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annabethbigbangEveryone expected it to be a shroud of darkness, a filthy disease wrought upon mankind by the foulest creature imaginable. No one expected the silver shine of heartless eyes, the cool silvery light fluid and settling over everything, the deceptive promise of health and wealth and beauty.
The young woman leans down over the baby's crib, and it gurgles at her.
The pillow is soft and fluffy in her hands, her smile sweet.
Dean's dreaming. He's never had this dream before, Sam larger than life in front of him, smiling in a way that Dean's never seen, his eyes black. It's too terrifyingly much like when Sam was possessed by Meg, and Dean struggles against the nylon threads of sleep tying him into the dream, snapping them one by one and opening his eyes, gasping hot in his bed, sweat standing out all over his skin.
Sammy's asleep in the other bed, looking soft and relaxed, but Dean can't help but think back to what Sam told him only a few days ago: he set a fire with his mind. Dean shivers, despite the heat of the nightmare still lingering in his pores, and puts both feet on the floor. Right about now he needs a beer, maybe two; he needs to forget that Sam can do impossible things and what that might mean for both of them.
The mini fridge is rumbling asthmatically, which is a little worrisome, but Dean grabs a beer and pops the top with the edge of his silver ring, brings the cool mouth of the glass bottle to his lips and takes a long swallow. Behind him, there's the gentle rustle of sheets sliding against skin, the creak of springs protesting Sam's weight, followed by the sleepy husky tone of Sam's voice.
"Whatsamatter, Dean?" his brother asks, and Dean settles himself on the floor next to the mini fridge, cross-legged, beer held loosely between two fingers. Sam's hair is sticking up every which way, like he's been tossing and turning all night.
"Nothin'," Dean replies, though. "Jus' wanted a beer, is all."
Sam flicks a glance at the shining red numbers cutting through the darkness. "It's three a.m., Dean, and while I know you love your booze, even you usually don't--"
"I couldn't sleep. It's not cause for interrogation, Sam, so don't start."
"Yeah, well." Sam rubs one eye absentmindedly, then slides out of his own bed. He comes and drops down next to Dean, long legs folded up, and puts out a hand. Dean reaches into the mini fridge and snags another beer for Sam, pops the cap, passes it over. Sam smiles a little and drinks it slowly, like he's savouring it.
Dean leans back against the wall, looking at nothing, trying not to remember Sam's expression, the pain writ clear across his features like blood, when they were barricaded by furniture in a house possessed by a demon.
"Lilith's about eighty steps ahead of us," Sam says softly. "She's breaking seals we don't even know exist, and she's too canny to leave enough of an imprint for me to track her."
"That's just as well," Dean says, and takes another long pull of his beer. "I don't want you using those powers, Sammy. You know as well as I do what Uriel said."
"I wish I'd never told you that," Sam mutters, still drinking his beer like he's trying to make it last forever. "In any event, Dean, if it meant I could wipe her out, stop the coming war, I would. I'd do anything to make sure she doesn't win out in the end."
"It's not worth going any farther down that road," Dean points out. "You're just digging yourself deeper and deeper into a hole, Sammy. Nothing good can come out of that."
Sam sets his beer down in his lap, gives Dean his most earnest look. Dean hates that look; it usually presages Sam explaining himself so persuasively that Dean finds himself agreeing no matter how much he's sworn not to.
"Dean," Sam says, and now he's using that voice, too, the one that he uses on skittish eyewitnesses. "I can handle it. You know I can."
But Dean stares into eyes more familiar than his own, feels his vocal cords grind together as he speaks:
"We don't know that, Sam. You said it yourself, the abilities are getting stronger." His throat clicks as he swallows.
"It's me, Dean, remember? I'm more stubborn than Dad. I can take care of it. I save people, Dean; it's too important not to try."
Dean smothers his retort with a splash of beer to lubricate his throat, keeps staring into those eyes and wondering what happens if Sammy goes too far.
Sam twirls his own beer round and round between his fingers, then gets to his feet and plunks it down on top of the mini fridge.
"I'm going back to bed, Dean. Don't stay up too late, you need to stay sharp."
Dean nods, watches Sam burrow back under the cheap blankets, and finishes off his beer. He stretches over and retrieves Sam's abandoned beer, brings it to his lips. Right this moment he needs the alcohol more than he needs sleep, because even though he can't see anything more than a Sammy-shaped lump right now, he can't stop thinking back to every time he's seen Sam use his powers, like when he exorcised Samhain. Dean gulps down the beer faster, picturing Sam's eyes and wondering: did they flash black? Is it already too late?
"It's a stupid dangerous game," he mutters into the uncaring darkness. "And you don't know where you're going."
He drinks the last of the beer and lines up the two empty bottles, rises to his feet and stumbles over to his bed, barely buzzed but reluctant to go back to sleep and dream about Sammy losing himself to the powers, becoming someone else.
But that would never happen. Sam could never change that much.
He doesn't really mean to fall back to sleep, but the bed is warm against the late-night chill and the quiet rasp of Sam's breathing lulls him back under.
The following morning is so bright Dean actually rummages around until he finds his sunglasses. Sam's apparently in the shower, from the sound of water running, so Dean sprawls out in the armchair and waits for his brother to finish up in the bathroom so he can take a piss. While he does, he scans the screen on Sam's laptop with half his attention, until something catches his eye.
He sits up straight and scrolls down the page. Another report of lights flickering, of strange noises, of people disappearing unexpectedly. It sounds like their kind of gig, and worse, it's a lot reminiscent of the gig they just checked out. Fuck. Dean's not quite ready for another broken seal, and maybe this is nothing, maybe it's just a spirit or your run of the mill low-classed demon, but somehow, Dean doesn't think that's the case.
"We should check it out," Sam says from behind him, making Dean jump in surprise. Sam's wiping water out of his ears with a corner of the towel, lips slightly quirked. "Found it this morning, it's only a couple of towns over. Frankly, I think Lilith is playing cat-and-mouse with us."
Dean swallows against his dry throat. "What makes you say that?"
"Because she probably knows just where we are. You don't seriously think it's coincidence that that's so close by?" Sam drops the edge of the towel, starts riffling through his duffel for clean clothes. If he even has any.
"If she knows where we are, Sam, why doesn't she just try to kill us -- again?" Dean taps his fingers on the laptop, still half focused on the newspaper article Sam has pulled up.
"Well, for one, she can't kill me. She's tried, and even her white light of doom did nothing. And two, she probably doesn't wanna get too close to us personally, because for whatever reason, she seems afraid of me." Sam tugs a short-sleeved t-shirt over his head, shaking his head once he's got it on, water droplets flying everywhere from the edges of his long hair.
"Seriously, dude. Lilith is afraid of you?" Dean can't resist the jab. Sam grins at that, though, not fazed at all.
"I don't get it either, man. She just -- bailed. Like she thought I could do some sort of damage to her, though what, I have no fucking clue. I couldn't even begin to irritate Alistair, much less actually exorcise him. And Lilith -- I think she's gotta be even more powerful than that." Sam shoves his foot into the leg of his jeans, yanking them up over his slender hips and buttoning them, hair still dripping down the back of his t-shirt.
"I wouldn't underestimate Alistair," Dean remarks darkly. Sam laughs.
"I'm not, Dean, don't worry. I know he was a badass. I'm just sayin', Lilith is the head honcho for a reason. The demons are actually following her for a reason."
"Yeah, and she's pining for your blood for a reason," Dean says. "Why does she want you dead?"
"Probably for the same reason Azazel wanted me alive," Sam says, shrugging. "He had a purpose for me, apparently, whatever it was. She's the opposite; she has no purpose for me, and seems to see me as competition, although why, I have no fucking idea. It's not like I want to lead an army of demons and wreak death and destruction across the land."
"So what's with taunting us? Why set herself up for a chance to fail?"
"Because she's an arrogant bitch," Sam says. "She wants to stick it to us by doing it right underneath our noses."
"So we go over to this town, open a can of whoop-ass on her plan, and stop her from breaking the seal," Dean remarks decisively. He stands up, intending to snag the bathroom for his own morning ablutions, when Sam turns around. For a split second the sun flows in one long ray across Sam's eyes as he's moving, and Dean stops dead, sure that he caught sight of a tinge of golden in the hazel.
Which is stupid, because his dreams last night weren't about yellow eyes, so if he's gonna be seeing things, he oughta be seeing--
Dean butchers that train of thought violently, forces himself to remember that demon blood doesn't automatically equal demon, and goes into the bathroom, slams the door. He washes his face, old sweat still on his skin, and through the cheap plywood he can hear Sam talking on his cell phone, probably either inquiring about the new case, or calling up Bobby to ask for his opinion on things.
Dean lifts the toilet seat with his foot, and just as he unzips, he catches a glimpse of something in the mirror, nearly kills himself turning around, and there's Castiel, looking anxious and somewhat constipated, as usual.
"Dude, fuck," Dean gasps. "D'you gotta show up and freak the shit out of people? Like, I coulda easily pissed myself just now."
"Sorry about that, Dean. But you--"
"Dude, I swear to Go-- I mean, I swear, you tell us we gotta stop it again, and I'll piss on your shoes. I know that already."
"Dean, it is imperative that the seal remain unbroken. I've only heard rumblings, but none of it's good."
"Sammy and I are gonna take care of it," Dean assures Castiel. "Whatever she's got planned, we'll stop it."
"This isn't a game, Dean Winchester. Those seals break and it's all over. And, Dean? Don't get too comfortable up there on your high horse. Because if Lucifer walks the earth again, you'll be faced with challenges the like you've never encountered before. Pleasure in torturing souls in Hell is one thing, Dean. Don't derive pleasure from it on earth too."
That sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach is just hunger, truly.
"I'm not that person," Dean argues, but the acid in his stomach roils anyway. It's one thing to say that out loud. It's another thing entirely to remember what it was like, to wonder if the situation were right that he'd do it again.
Dean forces himself to think about Sam, who even when faced with his own shortcomings, never fails to rise above them. To remember that nothing can alter who Sam is on a fundamental level.
"Tell your brother what you learned, Dean. Now is not the time for keeping secrets."
"I'm not that person," Dean repeats. "I don't torture people for the joy of it."
"You might be certain of that now," Castiel says, "but now is not then. You don't want to face up to that man, Dean."
All of a sudden it seems like Castiel is saying something else, some underlying meaning beneath his words, but Dean can't piece it together, and when he looks up again, Castiel is gone. He takes his time in the bathroom, spends as long in the shower as he can before the hot water starts to run out, and tries not to think too deeply about what Castiel was saying.
It's not true. Even if Lilith succeeds, Dean's not going to do that again. Nothing can shake the foundations of that resolve.
By the time he emerges from the bathroom, there's steam chasing him out and billowing into the room, and Sam is fully dressed, his hair curling up at his collar as it dries, and the laptop is still open on the table.
There's a box of doughnuts and a cup of coffee next to Sam, and his brother looks up and smiles when Dean plants himself in one of the hard wooden chairs and begins to inhale his morning coffee.
"Thought you might need some artificial energy," Sam remarks, snapping the laptop lid closed. "When you finish that, I thought we could get moving. It shouldn't take more than two hours to get where we're going, and I get the feeling that we need to haul ass, anyway."
"Ran into Castiel in the bathroom," Dean mumbles through a mouthful of doughnut. "Kinda wish the guy would travel like a normal person."
"He's an angel, Dean, I doubt he knows what it's like to be a normal person," Sam points out pedantically, and Dean just barely manages not to roll his eyes.
"I know that, genius," he says. "Still, though, I like to take my morning piss in private."
"Dude!" Sam looks scandalised at that, eyebrows climbing into his hairline. "Please tell me you did not do that in front of Castiel."
As entertaining as it would be to let Sam go on thinking that, Dean shakes his head ruefully. "Nah, I didn't. But it was a close thing. You think we could hang a bell on him or something?"
"Not sure that would help," Sam says. "Anyway, you about ready?"
"Go on and load up the Impala," Dean says. "I'll be right out, just as soon as I finish up with my doughnut."
Sam nods, stands up and starts collecting their belongings. "It's gonna be okay, Dean. We'll take care of it."
Somehow, Sam echoing his earlier words isn't reassuring at all.
They drive into town in mid-afternoon, and it doesn't really look like a place that should be haunted by demons, little and quaint and the main street cuts through the centre of the town. Sam's driving because Dean's got a headache, hiding behind sunglasses and wondering if he's hungover or if it's something else, and when Sam pulls up to the curb and throws the hand-brake, he sits back, just shading his eyes as he looks through the windshield.
"General store?" Sam asks, indicating the weather-beaten sign creaking in the wind. Dean nods, adjusts his sunglasses.
"You wanna flirt with the cute chick, or should I?" he asks flippantly, figuring Sam's gonna turn that down.
"Have at it," Sam says dryly, and Dean grins. Sammy's so predictable.
"You have any idea where ground zero is?" Dean asks.
"No idea, but here's hoping the girl inside has some intel to share." Sam pushes the front door open and it jingles merrily, causing the petite brunette to look up. She looks startled for a second, then smiles cheerfully and waves them over.
"What can I help you boys with?" And then she gives them a sly grin, like she knows something they don't. Dean gets that uncomfortable feeling that usually accompanies someone misreading his relationship with Sam, and quickly turns the charm up a notch, leaning on one elbow on the counter and getting up close in her personal space, his lips curving flirtatiously.
"We're kind of like, thrill seekers," he says in a low voice, like he's letting her in on a great secret. "And we heard that there's a haunting in this town, and just had to check it out." From behind him Sam clears his throat and jumps in.
"We've been travelling the United States just looking for interesting ghost stories. You wouldn't happen to know any, would you--?"
"Lacey," she fills in. "Yeah, actually, you know what? It's so weird." She snaps her gum and tosses her hair over her shoulder, and Dean's kind of disappointed that she's probably still a teenager, too young for him, for all that she's cute and has really nice teeth.
"The weirder, the better," Dean says, though. He notices her staring, and wonders if she likes what she sees. Maybe he can get her number anyway, if he can figure out a way to assess her age without being too obvious.
"Well, y'know, I've lived here my whole life, and there's never been anything like this around here before. There's an old farmhouse down the road, right? And there's a little unofficial cemetery behind it, because it's belonged to the same family for generations and they've always buried their dead there. In the last week, though, it's like it's haunted something crazy. Kids from the local high school are usually down there drinking, you know? Nothing like a good spooky place to try and get a girl wasted and see if you can get her to take off her pants."
"Bet a good girl like you wouldn't take off her pants in a cemetery," Dean interjects smoothly. She laughs a little, puts both her elbows on the counter and leans forward, setting off her killer tan in the sunlight and putting her breasts on display in the push-up bra under the half-unbuttoned baseball tee she's wearing.
"Nah, I haven't been there in years," she says, and Dean can almost hear Sammy's eye roll as his brother figures out just what Dean's up to. He hopes to be up to no good later tonight, maybe a little celebration if they can keep the seal from breaking.
"Go on," Sam says, though, and she looks over Dean's shoulder at him.
"Well, couple nights ago Jerry Mitchell and Sari Princeton were heading down there -- the farmhouse is deserted now, family's all dead -- and Jerry swears that there were lights on in the house. And then when they got to the cemetery, he says all of the tombstones were glowing. Weird, huh? And not like it's ever been haunted before, so who knows. If I were you, though, I'd wait till dark if you want to see a ghost."
"Just weird lights?" Sam asks, and Dean's a little bit ashamed of the fact that he's focusing more on her chest than her story.
"Well, Jerry says he just saw the lights, but Sari claims she heard someone chanting among the headstones, and he keeps swearing that it was probably just kids trying to scare people, but you know how it is. Ghost stories. No-one ever knows if they're true or not, anyway."
"Did Sari say what language the person was chanting in?" Dean snags the thread of the conversation, carries it forward, and she gives him another appreciative smile.
"Well, she swears up and down that it wasn't any language she'd ever heard, and she'd know, she's been all over the world. Her parents are really rich."
"Were there any strange smells? Scratching, like rats in the underbrush?" Sam sounds supremely unconcerned, and Dean feels a little bit sorry for Lacey, because her hometown is now apparently the hot house for a demon's sadistic games.
"Yeah, you know? I was walking by the farmhouse on my way home last night and I heard scratching in the walls. I just figured it was rats, because it's abandoned."
"Lacey, when did the people who lived there die?" Sam says in his most soothing, soft voice.
"Well, the original family's been gone for years, but they rented it out not long ago to this adorable young couple, two really pretty guys. They were like, crazy in love. And then all of a sudden they just cleared out, no forwarding address, no-one even saw them move."
"Are you sure they moved out?" Dean says, a bad feeling suddenly permeating his entire body. This doesn't bode well -- if those two are dead, they could have been sacrifices, the catalyst to the seal that's perilously close to breaking.
"Well, n-no," she says, sounding really uncertain. "But I mean, no-one's seen them in a week, and they used to stop in here every day. Real nice, too. Friendly-like. They'd come in and just look around, make conversation. I got the feeling they were trying to make friends in town. You know, now that I think about it, I got the impression they were planning to stay awhile."
"And then one day they just stopped showing up?" Dean tries not to seem alarmed to her, and when she flashes him another smile, he's pretty sure he succeeded. He exchanges a look with Sam, who's also clearly concerned.
"It's the weirdest thing, you're right. I mean, why go to all that trouble and then move away?"
"Maybe they didn't," Dean says in a low voice, directed at Sam. Her eyes widen.
"Do you think they're okay? You think they're sick?"
"Listen, Lacey, no matter what you see or hear tonight, when you go home? Stay home. Don't go out for anything."
"Why? I thought you just wanted to see--"
"'Cause some spirits are dangerous, like to hurt people, and I don't want to see you get hurt. C'mon, Sam, I think we need to find a motel room." Dean gives her one last searching look. "You have a place we could stay?"
"There's a bed and breakfast a few storefronts down," she says, leaning over the counter around Dean and pointing. "Mostly single rooms with one bed, though, hope that's not a problem."
Dean rolls his eyes at Sam as soon as she's not looking.
"Hey, Lacey, thanks for your help," Sammy says in that same pretty voice. He's out the door and leaning against the Impala by the time that Dean takes the cash register receipt with her phone number scrawled on the back and pushes out into the sunlight again. He tears open the candy bar he bought with his teeth and takes a bit bite.
"So it's either the farmhouse or the cemetery," Dean says through his mouth full of candy, swinging the driver's side door open. He's just about to slide onto the bench seat when the sun cuts out like a light switch has been flipped. He intercepts a worried look from Sam, and as one they head for the trunk of the Impala. Dean props open the trunk and the false bottom and starts gathering up shotguns and holy water flasks, but it's already too late.
The wind kicks up, leaves whirling in the street, and all around them the air is filled with an ominous rumbling, not like thunder, but like words spoken in a voice too deep to make out, in a language too ancient to understand. Sam looks frantically towards the general store, and Dean is torn between running inside to warn Lacey to get down and stay down, and in fighting off whatever's coming.
He stands up, shotgun ready, Sam at his side, and hopes that whatever they're about to face it's not immune to rock salt. And then Sam grabs his head, hand like a claw against his temple, and collapses to his knees, unbalanced and colliding with Dean's own legs.
Dean barely manages to keep his footing, and, after giving the street a once-over, follows Sam to the ground and grabs his shoulders, trying not to shake his brother, but at the same time trying to get Sam to tell him what's wrong.
But Sammy isn't speaking, at least, not anything Dean can comprehend. He's clutching at his head with both hands now, eyes screwed shut, mouth working loose around unfamiliar sounds, and Dean's abruptly terrified. He was raised to deal with anything supernatural that came his way, but he's never been prepared for this: watching Sam writhe in pain from something Dean can't possibly understand. And he doesn't know what's going on right this second, but he'd lay odds on it being a very, very bad thing, particularly the way Sam's not responding to any kind of outside stimulus.
He's not hearing Dean's frantic words, he's not reacting to the wind buffeting his face and hair with little pebbles, he doesn't even seem to be conscious any more. Dean tries to pry his fingers away from his face, but Sam just shakes him off, twisting out of Dean's grip and falling the rest of the way onto the ground, legs drawn up and sweat pouring down his face.
Dean's about to man handle Sam back into the Impala when he hears the low growl of whatever's making that racket again, and he flings himself to his feet, shotgun pointed straight ahead, wondering if what's coming is going to be a demon or something worse, and he's just about to fire at the dark, winged shape approaching when the dust clears a little, exposing Castiel. He looks pissed.
"You might as well put the gun down, Dean," Castiel says. "You're not in time."
"It's -- it's broken? We ran our asses into the ground trying to get here in time."
"I'm afraid so," Castiel says. "The best you can hope for now is to stop it. I just came to warn you: do not be taken in."
"Taken in? By what? What the fuck does that even mean?" Dean shouts, but the dust fills in the air around him again, thick and impenetrable, and Dean doesn't have to look around him to know that Castiel's already gone.
He turns back to Sam, only to find Sam's eyes open and fixed on him. His brother's pale, sweat still making tracks down his dirty cheeks, and he's winded, breathing heavily, arms wrapped around his stomach like he's in pain. Dean's not sure why the pain would be in his stomach now when a second ago it seemed to be lancing through his brain, but he's relatively certain that now is not the time to ask questions.
And then, as if nothing had happened at all, the street clears completely and the sun flares back to life around them. Sam stumbles back to his feet, picks up his sawed-off, the little flask of holy water he'd been holding, and scans the area around them.
"I think we're too late," he says, and his voice is thready. "So. Check in, regroup?"
"I think the shit just officially hit the fan," Dean agrees. "Yeah, we need to get a room, and I need to check out your head. See if you have a concussion or something, cause you keep, like, passing out."
Sam shakes his head. "I'm fine for now, Dean, we can worry about that later. Right now we need to set up a headquarters and see if we can figure out what we're dealing with."
Dean replaces his weapon in the trunk, and Sam does likewise, and then they get into the car at the same time, almost like a choreographed dance.
They do wind up in a room with a single bed, but it also has a gorgeous chintz sofa, and knowing Sam's propensity to sweat like a whore in church, Dean claims the couch and then shoves Sam down onto the bed, elbows on his knees, and gets out his pen light.
He searches Sam's eyes, but there's no sign of anything wrong, no problem with the way that his pupils react, and Dean's forced to concede that whatever's going on with Sam, it doesn't appear to be physiological. Sam snorts and lowers his head, hair falling into his eyes, and Dean gets the impression that Sam's trying to hide the fact that he's rolling his eyes at Dean.
"Does your head still hurt?" Dean asks, putting the pen light down on the little antique table by the bed. Sam looks down at the cover on the bed, grimaces. It's a muddle of white and pink, and Dean can't quite obscure the snicker that escapes because Sam's gonna be sleeping in all that frill and lace.
"Nah, Dean, I'm fine. But--"
They hear it at the same time, a loud report like a gun shot. Sam glances at Dean, and Dean gazes back, and then they both jump to their feet, run for the window. But when they pull aside the curtains, there's no-one outside. Dean shrugs one-shouldered, sits down on the window-seat. Sam sits down next to him, and Dean starts to feel a little strange.
Why the fuck is Sam sitting so close? And he's breathing so loud, and he smells kinda funny, like he hasn't showered in a month. Why doesn't he take better care not to fucking annoy the living hell out of anyone who has to be near him?
"Dude, what the fuck?" Dean snarls out of the blue, surprising himself with the depth of his anger. He hauls back and slugs Sam in the jaw. "You're such an insensitive prick," he says bitterly.
Sam's fingers go to his mouth, lower lip bleeding a little, and he gives Dean a funny look.
"Dude, what's your problem?" he asks, and then his face changes, darkens. "Did it ever occur to you not to be such a fucking ass? I mean, you're a dick, Dean; you can't walk by a girl without relegating her to the same level as meat in a packing plant."
And, dammit, but Sam sounds furious, which is just as well, because Dean's really fucking angry too. He's about to punch Sam again when Sam stands up, strides away from Dean, only turning back to face him with his pistol trained on Dean's chest.
Dean leaps to his feet and yanks his own pearl-handled handgun out of his waistband, fixes it muzzle first, pointing at Sam's broad chest, such an easy target.
"Don't talk about things you don't understand!" Dean yells, waving the gun recklessly through the air. "It's like when I talk about Hell, and you act all like you think you could ever possibly fucking get what I went through, but you can't. You can't ever get a fucking clue, Sam, never ever be even fucking close. So maybe you should stop pretending to be all sympathetic, giving me those pitying looks and lying through your teeth about how I didn't deserve what I got, or how I ain't a bad person, because--"
Sam waves his gun back at Dean, just as expansively and expressively.
"Well, maybe you did deserve it, Dean! You're the fucking moron who traded your life for mine, I never asked you to do that, I didn't want you to do that, and frankly, Dean, I'd rather be dead! I don't wanna live this fucking life any more, constantly followed around by bad memories and worse experiences, chased by demons and--"
"You think your life is hard? Try spending your entire fucking life looking after your stupid baby brother, who can't do a thing for himself and is too selfish to stay with his family, where he belongs, and--"
"Wait, wait!" Sam's had his own gun pointed somewhere between Dean and himself, but he lowers it all of a sudden, raising his other hand and stepping backward several paces. "Something's not right, Dean; I wasn't angry at you ten minutes ago."
The anger doesn't really recede, but something about Sam's voice, something silky in his tone, soothes some of Dean's fervour, cuts like a knife through the red haze surrounding his perception, and he lowers his own pistol.
"Yeah, me either," he says slowly, and Sam cocks an eyebrow, grabs the TV remote and switches it on to the local news channel.
And in other news, there's been a stabbing just outside the general store, the girl responsible is quoted as saying 'I just couldn't see straight all of a sudden, I wanted that parking space and that asshole took it.' No word yet on what caused the unexpected outburst, as the girl has never been violent before in her life. There's also been a report of several gun shots on Main Street, although no injuries have yet been reported. We'll keep you updated as new developments come in, but I ask you, is it a full moon tonight or something?
Sam focuses so intently on Dean it's almost frightening, and says in that same silky tone, "Put the gun down, Dean. I think I know what we're dealing with, and we're on the same page."
Dean finds himself putting down the gun like he's not even thinking about it, watching Sam as his brother stows his own gun in the back of his pants. "So what is it, then?"
"Probably War," Sam says, voice more rough than before. "Gotta be another demon, I think, and this is definitely not normal. We have to do something before someone kills somebody else, or worse, before everyone explodes into insanity and a lot of people die. I'm going to need my tracking abilities, Dean."
"No fucking way," Dean says, and the anger is still simmering inside him. "That's another thing, Sam, you--"
"Dean, no time to argue, seriously. This might start small-scale, in one town on the map, but I bet it doesn't take long to spread, to turn into wars between countries, Dean. The more chaos and havoc this demon can wreak, the happier it'll be."
"And Lilith? Was she here?" Dean tamps down on the fury still struggling to escape and tries to think rationally, which is somehow easier to do with Sam in the room.
"If she was, she's gone, and she's still miles ahead of us, Dean."
"So what do we do?"
"We exorcise War and hope to God that she doesn't raise Pestilence or Death."
"Fuck," Dean mutters. "We are so fucked."
Sam starts gathering up their things, re-tying his shoes and hefting the duffel bag. "C'mon, Dean, I think I know where we have to go, and I don't think you're gonna like it much."
Dean's stomach jumps with anxiety, falling through the floor in realisation.
"Lacey?" he asks. Sam nods shortly, and they head out.
When they get back to the general store, there's a crowd of people and police milling around, and they slip into the store and she's standing at the counter, hip against the glass, wearing a half-smile.
"Ah, the Winchester boys," she says lazily. "I can't say as I'm surprised to see you."
"Is this fun for you?" Dean snarls, the anger flaring up again, but before he can rush her, she puts out a palm and he goes flying up against the wall.
"Well, actually, yes. This is fun, but I have to say, it's such a treat to meet you boys. Lilith sends her regards, by the way."
"And were you in Lacey when we talked to her earlier?" Dean says fiercely. Sam's quiet, and Dean doesn't know why, but he feels strangely like he should keep her talking.
"Nah, not at first. But you were so pretty, Dean, I wanted to get a piece of that gorgeous juicy ass that you spread around so freely."
"Shut up, bitch," Dean hurls at her, straining against the psychic bonds holding him in place. And then her eyes shift away from him, and he can't turn his head, but he doesn't need to in order to know that she's looking at Sam now.
"And pretty little Sammy Winchester too," she says coquettishly. "I have to wonder just what makes you so special, honestly."
"That's enough talking," Sam says, and his voice has that strange tonal quality to it again. Dean finds himself suddenly willing to do whatever Sam says, and it's really odd, but the demon doesn't speak again, almost as if she's just as susceptible to what Sam just said. Which is peculiar, but he doesn't really have time to dwell on it, because lovely young Lacey throws a hand up to her throat and starts to puke up black smoke, which is a damn good indication that Sam's doing just what he promised not to do.
Dean is going to give that kid a stern talking to when this is all over.
And then she's falling, but Sam lunges forward and catches her before she can hit the floor. He looks up at Dean apologetically, then lowers her carefully and checks her pulse.
"I think she's gonna be fine," he says, and then something outside the window catches his eye. "Uh oh, I think the cops are headed this way. We better make ourselves scarce."
Dean can move again, so he nods, straightens his clothes and they move toward the back of the store, hoping that Lacey will be all right in the ensuing chaos. They slip into the Impala and luckily everyone is so busy trying to make heads or tails of what's happening that they don't notice the very distinctive car as it pulls away.
Dean dials emergency on his cell phone and reports the possibility of a homicide in the farmhouse, hoping that maybe he's wrong and those two guys are still alive, but doubting it nonetheless. He hangs up before they can ask for his name, though; there's no need to make it easy to trace them.
Later that night, holed on up the couch listening to Sam breathing with that same slight rasp, Dean thinks back on the day they had and comes to the conclusion that there's something Sam's not telling him. Something important, he thinks, as sleep overwhelms him with its sweet siren song.
When Dean was twelve years old, he thought it would be funny to sneak into Sam's room while Sam was sleeping, twitch back the covers, and use permanent marker to connect all of the moles on Sam's skin.
Sam didn't think it was nearly so funny the following morning, storming off into the shower yelling about insensitive pricks for older brothers, and Dean laughed himself sick at the table, eating bacon and eggs that he'd made himself -- and burned, sadly -- while John searched the newspaper for hunts.
Sammy was still young enough that he didn't know about hunting back then, and so Dean felt important and special as John ran scenarios by him about where they should go next and whether something sounded like it needed checking out by their own personal brand of investigation.
When Sammy came out of the shower, scrubbed bright red with faint marker lines still traversing his skin, he scowled at Dean and refused to speak to him throughout breakfast, even though Dean had cooked Sammy's too -- and had given him the bacon that wasn't charred and really only fit for the trash can.
John had looked up just long enough to remark on the tattoo lines on Sam's collarbone, before giving Dean a slightly admonishing look and then returning to his perusal of the paper.
Sammy hadn't forgiven Dean for that for weeks, insisting every time they had an argument how traumatic it had been to go to school like that, even though Dean hadn't been completely heartless: he'd avoided Sammy's face, after all.
But that contention between them had actually lasted for months. Dean sometimes wished he hadn't given into the temptation to do it, because it had made Sammy angry with him, but more than that, it had made Sam sad, and even though it was still hilariously funny, Dean did feel kind of bad about upsetting Sammy so much.
He thought, though, that Sam's real anger was actually directed at their father because John didn't punish Dean, which he admittedly deserved. But then, in those days, Sam always thought that whatever John did was with the intention of ruining his life.
Dean had never been able to convince Sam that he was the lucky one, the pampered child, the child who didn't have to learn about demons and monsters when he was all of four years old and had the responsibility of his younger brother thrust on him. Couldn't explain to Sam that Dad loved him best, had protected him in every single way he could, right down to making Dean the human shield that would always step in front of Sam if it seemed even slightly necessary.
Of course, Dean hadn't known at the time just
how special Sammy was, that Sam had been given the blood of a demon and turned into something less than human, although Dean would always be the first to say it didn't matter, that Sam was still the better person, still the one who deserved good things. But it wouldn't be fair to say, any more, that Sam was the lucky one.Sam didn't go through a moody period like that again until he was thirteen, and it felt like it lasted forever, right up until he left for college after a screaming match with both John
and Dean that Dean had never forgotten.
