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False Comforts
by Maygra
one
The first night it happened,
Dean tensed up, ready to wake Sam from whatever nightmare he was fighting.
Except after a second, he realized Sam's moans didn't exactly sound like
he was scared or distressed. Or not distressed from fear or dread.
So he hesitated, lifted his
head and watched his brother twist the sheets in his hands and listened
to him gasp softly.
Dean didn't get embarrassed
by much but he felt his face go hot when Sam suddenly fell silent and relaxed.
No way to misunderstand that particular aroma.
The second time it happened,
Dean pulled a pillow over his head. Sam was louder this time, and he could
give the hotel bed's Magic Fingers a run for their money, he was shaking
so bad. Dean was not getting turned on by his brother's whimpers,
but shit, he did have some sympathy, and his hand crept into
his shorts.
He supposed wet dreams were
better than nightmares, but, man. He thought Sam had outgrown them
at sixteen.
He went totally still when
Sam suddenly sat straight up, wide awake, panting harshly. Dean pretended
to be asleep. He heard Sam's breathing ease and listened to him get out
of bed, cross the room and go into the bath. He cracked an eye open just
as Sam closed the door. His own urges subsided and he sighed. This was
better than the screaming Sam had been doing, at least. He fell asleep
before Sam came back out of the bathroom.
Wet dreams or nightmares,
Sam still didn't look like he was getting enough sleep, and where having
a nice, erotic, arousing dream did Dean a lot of good and eased all kinds
of tension, they seemed to have the opposite effect on Sam. His brother
really was a freak.
Only that wasn't fair and
Dean knew it. Being glad Sam was with him was one thing. Being happy about
why
Sam was now his constant companion was something else entirely. Never in
a million years would Dean have wished this kind of grief on his little
brother.
They were on the move again
shortly afterward and the dreams seemed to subside. It was nearly a month
before it happened again. They were low on cash and nothing had jumped
up on their radar. They stopped in Milwaukee and Sam found a job at a coffee
bar while Dean found a job at a local nursery unloading spring plants.
They slept in the car the
first week, showering at the Y, before they gathered enough cash to rent
a room by the week from a couple of college professors. Dean had to admire
his brother's smooth approach -- or maybe it was just familiarity. Drs.
Leda and Jeremy Owen usually only rented to students attending U of W.
Sam's story was truthful as far as it went -- that he'd been at Stanford,
pre-law. That he was thinking of changing both degrees and school
and was looking at the University of Wisconsin with an eye toward a degree
in education instead.
Either Sam's earnestness
(it had its uses), or the fact that the room was unoccupied mid-term,
swayed them. Dean figured the cash up front didn't hurt much either. The
room was on the second floor, was comfortably large and had its own bathroom.
Currently it had only a single bed but there was a sleeper sofa, and a
separate entrance out a side door that led to a long, steep staircase attached
to the outside of the house. It gave them some added independence and freedom
of movement but Dean was seriously glad it was May and not November. Breakfast
was included. Dean figured the single meal alone was probably worth the
rent. Well, that and the fact that the queen-sized sleeper sofa was more
comfortable than some of the hotel beds he'd slept in. He took the sofa
and let Sam have the single.
Sam went back to working
out something in his dreams and Dean ignored it as best he could,
didn't mention it. It was better than screaming, better than Sam staying
up all night staring into space. The downside was that Dean, really, really
wanted to get laid.
The routine of it all nearly
drove Dean crazy. They got up, ate, went to work, returned home, studied
a little, maybe caught a movie. Sam slept more than he had in weeks, but
Dean was ready to hunt up something to relieve the tedium.
He didn't actually expect
Sam to be the solution.
On weekends, Sam worked later,
the wannabe-Starbuck's staying open until midnight. Sam liked the work,
liked his coworkers and he made a kick-ass cappuccino. As bored as Dean
was, he couldn't deny that Sam seemed to thrive when things were, well…normal.
Not for the first time, he acknowledged that Sam wasn't like him, or like
Dad. It didn't change anything, really, but Dean could regret it in private.
Three weeks in, on a Saturday
night and Dean was reading when Sam came in. Sam gave him a look and asked
if Dean had been waiting up for him. Dean denied it. Sam didn’t buy it
and looked a little put out. Dean couldn’t help it and he didn't intend
to mother, but he worried anyway. Despite Sam's little nightly fantasies
and even though they hadn't heard the slightest hint of anything paranormal
in this burg since they'd arrived, Sam seemed almost too relaxed. It bothered
Dean and he worried.
Sam brought him a slice of
key lime pie from the shop and then ducked into the shower. "I'm
off tomorrow. You want to go into town?" he asked when he came out, toweling
himself dry.
Dean shrugged and nodded.
"Something different."
Sam smiled at him and pulled
on sweat pants before dropping into bed. "Sounds like a plan," he said.
He was asleep a few minutes later.
Dean finished the chapter
of his book, reminded himself to check out club recs in Milwaukee. A little
beer, maybe some dancing. Maybe he'd get lucky. He seriously needed to
get lucky. He glanced at Sam and chewed on his lip. Sam could find his
own fun.
Not two hours after he fell
into bed, Sam's whimpers woke him up again. He sighed and stared at his
brother’s shape in the darkness. Maybe he should make sure Sam got laid
in Milwaukee. He wasn't sure how well that would fly, but it wasn't Jessica's
name Sam was murmuring in his sleep and Dean was glad of it, if he were
honest. The last thing he wanted was for Sam to be haunted by his dead
lover forever. But the fact that Sam was back on this again was,
well, disturbing on a lot of levels.
He rolled over and tried
to shut the sounds out, Sam's breathing going short and fast and his flailing
all the more obvious in the single bed.
It went on a little too long
and Dean sighed and pushed up, not entirely sure how to handle this. If
Sam were twelve again, he'd have kicked him back to sleep. Sam was a lot
more likely to come up swinging at twenty-two.
"Sam…Sam…" he said it in
a normal voice, moving to the edge of Sam's bed and Dean was really, seriously
glad the room was dark. Sam was still thrashing slightly, making guttural
noise in his throat, and it took Dean a minute to realize that while Sam
was twisting against the sheets, his arms were held rigidly at his sides,
and his legs equally as locked, spread wide under the blankets.
Not moans of pleasure or
even desire or frustration. Sam, honest to God, sounded like he was choking.
Any qualms about embarrassing
Sam or himself vanished and Dean gripped his shoulders, shaking him hard.
"Sam!" he yelled and hauled Sam upward, thwacking him hard between the
shoulder blades. Sam coughed harshly and gasped for air and Dean dared
leave him for the half-second it took to turn on a light.
Sam's face was red and he
was holding his throat, eyes blinking confusedly. The lighting was bad
but Dean would have sworn Sam's lips had a bluish tinge to them. And despite
the gasping and the obvious disorientation, Sam curled up, groaned, and
pressed the heel of his hand to his crotch. His brother was still working
through a pretty impressive boner.
"Sam?" Dean asked, not touching
him but ducking his head to see Sam's face. "That was a hell of a nightmare,"
he said. He twisted around and snagged the bottle of water Sam always kept
by the bed and offered it to him. Sam took it and cautiously took a swallow.
"I don't remember…a nightmare.
Shit," he said and curled up further. "Sorry. What? Did I wake you up?"
Pretty much every night for
the last month, Dean thought, but didn't say it. Now was not the time to
bring it up and Sam looked really confused and uncertain. The shock of
waking him up had probably chased the substance of whatever the dream or
nightmare was away and Dean stood up. "More the other way around. You --
you were choking."
Sam rubbed his throat again,
but he was relaxing, the tension bleeding out little by little. "Thanks.
Swallowed wrong, I guess," he said and moved carefully to the side of the
bed.
He seemed steady enough and
Dean dropped back on his own bed while Sam made his way to the bathroom.
Dean rolled over and closed his eyes when he heard the shower start up.
Sam seemed fine in the morning.
He looked tired but that wasn't anything new and he was still up for Milwaukee.
Dean was just happy to be
on the road again, if only for a day.
They were still hoarding
their money but cheap entertainment was easy to find if you knew how, and
Dean could have watched the pretty girls all day. Sam had an unnatural
propensity for bookstores and computer centers but he traded off when Dean
wanted to hit a couple of pawn shops in case anything interesting turned
up.
"I have found some of my
best charms in pawn shops," Dean said, at the second one. "People have
no idea what they are giving up."
They also found a pretty
impressive array of computer hardware that Sam treated like they had magic
of their own.
"Oh my God, you're such a
geek," Dean said after Sam had excitedly identified a half dozen apparently
hard-to-find bits of hardware. They all looked like futuristic movie props
to Dean.
Sam eyed the long-barreled
classic Colt in Dean's hand and raised an eyebrow. "So says Rambo."
They grabbed burgers at a
place that wasn't McDonalds and Dean tapped the tender of the quiet bar
there for some place to expend a little energy. Armed with the names of
three local clubs and directions, he was ready to stretch a little. Sam
didn't look entirely sold but he didn't object, which really, was about
the best Dean had hoped for.
"Did you not party at all,
at college?" Dean asked him as they drove. It was early yet but he wanted
to know where he was going.
"I did," Sam said, and he
was a little defensive but it drained away quickly. "Not so much before
Jess. She…she liked to go out," he said and it could have all stopped there
but for once Dean pressed on, not sure if it was right or wise. Sam rarely
talked about Jessica at all and pop psych or not, Dean didn't think that
was normal. It was a flip of the coin to press though. Sam's mood could
go sour fast.
"So, you danced, you went
to classes a little hung over," he urged.
Sam struggled with it. Dean
could see it in his face but finally he nodded. "Yeah, sometimes. Pre-law
can be….sometimes I needed to get out of the library or implode," he offered.
Dean gave him a wink. "I
knew we were related. So, that's the plan. Find a club, have a few beers,
go a little deaf, check out the local talent."
Same gave him a half smile.
"I'm really cramping your style, aren't I?"
"Naw, Sammy. I've got plenty
of style. Way more than you can cramp. Ever."
Sam's smile broadened at
that and Dean gave himself a mental score for that. Maybe he should be
pressing harder to get Sam out of his head more often.
They were way early for the
bars, and spent a little time in a local discounter, restocking the trunk
of the car with the more mundane necessities of life like peroxide, bandaids,
and bottled water. For Dean it was as much second nature as anything --
you stayed prepared. When you moved around as much as they did, sometimes
there were a lot of miles between K-Marts. Sam got a little quieter and
Dean rushed through it, then steered Sam toward a real Starbucks just to
get his mind off everything else.
It was still early when they
hit the first club and Dean wasn't inclined to linger too long. The music
was loud but the crowd sparse. Still, the first beer tasted good and Sam
relaxed again, tapped his feet to the music.
Dean nearly dropped his beer
when Sam was the first to hit the barely occupied floor. It was one
dance and Sam didn't embarrass himself. In fact, for someone who always
seemed to look like his body was too long for comfort, he was pretty smooth.
"I did not know you had it
in you," Dean said when, after two dances, Sam walked the girl back to
her friends.
Sam shrugged, took a sip
of his warming beer. "I liked the songs."
Dean had never heard either
song before.
An hour later the place was
filling up a bit more and Dean put his brother's obvious social adeptness
out of his mind, found himself a nice leggy brunette and took his own turn.
She was easy to chat up, easy on the eyes but it was way too early to even
try for more than a dance or two. Dean bought her a beer and talked to
her for a while, took another dance and looked for Sam.
He wasn't dancing but he
was talking and Dean saw him differently, maybe for the first time. Sam
was easy with people in a way Dean wasn't. Dean could talk and flirt and
wisecrack. He could play the cop, the consultant, or reporter. He could
get the information he needed and be done. He didn’t doubt his own skills
and he didn't make any promises he couldn't keep. He couldn't remember
the last time he'd actually just sat down and talked to somebody just for
the conversation
Sam actually talked to people;
standing in the corner near the edge of the floor, where the music wasn't
so loud, a couple of girls and one with a boy friend, but the guy looked
less threatened by Sam than kind of willing to know him better.
Dean didn't usually get that
reaction from women's boyfriends.
Two hours in and they both
needed to step outside and let the pounding in their ears subside a little.
The club was nice but not quite the array of wide possibilities Dean was
looking for.
"You've got a litmus test
for clubs?"
"I've got a litmus test for
the people who go to them," Dean said as they walked back to the car. "Nicely
built, no hang-ups, lives within 10 miles…"
Sam rolled his eyes. "And
if you get lucky?"
"It's never luck, Sam," Dean
said confidently. "It's skill and a gift and what makes life worth living."
It was the wrong thing to
say. Dean knew it the minute it fell out of his mouth and silently kicked
himself. "Don't worry. If I get lucky, I'll find you a nice, all-night
diner."
Sam pulled it together pretty
well, giving Dean a look Dean wasn't sure how to interpret. "Where now?"
The question had all the enthusiasm of wet noodles.
Dean let out a mental sigh.
"There's a club called Three, supposed to be the spot."
Sam settled in the seat with
his head back. "As long as the beer's cold."
Cranking the car, Dean glanced
over at him. "You want me to take you back? I can come back up by myself."
For a second Dean thought
Sam would take him up on it -- almost hoped for it. The only thing worse
than knowing Sam was miserable was watching him be miserable.
His brother was made of stronger
stuff. "Naw. Let's go. I know you've been going crazy. Change of pace is
good for both of us."
"Sam," Dean said with mock
admiration. "That's a surprisingly mature observation for one so young."
"Just drive, Jeeves," Sam
waved a hand and Dean snorted with laughter. Sam's smile was small but
genuine.
Club Three was the place.
Dean knew it as soon as he walked in. The cover was a little steeper than
he'd planned so he crossed the third club off his list without a qualm.
Nothing fancy, painted industrial fittings, a bar that could sleep twenty
or more and a multilevel dance floor and table space that offered the best
of both worlds -- a place to sit and watch and an appetizer buffet. It
was almost more upscale than Dean was comfortable with or knew what to
do with, but he did like a challenge.
To Dean's mind the ratio
was perfect. Plenty of couples, groups of friends but like any really popular
club there were slightly more women than men, all sizes and shapes. A different
kind of buffet. The downside was it could get expensive fast, the way less-popular,
road house type bars weren't.
In some ways having Sam there
made it easier and Dean took advantage of Sam's willingness to have a good
time. It could get awkward when a woman came in with a friend and he had
to pick one or the other. Usually he'd dance with both but in some weird
girl language he knew who he picked first was always a gamble and could
be a deal breaker.
He spotted a pair of them
near the end of the bar, practically dancing together but wanting to look
available. "Blonde or brunette?" Dean asked.
"Brunette," Sam said without
hesitation. A closer look and Dean figured he could have pegged it -- yeah,
the similarities were in coloring and build, not so much in the details,
but too much like Jess for Sam to deal. Lydia and Amanda said yes practically
before they finished asking the question.
Worked for him though and
he felt positively blessed when after a single frenetic bit of techno pop,
he got a ballad. Lydia talked some, the inevitable questions, not seeming
put out or off when Dean told her no, they weren't from the area, just
passing through. He managed to not look for Sam once during the whole long
dance, was further encouraged when Lydia made her fingers at home in the
belt loops on his jeans
They stayed there until the
beat changed.
She was willing to cut from
the floor for after that dance, to grab a drink and a corner of an already
crowded table. Unlike Dean, she did check for her friend and they found
Sam and Amanda sitting at the bar, also drinking and once more Sam had
that look on his face like Amanda was possibly the most interesting person
he'd ever met.
Dean gave him a silent, "go,
Sammy," before pressing his own interests.
Lydia gave every indication
of being willing but she wanted to be wooed a little and Dean obliged.
A few more dances, and he was rethinking his plan for Sam and the diner
-- he should give Sam the keys and tell him to come back in a couple of
days.
She didn't live far but she
did have to get Amanda home and Dean thanked any kind spirits in the vicinity
when she told him that no, she and Amanda did not share an apartment, they
were just friends.
By the time they reached
the bar, Amanda was looking slightly put out and Sam was oblivious
while he talked to another woman.
The second girl was a little
goth-chic for either Dean's tastes or the club. She looked up at Dean through
narrow, tinted glasses that seemed out of place in a semi-dark club. But
she had the look down in her all black and deep purple garb, hair too black
to be real and he wondered what her real hair color was. Hard to tell under
a make-up job that was pretty obviously meant to make her look paler.
"You picking up a fan club,
bro'?" Dean asked while Lydia pulled Amanda aside.
Sam's smile was easy and
he was still clueless as to how much of a crimp he actually was
putting in Dean's evening. "Dean, this is Kerry. Kerry, my brother, Dean.
Kerry's a regular at the cafe."
"Nice to meet you," Kerry
said, and smiled when Dean did. Dean would be hard pressed to say which
of them was less impressed than the other, but she offered her hand and
he took it. She had a surprisingly strong grip.
"Same. Sam," Dean tossed
his head and Sam excused himself, stepping aside.
"I'm going to take Lydia
and Amanda home," he said and Sam stared at him blankly for a long moment
before he caught on.
"Oh, okay…uh," he shrugged
and glanced back at the bar. "Okay. Let me uh…" he pulled away and Dean
turned back to Lydia, once more thanking whatever karma he had when Lydia
gave him an encouraging smile.
Then Sam was back, Kerry
at his elbow. "Okay, so Kerry was supposed to meet a friend who didn't
show. She's headed back and I can…catch a ride."
"Thanks, Kerry," Dean said
and meant it. Dean didn't even question it. Didn’t think about it. And
not until they had split up in the parking lot and he watched Sam walking
off with Kerry toward her car did it even occur to him that maybe he should
have.
He didn't think about it
again until hours later. Lydia was no more shy in bed than she had been
in the club and even had the sex not been good, Dean would probably have
appreciated her for the firm mattress and clean sheets. Any other time,
he might have fallen asleep, offered to cook breakfast but even after Lydia
had drifted off, he found himself staring at the ceiling. Carefully he
slipped from the bed and found his jeans, moving silently through Lydia's
bedroom as if he were hunting something. Just outside her door he pulled
his phone out and dialed.
It took Sam maybe six rings
to pick up, just a couple shy of when Dean might have started to worry.
Sam's voice was thick with
sleep. "Do you have any idea what time it is?"
"Yeah, I do. It's right here
on my phone," Dean said.
"Why are you calling me?
Are you okay?"
"Yeah," Dean said, caught
off guard that Sam would ask. Not that Sam would care, but that he asked
at all. It had been along time since that had been someone else's job rather
than Dean's.
"Yeah, I'm good. I'm just
-- I'm headed back. Didn't want to get there and have you try and douse
me with holy water or something."
"Would it work?"
"Funny. Funny guy."
"So, did you have--"
"--I had great sex--"
"--fun?" Sam finished with
a snort of laughter. "I'm glad for you."
"I'm glad for me too," Dean
said as he jiggled his keys in his hand. "You have fun with Kelly?"
"Kerry. She drove me back.
We talked a little. She's just someone I know, Dean," Sam said.
"I know. But she seems to
like you--"
"Dean," Sam's voice had gone
flat. "Just…don't. I'm fine. Don't wake me up when you come in."
"Okay," Dean said but Sam
was gone. It was late (or early) and he'd pushed too hard, finally. And
Sam had been sleeping which was a kind of hallowed ground in and
of itself anymore.
He half thought he should
have left Lydia a note then dismissed it, concentrating on the road. No
expectations, no regrets. A couple more weeks and he and Sam would be hitting
the road anyway.
When Dean parked, there was
a light on in the window of the room he and Sam were renting. He sat in
the car for a minute staring up at it -- torn between guilt and aggravation.
He shouldn't have called, even though Sam would probably have woken up
when he got in anyway.
Sam was in bed, but he was
reading. He looked up when Dean let himself into the room.
Dean spread his hands wide.
"Sorry, man."
Sam shrugged. "It's okay."
It probably was. A couple
of hours was better than none.
"You gonna see her again?"
Sam asked as Dean shed his coat and shirt, going into the bathroom get
ready for bed.
"Nah. She's nice. Very, but…I
like keeping my options open." He half expected Sam to come back with something
but his brother was silent. Dean flicked his gaze against the mirror, the
angle letting him just barely see Sam. The far too common disapproval wasn't
there, instead Sam just looked thoughtful, the book he'd been reading laying
flat and wide in his lap.
"Your friend, Kerry -- she's
a geek isn't she?" he asked and saw a ghost of a smile on Sam's face.
"Yeah, pretty much. But we're
not friends."
Wiping his face with a towel
Dean stepped back into the room. "You can make friends, Sam."
"Kind of pointless if you
don't stay around long enough to keep them isn't it?" Sam didn't look angry
about it, but he closed the book and set it on the table. "Besides, you
probably owe her a coffee or something for clearing your way to Lydia."
"I was doing just fine, thanks."
"Hanging out in a diner would
not have been my idea of a good time," Sam warned and slid down between
the sheets.
Dean almost pointed out to
him that Amanda had seemed pretty willing too, but he was not, not
going to pick at that particular scab. He rubbed at his face then stripped
down to his boxers, emulating Sam's example. A few more hours of sleep
would be good. He turned out the light.
"Did you have a good time?"
he asked into the darkness. He hadn't asked before.
"Yeah, I did. It was good.
We should take breaks more often." Sam sounded like he was trying not to
laugh at him and Dean grinned into the darkness before rolling over to
sleep.
two
Sam envied Dean's ability
to apparently sleep anytime, anywhere. It wasn't exactly true but there
was enough contrast between Dean's somnambulistic abilities and Sam's,
that envy of it bothered Sam less than the other things about his brother.
Of course, the number of enviables stacked up pretty substantially against
the number of personality quirks and behaviors and attitudes Dean had that
occasionally drove Sam bat-shit insane. Some of them were new, some of
them were accompanied by the oldest memories Sam could claim as his own.
Dean was a little harder
and sometimes colder than Sam remembered. It didn't actually bother him,
per
se, just something he'd noticed early on. He didn't have to look far
to find out why it was, but it was a constant reminder of the wide gulf
between them they had yet to breach entirely. Sam wasn't planning on laying
all the effort there at Dean's feet, either. He was pretty clear who had
dug that trench and put the distance there in the first place.
No, that was on him, pretty
much, and it didn't really matter that Dean had been the one to drag him
back into this -- as much as Sam wanted it to be. Dean had rarely asked
him for anything in their lives together, and the one thing he had asked
for, Sam couldn't give him. That was four years ago and even long after
he'd left his father and brother behind, it never even crossed Sam's mind
that if he needed Dean, his brother wouldn't be there. He'd give Sam all
kinds of shit about it, but he'd be there. It was a kind of loyalty Sam
wasn't sure he deserved, but he didn't doubt it at all.
Dean dropped off to sleep
almost instantly. He was a light sleeper at the best of times -- that hadn't
changed. Sam had been once too, a long time ago. In the last couple of
years though, between classes and studying and working and all the various
strains and stresses that went along with college life, he'd learned to
sleep deep. Jess used to tease him when she'd wake him in the morning,
that he slept like the dead.
More than once he'd held
back from telling her, that a lot of times, the dead didn't sleep so well.
He never had though. He'd never commented on how the frivolity of occasions
like hallowe'en parties mocked the reality of fact and fates that weren’t
funny at all. But to resist it at all would have opened him to questions
of why and would have required that he explain a lot more about his life
before college than he was ready to divulge. Jessica hadn't liked it or
understood it -- and more than once Sam thought he might lose her over
it. You couldn't have a relationship without trust and Sam knew that as
well, if not better, than anyone. After all, no matter how estranged from
his family he'd been, he'd never not trusted his brother. Sam knew all
about trust.
He hadn't trusted Jessica
enough to risk being called for the freak he actually knew he was. And
now she was gone because of it and he wasn't sure he'd ever risk letting
someone that close again. He'd always thought Dean was more like their
father -- now he wasn't so sure.
And knowing all of that,
Dean was still pushing him toward making "friends". That wasn't what he
really meant and Sam knew it. As smart as Dean could be when he wasn't
being a total pain in the ass, he was really missing the exit on this one
by a mile.
Dean might be fooling the
world with his attitude but Sam wasn't fooled and he wasn't blind, and
he wasn't stupid. Dean wasn't as self-contained or selfish as he appeared
and he never had been. Sam of all people, knew that.
Kerry had missed it. Sam
wasn't surprised and he hadn't risen harshly to Dean's defense when, during
the drive back, Kerry had looked him and said, "Your brother's kind of
a jerk."
The observation had amused
Sam more than insulted him. "You just met him. He's all right. He's a good
guy."
"I guess. I mean, I know
he's your brother and all, Sam, but…" She'd fallen silent and Sam had been
willing to let it go. Women either liked Dean immediately, were taken in
by his good-looks and charm and bad-boy attitude, or they weren't. Those
that weren't tended to find him obnoxious and self-centered. Kerry, apparently,
fell into the latter category.
"He just…you know, he reminds
me of my…brother," she said.
"I didn't know you had a
brother," Sam said, willing to change the subject or at least redirect.
He hadn't needed course in pre-law to know how to do it either.
"Yeah. Just, you know, always
looking at what…he doesn't have instead of what he does. Wanting something
and thinking he deserves it."
There was a bitterness to
her tone that made Sam sit up a little straighter. "I don't know him, Kerry,
but there's nothing wrong with wanting more for yourself. At least I don't
think so." At least he hadn't thought so, four years ago. He was no longer
as sure as he sounded.
"There is when you sacrifice
your whole family to get it," she said and Sam found himself staring out
the window, throat tightening a little. "Sorry," she said. "Really,
Sam, I'm sorry. You're right. I don't know your brother. He just reminds
me of mine and that's probably not fair."
"It's okay," he said. "But
Dean, he's -- family is really important to him. The rest is just…"
"Macho, testosterone-driven
posturing?" she asked and one of the things Sam liked about Kerry was her
quick, small grins.
He let a small chuckle escape.
"Something like that, yeah."
"Well, I guess he can't be
all bad. He's got you for a brother," she said and Sam only smiled at her,
not sure what to say. He hadn't lied to Dean. He barely knew her at all.
She came into the café nearly every day, usually in the hours they
were the slowest, between four and six in the afternoon. She sat at the
same brightly lit table, usually with her books. She ordered the same thing,
which after the first few times, Sam had ready for her the minute she walked
in. She liked that and he always got one of those quick smiles. They'd
exchanged maybe a thousand words in the last few weeks. She was student,
preparing for pre-law which gave them some basis of conversation, but she
didn't flirt with Sam the way some of the female students and not a few
of the guys who frequented the shop did. She didn't socialize. She looked
out of place in the bright café with her dark hair and dark clothes
and pale face, and the narrow dark-blue tinged glasses. She was a dark
outsider in a brighter world and Sam understood and could empathize with
that much.
"My sister would love him,"
she said out of the blue when they were nearly back to Sam's rooms.
"You have a sister too?"
Sam asked. Better to talk about her family than his.
"Mmmm. Big family. Everyone
always vying for attention," she was smiling again, but the bitterness
in her tone was back.
"Maybe that's the difference,"
Sam said, without really meaning to. "It's just me and Dean." And their
father if you stretched the point.
She was pulling onto his
street, driving a few miles under the speed limit as she had the whole
way back from town. She drove carefully, like she didn't do it very often
which was probably true. Most of the students lived on campus or close
by. "Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to be an only child," she
said and carefully nudged the car next to the curb.
"You don't get along with
any of your siblings?" he asked her, hand on the door. The conversation
was uncomfortable but Kerry obviously needed to talk to someone. Sam didn't
think that was the reason behind her offer to give him a ride, but it didn't
stop his urge to listen. He'd known girls like her in Stanford -- once
upon a time he'd thought they'd be the ones he'd be interested in, the
ones more interested in learning than marriage, more comfortable in observing
than participating. His own social skills had been adequate but not stellar.
Too earnest, too concentrated on carving a life out for himself, rather
than taking advantage of the life college offered him -- like he had to
prove he'd made the right choice before he could enjoy it.
"Some better than others,"
she shrugged. "Family is family."
"Yeah, yeah it is. Even brothers,"
Sam said and gave her a smile. "Maybe yours will come around," he offered
and pulled on the door handle.
She stared at him for a long
moment before turning away. "No. not likely. He…he's dead."
"Oh, Kerry, I'm sorry," he
said and at the same time felt a chill up his spine. Was this a side affect
of his returning to this life, that he was going to keep being drawn to
people who had lost people they loved, that they cared about? Like Laurie,
like Andrea and Lucas. It came with the territory, he knew, but it was
a slap in the face to be reminded that there was a reason why he and Dean
did this. Their father too. Or maybe he was just more aware of their losses
in the reflection of his own.
His hand slipped off the
door handle. "Do you…do you want to talk about it? What happened? How long
ago?"
She shrugged. "A couple of
months and no. Thanks, Sam. I'm still kind of pissed off I guess -- mostly
at…him. He tangled with someone cockier than himself and lost. If he'd
stayed with us…"
It took Sam a second to get
over the shock, not sure he'd heard her right. Before he could ask though
she gave him another fast grin and shook her head. "You're sweet, but no,
and it's late. I'll see you, Sam."
"Uh, okay. Thanks for the
ride."
"Sure."
He got out but leaned back
in. "Kerry, if you ever do want to talk about it--"
She smiled again. A longer
one, showing teeth. "I know where to find you, Sam. See you."
He stepped back and closed
the door and watched as she pulled away. He wiped at his face and headed
inside.
A shower helped clear his
head and relaxed him but he was still twisting over Kerry's story when
he finally turned the light out and fell into bed. He'd meant it when he'd
offered to let her talk -- he wasn't sure if he should have. He wasn't
willing to talk about Jess, or that loss and really, it wasn't the same,
but it was close if he'd understood Kerry correctly. Her brother had died
suddenly, murdered, no time to reconcile, and not the cold comfort of a
random accident. No less painful, but for a long time he lay in the dark
wondering what he'd do if he lost Dean. Yeah, Kerry apparently had a big
family and all the problems that could cause, but all the comforts too
-- the shared grief, but it didn't mean the loss of her brother cut any
less deeply. He wondered if all her dark attire weren't more mourning than
attitude and what she'd been like before. He could only barely remember
what he'd been like before Jess's death. Not the same, certainly.
For once sleep hadn't eluded
him or tortured him and when Dean called, he'd had to struggle to wake
up. He hadn't expected it -- hadn't expected to see his brother again until
he got off work.
But maybe he should have,
he thought after he'd hung up on Dean, feeling annoyed and guilty.
Maybe Kerry could be a friend
or maybe she was just someone who needed a willing ear. He'd offered to
let her talk but really, he'd had no business doing so. A few more weeks
and he was pretty sure Dean would be ready to hit the road whether they
had a reason or not. Being tied to one place didn't sit well with his brother,
like he was almost afraid that if he did get comfortable he wouldn't want
to leave. Why that scared Dean so much, Sam couldn't begin to understand.
But at the same time, as much as he liked it, he wasn't willing to stay
either. His father, Jess's killer -- those things still haunted him waking
or sleeping. Staying here had only made it less of a thing that tore at
his awareness and gave him room to let him focus. He'd spent a lot of time
in the U of W library researching fire demons, fire starters, pyromaniacal
creatures of all kinds -- ground he was sure his father had covered at
some point. Whatever it was wasn't an anomaly and obviously not tied to
one place, like their old house in Kansas.
That it was tied to him
Sam tried really, really, hard not to think about for too long or too hard
or he'd start making he and Dean get separate rooms when they stopped.
As often as the dreams of
Jess's death have cut through him, there have been times on waking when
he'd been pretty sure it was Dean pinned to the ceiling by blood and fire.
A couple of times it had been himself.
He didn't know what it meant,
hadn't known in those weeks before Jess's death. He'd kept silent then,
chalking it up to his finals and his impending graduation, to the internship
he wanted so desperately.
Recently though, those nightmares
were coming less frequently. He wasn't sure the ones replacing them were
any better except they were harder to hold onto. He didn't need to remember
the details to be aware of their effect, though, and he was pretty sure
Dean was aware too, though he'd said nothing. Sam had tried to ease them
by jacking off in the shower, only to find waking, his body wasn't nearly
as interested in even that simple pleasure as it seemed to be when he was
sleeping.
Or maybe it was because even
wide awake and touching his dick left him tense and shaking and not in
a good way. There was dread too, like after so long, rather than release,
his body was steeling itself against unseen blows and horrors he didn't
remember and didn't understand. He woke expecting to find bruises or blood,
joints stiff and painful. So much so that at first he'd wondered if he
weren't coming down with the flu or something.
But they were dreams, nightmares,
night terrors. He couldn’t get himself out of them usually and he only
knew they'd gotten bad when Dean had started waking him up again. The previous
night had been the worst and Sam rubbed at his throat, like he could still
feel hands strangling him.
He heard Dean move restlessly,
turning his head to see his brother sprawled crosswise on the sofa bed.
It hadn't taken Dean long to fall asleep once he'd gotten back from Lydia's
and Sam let a quiet sigh pass his lips. It wasn't that unexpected -- Dean
had always been a little overprotective where Sam was concerned. Sometimes
it was okay; it actually felt good. But Sam was neither helpless nor a
child any longer and as far as Sam could tell, now that Dean had made himsel
Sam's selfiappointed protector again, he spent far less time than he should
looking out for himself.
Or maybe Dean had just gotten
more reckless in the last four years. Or Sam had gotten old enough, mature
enough, to recognize that Dean, for all he knew, all his instincts, still
tended to rush in where better angels feared to tread.
Maybe Dean had a guardian
angel. They both could sure as hell use one.
Sleep took its time coming
to him but he could feel it, seductive and soft, and gave in after a couple
of false starts, blinking at the thin, filtered light coming from the street
through the curtains until he knew he was still seeing it through closed
eyes.
There was that point, half-asleep
and half dreaming, that Sam always thought was opportunity to mold dreams
even while sleeping. He'd read about it -- structured dreaming. Had practiced
the techniques as much because having a plan -- any plan -- was better
than flinging himself into sleep knowing what was waiting for him even
when he couldn't remember the details. It had taken awhile to find an image
and a direction that didn't threaten to pull his mind down paths he wasn't
ready to walk. Like Jessica. He would love to dream of her as he had before
he lost her. Now the reality of losing her was more likely the fuel for
his worst nightmares.
He'd tried dreaming of the
Pacific Ocean. Most of his life had been spent in the Midwest with a
few runs down to the Gulf. The Pacific was vast and unending, always moving.
Not forbidding but secretive. Like the night skies above the Midwest, Sam
could be hypnotized by the darkness, by the constant movement; white froth
on waves, luminous in the dark. Stars that glittered and faded, vanished
behind clouds so high he couldn't see them. He held that one as long as
he could, hoping that amid all that vastness, whatever hunted him in his
sleep would be unable to find him.
It didn't work that way,
of course. The ocean called him and he waded in, feeling the cold slap
of waves against his skin, soaking his clothes, dragging him down. The
water turned thick and warm but with an underlying chill and a greasiness
that made him think of oil spills and pollution; the oceans despoiled,
the beaches awash with refuse. Too late, he could feel the dread building
and couldn't change course in his dreams. He was held still and struggling
against the grip of the thickened water. Not drowning, only mired, like
his dreams had stopped time. He could only wait, try to press back against
the cloying, thickened darkness.
It swept over him and he
gagged, sucked it into his lungs, that thick feeling of repression and
filth filling his mouth and ears, blinding his eyes, seeping through his
clothes to his skin and into his blood. Except he was already tainted and
poisonous, his own thoughts whispered to him.
When rescue came, there was
no thought of denying the release it offered.
It was almost painful to
feel gentle, warm hands peel the filth laden clothing from his body, to
strip him naked and bathe him. Had his mother done this when he was a baby?
She must have, supporting his head and his neck, wiping him down with warm
cloth, whispering to him so that he concentrated on hearing her voice rather
than the cloth wiping his face, across his belly, between his legs. He
was clean and warm and held firmly, securely, eased over with a hand supporting
his chest and warm water sluiced across his back.
The voice that spoke to him
so reassuringly wasn't his mother's; it was too deep. The hands were too
large, too strong. His father maybe, or Dean and he could remember being
in a bathtub in a hotel somewhere, with Dean sitting on the edge, pouring
cup after cup of water over his soapy head until Sam was screaming with
laughter and splashing back. And later when Sam was old enough to take
a shower, Dean had still waited outside, ready with a towel and a grin.
Shutting off the shower head because Sam wasn’t tall enough yet to reach
it.
Dean's hands on his back
when Sam had taken a nasty lashing from a phantom coachman who had left
welts on his back and scars across his hip. Welts that had swollen and
left him gasping in pain. His father had dressed his wounds and been gentle,
but it had been Dean who stayed up with him, rubbing him between his shoulders
to keep the tension of abused muscles from creeping higher. Had fed him
tea and whiskey long after their father had fallen asleep. Sam always thought
it funny that his first drink had truly been medicinal.
That same comfort spread
across his back now. Hands that could ease pains or distract. The slide
from comfort to something else was so gradual Sam didn't even notice it
even as some part of his mind knew that this was dreaming too, that Dean
would never touch him that way, had never touched him that way.
The hand between his legs
was knowing and firm, easing him toward arousal, gentle and sure. Even
so, he tensed against it, the unerring wrongness of it laying in
his subconscious even as his body reacted to the dream like it always did.
You couldn't be guilty of sins committed in dreams.
Except Sam was. His dreams
had warned him of Jessica's death and he'd ignored them. His dreams could
show him what he needed to know, led him to what was needed and wanted.
The sin was in not acknowledging them, not confronting them.
He fought this one as he
had the others, pushing it back, not wanting to know. Body and mind at
war when neither was actually part of any of this. Weight pressed him down,
held his arms and legs, like the thickening, foul, nightmarish ocean, Sam
found his limbs held fast, his body not his to control. Not for pleasure
and he could feel it swelling in his groin at the insistent pressure along
his dick, a hand stroking him, urging him to give in. Lips ghosted across
his neck and down his shoulder, teeth scraping the bone. Weight settled
along his ribs and his legs. He was stretched long and hard against the
oily but oddly firm sea. If the phantom behind him let go, he'd sink into
that darkness and drown. The foulness below him would fill his mouth and
his nose and the fear of that was stronger than the fear of the wrongness
behind him.
It was his decision that
tipped the distressing dream into a nightmare. He lifted himself, tried,
to, away from the muck, from the foulness below him, not wanting the violation
of that in his body.
The violation came anyway.
Pressure between his legs, against his buttocks and he'd have sunk back
into the slime save he was held fast. There was a sharp, startling pain
in his ass, and the slick feel of flesh pressing into his own. He tried
twisting away but an arm encircled his throat, cutting off air and voice.
Teeth bit harshly at his shoulder and he gasped, sucking the foul-tasting
slime into his mouth. He struggled to lift his head, found air. "No..please…don't
do this… "
"A little late to not want
this now, Sammy." The voice was terrifyingly familiar, laughing at
him, mocking him and then shoving him back down, into the muck, pressing
his face into it as his body was ruthlessly and viciously assaulted. He
didn't dare breathe, couldn't find purchase or leverage. Even inside the
shock of panic and fear and pain, his lungs straining and his heart pounding,
his own dick grew hard, the ache in his groin increased, pressure building
in his balls.
"I knew you wanted this."
Dean's voice again, chill and hard and satisfied.
When he hit the point where
he was going to pass out or explode or both, he was released.
Sam came up swinging. His
fist connected solidly with his tormentor's face, the solid feel of bone
against flesh. He sucked in the air his body and mind demanded, and lashed
out again.
"Jesus, Sam!" That solid
connection of bone against bone worked both ways and Sam's head snapped
back and he stumbled, the back of his legs hitting the bed and he tripped,
twisting to catch himself. Dean was on him in a flash, hard thighs
trapping Sam's hips, both arms used to trap his head and shoulders, pressing
him down to the bed.
The bed registered even as
Sam reached up to buck Dean off. Bed, not muck, not foul, mud-slimed water.
Dean's thighs were encased in cotton as were his own.
Sam got a hand under him,
ready to heave backward, and saw a spatter of blood hit the sheets. Bright
and red, it soaked in immediately as did the next drop. Panic rather than
anger took him and gave him the strength to push up and back, and the pressure
on his throat eased before Dean could snap his neck, Sam rolling them over
so he could stare upward.
The ceiling was bare. White.
There was no one pinned to it. There was no fire. No blood dripping down.
"Sam, Sam…come on, snap out
of it," Dean's voice was as close to begging as Sam had ever heard. His
brother's legs were wrapped around his own, his arms still keeping Sam
from striking out fully. He had the reach on Dean. When they wrestled,
Dean always tried to minimize those extra couple of inches Sam had on him.
It was relief as much as
realization that made Sam go limp. To stop fighting.
He could still feel it. Deep
in his body, the pressure and pain of being forced to something he didn't
want. The room smelled of sweat and semen and blood.
"Sam?" Dean's grip eased,
his voice steadied.
"I'm awake," Sam said, not
recognizing the tight hoarseness of his own voice. Dean's grip eased, became
less restraining but still cautious. "I'm awake, Dean."
Beneath him, Dean went limp
with a wet, sniffling sigh. His hands rested on Sam's arms for another
second and Dean squeezed his shoulders before pulling them back. "You think
you could get me a towel?" he asked in a thick, nasally voice.
Sam pulled himself upright
and turned. Dean lay back on the bed, blood on his face, fingers pressed
to his still bleeding nose. He gave Sam a look that was half relieved,
half annoyed.
Sam got up and turned on
the light. Dean blinked and then closed his eyes, trying to staunch the
blood flow by pinching his nostrils shut.
Moving stiffly, pain in places
he didn't even want to think about, Sam headed for the bathroom. He wet
a towel and found a second dry one. A glimpse in the mirror revealed no
mud or oil on his face although he was going to have a great bruise on
his left cheekbone.
The front of his sweat pants
were damp and fulsome. He wanted to gag, almost did, but he pulled it together
and took the towels back out.
Dean was still lying on his
bed, head back and eyes closed. Carefully, Sam sat beside him, offering
the towels in mute apology.
"Thanks," Dean said and wiped
at his face with the wet cloth, then held it against his nose.
"Did I break it?"
Dean tested it and winced.
"I don’t think so." He eyed Sam. "Well, that was different. Not fun, but
different."
"I'm sorry. Dean--"
"It was nightmare. I know,"
Dean said and closed his eyes briefly. "Do you remember it? Any of it?"
Sam swallowed and shook his
head. "No. No… You want the shower?"
Dean gave him a hard look
and shook his head slightly. "Go ahead. I'll wait for this to stop."
Sam tried to move carefully,
rather than run to the bathroom. Run from the room, from this town. From
his brother.
"Sam? You sure you don't
remember anything? You were…you kept saying," Dean hesitated. "You were
begging me to--"
"I don't remember anything,"
Sam said firmly. This lie was easier to tell than most.
Dean nodded and put his head
back again.
Sam closed the bathroom door
and leaned over the sink, wanting to throw up but fighting the urge. Willing
his body -- this time -- to obey him. Covering his mouth, he started the
water, gave it second, then flushed the toilet.
To the sound of rushing water
he lost the fight again.
three
Different didn't begin to
describe it.
Dean heard the water, heard
the flush, and almost got up when he heard the barely masked barfing. It
didn't last long. Sam was done before Dean got to his feet. It wasn't difficult
to tell when Sam stepped into the shower -- the pattern of the falling
water changed.
Dean used the dry towel to
wipe at his face again. Folded over the wet one and used the small mirror
over the dresser to wipe at the blood, eradicating the traces of it that
spread from cheek to chin and onto his chest. His nose felt swollen and
hurt like a motherfucker but he didn't actually think it was broken and
other than some redness it didn't seem to be swelling either. Yet. It trickled
blood again and he pressed the dry towel to it and tilted his head back.
Sam waking up terrified wasn't
new. Sam waking up and shoving at Dean, or warding off something from his
sleep wasn't new either.
Sam coming up like he was
fighting for his life was new. He hadn't been screaming or crying
out. It had started like the other dreams and Dean had felt that same ripple
of embarrassment when Sam's murmurs had turned to moans, then to whimpers,
when his body moved against an unseen lover.
It had been his own name
on his brother's lips that had brought Dean out of his bed to crouch next
to Sam's. If Sam had called out to him that would be one thing…but for
Sam to be begging him for something, begging him like it was killing him,
had alarmed Dean even more than Sam choking. The last time he'd heard Sam's
voice that broken and hollow had been just after he'd pulled him from the
burning ruin of his apartment, away from Jessica. It had taken every ounce
of strength Dean had to keep Sam from going back inside and Sam had begged
him then, to let him go, to stop. The "No, don't--" still left him
feeling useless.
It might have made some sense
had Sam been crying or fighting to get back somewhere. But no matter how
weird and twisted dreams could get, Dean had a hard time believing his
brother had come in his pants while watching his girlfriend burn to death.
Even in his dreams.
At least he hadn't thought
it possible. But Sam was lying to him. Maybe he hadn't been before but
he was now. And maybe it had been just that sick and twisted -- so much
so, Sam couldn't talk about it. It made Dean a little queasy thinking about
it.
It still didn't fit though,
not entirely. Because Sam had been fighting. Not just struggling; fighting
Dean like he fought any number of terrifyingly evil things -- like Dean
was the enemy. Like Dean was the cause of his pain and horror. Like Sam
knew what and who he was trying to beat the shit out of.
Dean sat down on the end
of his own bed and put his head in his hands. Maybe he was. Maybe Sam resented
or hated Dean for pulling him away from Jessica that weekend more than
Dean realized. Maybe even more than Sam realized. That made more sense.
The juxtaposition of Sam's wet dreams involving his girlfriend, mixed in
with a solid dose of Dean dragging him away him from her while she died.
If that were true, his brother
was seriously, seriously fucked up.
The water shut off and Dean
lifted his head, watched Sam come out with a towel around his hips, his
hair still wet, and his clothes wrapped up tightly in a bundle. He met
Dean's gaze steadily, never flinching, like he was making sure this was
real. There was a splash of red across one cheekbone that would go dark
later when the bruise set.
"You okay?" Dean asked him
and Sam's jaw twitched but he nodded and shoved his clothes into the bag
they used for laundry.
"Yeah. There's still hot
water," Sam said and stared at the wreck of his bed. Without another word,
he started stripping the sheets.
There were extra linens in
the bottom drawer of the dresser and Dean bent over to get them, the pressure
along his sinuses and in his face making his eyes sting and water. He came
up again, sheets in hand, but pressed a thumb and forefinger on either
side of his nose to push the pressure further back into his skull.
His vision cleared and he
came up behind Sam to offer him the sheets and stared…
Sam's shoulder was tanned,
still covered in drops of moisture. But it was marked, the darkening double
arc perfectly placed on the ball of his shoulder and just underneath, where
bone gave way to muscle.
Dean had been bitten often
enough to know teeth marks when he saw them.
"Sam…"
Sam jerked a little and turned,
but he saw the sheets and took them. He didn't flinch when Dean reached
up to his shoulder, rubbing a thumb across the wound, only Dean couldn't
feel anything except warm skin. "Where did you get that?"
"What?" Sam asked, twisting
his neck around but it was out of his range of vision.
"Come here," Dean said and
nudged him toward the bathroom, using a hand towel to wipe steam from the
mirror. "There…it's a bite."
Sam had to twist again, his
fingers tracing where Dean's had been. "I don’t feel anything," he said,
confusion straining his voice.
Dean didn't either. There
were no indentations where the pressure of teeth had compressed the skin.
The skin wasn't broken, but small crescents of blood showed just below
the surface. It didn't feel any warmer or hotter than the rest of Sam's
skin. But even as they both looked, the marks were fading, like the pressure
of fingers alone had banished them.
"Have you noticed anything
else? Scratches? Scrapes you don't remember getting?" Dean asked,
feeling like an answer had finally presented itself. He hoped so, horrible
as it was, but a succubus was something he could deal with. Dreams and
nightmares were much harder.
"No," Sam said looking confused,
still staring. The marks were almost gone. "What are you thinking--"
Dean didn't wait for the
question, only went to his bag and pulled out his father's journal, flipping
through it. There wasn't much and Dean had to flip through several sections
to find the references. He really needed to index this thing a little better.
Sam came up behind him, peering
over his shoulder. "A succubus?" he said, not believing.
"Fits," Dean said, offering
the journal turning to face Sam while his brother read over their father's
notes. Like vampires of the soul, succubi would tease men's bodies and
leave them weak and tired, steal their seed to give birth to little half-human
demons of their own. But they were rare.
Sam read and flipped the
pages, mouth setting into a hard line. "It's not," he said finally, closing
the book and handing it back.
"What do you mean it's not?"
Dean asked more harshly than he intended. Harshly because Sam sounded so
sure. "Sam, you've been having wet dreams for weeks. You've been putting
more mileage on your dick in your sleep than I could manage wide awake
and in a room full of sexed up beauty queens."
Color stained Sam's cheeks,
obliterating the mark where Dean had hit him.
"It's not…" Sam started again
and stopped, his jaw working, he turned away, found a clean pair of jeans
and underwear in the drawer and put them on.
Dean wanted to hit him again.
"How can you be so sure? You're asleep! You don't even remember," he reminded
Sam viciously, because this scared him in ways he didn't know he could
be scared. In all his father's notes, there was no sure way to get rid
of one. Holy water, salt: they had that here now, spread around the
room at the doors and windows. It hadn't kept this thing out and if Sam's
recent encounters were anything to go by, it might even be pissing the
haggish bitch off.
Sam glared at him and Dean
held his ground.
"You don't get to tell me
these are just nightmares, or just wet dreams, Sam. Not anymore," Dean
said and tossed the bloody towel at him.
Sam caught it, stared at
the cloth with its pink and brown stains. He folded the towel up and stuck
it in the laundry bag. He pulled on a dark blue t-shirt and grabbed up
a flannel one to wear over it before picking up the laundry. The laundry
room was in the basement but Sam had to go outside to get to it. Outside
where it was probably 40 degrees and his hair was still soaking wet.
Dean clenched his jaw, glanced
at the clock. "It's seven o'clock in the fucking morning, Sam."
"Not like I'm going back
to sleep."
"Just tell me why you're
so sure. Why you won't even consider this?"
Sam rubbed at his eyes and
couldn't look at Dean. "Succubus are female demons, female spirits, right?"
He said it reasonably, calmly. "Succubus are female demons who attack men.
Incubus are male demons that rape women. This… nightmare…isn't female,
Dean. If it's looking to get pregnant from me, it's going about it the
wrong way. It's a nightmare. That's all."
It took a second for that
to sink in, for Dean to let the thought really penetrate his brain, to
watch as Sam twitched and looked anywhere but at Dean.
The rest of it settled in
more slowly and despite knowing he hadn't done anything to Sam other than
try not to get his nose broken, suddenly he couldn't look at Sam. The bite
mark on the back of his shoulder was gone, along with Sam's nightmare,
along with Sam's begging, his protests, his struggles…"No, don't…"
"I'm going to do the laundry,"
Sam said and left. Dean didn't stop him.
four
The cold shocked him. For
a minute he stood on the landing outside the door and just let it sink
in. It did a lot to clear his head, took the heat out of his face; let
him blame the shaking in his limbs on the chill in the air.
He headed downstairs. He
could have gone through the house. Chances were their landlords were up
already, but Sam wasn't sure he could face even the most casual of small
talk.
He should have agreed with
Dean. He should have just said, "Maybe…maybe it is…" a succubus. He could
have left it at that and said nothing else. Dean would have gone on a hunt
to find a way to get rid of it and Sam could pretend that was the answer.
He didn't know why he was
so sure it wasn't. To all appearances, yes, everything he'd been experiencing
would more or less fit the legends and myths surrounding succubi and incubi.
Sexual torment, arousal, obscured and vague dreams. Except from everything
Sam did know, succubi weren't normally given to gender confusion, when
they had genders at all. And their trademark was seduction, not the violence
he'd felt -- could still feel.
The outside door to the basement
was unlocked and he shivered again when he opened it. It was noticeably
warmer, here; the basement finished, if utilitarian. Steps on the far side
let up to the Owens's kitchen. Leda kept a second large freezer down here,
Jeremy kept his tools. The washer and dryer were next to the water heater
and a utility sink.
Sam had come to appreciate
the convenience of having a washer and dryer that was pretty much available
all the time and didn't require every spare bit of change he could find.
On automatic he emptied the
bag into the washer and dumped in detergent. Somewhere, some time, someone
had told him that it was better to wash out blood in cold water.
He set the controls to hot
and eyed the bleach, then managed to get a grip. It wasn't like he and
Dean had an endless wardrobe or money to replace what they did have, and
Leda Owen probably wouldn't appreciate him ruining her sheets.
He knew he should head back
upstairs, talk to Dean. Telling him only as much as he had, had been cruel
and callous. But he couldn't deny the satisfaction he'd felt on seeing
Dean's face when he put the pieces together. Dean didn't know everything
and maybe there were some things he'd be better off not knowing.
But the satisfaction hadn't
lasted. Whatever was taunting him, tormenting him in his sleep wasn't Dean.
Dreams and nightmares had a way of twisting familiar things into unrecognizable
frameworks. The thing that had…raped…
He could barely get his thoughts
past the word, but that was what it was. It didn't matter what seriously
screwed up part of his brain was causing that particular bit of violence
to surface but Sam could still feel it: a dull ache in his lower back,
the muscles of his thighs still feeling like he'd run a marathon.
The thing that had attacked
him in his dreams had been no more Dean than the ocean he'd waded into
had been the Pacific. He knew it. Why his own mind would summon such a
visceral betrayal he didn't know, but he really, really wished it would
stop, that he could work it out -- be it guilt or anger. At this point
he'd settle for repressed and latent homosexual desires just to give a
form to this particular madness.
No, this thing was inside
him, somehow. Psychology was a required course for an undergrad degree
but Sam didn't actually need the class or the degree to know that dreams
were most usually remnants of deeply repressed emotions. He could tick
them off on his hand, where the guilt and betrayal were coming from. And
while he was pretty sure Dean would tell him that getting laid would do
him a world of good, Sam wasn't sure he could buy into frustrated sexual
desire showing up quite like this.
He leaned down on the washer
and forced his fingers through his hair, separating the tangled, wet strands.
Maybe he should give Dean's
theory another chance. He still felt like it wasn't the cause, but that
didn't mean there weren't other nasty things out there with similar proclivities.
And it had been going on for weeks, long before they got to Milwaukee,
although the dreams, the impressions he could recall, had gotten increasingly
violent in the past week or so.
He was lucky he hadn't
broken Dean's nose.
The door to the basement
opened and Sam glanced up, not surprised to see Dean standing there. He'd
changed but he looked as uneasy as Sam felt. "I still don't think it's
a succubus," Sam said. "But maybe something like one." It didn't matter
that Sam still thought this was in his head. If Dean had something to chew
on, maybe Sam could figure out his own twisted psyche on his own.
Dean was still by the door,
though he'd closed it. He moved over to Jeremy's work bench, looking at
the tools but not touching them.
"Is it really me…in, uh,
your dreams?"
Sam didn't want to talk about
this. Not this. "It's still a dream, Dean. It doesn't mean anything--"
"Is it me?" Dean said, voice
low and rough. He sounded pissed off. Sam looked away.
"Yeah. It's you."
"Every time?"
Sam took a breath, and found
the back of the laundry detergent box a really interesting read. "I don't
know. This -- last night. It's the first one I've remembered the…details
of it, any of it," he said firmly but his stomach gave a sour twist. "But
they feel the same, if that makes sense. Familiar. Déjà vu…"
"And it's me…touching--"
"Dean!" Sam said turning
around. "The details don't matter."
Dean picked up a retractable
tape measure, pulling the metal tab out and pressing the button to retract
it with a snap. "The details always matter, Sam." His quick smile was forced.
"That's where the devil is." He set the tape measure down and stuck his
hands in his pockets. "I can't help if you won't talk to me. I can't read
your mind."
Be glad, be very, very glad,
Sam thought. "It's dreams, Dean. Nightmares. It makes no sense. I'm in
the ocean, then I'm not. I'm feeling…" he cleared his throat. "Warm and
safe and cared for and then…I'm not."
"Warm and safe," Dean said
and went back to the workbench, staring out through the low, ground-level
window. He spread his hands on the table, hunched his shoulders. "Warm
and safe is good."
"Yeah, it is…and that's you
too, Dean," Sam said, realizing he could tell Dean that much. "That's how
it starts…" he felt the heat rise in his cheeks. Shit. Admitting that he'd
had dreams of being a baby was almost worse than the rest. Sam moved up
behind him.
"Dean, whatever this is,
you're just the …metaphor…for whatever's bugging me."
"Maybe." Dean turned around
and put his back to the table, crossed his arms over his chest. He looked
so somber Sam felt embarrassed. Dean was seriously thrown off stride by
this. Maybe as much as Sam. "Sam, you know I'd never hurt you, right? I'd
never do anything you didn't want?"
Sam frowned. "Yeah. I know
that."
Dean nodded and relaxed,
gave Sam one of his cocky little smiles. "But, you know…if you wanted it--"
Dean's hand reached out and
caught Sam at the hips, pulled him in closer before Sam could even register
the move.
And then suddenly Dean's
leg hooked around his own and Dean shoved him. Sam went down so fast he
barely had time to catch himself and even so, he felt his wrist twinge
and pain lance up his arm before his head connected with the concrete floor.
For a second he thought he might pass out and his vision blurred. Then
Dean was on top of him, dropping his weight on Sam's hips, straddling him.
His hand hooked around Sam's neck while he was still stunned.
Dean's mouth pressed hard
to his, grinding lips and teeth together painfully. His knees pressed hard
against Sam's thighs, his weight sinking down almost brutally. "You're
my blood. There's nothing I wouldn't do for you," Dean said, a wolfish
grin on his face.
For one panicked moment Sam
thought maybe he was still caught in a nightmare, that he'd only shifted
the geography. But it wasn't -- couldn't be. Sam twisted then, shoved upward.
Dean's fist caught him full in the jaw, making him taste blood. He struck
back and was blocked. Dean had the leverage and the angle and darkness
skittered around Sam's peripheral vision when he was hit again.
The weight on his pelvis
rocked back and Sam surged upward. He heard the clatter of tools, Dean
laughing at him and couldn't get his hands up fast enough to stop Dean
from pistol whipping him with a hand drill.
Dean leaned over him and
licked the blood from his cheek. "Payback's a bitch, Sammy," Dean whispered
in his ear and then Sam found hands on his throat. He caught them and pushed
back. Staring up at Dean's gloating face, he though he saw a flicker
of something in his eyes before it all exploded into white.
five
The sound of a car engine
starting pulled Dean out of his head and he glanced out the window to see
the Owens's late model Ford backing down the drive. There was actually
a good amount of traffic on the street for a non-workday. His eyes narrowed
and then he realized it was Sunday. Catholics. Church. Early Mass. Sermons.
Breakfast bar at Shoney's. God, someone save him from suburbia.
Churches weirded him out.
They had their uses, especially the older ones, the ones built on sanctified
ground when that actually meant something. Somewhere in the back of his
car he had a pouch of sanctified dirt from the grounds of a church in Tulsa
that was now a parking lot. For someone who didn't put a lot of personal
reliance in any higher deity, Dean could definitely appreciate the power
of faith when it worked to his advantage.
Maybe he should try a good-old
fashioned exorcism on Sam and see if that worked. It probably wouldn't
hurt.
Avoidance, thy name is Dean
Winchester, he thought silently. Sam's little bombshell had sent his mind
into a tailspin that he couldn't quite regain control over.
No wonder Sam was so freaked
out. Dean wasn't even the one having the nightmares and he was freaking
out. That Sam had been dreaming about him doing things that made
Sam beg and be so damned scared--
No. not dreams. Nightmares.
Really horrific nightmares that gave Dean a chill, a visceral twist of
revulsion in parts of himself that he thought completely buffered and barricaded
by his own sense of identity. And nothing in Sam's behavior had indicated
that he was anything except as firmly heterosexual as Dean was.
He swallowed, edging around
the thought that wouldn't leave him alone. Except, except…this wasn't about
whether Sam might like men the way he liked women. Not Dean's thing, but
in their very weird world, that would be about the least weird thing Dean
could think of.
But what Sam had said…what
he hadn't said, the fact that he came up fighting as he had, this wasn't
just subconscious sexual desires gone horribly, badly wrong. Something
was assaulting Sam in his sleep. Something with Dean's face.
He stared at his father's
journal, picked it up and flipped to the marked places. The information
was slim, not something his father had encountered, only heard about. Not
something Dean had encountered as far as he knew, although he'd met a few
women he maybe should have wondered about. Succubi were lesser demons,
death and destruction wasn't usually their forte. The only tried and true
cure was prayer and abstinence.
Well, Sam had the abstinence
part down really well. And if prayer were a cure, Dean would happily say
a week's worth of Novenas and Hail Marys to be rid of it.
And if Sam were right? If
this really was just nightmares, just his own subconscious working
shit out? Dean didn't shy from the thought that their upbringing had been
truly bizarre, that there were layers upon layers of fucked up shit for
both of them to deal with. Mommy issues. Daddy issues. Brother issues.
They had issues enough between them to start a whole separate field of
psychiatric study.
If it were -- it couldn't
be. Dean kept stalling the thought. Because if it were… If it were just
Sam trying to deal in truly strange ways with all that had happened to
him, there was nothing Dean could do except be there. Only he wasn't
sure how long he could stand to watch his brother tear himself up in guilt
or despair or vengeance or whatever the hell else Sam was ripping himself
apart with. It had been hard enough watching their father do it. But then,
he could only barely remember when John Winchester wasn't that tortured.
Sam though. Sam, even in the midst of their nomadic life, growing up facing
things most people paid nine bucks to see in a movie theatre, Sam had still…he'd
been a kid. He'd laughed, he'd played. He'd struggled with English. He'd
hated girls until he was ten and then tried to kiss one when he turned
eleven. He'd carried a floppy-eared carnival prize dog around with him
as easily as he learned to carry a handgun. He'd been perfectly happy to
eat the weirdest shit imaginable just so Dean would make faces at him.
No, it hadn't been a normal
life. But both of them had finished high school and Sam at least, had done
so with good enough grades to get a scholarship to Stanford. It was a hardship
grant, yeah, but Sam still had the grades. As shocked as Dean had been
at Sam's announcement, as angry, a betrayed -- once it had all settled,
he couldn't help but be proud of his brother and yes, envious. It took
a hefty set of balls to do what Sam had done and then, despite the odds,
make good on it.
A lawyer. His brother, a
lawyer. He still couldn't get his brain around it. Not because it was Sam
but because Sam would be good at it. Of course, he'd probably be the poorest
lawyer ever. Sam was a soft touch. Heart on his sleeve.
Except not always, because
Sam could throw up walls between them faster than Dean could pull them
down.
So, maybe it was time he
spent a little time of his own in the U of W library. And maybe amid the
research books on the paranormal and newspaper clippings, he might sneak
in a few books on dream interpretation and psychology.
It was as close to a plan
as he was going to get. It would work for now.
He rubbed at his face and
winced at the pain in his still tender nose. A shower first and then maybe
he'd head downstairs and snag some ice. His nose wasn't swelling but it
would probably bruise. He made a face and grabbed towels. Chicks might
dig scars but bruised, swollen noses? Not so much.
His shower was unfairly short
and he swore when the water started running cool before he'd finished washing
his hair. Sam and the laundry. Great. This day was starting off great.
He was chilled when he finished,
checked his face again, and went for a cold washcloth instead of raiding
the Owens's kitchen. What he needed to do was grab Sam and get them both
out of the house. Neutral territory and coffee. Coffee would be good. Sam
had to be at work this afternoon but Dean was off, which meant he could
spend the afternoon at the library.
He was carefully pulling
a shirt on over his head -- 'ware the nose -- when Sam came back. Play
it normal, play it cool. "I thought we'd go grab some breakfast," he said.
"The Owens left for church, I think."
"I saw them," Sam said. He
was still out of sorts, staring around the room, his hands stuck into his
back pockets hard enough to pull his jeans down so his underwear showed.
Too narrow in the waist and once Sam had started his growth spurt, Dean
could remember long hours in Goodwill and other thrift shops, trying to
find clothes to fit him. Sam picked up the journal and flipped through
it while Dean pulled on his shoes.
When he finished, he worked
the sheath of his knife onto his belt. "So, you up for some grub?"
Sam glanced at him, eyes
unreadable, his face curiously blank. Still freaked out then. "Sam…Look
this is all very weird, I know. But weird… we know weird. We can handle
this."
Sam's expression hardened.
"We? We? When has it ever been, 'we', Dean and not just you?"
He hadn't expected that.
"Whoa…whoa!" Dean said getting up, hands spread wide. "Nightmare…succubi…it's
not me, Sam. You said it."
"I know what I said. But
it is you, pushing me to do what you want. Go where you go…be what you
are," Sam said, the last spat out.
Dean stared at him, feeling
his own anger rise up and shoving it down hard. Apparently, Sam's time
in the basement had been just long enough for him to shift from being scared
out of his mind to being pissed off. Great. Just great. Okay, but
Sam was…not himself. He was still totally freaked out and Sam tended to
lash out when he was scared. Dean knew this.
Only he didn't know what
to say. It wasn't all totally untrue, it just sounded a whole lot worse
laid out like that. "You see me holding you here?" he said evenly. "The
door's there, Sam. Pick a destination and I'll drop you at the bus stop.
You can walk out anytime."
"That worked so well the
last time," Sam said.
Okay, both of them in a pissing
contest was just going to get nasty. "What do you want me to say, Sam?
Is this about last night, or last week. Jess, your entire life? Give me
a place to start. You chose to get back on this ride."
"Because you asked me to,"
Sam hissed out, getting right in front of Dean, towering over him. Dean
didn't back off and only barely lifted his chin. Sam might be taller but
Dean could still kick his ass six ways to Sundays. "To find Dad. Well guess
what? We haven't found him. I'm not even sure you're looking that hard."
That one cut close to the
bone. "Bullshit."
Sam stared at him then backed
up a little. "I don't think you want to find him. I think you've got what
you want," he said.
"Oh, really?" Dean put as
much scorn into his tone as he could. "And that would be what, Sam, to
listen to you bitch 24/7?" Dean snapped back and all the while the more
rational part of his brain was telling him to back off and take a deep
breath. Sam could piss him off faster than anyone else on the planet. It
had always been true.
"No…no. But you got me, and
that's what you really wanted. Me, right back beside you, following your
lead, playing sidekick to Big Bad Dean Winchester, King of the Demon Hunters.
It was a good gig when I was twelve, " Sam said with enough venom
that Dean was pretty sure that whatever had tripped Sam's usually tight-lipped
mouth open was more truth than not. Sam glared at him and then turned away,
stripping off his flannel shirt and his shoes.
Obviously breakfast together
was off the table.
"You, know…whatever,"
Dean said. "Some bug has crawled up your ass, Sam, but I didn't put it
there," Dean said an almost winced at his own choice of words given what
Sam had been going through. He took a deep breath, pressed his hand to
his face and flinched at the pain there. He couldn't think straight, and
really, this whole thing was spiraling out of control. He stared at Sam's
back, at the set of his shoulders. His little brother wasn't so little
anymore and hadn't been for awhile. Maybe Dean needed to remember that,
but man, it was hard when Sam was acting like a petulant little girl.
"Sam, man…I'd like nothing
better than to help you deal with this, but I can't fight it and you. If
-- you want to handle it on your own or at least give it a shot, I'll step
back, but you can't keep going like this, bro." And I can't either,
but this was about Sam. "Just know, I'll do anything I can to help -- you
just let me know when, okay?" Sam said nothing and Dean bit his lip. He'd
put the offer on the table. He couldn't make Sam take it. He found his
coat. "Look, I'm going to grab coffee and breakfast. I'll bring you something
back…"
Sam still didn't speak, didn't
turn, until Dean picked up his keys and reached for the door.
"Dean..."
"Yeah, Sam…"
"You mean it? You'll do anything?
Even if I asked you to… to go on. To leave me here?"
"Sam…" Oh, shit. He couldn't
believe he was hearing this. He didn't want to hear it. "If…if that's what
you want…" he couldn't look at his brother. He'd offered and Sam had asked.
Four years felt like four minutes; Sam asking Dean to let him go again.
"Is that what you want?"
"I'm asking if you would.
If you could."
"Yes," Dean said, finally
meeting Sam's gaze, to see the intense look there, the hooded expression.
Sam didn't look any happier about the asking than Dean did the answering.
"If that's what you want. Not forever…" he said because he couldn't.
"But leave you here when I'm doing…whatever." He wanted Sam in his life.
He knew it. Wanted it more than anything but he couldn't say it. He wouldn't
ask again.
"Would you stay here? Give
it up, the hunting?" Sam asked him taking a couple of steps closer.
He was serious. Dean could
see it in his face. Door number one, door number two, or the envelope Carol
Merrill is holding. It was unfair. "Is this some kind of test, Sam, because
I gotta tell you, I didn't study for it," Dean said, making a conscious
effort to moderate his tone. Blowing Sam off or screaming at him wasn't
what would work and he utterly sucked at these little heart to hearts.
"Stay and do what? Leave dad out there, doing whatever, in whatever kind
of trouble he may be in? Leave the rest of the world to the mercy of the
shit we hunt? Work in a fucking garden center for the rest of my life?"
The muscle in Sam's jaw jumped
and he looked away. Dean rubbed the back of his neck and then lifted his
head. "Sam…I don't know what I'd do…if it really came to a choice. And
you can't make them for me, just like I couldn't make it for you. We do
what we do and deal with what comes after, after. I don't know any other
way to be about any of it. But whatever it is, we're still
family. We always have been, we always will be…Nothing. Nothing changes
that. Ever."
Sam looked at him sharply
and then smiled. Just a little one, it was almost goofy, like he was trying
to be sly. Sam never could pull that look off. Some of the tension in Dean's
stomach eased up. "So, what do you want to do? You want time? You want
breakfast…"
"I want…"
Sam pushed Dean back up against
the door, following the shove with his body. His head jerked down and Dean
grabbed at his shirt as Sam's mouth covered his. Sam jammed his knee up
against Dean's crotch hard enough to make Dean gasp.
Then Sam's tongue was in
his mouth, seeking out Dean's, sucking greedily on his lower lip.
It was all instinct that
made Dean shove back, bring his arms in and his weight forward, twisting
as he drove his knee into Sam's stomach. Sam went down on a grunt of pain
clutching his middle.
"What the fuck was that?"
Dean snarled at him, body still ready, tense. "Jesus Christ, Sam!"
"Blasphemy on a Sunday? You
really do belong in Hell," Sam said and looked up, and there was sly cast
to his features. Blood stained his lips and he wiped at it, smearing it
on his white t-shirt.
White…white… Sam was still
staring at him a smile curving his lips.
He'd been wearing dark blue.
A dark blue Stanford t-shirt when he'd gone downstairs.
Carefully, Sam put a hand
to the floor and pushed himself upward. "Bet you're hell in a bar fight,"
Sam said and grinned showing his teeth. Across his eyes, usually green
and warm (and troubled)…a glow flickered, draining the color,
turning Sam into something not quite human…
Dean didn't think about it
or process it, he just moved. He shifted his weight again and rushed forward
with a bellow of rage, catching the thing in his brother's body mid-chest,
and driving it backward, across the floor to slam him …it…down on Sam's
bed. No. No…it was dead…he'd killed the damned thing himself…they'd
buried it with his name.
It didn't resist at all,
didn't fight Dean when he leaned down, pressing his weight against its
body and pulled his knife. He pressed his forearm across its throat and
let it see the blade. "You see this, you shape-shifting son of a bitch?"
he snarled at the thing with Sam's face. "It's not a silver bullet, but
it is blessed. I think it will do the trick."
"Probably," the thing said
hoarsely, taking in air in a raspy gasp. Dean wasn't inclined to help it
get more air. "But if you kill me…you'll never find him. Never. Alive or
dead."
Dean stared at it, at the
total lack of fear in its face, in its eyes. The smug look alone made him
want to cut its throat. "Where is he?" he demanded, and eased up on the
thing's throat fractionally so it could talk. And God it was killing
him to be doing this to Sam, only it wasn't…it wasn't his brother.
That became his mantra. "Where the hell is he?"
"Safe. As safe as he can
be with you," it said and grinned. "Come on, Dean…show some of that
fuck-the-world backbone. Go ahead and kill me, like you did my sister…"
it hissed and the expression went cold, but it was still smiling.
Sister? Sister to the thing
that had…but it had been male…
…and I thought my family
was screwed up…
Had he heard that? Remembered
it? Sam had told him…when the thing was taunting him, tormenting Sam, while
Dean was struggling to regain consciousness. "Your sister."
"Sister, brother…" The thing
flexed its body -- Sam's body -- sinuously. Not even trying to escape,
more like getting comfortable with Dean's weight pressing it down. "We're
not all that picky…although, I can see the appeal, here," it said and ground
its pelvis against Dean's.
It was all Dean could do
not to fling himself off the thing. Pressed to his thigh, he could feel
its dick -- Sam's -- hard as a rock. He gritted his teeth and pressed the
edge of the blade to its throat. "Where is he?"
"I told you. With you…although,
not really. Just like he's not really here with you, except he is," it
said, amused by its own riddles. "Interesting man, your brother. Open-minded.
Emotional. Feels a little too deeply. Takes things a little too personally."
It dipped its chin and rubbed its jaw along the blade edge until a line
of blood appeared. "You, you're a little more distant, a lot more closed
minded. We could knock, knock, knock all day on your mind and you'd never
hear us. Never know we were there, rooting around in your brain, your memories.
Sam though…Sam's got the gift. We can whisper things in his ear and he
can hear us. We can open the door in his mind and just make ourselves comfortable.
He's susceptible that way…"
It didn't register, not entirely,
what it meant, what it was saying...Sam susceptible to what? And, God,
please let this thing be lying, that Sam was still downstairs, ruining
the laundry. Only Dean couldn't quite make himself believe it. "What do
you want?" Dean asked, pulling the blade back. Sam or not Sam, the sight
of blood running down his brother's throat was disturbing, almost as disturbing
as the evidence that this thing was getting off on the whole situation.
He could only barely stand to look at it, at the sloe-eyed glances it gave
him, the wanton way it rubbed against him without trying to escape.
"Right now, I'd like to get
up," it said. "Not that this isn't fun…" it added and thrust up against
him.
"Cut it out," Dean snarled
and drove his hand between them to grip the thing's nuts. It hissed and
grunted, arched back and tears, real tears, leaked from the suddenly blue-green
eyes again.
"What I feel, he feels,"
it said tightly, glaring up at him. "And what you do, my sister knows…You
hurt me, she hurts him -- all the while wearing your face."
Shit…another sister? We.
More than one…Oh, Christ. And the others had Sam.
A family. A nest of them.
And they had Sam. "So, you've got what? A psychic chat line going
on with your whole family?" he asked but eased his grip.
"Something like that. Get
off me…before I have her do something your brother really won't like."
Dean didn't know if he could
believe it or not. But Sam had said it, that the thing in St.Louis had
downloaded Dean's memories somehow, knew some or all of what Dean knew,
made some kind of psychic connection with Dean's mind, only he hadn't know
it or felt it. And the thing had twisted what it knew, turned it viciously
around on Sam. On Becca. But this thing made it sound like Sam, at least,
caught the backlash, that the connection could be two-way if a mind was…
was open enough.
"Don’t worry, Dean. I'm not
planning on escaping. That's never been the plan," it said and carefully
Dean eased back, he didn't put the knife away though.
"So, what do you want?"
"Easy," it said sitting up,
stretching limbs, in a way that only Sam could. Raking fingers through
Sam's hair. It got to its feet slowly, spreading its hands like it was
the most harmless thing in the world. "And eye for and eye, a tooth for
a tooth, a brother for a brother."
"That's not going to happen."
"Hate to bust the news to
you, genius. It already has," it said, all traces of mocking humor gone,
but in a perfect imitation of Sam's most dismissive tone of voice. Right
this second, it looked about as pissed off as Dean felt. "He's gone. Want
to go downstairs and check? I'll wait," it taunted. "I'd say you'd find
what's left of your face down there…but…" it shrugged. "Skins don't last
long. They tend to rot fast when we shed them. But, please, check. Really.
I wouldn't want you to make a choice without all the facts."
Dean hesitated. Sam could
be there -- there was nothing this thing said that he could trust. "If
that's what you wanted, why come to me…you could have just…" He couldn’t
say it.
"Killed him? Thought about
it…really. Following you. We had plenty of opportunities; that hotel in
Des Moines. The truckstop in Rockford. Taken him or you out, any time.
But no, because that's too easy," it said, using Sam's face to sneer at
him, then mock him. "That would be too easy on you. Momma
dies, you move on. Father disappears, you keep going. Jessica dies…you
don’t even pause and you haul me with you. Their deaths don't touch
you, don't matter…but Sam…Sam matters. Sam matters to you as much
as anything can."
Biting back the denial, Dean
shook his head. "I can't believe anything you say and you don't know anything.
Nothing about us."
It looked at him and gave
him a wry smile, Sam at his most thoughtful. "When you were twelve, your
father was tracking a firestarter in Wyoming. The fires scared you. So
much so that you wet your pants. You told Sam you'd kill him if he told
your father or anyone." It leaned in a little and Dean tensed. "He believed
you, Dean. He was scared to death of you. He still is."
"Liar," Dean said firmly
but the pants-wetting thing was true and after that one time, neither of
them had ever spoken of it.
"When you killed my brother,
we all felt him die. All of us…" it said, and its eyes flickered
again, cold and alien. Dean did not like the way it said "us". "When Sam
dies, you think you're going to know the exact moment? Are you going to
know his life is over? It already could be…"
Dean flipped the knife around,
like he would throw it. "If he is, then there's no reason to keep you around,
is there?"
It smiled again and it was
the most infuriating thing Dean could think of. It came closer, arms spread
wide, still grinning at him. "Then do it. Go ahead…but you won't know,
Dean. You won't know when it happens. But my family will know when I die.
And what do you think they'll do to him, in retribution? What he's been
dreaming…" Its tone dropped, almost whispering, like it was telling Dean
a secret. "We've only been messing with his head…with his mind. That will
feel like a sinus headache compared to what we'll do to him when he can
really bleed, when he doesn't scream just in his head. My sister is already,
very, very fond of him…she might like to keep him, play with him. And maybe
you'll find him, but we'd know you were coming. He'll die in pieces,
screaming -- and the last thing he'll see, is you."
The last thing Sam had nearly
seen before had been Dean as well, and if even part of what this thing
was saying was true… Dean had no doubts about the creature's ability to
be vicious and cruel. And they'd been stalking him and Sam for weeks…Sam's
dreams, the nightmares. Jesus. Too easy to recall the phantom
bite on the back of Sam's shoulder, like something had held him down and….
Oh, God, Sam… And this one was like its sister, brother -- just as twisted
as its sibling, who'd brutalized and murdered those women.
That was not going to happen
to Sam, not if Dean could stop it. And he would, whatever it took.
The thing was within arm's
reach and Dean lifted the blade, gripped it and offered the hilt to the
monster with Sam's face.
"Why not come after me? I'm
the one that killed your brother," he said flatly, daring it.
It took the blade and twisted
around, tossing it on the bed then looked at him, slouching back, hands
in its jeans. The blood on its throat and shirt had dried. "We did come
after you -- the only way we could. The only way that would actually make
you…pay." It smiled and spread its arms again, wide. "What better way to
get to you than through Sam? It's sweet really. How much you love him,
care about him…too bad you never bothered to tell him."
Dean ground his teeth together.
"What do you want from me?"
"Not much," it said, sauntering
forward. "We never meant to keep you apart for long…but we wanted you
on your best behavior. You've got a nasty, unpredictable streak."
Dean filed that away. Unpredictable.
Knew what he knew but not how he thought.
"Let's go then. Anywhere
you want. I'll be docile as a lamb."
It eyed him and stepped closer,
and blinked, closing its eyes for a moment. When it opened them again,
it looked amused. "Ah…well, price to pay after all. I'll take you right
to him, but first, my sister would like a favor."
"What? What does she want?"
Dean said and tensed when the thing's hands came up to cup his face. The
touch was gentle, Sam's fingers long and slender, stretching across his
jaw. He pulled his head back.
Nails dug into his skin.
"Ah, ah…" it said, shaking its head. "Christ, Dean. You'd die for him but
you won't give him a little kiss?"
He didn't want to think about
it…about the half dozen legends of things sucking souls out through breath,
that this thing could be different than the one he'd killed. That it looked
like Sam made it worse and Dean had to close his eyes, hold his body rigidly,
when the thing kissed him. Gently, easily, just a brushing of lips against
his own. It wasn't Sam, couldn't be.
Moist, open lips coaxed his
own and he could feel the heat between their bodies. His hands clenched
into fists and he steeled himself not to pull away, all the time ready
in case it tried anything else. He knew now how Sam had felt in the middle
of his nightmares; unable to move, frozen in place while this thing…these
monsters did things to him in his sleep…
It should taste foul. It
should be uncertain and hesitant because Dean couldn't for a minute picture
his brother kissing him -- or anyone -- like this. It was almost obscene
the way its tongue traced every tooth, licked across his hard palate, hummed
happily against his lips.
He wanted to gag. He almost
did, his breathing coming short and fast and shallow when the thing introduced
its tongue into his mouth, deepening the kiss, fingers threading through
his hair, one hand kneading his shoulder, like a cat. A hard, male body
(Sam's body) pressed closer, pushed him back against the door, getting
as close as it possibly could. Dean squeezed his eyes shut more tightly,
didn't engage or reciprocate but didn't deny it either. The thump of his
heart increased, pounding hard and fast, and he felt tremors start in his
legs, knew the thing could feel him shaking. How could it not? Thighs,
groin, chest, all pressed hard against Dean's own like the thing was trying
to sink into him. The thought of it made him want to pull away or lash
out.
He jerked away. Not entirely
out of its grasp, although that would be easy. Bile rose in his throat,
and heat in his face but he turned his head back, meeting the thing's eyes
steadily. "Guess I'm still a frog," he grated out.
It chuckled at him, sounding
so much like Sam Dean's chest hurt. "Guess so. But seriously Dean, I guess
at least some of that monumental ego of yours is deserved. And you weren't
even trying."
He glared at it. "Fuck you.
Where's my brother?"
It stepped back and picked
up Sam's flannel shirt and Dean found himself staring at the smear of blood
on Sam's -- its -- white shirt. The smear was vivid and right across Sam's
heart. It shrugged into the flannel and grinned. "Keys…I'll drive," it
said and Dean only hesitated for a second before handing them over.
It gestured him to the door
and Dean went. Behind him the thing laughed. It sounded exactly like Sam
at his happiest.
six
He could hear water dripping.
Small waves lapped softly against something solid; bigger ones made a slapping
sound against stone or metal, the sound hollow and deep. Beneath him, the
ground was hard and damp and cold. The harsh burning scent of oil and gasoline,
of ammonia and chlorine, of rotting fish, and garbage along with must and
mold assaulted him. Between that and the pounding in his head and the sharper
pain that arced across his face, he gagged. He choked on his own bile,
tried to roll so he could spit it out, but he couldn't move.
He choked again and swallowed,
which only made it worse, made it so he couldn't breathe.
Strong hands rolled him to
his side and gave his back a harsh thumping. It helped and he spit out
what was trapped in his throat, coughed, and nearly choked again. A firm
hand lifted his head, pressed a bottle to his lips and he drank, tasting
water only to spit it out again and cough some more. The queasiness only
abated slightly.
Someone patted his back as
if to comfort him, then moved away. He could hear his companion moving
and light flared, sharp and bright, against his closed eyes, but it wasn't
constant. The scent of smoked mixed in with the other smells. He blinked
and found himself on his side against rough stone; industrial-grade fill-rock.
It was slimed with water and time and it took him only a moment more to
recognize the smell.
The riverfront; somewhere
near the docks if the lingering odor of chemicals and fuels and brackish
water were anything to go by. Distantly he heard a boat horn echoing against
the stone and even further away, channel markers sounded hollowly. Above
him, a concrete slab cut off the light, trapped in the chill and damp.
The ground beneath sloped slightly, and he could see daylight beyond, the
gap between the ceiling and the ground narrowing the further you went in.
Below the docks, then; beneath one of the long solid platforms for barges
along the river.
"Here." His head was held
up again and the bottle offered. This time he took a sip and kept it down,
blinked, and then jerked away so violently, consciousness threatened to
quit him again.
"Get the fuck away from me,"
he snarled out, although it came out more like a whisper, his throat raw,
and -- shit…a rope around his neck. Must be a family fascination. He flexed
his hands, and found them tied behind him, his upper arms bound tightly
to his sides.
"You're only going to hurt
yourself," Dean said, but Sam didn't even need to see the flicker of gold
in its eyes to know it wasn't his brother. His brother would not be caught
dead
in a Barry Manilow t-shirt.
It crouched within his line
of vision, the bottle of water held loosely in its hands.
"Better me than you," Sam
spat out. "Get away from me. You aren't Dean."
"No. I'm not," it said and
regarded him somberly. "But it doesn't matter who I am, really."
"Only what you want? Shouldn't
you be dead?" he demanded.
The expression on Dean's
face hardened and it rose up and stepped closer to Sam.
Sam tried to roll, to deflect
the booted foot that came at him. He supposed he was lucky it caught him
in the shoulder instead of the face. He was pretty sure his cheekbone couldn't
take another solid hit.
The blow knocked him onto
his back and the rocks dug into his arms, into his wrists. His shoulder
ached and spasmed sharply like it might be broken or dislocated.
"So easy for you to say.
Shouldn't I be dead? But for your brother, Sam, you would be dead.
Ironic, isn't it? But because of your brother, my sister is
dead. Now, exactly how do you think you'd feel if things were the other
way around?"
Sam stared upward, then flinched
when Dean dropped the bottle by his head. The plastic split and shattered,
splashing water on his face. The thing just looked at him before reaching
down to pull the offensive t-shirt over its head, leaving it bare-chested;
its torso and arms a perfect replica of Dean, down to the scars and the
tan he'd picked up the last few weeks working outside. The boots came off
next, and Sam gave half a thought to using his legs to…to…do something,
anything, as the creature continued to strip in front of him. Nude, it
set its clothes aside carefully, neatly, and crouched again.
Dean's callused fingers reached
up to touch his face, tracing the gash across his cheek, feather-light.
It pushed the hair off his forehead, and all Sam could think was it was
studying him in order to become him. To go after Dean. "He'll know you're
not me."
"It took him longer than
we expected," it said, and Sam almost missed the "we" when the thing's
fingers tracked across his face and down along his jaw, before pressing
spread fingers against his chest. One knee pressed to Sam's thigh, creating
a new ache. Balancing itself carefully, it tugged at Sam's shirt, lifting
it to expose his stomach, then reached down to unfasten his belt before
pulling the zipper down on his jeans.
"We?" Sam said, anything
to distract it. He swallowed to fight his nausea. The smells, the sound
of lapping water, the oily, cold, wet pressure of the rocks beneath him;
this was too much like his nightmare -- was his nightmare, made real.
"My sister and me. She's
with Dean now…looking like you." For a second it rocked back, eyes closing,
hand coming to its forehead in a gesture so familiar Sam wanted to scream.
"She's half hoping he'll try something, because she'd love to make him
suffer in as many ways as possible."
"Why?"
"He killed our sister," it
said patiently, like Sam was an idiot child.
"Your sister was torturing
and murdering women in St. Louis. Including the girlfriend of a friend
of mine."
"I know all that…," it smiled
at him and caught his jaw again, leaning down. "I know everything your
brother does. And my sister knows everything you do. There's not a single
secret you can keep from us, ever again. I know how your mother died. Your
girlfriend; that they died the same way, gutted and pinned to a ceiling
and burned alive," it said and Sam squeezed his eyes shut. "I know your
brother thinks your nightmares are being caused by succubi, and you think
that's not quite right." Sam opened his eyes again and stared. It sat back
and tucked fingers under the waistband of his underwear. "And I know how
you could die, Sam," it murmured, caressing the skin there, gentle as a
mother's hand. "Now, I want a little something from you…"
"Fuck you."
It smiled; Dean's casual,
cocky, you-are-so-full-of-shit smile. "My sister is with your brother…and
he's in about the same position as you are, only she has his knife -- Pressed.
Right. Here," it said and used its thumb to trace a line along his carotid
artery. "Fight me, and he'll bleed to death where he is…it only takes a
thought…"
It was a trick. Sam knew
it. And at the same time, he believed it. Believed this thing could speak
to its sister without words, just as its sister had plucked thoughts from
Dean's mind without breaking a sweat. And lie or not, Dean would be looking
for him if he wasn't already a prisoner as Sam was. Staying alive was the
only weapon Sam had.
"What?"
"Nothing hard," it said,
and leaned down, just as it had in the basement, only this time it didn't
try to force his mouth open, only coaxed with its mouth and the thumb of
one hand stroking his lower lip. "Just a little brotherly kiss."
"My brother and I don't kiss,"
he hissed out.
It slapped him, hard. "Maybe
you should try it. You might get along better," it said. "Come on, Sam.
I like you. I really, really do," it said with a quick smile. "And
Dean
likes you. Maybe more than he should," it said, the last whispered. "And
that's what bothers you, isn't it? He bothers you." It sat back and looked
thoughtful, expression shifting to one of distaste. "He bothers me too.
What a total jerk," it said and Sam felt a different nausea sweep through
him. "You want me to strip off this skin and change into your girlfriend?
Into Jessica? Would that make it easier?" it asked. "You could have her
back for a little while…just as she was."
Oh, God, no… Sam tore
his gaze away from the mocking face, flexed his numbing hands and the thing
waited, waited with that irritating Dean smirk. "Just…whatever you're going
to do, just do it." He startled himself with how absolute he sounded about
it.
"Aww, Sam. It's not supposed
to hurt," it said and breathed against his mouth, warm air fanning over
his cheek. "Just pretend I'm someone else. Someone you like. Think of a
nice girl."
He wanted to scream, wanted
to bite down on the tongue that swept between his lips and over his teeth.
He did neither, not even when the fingers stroking over his belly pressed
further down, across his groin, touched him like it knew what he liked
and how he liked it…
It did know. The firm stroke
didn't get much of a reaction, but Sam could feel it, his dick not really
caring that he was both repulsed and furious. He could feel it smiling
against his mouth, pleased with his reaction. "Nice to know I've still
got the magic," it said.
It shifted its position and
Sam could feel the hard length of Dean's dick against his thigh. The fingers
curled around his jeans and tugged.
It was too much, more than
enough, and he tensed, jerking his legs up. His knees caught the thing
across the ass and sent it sprawling across him and against the rocks.
Feet on the ground, he heaved upward and rolled.
There was no give in the
ropes and Sam choked as the thing shoved him on his stomach and grabbed
the bindings, the rope at his neck pulling tight. It dragged him forward,
further back under the docks, where light flickered. The rocks tore at
his stomach and chest and he scrabbled to get his feet under him, his knees,
anything to take the pressure off his throat. A tumble of boxes with
supplies and clothing blocked the low fire, casting odd shadows. It was
all Sam could take in before the edges of his vision started to darken.
He was dropped suddenly and
he hacked and coughed and tried to drag air into his lungs through his
bruised throat.
"Now see what you did?" it
said above him and Sam let his eyes track upward, still gasping for breath.
The thing was examining its forearm; the skin abraded from the rocks when
it had fallen. The wounds bled, but it was a sickly yellow ichor, like
pus, oozing from a particularly deep gash that held Sam's fascination --
horrifying as it was. The skin was splitting, peeling back like an overripe
fruit that had split.
"And this was a fresh skin,"
it said idly, annoyed. It dug fingers into the cut, pulling the skin back.
Below it, not bone, but grayish yellow flesh, spattered with red blood
and more yellow, slid underneath the top layer of skin.
Sam was going to be sick.
He tried not to look, closing his eyes and tucking his chin and still he
thought he might go crazy at the sound of it; the sound of wet flesh being
peeled back, the sodden plop of it when the thing discarded pieces of itself
on the rocks. Bones cracked, and he winced in involuntary sympathy when
it hissed and snarled and moaned. Something harder than flesh pinged off
the stone and bounced off Sam's face and he opened his eyes. A couple of
teeth lay on the stone, fully realized to the root, but even as he stared
at them, the hard shapes began to collapse, the enamel melting off like
ice and the bone beneath fracturing, like it was aging incredibly quickly.
Another slough of skin dropped
beside him and Sam gagged and shut his eyes tightly, not able to deny the
features in the hollow, eyeless face, even distorted as it was, he knew
the shape of the nose, the curve of the lips: Dean's face cast aside
like a discarded carnival mask. Something else brushed his thigh and he
jerked again, rolling back to get away from it. The thing hissed out something
that sounded like relief and Sam dared another glance and wished he hadn't.
Used and dying skin still
hung off it in strips, the yellowish gore glistening on the grayish skin
like sweat. Human shaped but only barely, with arms and legs that seemed
overlarge, the fingers long and with too many joints, too many knuckles.
The thing twisted and looked
at him and Sam scrabbled back as much as he was able, until the rocks cut
harshly into his skin. The feet were long and flat, only a hint of toes
at all. The knees were doubly articulated, so that it stood oddly, weight
shifting constantly. Vestigial genitals were exposed above legs that were
swollen at the joints. It had breasts but no nipples and the rib cage was
distended and moving oddly under its pale, grayish skin.
The distance in diameter
between head and neck was almost non-existent, just a faint narrowing between
the rounded shoulders and the truncated jaw. There was only a slash of
a mouth, no lips and no teeth, and the nostrils flared wide and high, with
only the vaguest rise to even mark where the nose should be. Small, oval
eyes blinked at him with no lashes, the gold color predominant, flickering
to near total black. Wisps of hair clung to its skull like a cancer patient's,
and its skin looked as if it had never seen the sun. It had no trace of
pigment at all so that veins and tendons pulsed and moved like shadows
under its skin.
He didn't want to look but
he could only stare. There was no trace of any distinguishing feature at
all, in its face -- the only intelligence showed in the narrowed eyes.
The urge to look away was like a compulsion but the idea that it might
do something, reach for him and him not know it was more frightening. This
was the kind of thing people feared in the dark, in damp places. It was
just human enough to be familiar, but inhuman enough to be terrifying just
to look at.
It stared at him, lipless
mouth gaped slightly open. An equally pallid tongue darted out quickly
to tease at a bit of hanging skin at the corner of its mouth before it
lifted a misshapen hand to pull it away
"Our mother called us grubs,"
it said, with a voice that sounded normal, even pleasant, and really strange
coming from such a repulsive creature. It walked with a shuffling uneven
gait, but weirdly graceful when it moved to stand over him, the large flattened
feet contouring to the unevenness of the rocks, curling to grip them, like
a monkey. It crouched, steadying itself on Sam's chest again. It blinked
at him and lifted pale, wet fingers to his face. He tensed up and
it hesitated, drew its hand back. "This is what we are. Your brother wasn't
entirely wrong," it said. "Succubi, inccubi…same thing. Only they are what
they are, always…we…are never quite one or the other. Humans and
demons really don't mix all that well…"
"Your mother," Sam said,
trying to kick his brain into gear again and grabbing at anything.
"The sons and daughters of
Lilith. She was our grandmother. If it had been my mother in your dreams,
Sam, she'd have sucked you dry and left you wasting away waiting for her
to come back. But you would have died happy. We're not so gifted, but we
want the same things. Love, desire…fear," it said.
It settled its weight on
him, the long fingers tugging at his jeans, his underwear. Sam struggled
again and the long fingers closed around his throat, stronger than a human
hand and longer too. It only needed one to hold him still, cut off his
air. Then suddenly it rocked back, still straddling him but no longer touching
him except where its weight settled across his thighs. The yellowish sweat
soaked into the denim of his jeans.
"Not so appealing, am I?"
it asked him, blinking rapidly. "So, I can be your brother again…I could
be you," it offered and the mouth stretched wide in a parody of a grin,
exposing the toothless gums. "Think your brother could tell us apart?"
it asked him and then tilted its head back and laughed. "He doesn’t know
what to do with one of you…what would he do with three?" It grinned at
Sam. "No? then…maybe someone who won't scare you. And you're scared,
Sam. You're too smart not to be," it said and seemed to think for a moment
before nodding to itself and going so still, it barely seemed to breathe.
The yellowish ichor stopped
dripping, seemed to jell and firm, like glue. It was still translucent,
but grew darker, taking on color and texture. The arms changed first, firmer
skin sliding over the misshapen limbs, along the hands. The thing's fingers
almost seem to retract, pull themselves back into the casing being created,
like stuffing a small sausage. The skin took on color and luster, still
pale but not sickly-corpse pale. Underneath the freshly made skin, tissues
swelled, defining the limbs and sheathing the muscles.
It didn't make a sound, only
dropped it arms and lifted its head as the skin expanded, stretched along
its chest and throat, and down across the ribs and belly. Small breasts
bloomed and swelled, nipples dark, then fading to rose. The throat narrowed,
tightened, and the thing gurgled but went still as the changes swept over
its face, filling in the jaw.
And Sam realized he should
move, do something -- that maybe the creature was weakest when it was changing.
He heaved upward only to find a smaller, but no less strong hand at his
throat. It stared down at him, glared. Wet its lips which were pale but
pinking and the rest of its features filled in, hair growing in like rapid
photography.
He knew the face, the smile.
He didn't recognize the expression in Kerry's eyes and wasn't sure he wanted
to. "Like me better like this, Sam?" she asked him.
She was no more Kerry than
she was Dean. "Did you kill her -- the girl you stole this body from?"
he demanded and she squeezed his throat a little then let him go.
"No. she's still wasting
her mind and her time hanging out at the Goth clubs, getting stoned and
wondering how she can get absinthe, or laid, or both. She's a pretty vapid
little bitch," Kerry said. "But she's not stupid and better, she never
comes to this part of town. We don't imitate the dead very well."
"Kerry…"
"Not my name," she said.
"But for now, it's okay…
"Your story about your brother--"
"My story, not hers. Interesting
that she gets nearly as many stares for her looks as I would if I went
out as myself…only she got to choose to look odd and out of place." She
reached up and pushed a strand of black hair behind her ear. Her eyes flickered
gold. "They expect her to be strange…" She tilted her head up, like she
as listening. "They'll be here soon; my sister and your brother. He's coming
to save you, Sam," she added and looked down at him. "He can't, but he
has to try. I could almost admire that about him."
"Why? Because you couldn't
save your brother?" he demanded. "Did you try?"
Her small hand managed quite
the punch.
"Sister. We're all sisters.
All of Lilith's grandchildren are sisters, even when we're brothers," she
said, examining her knuckles. A smear of Sam's blood painted the pale skin
and she licked at it. "We tried everything to get her to stay. Everything
she wanted us to do; were anything she wanted us to be...it wasn't enough,"
she hissed at him. "But you know how that feels, don't you, Sam? Never
being quite good enough, never satisfied, always the shadow. It's no wonder
she liked being your brother so much -- out for himself, trusting no one.
And that's your fault, Sam. You left him…you were all he had and you left
him."
Sam could only barely focus
on what she was saying -- the half truths, the twisting of what he thought
and felt, and what Dean thought and felt, underlying truths maybe but mangled
and distorted. He tried to catch anything in what she said that made sense,
that could be of use. But it was hard to know who or what was talking about
-- herself, him? Kerry or Dean? It was like she was channeling some part
of all of them.
And maybe she was. Maybe
that was the problem – they were walking, talking, personality disorders,
split and fractured -- not isolated by physical trauma but torn by all
they knew, all the people they became.
But there had to be a core
personality, didn't there? One he could reach…maybe. Please, God. Maybe.
"Kerry, your sister was killing people -- people that had done nothing
to her."
"Nothing?" she said and rose
up. "Nothing? Nothing but flirt and flaunt and change. Pretend to love
her, then be disgusted. She didn't change, they did. You all do," she said.
"You think we don't know what we are, how repulsive we are? To everyone
but each other…She tried…she tried so hard to be like one of those
women, to be one of you. She thought being male would be easier…more choices.
All she found were different kinds of lies. Over and over, finding someone…then
them turning on her…"
Sam could guess. How long
could they imitate someone? The skins were fragile, apparently. They needed
to be replaced, maybe in hours or days. How long could one of them
try to be someone before they were caught shedding, or accidentally tearing
a skin? "They found her out…"
"Yes. Eventually. And you
can imagine what happens…how we have to protect ourselves. Our kind are
always hunted. Demons, monsters. And we burn so pretty," she said bitterly.
"But you could live apart--"
"Sam…Sam…,” she said shaking
her head. “You really are sweet. But really? How could we, with
people like your brother and your father hunting us down wherever we settle?"
she said. "That's what they do," she said and spat on him. Saliva
struck his face and he flinched. Her anger faded that fast and she leaned
over to wipe it away carefully with the edge of her hand. Her alternately
vicious and gentle reactions left him off balance and cautious.
Kerry’s words, her sudden
shifts of mood…it was like she was fractured, randomly picking up pieces
of herself to try on and see if they fit the moment. "I never wanted it
to be you," she said more calmly. "It should have been him, your brother.
It should have been his dreams we took, but he couldn't hear us. His mind
is too closed…too hard unless we become him. You were easy, Sam.
So easy, so open and easy to whisper to," she said and Sam felt queasy
all over again
She was in his dreams. Dean
had
been more right than wrong. Kerry, or her sister, had been what -- who
-- had been attacking him, going after him because they couldn't get to
Dean.
He never wanted another dream
in his life. It sobered him to realize that wish might come true.
"It took both of us, you
know. To make you remember," she said. "The mind remembers, but the body
can too. You can make it remember," she said and sighed. "I wish I'd picked
someone else to be, to get to know you…someone…someone maybe you could
like a little more," she said, sounding wistful.
"I like you fine," Sam said,
quickly. Please, please… Was she human enough to still feel? To
doubt? There had to be a way to use that and he tried not to think about
how easily he was proving her point. "You're smart and funny…"
"But not beautiful," she
said, looking down on him. "Not like your Jessica. I tried to be,
Sam. I can see her face…what she looked like, how she looked at you. I'd
be her if I could. But the dead can't be shaped as easily. The skins don't
last…" She sounded regretful, apologetic, like he would want that
-- to have something that looked like Jessica but wasn't her.
"I'd rather get to know you,"
he said.
"Liar," she said but there
was no heat. "Shall I change back? You want to get to know that me? The
one under this," she asked, gesturing at the body she wore. "Want to meet
me for coffee like that? Oh, I could wear a hat, some stylish clothes,
maybe some make up like they make for burn victims. And people would try
not to stare and think how kind you are to be spending time with that poor,
deformed, ugly thing. Not even woman or man, just a thing," she said bitterly.
"Why do you think we do this?" she asked.
"I…Kerry, I understand why.
That you want to fit in, be accepted, to be normal--" Sam said, reaching
for some kind of common ground. It was there -- weak -- but there.
If she could use what she knew about him and Dean against him, he could
do the same thing.
"You would understand that,"
she said and reached out to stroke his face, studying him intently. "See?
I knew that. I've been you, you know," she said, almost shyly. "I know
how you feel, know how you think…you don't feel normal, but it's only on
the inside, Sam. Outside…no one notices but you."
"Been me? That's why you've
been hanging out…"
"No. Not really. I just liked
being there, watching you. People like you, Sam. You don't seem to know
why, but they do. But being you…" She pulled back. "I know what you're
afraid of…I know what hurts you, and what doesn't," she said and her fingers
drifted low across his groin. "She lets me be Dean sometimes, when you're
dreaming. He's still a jerk, but he knows what to do with his hands, his
mouth." She said it like it was the most normal thing in the world.
She leaned over him and Sam
tensed up again, when she lowered her mouth to his. "I learned a lot from
him…and this is better, isn't it? Him kissing you…touching you? Scares
you… but I'm not Dean. I'm just Kerry. And she doesn't scare you at all."
She scared him to death,
but he didn't try to pull away, didn't encourage her, when her lips brushed
across his. Didn't deny her when her tongue pressed into his mouth. He
couldn't make himself respond, but he could keep himself from reacting.
She kissed him like she enjoyed it, pulling back only reluctantly.
“See? Not scary,” she said
and looked pleased, happy even.
"Kerry…what you want to do
-- to me. To Dean, that scares me," he said. Admitting it wouldn't surprise
her. "Kerry, please. I know you lost your sister. I know you're grieving.
I know what it feels like to lose someone. Don't do this...please,"
he begged.
“Don’t beg,” she said, It
seemed to disturb her. “You shouldn’t have to beg.”
He'd lie, beg and pray she
wouldn't see through it. But it was hard, harder than it should be to concentrate
and focus. His head was pounding and he'd lost the feeling in his arms.
"We'll leave you alone. We won't hunt you…you can live like you want. Because
you said it -- you are -- you didn't have to hurt the girl you are imitating.
You could be her. Maybe only alone…with your sister. But you could live
out in the open. We don't hunt what doesn't hurt," he said.
She was watching his face,
brow furrowed, like she wanted to believe. She bit her lip and looked away.
He could almost feel it, how much she wanted what he offered, to be able
to move around like anyone else. But the feeling faded and her expression
hardened. "Maybe you would…but one of us will slip. One of us will have
to hurt and will you understand then, Sam? You make it sound so easy.
So simple. But it's not." Her eyes flickered gold. "We're still part demon,
Sam. Our mother's blood will tell."
"Does it have to?" he asked
desperately, wondering if it were even possible to separate her from her
siblings, or were they so tightly intertwined that none of them really
had an identity of their own. "Kerry, you haven't hurt anyone. You haven't
hurt me. You can stop yourself. And your mother isn't here, is she?
She left you to fend for yourself."
She shook her head. "We aren't
beautiful, like our mothers," she said. "And we aren't human." She stretched
out against him and he winced at the added pressure her body put on his
arms. She wasn't actively trying to hurt him. If anything, she almost sounded
like she was testing the idea. "Most people never know we're here. We don't
reveal ourselves much…but my sister. My sister -- she wanted more than
living in darkness and borrowing other people's bodies," she said and pushed
up. "I understand that…I did. Do you?"
"I'm trying to, Kerry. It's
not the changing…it's what she did. To want to be someone else, even for
a little while -- I understand that. You can have that…can't you?
Isn't that what you're doing now? I only know you as Kerry. I don't know
the woman you borrowed this face and body from -- I only know you."
"And you like me?"
"I thought we were friends…"
he said and watched suspicion cross her features. "That maybe we could
be if I got to know you a little better." Christ, it was hard to lie to
someone who'd been crawling around in your brain and she obviously had
-- in Dean's as well. "That's why you changed into her just now, isn't
it? Because we know each other. Because you knew I liked her – you, just
as you are.”
She nodded slowly, looking
troubled.
Sam pushed, trying to be
careful, not to misspeak. "Kerry, please…I know you miss your sister.
I'm sorry she's dead. I am," he said and at the moment he was. Not
that they had killed a murderer, but that Kerry had lost someone she loved,
no matter how that person had behaved.
She tensed suddenly and got
to her feet. "They're almost here," she whispered and glanced back at Sam.
"I can…I can talk to her. I can try," she said sounding desperate, her
eyes narrowing, slitting like a cat's.
Her head snapped back like
she'd been struck and she pressed her fingers to her temples. "I'm sorry…I'm
sorry…" she was gasping now. She dropped to her knees, face contorted in
pain, her broken apology not aimed at him at all. She sobbed and gasped
once more, then drew back into herself. She went still for a moment, face
blank and then she frowned. She held up her left arm and started scraping
at the flesh there until it peeled. "Your brother has to pay…he has to
suffer like we do," she said in a rush, echoing someone, shedding a long
strip of skin.
Sam didn't know what had
happened, but he saw his opportunity sliding away, being stripped away
as easily as Kerry peeled the flesh from her arm. "Kerry, you don’t…Please,
please, whatever it is, don't do this," he said desperate to reach some
part of her, of it. "You don't have to be like her, like them," he said
desperately. "You can be yourself, whoever that is, whoever you want to
be. You could leave here…leave them."
"Like you'd leave your brother?
Again? You did, and look what happened to him," she said angrily. "Or are
you going to promise to stay?" she asked. "That's next isn't it?
To offer to stay with me, help me. Be my friend?"
He couldn't. She knew it
and there was no way to make it true or even possible.
Her gaze softened fractionally
and she caught the sides of his face and lifted his head. "She's what I
have…all I have. I'd do anything for her," Kerry said and kissed him, lightly,
like a sister, before letting him go. "We're not so different." More skin
fell away as she tore it from her hands, calmer now. "Just like you'd do
for your brother, anything…"
Sam closed his eyes and turned
away, unable to watch her peel the tormented face from her skull. Maybe
if he kept his eyes closed long enough, it would just be over because he
couldn't think anymore, was having a hard time remembering what it felt
like not to hurt or to be so exhausted, it was hard to keep breathing.
The sound of bones shifting
and cracking made him ill, all of it playing over in his mind and he kept
his eyes tightly shut.
"You can't even look at me,"
it said somewhere in between the tearing of flesh and the raspy sound of
its own breath.
The accusation was bitter
and on target. Sam couldn't. Dean would kill him if he knew Sam felt one
jot of sympathy for these things, but he couldn't help it.
It hadn't killed. Not yet.
Not this one. He didn't know how he knew, but he did. No guarantees that
it never would though. What was the breaking point of madness for a creature
born already half-mad by its own existence?
"You can look now, Sam,"
it said and he didn't want to look even now, with Dean's voice coaxing
him and Dean's face staring down at him. He did it anyway, unreassured
by the warm hazel gaze meeting his own, chilled by Dean's nakedness, not
because he was naked, but because he was hard. His dick was rising under
the stroke of a hand that had shaken Sam out of more nightmares than he
could count, that had bandaged his wounds, clapped his shoulder, held him
when he was grieving.
It was entirely possible
Sam might go mad first and there was some comfort in that thought. He couldn't
hold the fear back any longer.
"Kerry, please…don't do this,"
he said with a suddenly dry mouth.
"She's gone, Sam. She won't
be back," it said quietly. "She won't even be a shape I'll remember. Family
is all there is. You know it…you just don't want to believe it," it said,
Dean's voice, calm and sure, absolute, unwilling to argue. "Nothing
changes that. Nothing. Not ever."
What it said wasn't true
but Kerry was right; Sam didn't believe it. "Families change all the time,"
Sam said. "New lives, deaths. Nothing stays the same, Kerry…if you try
to make it stay the same…it breaks," he said.
Dean's gaze was almost sorrowful
but he took a breath and stared toward the open space beyond the concrete
shadow. "You should know…this was never about you. It's always been about
Dean," it said calmly and pulled its gaze back to Sam. It crouched down
and stroked fingers through his hair. "Just like the rest of your life.
This isn't any different, and dying won't change it."
There was no hesitation in
its tone, in its body. Whatever window of opportunity Sam had found had
passed. Did it know? It had to, had to know that if it killed him, Dean
would never stop, would hunt it and all its sisters down until the last
one was dead or he'd die trying. He'd have his own quest, something else
to cut across his soul like their mother's death had.
And if he survived this but
lost Dean? He wouldn't stop either, not knowing what he knew. They were
starting a war that might never end, feud that might last forever.
Sam stared up at it, at the
familiar face. It wasn't Dean. That was all he needed to know. No matter
what it did. He tried to believe that.
It stared back at him and
frowned, the eyes flickering gold. "So be it. We're all freaks, Sam," it
said and stood up and reached for him.
Sam choked again as he was
dragged further up the shallow incline. Foul smelling cloth was the first
thing he noticed when he could actually take a breath. He could still feel
the rocks beneath, but at least they didn't cut at him.
A glint of light made him
look and being cut by rocks suddenly seemed preferable.
The knife was long -- not
a perfect replica of Dean's hunting blade, but close enough. Sam couldn't
stop from closing his eyes and flinching when it slashed down.
There was no pain and that
made him hiss in reaction more than anything, but his shirt was pulled
tight, away from his skin, and he opened his eyes again to see Dean's face
concentrating on the blade cutting through his shirt. It pulled the cloth
from under the ropes, all the way to his chest. A wash of chilled air made
him shiver when his skin was exposed, the dampness seeping into his flesh.
The knife flicked up along
his arm and shoulder, the cloth giving way easily under the sharp edge,
and scraped his throat as the collar of his shirt was sliced apart.
A couple of harsh tugs cleared
the fabric from his chest and back, leaving friction burns on his shoulders,
robbing him of the protection of cloth from the ropes that bound him. Now
they cut into his skin, chafed and rubbed him raw as the thing shifted
and moved him to strip him bare to the waist. He tried to kick out when
it tugged at his jeans again, but he only got a solid punch to his kidneys
for the effort that left him gasping and coughing and unable to even curl
up to protect himself. The cold air washed over his ass and groin, but
the hand that spanned his thigh was warm, strong.
All resolution faltered.
Dying would be better. It didn't actually help knowing this was all for
Dean's benefit…to torture him maybe even more than Sam. He wanted for it
not to matter, willed himself to remember it wasn't his brother doing this,
wasn't any fault of his own.
It was harder than he thought
possible.
"Shhhh. Shhh. It's
okay…Sammy," it said and Sam remembered that tone from a million restless
nights when he was younger. It rubbed his back, still reassuring, and Sam
realized he was whimpering, making embarrassingly frightened noises in
his throat. He stopped, bit his lip and steeled himself when the hand moved
lower, skimming over his ass and between his legs.
He could hear the water still.
Could hear the waves as a constant shush of sound. He couldn't move even
when the thing with Dean's face and Dean's body stretched out along his
own and brushed a kiss along his shoulder. He was held fast by bindings
he couldn't break, paralyzed by fear, just as in his nightmares.
There was going to be no
waking up from this, Sam knew. There would be no vagueness to this particular
memory.
"You aren't Dean," he said,
scared by how weak his voice sounded. "You aren't my brother," he said
it more strongly and squeezed his eyes shut when the hand pressed between
his legs fondled him, found his hole. The pain wasn't sharp but the pressure
was as unwelcome as the finger that slid inside him.
"Of course I'm not," it said
reassuringly. "Your brother doesn't know what he's got, doesn't even know
this is on offer, because he doesn't need you, Sam. Wants you, yes…but
need? He doesn't need anything or anybody. That's what he tells himself.
He doesn't know what that feels like…stays distant."
Protecting himself, Sam thought
but wouldn't say it, wouldn't defend his brother against this thing… not
when it twisted and distorted everything. And it was, it was still trying,
as its sister had, to make him doubt, to make him question Dean, to question
himself.
It would have been better
maybe, if it hadn't been so gentle, careful, like wearing Dean's skin checked
the urge to violence, or that Kerry still lurked under there somewhere.
Its sister hadn't had that problem. "But you love him more than anything
in the world. More than your father, more than even your Jessica. And he
knows it. Knows that when he asked you to choose between him and her, you
went with him…and she died." Sam's eyes flashed open, to see only the dirty
cloth, the darkness beyond. Tricks. Lies, but there was truth in it, the
words echoing so closely to his own thoughts that he felt ashamed. "She
died, Sam…because there's nothing you wouldn't do for your brother. Nothing
you wouldn't give him. Not even this." Its hand pressed down on his hip
and a knee nudged his legs apart.
Fighting back was all instinct,
but the rope at his throat was pulled tight in warning, robbing him of
strength as his body was robbed of oxygen. He couldn't stop this, now,
here, any more than he'd been able to do in his nightmares.
He couldn’t stop the scream
in his throat but he buried it in the filthy cloths, tried desperately
to reject the hard flesh pressing into his ass, stretching him open and
tearing his skin. It pushed in hard, the pain not worse than anything else
but he couldn’t shut it out, couldn't outrun or ignore it. Sam groaned,
bit his lip until he tasted blood.
"You know why this, Sam?"
it whispered, moving inside him, touching him like it cared. Sam knew he
was going to throw up, choke on his own vomit. "Killing you really was
never the plan, Sam. This was, though. I’ve spent my whole life protecting
you, mostly from myself. From Dad. From monsters. Only, I’m the monster,
Sam…the killer. I can’t protect you from myself or from them….they can
reach you any time, any place -- take you right from under my nose …”
Everything in its voice, in its tone sounded like Dean, hesitant
and breathy, like when Dean found it difficult to tell him something important.
That Dean would do this to
him wasn’t something Sam believed even while it was happening. Denying
that Dean might think or feel these things…that was harder.
“This scares me, Sam.
You scare me…I’ve wanted you for so long, watched you. It killed me to
let you go and I’m not doing it again.” Dean’s lips brushed over Sam’s
ear, nuzzled him and he whispered; a secret for just the two of them. “But
I never thought you’d give me this…so I’m taking it. Just this once…you
can deny me everything else, little brother. Hate me. Leave me. But I’ll
get this part of you...”
Lips brushed across shoulder
again, and the hips pressing against him moved faster, pressing him down
harder until Sam could feel the rocks below, even through the soiled pallet.
"I’m not different than them, Sam…I’m a freak and I still want someone
to love me. You’re the only one that ever has. So, I have to take what
I can get.”
No...no…no… Lies all
of it, and Sam shook his head, tried to relax, to ease the pain and pressure.
"You're not my brother. You're not my brother…" over and over to drown
out the sound of flesh against flesh, to shut out the lies…and mostly,
to mask the sound of his own sobs.
seven
It took no chances with him
at all, and Dean could almost appreciate the thing's caution and craftiness
except he could really use a break here. It also freaked him out that when
the thing opened the trunk, it knew where to find exactly what it was looking
for -- including a set of standard issue police handcuffs. They weren't
enspelled or blessed, but they were still pretty damned effective when
it snapped them around his wrists and through door handle of the car.
And he definitely had a bad
moment when it found his gun -- one of them -- and checked the rounds,
testing several until it found the ones it was looking for. "I'm guessing
silver bullets don't do much more than just kill humans?" it said and loaded
the gun, then pressed the muzzle to Dean's temple. "Silver or lead, I'm
pretty sure this would splatter your brains all over the car. Sam's too,"
it said, and waited, like it expected Dean to flinch.
As if.
After a moment, it pulled
the gun back and reset the safety, then tucked it into the back of its
jeans.
Even after it had him locked
down, it went back, rummaging through the trunk, returning with a small
carry bag, that it tossed in the back seat.
"And a thief too," Dean said
and the thing chuckled as it started the car.
"Once you've stolen a few
bodies…car jacking is just no challenge," it said, and Dean gritted his
teeth when it ground the shift into reverse, exactly the way Sam
always did.
"So, maybe I don't really
want to know this, but is there a plan here?" Dean asked after about five
minutes of driving. Normally he didn't talk to monsters, but this one…there
had to be something he could use. It wasn't a manifestation or restless
spirit. He wasn't entirely sure what it was, but he knew how to
kill them if he got the chance. And he needed the chance.
They were headed toward the
river, residential neighborhoods giving way to businesses and later to
industrial complexes, portages and docks. "You wanted me, you got me. You
used my brother to get me… and I'm pretty much guessing this ends up with
me or him or both, dead, right?"
"I really do have all the
imagination, don't I?" it said, never taking its eyes off the road.
"You're not Sam," Dean said
flatly.
"You know that now…but will
you be able to tell the difference in a month, six months…a year?" it asked,
glancing over at him.
"You plan on being a regular
visitor? Because really, the house is always a mess and we never know what
to do with company--"
Its hand shot out and gripped
his throat, thumb digging in brutally just above his Adam's apple. "You
really can't ever stop, can you? Everything's a joke…nothing deserves even
a moment of serious consideration. God, I don't know how he stands it."
It let him go and Dean swallowed
and really, seriously needed to rub at his throat. He cleared it instead.
"Sam's got a way better developed sense of humor than you."
It smiled and Dean didn't
like the look on its face at all.
"I can pretty much promise
you that when you see him, he won't be laughing," it said.
Dean said nothing, but hooked
his fingers around the door handle to see if there was any give at all.
He could probably pull it out of the door panel if he jerked it hard enough,
but no way to do it without being noticed.
"So, there hasn't been a
string of brutally murdered women in Milwaukee lately. That not your thing?"
he asked.
"Looking for a conscience
in me, Dean? Don't strain yourself. That's a human failing, not one
of ours," it said then slouched back in the seat, driving with one hand.
"Or really…you hunt monsters. Ghosts, phantoms. All the things that lurk
in the corners and shadows, crawl or fly in the night. Does it really surprise
you that sometimes, they might hunt you back? Who knows? The thing
that killed your mother and Jessica -- maybe it's a first cousin or something."
"We hunt what kills. We didn't
start this thing with your sister," Dean snapped out.
"Really? You think so? You
think we'd look like you or your brother or anyone else if we could live
among you like we are, and not be hunted? Reviled? Murdered," it sneered.
"You may not be the smart one, but the ghosts you hunt -- battered souls.
In living they were wronged, betrayed, murdered. Why shouldn't they come
back to even the score? Why don't you hunt the human monsters among your
own kind? Answer me that, Dean," it said and waited.
Dean tried to find a snappy
come back, something clever and off hand. He couldn't. "It wasn't a human
monster that killed my mother," he said.
It snorted and gave him a
dismissive glance. "Your hypocrisy is despicable."
Don't listen, Dean
warned himself, but it was difficult; just as difficult as if it had been
Sam talking to him. Over-thinking this, playing into its manipulations
and lies was dangerous, deadly. It didn't operate by human rules, human
motives, but God, it certainly had a seriously twisted handle on both.
He could smell the water,
see it glinting between buildings. He'd never explored this part of town,
wasn't entirely sure he could find his way back. Looking at row after row
of similar structures -- warehouses and storage sheds, office complexes
-- he'd never have found Sam here.
It pulled the car in between
two older structures, following the parking lot, and through the gate of
a chain link fence that looked closed but gave way easily when it was nudged
with the bumper. Asphalt gave way to gravel then muddy dirt. An uneven,
pitted road made the suspension squeak and heave, scraping bottom on a
couple of deeper ruts.
The local businesses were
obviously using this as an unofficial dump, but it was well hidden by the
road and even the river could only be barely seen a few hundred yards away.
But then the dirt gave way
to more gravel, or rock; the dark, perpetually water-soaked granite and
slate used to shore up the river bank so it could be built on. Broken concrete
had fallen onto the bank, but above it another flat level rose, the far
end of the port and docks, the waterway curving away from this remote corner
of Milwaukee's Riverfront.
The pylons were low here,
rising steadily toward where Dean could only barely see the cranes used
to load and unload barges on the seaway.
They pulled up under a dangerously
cracked and tilting piece of concrete; exposed rebar rusty and sticking
up like the jaggedly bent tines of a giant fork. The thing got out and
came around to open Dean's door. Before Dean could do more than follow
the drag of the door handle he found himself looking down the barrel of
his own gun again.
"Remember what I said, Dean.
Attack me and I will kill you, and if you're dead…trust me. I will make
Sam pay for a very long time. And he'll die alone. Like my sister did."
Dean's heart pounded in his
chest. This was different, not so mocking, much less like Sam. He couldn't
imagine his brother ever sounding this hard or to look in Sam's eyes and
see the gaze of a stone-cold killer. The thing was deadly serious, Sam's
voice lending a gravity and coldness that Dean couldn't deny. He leaned
forward and spread his fingers. "Just let him go…anything you want, anything
from me. Just --" he couldn't do it. It wasn't the begging. He'd beg for
Sam's life on his knees if he thought it would help, but he didn't think
it would.
The thing had to look down
to unlock Dean's hands, but the gun remained steady. One cuff fell off
Dean's wrist and he pulled the chain through and stood up when Sam's double
beckoned him away from the car.
"Take your belt off," it
said and Dean hesitated until he heard the gun cock. Moving carefully,
he did as he was told, pulling it free of his belt loops. "Make a
loop," it instructed. "And put it over your head."
Every step, every move and
Dean watched the gun and the thing's chest. The leather of his belt was
thick but not so much he had to tilt his head back; it made a pretty effective
leash.
"Hands," it said and Dean
held them out.
It had to put the gun away
to redo the cuffs and Dean saw his chance a half second before it happened.
His arms were already locked in front of him, palms spread wide. Just as
it gripped his wrist, Dean grabbed its arm, twisting down and under and
coming up beneath it with a thrust of his shoulder. He stepped into the
thing's body, throwing it off balance. He'd dumped Sam on his ass a dozen
times with the same move but Sam had learned and so had this thing -- shoving
its weight forward.
Dropping low and twisting,
Dean let its own weight carry it forward, feeling the sharp burn along
his shoulder as he almost dislocated it. Center of balance…center.
A million hours of getting his ass kicked by trainers, in bar fights, picking
up moves. It wasn't the moves, it was why they worked; something Sam still
hadn't learned. Using every ounce of strength in his legs, he pushed
up and flipped the thing over his shoulder. It landed hard on its back
on the stone, and Dean dropped. He felt the rib cage give; heard the crack
of bone, the sudden "whoof" of air and he reached under it, scraping his
hands against the rocks, but his fingers closed over the gun and he pulled
it free, whipping it around. He pressed the gun to the thing's forehead,
trying to ignore the wide-eyed sense of betrayal in Sam's eyes. He didn't
hesitate, didn't second guess himself. The trigger was as familiar as Sam's
face. God, Sam, forgive me if I'm wrong.
The report echoed against
the stone and concrete. Dean pressed the gun to the thing's chest and pumped
another round into its heart. He pulled his belt from his neck and, without
even stopping to check on the thing on the ground, was up and running toward
the darkened overhang.
He'd gotten in maybe a hundred
yards when he heard the screaming and he ran toward it, shutting out the
fact that it was his own voice, and not Sam's, that was screaming in anger
and fear and grief.
The sound bounced and echoed
but despite being wide, the overhang wasn't that deep and got progressively
shallower. The flickering light guided him further and he came in, gun
ready.
A thing with Dean's face
crouched over Sam, an already bloodied knife poised over Sam's unprotected
back. Dean fired and a bullet ripped through the thing's shoulder, spinning
it away. Dean closed the distance but it barely seemed to notice the gouge
in it's arm as it twisted around and dragged Sam up, using his body as
a shield.
He couldn't even tell if
Sam was alive, only that he was bound and naked and bloodied and he couldn't,
wouldn't, think about why that was so. It would make him blind and stupid
and God knew, they could not afford stupid right now. Right now, he needed
every bit of his "unpredictable" streak to do him proud. "Come on!" he
screamed at it. "That's two of you I've sent to hell…come and get me, you
freak!" he taunted.
"I'll cut his heart out!"
it screamed, the blade dragging up along Sam's chest, leaving a bloody
furrow. Sam's head lolled back and rocked forward, eyes open but staring
blankly, not even flickering toward Dean.
Sam was still bleeding and
Dean dared breathe again. It meant Sam was alive.
He spread his hands out,
the gun dangling from a finger. "Wouldn't you rather cut out mine?" he
said. "Come on…come on. Here," he tossed the gun to the side, watched it
hesitate, his own eyes narrowing and then widening and it smiled, sneered,
and brought the blade up to Sam's throat.
"Sam, Left!" Dean yelled,
not even sure Sam was conscious enough to hear him, or understand him.
But Sam did. He jerked left;
years of hunting with Dean leaving instincts as ingrained as breathing.
Sam twisted as he did and the blade skittered off his chest and shoulder
rather than his throat.
It was enough. Enough for
Dean to close the distance, to launch himself into a tackle that sent all
three of them sprawling. Then he was grappling himself for the blade and
he had no compunctions at all about driving his knee into his double's
groin. His double howled but wasn't nearly as incapacitated as Dean would
have been by the same vicious move. The blade raked across his chest deeply
enough to cut through his shirt and into flesh. And then it was on its
feet.
There was a downside to fighting
himself: same weight, same muscle mass, and damned if this one didn't know
everything, every move he knew. And everything anyone else it had ever
been knew too, apparently.
Too close at one point, and
Dean found his hands slipping on suddenly slick skin, the flesh peeling
away under his fingers. If he hadn't been fighting for his own life and
Sam's he might have completely tossed his cookies.
He tried to grip an arm and
twist it behind the thing, only to have the skin slough off in one gory,
slimy piece. An elbow smacked into his face, and renewed pain exploded
through his nose and face again, almost blinding him. Blood flowed and
then it had him down; long, strong fingers strangled him and he felt the
blade under his chin.
He heard Sam scream and barely
caught a blur of movement. His double went sprawling and Dean sucked in
air only to find Sam stretched out across him. Sam's face was white under
streaks of blood, jaw set, and he was still tied. How he had gotten to
his feet at all, Dean had no idea but he took the opportunity offered.
Metal glinted and Dean shoved
Sam away and dove, rolling as his fingers closed over his gun and he sighted.
It was déjà
vu to see the two rounds enter the thing's body, to see it slump: Only
part of it still looked like him at all, and for some reason, even watching
his own face register shock and surprise and pain, he was glad it was his
face and not whatever lay beneath. The arms, part of its chest, and one
thigh were torn, exposing grey-white skin that even as it collapsed onto
the rocks, was turning yellowish, like jaundice.
Dean pulled himself up to
one knee, breathing harshly, gun still held steady as he moved to check
on Sam. The knife lay on the rocks and Dean kicked it away from the yellowing,
dying body, before picking it up. He almost passed out when he bent over
-- blood rushing to his face, filling his nose and mouth and he lifted
his head, tilted it back, and wiped at it, before turning to Sam.
Sam flinched when he touched
him, staring back at him with wide, panicked eyes, breathing so fast from
either pain or fear he was going to make himself pass out -- which wouldn't
necessarily be a bad thing, Dean thought. He tried to assess how badly
Sam was hurt but it was hard to tell. Blood flowed freely across his chest
and down one arm, a deep slice across the back of Sam's shoulder was bleeding
steadily and soaking the ropes around his chest. His face was bruised and
bleeding, but pale beneath.
"Sam…Sam…calm down. Just
breathe, man, okay?" Dean's voice was nowhere near as steady as he wanted
it to be. "I'm going to cut you loose, okay?" It took Sam a minute to take
the deeper breath he needed and give him a cautious nod.
Dean needed both hands to
cut through the ropes without hurting Sam further, but he kept the gun
close by, checking the stretched-out body ten feet away. When Sam was free
he got up to check on the shape-shifter. It wasn't moving now, but it was
still bleeding slowly; eyes glassy but still glowing. Dean watched it and
saw the chest rise weakly. He raised the gun again.
"No. Dean. No," Sam said,
flatly, and Dean glanced back, saw a warning in Sam's face, in his body,
that made him wait. Sam was hunched over, one hand pressed to the deep
gash in his shoulder. But he was staring at Dean intently. "Mine," he said
softly.
Oh, God, Sam…what did
they do? The look he'd never expected to see, it was right there, in
Sam's eyes. He'd seen that same gaze stare back at him from a mirror a
thousand times, and he'd seen only minutes ago on the face of Sam's double.
The thought that Sam could become more like one of them made Dean
wonder if he'd been too late before he even got here. He'd never heard
or seen Sam look so cold or so ruthless. But all he could do was give Sam
a small nod to let him know he'd heard and clench his jaw to keep from
screaming.
Dean backed up, keeping the
gun on the shape-shifter, and poked through the boxes and bags of supplies.
He found a shirt and pair of sweats that weren't disgusting, still folded
up in plastic shopping bags. He tucked them under his arm and used another
shirt to wipe at his face, trying not to breathe through his nose. He could
taste blood at the back of his throat and his whole face felt swollen.
He brought the clothes back
and offered them to Sam. Sam looked up at him; God, he was a mess.
"Sam," he said and started
to crouch, only Sam mirrored his stance. He had the knife, ready to use
it, eyeing Dean with obvious mistrust.
Dean couldn't breathe, and
the thickness in his throat had less to do with the blood running down
his face, than the emotion that choked him. "Sam…it's me. Honest to God...swear
on my Van Halen tapes…"
"Put it down…" Sam said and
didn't sound like himself.
It took Dean a second to
realize Sam mean the gun, that despite diving into the middle of a fight,
he still wasn't entirely sure if Dean were really his brother or not. And
that did not bode well for whatever had happened to him before Dean got
here. And Sam had kept him from putting the murderous thing out
of its misery.
Doubt flickered through his
mind. There were two, there could be more and if this wasn't Sam in front
of him, bleeding and acting like a wounded animal…Dean was in serious trouble.
It was more faith than reason
that made Dean set the clothes down and then place the gun on top of them
and back off. He crouched a few feet away. If he was wrong, he was dead
and so was Sam. For the first time in a long time, Dean really and sincerely
prayed.
Sam picked up the gun but
he didn't turn it on Dean. Dean wanted to be proud when Sam checked the
gun first to see how many rounds were left, before dragging the sweats
across his lap, but pride didn't have any place here. Sam was functioning
on automatic, moving stiffly, like everything hurt, and there was blood
and muck and streaks of filth on him that Dean didn't want to think about
how they had gotten where they did. Sam getting to his feet was a struggle
and Dean twitched to help him when Sam had to kneel first, already scraped
and bleeding knees and calves pressed to the stone. But he made it, backing
into the crates and boxes so he was out of Dean's reach as he pulled on
the sweat pants.
He looked like he might fall
over and he didn't even try for the shirt but he did stumble toward the
shape-shifter.
"Sam--," Dean warned him,
unfolding his legs until the gun swung around to cover him and he sat back
on his calves and held up his hands. Sam shifted his attention again. He
stood over the shape-shifter and Dean tensed up at the look on Sam's face.
Sam's gun hand was steady,
unwavering. "How many, Kerry?" he asked, and Dean swore softly, staring
at the thing. Kerry…Kerry who he hadn't liked and had let drive Sam home
while Dean was fucking his brains out.
Sam wasn't done yet, and
he wanted something: his voice was hoarse, staring at the partially exposed
shifter. "How many more? Where are they, Kerry?"
It coughed and smiled, some
of the teeth had fallen out and Dean didn't remember hitting it that hard,
but blood coated its gums. "God, I almost believed you, Sam, but you are
just like your brother," it rasped out on a wheezy breath and glared at
Sam. "We are legion," it said, with a hoarse replica of Dean's own chuckle.
"And we all know you…we know all about you, Sam…what you like and what
you're scared of." Its head tilted and it stared at Dean. "We win. Killing
you was never the plan--"
Whatever it might have said
was cut off when Sam fired a shot into its heart and another into its head
before swinging the gun around to Dean. His hand was shaking but his aim
was steady enough. "Seven rounds. There's one left."
Dean stared at him, shocked
and ready to try and convince Sam but what could he say? If it were him,
he might have shot Sam already. "I don't know how to prove to you I'm me,
Sam. I got no idea."
The gun wavered and Sam took
a deep breath. "The skins don't last," he said and glanced down at the
knife.
It took a second but Dean
glanced at the dead shifter, at the strips of hanging skin and exposed
flesh. "Done," he said and let Sam back off so he could pick up the blade.
He stared at his own arms before settling on the outside of his left elbow.
He wiped the blade on his pants and stared at it. "I'm so going to need
a tetanus shot for this," he said, and thought maybe something besides
distrust flickered in Sam's eyes, but it was emotion, not a flickering
glow, and Dean didn't hesitate. Sam was holding onto his sanity by his
fingertips. If he fell now, chances were he'd take Dean with him, he was
that close to breaking.
The blade was definitely
sharp, though not quite razor sharp. Even so, Dean almost bit through his
tongue as it sank into his flesh. The only good thing was that it took
his attention away from his face for a few seconds. He tried not to go
so deep that he'd slice muscle -- crippling himself wasn't exactly his
first choice, but he yelped anyway and swore, fist clenching as he sliced
his own skin.
"Shit…" he said as the blood
welled, dripped down his arm and he looked at Sam, not entirely sure what
his brother was looking for. The shifters could and did bleed.
Sam stared for a long moment,
before taking a step closer and Dean tensed up again when the gun was pressed
to his neck while Sam checked the wound.
Sam wasn't rough but it still
hurt like hell as he used his thumb and forefinger to stretch the gash
wide. More blood welled, staining Sam's hands.
Dean wasn't prepared for
Sam to dig his fingers into the cut and pull and it took all Dean had not
to shove Sam away or pull away himself.
His skin didn't peel or tear,
and the blood was red. Sam finally closed his hand over the wound,
squeezing Dean's arm, applying pressure. "Sorry." It was barely a whisper.
Sam let his other arm fall, the gun clattering to the stone. He stared
at the blood welling between his fingers, not lifting his head even when
Dean lifted his other hand to cup the back of his neck, but he tensed up
at first, flinched…only to relax again.
"It's okay," Dean said and
it was. Not one word about scars.
This had been easier when
Sam was young, small, and Dean couldn't for the life of him remember when
he had stopped hugging Sam or when Sam had started squirming away when
he did. He tried to pull Sam toward him, but Sam resisted and Dean backed
off. He laid his hand under Sam's to press on the wound. "First aid kit's
in the car, Sam," he said and took a step back. Then another. Sam nodded
and crouched to retrieve the gun, fingering it, then followed Dean
It took them longer to walk
back to the car than it had to fight and kill two shape shifters. The other
one lay where it had fallen and for a couple of minutes Sam stared at it;
at his own face staring sightlessly up at the sky. Death didn't change
them. The skins stayed intact, but Dean didn't even want to guess for how
long.
Dealing with the bodies was
the last thing he wanted to do, the last thing he wanted Sam to have to
deal with, but the bodies had their faces -- something that was getting
old really fast. They couldn't leave them for someone else to find. Dean
looked to the river and saw Sam do the same thing.
Patch up first, though. Sam
wrapped Dean's arm carefully, almost too gently. The wound in Sam's shoulder
was still bleeding but not as heavily, and Dean pressed a gauze pad over
the bloody flap of skin for the time being. It would need stitches, maybe
a lot of them, and it was already swelling.
Once Sam had been bandaged,
put his shoes on, and found a shirt, he looked steadier and more resolute.
He'd said barely a dozen words and Dean didn't know what or how to ask
him about any of it and every time he tried, Sam just looked away
The current was deep and
swift and there was enough broken concrete and scraps of sheets and cloth
and rope in the nest to weight the bodies down. Dean did all the wrapping
and let Sam keep an eye out. They used the car to move them because Dean
was pretty sure that neither of them were in any shape to drag bodies several
hundred yards -- not to mention the longer it took, the more likely other
were to be seen by a passing boat or some over cautious security patrol.
By the time they were done, they were both shaking in exhaustion.
The bodies sank quickly.
When they were gone, and they were sure they wouldn't rise up again, Sam
lifted his head and met Dean's eyes for the first time. "Can we go?" he
asked. He was still pale, voice uneven, but Dean didn't know if was from
shock or cold or both.
"Yeah, we're gone, man. We're
gone," Dean promised.
"No. I mean…can we just go?
Leave Milwaukee. Just--"
"Yeah. Yes," Dean said. "We've
got stuff at the house but we can leave it…"
"No. We can get that…Dad's
journal and clothes and they're still in the washer--" Where he'd been
silent before, now the words seemed to fall out of Sam like he couldn’t
stop them. Dean lifted his hands and Sam went still when Dean carefully
laid them on his shoulders, lightly, squeezing the uninjured one.
"Sam, look at me," he said
and waited until Sam did. "Listen up. Every town's got a Laundromat. We
can wash them again. We'll be fast, in and out an on the road. Whatever
you want to do, bro. Done. It's done. We're gone. Okay?"
It took Sam a minute but
he nodded and Dean nudged him toward the car and inside, passing him a
bottle of water. Sam moved stiffly, carefully, but Dean wasn't feeling
any too spry himself. He almost groaned when he finally sat down.
Sam was silent for the drive,
slumped down in the seat, arms crossed over his chest, his head back and
eyes closed but there was no way he was sleeping. Halfway back he cleared
his throat and looked over at Dean.
"I think…I think I need a
hospital, Dean."
Dean gave him a quick assessment.
Where Sam had been pale now he was pale and clammy looking, sweat on his
face even in the cool air. He reached over and gripped Sam's shoulder,
squeezed it again. "Hospital it is, little brother. Coming right up," he
promised.
Sam almost smiled then closed
his eyes again, while Dean turned the car toward town and St. Francis's
public hospital. "Sam…before we get there…"
"Mugged. Just tell them we
were mugged."
"I'm not sure they'll buy
that," Dean said carefully. That would mean a police report.
"They won't have to…just
tell them. They'll figure it out," Sam said but offered no more.
For a public hospital, it
wasn't too busy, but the nurse doing the triage tried to take Dean back
first since he was the one obviously dripping blood in a couple of places
and Sam, while pale, was still steady on his feet. Dean stopped her. "Trust
me, ma'am," he said with his most disarming and sincere expression, neither
of which was faked. "My brother needs to see a doctor pretty quick if you've
got one." She didn't look entirely convinced but Dean took the clipboard
with the forms from her. "I'll fill out for both of us, okay?"
Twenty minutes later they
called Dean back. He didn't see Sam and when he checked, the nurse told
him he'd been taken down to x-ray.
Dean got his nose packed
with cotton and the lovely news that, yes, his nose was broken. There would
be bruising and swelling but the break was clean and probably wouldn't
need to be reset or be obviously broken once it healed. His arm got eight
stitches and his chest covered in butterfly bandages.
Then he had to wait, which
didn’t sit well. He snagged coffee from the nurse's station and silently
thanked anyone who was listening that it was Sunday and the billing office
was closed. He had to give the Owens's number but the admission's clerk
seemed satisfied when she called to verify the address and length of residence
and actually got someone to pick up the phone. She was a whole lot friendlier
after that.
"Mr. Winchester? Dean Winchester?"
the doctor who called him back was a woman, dark skinned, looking like
she was from the middle east but her English was accented only by a Midwest
upbringing. "Your brother said I should talk to you," she said and led
him to the rear of the treatment rooms, into a real office. Sam wasn't
there and Dean felt a whole different kind of fear shake him--that Sam
had been hurt worse, that those things had done something else, infected
him with God knew what.
She gestured him to a chair
and closed the door. "Mr. Winchester, first, your brother's going to be
fine. None of his injuries are dangerous in and of themselves," she said
carefully.
"Sorry, Doc but that doesn't
actually reassure me. Where is he?"
"Just getting a couple of
additional tests. Blood work mostly. And we're giving him a liter of fluids.
He's a little shocky. He asked me to talk to you. That you know he was
r--"
"Go on." He didn't want to
hear the word. Not at all.
"We’re going to give him
a sedative before he leaves. He's going to need to rest. His shoulder is
going to be painful -- we'll put him on a course of antibiotics for a few
days, give him a sling. Make sure he uses it. He might need a therapist
but there will be a treatment sheet with some gentle exercise. He's got
a couple of fractured ribs -- there's nothing we can do for them, really.
Wrap them if he becomes too uncomfortable, but mostly he needs rest. As
for the other…" Dark eyes flicked up at him, the sympathy so obvious, Dean
thought it should be flashing on her forehead.
"We did a fast HIV test,
but he should check back in a couple of weeks for more extensive results,"
she said and handed him a sheet of paper. It was instructions and a phone
number and Dean's vision blurred. He didn't want to know this. He'd already
known it but now it was too real. "It's a secure phone number; that's the
id," she said pointing at a hand written number at the top of the sheet.
"He's okay?" he said and
tasted blood in the back of his throat again.
"Physically, there was no
damage to worry about. But this is difficult for anyone and he's likely
to be -- "
"A little all over the map?"
Dean said brightly.
"Yes," she said and smiled
and handed him two more sheets of paper, a business card, and a pamphlet
that he immediately flipped over so he wouldn't have to read the title.
"Mr. Winchester--"
"Dean."
"Dean. There's some very
good counseling centers -- and the university has support groups. I strongly
recommend both you and your brother check them out. Sam doesn't want
to file a police report and I know it's difficult…but you might want to
rethink it. We did a rape kit--"
"Can I see him?"
She studied him and then
nodded. "I'll check. You wait here." She left him.
"No, thank you, Doc. The
police won't be necessary," he said quietly to himself when she was gone.
He stared at the contact sheets and pamphlet, then carefully slid all but
the test result line information under the desk blotter.
She came back and Dean got
up, followed her to a curtained cubicle.
Sam had some color back in
his face. He was almost done with the IV and every wound Dean could see
had been cleaned and bandaged. He still looked like shit but his gaze was
steadier. It swept over Dean's face, taking in the bandages, the swelling.
His eyes darted down to look at Dean's arm then back up to Dean's face.
"That's really not a good
look on you," Sam observed.
Smiling hurt but it didn't
stop Dean from doing it. He carefully touched his nose. "Yeah, well, I'm
trying to think of it as an exercise in humility," he said.
Sam considered it. "You could
use the practice," he said. A weak jab, but any jab in a storm, Dean thought.
"You could use a lot fewer
bruises
yourself," he said and suddenly none of it was funny and it seemed obscene
to make jokes. He looked down, fingered the bandage on his arm and stared
at the sheet of paper he still held. "Sam--" he took a deep breath, not
sure he could even talk about it.
"You talked to Dr. Badesher,"
Sam said, saving him from his own fear.
"Yeah. We talked," Dean said.
He folded the paper up carefully, stuck it in his pocket and left his hand
there. He came closer to the gurney and gripped the rail with his other
hand. "She thinks you should talk to someone."
Sam gave him half a smile
and fiddled with the IV needle in the back of his hand.
"You pull that out and we'll
have stay here longer," Dean warned and then dropped his gaze. "Although
that may not be a bad idea. Sam--"
"I don't want to stay," Sam
interrupted. "And I don't want to talk about it just yet."
"I'd listen." Dean meant
it. He wouldn't want to, but he'd do it.
"I know. And you may be --
I'm thinking maybe the nightmares aren't exactly going to stop."
"Not all of them…" Dean agreed
and pressed his fingers to his eyes. His sinuses felt packed with cement.
"Dean…one thing," Sam said
Dean made himself listen.
This wasn't a promise he was going to break at the first test.
"I knew it wasn't you."
Dean didn't even know badly
he needed to hear that before Sam said it. Guilt wasn't something Dean
gave into very often. He felt it often enough, but refused to give into
it. He couldn’t. How Sam could and keep going, Dean had no idea. He reached
out and smoothed the tape down over the IV needle. When Sam neither flinched
nor pulled away, Dean curved his hand over the back of Sam's. A second
later, Sam lay back against the gurney and closed his eyes. His fingers
tightened around Dean's.
Sam was sometimes a whole
lot braver than Dean gave him credit for. Teasing aside, his brother had
never backed down from anything because of fear alone, only fear combined
with stupidity. Dean liked to think he countered a lot of that with skill
and determination, but sometimes…maybe even most of the time, he was just
damned lucky. And his luck usually seemed to spill over onto Sam.
Not this time.
Dean had to check to make
sure no one was around because -- well, he had to. But no one was and he
pressed his other hand to the bed beside Sam's head and Sam opened his
eyes at the movement. Dean leaned in slowly so Sam would know, and did
what he hadn't in maybe ten years. He pressed his lips to Sam's forehead.
Sam squeezed his hand and
Dean held it for a moment before pulling away. "I'm going to see about
getting us out of here," Dean said quietly.
"Get me good drugs, okay?"
Sam said.
"Only the best for you, Sam."
eight
They were forty miles from
the Kansas border when Sam woke. No nightmares, no screaming. Dean glanced
at him and gave him an approving and slightly smug smile and Sam let it
slide.
He'd set the sling aside
for the final time a week ago. His shoulder was still tight, and got sore
easily, but it didn't ache all the time.
Dean's face had been puffy
and sporting some truly interesting colors for about a week before the
swelling finally subsided. There were still lingering bruises around his
eyes but they were fading. Mostly what they did was make Dean look perpetually
tired.
The nightmares were easing.
Not gone entirely and Sam had added few new ones to his repertoire.
They'd stayed in Milwaukee
for a few days after all. The drugs had been very, very good. The Owens's
had been appalled and sympathetic and truly kind; feeding them more than
the promised breakfast and when Sam told them they were leaving, they'd
even refunded a week's rent. It gave them both time to give notice at their
jobs and to pick up final checks. They didn't have nearly as much money
as they wanted to keep moving, but it was enough to start.
Nothing hit the news that
they could find. No bodies had floated to the surface that they'd heard
of, the police hadn't come knocking. Somewhere, that counted as a win.
Two weeks later, at a gas
station in Illinois, Sam called the toll free number and entered his id
while Dean waited outside the phone booth. He let Dean listen to the recorded
message when it repeated.
He was clear. The line suggested
retesting in six months and Dean wrote the date down in the back of their
father's journal.
Two poltergeists, one ghostly
roadside hitchhiker, and a case of imps that turned out to be squirrels,
later, Sam finally stopped panicking whenever he saw someone he thought
he'd seen before. Every time it happened Dean would put as many miles between
Sam's fear and them as he could without question. They were running. Dean
wouldn't admit it and Sam didn't say it, but it was true. Finally, Sam
stopped telling him.
Sam watched Dean chat up
two waitresses and a motel clerk during their more or less random driving.
All three seemed more than willing but Sam saw the flicker of doubt in
Dean's eyes, the way he checked them out -- and he wasn't checking out
their feminine assets. The encounters went nowhere and Sam learned to live
with the fact that they were rarely out of each other's sight for longer
than it took to go to the bathroom.
One night, Dean lingered
a little too long in the shower and despite his best efforts to tell himself
it was nothing to worry about, Sam got up to check. It took him only a
minute to understand why. Dean was trying to be quiet and the water distorted
sound, but Sam knew Dean well enough and had jacked off himself enough
to know the sound and rhythm of his brother's hand on his dick; to recognize
the muffled groan of release. Before any of this, Dean wouldn't have thought
twice about doing himself in the room, in his bed.
A particularly flirty waiter
mildly hitting on Sam in a coffee shop in Canton almost got Dean arrested
for assault.
Driving out of town, all
Sam could think was things had to change -- or they'd break.
Dean was still listening.
Sam knew he was, but so far, Sam hadn't had anything to say. They had talked
about their respective shifters, compared notes, and edged around the painful
details like championship ballroom dancers. Sam had found a blank section
in their father's journal and written down everything they could both remember.
After a month they turned
toward Kansas. "Time to check the mail," Dean said and Sam thought it was
a milestone of sorts. They'd had no word from their father, but it was
possible there might be something waiting for them at the post office in
Topeka.
When they found a major library
they stopped. The shape shifter had been right. The information on Lilith's
half-human grandchildren was pretty thin on the ground, but Dean knew of
a gypsy fortune-teller in Ulysses. After they picked up the mail, that
was their next stop.
Lawrence was only a thirty
minute drive from Topeka but they bypassed it. Dean avoided it and it wasn't
home to either of them any longer -- it never had been to Sam.
They reached the post office
just before closing time on a Friday afternoon. Dean brought the mail out
and they sat on the hood of the car in the parking lot to read through
it. There wasn't much; junk mail, some paranormal newsletters, a few research
papers Dean had requested. A couple of postcards from people Dean or their
father had helped. Sam looked at them and realized that Dean wasn't quite
as averse to contact as he'd thought. There was a letter from Stanford,
reminding Sam that he hadn't fulfilled his graduation requirements. Dean
had looked at it. "How long?"
"Two classes I dropped and
an internship. Six months," Sam said. "I'll file for an extension." And
he would. An extension would leave the door open.
There were two cards, identical,
one addressed to Sam and the other to Dean, off-the-shelf "Thank You" notes
with no return address.
Sam's had a simple white
card and he didn't even read the note, his eyes stuck on the signature.
"Sam…" Dean's voice sounded
strangled. He also had a card and Polaroid from a self-developing camera.
It was a picture of both of them outside a truck stop in Urbana, Illinois
from three weeks back.
Sam passed his note to Dean.
Dean cleared his throat; "'And when he was come out of the ship, immediately
there met him out of the tombs a man with an unclean spirit -- And he asked
him, What is thy name? And he answered, saying, My name is Legion: for
we are many.' Mark 5:2 and 5:9. Love, Kerry," he read. "Oh, she's a sweetheart."
Sam didn't bother pointing
out to him that she was also dead.
Dean's note was a little
more obscene and Dean went white-mouthed on reading it. Sam glanced at
it and then at his brother, saw the fear and the revulsion and the barely
checked rage. He also saw guilt, but it was gone that fast.
Dean took the picture, the
notes, and the envelopes to the corner of the parking lot and burned them,
then doused them with salt and holy water. He spit on the ashes for good
measure. Sam wasn't sure Dean's spit had any particularly relevant cleansing
properties but he was reassured by it anyway. When Dean came back he seemed
pretty calm. "So, Ulysses?"
Sam nodded. "Ulysses."
It was too late when they
got there to meet with Dean's contact, or so Dean said. Sam didn’t argue
with him.
Sam found himself giving
all kinds of names to what lay between them now. After the notes, Kerry's
Curse seemed pretty apt but he kept the name to himself. In a bizarre
way, it was kind of a relief. It was one thing to always be looking over
your shoulder because you were afraid something might be following you.
The notes pretty much validated their paranoia. The enemy was real. The
notes had only been sent a couple of weeks ago, the post mark from Detroit,
Michigan. Kerry and her sister were dead. The shape shifter in St. Louis
was dead.
Which meant there had been
as much truth as lies in what Kerry had told him, and what her sister had
told Dean. There were more and they knew who Dean and Sam were down to
their Post Office Box number.
That night it was Dean who
woke to a nightmare. He didn't so much scream as squeak but Sam heard
him, rolling out of bed to turn on the light only to find Dean already
awake. He stared at Sam like he was a ghost, until Sam moved to sit on
the end of Dean's bed. He looked like he might be sick and Sam got up and
got him water and brought the trash can closer -- just in case.
"You remember it?" Sam asked
him. He didn't need the details and he wouldn't ask.
Dean rubbed his face and
nodded. "Pretty much," he said and the guilty look came back to his face.
He would only meet Sam's eyes briefly. "Sorry I woke you."
Sam considered it and nodded.
"It wasn't you."
"Did you have a nightmare
too?"
"It wasn't you."
Dean stared at him long and
hard but then something relaxed in his face. "Okay."
Sam got up and went back
to his own bed and turned out the light. Chances were he wouldn't get much
more sleep, but it was always worth a try.
"Sam…" it was easier to talk
in the darkness. "Did you always know when it wasn't me?"
"Not always, but it never
took long. I'm not scared of you, Dean. I never have been. They pretty
much scare the shit out of me."
"I was totally suckered."
Sam grinned. It wasn't really
all that funny, but there was something pretty endearing about the Dean's
incredulity. Lack of confidence was not a problem Dean had. It had been
shaken, but underneath, he was still pretty sure he wasn't often wrong.
Sam got up again and crossed
the room, climbing into the bed next to his brother.
"Uh, Sam?" Dean asked when
Sam pulled up his fair share of the covers and lay back down. "Did you
wet the bed?"
"Shut up. And go to sleep,"
Sam said and rolled over, putting his back to him. Sharing a bed wasn't
new or uncommon and they'd done a lot of it as kids, but both of them tended
to sprawl and they were grown men…there were other reasons not to as well,
maybe, but Sam wasn't particularly worried about it. There was as much
truth as lies in what the shape shifters had said and Sam hadn't forgotten
a word of it.
It took Dean a good fifteen
minutes to settle and he still seemed stiff, trying to leave as much room
between them as possible. "Not you. Not scared," Sam whispered and heard
Dean sigh. Then his brother rolled over closer to the middle of the bed
dropped an arm over Sam's waist on top of the blankets and relaxed.
Reassurances aside, it didn't
take Sam long to know he wasn't going to fall asleep easily.
"The last time you got in
bed with me when you had a bed of your own, I think you were eleven," Dean
said quietly.
"Fifteen."
"When?"
"Oklahoma…outside of Little.
There were tornados."
"I remember that. In the
basement. I don't think that counts. There was only the one cot."
"Which you hogged."
"Dibs, man," Dean said and
Sam could hear the smile in his voice. "I thought you were being a brat."
"I was scared," Sam said.
Dean awkwardly patted his
arm. "Me too, bro. Man, all I can remember is how loud it was when it passed
over." He was quiet for a few seconds. "Are you scared, now?" he asked.
"Nope."
"I mean it's okay. It's weird
as hell...but it's okay."
"I'm not scared of you, Dean,"
Sam said patiently.
"I didn't say you were. I
mean, there's no reason for you to be…"
"I wasn't scared at fifteen
or eleven or eight…and I'm not scared now. Not of you."
Dean was silent but drew
his arm back.
Sam ignored the withdrawal.
"There was never a time when I was little that I knew I couldn't come to
you. There was never a time, not when we were hunting, not if I was hurt,
not when I was scared. Even when we were fighting, nothing you ever did
or said scared me. Pissed me off, yeah. Hurt my feelings, sometimes. But
not scared, Dean. And if I scared you, you hid it really well."
He wasn't sure Dean actually
wanted to hear any of this. But they were in this together and long past
secrets. "They dug deep into your mind, pulled up things you'd forgotten.
Things you don’t even remember wanting."
Dean suddenly pulled away,
sat up on the edge of the bed, his back to Sam. Sam didn't move.
He didn't stop either. "Monsters,
ghosts, wraiths, demons…Dad's bad moods, my own. You've protected me from
all of them at one time or another. And you've always protected me from
yourself. It never occurred to me."
He didn't think he was wrong.
The guilt on Dean's face on waking was pretty much the same he'd seen in
the parking lot. Truth and lies. Lies and truth.
"Sam-- I never… it was never
an issue."
"I know." Sam rolled over,
staring at Dean's back, at the muscles and scars, the shadows painting
Dean's tense shoulders silver."It wasn't. It's still not."
"It was never more than dreams."
Sam had figured that. It
had taken awhile -- a few weeks, a lot of miles. The note today had only
clinched what he'd suspected.
He's just as good as you
always dreamed he would be.
Dean dug the heel of one
hand into his left eye and got up, went to the bathroom, and closed the
door. Sam rolled over onto his back and stared at the ceiling.
Sam could remember having
wet dreams about guys when he was younger, had a few later than that even
into college. At nine, he barely knew what to do with girls, wasn't even
sure he liked them at all -- just on general principle. Catching Dean masturbating…and
Dean yelling at him for a little privacy, had let him know that touching
himself wasn't bad or strange. It made sense when he was eleven, and emulating
Dean was as normal as anything else in his life. Maybe a little late to
the game, but he'd gotten used to comparing himself to other guys in school,
in gym class.
He'd even talked to Dean
about it, embarrassed and awkward. And Dean had told him not to worry about
it. That since Sam's only experience with it had been his own hand, then
of course he'd dream about what he knew. Kiss a few girls, Sammy. It
gets better, he'd said with all the wisdom of an eighteen year old.
That had probably been a
seriously weird conversation for Dean to have with him and Sam never really
considered that Dean spoke from experience.
It had never been an issue.
For all Sam knew, Dean was still having them. He half suspected that might
be the case, making it worse for Dean, to know that they'd used him against
Sam that way. Barely remembered dreams that a hormonal teenager had about
his little brother. They'd probably freaked Dean out, scared him into thinking
he was sick or twisted.
That was the point. It had
confused Sam, when he could edge his thoughts around it. Why that? Why
use Dean against him that way? Only that wasn't what they'd done -- not
really. They'd used Dean against himself, Sam was just the stage.
But for Sam, it made things
a whole lot clearer. Made it easier -- or as easy as it could be. It had
kept him sane. It had kept him from making a mistake that would have been
harder to recover from than being raped. If he had killed Dean in that
damp, dark place, Sam wasn't sure he would have recovered, or would have
wanted to. But some part of him knew that Dean wouldn't hurt him. Kick
his ass if it needed kicking, yes. They could make him doubt or question;
they couldn't make him believe that Dean would ever do anything but look
out for Sam, protect him -- even from himself. And he had.
Sam had wanted them all,
any that were listening in on those dying thoughts, to know he'd been the
one to put a bullet in Kerry's brain. Sympathy and empathy aside, he wanted
them to know if they wanted Dean they'd have to go through Sam. The reverse
had always been true.
Dean came out of the bathroom
and sat on the edge of Sam's bed.
"This is severely fucked
up, Sam," Dean said finally.
"I don't disagree. But we
are not fucked up. Or at least, no more than we were before," Sam said
and sat up as well.
"Maybe you should go finish
that degree," Dean said quietly.
Sam chewed on his lip and
got up, crossed the space between them and crouched, laying a hand on Dean's
neck to steady himself. Dean didn't flinch but he was already as tense
as a bowstring stretched tight. Sam looked up at him and Dean met
his gaze. His eyes were suspiciously bright in the darkness but it might
have been the light. "I only mean that at school you could--"
Before he could talk himself
out of it, Sam stretched up and pulled Dean's mouth down to his own. Dean's
mouth was open and Sam took advantage of it. It was awkward. Strange. A
little embarrassing to move his lips over his brother's mouth. He kept
his tongue to himself. It took Dean a second to realize it was happening,
to jerk his head back. Sam pulled him back into the kiss until Dean reached
up to tug Sam's hand away.
He didn't shove Sam, didn't
suddenly jump up or twist away.
"Sam, what are you doing?"
"Proving something. Actually,
a couple of things."
"Like what?"
Sam sank to his knees. "One,
if it had been any other guy but me that did that, I think you'd have decked
him." Sam wasn't entirely sure that was true -- he'd have to ask Dean later
-- much later. "Two, that I know you're you."
Dean took a deep breath,
and glared at him. "Okay, I'll probably give you number one, but two?"
"If I wasn't sure you are
my brother, do you think I'd have done that?" Sam asked seriously. "I know
you're you. I'm not so sure about anybody else."
"Sam, if kissing people is
how you prove to yourself they aren't shapeshifters, we've got a serious
problem here."
Sam smiled. "That wasn't
exactly the plan."
"Okay. But if kissing me
is how you prove to yourself that I'm me, we've still got a problem."
"I already knew you were
you. That's why I kissed you. So you'd know I know."
Dean squeezed his eyes shut
and rubbed his face. "Sam, your logic's making my head hurt."
"I did it because even if
you wanted to kiss me back, you wouldn't."
Dean studied his face, dropped
his gaze, and rubbed his hands together. Each movement distinct, separate.
"Okay, so you think you know…Sam, what if you're wrong?"
"Then I'll be wrong. It won't
be you. I still think I'd know."
Dean looked disturbed by
that, troubled. "And if I did kiss you back? Really, if it was me?"
Sam took a breath. "Then…I
think I'd still be okay."
"Jesus, Sam!" Dean said,
and stood up suddenly, making a space between them, pacing the distance
between the beds and the door. "Okay…shit. I should have held on to those
damn sheets. That card."
Sam twisted around and sat
on the floor. "What sheets?"
"The one's the doctor gave
me -- counseling and support centers…"
"In Milwaukee?" Sam said,
completely incredulously. "You go back to Milwaukee, you're on your own.
I'm planning on boycotting even their breweries."
"Sam, this is not funny,"
Dean said which only made it funnier to Sam. "You can not tell me that
before those…before this, you'd ever given two seconds thought to any of
this."
"And you'd be right. Mostly,"
Sam tempered. He hadn't spent four years at Stanford and never been hit
on by guys -- or having been hit on, never actually given it some considerations.
"But this did happen…"
"Which did not turn you queer."
"No. It didn't," Sam said
firmly. "And it didn't suddenly leave me with the hots for you, either."
"Then what the fuck is this
all about?" Dean said and came back, standing over him. Sam looked up,
and suddenly Dean dropped to his knees. "Sam…you know that even having
this discussion is totally nuts, right? Let me spell it out for you. Four
big bullet points," Dean said holding up his hand and four fingers. "One.
You are my brother. Two. You are my little brother. Three.
You are the youngest son of our Father and Mother. Four. You're
my brother.
"I think that's really three."
"Pretty much the first one
will do," Dean said flatly.
Sam looked away, then drew
his knees up and folded his arms across them. All he could see were the
shadows in the corner of the room, a slice of light coming through the
window, and beyond that a world of people that he couldn't trust to be
who they appeared to be. "You're not going to hurt me," he said finally.
"It's the only thing I'm sure of."
Out of the corner of his
eyes he saw Dean drop his chin, then move slowly until he was sitting next
to Sam, his own knees drawn up, shoulder pressing against Sam's. He laid
his head back on the bed, stretched his legs out and sighed.
They sat there in silence
for awhile; ten minutes, twenty, Sam wasn't sure. But he felt tired and
closed his eyes.
The slice of light across
the bed expanded, became a glimpse of sunlight beyond concrete pylons and
black stone. The damp sank into his bones, the smell of mold and brackish
water scared him. He wasn't bound or tied or sinking into thickened water,
but he couldn't turn around and look at the shadows behind him. He couldn't
move toward the daylight.
Sam.
The daylight grew brighter.
Sam.
It moved toward him. He just
had to wait for it.
"Sam." Dean's hand rubbed
gently between his shoulder blades, easing him out of sleep. "Come on,
bro'. Let's get you to bed."
His limbs felt stiff, and
from Dean's grunt he was stiff too. Sam half woke and found himself stretched
out over Dean's thighs, twisted around, both of them still on the floor.
Dean's thigh didn't make the greatest pillow and his brother's hiss told
Sam Dean's leg had fallen asleep.
But it was short climb to
the bed and Sam fell into it face down. Dean got up more slowly, then tried
to get Sam back under the sheets. Sam reached out and tugged at him. Between
being bent over and his leg, Dean almost fell on top of him.
"Sam…" he started and
then sighed. The mattress dipped when Dean just dropped onto his back beside
him.
Sam was so sleepy the thought
almost escaped him. "Dean…"
"Yeah."
"I'm never gonna hurt you
either."
Sam was halfway asleep when
Dean rolled on to his side. His arm rested on Sam's lower back and his
hand rubbed lightly between his shoulders. "I know, Sam. I figured that
one out all by myself."
Sam slept without worry.
~end~
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Author's
notes & further warnings: This story covers a lot of ground and
brushes up against societal taboos more than once. Warnings for violence,
rape, non-consensul sex, and emotional and physical manipulation. This
story is meant for Mature Audiences only.
I've taken great license
with the myths of Lilith and her grandchildren (sometimes called the Lilim).
Lilith was, in some accounts, the first and far more headstrong first wife
of the Biblical Adam. She was created as Adam was, from the earth, as opposed
to Eve, who was created from Adam's rib. I'm not going to comment on the
possible revisionist history of early old testament authors. In some traditions
because of her refusal to do what the angels of God told her, Lilith was
cursed by the death of a thousand of her children a day. In some myths
(which are also possibly revisionist) it's the daughters of Lilith and
Adam that married and gave children to Cain, the outcast, murdering son
of Adam and Eve. In some accounts, the Succubi and Incubi of legend are
her children.
In most references I could
find, Succubi and Incubi are manifestations of the same creature -- i.e.
the demon itself has no specific gender, it's just generally remarked that
the demons who visit women are incubi and the ones that visit men are succubi.
Their purpose is the same...to seduce and/or have sex with mortals, usually
while they sleep. They are the original gender-swapping-at-will demons.
Some version of Lilith and her children and grandchildren appear in the
cultures of most civilizations. The scope of powers they possess really
depends on which culture you're looking at but nearly all are creatures
of great sexual appetities, who may or may not visit permanent harm on
their victims. Tradition has it that Succubi (who are known to visit men)
are of fewer numbers than Incubi (who are known to tease and seduce and
rape women). Succubi and Incubi are considered demons, which in general
lore means their purposes for existence are often tied to how they exist.
One interesting footnote
I read among many is that in rare chance of offspring being born between
Succubi/Incubi and thier mortal lovers, the offspring often commit suicide.
They are unstable from the start, torn between two vastly different planes
of existance. That note and the episode Skin, obviously contributed
a great deal to the mythology used in this particular story. The shapeshifters
are not spritis or manifestations of spirits as many of the creatures encountered
in the show -- they have a physical presence and are not bound to a particular
place. They can move about, blend in, and go unnoticed for the most part
unless one of them does something to bring attention to itself.
It wasn't that much of a
stretch to make them psychic -- the episode did it first, but I thought
it interesing that Dean was unaware of the link. There's soem hint that
Sam is at least mildly psychic, if only in his dreams, that the ability
is nascent and untrained, played heavily into this.
But pretty much the rest
of it? I totally made up.
Warnings:
The
following is a work of fiction. It is meant for mature adults and deals
with mature and possibly disturbing themes. Forced to a category, it would
be dark fiction and containing both violence and sexual violence. It is
a horror story. It's also a love story.