Season Four

Episode Five: Blood At The Root

By calUK

Part Two

When he opened the door, the early afternoon light spilled over him. His shadow slouched wearily, the leather satchel bumping against his side as he shifted, trying to ease the slow ache in his spine from hours spent hunched over books and the laptop, stiffening muscles already sore underneath the deep bruising from the poltergeist. He stretched, stepped into the room so that the light streaked the floor, a bright echo of leaving hours earlier. This time, though, it stretched to the bed and beyond, gilded the hunched figure almost buried in blankets. He looked peaceful, one hand drawn up to his chin, loosely curled into a fist, the other clutching the bedclothes. Dean almost smiled, lips already twitching up, a half-formed idea to reach for his phone and record the moment for future blackmail material lifting his hand to his pocket when he figured out what was wrong with the scene.

His brother wasn’t sleeping.

He wasn’t even breathing.

The bag slid from his shoulder, utterly ignored as he bolted forward, lunging at the bed, grabbing hold of Sam’s arm and hauling him up.

“Sam! Sammy! Wake up!”

He shook the younger man, hard, part of his mind coldly, icily noting the bruises flowering slowly across his brother’s pale skin, already darkening from red to purple.

“Sam!”

Dean reared back, one hand fisted in the younger man’s t-shirt, the other sliding under Sam’s chin, seeking out the faint thrum under his fingertips. It stuttered even as he found it and he shook his head in denial, grabbing his brother’s jaw and steadying Sam’s lolling head. His heart thundered in his ears as he saw the younger man’s lips, tinted blue, the shadows under his eyes turning them hollow.

“Sam, you wake up, right the hell now! You hear me?! Show me those peepers, Sammy,” he growled, throat unbearably tight as he felt the odd, compliant weight slump into him. “Come on, Sam. Please.”

He’d never know if it was the order or the plea, or maybe just the tears burning his eyes, his voice that finally worked, didn’t care as his brother’s eyes snapped open, wide and unfocused, rolling frantically. Sam jerked back, choked, grabbed at his throat with one hand, balled the other into a fist and swung wildly at Dean. The older man ducked, heard the blow whistle past his ear, felt it brush through his hair and rocked back, snatching at his brother’s wrist as Sam tried to snap his elbow back into Dean’s jaw.

“Dammit, Sam, it’s me!”

He wrestled Sam’s arm down, caught his brother’s gaze and saw the moment he woke up, saw recognition burn through the disorientation and held on, steadied his brother, tried to remember how to breathe as he watched Sam cough in air, gasp it out again in shuddering wheezes.

“S-show… me those… p-peepers?”

Dean barked out a laugh at Sam’s stuttered query, dropping to his knees on the floor beside the bed. He huffed out a shaky breath, looked up and felt his heart lurch in his chest all over again.

“Dean?” Sam rasped but he barely heard, just reached up to lightly trace the ring spreading around his brother’s throat, the bruising already wickedly black. Sam flinched back away from him, lifted his own hand and winced as he touched the ligature mark, scrambled off the bed past Dean and ran for the bathroom. The older man followed as fast as he could clamber to his feet, found Sam standing in front of the mirror, leaning heavily against the small, dirty bathtub, chin tilted up as he stared at his reflection. His eyes shifted, found Dean’s in the mirror and the hunter almost cringed at the fear in them.

“Dean?”

It was quiet, his brother’s voice high and tight and Dean crossed the small space in two strides, kept his hands steady by pure will as he flipped down the toilet lid and tugged Sam around, gently shoving him down to perch on it. Leaning back, he snagged the small first aid kit sitting next to his wash bag and digging inside. He set out Arnica, rubbing alcohol and gauze; felt his brother’s eyes on him all the time, the unasked question still hovering between them. He didn’t answer as he tipped the alcohol against the gauze, tilted Sam’s chin up with one hand and rubbed the pad carefully over the worst of the bruising, raw looking scrapes patterning the younger man’s throat, staining the gauze pink. Sam flinched once, didn’t move again but Dean could see his fists, white against the toilet lid as he worked and set his jaw, finished cleaning, soothing, dressing the contusions in strained silence.

When he was done he pulled Sam up, one hand cupped around his brother’s elbow as the younger man wobbled, guiding him out into the main room, heading for the closest bed. Halfway there, Sam balked, brought them both stumbling to a halt.

“No, Dean.”

“Sam, you need sleep.”

The younger man shook his head and Dean looked up at him, caught a flash of fear again as Sam stared at the bed and Dean sighed heavily, turning to the table.

“I still think you’re nuts, but fine. Just remember who it was who wouldn’t go to bed when you get all cranky.”

Sam snorted softly, leaned into him a little more.

“Dude, I’m not five.”

Dean grinned at the wry humor lightening his brother’s tone.

Job done.

Dumping Sam gently into a chair, he spoke over his shoulder as he skirted the table and reached for the coffe pot.

“So, what happened?”

Sam didn’t answer for a moment and Dean glanced back as he filled the jug, switched it on and spun the top off the jar of coffee, craving caffeine. The younger man was hunched over the table, staring at the scratched, chipped surface.

“Sam?”

“I don’t know. I was…dreaming. I guess.”

Waiting for the water to boil, Dean turned around, slouched against the counter, arms folded, trying to forget the image of his brother, still and quiet and not even breathing.

“What about?” he husked, cleared his throat when Sam looked up at him, frowning, eyes softening at last.

“I’m… not sure. I think…”

Dean waited, finally quirked an eyebrow.

“Wanna try finishing a sentence there, college boy?”

The coffe pot boiled, clicked off and he filled two cups with hot water, sniffing gratefully at the rich steam that rose around him. Stirring whitener and three sugars into one, he sipped from the other, took them both back to the table and sank into a seat opposite his brother, handing the sweetened cup to him. Sam took it with a small smile, stared into it, seemed to gather himself as Dean watched.

“It was a lynching,” the younger man whispered. Dean blinked. “I was… this kid. A slave, I think. Hanging.”

Dean grimaced, hid it in his coffee, bit out, “I came in and you weren’t breathing.”

Sam freed one hand from its white-knuckled grip on his cup, reached up to touch the dark ring around his throat, patterned with rough stripes.

Like rope. Like old, hemp rope, Dean thought and shivered.

“Dean.”

Nothing followed his name and he twitched sideways, tried to see past his brother’s bangs as Sam stared hard at the table.

“What?”

In answer, the younger man shoved his chair back, not bothering to stand even though the scrape of metal on the tiled floor in the kitchenette made Dean wince. He watched as his brother bent double, contorting himself with a grimace to dig in the bag, still lying forgotten, halfway between the door and the bed. Yanking free a handful of papers, he rocked upright again, scooted back to the table with the same screech. He spread the papers out on the Formica surface, shuffled through them, finally settled on one and handed it over, wordlessly. Dean took it, eyes fixed on his brother’s for a long time as he just held it, soaking up the fear running riot in Sam’s face.

When he looked down, his heart stuttered.

The photo was grainy, black and white, too stark and unflinchingly brutal. His stomach flipped and he swallowed hard, forced it to settle, tried to find some kind of distance, some kind of disconnection from the face staring sightlessly back out of the paper at him; dark eyes he thought were probably slate gray in life, hollow in a face that was swollen, discolored, bruises layered over bruises. Wrapped around his throat, a wide, almost black band of scrapes and contusions that marked out a pattern that was like thick, heavy rope.

“Are all the others like that?”

Sam’s murmur startled him and his head snapped up, found his brother huddled in the chair, looking all of six years old again. He shook his head, shrugged, dropped the photo before it could give away how much his hands were shaking.

“I don’t know. There weren’t any other photos I could get, just the written report. But you said it, man. They were exactly the same, right? Same… same bruising? Same injuries?”

Same cause of death, but he didn’t say that. Sam nodded.

“So I’m next?”

He couldn’t sit anymore, had to move, stood so fast his chair rocked back on its legs and almost clattered to the floor. He caught it, righted it roughly, started pacing.

“We don’t know that, Sam.”

His brother huffed out an entirely humorless laugh.

“Occam’s razor, man.”

“What?”

“The simplest answer - ”

“I know what it means, college boy.” The gentle teasing made Sam chuckle again, brought a faint but genuine smile to his face but Dean couldn’t share it, not when he felt like his blood was running like molten lead in his veins, thoughts from that morning echoing in the back of his head. I can’t look out for him when there’s nothing I can fight. “Doesn’t mean it’s right. You’re not next.”

“Dean, it’s pretty obvious.”

“What is?!”

Dean threw his hands out, stopped his angry pacing to face his brother where Sam still sat, leaning forward on arms folded around his coffee cup as if he was craving the warmth seeping through the ceramic. The hunter stepped forward until he loomed over his brother, fought the urge to haul Sam up by his collar and shake him.

“We don’t even know what this is, Sam! But I can tell you one thing. It is. Not. Getting you. Not on my watch.” He bit the words off, dropped his hands again, suddenly weary. The younger man looked sideways at him, craning his head up and Dean sighed, stepped back. “We’ll figure this out, Sammy. Okay?”

Slowly, his brother nodded, sat straighter in his chair.

“Yeah. Okay.”

He spoke around a cavernous yawn and Dean smirked for a moment, lost the smile as he realized, saw Sam figure it out at the same time, his face falling so suddenly it would have been funny if it wasn’t so desperate.

“I can’t go to sleep.”

There wasn’t much he could say to that, so he just stood with a sigh, and reached for the coffe pot again.

* * * *

“Sam.”

The low voice startled him and he jumped, realized he was staring blankly at the same page he’d opened – he checked his watch – half an hour ago. Rubbing at his eyes, Sam pushed the book away, slouching down in his chair with a yawn.

“Seriously, dude. You look like crap.”

He huffed out a laugh, cocked his head sideways to see his brother, propped up against the headboard, laptop open on his knees.

“Right back atcha, Dean.”

Dean smirked at him, lifted the laptop to the mattress and swung his legs to the floor, standing stiffly to stretch with a low groan. Sam pressed the heel of one hand into his temple, hoping that if he pushed hard enough he might be able to force the dull ache behind his brow away. He reached for his coffee cup with the other hand, found it empty and sighed.

“I’ll make the coffee,” Dean muttered, shuffling over to the kitchenette. Sam watched him, wondered if there was any point in trying to convince his brother to sleep this time. He remembered the way the older man had swung on him last time he had, one hand fisted at his side, eyes burning and bloodshot. That one look had said it all, and neither of them had mentioned it again.

“Whaddaya got?”

He twisted back to the table, to the books spread across it and the pages of notepaper covered in longhand. Squinting at his own writing, he mumbled, “Not much. There’s no link between the vics I can find, except that they’re all from old families, founding the town, that kind of thing. Except me.”

He rubbed gingerly at one of the darker bruises on his cheek, cringing as the lightest touch made the ache there flare into a sharp pain. Feeling the weight of his brother’s gaze, even through the weary haze, he looked up to meet dark eyes that darted over his face, assessing, turning briefly murderous before Dean glanced away, held out a steaming mug.

“Here.”

He took it, wrapped both hands around it. The table shifted as his brother sat heavily, gulping at his own cup and Sam winced, his own lips and tongue smarting in sympathy. Dean didn’t even notice, just slouched in his chair, scanning the pages in front of him.

“You?” Sam asked, sitting back and watching the older man.

“Figured maybe some kind of vengeful spirit, killing people in the same way that it died.”

“The slave who got lynched in my dream,” Sam murmured, nodding. “That makes sense. But why now?”

“I got no clue. There’s no construction work anywhere in town, no mention of artifacts dug up or donated to the freakin’ museum or anything that might’ve disturbed it.”

Sam eyed him speculatively.

“You’ve been busy.”

Dean shrugged, tried to pass it off as nonchalant, but Sam could see the worry creeping under the tiredness in his bleary eyes.

“Nothin’ else to do in this crap hole of a town. Hell, the bar doesn’t even have a pool table.”

Sam laughed, appreciating the diversion even as he recognized it for what it was.

“So if it’s a vengeful spirit, we can stop it,” he muttered, turning back to the books.

“I love a good salt and burn.”

He smiled, yawned, froze with his mouth open as he skimmed an article about the recent spate of murders.

“Huh.”

“Sam?”

Sam pulled the newspaper closer, ignored the screaming headline and focused in on the picture taking up half the front page.

“I know this.”

“Know what?”

The paper whipped out from under his nose and he scowled, snatched halfheartedly at it, not really protesting when his brother held it out of reach.

“What am I looking at, Sam?”

“The tree. I know that tree.”

Dean froze in the corner of his eye, gazing straight through the paper and Sam cursed himself silently.

Then you tell me that I’ve gotta go back home? Especially when I swore to myself I’d never go back there?

For a second, the room was tight, too small, the air between them strained.

“Dean - ”

The older man startled, shook the paper out.

“Skip it, Sam.”

His mutter was ragged and Sam gnawed on his lip as the older man continued.

“Know it like ‘Oh, I saw that tree on the way into town’ or know it like ‘I saw it in another freaky-assed vision’?”

“Vision. It was in the dream.”

It was Dean’s turn to “huh,” leaning back to snag a notebook from the bed he’d been working on. He flipped through pages, and if Sam saw the way his jaw worked, he didn’t say anything.

“Well, that makes sense.”

“What does?”

The older man looked up at him, tossed the notebook over.

“That tree’s where all the bodies have been turning up. Cops reckon it’s the killer’s dump site, but way back when this was still the Confederate south, and even for a while after, it was the local hanging tree.”

“So if the kid in my dream was lynched...”

“That’s where they would have done it.”

“How does that help us find the remains?”

Dean huffed, a sound born of frustration and worry and Sam dropped the notebook, watched him stand and pace restlessly.

“It doesn’t.”

The younger man yawned, propped his head on one hand, pulled the nearest newspaper to him again.

“Guess we keep looking,” he muttered.

“No.”

“No?”

“No,” Dean repeated flatly. “You need to rest.”

Sam sat up, a protest dying on his lips as his brother grabbed his bicep and hauled him bodily out of the chair.

“Not sleep, just rest. You’re no good to me half-awake, Sam. I need you sharp, remember? We’ll have a grave to dig up tonight and a body to salt and burn.”

“Dean, it’s too risky.”

“I’ll keep you awake man. Just... meditate or something.”

“Meditate?”

“Or something. Hell, fantasize about Lindsay Lohan for all I care, but rest.”

As he spoke, Dean shoved the younger man over to the bed, sweeping handfuls of notes and printouts out of the way, and Sam let himself topple sideways, bouncing a little on the too-firm mattress with a sigh. Fear fluttered under his skin and he rolled halfway up again before his brother stopped him with one hand cupped around his shoulder.

“Sam. I won’t let you dream, alright? I promise.”

The older man stared down at him, face half-hidden in shadow, a pale blur in the dark, just his eyes glittering. Sam licked dry lips, nodded and curled down onto the bed, his brother’s hand warm on his shoulder until he closed his eyes and drifted.

Dean waited until his brother relaxed, breaths deepening, evening out before he moved away. Keeping his back to the bed, he refilled and set the coffee pot to boiling again, caffeine already blurring along his nerves, but the fatigue hazing his senses was too alluring. He dragged a hand over his jaw, scrubbed it through his hair, trying to wipe away the tiredness, the unrelenting replay burning his eyes from the inside out; Sam, lips blue, dying peacefully in the sunlight.

He shook himself, reached out numbly for the coffee pot and poured scalding water into his mug, dumping in a spoonful of powder and stirring it quickly. His fingers stung as he wrapped them around the hot ceramic but he cradled it tighter, craving the warmth as exhaustion sapped his body heat. Clearing a space on the table, he set the cup down, sank into the hard chair and sifted through the papers he’d moved and started reading.

Sam muttered, rolled over and sighed and Dean looked up, caught a glimpse of hazel peering sleepily at him. He watched for a moment, chewing at his thumb as his brother blinked slowly, heavily, each blink getting longer and longer.

“Sam? Stay awake, dude.”

“Yeh’kay,” Sam murmured back on a long breath and Dean hesitated for a moment, then stood.

“I’ll be right back. Sam? Don’t you go to sleep.”

“Alright,” the younger man groaned, more lucidly now, and Dean headed for the door, snatching the car keys from the dresser by the door. The cool air outside hit him like a smack to the face and he just stood there for a moment, let it revive him, watched the sun turning the sky to gold. With the door between them, he could let his shoulders drop, could let the fear tremble in his hands and he sank back against the wall, grateful for the sun-warmed solidity at his back. Dipping his head, he worked at the tension in the back of his neck with one hand, kneading hard until the knots eased away and his fingers cramped. Only then did he push away, steps almost rock-steady as he hurried to the car, unlocked it and slid inside, reaching for the thick wallet tucked under the bench seat. Clambering out, he squinted into the sunlight, soaked up the fresh air and headed back inside, into the fear that smelled of stale coffee and sweat. Locking the door behind him, he detoured past the beds, thumping his brother’s boot with the wallet clutched in one hand and grabbing the laptop with the other, wishing he could find the way Sam bolted half-upright, hair tumbling messily into his eyes until he swiped it out of the way funny.

It wasn’t even close to funny.

Putting it aside for a moment, he began flipping through the wallet, and he did grin as he found what he was looking for, slipped the disc into the drive. He chuckled as Sam stilled, listening, then laughed softly under the quiet growl of “Enter Sandman.”

Sleep with one eye open, gripping your pillow tight.

He felt his brother’s gaze on him for a moment before the bed creaked; rustled as Sam rolled away, put his back between them. For a moment, it felt like he was alone, vertigo spinning his senses and he squeezed his eyes shut, clutched hard at the edge of the table, biting down on his lip to stifle the gasp that threatened to break the hush surrounding the music.

When he could see again, when he could feel the room still and steady underneath him, he pried his fingers open, the table rocking a little as he jerked his hand back, dragged it over his mouth. His ring scraped at his lips, and he propped his elbows on the Formica, papers rustling away from his shirtsleeves as he tilted his head into one palm, kneaded at the tension throbbing behind his temple.

Yawning, he reached out for the laptop, scrolled through the pages to the museum archive he’d bookmarked earlier, found a doctor’s journal that looked vaguely promising and started reading.

Mawu was hanged last night. Lt. Meades accused him of molesting his niece, although that young child has been conspicuous in her absence since the death of her father, the lieutenant’s brother. With Master Frederick’s passing, the plantation has changed. The slaves are sullen now, angry, and even Mawu and Lesia, who have always been the most biddable of children, seemed to be infected with the ill-humor that has clouded this place. Still, I find it almost incomprehensible that Mawu could be guilty of such an act. I delivered him into this world, and now I shall see him pass from it, and that fact leaves a foul taste in my mouth.

He could relate to that. A shiver crawled down his spine as he remembered the tug of the trigger against his finger, the way a wolfed-out Sam had looked at him, apology and hunger mingling in his eyes. Even as he’d taken the shot, and the world had shifted around him again, he’d struggled to understand it, this new, utterly wrong version of his brother.

It had haunted him at odd moments since Stull, sliding into his dreams, insidious and quiet, a doubt he saw mirrored in Sam’s eyes sometimes, and wondered what his brother had seen when the church shifted. It always left his mouth tasting like ashes.

He shook his head, read on.

I have never seen a body as badly treated as Mawu’s. He was beaten, so badly I doubt he would have seen the dawn if they hadn’t hanged him. One blow in particular would almost certainly have proved fatal, there is a mark on his brow, above the thinnest part of the skull and the bone beneath feels almost shattered. The mark is quite distinct, the shape of the tiger’s head perfectly clear. I know of only one such object in the town, the finial that tops Lt. Meades’ walking cane.

Dean froze, mug half raised as he stared at the picture on the screen, the image of the antique cane tiny but all too clear.

“Sonofabitch,” he breathed, finally broke the paralysis that gripped him and turned, almost unwillingly, towards the bed where his brother lay curled under the blankets, the bruise on his temple dark in the shadows. Even in the dim light, the older man could see the pattern in it, the curve of a skull, framing a whorl of stripes around a void where he knew a silvery eye would be. His hand shook as he put the mug down, exaggerated care making his movements slow and steady. He couldn’t tear his gaze away from the impression on his brother’s head, even as he reached out, scrabbled blindly through the papers spread across the table until his fingers brushed across the glossy prints, recognized the smooth touch. He licked suddenly dry lips as he finally looked down, saw the same vortex of streaks around a hollow, in stark and brutal black and white. Empty eyes stared back at him, hollow and cold and his throat closed off.

Not on my watch.

Pulling in a shaky breath, he pushed away from the screen for a moment, far enough back that he could curl forward and rest his elbows on his knees, his head in his hands. He curled his back, stretching out the kinks and aches, felt the deeper bruises from two nights before twinge distantly and winced, relaxing again, just staring hazily at the floor between his boots.

“Dean?”

God help him, he almost fell off his chair when his brother’s sleepy voice startled him.

“Yeah?”

“Y’kay?”

He looked sideways, saw a slit of bloodshot hazel peering at him and plastered a thin smile over his face.

“’M fine, Sammy.”

From the way the younger man propped himself up on his elbows and scowled, Sam didn’t believe him either.

“You should get some sleep, Dean. Just ’cause I can’t, doesn’t mean both of us have to be exhausted.”

Dean sighed, and nodded slowly against his hand.

“Yeah. I’ll finish this site.”

“What is it?”

“Town museum put some of their archive online. It’s a doctor’s journal.”

“Huh.”

He almost grinned at that, his geek-boy brother sounding so utterly disinterested in the historic records except that Sam didn’t sound disinterested so much as utterly exhausted.

“Get some rest, Sam. I’m almost done,” he sighed, heard the younger man yawn and slide down in the bed again, one booted foot slipping awkwardly over the edge to thump onto the floor and stay there. Discomfort, to try and ward off sleep. He turned back to the laptop, eyes burning.

The widow Meades came to me this afternoon, begging me to attend to her daughter. Clara was a sweet child before her father’s accident, and she used to love to ride. Now, she only has to look at a horse and she is taken with hysteria that only a small dose of diluted laudanum seems to quell. When I saw her this afternoon I scarcely recognized her. She looked at me as I prepared the usual dose, and asked me if “the boy” was truly dead. I answered yes, believing, however unwillingly, that it would offer her some comfort. Instead, she began weeping inconsolably, crying for absolution. Neither the child nor her mother would tell me for what sin she needed forgiveness.

The hunter nodded, shot a quick look at the bed where his brother dozed. His wrists itched with the old echo of handcuffs, too tight against his skin, the helpless frustration of an innocence he couldn’t prove. If anything could make a spirit turn lethal…

“That’d do it,” he growled, scribbling notes on a scrap of blank paper as he kept reading.

I found Lesia at her brother’s grave again today. She was delirious, rambling about seeing him in the woods by the cottonwood there on the western edge of town. I think she truly believes she does see him there, and even seeing her brother buried under the cross she watched me fashion wasn’t enough to convince her of the fallacy inherent in this heathen belief. She told me that they are special, named for the gods of her ancestors, that twins have special powers. I could not help but laugh, though she was not angered. Instead, she smiled and promised me that Mawu would see the men who killed him go before him into the afterlife. I truly do not know what to believe anymore. I asked her to come back to the house with me, knowing the rest of the workers would be looking for her, but she would not leave the graveyard until she had finished carving her brother’s name into the cross.

God help me, I did not believe her. There was something in her smile that chilled me. She is a child, barely thirteen years old, but she scared me.

“Yahtzee,” Dean murmured, too worn out, too drained to feel much elation. His hand cramped as he scrawled a last note, and he hissed, shook it out, sliding his chair back a few inches. He stood slowly, stretched, scrubbed one hand over his scalp and dropped it to rub at the ache in his neck. Rolling his shoulders, he turned, stared at his brother sprawled across the bed, one boot planted on the floor, one arm thrown over his eyes.

“Sam?” Dean muttered through a yawn, jaw popping loudly. He glanced at the window, the sun burning bloody around the drapes and stifled a sigh. It was still hours too early to try and dig up a grave, even in the middle of the woods. “Sam. I think I found where the body’s buried, but we’ll have to wait for dark.” Wandering over, he kicked at the bed frame, casting one quick longing stare over at the coffee pot.

His attention swung back to the bed, sharpened as he heard a strangled grunt from the younger man.

“Sam?”

Two quick steps took him to the side of the bed, until he could snatch his brother’s arm and pull it away from his face, breath catching as he saw Sam twitch, flinch away from him, bruised throat working as he choked.

“Sam!”

He reached out with his free hand, wrapped his fingers around his brother’s bicep so tight he knew he would leave more bruises and didn’t care as he shook the younger man, forced down bile when he saw blood trickle down through Sam’s hair. He didn’t even have time to duck when his brother snapped awake and lunged up, an iron fist slamming into his jaw and the next thing Dean knew, he was on the floor, blinking up at his brother, staring wildly down at him.

“Dean?”

Sam sounded choked, stunned. And scared. Dean struggled up onto one elbow, rubbing at his aching jaw, trying to smile.

“Damn, Sammy. Hell of a right hook.”

“God, Dean. I… I was…”

“Dreaming. Yeah. I noticed.”

He took the hand Sam held out numbly, and pulled himself to his feet. Blinking, he worked his jaw again, winced as a bright bolt of pain curled up through his face.

“You okay?”

Dean frowned down at his brother, took in the fresh bruises seeping out from under Sam’s hair. Blood still trickled slowly over his brow, drying almost black in the dim light.

“Think that’s my line, dude,” he murmured, reaching out and tilting the younger man’s head to the side, carding through his hair. He grimaced at the lump he found, a short, deep gash across the length of it seeping crimson, and shoved Sam back down when he tried to stand. “Stay there. That looks nasty.”

His brother’s hand flew to his head, something like surprise flickering across his face as Dean turned, headed for the bathroom and the first aid kit inside. He left the door open while he rummaged through it, shifting once until he could see the beds in the mirror, watched as Sam perched on the edge of his mattress, head in hands. It felt way too familiar as he carried another armful out of the tiny room and he sighed, dropping heavily onto the bed opposite his brother. Dumping his supplies on the blankets beside him, Dean sorted through them, pulled out a bottle of tylenol and tipped two into Sam’s waiting hand. The younger man dry-swallowed them, sat quietly as he soaked gauze in the alcohol and wiped it over the gash, flinching once as Dean worked.

“I don’t think it’ll need stitches,” he murmured, felt Sam nod a little against his hand. “Couple of butterflies, maybe.”

“Okay.”

Dean pulled back, ducked down to peer into his brother’s eyes at the defeated tone.

“Sam. We’ll figure this out, alright?”

Sam nodded again, refused to meet his eyes and Dean huffed, rubbed harder at the blood staining the edges of the lump. Sam yelped, jerked away from him, eyes coming up at last, all injured innocence and hurt.

“Sorry,” Dean muttered, guilt making his hands heavy as he reached for the pack of sterile tape, feeling the weight of his brother’s sideways stare. Gently smoothing the bandages across the gash, he peered intently at his work, trying to ignore the sensation, knew he’d failed miserably when Sam snorted and pointedly twitched away from him as he finished up by flicking a few strands of hair across the white tapes. Standing wearily, Dean reached down to gather the detritus of the patch up, found his brother’s hands already there, batting his away. He blinked, looked over at Sam, leaning precariously across the gap between the beds, scowling at him and could almost hear the words before his brother said them.

“Get some rest, dude. You look like crap.”

Already tired, he suddenly felt bone weary, exhaustion dragging at limbs and body, frustration bogging down his mind. And he’d had enough. Of feeling helpless, the guilt and failure crushing him down, the uncertain knowledge that their father was out there somewhere, the wavering belief that he had to be okay because anything else was unthinkable. The confusion and fear in his brother’s eyes, the way Sam refused to meet his gaze, ducking away and trying to hide it from him, as if he thought Dean couldn’t carry his own burden as well, never mind that he’d been doing just that for twenty-six years and never mind that he probably would crumble under the weight.

Enough.

“Screw this,” he growled, sweeping an arm through the screwed up gauze and bottles and tapes, dumping them all unceremoniously on to the floor and flopping face down onto the bed, burying his face in the pillows with a heartfelt moan. Sam chuckled behind him, the sound edgy and somehow nervous and Dean huffed into the pillow, waved an arm vaguely behind him.

“Research. Check it. Wake me up in two hours.”

Sam grinned at the muffled command, winced as the smile pulled at bruised, scraped skin and shoved to his feet. Walking in the direction of his brother’s gesture, he let one hand thump lightly against Dean’s boots, dangling over the end of the bed and smiled again, carefully, when he heard the older man snore softly. He reached up to skim one hand over the neat butterfly stitches in his scalp, shivered a little as he remembered a silver blur slamming into him, a glimpse of snarling teeth and a cold eye before stars detonated across the world and all he had left was touch, the feeling of hands dragging him carelessly across the ground until he was thrown down. He swallowed against the ache in his throat, tight and hot from the bruises around his neck, the pressure of the rope that had made him gag as he was pulled up, kicking out at nothing but the air he couldn’t breathe.

Every time he dreamed it, he knew what was coming and he was still surprised, every single time.

Leaning one hip against the table, he sifted through pages covered in his brother’s messy scrawl, one eyebrow quirking up as he found another sheaf buried beneath the rest. He glanced back at the bed, at Dean’s loose sprawl, the edge of a bruise slowly paling to yellow and brown peeping under the collar of his t-shirt, and sat down to read through the notes. A few minutes later he sighed through pursed lips, pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. Gathering the pages up, he took them over to the kitchenette with him, hitching himself up to perch uncomfortably on the counter, edge of a wall cupboard at his shoulder, the pressure against the bruises on his back and arm keeping him awake.

Squinting at the spidery scrawl that filled the pages, Sam sighed, tipped his head back against the cabinet and gazed at the patterned ceiling, not seeing it at all through the afterimage of leaves, blotting out the stars and the world. Idly, he dropped the papers, rubbed at his wrists, a dull, phantom ache nagging at him, feeling oddly trapped, restrained.

He frowned, deliberately opened his hands out and lifted them, palms up, peering at the marks circling his wrists. He’d been tied up, been handcuffed before, even been shackled once and the cold burn of rough iron against his skin was a sensation that still haunted his dreams sometimes. But he couldn’t imagine living with it, day and night. Letting his hands drop to his lap, curling into fists, he remembered the way he’d known what was going to happen in the dream, with an understanding that wasn’t his.

He felt his cheeks flush a little with the scared, guilty response to the accusation he remembered in the voices that snarled at him, the hands that dragged him roughly from his bed harsh with blame. He knew that too, the way innocence didn’t seem to be enough sometimes, the way you could feel guilty even when you’d done nothing.

He snorted quietly.

“Yeah, nothing except let Lucifer and Mia open the damn Hellgate,” he muttered under his breath, curling forward, hunching over his knees and staring blankly at his hands as his fingers knotted together. Past his hands, between his boots, he saw an arc of sunlight on the floor, turning slowly crimson as it curved across the tiles and carpet. Sam watched the afternoon fade, listened to cars humming past outside and the steady rise and fall of his brother’s breathing. He didn’t look at the bed, squeezed his eyes shut against the angry distance that had swallowed up the customary worry in Dean’s gaze in the last weeks. He’d caught the older man watching him sometimes, a faint frown drawn between his brows, as if he was wondering who Sam was, or as if he thought he might see a flash of yellow in his eyes again. Sam shivered, knotted his fingers tighter together.

He’d lost count of the number of times he’d woken up with a hoarse yell in the middle of the night, felt his brother’s attention and waited in silence for Dean to turn over and go back to pretending to sleep. He’d kept his own silence when Dean woke up choking, or fighting silently against some invisible force that seemed to pin him in place, turned over and tried not to remember the way it had felt to reach out with nothing but his mind and hold his brother back, effortlessly.

Neither one of them ever mentioned it in the morning, but it sat there between them, a weight of silence and accusation, blame and guilt cutting deep enough to draw blood from them both.

When he could hardly see his hands through the gloom, Sam straightened, slipped off the counter and staggered as numb legs buckled. Catching himself against the table, he grimaced his way through the pins and needles as circulation returned, finally hobbled over to the beds and kicked gently at the foot.

“Dean.”

The older man grunted, burrowed further into the bed. Sam sighed, thumped at his boot.

“Dean, c’mon.”

“Wha’time’s’it?”

He checked his watch, squinting a little in the gloom.

“Little after ten-thirty. It’ll be late enough by the time we get to Damascus.”

* * * *

Dean groaned into the pillows, waited until he heard Sam walk back to the table and sit down with a scrape of chair legs. The hunter rolled to his side, propped himself up on one elbow, squinted blearily at his brother as the younger man hefted the battered canister of salt from their weapons bag. Sam’s shoulders were hunched, his spine curved into a slouch as he worked through their shotguns, fingers quick and sure even through the weariness Dean could feel from the other side of the small room.

Rubbing at his eyes, the older man swung his legs over the edge of the mattress, shoved to his feet, leaning against the wall as vertigo tilted the room dizzily around him. He yawned hugely, shuffling to the bathroom, heard his brother chuckle softly as he kicked the door almost shut. Twisting the taps, he waited until steam curled up around him before he looked up, saw his hazy reflection through the fog on the mirror. The dark shadows under his eyes were still obvious and he scowled, cupped his hands under the water and splashed it over his face, scrubbing with his hands until he felt vaguely human again.

Dripping, he yanked his t-shirt up over his head and turned, craning his neck round to see his back in the mirror, the bruises yellowing. Just two ridges stayed dark, running parallel at a slight angle from the base of his ribs and the point of his hip up towards his collarbone, where the edges of the risers had slammed into him on his way down the stairs. He winced, stretched an arm around to poke carefully at the contusions.

Shoving his brother out of the way had been entirely thoughtless, action taking over before he even had a chance to consider what might happen next, the poltergeist’s shove sending him flying backwards even as he realized the stairs were behind him. All he’d had time for was a yell, a curse in his head, and a brief glimpse of Sam’s horrified face. Then he was coming to slung over his brother’s shoulder as Sam staggered out to the car.

He didn’t remember much of the drive back to the motel that night, or the eighteen or so hours that followed it. Just brief moments of rigid pain that stole his breath and Sam, alternating between painkillers and glares from the chair pulled up to the end of his bed.

The hunt in Damascus was supposed to be an olive branch.

It seemed more like poison ivy than a peace offering now.

Twitching away from his reflection, Dean reached out for the thin towel on the rail, dragging it free and mopping at his face. He skimmed a hand through his hair, pushing it into untidy spikes. Scuffing at it, he turned back to the door, hesitated with one hand flat against it, head ducked to stare at the chipped and cracked floor tiles. He knew that as soon as he opened the door, the room would feel too small, over-full with the choking, claustrophobic emptiness in the shape of their missing father, haunted by the ghosts of those other Sams.

Sometimes, when he looked at his brother now, all he could see was a feral, hungry smile or worse, a flash of yellow through his eyes.

“Dammit, Dean,” he mumbled, pulled his hand back from the door and pressed it against his eyes, pushing hard and sucking in a deep gulp of the humid air through clenched teeth. Hissing it out again, he dropped his hand, rolled his shoulders, bounced a little on the balls of his feet and plastered a grin on his face, shoving the door open and striding through.

Sam flicked a look back over his shoulder from where he sat at the table, went back to peering intently at the laptop. Dean ignored him, digging quickly through his bag for a clean shirt and shrugging it on. Perching on the edge of his bed, the hunter retied his boots, eyed the coffee pot, but the first buzz of adrenaline was starting to hum along his nerves, making his hands a little jittery.

He bent to the duffle on the floor between the beds, saw the shotguns lined up neatly inside, the canisters of salt and lighter fluid tucked into one end, and slanted a look up at his brother. Sam shrugged an eyebrow at him as he stood, wobbling for a moment, eyes dark with exhaustion and Dean watched him lean against the table with a wince.

He chewed his lip for a moment, took in the tension pulling the younger man’s shoulders up, defensive and scared. It was familiar, way too familiar by now, the same wary nervousness that had plagued his brother since Stull, as if Sam wasn’t sure of himself. It made him seem young, vulnerable, but every time Dean saw it, all he could remember was the malice twisting that other Sam’s smile into something vicious.

Promise me, Dean. Don’t let me turn into something I’m not.

He’d promised, quickly and easily and meaning every single word, but there was nothing in that other Sam he didn’t recognize. The cold, desolate fury in his yellow eyes was the same glint that chilled his brother’s stare when Sam faced down Haris, Mia or even Lucifer, and when Dean choked his way out of a nightmare, the feeling of invisible hands strangling him was the same touch that held him back from the chasm between himself and John.

Watching his brother rub idly at the furrows in his brow, face pale under the bruises, for the first time Dean wondered if he’d even know if his promise was broken.

Are his powers escalating? Is this spirit latching onto him because he’s some psychic?

“You good to go?” he rasped out, before the traitorous whisper in the back of his mind could finish the thought. Is he turning?

Sam jolted, spun in his chair, half rising, one hand lifting in front of his face, the other flashing to hover protectively over his back. Dean dragged up a smile from somewhere, knew it was weak.

“Easy tiger,” he snarked, zipped the duffle shut, standing easily. His brother shoved back from the table, wobbling a little, reaching for the back of his chair.

“Sam? You okay?”

“Yeah.”

Dean huffed, an order for the younger man to stay at the motel on his lips but Sam straightened, turned to him with a reddened, weary scowl.

“I’m fine. Let’s get this done.”

He held Sam’s gaze, felt his heart flinch when his brother’s eyes flashed yellow in his memory.

“Sure,” he murmured to the younger man’s back as Sam turned, headed for the door with slow, deliberate steps, limping a little. Dean dropped his chin to his chest, let his shoulders droop, the bag suddenly heavy in his hand. All he wanted to do was dump it in the car with the rest of their kit and Sam and head out, call Bobby and have him send someone else out to take care of the spirit.

Except that he didn’t want that. Not really, not with the same burning, bone-deep drive to protect and keep his brother safe that was once the only thing that could make him even consider leaving a hunt unfinished.

His boots dragged over the carpet as he followed his brother, got to the door in time to see Sam slump wearily into the seat, tip his head against the back with a sigh he could almost hear. Walking around the car, Dean hauled open the trunk, dropped the bag inside and slammed it, letting his hands go through the familiar motions, the throaty growl of the engine strangely distant.

I got to move on, move on from town to town. I got to move on, I never seem to slow down.

He smirked bitterly, felt the tiredness seeping into his muscles, threw the car into drive and pulled out, flooring the pedal, the rush of power through the wheel sending a flush of energy through him that took him all the way to the gates at the end of the long driveway that curled up through the Meades’ plantation, Bad Company playing in the dark all the way.

It was the only sound in the car.

Nothing broke the silence until they stood over the unearthed remains, the cottonwood trees skeletal overhead, bright in the flare of the matches as Dean struck one, lit the box and held it out over the small, worn bones.

“Burn, you sonofabitch,” he murmured, felt more than saw Sam swaying at his side as he tossed the match into the shallow grave.

They stood there, watching the flames burn down, until there was nothing left but embers, glowing sullenly. Dean stared at them, felt the heat on his face, set his jaw against a shiver as he remembered the way the Hellfire lapped at his boots in Leicester, the way the sun scorched down on them as blood choked him and all he could see was his brother’s yellow eyes.

A shoulder bumped his fractionally and he started, realized the light from the grave was almost gone. Beside him, Sam cleared his throat, grimaced and in the corner of his eye, Dean saw the younger man reach up to rub at the bruises ringing his neck.

“You okay?” he asked, still watching the last red eyes wink out into the ash and char in the pit.

“I’m fine,” Sam rasped, turned towards him a little and Dean almost groaned.

“We’re not gonna have a moment, are we?”

He grabbed the shovel at his side, ignored the flash of hurt that twitched across his brother’s face.

“No. Just... I get it, man. I do.”

Dean stopped, the blade of the tool buried in the mound of dirt. He didn’t look up, just stared at nothing.

“We’re gonna find him. We’ll get him back.”

His lips twitched into a parody of a smile, throat burning.

“Yeah.”

“Dean. We will.”

“I know, Sam.”

Dean dug quietly, felt Sam’s gaze rake across him, away again. When the grave was half full, he sighed, rammed the shovel into the packed dirt, hard enough that his palms, blistered and sore from digging the grave in the first place, stung fiercely.

“I know,” he repeated softly, leaving the tool wavering a little as he walked slowly to the nearest tree, putting his back to the trunk and staring up at the sky through the empty branches. His brother was a silent presence at his side, a slow beat of warmth against his skin, sweat-chilled until goose bumps prickled across his arms. He crossed them, curled his hands into fists inside his elbows, kept his voice low.

“You ever think about... him. With the...” Dean trailed off, freed one hand to wave it in front of his eyes, felt Sam shift beside him.

“Yeah.”

“I don’t... what if I... the other me, couldn’t stop him?”

“Turning?”

Dean nodded, chewed at the inside of his cheek.

“I don’t know, Dean. I guess... we just wait and see what happens.”

“Wait and see? That’s why you don’t come up with the plans, dude.”

Sam chuckled mirthlessly. “I just mean, maybe there’s no way to tell which decisions lead to... him.”

“So we might not be able to stop it.”

He shrugged. “If that’s how things are supposed to go - ”

“Ah, don’t give me that destiny crap, Sam. You make your own choices.”

“Yeah, and look where that led us, Dean. Lucifer opened the Gate, God knows how many demons got through, or what they’re planning.”

“Oh come on.”

“No, Dean, I mean it. Maybe we can’t stop me going Darkside. The point is, we don’t know! Hell, you could be the one who ends up crossing the line in this universe.”

“Nice, thanks Sam.”

Dean pushed away from the tree, stalked back to the graveside and started filling it again. Loose soil sifted down over his boots, slowly burying them.

“What if it’s you, Dean? “Dean froze again, couldn’t lift the shovel even if he could remember how to through the sharp pang in his chest, but Sam didn’t seem to want an answer, turning and walking away without saying another word.

“If it’s me, you do what you have to,” Dean finally whispered, tossed a last shovelful of dirt into the grave, remembered the feeling, like something tearing him apart as he promised the same. I can’t, Sam. Don’t you ask me to do that.

It still rang hollow, stifled by the weight of memory, and he sighed, slung the shovel over one shoulder and turning to follow his brother to the car. Sam waited for him, leaning against the wing with his hands shoved deep in his pockets. The younger man peered up through his bangs as Dean neared the clearing on the edge of the road through the plantation where they’d parked, hours before. Sam smiled crookedly and Dean could see the torment running under his grin, the fear and grief churning through his own stomach, but the younger man just muttered; “I guess you’ll have to stick around and be a pain in my ass, then.”

Dean snorted, tossed the shovel into the trunk with a clang, sliding one hand along the roof as he walked to the door, felt it shift under his palm as Sam swung into the seat. Sliding in behind the wheel, the hunter yawned.

“Let’s just get some sleep.”

The silence between them was still taut, still thrumming with memories neither of them could forget. But it was easier, edged with comfort instead of anger, as Dean drove through the night, the road already familiar. He watched it blur past, watched his brother slide further and further down in the seat with every mile, head wedged back into the corner, mouth open.

Once, he would have pulled out his phone, snapped a picture. Now he just reached out and turned the music down, eased off the throttle so that the roar of the engine settled into a low hum.

“Oh, man, am I glad to see you,” he finally murmured, when the small, blue and yellow sign of the motel swept into view.

“Hmm?”

He quirked a brow at his brother, blinking hazily at him.

“Motel’s up ahead.”

Sam seemed to think about that, frowning a little.

“Oh,” he mumbled. “’S good.”

Dean grinned as he turned into the parking lot, eased the big car into the slot in front of their door, shutting off the engine and just listening to the hush.

“Dean? We goin’ in?”

“Yeah,” he answered. Now he’d stopped, exhaustion was creeping up on him, turning his limbs heavy and clumsy as he stumbled out of the car, barely remembering to detour and snag the weapons bag from the trunk. Locking it, he saw his brother, propping up the wall by the door, fumbling with the big, plastic key fob. Sighing, Dean shuffled over, plucked the key from the younger man’s hands and wriggled it into the lock, twisting it and shoving the door open with his shoulder in one movement. He dropped the bag by the door, heard Sam shut it, the latch click over as he flopped face down on the closest bed with a groan.

“Wake me up when it’s Monday.”

He drifted away to the sound of his brother’s soft chuckle.

When he woke up, it felt like he’d only been asleep ten minutes, rolling off the mattress, lunging for the knife under his pillow even as he landed on his knees between the beds, eyes wide in the dark, straining to see, to find the threat that had dragged him awake.

His blood ran cold and sharp, the air ragged in his lungs as he saw his brother twisting on his bed, one hand clawing at his throat as he choked.

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The Winchester Chronicles