shaking his head, Sam clicked on another link, hoping to find answers. "I have no idea."

~~~

"…can't go alone."

"No choice."

Quiet voices rolled across Dean, a welcome difference to the woman who'd been screaming in his head for hours. He blinked his eyes open to the dim interior. The only source of light came from the lamp on the other side of the room. Groggy, he turned toward the hushed sounds.

Sam and Jo stood near the door, talking in hushed whispers. Sam's fingers curled loosely around the strap of the equipment pack on his shoulder. He looked like he was about to walk out the door—without him.

Dean rasped out his brother's name like broken glass grating across asphalt. He shifted to get up and found his arms immobile, stretched above his head. The hell? Tugging proved his arms were bound tight with ripped-up terry-cloth no less. Which didn't make sense. Jo and his brother were right there. Why would he be tied up? Demon possession?

"Sam," he said again, going for more volume this time, yet his voice still came out rougher than a toad's croak.

Jo's and Sam's faces both turned toward him.

Sam was at his side in seconds. "Hey. You with me this time?"

"Yeah." Dean pulled against the bindings and pain fluttered up through his shoulder. That was new. Glancing down he saw the bandage taped to his skin. "Wanna step off the kink train and untie me?"

"Dean," Sam huffed, but didn't make a move to loosen the towel strips at his wrists.

Dean noted the stiffness to Sam's shoulders, the tightness to his mouth. "What's going on?"

Jo stood behind Sam. "You tried to kill yourself. Twice."

"What? No. I wouldn't do that."

"I know." Sam ran a hand back through his hair. "Of course we know that. It wasn't you, but…" Kid's eyes were flitting around, landing everywhere but on Dean. He shook his head. "I'm going to fix it, okay. We know what it is now, and…you're gonna be okay. You're not hearing the keening right now, are you?"

"Keening?" What the hell kind of word was keening? Oh, God. He should have known. "Banshee?"

Sam finally met his gaze. Crap. So not good.

"Please tell me that brainiac head of yours figured out how to stop it."

"I…I'm going to take care of it." Which was code for I'm winging it, man.

"Sam, no." Dean pulled at his bindings, twisting on the bed. His younger brother was going out there to face a banshee alone just hoping that something he tried worked. "Untie me and we'll do this together."

"Uh--give you a weapon so she can make you turn it on yourself? Not happening." Sam lunged away from the mattress and as fluidly Jo took his place, watching the exchange with a distraught expression.

"Then take Jo with." Desperation coated Dean's tone. He did not have a good feeling about this. "Sam, do not go alone!"

Sam opened the door, pausing to glance back over his shoulder. "I'll be okay." And walked out the door.

~~~

"Jo, untie me. You untie me right now."

"You know I can't do that."

"Please. Sam's going to get himself killed."

"I—" He saw the hesitation in her eyes, the worry. Dammit, Sam really didn't have much of a plan and she knew it. She'd probably never have let Sam go off on his own either if whatever had happened to him hadn't freaked them both out so much.

"Jo, I'm in my right head now. No crazy screaming banshees. You need to let me go so I can help my brother."

Her palm slid over his wrists, lingered. Dean stilled, waiting for her to release him. She shook her head. "I want to, believe me."
Dean raised his head up. "He needs me."

"He needs you to stay alive," she snapped. "Dean, you tried to stab a broken glass into your heart."

Dean quieted, searching her features for the exaggeration, even knowing Jo never embellished for flights of fancy. It had to have been bad for her usually cool demeanor to have cracked. And another thing: if he had tried to stab himself, was intent on it, he would have succeeded.
He studied the girl sitting at the side of the bed anew, noticed the dark circles beneath her eyes, the disheveled hair and wrinkled shirt. A dark worm of doubt slithered around in his belly. "Did I hurt you?"

She looked away. Answer enough.

Dean's mind whirled through a thousand scenarios, none of them good. He hated the thought of being so out of his head that he didn't know what he was doing—couldn't remember doing it or controlling it—damn supernatural beings were bad enough when they weren't jacking with your brain. Vulcan mind-melding was crossing the line.

He wasn't anywhere cool that the banshee was out to make him hurt himself, but he figured he had enough mind over matter self-control, now that he knew what was going on, if he felt that overpowering desolation start to hit, he could stop, handcuff himself or something until it passed—and still be able to provide back-up for Sam, but… his gaze raked down Jo's slim form, the hunched over shoulders like she was trying to pull into herself. He couldn't take the chance on hurting her.

Which he suspected had already happened…or close to it. Except for being out of sorts, she didn't appear to have any injuries, but if she and Sam felt the need to tie him down… Dean's throat worked, trying to swallow past the dryness of his mouth.

"Okay."

"Okay?" Jo's eyes ticked down to his.

"Keep the ropes on." He twisted his wrists around the terry-cloth. "Or whatever. I'll remain tied." Like he had any choice in the matter. Well, okay he did provided she took her eyes off him long enough for him to work on the strips binding his wrists together. Wouldn't be the first time.

"But you go." He couldn't believe he was asking her that when he wanted her as far from this case as possible.

Jo shook her head.

"Jo, I'll be okay here. I will. But Sam's out there alone."

"I know." Her palm struck the mattress, obviously as frustrated as he was with the situation. "Sam was adamant that someone stay with you."

"I'll bet he was."

Jo smiled weakly, trying to be brave for him. "Do you want some water?"

He wasn't swaying her. "I want my brother safe."

"You think I don't?" She swung off the bed so quickly her hair flew around her shoulders. "But right now you're in more danger than he is."

"I'm n—"

"You are!" Her shoulders lifted with a huge shuddering breath.

"What happens when that she-witch screams at Sam? That's all it takes, Jo, one top-of-her-lungs scream and the kid's banshee goo. I can't believe he went off without me. And you let him."

"Let him? I'm not the one who let the banshee get the drop on me in the first place. I can't believe you're turning all this into my fault now. Jo turned away, her spine ramrod straight as she marched to the sink to get some water. Her eyes blazed as she came back and sat on the bed with the water.

Dean lifted his head to drink, noting she brought one of the paper coffee cups instead of one of the short cups made of glass.

She put the cup to his lips and tilted it for him.

He shifted his head when he finished and stared up at her. "I don't blame you."

Her gaze sought his, remained as though searching for the truth. She still held the cup at an angle. Water dropped onto Dean's bare chest, trickling down toward his navel.

Jo glanced away, her gaze flitting about the room until she came back to him. Her cool palm slipped onto his cheek. Jo's eyes had darkened, her lips parted on a soft gasp and Dean's blood warmed, streaming like fire through his veins as the girl lowered to him, wisp-light lips tracing over his forehead, his nose, his mouth.

The rest of the water spilled over him and Dean growled low in his throat at the coolness splashing his heated chest.

Jo pulled back. "I've wanted to do that forever."

"Get back here." Dean strained his head upward, his wrists pulling against the damn terry-cloth.

Grinning wickedly, Jo plunged downward, her mouth impatient this time, devouring his.

He kissed back, matching her intensity, wanting this, wanting her. Her hands slid along his torso, feeling the bumps of his ribcage, driving him crazy. He yanked against his bonds, desperate to pull her closer, feel the silk of her skin. She moved to the dip between his neck and jaw, hot mouth and cool breath streaming over him.

Letting his head fall back to the pillow, Dean gave into her exploration until her hand moved over the bandage taped over his collarbone, stilled.

She drew herself up, staring at the gauze, at the seeping blood. Her hair fell to each side of her puzzled face like curtains.

"I…" She pushed up farther, scooting back, her hip toward his knee. Her eyes snapped up toward his wrists and her face reddened. "I shouldn't have done that."

"Not complaining here."

The hard line of her lips softened and a new stream of warmth poured through Dean at what those lips had been doing to him.

"It's just not the right time." She had him there. "Our emotions are too keyed up with everything."

True. Dean frowned, wondering how much was just being keyed up on her part.

He was about to say something flippant when she smiled. "Try again when Sam gets back?" Her face reddened even more. "I mean, not while Sam's here, but, you know, after we know he's safe…and you're safe…and it's over and…" She groaned and spun off the bed, stomping to the other side of the room where she just stood there with her arms folded beneath her breasts. For a moment Dean thought she might actually start banging her head against the wall.

He started laughing, the lightness of it easing the tightness of his chest. She looked back over her shoulder at him.

"Absolutely." He knew the grin he gave her was nothing short of cocky. "I'll even buy you dinner first."

She rolled her eyes. "Jerk."

And an image of Sam out there in the dark on his own instantly filled Dean's mind. What the hell was he thinking?

~~~

Sam didn't have many options. As far as research went, there wasn't any way to kill a banshee. They were permanent parts of the supernatural world that you just hoped you didn't come across—and prayed even harder that you didn't hear her cry.

Parked in front of the large vacant house, Sam opened the trunk. A light rain splattered droplets across the back of Sam's T-shirt. Man, had they gotten it wrong. Not a regular ghost at all, but a banshee.

The dark house loomed against the night sky in shadow. Sam pulled out the coffee tin they kept religious relics in, sifting through a few saint medals, an ankh, and a star of David for the little Celtic cross. It was a long shot, but one site mentioned that placing the cross over thresholds or beneath pillows could hold off the banshee's curse for a while. He wished he'd left one with Dean.

He hooked the little cross around a long dog-tag chain and dropped it around his neck. Couldn't hurt. He paused to peer into the gloom. The sensation of being watched prickled across the back of his neck. Good. He wanted—needed—the banshee to be around.

He also needed to get close enough without getting caught in her curse.

Sam ran his teeth across his bottom lip and rummaged through the trunk for the old ear plugs they hadn't used in years that Dean had pilfered from a target range. He frowned at the set of earplugs, thinking hard. He couldn't be sure the plugs could protect against a banshee's wail. They didn't totally block out gunshots either, just muffled them. He also pulled out the headset-looking ear mufflers they'd picked up working an airport gig. Guys working near running jet engines wore them and Dean had thought they were cool.

Using either or both of these together was a risk. They just didn't cut out everything and who knew what frequency wavelength a banshee registered. It was better than nothing though. He just wished he had a jet engine running nearby. You couldn't hear anything over that noise.
Wait. His hands froze on the open lid of false trunk. Of course. That's it. A laugh pooled inside his chest. He tossed the earplugs back into the box, keeping the mufflers and ran around to the side of the Impala, leaning in the window to get at the glove compartment.

Please be charged up.

Grabbing his little used iPod, he powered it on. Yes! He scrolled through his albums until he found the list he'd secretly made for Dean in the event the ancient cassette deck bit the dust. Heaven help them both then if his brother didn't have his tunes.

He placed the earbuds in his ears then settled the mufflers over the top of those and scrolled the volume up to the highest level he could stand without exploding his eardrums.

With George Thorogood rasping about the day he was born, Sam walked around the side of the large house toward the shadowy line of trees.

Part Three http://cece-away.livejournal.com/34281.html

Don't Cry for Me

cece_away — Mon, 19 Sep 2011 17:27:12 GMT

Don't Cry for Me by CeCe Away
Art by Amberdreams

Summary: It was just another vengeful spirit job. They weren't expecting to run into Jo, nor have the
malevolent ghost attach itself to Dean, making him try to kill himself. Nope, not a ghost at all, but something
much much worse the youngest Winchester is going to have to deal with on his own if he wants to keep his
brother alive—because Dean doesn't do anything half-assed.

written for samdean_otp Sam Dean Mini-Bang 2011.
Art masterpost by amberdreams

PG 13
Gen Sam, Dean, Jo
no spoilers or warnings and I don't own these characters

Don't Cry For Me by CeCe Away

"I don't know, Dean." Sam stepped over the broken glass. Every window in the run-down house had been shattered. "Something's off. It just doesn't seem like a vengeful spirit."

Dean wrinkled his nose at the pungent smell of decay overtaking the dusty parlor. Moonlight stole inside, illuminating white sheets thrown over chairs and tables. "All the signs point to it. The reports of locals suddenly going insane—six to date—all bat shit crazy enough to hara-kiri themselves. Come on, sounds like a malevolent ghost getting his jollies off around here to me. Six, Sam. Tell me how six people in one little town all kill themselves in the space of two weeks without a nasty spirit influencing them?"

"Yeah, okay. You're right." Sam pumped his shotgun.

Kid didn't look convinced.

"Tell you what." Dean tapped the end of his own sawed-off. "I'll keep my dagger unsheathed in case it's something besides a spirit. Which it isn't."

"Guess we'll know soon enough," Sam said. "Up or down?"

"I'll take the cellar. You search the second floor, then meet back here and we'll sweep the main floor together." Dean glanced at Sam's back as the young hunter headed toward the stairway. "Call out if you find anything."

Without looking back, Sam flicked out an exaggerated salute. Dean grinned. Bossing the kid around never got old.

He tried several doors off the kitchen before he found the cellar. Why an angry spirit would want to hang out here was beyond him, but they'd pieced together that at least four of the suicide victims had come here sometime during the month—one as a realtor, two as potential buyers, and another stopped by to give an estimate for refurbishing. So far it was the only thing any of the vics had in common.

Slipping out his penlight, Dean flicked it on. The little beam barely penetrated the darkness down into the slender stairwell. His first step down squeaked across the old noisy wood and footsteps rustled below. Yep, something was definitely down there.

Dean pumped his gun and descended the stairs that squeaked and squealed beneath each step, which didn't matter since the ghost or whatever was in the cellar would have already heard him. His light bounced around spiderwebs and shelves holding dust-coated jars of preserves or something before shooting across a face.

Jolting, Dean dragged the light back to the figure and the identical shotgun that was pointed at him.

"What the hell are you doing here?"

"Tracking a specter." Jo tipped her head, making her ponytail fall to the side."Nasty one by the looks of it."

"Well, leave. We got here first."

"I don't think so."

Dean lowered his gun. "You don't think you're gonna leave or don't think we got here ahead of you?"

"Neither." The girl's shotgun lowered.

A frown pulled at Dean's mouth. She looked good. Long legs snug in black pants. Tight blue T-shirt beneath a short-cropped leather jacket. She could give Catwoman a run for the money any day. "Your mom know you're here?"

Brown eyes narrowed. "How else am I supposed to gain any experience? I'm a Hunter. Same as you."

"On your own?"

No, I brought my baby sitter along. Geez."

Dean did not like her hunting alone. Not one little bit. Sure he knew it was in her blood and she was going to do it anyway, despite Ellen's wishes, but…hell, he just didn't like it. That's all.

"You're not ready. You need to go home."

"Says who? You?" One hip cocked out, almost in defiance and Dean couldn't help staring at the curve of it.

"Someone has to say it."

"Pluuh…eease. You and Sam have been hunting at a far younger age than I am. If you haven't noticed I'm a grown woman."

Oh, he'd noticed.

"Get yourself a partner then. Hell, hunt with Ellen for all I care. Ash even. Just don't go it alone. Every Hunter needs someone to watch their back."

"Cause that worked out so well for my dad." Jo flinched, at what she'd let pour out.

Dean went very still. "Ya know what. Never mind." He headed toward a darker part of the cellar.

Jo scurried after him. "You know that's not what I meant."

"Sounded like you meant it to me."

"Just stop. I'm sorry, okay. You know I don't see you like that."

"Fine." Dean spun back to face her. Whatever, but Sam and I are hunting this spirit so you need to back off."

"I am not backing off."

"Yes. You are."

"Look." Jo lifted her chin. "I put a lot of effort into tracking all the signs. It's my first solo and I'm not returning without even trying."

"Meaning you don't want to go back to the roadhouse with your tail tucked beneath your legs."

"Fine. Yes. Whatever." She tossed her head back. "I've got to prove to her I can do this."

"It's not about whether you can do it not for Ellen"

"Then I've got to prove it to myself. I don't care, but I am salt and burning this ghost."

Dean swung the shotgun up to rest over his shoulder. He understood the need to prove yourself. He also knew if Jo didn't do it on this hunt, she'd just run off to another. "Fine, you can stay. But, sweetheart, we're doing this together." Where he could keep an eye on her. "I'm in charge. You do everything I say." Oh her eyes flared wide at that. Maybe this could be fun after all. "Deal?"

She glared at him. He could practically see the cogs of her mind weighing options. Finally her gaze met his. "Deal."

~~~

Basement checked out, they trudged up the stairs. Jo's shoulder bag swung against her hip. Dean wondered what kind of arsenal she had in her little bag of tricks.

Sam was waiting for him on the main floor. "Jo?" His forehead scrunched and he looked questioningly at Dean.

Dean shrugged.

Jo's features tightened. "Sam." Guess she still wasn't over that whole demon possession thing. Awkward.

"Upstairs clear?" Dean barked out at his brother, intentionally bossy so Jo would understand the hierarchy.

Sam seemed relieved to have something else to focus on. "Nothing upstairs. "You?"

Dean flicked his gaze toward the girl. "Well, nothing supernatural."

Jo rolled her eyes.

"Jo, what are you doing here?" Sam asked.

"Same thing as you." Jo grinned then and it made all sorts of feelings jump around in Dean's gut.

Sam frowned. "What data did you use?"

"Newspaper reports. I chatted up the ME. Been sweeping the EMF, but the readings are surprisingly faint, but with the sudden rash of suicides… It all points to—"

"A malevolent spirit." The skin between Sam's eyes bunched as he frowned.

Jo tilted her head again. "You think it's something else?"

"I don't know. It's just…a feeling."

"Sam, I told you," Dean said. "If it waddles like a duck…"

"I know, just keep an open mind."

Dean pulled his handgun from the waistband at the back of his jeans. "I brought the Beretta, didn't I?" Sam's look of relief was worth bringing the extra weapon, though Dean doubted he'd be using it. He shoved it back into his waistband. "Now, can you two compare geek notes later so we can search the rest of this place? Sam, you finish this floor. Jo and I will check outside."

"There's three of us now." Jo drew her EMF from her jacket. "Why do I have to go with you?"

Because he didn't want her running into an angry spirit on her own. "'Cause I'm the boss. You take the front yard." Which he and Sam already scanned on their way in. "I'll take the back." Where he could get to her quick. "Happy?"

"Ecstatic." She spun on her heel and flounced toward the front door, leaving Sam and Dean staring after her.

"This is going to be a fun job," Dean muttered before heading in the opposite direction.

~~~

The old wrap-around porch groaned beneath Dean's boots. He quickly stepped off before the rotting boards splintered beneath him. A slight breeze ruffled weedy grass against his calves. The estate was huge and overgrown. A few rickety out-buildings and sheds lined the edge of the property in front of a dark copse of trees.

Pulling out his own EMF, Dean walked toward the shell of an ancient barn that leaned to one side so bad it looked as though one hard shake could topple it over. Nothing registered on the meter. "All right, ghostie, where are you hiding? Give me some hint of where you've gotten off to."

He made a wide sweep of the yard, stopping near the trees to check the readings again. A cold breeze blew across the back of his neck, making the tiny hairs stand on end. Dean peered into the thick darkness between the trees. He heard the faint sound of water splashing over rocks. There must be a stream within the trees close by. Dean listened a moment longer before turning his back to the little grove and moving on.

Another sound stopped him in his tracks.

A woman's sorrow filled crying tingled along his skin, a soft grief-stricken keen that speared straight to Dean's bones.

He turned back to the forest, hesitating for only a second before he walked into the thicket. Moonlight barely reached the ground. Ducking beneath drooping branches, Dean followed mournful cries. Pocketing the EMF, he lifted his shotgun.

The weeping grew louder.

Dean came around the trunk of a large tree and saw her.

She knelt on the ground over a wooden bucket holding sudsy water, long grey skirt flowing outward across the ground. Head bowed, shoulders shaking, she wept as she scrubbed fabric across one of those old-fashion washboards.

Kay, so salt and burn, but they needed to figure out who she was to find her bones or whatever item held her here. That meant talking, which really was more up Sam's alley. At least for now, she didn't seem aggressive—just incredibly sad. Which, damn, he'd almost prefer her attacking. Weeping women, alive or dead, were just . . . geez, where was his brother's tender self when he needed him? Dean lowered the shotgun.

Well, here goes nothing. Actually he was glad Sam wasn't here to see what a softie he was about to be.

"Ma'am?" Dean stepped closer.

The woman stopped scrubbing. With her head lowered, he couldn't see her features behind the fall of her long silver-white hair.

Okay, then. The awkward silence strained between them. Taking a chance, Dean crouched down, still a few feet away. He settled the shotgun loosely across his knees. "I want to help you."

She remained quiet and began moving the fabric up and down on the washboard again. Her fingers were red. Was she bleeding?
Stretching his neck forward, Dean looked into the washbasin, into the pink water. The woman started crying again, her slim body shaking as she scrubbed the clothes with more force, blood seeping from the material. What? Dean flinched. She was scrubbing a black shirt. He could barely make out some kind of picture or logo within the wrinkles. Wait. Was that a concert T-shirt?

Dean looked down at his own chest, at the same logo. He sprang to his feet, whipping the sawed-off up. "Sonuvabitch!"

Too late! The woman was on him, thumbs digging into his temples, long fingers curling around his head. Faces inches apart, red glowing eyes stared into Dean's, holding him powerless within the intensity of her gaze. A violent wind erupted around them, pulling at the strands of her silver hair, whipping her dress around their legs.

Her head dipped to the side, toward Dean's ear, and she let out a thin screech, low and penetrating, somewhere between the wail of a woman and shriek of an owl. It pierced every fiber of his body, drilling through his organs like the buzz of an electrical shockwave.

A scream erupted from Dean's chest, stealing the remainder of his breath with it.

~~~

Jo jerked at the scream.

"Dean!"

Shotgun at the ready, she ran around the side of the house just as Sam burst out of the back door. "Where?"

"I don't know!" Looking around the grounds, Jo didn't see anything around the out-buildings.

She briefly met Sam's gaze before they both took off running toward the trees. That was the only place Dean could be. At the tree line they slowed, shotguns up and ready. Sam signaled for her to go right. He'd take left.

Nodding, she moved silently across the ground, heart pounding. Damn her pride, she should have stayed with him. All senses alert, the faint sound of trickling water drifted across the quiet air. She followed it to a small stream. There was no sign of Dean anywhere, so she angled back the way she had come, hoping to pick up his trail. If she could figure out the spot he entered the grove, she could find him.
There. A footprint. Another. Definitely the tread of Dean's boots. Her pulse gained in speed as she followed the trail, practically jogging with her gaze glued to the ground. Dean, where are you?

She found him sprawled facedown in the dirt. "Dean!" She ran, sliding to her knees beside him. "Dean!" She jostled the back of his shoulder, but he didn't respond. Placing two fingers at his neck, she felt for a pulse while she scanned the area. Except for hers and Dean's tracks, there wasn't any sign that anyone else was around. No disturbed foliage or broken limbs. Just the regular signs of birds and small rodents. Though nothing was in sight, the atmosphere felt wrong, old and ancient, like something lived within the shadows. Dean's pulse beat steady and strong beneath her fingers.

What could have happened? "Come on, Dean, wake up. Sam!" she shouted. A whistle answered in reply.
"Dean." She nudged him again with the same unsatisfactory result. "Geez, you're stubborn even when you're unconscious." Her chest tightened like bands of steel compressing around her. She moved her palms over Dean's arms, his shoulders and torso, searching for injuries, her fingers skimming over smooth muscle.

"Dean!" Sam ran out from around a tree, slamming to a stop. Even in the low light, Jo had never seen such open fear in anyone's features. "Dean?" Worried eyes met hers. "Is he--?" He stopped, swallowed. "How bad?"

"I don't know." Jo went back to looking for an indication of what was wrong. She slipped her hands into his hair, feeling for wounds or bumps. "I can't find anything, but he won't wake up."

Sam lowered to the ground on the other side of his sibling, his features revealing so much worry she felt almost like an intruder. Setting his shotgun down within easy reach, Sam rolled Dean over onto his back, letting Jo take his older brother's head into her lap. She watched quietly as Sam also felt Dean's pulse and checked his breathing, and then began his own search for injuries.

She studied him silently, her heart breaking a little at the raw worry on his features. Her gaze lowered to Dean, the realization of how much danger—how many times these two guys had been hurt over the years—sank in like a collapsing well to the pit of her stomach.

Sam shook his head, obviously not finding the source of Dean's unconsciousness either. "Dean, bro, come on." He tapped his cheek. "Quit being a stubborn ass. Get up." Sam lifted Dean's eyelid, frowning at what he saw. At her angle, Jo couldn't tell, but from Sam's expression she guessed there was too much dilation.

He glanced around, his quick gaze obviously noting the absence of a struggle or another's tracks as she had earlier. "We need to leave."

"You feel it too?"

Sam's gaze slid to hers, held steady a moment before he nodded. Jo looked back into the shadows. A wave of protectiveness washed over her. She lifted her chin. You can't have him.

"Can you get my and Dean's guns?" Sam jerked her attention back to him.

Jo nodded, even as he pulled Dean from her lap and ducking low, shifted Dean's dead weight across his shoulder to carry him fireman style. Once he was up, Sam took off, leaving Jo to cover their backs.

Dean's arm swayed back and forth with Sam's steady pace. They jogged around the side of the large old house and Sam immediately headed toward the Impala.

"Put him in my car." Jo headed toward the other side of the old carriage house where she'd parked. Her lips quirked up. No wonder they hadn't known she was here before them.

Not hearing footsteps behind, she glanced back. Sam stood in the middle of the driveway, indecisive. She got that he didn't want to separate from his brother and they couldn't leave either of the vehicles here, but too bad, Dean didn't need to be jostled around in that rusty bucket of bolts, driven by a freaked out little brother. Sam was keeping calm now, but she also saw how tight his jaw was clenched, keeping it together.

"Sorry, no. Get the back door for me." Sam headed straight to the black beast of a car and waited for her to get the door for him.
Fine, whatever. Apparently both Winchesters had to have their way, though she conceded the large backseat was much better for an injured hunter. Truth was, she just wanted Dean with her, had to know he was all right during the drive.

Running to the other side of the car, she climbed in and helped Sam slide his brother across the seat.

Each half-in and half-out of their respective doorways, they both stared down at Dean. He'd been unconscious a long time.

"Dean," Jo whispered, smoothing sweaty hair back. Sam remained quiet as though hoping she could bring his brother out of whatever had a hold of him.

There was no response, not as much as an eyelash flutter.

Sam squeezed Dean's arm before easing backward out of the door. He came around the car and was next to Jo when she climbed out.

"Follow me. I'll find a hotel." He frowned down at her.

"I already have a room. You follow me."

Sam nodded. Where he looked so confident while he carried his brother moments ago, he now seemed like a lost little boy. Her heart pulled in her chest. Oh Dean. You better be okay.

~~~

Sam white-knuckled the steering wheel as he followed behind Jo's little rental.

Jo pulled into the parking lot of a posh hotel. Nice car, higher-class hotel. Just how much did she take off the Hunter's at the roadhouse, playing poker? She backed into a spot right up front while Sam had to search farther back in the lot to find an open space.
Getting out of the car, Sam yanked open the back door.

"Did he wake up at all?" Jo's voice rang out behind him.

Sam splayed his hand over Dean's chest, holding it there until he felt the soft rise and fall. "Dean, this sleeping princess act is getting old." He shifted Dean's legs out of the car and took hold of his upper arms, and pulled Dean up to begin sliding him out. Dean's head rolled forward and he moaned.

Sam and Jo both froze. "Dean?" they exclaimed at the same time.

There was no more response, but that slight sound had been the best thing Sam had ever heard, easing the hard weight he'd carried in his chest a bit.

From the other side, Jo helped slide Dean closer to Sam. "Wait here a minute." She slipped away.

Sam blew out a breath, wondering where she went, and let Dean's face fall onto his shoulder while he manhandled him farther out the door. It was such an awkward tight fit, maneuvering floppy legs and arms. Sam jolted when Jo spoke right behind him.

"I told you to wait."

"What?" He glanced to the side, saw the luggage cart she had rolled out from the lobby. "Oh." That would definitely make things easier.

Jo slid her jacket off and folding it, placed it at one end of the low cart. "Think we can somehow roll him onto that?"

"Yep." He planned on carrying Dean over his shoulder again, but this would work.

"Okay." Jo squeezed next to Sam to help him and the cart started rolling.

"I can get him," Sam said. "You just hold the cart still."

With Jo holding the luggage cart steady, Sam wrestled his older sibling's dead weight out of the car and let gravity take over, guiding Dean's headlong roll onto the cart. Head pillowed on Jo's jacket, Dean's limbs splayed on either side along the pavement. Jo drew his arms up to lay across his chest while Sam tried to bend his brother's long legs, finally lifting them to rest along the crossbars at the end when they kept flopping off the cart. He looked ridiculous, which would be funny if Sam wasn't so worried.

Together they wheeled him inside the hotel, receiving a bland look from the young front desk clerk. "Designated drivers." Jo gave him a sheepish smile as they crossed the lobby toward the elevators and the guy's face reddened. "This one can't hold his liquor."

The clerk grinned. Sam supposed two young adults hauling their drunk-off-his-ass friend upstairs could liven up a dull nightshift or maybe the guy just thought Jo was hot. He kept glancing at her while they waited for the elevator to arrive.

The doors slid open and they rolled Dean and the cart inside. As soon as the elevator pinged their arrival at the fourth floor, Dean groaned, slapped around and rolled off the cart.

"Dean!" Sam stopped the cart from rolling into his legs. Trying to pull himself up with palms on the unstable cart, Dean blinked up at Sam like the fluorescent lighting was too bright. "Hell are we?"

Sam laughed, the sudden relief at having his brother awake and talking, making him loopy. He shoved his foot against the door as it started to slide closed.

Jo crouched at Dean's back, pulling him up beneath his armpits. "Come on, big guy, we're going for a little ride."

Dean tilted his head back to look at her, forehead wrinkled in puzzlement. "On that?"

"Mmm-hmm." Jo smiled prettily.

"You pushing?"

"I thought I would." Her lips quirked.

Dean's mouth puckered. "Yeah, 'cause you're pushy." He shoved up to his feet, swayed as though he might crash right back down, but Sam's arm shot out to steady him.

"You good?"

Dean blinked several times. "I'm always good."

Jo frowned at Sam. Sam shrugged. "Says he good."

She rolled her eyes. "Fine. Prove it." She let go of Dean to put her hands on her hips.

Dean straightened out and took a step forward. His legs buckled and he would have fallen if Sam hadn't hauled him back up.

"Stubborn idiots," she muttered and pushed the luggage cart into the hallway.

Grinning, Sam pulled Dean's arm over his shoulder and dragged him out of the elevator. Dean was completely stubborn, but Sam was grateful for it. It was that stubbornness that had him on his feet, rather than giving in to whatever had taken him down.

Jo had her room door open by the time they caught up to her. Sam stood with Dean in the doorway, not sure where to set Dean down.

"Put him on the bed," Jo directed, scooping up a bra and some kind of shimmery nightgown as well as a towel that had been deposited earlier across the unmade bed.

Sam lowered Dean to the side of the mattress, though his brother didn't seem inclined to lay down. Sam sat beside him. "Dean, what happened?"

Jo dumped the small first aid kit between them.

Dean scowled. "I don't need that."

"You were face down in the dirt when I found you."

"I'm fine. No scrapes. No nothing. Just a little shut-eye."

Jo opened the lid. "For half-an-hour? That's not normal."

Dean's cock-sure grin eased out. "I'm not normal."

"Understatement of the year." Jo pulled out a pill bottle. "At least take aspirin?"

Dean opened his palm and Sam went over to the little sink above the mini-fridge to get him a glass of water.

Handing the glass over, he asked again. "So what happened?"

Dean took the pills and shook his head. "I don't know. I heard this lady crying so I followed her into the trees, then she whammied me."

"Whammied how?"

Dean pressed his fingers to his forehead, rubbing circles. "She grabbed my head and lights out. That quick."

Sam didn't like the sound of that, didn't like supernatural things messing with his brother's head. "So, definitely a ghost?"

"I thought so at first, tried to talk to her."

"She say anything?" Jo asked.

"Nope. Went from weeping to eyes flashing red and that's all she wrote." Dean rubbed his head again. Had to be throbbing.

"Kay." Sam frowned. That wasn't much to go on. Weeping ghost with red eyes who attacked his brother without provocation and so far was the only clue they had to the recent suicides. Maybe she had committed suicide herself? Could account for the crying. "Why don't you rest. I'm gonna get the computer from the car and see if I can dig something up. Hey, what-type era would you say the woman was dressed for?" Could narrow down the search while looking through obituaries on suspicious deaths.

Dean scooted back toward the headboard and stretched his legs out on the bed. He shook his head. "Not sure. Early nineteen hundreds maybe. She was wearing a long dress. Could fit a lot of time periods."

Sam frowned. Not much help there.

"Hey, Sam. Don't stay up much longer." Dean yawned. "Research can wait for the morning. Got the feeling we need to stay sharp for this one. Something's off."

"Sure thing, Mom." Sam stared at Dean a moment before sliding his gaze to Jo. Things never were good whenever Dean felt like something was off too. Which meant Sam wouldn't get much sleep until he figured out just what was going on.

~~~

Dean snapped awake like he'd taken a plunge in an icy river. Something stirred against his thigh. Easing up on the bed, he saw Jo sleeping near the foot of the mattress, her forehead pressed against his leg. A smile tugged at his mouth and he let his fingers run through the silky spill of her hair while he glanced around the room.

Sam had fallen asleep in the overstuffed chair, long legs propped on another chair he'd pulled over from the desk. His face was illuminated in the glow of the digital clock on the desk. 4:01: Still early. The laptop lay dark on his lap.

Feeling gritty, probably from being thrown face first into the dirt last night, Dean scooted carefully off the bed, trying not to awaken Jo. She murmured and turned to the other side and Dean watched her for a moment, all sorts of unwanted feelings jumbling around in his belly he didn't quite know what to do with. She had wanted to tend to him last night, had slept near him…

Dean tamped any tenderness down. He'd been hurt last night, out of it. Jo had a caring nature. Don't make anything more out of it. Dean pulled back, not willing to open himself up to her.

He turned away, spied his duffel near the door next to Sam's. A shower, change of clothes and he'd be back to his old self, better able to deal with this oddball case and… His gaze slipped back to the sleeping girl on the bed. Damn. The sooner they got rid of this ghost and packed Jo back to the Roadhouse, the better.

He still felt a little woozy. Yeah, a shower would definitely help. He grabbed up his bag and slipped into the bathroom, closing the door quietly behind him.

The hot water felt great, sluicing over him, loosening tight muscles. By the time he shut off the water and toweled off, he felt so much better—ready to tackle the day and get rid of a crazy weeping ghostie.

Draping the towel around his hips, Dean stepped out of the tub/shower combo and lifted his duffel onto the sink counter. He pulled out a pair of jeans and boxers and rooted around for a shirt when his hand swept over his small pocketknife.

Frosty air curled around him, an abrupt change from the warm humidity from the shower. He wasn't alone. His eyes snapped up to the fogged up mirror.

There was nothing but his own hazy reflection. He spun around, clicking open the blade. Still nothing.

He stared at the short blade, shiny in the swirls of fog. Goose pimples raised along his flesh. He stared and stared, imagined turning the blade in his hand and jamming it in his stomach, felt warm blood take the chill away as it flowed down his skin and soaked into the white towel, making pretty flowery patterns.

Dean flinched, dropped the knife where it clattered on the floor, spinning, spinning. He wanted to grab it back up, slide it across his arms…
What? No! He'd never had thoughts like this. This wasn't him. He pressed his hands to his stomach. No wounds. Nothing there. He hadn't done it. He wouldn't do something like that. Had never thought it.

Weeping streamed along the heavy air, an inconsolable sobbing coating his skin, which grew steadily louder, more intense until shrieking howls pierced his brain, stabbing his head over and over. He sank to his knees, his fist curling over the blade, cutting into his palm.
Make it stop. Make it stop. He wanted to jam the knife in his eye to make it stop. This wasn't him. "Sam!" he gasped out, flinging the knife away where it spun across the floor. He lifted his hand to his head, leaving a bloody handprint on the tile that did a slow rotation. Everything was spinning, his vision graying around the edges. The shrieking kept drilling and drilling inside his head.

This was wrong. It was all so wrong. Stop it. Stop it. Stop the noise.

"Sam!"

He squeezed his head between his hands, fought the urge to smack it against the tile to make the screeching woman shut up. Just shut up! Shut the freak up!

Steps pounded outside the bathroom. "Dean!" The door opened, slightly at first, then it slammed against the sink counter. Hands latched around Dean from behind and he felt himself hauled up backwards.

"What's going on?" Jo's voice floated from the other room.

"Don't know." Sam's tone was clipped.

Sam dragged him out of the bathroom, across the floor and up onto the bed.

"He's bleeding?" Jo again, though she sounded far away behind the shrieking, howling of the weeping woman.

"Bluuh! Make it stop." Dean pressed the heels of his palms to his eyes, rolling his head back and forth.

Sam's hands circled his wrists, dragging Dean's hands away. "Stop what? What is it? Dean!"

Dean stared at his brother, willing him to somehow fix this, make her screams get out of his head, make her stop. "Do you hear it?"

"Hear what? Dean, I can't…what's going on? Talk to me."

Dean pulled up, clawing his bleeding hand into Sam's shirt. "You gotta stop her."

"I will. I just need to—Dean!"

The woman's shriek punctured through Dean's skull with such force everything exploded, went white then fizzled to blackness. His brother's shout followed him down into the abyss.

Part 2