deedwithoutname

I'm not quite sure when I fell in love with you.

I don't think I could pinpoint it if I tried. This isn't the sort of thing that crystallizes down to just one second. It happened in a million moments, not not just one. And, those, I remember. Sewing up a wound between your shoulder blades, one you couldn't reach yourself, we had to be young because there are so few scars on you in the memory; I remember how you winced and swore under my touch, I remember smelling blood, sweat, alcohol, you. Being shaken awake by you, pulled out of a motel bed that smelled like sex and beer, it was the middle of the night and you were so excited because you had solved whatever case we were working, and I couldn't help but grin and blink away my exhaustion because you were so proud of yourself. Sunlight glinting off of that flask you always keep in the pocket of your jacket (maybe Dad's, maybe Bobby's, maybe just yours, I'm not sure) as you raise it to drink whatever's in there, light flashing into your eyes and illuminating the million different shades of green in there. Yeah, I'm pretty sure I remember every single one of those moments. Maybe not the details, but definitely the way the light hit you and outlined every perfection, how your voice buzzed in my blood and under my ribs, how I felt.

The flask. You know, you drink way too much. But I'm pretty sure you know that, and I guess there are worse ways you could cope, so I won't bring it up.

I fell in love with you over a matter of years. Maybe I would have tried to stop it if I knew what was happening, maybe I would have thought it was wrong, but it's a little too late for that now. How was I supposed to know that, one day, when you clapped a hand on my shoulder and grinned at me with your face all scratched up, blood glistening in your hair as the sun set, my heart would catch and I wouldn't be able to breathe? How was I supposed to know that you talk in your sleep, and sometimes you cry, and how was I supposed to know those half-murmured words about monsters and people you couldn't save and, way too often, me...how was I supposed to know they'd be like a freaking spell? Pulling at parts of me I thought had died years ago, fish hooks sunk into my heart and my marrow, drawing out tears and gasps and a desperate need to fix you. You're broken pieces in my hands, you know that? You're damned sharp, I cut myself on you sometimes, and that probably doesn't even make sense, does it? I keep holding onto you anyway. I don't have the slightest idea how to glue you back together, but at least I can keep all those shards in one place and working in relative harmony. And, y'know, maybe I'm broken, too, and maybe our pieces fit together.

This is the kind of thing that sneaks up on a guy. What I feel for you, I mean. Apparently, it's also the kind of thing that puddles and drips and fills up all of the hollow places inside me. There were a lot more than I knew. It formed in a billion nameless, dingy hotel rooms, came from the sounds of exorcisms and angel's wings, found its way into me when I focused on your breathing in the middle of the night and prayed it would never stop. I don't really know how to explain this to you. How to tell you that your heartbeat is like a song, and I wish I could get close enough to hear it. I can't do this to you. I don't have the greatest track record when it comes to relationships.

I've seen you in those perfect, vulnerable little moments that paint a clearer picture of who you are than any of your self-made slang or your clothes or your music. I can see you right now, face turned to the sun, eyes closed and hair sparkling gold, features splashed with light and arranged into an expression of perfect bliss as you take in the early-morning heat. I can see the little flicker of pleasure around your eyes and mouth as you pull on a freshly-washed shirt; maybe it's torn and burned in places, but at least it smells like soap and not blood or sulfur. I can see you when you brush against me. When we're hunting, when we're in danger, and I stay close enough for you to touch me without even meaning to. You get this look on your face. Just for a second. Someone else probably wouldn't have caught it. Utter peace, and reassurance fueled by the knowledge that I'm right there with you, and I'll always be there...and you're not alone.

I'll try and tell you what you are to me, Dean. Yeah, I'll use your name, too, it's not like I could pretend I was talking about someone else here. Am I talking? Or just thinking? I can't really tell. I never would have told you any of this before, you would have flipped. And I can't stand your anger, your disappointment. Every word you say against me feels like it's being cut into my flesh.

So. Here goes.

You are brilliant green eyes, fierce and wide and defiant even when reflecting Hellfire, and close-cropped hair that looks black in one kind of light and dirty-blonde in another. To me, you are blood being gently dabbed off my knuckles with alcohol, and shirts that smell like that awful cologne you wear because you think women like it (and maybe they do, I wouldn't know-and you definitely bed enough of them), and furious, jagged music. You're the pattern of lights in Heaven's sky. You're stargazing, cold beer, the glossy black finish of an ancient but beautiful car. You're comfort, and about seventy different types of pain no one else can make me feel (jerk), and black smoke and salt and loyalty and resurrection and that little bump on my jaw that I got when you broke it while we were sparring, back when we were kids. You hated yourself for that. I didn't.

I want you to know this, now, because the doctors say you probably won't wake up. They told me you took a really nasty blow to the head and there's not much left inside there. Not that there was much to begin with-sorry. You might still be hanging around, but I bet you took off screaming when I started, if you are. Sorry. I couldn't keep it inside anymore.

I'm waiting to pull the plug. The one that's keeping all these machines going, keeping you technically alive. I haven't done it yet. Part of it's 'cause you have kind of a bad habit of coming back, and I don't want to screw with your plan, if you have one. Or if someone else does. Part of it's because...Dean, I don't know if I can kill you like this. You wouldn't want to live like this, hooked up to machines and brain-dead, just like you wouldn't want to live if something got you and turned you. But you're not a monster. You're still a man, still my brother, and all those tubes make you look so small.

You're a force of nature, Dean, a whirlwind of emotion and noise and life. This isn't you. Where have you gone?

There's nothing for me to fight this time, and I know I'm gonna have to let you go. Let you die. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.

What do you believe you're leaving behind? Nothing, probably. You think death will end you completely, wipe every trace of you from the Earth. You didn't so much as keep a diary.

And you forgot about every life you touched, every child you pried out of the jaws of a monster, every innocent you refused to let die. You forgot about me, too. I've been with you from the beginning, and your story might as well be tattooed on me, carved into my bones like Enochian cloaking runes, for how deeply it's seared into my memory. If someone cut me open, they could read all about a courageous, righteous, resilient man, who did what he could and what he had to and hated himself for it, even though he left a path of saved lives behind him. A man who fought off Satan, defied the will of God to do what he knew was right, a man who died for the only family he had left-multiple times. A man named Dean Winchester.

I love you. I don't know how long it took me to realize that, but I do. More than anything else.

I'll go, as soon as you're gone. I'll pick up right where we left off...saving people. Hunting things. I will tell everyone I meet about you, Dean, about who you were and what you did and why the entire human race owes you a debt a mile wide. You made mistakes, I saw how that hurt you-but you made up for them.

You won't be with me, but I'll remember that bond, that instinct, rooted deeper than breathing and hurting like stretching a dormant muscle with every heartbeat.

I'll remember you.

Early work. Not even Wincest. Just an idea that I couldn't get out of my head, more than a year ago. Contains an OC...sorry.

C dropped the file on the table, turning it so it was facing me and flipping it open. He fanned out the pictures inside. Everything from professional headshots, glossy and detailed, to newspaper clippings and grainy screenshots from security cameras. I leaned forward to take a closer look at our two targets.

"God," I remarked after a few seconds of scrutiny. "They look like people."

"Oh, most astute," C snapped back, tone caustic as he swept the photos back in and closed the file. "I can already tell you're going to make a truly fantastic hunter."

"No, but..." I paused, trying to put my thoughts into words in a way that wouldn't make him scream at me. Or smack me upside the head. Or toss a glassful of some corrosive liquid in my face. "I get rogue vampires. I understand ghouls who step outside their boundaries and start hunting the living. But why do we need to take these down?" I tapped the manila folder. "They look normal all the time, right? What's wrong with them?"

"You're so cute when you're being stupid." C gave me a condescending smile. "Know you haven't been at this long, Robin. But, really, pull your head out of your ass. Creatures of...their ilk-" he nodded to the folder "-do tend to, as you so intelligently put it, 'look normal.' It's probably how they've survived so long." He shrugged, then looked at me. "All you really need to know is that things like them kill things like us. That's as good of a reason as any to gank them, wouldn't you agree?"

I raised an eyebrow. "Uh...'gank'?"

"Term I picked up from some colleagues of mine. Highly entertaining fellows. You'll meet them soon enough," C said, coming around to the other side of the table and brushing past me. "All of my apprentices do, sooner or later. I like to think of it as a final test."

That sounded ominous, but after four months with C, I had gotten used to the veiled threats (or whatever this sort of thing was) that he dropped on a regular basis. Barely sparing any thought for these mysterious coworkers of his, I turned and hurried after him. He led me down into the armory, one of the few rooms in the house that acted as his base of operations that I had actually been in. As soon as I stepped through the doorway of the large, warded room, a knife was tossed, handle-first, at my chest. I caught it without thinking.

"Ah, good, you've been practicing." C, surveying a rack of identical knives over on the west wall, nodded to me. "That's yours. Try not to cut your fingers off."

I moved a little deeper into the room, keeping my guard up just in case he decided to throw anything else at me. C's armory was the envy of all others in the business. A hexagonal room, buried in the earth, its concrete walls lined with racks of all the weapons someone like us could ever need. Swords, throwing stars, blades of every kind, hung on one wall. Stakes and holy swords hung on another. There were guns, loaded with both live ammunition and salt rounds, on the racks nearest to me. In the very back of the room, there were shelves lined neatly with bottles of some sort of special water, bags and cylinders of salt, boxes of chalk and cans of spray paint. I wasn't actually sure what all of that was for. We'd never used it, and C hadn't deigned to talk to me about it.

Still holding onto the handle of the knife, I peered through the mesh that made up the backs of the racks. It was more of a habit than anything; I knew what I'd find. Dozens upon dozens of spidery little symbols, inscribed in chalk, paint, and what looked uncomfortably like blood. Obviously, they were wards of some kind, but I had no idea what they were meant to keep out. Or-I glanced at the wall that held cursed objects, hex bags, and spell ingredients-maybe, in.

"I'd like to leave before the sun collapses in on itself, Robin." C jabbed me in the small of the back with another knife. Not hard enough to break the skin, but I still jumped. "Get ready."

"What do I need?" I asked brusquely, straightening up and shoving the knife into one of the many sheaths that I'd sewed onto my belt on one of our off days. I wanted to show him that I was competent enough to come with him on this. I still remembered the time that I had accidentally tripped over a chair and smashed some sort of clay vase with, weirdly enough, what looked like a complete (if dismantled) skeleton inside. We'd been preparing to go after a pack of werewolves at the time. Not only had C left without me, he'd tossed me inside some sort of spell-trap and then left me there the entire time he'd been tracking and fighting the wolves. And he was gone for almost two weeks.

I really didn't want that to happen again.

"I'm sorry, what did you say?" C turned to look at me, a length of narrow wire stretched between his hands. It was some sort of weapon that I couldn't remember the name of. A Garrett or something.

"What do I need?" I repeated, striding over to the knife rack. "Silver? Iron? Do I need to coat the blades in the blood of something?" I glanced at him over my shoulder. "These things that look like people. How do we kill them?"

"All you need," he said, coming up soundlessly beside me, "is a nice, sharp knife." He tapped the handle of the one hanging at my hip. "You'll want to try and hit one of the vital spots. Throat, between the ribs, stomach, insides of the thighs." He touched the first three points he listed on me to punctuate his words, but seeing the look I was giving him, he paused and unflinchingly met my gaze. At least he didn't mark the last spot. "Oh, and the eyes, of course. If you hit one of the eyes, you'll go right through to the brain."

"That's it?" I asked, a little incredulously. "Just...stab them, and they'll die?"

"So long as you hit them right on your very first try."

"And what happens if I miss?"

Without warning, C grabbed a handful of hair on the back of my head, jerking my head backwards so that my throat was exposed. I stiffened, going completely rigid. This was something else that he did on a regular basis. Or at least something similar to it. But unlike the threats, I hadn't quite managed to get used to it.

His mouth-and, more importantly, his teeth, were dangerously close to one of the major arteries in my neck as he whispered, "They will pull your organs out through your mouth over a matter of weeks, Robin. They will burn you and cut you and make you their bitch in every sense of the word. They'll ask you about me, and every other person like me, and you'll tell them everything they want to hear. And then they will kill you. Maybe. If you're lucky."

He let go of me. I swallowed, hard, doing my best, not to let him see how badly he'd shaken me.

"They're that bad, huh?" I asked, trying to keep my voice even.

C barked out a short, harsh laugh, clapping a hand on my shoulder and politely not mocking me when I flinched.

"My God, you have a talent for understatement, don't you?" he said, almost fondly. "Y'know, I think I'm actually going to miss you when something eventually tears your face off. Probably not for more than five minutes, but still. Now, come on, grab anything else you think might buy you an extra few seconds of life. Meet me in the garage when you're ready."

I'd never been in the garage before. It wasn't really a place that C frequented, either. He seemed to have a certain contempt for driving and cars. Black Chevrolets in particular, for whatever nutty reason. He'd curse under his breath whenever he saw one, and snap at me for the rest of the day.

"We're driving?" I really couldn't be blamed for being more than a little surprised.

"Our destination is out in the middle of nowhere, and they will have protected it to the best of their abilities," C replied with a sneer. "That means spells, wards, and booby traps beyond your most twisted nightmares. So unless you feel like being incinerated or getting catapulted halfway across the country, we're driving. The whole way. Makes us that much more difficult to detect, to track. They won't even know we're coming for them."

His sneer changed into a savage grin, and he strode out of the armory. I let out a breath I hadn't even known I'd been holding.

C was creepy. But what else was new?

"They almost always hunt in pairs."

"Huh?" C's voice startled me out of a stupor I had fallen into, staring out the window on the passenger side, with my head resting against the glass. Immediately, I tensed up. He'd said something to me and I hadn't been paying attention. May God have mercy on my soul.

But, strangely enough, he didn't tear me a new one. He didn't even seem to notice me, his gaze locked on the road ahead and his knuckles white on the steering wheel. I eyed him warily. We hadn't seen another car for hours, and he was driving pretty smoothly on this straight, deserted stretch of highway, but I wasn't dumb enough to totally let my guard down. It'd only taken me about ten seconds as C's passenger to exhaust my lifetime supply of adrenalin. To say he drove like a maniac would be like calling a succubus a common whore. He stomped on the pedals, jerked the wheel, and swore at every inanimate object that mysteriously appeared in his path. It was like he'd never driven a car before. I would have offered to take over, since he was so obviously incompetent, but I liked my organs where they were.

"Or packs, sometimes, but those don't last long," C was continuing now. I paid close attention to him, just in case he said something that made sense. "They have a nasty habit of killing each other. Maybe that's why so many of them choose to live and play alone." He paused, considering something. "Then again, those don't usually last too long, either."

He glanced at me, and gave me a quick smile. "You're in for a real treat tonight, Robin. These things are rare, ancient, very possibly the last of their kind. And there is most definitely a reason that they have survived so long."

"They can't be that tough," I replied, looking back out the window. Abandoned farmland shot past. "If all it takes to kill 'em is one stab."

The blow came so fast that I didn't even sense it; C shoved my head against the window hard enough to make my vision go black for a second. I yelped, tears springing to my eyes before I could stop them.

"I'd like to see you scoff when your ribcage has been hauled open and your blood is draining into a bowl." C's voice was furious and impossibly loud in my ears, a railroad spike being pounded into my already-wounded head. "Four miserable months of chopping the heads off sniveling vampires and watching while I gun down rogue shapeshifters, and you think yourself a match for what we're hunting now? They were just coming into their prime in the times that angels were our enemies and God walked among us as a man with...I swear...the absolute ugliest trench coat you ever saw..." C seemed to be calming down a bit. Pressed hard against the car door in an effort to get as far away from him as possible, with my throbbing head clutched in my hands, I watched him cautiously. "And you, Robin, could probably be killed by a baby, as long as it had the right tools." He shot me a very serious glance. "Don't underestimate them."

"Okay." Gingerly, I took my hands away from my head. There was no blood on them, so I guessed I was going to live. As the miles passed and C showed no sign of attacking me again, I let myself relax. A little.

We pulled off the road a little before sunset, directly after the farmland outside the window changed into a deciduous forest. I dug my fingers into the fabric of my seat as C narrowly missed a tree, and let go with more than a minor sense of relief when he cut the engine.

"We go on foot from here," he said abruptly, opening his door and getting out. "All you'll need is what you're carrying right now. Stay quiet and try not to step on anything that looks like it might be a trap."

I took that in, closing my door as silently as I could manage. It was late summer, so the trees around us were in full leaf, turning the slanting golden sunlight green. Locusts hummed and birds chirped in a heat that was uncomfortable, but not oppressive. All I could smell was dirt and flowers-no blood no ozone, nothing. Nothing seemed out of place. Except...

Something caught my eye, underneath the branches of a nearby tree. I stepped a little closer, examining it. A familiar-looking sigil had been cut deep into the bark. I tried to remember where I'd seen it before with a shock, I realized that it was identical to one of the symbols painted on the walls of C's armory.

Speaking of C, he was standing right next to me, having approached in that creepy, totally-silent way that he had.

"Enochian," he murmured, examining the sigil. "Did they really believe we'd call down angels to hunt them?"

Enochian. For some reason, the word sent a chill down my spine. So, the weird writing in C's armory was a defense against angels. I wasn't sure how I felt about that.

"Come on." C gripped my upper arm, pulling me deeper into the forest. "We need to move quickly."

The light started to fade as I let him lead me to wherever it was we were going, making for a pretty creepy setting. The Enochian characters on the trees got more and more frequent the further we went, and something about that seemed ominous to me. I pulled one of my knives out of its sheath and gripped the handle tightly enough to make my fingers start to cramp up.

We didn't find anything really dangerous until after about half an hour of walking. With no warning, C-who had finally let go of my arm ten minutes ago-grabbed my shoulder.

"Stop," he commanded. I did.

"What is it?" I adjusted my grip on the knife.

Instead of answering me, C crouched down, clearing some dead leaves away from a spot at the base of a tree. I leaned over his shoulder. An unremarkable rope had been laid in a large circle on the ground, with a bunch of complicated loops inside of it. I couldn't tell if it was a physical trap or a magical one, but it looked nasty.

He reached out and tugged at the rope, breaking the circle. Raising his head, C squinted off into the darkening forest, his expression almost amused.

"Is that the best you can do?" he muttered under his breath. I didn't think he was talking to me.

"Do they know we're here?" I asked quietly.

"No, of course not." He stood up, brushing earth off of his pants. "If they did, we'd already be dead."

I swallowed hard, scanning the trees around me. Nothing with fangs and claws jumped out at me, so I told myself that it was okay to let my guard down a little. I felt like a rubber band stretched to its breaking point, one loud noise away from snapping-but giving myself permission to calm down did pretty much nothing. In the back of my mind, I knew that I wouldn't be able to relax until C told me it was safe to do so. It'd been like this for me on the last couple of hunts he'd taken me on, too. And he hadn't warned me nearly as much about those.

"D'you want me to carry you?" C's sarcastic voice broke into my thoughts, and I automatically shook my head.

"I'm fine," I told him. "Let's just kill these things and get out of here."

"A bit spooked, are we?" he asked, raising an eyebrow. "Maybe you're smarter than I gave you credit for."

Without another word, he stepped over the now-useless pile of rope and continued on whatever invisible path he was following. In his dark clothes, he blended into the shadows under the trees almost immediately. I hurried after him.

"Before we find them," I asked, catching up, "do you have anything else to tell me?"

"Like what?" C replied, glancing at me.

"Like..." I drew a blank. "Well, anything."

"That's specific." I opened my mouth to give him whatever categories readily flew out of it, but he was talking again before I could. "We absolutely must kill them both, Robin. If we only bring one down and the other gets away, it will let nothing stop it from avenging its fellow in whatever way is most painful for us. It won't rest, it won't be distracted, until we're both dead at the end of weeks of torture."

"Are they mates?" I asked, thinking of the few vampire couples that I'd seen. When one died, the other tended to snap in a pretty spectacular way.

To my surprise, C laughed. Not loud-he was following his own rules. But I could tell that he was having a hard time keeping it quiet, and I could hear actual amusement in his voice.

"Oh, you'll have to ask them that," he finally replied, still chuckling. "It'll be worth the delay just to see the looks on their faces."

Something occurred to me right about then. "Have you gone after them before?"

He looked at me, his face barely visible in the darkness of early evening, but I could still make out how guarded his expression was.

"Yes," he said quietly. "Yes, I have. Many times." He looked ahead, but I had the feeling that he wasn't really seeing. "Dozens of times, I've thought the bastards dead, and dozens of times, they've believed the same about me. It's always a nasty shock when I pop up or they drag themselves back into battle."

"So, they're like...your archenemies. Your equals," I said without thinking. As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I tensed up, waiting for a blow.

But it never came. C just sighed deeply.

"Years ago, I would have torn you to pieces for saying that," he remarked. "But they've killed everyone I've ever sent after them. Hundreds of coworkers, thousands of subordinates, and...I've actually lost count of how many of your predecessors have been sent to the pyre by them, Robin." He paused. "I suppose, if you want something done..."

I nodded. The fact that C had no real idea how many apprentices he had lost to these things sort of bothered me, but no more than anything else he had said since I'd first taken up with him.

"But I'm tired of my pupils showing up on my doorstep in shoe boxes," C went on. "I'm tired of these creatures' incessant need to kill as many of us as they can. I'm tired of them crawling out of the woodwork, guns ablaze, when I least expect it." His face twisted into a snarl. "And, most of all, I am tired of what passes for their sense of humor. I swear, every time I go up against them...my God, they have absolutely no idea how to banter." The snarl softened into a more characteristic scowl. "One way or another, this ends tonight."

Something about the "one way or another" part bothered me, but I kept my mouth shut and my hand on the knife.

"D'you hear that?"

With a throaty whisper, C broke almost an hour of complete silence. I'd been following him blindly, hoping he knew where he was going because I couldn't see my hand in front of my face and wishing my heart would stop beating so hard, but now I stopped, grip tightening even further on the handle of my knife.

"Hear what?" Instinctively, I matched his volume.

C, who had stopped walking, took a careful look around. Or so I assumed, just based on the rustling of his clothes. I heard twigs and leaves crackle under his feet as he shifted his weight. As silently as I could, I exchanged the knife that I was holding for a bigger one. The kind used to skin moose and things.

"Hear what?" I repeated, hating that a note of terror was creeping into my voice.

He didn't answer for another couple of minutes. I mentally warded off what felt like a heart attack. Finally, he offered a quiet, "Huh."

"What?" My whisper was harsh.

"Must have been my imagination." From the sound that his clothing made, I would guess that he shrugged. Then he took a step forward.

There was an ominous twang as he set his foot down, and the broken end of a wire whistled upwards into the branches of the trees as things started to move in the darkness. Very calmly, C commented, "Oh, hell."

I'm a little fuzzy on what happened next. C grabbed my arm, I know that, and threw me in front of him right before a bucket dropped or a hose sprayed or something. It was dark and I really couldn't see a damn thing. But the next thing I knew, my fae, arms, and chest were soaked. And it burned.

C had a tendency to splash me with stuff that did that. Strong alcohol or low-grade acid, I always assumed, seeing as it didn't do much damage and he only resorted to it when I said something particularly stupid. But this was different.

It felt like a violation. Like my soul was being burned away, as well as my skin. The pain of it went straight to my core, unexpected and shocking, and for a second, I couldn't breathe. Then I managed to inhale. And I screamed.

It was the only thing I could do. There was nothing left of me but the burning and a pair of lungs. The pain was so deep, so complete, that I couldn't even think. I was dying. I had to be dying. Somewhere, I was aware that I had fallen to my knees, hands clutching my face tight enough to leave bruises. I screamed incoherently into my palms.

And then I was curled into a fetal position among the dead leaves, sobbing into the knees I had pulled to my chest, and the pain was fading. Through some miracle, it was fading. I fervently thanked God inside my head, even though my time with C had firmly cemented my atheism. Maybe it was time to rethink that. I mean, if angels were real enough to be warded off with sigils...

Slowly, I became aware of a sound other than my own whimpering. C's voice.

"Oh, get up."

Someone grabbed the back of my field jacket and hauled me unceremoniously to my feet. I almost fell over; C steadied me with a hand on my shoulder.

"You're fine," he snapped. "Open your eyes."

Hesitantly, I did as I was told. To my shock, I could see perfectly. My eyes weren't damaged and the darkness was no longer impenetrable. Mentally steeling myself, I looked down at my arms, expecting to see fabric melted into whatever flesh was still on my charred bones. But all that was there were the sleeves of my jacket, wet, and my hands. The skin on them was unmarred except for the scars that had already been there before.

I blinked in shock, glancing up at C, who had a displeased expression on his face. My weird night vision started to fade. Maybe shock had brought it on.

"There. See? You're fine," he said curtly. "My God. If I'd've known you'd squall like that, I would've taken it myself."

"Do you think they heard me?" I asked quietly, remembering how loudly I'd screamed.

I couldn't see C anymore, but I knew him well enough to know that he had just leveled a withering gaze at me. "I think that the entire state heard you."

I bent down and picked up my knife, which I had dropped. "I'm sorry."

"Oh, that makes everything better," he said sarcastically. "Just come on. We may have lost the element of surprise, but we can still pull this off."

I stayed right behind him as he took off again. Whatever these things were that we were hunting, they actually scared C, I realized. He didn't want to face them alone. He needed me for backup. That was the only reason I was still breathing after messing up his plan.

It wasn't a comforting thought.

It was another fifteen minutes of rapid walking before light started coming through the trees from something up ahead. A house, probably. If it could even be called that. The building that I saw when C threw an arm across my chest and hissed at me to stop, still under the cover of the trees, was little more than a glorified shack. It was derelict, roof sagging and moss growing on the planks that made up the walls, the glass smashed out of several windows replaced with boards. But it was most definitely inhabited. A candle burned in every window, more of those Enochian sigils had been painted all over the remaining glass, and firelight poured out of the open door, making the two people standing in front of it into silhouettes.

I felt the muscles in my stomach and jaw tighten enough to ache, realizing that they were what we were after.

Both were unmistakably male, as the file had said. They were both pretty tall, though one towered above the other, and well-built. I assumed. It was a little hard to tell, with the loose, comfortable clothes that they wore. Easy to fight and run in. I recognized that because it was what I kept in mind when I got dressed every morning.

They were talking to each other, in English. Their conversation carried easily to where we were standing.

"I'm telling you, I heard screaming," the shorter of the two said.

"I know, so did I, but I don't think that we should just charge right out there," the taller one replied. "We don't even know what it is."

"Maybe not, but I can guess."

"Well, if it's what we think it is, it's suicide to go out. Let's wait for it to come to us, then kill it."

"God, I hate waiting. We never used to wait. We just went right for whatever it was we wanted-"

"Times have changed."

They kept talking, but C had apparently decided that their exchange wasn't worth listening to. He grabbed my arm and took me with him as he made a wide circle around the house. When the back door was visible, he turned me to face him and let go of me.

"We're going to go inside and wait for them," he said under his breath. "When they come in, you are responsible for the short one. The tall one's crafty and you're not smart enough to handle him. Remember, kill it on the first try-oh, and don't let them shoot you, it'll hurt like hell."

"They have guns?" I asked incredulously. "Why didn't we bring guns?"

Because I don't particularly fancy the idea of you blowing your own foot off-or, more importantly, mine," C replied. "Stay very close to me."

He quickly crossed the open space between the trees and the back door without making a sound. I was hard-pressed to keep up with him. I waited nervously, hand starting to sweat on my knife, as he jiggled the knob to test it-it wasn't locked. The door swung outwards. A line of salt had been laid inside, which C kicked through. There were also more symbols on the floor. He smudged them with one foot, and let me over them.

There wasn't a lot of space inside the house, and most of it had been filled. A pair of sleeping bags, hastily abandoned and surrounded by half-empty bottles of alcohol, had been laid out on the floor. The counter that ran along one wall was covered with bags of salt, jars of blood, and flasks of God-knew-what. Weapons were spread across the rickety table-shotguns, machetes, and a few less-conventional things, like a holy blade and a broken sword. And, of course, every wall was covered with Enochian scrawl.

The whole setup disturbed me. Not because of the blatant display of weapons-no, I was definitely used to that. Because it was almost exactly what I could picture my home looking like if I didn't live in C's good-sized house, with him and his obsessive need to keep everything in order.

Speaking of C, he was making movements with his hands, apparently trying to convey a message to me without speaking. I got the gist of it. Holding my knife at the ready, I moved to one side of the open door, pressing myself against the wall so I couldn't be seen by anyone coming in. C, with a knife of his own, mirrored my position.

"Look, you go back to sleep. I'll stand watch, and wake you up the second I see anything."

That was the tall one. His voice was calm and steady, like he was trying to placate his partner.

"Yeah, to hell with that. If you're staying up, so am I."

A sigh.

"Fine. Whatever you say."

"I knew you'd understand." There was a pause, during which I heard a muffled slapping sound, like one had affectionately clapped the other on the shoulder. "Go and get that bottle of whiskey, will you? There's no way I'm standing out here all night sober."

Another sigh, but I heard gravel crunch as the tall one turned around. Then he stepped through the doorway.

C reacted with nearly frightening speed. He dropped into a crouch, and swept one leg out, catching his target on the backs of his ankles. With a grunt of surprise, he went down, and C was immediately hauling his head by the hair, exposing his throat. Right as he readied his knife, he glanced out the doorway, his face twisting into a snarl. "Robin!"

There was a gunshot, impossibly loud, and a bullet shattered a window across the room. I pushed myself off of the wall just as the second target followed it in. There was already adrenalin in my bloodstream, making everything clearer than normal, and my eyes went straight to the pistol in his hand. I had to get rid of that.

I aimed a high kick at him-it, they were its, weren't they?-and connected just above the hip. It staggered and cursed, the gun swinging up to point at me, and I ducked out of the line of fire. With my body several steps ahead of my mind, I drove a knee into the sensitive place right below where the two halves of the ribcage meet. I was rewarded with a pained, forceful exhalation, and took a sort of perverse pleasure from it.

I raised my knife and slammed the handle into the back of my opponent's head, sending him to his knees. Almost mechanically, I stomped on his hand, then kicked the gun away as soon as he let go of it. I glanced at C. He was wrestling with his target, blood on his knife and on the other thing's neck, and the hate in both their eyes was absolute enough to be shocking. He was doing fine.

I turned back to my own monster, who was wheezing on its hands and knees. Its T-shirt was stretched taut across its back, muscle and bone easy to pick out. Between the ribs, C had said. Okay. Picking a target, I raised my knife above my head.

Without warning, the hand that I had stomped on shot out and grabbed my ankle. I yelped as my foot was yanked out from under me, unable to keep my balance. The second I hit the floor, my opponent grabbed a handful of my hair and brutally slammed my head into the boards, efficiently stunning me. The next thing I knew, I was lying on my stomach on the ground, my head turned to the side and the barrel of a gun pressed to my temple. A knee held my wrists to the small of my back. I couldn't struggle.

"Well." C's voice was almost amused. "Seems we've reached a bit of an impasse."

I shifted my gaze to where he was standing. He had manged to get one arm around the throat of his opponent, choking him-it-while leaving just enough skin exposed to sever one or two of the more important arteries. He had his knife against that skin, blood running from the edge.

This was the first time I'd gotten a good look at the taller of the two monsters. Dark hair, a little way past the shoulders. A prominent brow, chin, and cheekbones. Green eyes. All of its features were currently twisted in hate and fear, the large hands locked onto C's arm. I could see the muscles in its forearms straining, but it couldn't seem to move him so much as an inch.

"Let him go." That was the one currently holding me against the floor. Its voice was low, heavy with emotion. "Or, I swear, I will paint the floor the color of this kid's brains."

"Oh, I have no doubt." C shifted his position a little, and his hostage's face began to redden from lack of oxygen. "You've shown yourself to be perfectly capable of killing my apprentices. Good for you."

"Yeah. I killed the redhead in Chicago, and the jock in Houston, and I will kill this one here." The gun pressed a little harder against my temple. "I'm not gonna say it again. Let. Him. Go."

"Why on Earth would I do that?"

I heard the mechanisms inside the gun strain as my captor's finger tightened on the trigger, and my heart battered against my ribs.

"I will shoot." It sounded like he-it-was speaking through gritted teeth. "You know I will."

There was a long pause before C replied.

"Y'see, I think that what we have here is a breakdown in communication," he said, using his knife to gesture back and forth between them. "You seem to think that you have a viable bargaining chip. I will admit, this one lasted longer than most, and I'd gotten rather attached. But apprentices are almost laughably easy to replace." He raised his chin, regarding me interestedly. "Go ahead. Pull the trigger. I'm actually rather curious to see what color 'that kid's' brains are, myself."

This really shouldn't have come as a surprise to me. The guy hit me, screamed at me, and threw me into hard surfaces on a daily basis. He made no secret of the fact that we found me annoying and pretty much clueless, and he had as much as said that there was no way I'd make it six months. Several times.

But C was also the one who'd taught me exactly where to aim for on a vampire's neck so that my blade would go right between the vertebrae. He'd dragged me out of a wraith den with a gash in my skull instead of leaving me (though, admittedly, he'd made me sew that wound up myself). He had been my mentor and guardian for months, and it was a little too hard to keep an expression of shock and betrayal off of my face.

C noticed, and momentarily glanced heavenward before returning his knife to the shallow cut that he had already made on his captive monster's neck. "Hurry up and shoot, would you? Before someone starts crying." He pressed a little harder. His captive gasped, even though he was starting to go purple, and a little more blood trickled down. "And then I'll kill this one."

I waited. But the gun didn't go off. Instead, it trembled slightly against my skull, even as the knee on my wrists pressed harder.

"What're you even doing here?" I recognized the desperation in its voice, the gallows humor. It was trying to stall. I was perfectly fine with that; it meant I got to keep breathing for a few more minutes. "I kinda remember you having an organization to run."

"Outsourcing," C replied. "Beautiful thing."

"Yeah. Yeah, I bet." A short, harsh laugh. Then, "What the hell do you want from us, huh? We haven't tried to dethrone you or whatever in years. The only people of yours we kill are the ones you send after us. Every single one of our friends are dead, and we don't have a lot of places left to run to. Me and him?" He jerked his chin towards his partner, pain evident in his-no, no, its-voice as it spoke. "We are harmless. With you keepin' all the monsters in line, there is absolutely nothing for us to do but disappear. Fade out." He swallowed. "Why can't you just let us do that?"

C smiled beatifically. "Have you forgotten who you are? You two don't give up."

"Yeah? Because that's really what it feels like I've done."

C leaned a little closer, his grip on his captive loosening just enough for it to suck in a breath. "Alright. I get it. You're defeated. There's nothing left for you to fight for." He narrowed his eyes. "But it's not in your nature to just roll over and die. Sure, you're broken now. But it won't be long before you find some way to pick up the pieces, some way to keep going. You'll find something to drive you. Something to believe in and hope for. You will convince yourself that you can fix this, all of this-just like all those other times." He returned to his original position. "And on the day that that happens, I'm as good as dead."

The gun slipped a little.

"That's why I'm going to make sure that that day never comes." C's voice was soft, gentle. "Everything is going to end here, tonight. You are going to die. And then...it will all be over."

The creature holding me down didn't move.

"You say you've given up," C told him quietly. "This is truly the best way to do so. There will be nothing after this." He paused, eyes locked on those of the thing that he had come here to kill. "Absolutely. Nothing."

There was no sound in the room for several moments, except breathing and the panicked beating of my heart. The knee pressing my wrists to my back lifted a little, and I could feel the hands that held the gun to my head shaking with some unidentifiable emotion.

Then he snarled, "Go to hell, you bastard."

I surged upwards as the gun went off, and the bullet didn't bury itself in my brain. I felt it slice neatly through the flesh above my ear, grazing bone but doing no damage. But there wasn't any pain. Just like there wasn't any pain when my shoulder popped out of place, my arm still held in an awkward position.

I flipped myself over, baring my teeth in an automatic snarl as the barrel of the gun swung towards my face. Without thinking, I sank my teeth into the hand holding it, slamming my good forearm into my captor's throat and silencing it even as it yelled in pain. It dropped the gun. I shoved the weapon away viciously, then opened my jaws and climbed to my feet, spitting blood and chunks of flesh. My opponent was still on the ground, clutching its wounded hand, and I brought my foot down directly between its shoulder blades, forcing its chest to the ground and the air from its lungs.

As I stooped to pick up my knife from where it had fallen, my stomach clenching and my mind frozen, I saw the other monster out of the corner of my eye. It had taken advantage of the distraction I'd caused, slamming its elbow into C's stomach and forcing him into yet another set of symbols painted on the floor. Some sort of spell-trap. As I watched, it snatched a dagger with runes worked into the blade off of the table, raising it high for the killing blow.

But it froze when I drove my knife into its partner's back.

The one I'd stabbed cried out weakly, writing on the floor and coughing brilliant red blood. I must have hit a lung.

The other lowered its dagger, turning to look at what I'd done while C fumed in his prison. The blade clattered against the floor as it let go.

"Dean," it almost whispered. I took a look at its face and-my God.

Everything it was feeling was written plainly across its features. Shock, disbelief, grief that went all the way to the core and further. Fresh loss, and old, brought back to the surface by what had just happened. A sort of sickly panic, an obvious feeling of oh-please-God-not-again. Fear that was almost childlike. What am I going to do without you?

Monsters weren't capable of pain like that.

I wasn't capable of pain like that.

"Sam." That was the one dying on the floor. Dean. The words bubbled in his throat. "Run."

The tall one took a step forward, towards me and the man I'd stabbed. "I won't-"

"Get out of here, Goddammit!" Dean shouted with more strength that I'd've thought he had left. "Everything Crowley said was right! You go, Sam, and you pick up the pieces, so you can fix what we did! So you can make up for everything. So that at least one of us can-" He broke off, coughing, blood dripping from his mouth and spattering my shoes. Still coughing, he looked up at his partner, green eyes fierce. Through gritted teeth, he managed, "Go, Sammy. Go."

And he did. By some miracle. After seeing that look on his face, knowing what he was going through, I have no idea how he left him to die with C and I. But somehow, he bolted out the door, into the darkness.

I heard him scream, just once, off in the distance. Rage and loss more intense than anything I'd ever come across before.

The wooden floorboards were hard against my kneecaps. I was kneeling, though I wasn't quite sure when that had happened. Dean was still alive. Gasping, twitching, though his movements were slowing. It wouldn't be long.

Something popped out of the back of my mind. A snippet of lore I'd picked up somewhere or other.

If a human is possessed, they can survive any injury that would normally have killed them. The demon keeps the body alive.

My heart pulsed in my chest, and the lights around me grew painfully bright.

"I'm proud of you, Robin," C called from within the trap. "Only four months out of the pit, and you've already killed a Winchester."

"My pants don't fit."

"Gee, I wonder why that is," I muttered into my pillow.

"No, I'm serious, they don't fit. None of them do."

I heard the rustle of denim, and grimaced. "Don't wear mine."

"I can't." Something made of cloth landed on the floor. "They're a size smaller than mine."

I rolled over and pushed myself up, kicking the covers off and blinking in the early-morning sunlight coming in through the window. I glanced at the cheap digital clock on the bedside table and groaned. Six-thirty. You had to be kidding me.

"What the hell are you doing up so early?" I rubbed my eyes with one hand.

"I couldn't sleep." Apparently giving up on pants, Sam sat back down on his bed, not looking at me. I didn't have any problem with looking at him, or taking mental stock of what had changed.

It'd been a week since we'd first come to Berington, and our relationship was strained. Sam had apparently adopted two very different personas. Most of the time, he barely talked to me, refused to even look at me, and spent a lot of time staring into space. Probably trying to align his moral compass with what we were doing. And then, out of nowhere, he'd change. He'd get my attention, talking me into ordering room service or something, and then we'd...well. I'd change, too. And yeah, it bothered me, a little. But I liked it enough to ignore that most of the time.

Sam'd changed in other ways, too. He had a fast metabolism, and it was helped along by scaling fences and fighting superhumanly strong creatures on a regular basis. But it couldn't quite keep with the sheer amount of calories I'd been shoving into him all week. He had started to get a bit of a belly, barely noticeable with clothes on but pretty evident right now. To be completely honest, I loved it.

"Why couldn't you sleep?" I asked idly, standing up and heading for where Sam had tossed my jeans onto the floor.

He rubbed the back of his neck, and kept his head down. "I was hungry."

That set off a familiar burst of excitement. I grinned, and patted him on the back. "Well. We can fix that."

He looked up and, tentatively, grinned back, and I knew he was mine for as long as I wanted him. It still set off a feeling of reluctance, of 'something-is-so-freaking-wrong-here,' but I'd come to terms with it over the last week.

"At least try to get dressed." I pushed a shirt at him. "I'm not doing anything with you almost naked...what do you want?"

He flashed me a crooked smile and swept his bangs away from his eyes. "You can choose for me."

"That's what I like to hear." My grin widened, and I patted him on the shoulder before reaching for the phone. "How does ice cream sound?"

"Fantastic." Sam leaned back, stretching out on the bed. He had managed to get his shirt on, and a pair of jeans, though he hadn't zipped or buttoned them. His stomach stuck out slightly, and I tried to ignore the sudden urge I had to run my fingers along the soft curve of it. I wanted to keep this as not-weird as possible for as long as possible.

Ordering didn't take long. Neither did the delivery. Within a couple minutes, the same pudgy girl who always seemed to show up. She handed me a big tray with several domes on it, smiling.

"Thanks." I nodded to her and nudged the door closed with one shoulder. I heard her pad away, and it occurred to me that, one of these days, I should really try to figure out what her name was.

I set the tray down on the table, and glanced back at Sam before lifting one of the domes to reveal a pretty big bowl of ice cream. It was piled high with the works-whipped cream, chocolate syrup, cherries. And this was only the first dish. I shook my head and whistled.

"Hope you're hungry, Sammy." Cradling the bowl in one arm and picking up a spoon with my free hand, I headed back over to the beds. Sam's eyebrows went up when he saw what I was carrying.

"I dunno. That might be all I can manage this morning," he said uneasily.

"Sure." I shoved the first spoonful into his mouth.

"Mmph!" Apparently, he hadn't been ready. He tried to sit up, cheeks bulging, but I put a hand on his chest and gently forced him back down.

"It's okay." I smiled down at him, leaning over him and stuffing another spoonful of ice cream into his mouth.

He didn't protest as I fed him. He closed his eyes, groaning a little as I set the bowl down and touched the small part of his belly that was visible. It was warm, and soft. I picked up the pace a little, barely pausing to let him breathe. Within fifteen minutes, his stomach had grown under my hand, pushing his shirt up and forcing his jeans open. Sam was already full, his belly stuffed with ice cream. I set the now-empty bowl aside and stood up.

"Please. Let's just call it a day for now," he panted, propping himself up on his elbows and shooting me a pleading glance.

"You kidding?" I patted his stomach, and he laid back down, obviously enjoying the contact. "You've barely eaten anything, Sammy. You're wasting away. I worry about you."

I went back to the tray, lifting a second dome. There wasn't ice cream under this one-it was a platter of brownies. Apparently, the kitchens had had enough insight to send us a variety of treats. Lifting another dome revealed a pie, though I couldn't tell what the filling was. It looked fantastic, but c'mon, I'm not as dumb as I look. I knew better than to eat anything room service brought us.

"We're gonna test your limits today, Sam," I announced, turning around with a plate in each hand.

He raised his head to see what I was talking about, then dropped it back to the pillow with a groan. "Dean, you can't be serious."

"Oh, but I am." Setting the pie down on the bedside table, I sent whatever reservations I still had to hell and climbed up onto the bed. I was careful not to drop any brownies as I swung one leg over my brother's body and settled onto his thighs, straddling him. Sam raised his head a little, eyes wide.

"Ah. You're lookin' at me funny." I picked up on of the brownies and grinned. "Shouldn't do that. Might give me the wrong idea."

"There's no way I can eat-" He was cut off by a brownie being stuffed in his mouth.

"C'mon, have a little faith."

The first couple didn't seem to give him much trouble. His stomach got a little bigger with every bite, and I rubbed it with one hand while feeding him with the other. He closed his eyes again, making tiny sounds of pleasure that I hadn't heard from him since he started dreaming about girls at thirteen. I smiled.

After the fourth brownie, a little bit of pain flickered across Sam's face. He raised one hand to his swollen belly, wincing. I leaned in close as I crammed the fifth one into his mouth.

"Getting full?" I asked quietly.

"Mmph..." He swallowed, and opened his eyes. The exact same shade of green as mine. "Yeah. But...don't stop."

"Are you sure?" I picked up another brownie.

"It tastes so good." Sam closed his eyes and opened his mouth. "It feels so good."

"Of course it does." I rubbed his belly gently, sitting back up as I fed him the brownie that I was holding.

There were an even dozen on the plate, and he obediently ate every one of them. When he was done, his shirt had ridden completely up, totally exposing his stomach. He was about as stuffed as I had ever seen him. The skin was taut and warm, but his belly was still soft. And that was my cue to keep going.

I exchanged the empty plate for the one with the pie on it. Sam cracked one eye open and groaned, turning away.

"I physically can't, Dean."

"You can, and you will." I eased the tip of the first of eight slices into his mouth. "C'mon, Sammy. I know you want more. No matter how much I feed you, it's never enough for this growing belly of yours." I patted it, but gently.

Reluctantly, he started to eat. I could tell he honestly didn't want any more, but he couldn't stop himself. Not as long as I was there to tempt him.

He finished the first slice and groaned loudly, clutching his belly with both hands. Panting, he shifted a little as I rubbed it again, and the discomfort that was evident on his face eased. I kept up the whole magic-touch thing as I readied a second slice of pie.

"Y'know, damn, you've had a lot already," I murmured, watching him eat. "Maybe you shouldn't eat any more. I mean, you've got quite a gut going here..."

I dug my fingers into his stomach, just a little, and got a grunt of mixed pleasure and pain in response. "But, hey, that's okay. Personally...I think it looks good on you."

"Dean," Sam gasped. I could barely hear him.

"What?" I leaned in, close.

With effort, he pushed himself up on one elbow and pressed his mouth against mine. It shocked me just enough to kill any chance I had of staying sane and pulling away.

Sam tasted sweet, which, I guess, was to be expected. Against every higher function that was screaming at me in horror, I tilted my head a little, so he could get at me better. Base instinct made me cradle his head in one hand, burying my fingers in the soft curls of his hair. And I kissed back, moving my mouth against his in a way I knew would make him happy.

Kissing. I was kissing my brother. And, for some reason, it didn't bother me in the slightest.

I wrapped my other arm around him, hauling him into an upright position, and broke contact for just a second so he could hiss in discomfort. And then my lips were back on his. My arms tightened, and his stuffed belly pressed against me. I was about seconds away from doing something I would regret.

I broke away, gasping, and let go of Sam, squeezing my eyes shut and doing my best to think unsexy thoughts. I dug my fingernails into my own palms as hard as I could. After about thirty seconds, my heartrate stopped smashing through the roof and some of the urgent sexual need I felt ebbed. I opened my eyes and cast a weary glance at Sam.

He was kneeling next to me, panting, his bangs plastered to his forehead and his eyes wide. His bulging stomach was red where I'd rubbed against it, and there were clear impressions of the buttons on my shirt in his skin. God. He really was full. It was all I could do not to throw myself at him again.

Sam took a deep breath. "I am so-"

"Maybe I should just leave for a bit," I suggested shakily, climbing off the bed.

"Yeah. Yeah, okay." I could tell, just by listening to him, that he wanted me to stay. But I wasn't sure I was ready for...whatever would happen if I did. I needed to walk off this high I was on.

And then I'd definitely come back.