Season Two

Episode Eleven: Selling My Soul

By Irismay42 & Kittsbud

Part Three

Dean blinked, stemming the compunction to lash out only because Stefan now had his right arm twisted behind his back. The young mobster squeezed hard to hold him there, pressing fingers into the fresh scar tissue on the hunter’s hand until barbs of pain exploded through his wrist and up his arm.

It was too soon after Maryland for his still-knitting wound to be taking such punishment, but it was the last thing on Dean’s mind.

“You touch my brother, and I swear I’ll friggin’ drag your ass to hell myself,” Dean spat out the promise, the agony he was enduring fuelling his hatred even further.

Bruno let go of Sam’s hair and shoved the hunter forward enough to snap two large cable ties over his wrists, joining them with a harsh tug so that they dug cruelly into his prisoner’s flesh. “Really?” He asked, his tone laced with scorn. “What makes you think that’s something I’d be afraid of? Maybe what you call hell, I call home.”

“Dude, you watched way too many Stallone movies.” Dean’s face twisted into a grimace as Stefan mimicked his boss’s actions and tied the elder hunter’s wrists behind his back.

Once both captives were secured, Bruno seized Sam’s hair again and hoisted him up with a rough jerk. Taking point, he led the small procession outside the mansion via a service stairwell that had so many cobwebs it looked like they’d been strategically placed there.

“I think your maid needs firing,” Sam noted as he was brutally propelled through an arched oak door at the base of the stairs.

“No maids here,” Bruno clarified. “This is me and the boys’ little private place. No servants allowed, ’cause, hell, they might just see too much and end up in my favorite bath tub too.” He grinned even wider than before, revealing a gap in his teeth that did nothing to improve his already marred looks. “After you, gents…”

Bruno jerked a thumb towards a small wooden shack that had definitely seen better days. The roof needed two sections replaced that were hanging limply from where they should have been nailed, and the door dangled loose from its top hinge as if it had been slammed into once too often – probably by a prisoner’s body.

Sam looked to Dean. There was nowhere to escape to. No way they could run while still bound.

And inside, there was no doubt the promised acid bath awaited them.

Dean nodded back, still fearless to the end. If this was where they both met their maker, then at least it would be together. No Haris, no soul taking.

With the unspoken assurance, Sam turned and nudged open the hut’s door with his boot, Bruno close on his heels to prod him onwards should he balk from his impending doom.

Inside the shack was just as Dean and Sam had expected. The place had been used as an impromptu torture chamber on so many occasions the smell of coppery, human blood had saturated into the woodwork. It was a constant reminder of the butchery that had been committed, and would continue here, until Ferinacci was knocked from his mafia throne.

The smell wasn’t the only remnant of previous victims, either. Down the south-facing wall, long, blood-encrusted fingernail marks ran deep into the laths as if someone had literally torn their fingers up attempting to escape.

The blood stains swathed the bare planks of the floor, too, large swatches of wood discolored where it had pooled and then dried in. To complete the effect, an ornate, freestanding cast iron tub filled the far corner, a thick garish glop tarnishing the sides where it hadn’t been scrubbed clean.

“I see you can appreciate our little place here,” Bruno beamed, enjoying the looks on both brothers’ faces as they took in their surroundings. “Maybe you’d like a closer look at your new home?”

Balling his gloved fist, Bruno punched Dean in the stomach again so unexpectedly that the hunter doubled over, but to his credit didn’t collapse. The fact that he didn’t yield easily to physical punishment annoyed his captor further, and Bruno considered more ‘hands on’ castigation before his pièce de résistance with the acid bath.

“You really do think you’re some kind of tough guy, don’t you?” Bruno dragged Dean forward, wanting him to see, to smell, to know what happened in the iron tub. “See that?” He pointed to some unknown but nefarious liquid clinging to the metal. “That’s sulfuric acid, and boy does it burn.”

Dean hacked, still gagging from the stomach blow, but he hadn’t given in yet. Not when Sam’s life depended on it.

As Bruno tried to drag him forward, Dean didn’t resist. Instead, he added suddenly to the momentum by slamming the weight of his body at the mobster like a human battering ram. Even with his hands tied, the force of his charging mass was enough to unbalance his captor.

Bruno yelped, caught off guard by the totally wild maneuver. His body toppled forward, arms flailing outwards as his stocky frame floundered over his own torture device. He tried desperately to regain his stability using his hands to grab at the edges of the tub.

The Seal he’d held in his gloved palm tumbled to the floorboards as he discarded it in favor of saving his own hide, but it was of little use.

His center of balance lost, Bruno Moretti teetered for a second at the edge of the grimy tub before falling face first into the corrosive acid. Sudden, agonized screams bubbled from the liquid as Moretti grabbed at his features with already melting hands, his flesh peeling as the caustic solution bit into his skin, his muscles, and eventually bone.

Sam turned away, repulsed by the image as Bruno thrashed frenziedly, splashing the acid as he made a vain attempt to escape its effects. The writhing increased along with the screams until the mobster’s back finally arched and his head jerked in a spate of convulsive spasms.

To his credit, Stefan only faltered seconds before rushing forward to help his stricken boss, but as he reached the tub he realized there was little he could do without sticking his own hands into the acid.

He wavered momentarily, unsure if he had the stomach to let his own flesh burn to save another, and it was then that it happened.

Raven eyes flashed in front of him, the normal color of Bruno’s irises transformed by the hidden demon within’s panicked escape throes. Bruno’s mouth opened; a huge maw that belched out some strange black smog that oozed across the shack like a blanket of absolute evil.

As the cloud dissipated through the loose roof timbers, Bruno’s sizzling body toppled forward again, taking its final resting place in the acid that had taken its life force.

Stefan blinked, looking up through the roof and then back to his very dead boss. During his employment with Ferinacci he’d seen some unbelievable things, horrid, gory things, but nothing to match this.

The Italian thought about all the fables his grandmother had told him back in Sicily, all the ghost stories and tall tales that had fed his imagination as a child – except now, Stefan had to wonder if there had been more truth to them than he would ever have believed.

Something had just vacated his boss’s body, and that something just might come back for a new host. Spirit, demon, devil, Stefan didn’t care – no way was it getting the chance to use him as it had Bruno.

Sweat trickled down the mobster’s brow and he absently wiped it off as he turned tail and headed for the door, pulling out his automatic as if he could somehow defend himself with it.

He noticed the two brothers watching him, but they didn’t move, didn’t try to escape. Even if they had, he wouldn’t have cared. The only thing that Stefan was concerned with right now was his own getaway from the Ferinacci mansion before the thing that had possessed his boss returned.

“Nice knowing you!” Dean watched as the terrified goon ran from the shack in total fear of his life. In a way, the hunter couldn’t blame him. It wasn’t exactly every day you got to see a full on demon – unless your name happened to be Winchester.

“Dean –” Sam cocked a brow and wriggled his arms, indicating they should focus their attention on their own predicament rather than Stefan’s.

“Yeah, well, it’s time guys like these realize they’re not the scary shit out there in the dark. Not even close.” The elder hunter spun around, quickly scanning the shed for something to cut the ties.

Given that the place had been used as a mini-torture chamber, it didn’t take long. Set out neatly on the floor on the far side of the tub was a row of knives and various other implements that looked like they belonged in a dungeon. A dark rust-colored patina coated most of their edges where they’d been used to slice into various victims’ limbs and organs.

Dean chose the sharpest, easiest to handle blade he could find and worked it with his fingers until it was sitting against the plastic ties that bound him. Moving the knife as carefully as he could so as to not to nick his own flesh, he began to urgently saw at his manacles. Each movement tugged at the muscles in his right hand, flesh and sinew screaming that it was too soon to punish them like this again.

Eventually, the plastic gave way, snapping back from his wrists as he yanked hard against the restraints. Without thinking about Ferinacci and his men, Dean hunkered down beside Bruno’s still twitching cadaver and scooped up the Seal.

Nothing else mattered but the ring. The ring and Sammy.

“Are you going to cut me free or do I have to enjoy the view a little longer?” Sam nodded towards Bruno with an expression of distaste. The sooner he got away from the sight and smell of frying flesh, the better.

“Quit bitching, Cinderella. I’m on it!” Dean scowled and scooted behind his brother with the blood-smeared death tool, quickly cutting through the ties to release him. “So, I’m thinking Haris sent demon boy to keep tabs on us. The deal is getting pretty close and he doesn’t want anything happening to his merchandise.”

“Great, you make me sound like a piece of meat.” Sam pulled loose. “Maybe he knows we’re trying to find a way out.”

“We’ve found a way out,” Dean corrected, spinning the Seal in his fingers in the spiraling shafts of light from the damaged rafters. “C’mon, Stefan might have got the jitters but I doubt some of his brethren are so easily scared. Especially when they didn’t see Bruno here go Regan MacNeil on us.”

He leaned down, cautiously frisking the dead man’s upper body until he found a holster. Being careful not to touch any acid-soaked areas, Dean pulled the Smith and Wesson free and checked the clip. It was almost full. Bruno either did a little recent target practice or this wasn’t someone’s lucky day.

Dean tapped the clip back into place with his palm, checked the safety and then slid it into his jeans. “My bad earlier, dude,” he apologized to the corpse. “I guess you really do call hell home.”

Sam checked his watch again. It was getting a hard habit to break given his circumstances. “Dean, can we forget the theatrics and get the hell out of here?” Striding to the loose-hanging door he peered between the gaps. “I don’t think anyone knows we’re free yet. Stefan can’t have raised the alarm.”

“Stefan’s probably feeling the need to change his pants right about now.” Dean joined his brother, eyes appraising the mansion grounds as he talked. “Dude, did you see the look on his face when Bruno puked out Haris’ brat?” His gaze paused on a wide, brick outbuilding with large, white electric roller doors. “I think I just found our carriage out of here, Cinderella…”

Sam took down a breath, realizing Dean had honed in on Ferinacci’s personal garage – not exactly a bad idea – except this particular garage was in the center of a courtyard and had several black-clad mafiosa on sentry around it.

Heavily armed mafiosa, Sam convinced himself.

“Let’s just hope the carriage doesn’t turn into that pumpkin you were so eager to talk about earlier.” The younger hunter pointed out. “Because, dude, those guys have guns, and they won’t care if they use us for a little target practice. We’ve got no way in.”

Dean smiled mysteriously and began to pull open his shirt, feeling for something he’d rolled relatively flat to conceal there before their little “mission impossible.”

Sam wasn’t impressed with his brother’s striptease. “Dude, I don’t think streaking is gonna cut it…”

“Yeah? C’mon, man, you gotta admit it would be pretty distracting.” Dean grinned coyly. “Not as distracting as this, though,” he winked, finally removing the ace almost literally up his sleeve. “Plan B, Sammy. Guess I get to go out in a bang after all.” He thought about the werewolf girl and was tempted to make a second more lewd comment on the subject, but when Sam’s face puckered he controlled the urge, focusing instead on the mob guards in the yard.

“You brought C4 in knowing we’d be frisked? Are you nuts?”

Dean shrugged. “Mostly,” he conceded, hastily rolling the compressed explosive back into a more healthy shape and then molding it onto a splintered support beam with his good hand. “I figure this place will go up in about a minute, so once we’re outside take cover till those goons come running. Last one to Mr. F’s collection buys the beers tonight…”

Sam nodded reluctantly.

Tonight.

Dean was actually thinking it would all be over and he’d be free from the deal. If only life ever went to plan so easily. Even if the C4 worked, even if they escaped Ferinacci with their lives, they still had no clue how to use the ring.

It was one thing to know the legend’s core principles, but without any instructions how to actually implement them, it would still be as good as over for Sam once the clock struck midnight.

“Okay, lil’ brother, let’s shag ass and pray!” Dean bolted through the limp door, almost knocking it from its one good hinge. As soon as he hit daylight, he tucked his body and rolled, landing unobtrusively in a short hedge that circled the shed and led to the edge of the courtyard.

Sam followed, silently counting the seconds in his head until the explosion. Halfway through the sixty second rundown, the shed erupted, cascading segments of wood and half-rotten timber on the surrounding area.

“You call that good timing?” The younger hunter barked as he was roughly thrown forwards by the force of the explosion. “No wonder you have such weird taste in music.”

“Yeah, well, that’s pretty cute coming from a guy who listens to The Fray.” Dean ducked down, squinting as a haze of smoke covered his view of the courtyard and the hastily approaching goons.

“It was just a ring tone,” Sam defended, suddenly unsure why he needed to justify his tastes considering his brother had no taste.

“Wuss ass ringtone,” Dean corrected, an unwanted image of a past gig coming back to haunt him. “C’mon, dude, they’re buying it.” He scrambled forward, sliding the Smith and Wesson from his beltline just in case any stragglers were left behind.

Sam flinched at the sight of the weapon but didn’t argue. Crawling from his hiding place he turned, momentarily watching the ruckus as Ferinacci’s men tried to extinguish the flames. Once they had the fire under control, it wouldn’t take long to discover Bruno among the ashes.

Ferinacci wouldn’t buy any demon stories. He would assume the brothers had killed his head henchman.

And then, he would want blood in return.

Something popped in front of Sam and he broke from his daze. Someone was repeatedly firing a weapon, and it was at pretty close range. He looked up, seeing Dean in what seemed like a slow motion scene from a John Woo movie.

The Smith and Wesson let off round after round, empty casings clattering to the floor as almost every slug bounced from the lock on Ferinacci’s garage like it was made from some alien ore. Just when it appeared the building was impenetrable, something gave.

The unit buckled under the final slug, plastic and metal splinters blasting outwards as the remote control console disintegrated. Sparks sizzled from the blackened innards that now hung in a tangle of wires, tiny flames burning at the outer sheathing until only the copper core remained.

“Yahtzee!” Dean continued running across the enclosure until he slammed his back hard into the garage wall. He tossed down the now-empty automatic and was thankful to see Sam right behind him. “Time to work your magic, geekboy.”

“Yeah, now that you’ve obliterated anything I might have had to work with!” Sam pulled off his jacket and swatted out the smoldering console, ever mindful that the weapons fire would undoubtedly bring Ferinacci’s men back into the mix.

Cursing under his breath, he pulled at the red hot wiring and then jerked away when the heat threatened to sear his flesh. After two more attempts, he managed to twist two sections of copper core together and closed his eyes in silent prayer.

The huge white roller door groaned and juddered, its motor unsure whether to react to the current or not. With a clatter, it began to rise, vibrating as it moved in painful slow motion.

As soon as the gap at the bottom was big enough, Dean dropped onto his stomach and rolled underneath, hoping there were no surprises waiting for him on the other side.

Sam breathlessly followed, finding his brother in dumbstruck awe as he clambered to his feet inside the white painted building. “Will you stop acting like you’re in love and pick one?” He whacked Dean, but for a second the hunter still couldn’t pull his eyes from the row of sports and collectors cars that called to him like a burning beacon on a stormy night.

“Man, I take it all back –” Dean ran a hand appreciatively across the hood of a 1955 Porsche Spyder as he jogged past it. “There is a heaven, and I just walked right on in…”

“Yeah, dude, and we’ll be sticking around to play harps here if you don’t hurry!” Sam watched impatiently as his brother chose a car, oblivious of the yelling coming from outside that was undoubtedly Ferinacci’s goons.

Cars and girls – the only two things that seemed to melt Dean Winchester’s brain to the point where he lost all sense.

Sam rolled his eyes as Dean made a beeline for a silver gull wing at the end of the row of cars. Tugging up the futuristic style door, the hunter was inside and pulling at the dash cowling within seconds. He grinned like a kid in a toy shop as his brother joined him in the passenger side.

“Man, I always wanted to try out a De Lorean.” He pulled down a section of wiring loom, selecting two colors from the plethora on offer and then yanked them from the connector block. Touching the stripped ends together, he waited until the starter began to turn and then twisted the copper core into a makeshift joint.

Sam blinked, wondering just when Dean had learned to hotwire such expensive cars so easily.

“Easy as pie,” Dean bragged, slipping the car into gear and ramming his foot down on the gas pedal just as two of Ferinacci’s men bounded into the garage.

Two bullets tore into the car’s hood, opening up the brushed stainless steel like a tin can. Dean pouted at the sacrilege, pulling the steering wheel hard over to make the unappreciative goons jump from his path or be mowed down. The car screamed in protest at the sudden move, its stressed tires leaving black rubber trails on the concrete in its wake.

Sam exhaled in relief as the De Lorean exited from the garage like a silver bullet, his brother guiding it like a professional racing driver toward the mansion’s main gates.

Dean heard his brother’s sigh and dared to take his eyes from the paved drive for a second. He smiled impishly, trying to reassure his little brother that they’d won. It was over. “Wonder what would happen if I took this puppy to eighty eight miles an hour,” he teased, adding just a little more gas as the gates loomed.

Sam didn’t answer. He couldn’t.

If only…

If only he could go back in time so easily as in the movies and change the past, but deep inside, Sam knew that the past and the future were a lot harder to alter than his brother believed. They’d got the Seal, it was true, but as Dean headed the De Lorean back to where the Impala was parked, all Sam could hear in his head was the steady ticking of a clock.

Tick, tick, tick.

“Time’s up, Sam…”

Sleep EZ Motel
5.04 p.m.
6hrs 56mins…

Dean glanced into the rearview one last time before pulling into the parking lot of the Sleep EZ Motel. So far so good. Despite their rather pressing timetable, he’d taken a tortuously circuitous route from the industrial area where they’d left the Impala back to the motel; “Just in case,” he’d assured Sam.

Just because he hadn’t seen any evidence of a tail, didn’t mean there wasn’t one.

He was more than relieved to have ditched that stupid monkey suit – although Sam had insisted it go in the trunk rather than the trash. But despite their success at Ferinacci’s mansion he was tired right down to his bones and he could see the same weariness reflected in the slump of Sam’s shoulders. He knew the kid was close to giving up and Dean couldn’t have that.

He parked the Impala and shut off the engine, pausing when Sam made no effort to get out of the car.

“Hey,” he said, nudging his brother gently. “You with me, Stretch?”

Sam flicked his gaze briefly in Dean’s direction before resuming staring through the front windshield.

“Sammy, we got the Seal!” Dean pointed out, voice as upbeat as he could make it. “You should be celebrating, not emo-ing me to death!”

Sam huffed. “We also just seriously pissed off a guy who makes Tony Soprano look like an elementary school teacher.” He turned to face his brother. “Those guys have long memories, Dean.”

Dean shrugged. “Yeah, well better you’re around to be worrying about him for a long time than – than the alternative.” He reached into his pocket, triumphantly pulling out the small brass ring, eyes lit up with hope for the first time in weeks as the realization finally began to sink in. “We got the Seal, dude!” he burst out. “You know what this means? We can –”

“What?” Sam cut him off. “Save me? How? We don’t even know how to use the thing!”

Dean took a breath before deliberately flashing Sam his most over-confident grin. “That’s why I got my trusty geekboy sidekick research nerd with me, right? You’ll figure it out, Sammy. If anyone can, you can.” When Sam didn’t respond, Dean put a hand on his arm. “Hey.” Sam looked up at him reluctantly. “We got time, man.” Sam nodded a little less enthusiastically than Dean would have liked. “Maybe it’s as simple as just putting the thing on and telling Haris to take a hike.”

One corner of Sam’s mouth quirked up just a little. “Wouldn’t that just be a kick in the pants?”

Dean’s grin widened, becoming something a little closer to genuine as his brother’s mood lightened. “Sometimes the simplest solutions are the ones that actually work, right?”

He clambered out of the car, skewing his gaze to his right to make sure Sam was following him. Satisfied by the sight of his brother slowly uncurling himself from the Impala, he began to make a move toward their room, thinking only of taking a long hot shower and finally getting the remainder of the sewer slime off of him.

Shoving open the door without a second thought, the first thing he noticed was their gear tossed all over their beds as if someone had been looking for something.

The second thing he noticed was the room going real dark real fast…

“Dean!”

Sam sprung into the room, reaching up to grab the wrist of the black-clad figure currently threatening his already-fallen brother with another blow to the back of the head from the 9mm clutched in his hand.

Dean’s assailant twisted in Sam’s grip just enough to reveal the familiar tattoo worn by Haris’ human cult flunkies, Sam managing to keep him from landing another blow to Dean’s head more out of sheer willpower than any physical superiority. He slammed the guy into the wall with every bit of strength he had left as he desperately tried to gauge the condition of his brother, who had dropped like a stone into an unconscious heap in the doorway.

This guy may be human, but he was big; real big. He even had an inch or two on Sam, and would have made two of Dean.

Sam gritted his teeth as he tried to smash the guy’s wrist hard enough against the wall to make him drop the .45 he was gripping, but the flunky just grinned at him maniacally before suddenly grabbing his arm with his free hand and spinning him around so fast he wasn’t even entirely sure how he wound up with his face pressed against the wall where the big guy had just been standing and his arm twisted into a half-nelson up his back.

“Get off me, dammit!” Sam ground out, struggling to squirm out of his attacker’s not inconsiderable grip.

The goon shoved him harder against the wall for his trouble, leaning down towards him menacingly. “No point fighting it, boy,” he growled, voice deeper than the Grand Canyon and colder than the North Pole. “Time’s up. Your bill’s come due.”

Sam took a breath, flattening his free hand against the wall in an effort to gain some leverage. “I got time yet!” he protested. “I got hours –!”

“Boss is tired of waiting,” the flunky grunted. “Time to go.”

“Then why’s he not here himself, huh?” Sam demanded, desperately trying to play for time as he tried to think of a way out of this. Time, however, was the one thing he apparently didn’t have. “Why send an errand boy to collect?”

He blew out a surprised breath when the goon’s knee suddenly connected with the small of his back, the hand not twisting his arm behind him abruptly grabbing a fistful of his hair and yanking back his head so that he was once again pulled off balance.

He managed to avoid yelping by force of will alone, the big guy’s mouth suddenly pressed right up to his ear.

“Not just here for you anymore, kid,” he rumbled. “Word is, you got something else my boss wants.”

Sam gritted his teeth. How the hell had Haris found out about the Seal so fast? Then he remembered Ferinacci’s head wiseguy – the black eyes and the smoke – and Dean’s insistence that Haris must have been spying on them this whole time.

“I don’t know what you mean,” he protested as convincingly as he was able.

“Oh, I think you do,” the cult guy growled. “Pretty little ring, star in a circle, made of brass… I don’t think you could miss it.”

“I don’t –”

“Don’t play dumb with me boy!”

Sam grunted as his captor yanked simultaneously on his hair and his twisted arm. “I think my brother’s rubbing off on me,” he muttered, trying one of Dean’s most infuriating grins on for size.

The cult guy was not amused. “Yeah?” he ground out. “Well maybe he’s the one I should be searching, huh? You think he’d be dumb enough to keep the thing on him? Maybe I should flay every inch of skin off his body just to find out –”

“Wait! No!” Sam’s eyes widened in alarm. “Wait –”

The goon sighed theatrically. “Look, I’m kind of on a schedule here, kid. I don’t have all day to be playing around with you boys. My boss wants you now, before Ferinacci has a chance to stop him claiming what’s rightfully his.”

Sam swallowed. “I don’t know anyone by that name.”

“Guess you’re just unlucky then,” the big guy hissed. “’Cause he’s sure as hell heard of you two – put a contract out on your pretty little heads the second you took off with something that didn’t belong to you…”

Sam tried not to let the full horror of that little revelation show on his already agitated face. “Mistaken identity?” he offered weakly.

Haris’ flunky grinned horribly before twisting Sam’s arm further up his back. “I’m sure,” he agreed. Then, “You know, I’m really in a win-win situation here. There’s nothing to stop me getting into my boss’s good books by handing him you and the Seal and earning myself a tidy bit of extra cash on the side by whacking your brother and claiming half of Ferinacci’s contract money –”

“No!” Sam protested again, wilting slightly in the big guy’s incessant grip. “No, listen. Listen. I’ll come with you. I’ll – I’ll give you the Seal. Just – just leave my brother out of this. He doesn’t – he doesn’t need to die just because I screwed up. Please.”

Sam closed his eyes briefly, trying not to think too much about what he was about to do. He couldn’t let Dean die. He couldn’t. Otherwise, what was the point? What had been the point of Sam selling himself to Haris to save his big brother if his big brother was just going to get killed in the process?

Not gonna happen.

Sam wouldn’t let it happen.

This was just the way it had to be.

“Please,” he repeated beseechingly, all the fight gone out of him as he gave himself over to the goon’s iron grip. “Just let my brother live and I’ll go wherever you want me to go: that was the deal I made with your boss after all.”

The cult heavy’s mouth twisted into an ugly sneer. “Aw,” he crooned mockingly. “Well that’s kinda cute and all, but you still haven’t told me what you’ve done with the Seal. And you see, I have this big ole knife in my pocket, and there’s your brother, lying all unconscious and vulnerable and everything, looking like his flesh might taste kinda nice medium rare with some mashed potatoes.” He grinned extra-wide. “Nice ’n bloody, just the way I like it…”

“No!” Sam swallowed hard as the big guy shoved him pitilessly against the wall once more.

“So tell me where you’ve hidden the Seal and I’ll consider letting your brother keep that pretty face of his.”

“I –”

The next sound Sam heard was a bone-shattering crunch followed by the goon’s entire weight suddenly crushing against his shoulder blades before sliding off of him completely.

Sam snatched back his twisted arm, spinning around just in time to catch sight of Haris’ heavy crumpling into a boneless heap on the floor while Dean stood over him clutching his Desert Eagle in one hand and the back of his head in the other.

“Anyone’s eating my face it’ll be Eliza Dushku, Hannibal,” he muttered, pulling his hand from the back of his head to inspect the amount of blood it came away with. He winced before turning his attention to Sam, who was grinning at him sheepishly. “You okay?” he asked instantly.

Sam nodded. “I am now you’ve gotten Doctor Lector off of me,” he confirmed, nudging the cult guy with his toe, just to make sure he was out cold.

“Good,” Dean said, taking a step toward him. “’Cause now I’m gonna kill you.”

Sam raised his eyebrows in surprise. “What did I do?”

“What did you do?” Dean repeated, stepping over the fallen flunky and getting right up in Sam’s face. “Sam, I heard you – you were gonna go running off to Haris without even putting up a fight!”

“To save you,” Sam mumbled quietly, eyes cast down toward the carpet. “Dean, I don’t want you getting yourself killed because of me –”

Dean surprised him then by putting a firm hand on the back of his neck and forcing him to look him right in the eye. “And I don’t want you getting yourself killed because of me!” he echoed somberly. “Sammy, we can beat this! We got the Seal!”

“Dean –”

“And we got time to figure out what the hell we’re supposed to do with it.”

“Dean, you probably didn’t hear in all the unconsciousness and everything, but Haris is coming for me now! And Ferinacci’s put a hit out on us –!”

Dean shrugged. “Nice to be so popular.”

“Dean –”

“Listen, Sammy.” Dean slid his hand to Sam’s cheek. “We can do this. You and me. We can beat this thing. Just have a little faith, man!”

“Faith?” Sam echoed incredulously. “You’re telling me to have faith?”

Dean shrugged. “One of us has to. Sam, we can do this. We can get you out of this.”

Sam looked up at him sullenly. “How?”

“Well for starters you’re gonna get researching while I get rid of our little uninvited guest here –”

Sam looked vaguely alarmed. “Dean, you’re not –?”

Dean rolled his eyes. “No, Sam,” he said. “I’m just gonna tie him up, drive him out to the middle of nowhere and dump his ass. We just need to keep him out of the game until midnight, right? I doubt he’s told that yellow-eyed freak where we are.”

“You hope.”

Dean grinned up at him. “Hope springs eternal, dude.”

“So you’ve got faith and hope now?” Sam shook his head disbelievingly. “What’s next, charity?”

“Nah, already done Charity,” Dean replied with a wicked grin. “That little nurse in Phoenix, remember?”

Sam pulled a face. “That’s disgusting, you know that right?”

“Only if you say so, Junior,” Dean said, inclining his head down toward the cult guy. “Now help me get this sonofabitch in the trunk. He looks kinda heavy.”

****

The boys made quick work of trussing up Haris’ heavy like a Christmas turkey before hefting him into the trunk of the Impala, Dean following Sam back into the motel room to retrieve his gun and some ammo while Sam deposited Bobby’s hefty copy of the Key of Solomon onto his bed with a distinct lack of enthusiasm. Dean frowned when Sam didn’t make a move toward the laptop.

“Look alive, dude,” he said, wincing slightly at his poor choice of words. “C’mon, Sammy. We got a deal to get your sorry ass out of and a bastard demon to kill.”

Sam shook his head dejectedly, slowly sinking onto his bed, fingers rubbing absently at his temple. “Dean,” he said tiredly, taking a deep breath as if preparing to tell his brother something he really should have told him earlier.

Which, it transpired, was exactly what he was about to do.

“Dean, we can’t win this one,” he said slowly, pausing to ensure Dean understood what he was saying. “At midnight I’m going to die, and there’s nothing we can do to stop that.”

Dean just looked at him for a second, mouth pulled into a tight grimace, before slowly shaking his head and collapsing onto the bed next to him. “Don’t talk like that, man,” he said. “It ain’t over ’til the fat lady sings, and I’ll gag her if I have to!” He took a short breath. “Look, we don’t even really know what Haris has planned for you – maybe he just wants those freaky superpowers of yours? Maybe once he’s taken those, he’ll leave you the hell alone –”

“Body and soul, Dean. That’s what he said,” Sam interrupted. “He said he was going to take me body and soul…”

“Still doesn’t mean you’re going to die, Sam –”

“No,” Sam agreed, sighing heavily. “No it doesn’t. But – but there’s something else.” He faltered slightly, shoulders slumping heavily as he fought the urge to lean against Dean like he had all those times when he was a kid. He took a deep breath, finally trying to muster the courage to tell Dean the truth. “Dean, listen to me,” he said carefully. “There’s – there’s something I should have told you before; something that happened…”

Dean frowned as his brother struggled to say whatever the hell it was he was trying to say.

“I – I –” Sam bowed his head, unable to meet Dean’s questioning gaze a second longer. “I had a vision,” he managed finally, voice subdued.

“Okay,” Dean said, seeming to take that in his stride. “It’s not exactly the first time.”

“No, this was different.” Sam took another deep breath before finally raising his eyes back to his brother’s. “I saw – I saw myself die, Dean. Here. In New Jersey. On my birthday. That’s why – that’s why –”

“That’s why you brought us here? That’s why you were so keen to hunt this Erika chick?” Dean’s voice was deceptively calm, and Sam cringed inwardly as he waited for the inevitable explosion. But it never came, Dean’s voice remaining low and even as he asked, “Then why did we come here, Sam? If you knew you were gonna die here – if you knew you were gonna die here tomorrow – then why the hell did we come here?”

Sam shrugged. “Because…” he scrubbed a weary hand across his face. “Just because,” he finished lamely. “You know my visions nearly always come true, Dean…”

“And you just wanted to help this one along a little?” Dean asked tersely, barely keeping a lid on the emotions bubbling up inside of him.

“No,” Sam sighed. “That wasn’t – it wasn’t…” he trailed off, and it was Dean’s turn to sigh.

“So what did you see this time?” he asked, voice still deceptively calm.

“A calendar for some New Jersey air freight company,” Sam replied, still waiting for Dean’s placid questioning to flare up into something incandescent. “Ross Air Freight. And I heard airplanes overhead. The calendar was turned to May, and Haris was there. He wished me ‘happy birthday.’ And then – I died.” Dean shuddered slightly, and Sam felt the vibration right through the bed. “Doesn’t leave a whole lot of room for misinterpretation.”

Dean turned away from him, cheeks reddening, as if he was only just managing to rein in his anger. “Then why walk straight into Haris’ clutches, huh Sam?” he asked, the inklings of a glare beginning to form in his steadily darkening eyes. “Why didn’t we head for Alaska? Or Hawaii? Or the friggin’ moon…? Why the hell did you bring us here?”

“Dean.”

“What, Sam?” Dean was breathing hard, hands beginning to shake as he fisted his fingers into the threadbare comforter which was already half pulled off the bed thanks to Haris’ cult goon’s haphazard search. He winced, again remembering the injury to his hand from his day of desperate digging in Maryland too late to avoid the sharp pain that shot up his arm.

“Because it’s Fate, Dean,” Sam replied steadily, refusing to back down under Dean’s increasingly furious stare. “It’s destiny. My destiny. I’m going to die tonight because I’ve already seen it happen. And there’s nothing we can do about it.”

“You know I don’t believe in that destiny crap, Sam,” Dean returned, fixing him with a hopeless glare. “Did you even consider that this – this power of yours is gift, not a curse? That maybe the whole point of you getting these damn visions is to save the people who die in them? Like you saved me at Max Miller’s house? Maybe the whole point of you getting a vision of your own death was so that you could stop it happening?”

Sam shook his head. “No,” he said emphatically. “No it’s not my life I’m supposed to save here, Dean. At least if it plays out this way, the way I saw it in my vision, then at least you make it out alive –”

“You think that matters to me, Sam?” Dean sprung to his feet at that, all attempts at self-control abandoned as he began to pace the room in a burst of desperate, impotent fury. “Look, either we both make it out, or – or we both go out fighting. It’s as simple as that.”

“No!” Sam jumped to his own feet, abruptly grabbing Dean’s shoulders, effectively stopping him in his tracks before squaring up to him defiantly. “No, Dean. That’s not what I want! That’s why I didn’t tell you about the vision in the first place! That’s why –”

“That’s why you didn’t trust me?” The hurt in Dean’s voice was unmistakable, even as he tried to disguise it with barely suppressed anger. He fixed Sam with a glare that was more desperate than furious. “What did you think I was gonna do, Sam? Throw you in the trunk and drive you off to Never Never Land?”

Sam sighed. “I thought you’d do what you always do,” he said truthfully, still gripping Dean’s shoulders. “Take a bullet for me; jump in front of a speeding train for me. Sacrifice yourself for me.”

Dean looked away uncomfortably.

“That’s the way it’s always been,” Sam continued. “Ever since we were kids. Fighting my battles for me; trying to protect me. But now it’s my turn. It’s my turn to protect you, Dean; to save you. Because it’s not that I didn’t trust you. I’ve always trusted you – even when you were possessed I trusted you! I trust you with my life, man, you know that. I just – I just don’t trust you with yours.”

Dean stilled immediately, no answer for that.

“You’ve got to realize your life is just as important as mine is, Dean. And you can’t protect me forever.”

“That’s my job, Sam –”

“No, Dean, it’s not your job, not anymore. Maybe when we were kids… And – and don’t think I’m blaming Dad, because I’m not. He always did his best for us. But it wasn’t fair of him to lay that on you – to make you think you had to protect me above everything else – above yourself. Because it’s just – it’s just so much a part of you now – instinct – that you don’t know how to stop, man! You need to realize that I’m a grown-up – I can take care of myself! You’ve got to let me fight my own battles, make my own decisions.”

Dean recoiled as if slapped, momentarily caught off guard before the shutters swiftly slammed shut in front of his eyes again. “Not this time,” he said, jaw set.

The two of them just looked at each other, equally determined expressions etched onto their faces.

Unsurprisingly, Dean caved first. “Please, Sam.” His voice was small, pleading. “You gotta fight. You can’t just give in.”

Sam sighed. “I’m not giving in,” he said. “I’m just being realistic. We have six hours at best – and that’s always supposing Haris doesn’t send another of his goons to move up his schedule, or Ferinacci doesn’t figure out where we are first. How the hell are we supposed to work out what to do with the Seal in six hours?”

“That’s why you need to get researching,” Dean insisted. “Call Bobby. Or Bearwalker. Hell, even Jefferson might have some ideas!”

Sam just looked at him for a long moment, utter defeat in his eyes. “But not Dad, huh?”

Dean didn’t answer that immediately. “He doesn’t need to know about this,” he said at length, shifting his weight uncomfortably. “Sammy?” He was pleading again. “Please. It’s bad enough that I got you into this mess in the first place – at least let me try and get you out of it. Don’t shut me out.”

Sam met and held his gaze for a long moment, before finally nodding slightly. “Alright,” he said slowly. “Go get rid of Hannibal and I’ll see what I can dig up.”

A hesitant grin broke out on Dean’s face that gradually grew into something infinitely brighter. “That’s my boy,” he burst out, clapping Sam on the shoulder. “Ain’t a bad guy alive, dead or undead can stand up to the Winchesters, huh?”

Sam smiled weakly. “You know it bro.”

Dean reluctantly released his grip on Sam’s shoulder, briefly looking up into his tired eyes before finally turning and heading for the door, ensuring his gun was where it was supposed to be before pausing and turning back toward Sam. “It’s gonna be okay, Sammy,” he said solemnly. “I promise.”

Sam nodded, holding Dean’s gaze for a second longer before the older brother flashed one last encouraging smile and swiftly left the room.

Sam stared after him, once again wishing he had a time machine. When he was a kid and Dean had made that same promise, “Everything’s going to be okay, Sammy,” that was all Sam would need to hear. Because he had always believed him then.

He wished it still worked that way.

With a deep shuddering sigh his attention slipped to the grungy carpet beneath his feet, staring at the swirling greens and browns until he heard the Impala’s throaty growl rumbling off into the distance.

Scratching his head thoughtfully, he looked over at the still-closed laptop and the weighty tome that had once been Bobby’s.

And sighed again.

He really didn’t have a choice.

He didn’t want to do it. He knew Dean would be devastated. He knew he might never forgive him.

But he also knew it was necessary.

He wasn’t going to be responsible for getting Dean killed and he wasn’t going to risk his getting caught in the crossfire either. Haris didn’t give a damn about Dean – never had, other than as a bargaining chip to get what he wanted from Sam. And Sam still wasn’t even completely clear what that was: His powers? His potential? Was he supposed to become some kind of leader of the forces of good?

Or the forces of evil?

Body and soul…

Whatever. It didn’t matter anymore.

He thought about writing Dean a letter – sending him an email – but it felt wrong somehow; cowardly, like leaving a suicide note for his big brother to find hours later when it was all over and it was too late for him to do anything about it. He couldn’t pile even more guilt onto him like that – he was already buckling under the weight of what he already felt and Sam couldn’t bring himself to add more.

And besides, he’d already said everything he had to say.

Except maybe, I’m sorry. I never meant to hurt you. I love you. Thanks for being there when no one else was…

Things he’d never say to Dean and Dean would never say to him.

No. It had to be this way. No long drawn out goodbye.

No goodbye at all.

Because he knew Dean would never let him go.

So this was it, and there was only one thing left for Sam to do.

He picked up his phone and hit the speed dial, not entirely sure what he was going to say when she answered.

“Hi, this is Sarah. Sucks for you, but you’ve got my voicemail. Doesn’t mean I don’t want to talk to you, so leave me a message and I’ll get back to you…”

Sam sighed. Voicemail. While in some respects that made it easier, it also made it a whole lot harder at the same time.

“Hi, Sarah,” he said, trying to inject some forced levity into his voice to disguise the trembling. “It’s Sam. Like you’d not already guessed that, huh? I – er – I just wanted to –” What? Say goodbye? When he didn’t even have the guts to say goodbye to Dean? “I just wanted to check in. Make sure you’re okay. And Kyle. Hope he’s looking after himself after that close call he had. Um –” What else was there to say? Why the hell had he decided to do this? “I just – I just wanted to hear your voice, I guess. But your voicemail’s gonna have to do.” He squeezed his eyes shut, rubbing the palm of his hand against his forehead. “Listen. I – I’m just – I just wanted to say I’m sorry. For – for messing things up the way I have. Your life and everything. I do that. In case you’d not noticed. Mess up people’s lives.” Just like Dean’s… “I’m sorry, Sarah. And I just wanted you to know that. I just wanted you to know…” He pressed the phone against his brow for a second while he tried to summon up the courage to say the things he really wanted to say. “I just wanted to say – goodbye, I guess. And – and – I –”

The voicemail beeped loud in his ear. “End of message.”

“– I love you.”

He kept the phone pressed to his ear a few moments longer, blinking back tears as he dwelt on how much Sarah had had to give up for him: home, career, family. Life.

Just like Dean.

If it hadn’t been for me, Haris would never even have known he was alive…

Sam had tried not to think about it. Tried not to let his own guilt fester the more he saw his brother lose himself to this war not of his choosing.

If it hadn’t been for Sam, Dean wouldn’t even have been a blip on Haris’ radar. He could have had a normal childhood; grown up a normal kid; had a normal life. Could have had a real life, not this soul-destroyingly lonely excuse for an existence that seemed the only thing Dean knew how to do. He could have been anything he wanted to be: mechanic, cop, fireman… He smiled ruefully at that. Dean had wanted to be a fireman…

He shook his head and in a fit of blind anger threw his phone across the room where it hit the wall before landing with a soft thud on the carpet.

Not even broken.

His phone had better luck than he did.

God, this was all his fault. All of it.

He should have died in the fire with Mom.

At least Dean would have grown up safe. Protected. Normal: The very thing Sam craved so badly for himself but was only now beginning to acknowledge he could never have.

So now it was time for him to make things right. To make things right for his brother. Dean had given enough, lost enough.

Sam wasn’t going to let him lose his life.

A new determination informing his suddenly purposeful movements, Sam rose steadily to his feet.

Taking nothing with him – not his phone, not his backpack, not even his Glock – he made for the motel room door, glancing back only once, much as Dean had.

“Take care big brother,” he murmured, finally stepping out into the late afternoon sunshine and closing the door softly behind him.

He took a deep breath before striding out of the parking lot and heading for the highway.

Toward Haris.

Toward his destiny.

Alone.

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The Winchester Chronicles