Fic: But I've become what I can't be (3/3)

[caranfindel]

[ 9. Untie the weight bags, I never thought I could ]

Sam walks. He wants to run, wants to run for an hour and get into that zone where he's not thinking about anything, not feeling anything, just listening to the slap of his feet against pavement and the sound of his own breathing. But he's already wasted too much time. He doesn't have an hour to spare. So he walks around the block a couple of times to clear his head, which is kind of joke, because nothing ever clears out, it just gets pushed aside to be dealt with later. Okay, he wasted several hours. Nothing he can do about that now. Set it aside and move forward; concentrate on solving this case. Make sure no one else dies. He finds a quiet coffee shop where he can sit and make some calls, then gets a couple of coffees to go - a big one for Dean, an even bigger one for himself - and heads back to the motel.

Just do this. Just finish this.

Dean's sitting at the computer, his hair damp from showering. He peers up at Sam with a tentative smile. We cool?

Sam returns it, because that's the only way they can move forward. Yeah, we're cool. He sets Dean's coffee on the table.

Dean sniffs at the cup and looks expectantly at Sam. "No breakfast?"

"It's three o'clock."

"No lunch?"

Sam rolls his eyes. "Get suited up, man. We're going downtown. We can get some barbecue after."

Dean's mock pout turns into a real grin. "Good idea."

///

Showered and suited, Sam slips into the passenger seat and plugs the address into his phone.

"So," Dean says, "this chick we're talking to..."

"Chrissy Whitlow," Sam replies, relieved to jump back into the case. "Laura Lightner's publicist."

"I thought we were trying to find out about the bodyguard? You couldn't find anyone who knows him?"

"Well, according to everyone I talked to, Chrissy Whitlow knows everything and everybody. I think if there's anything to know, she knows it."

"Awesome. Let's hope she's in a talking mood."

///

Chrissy Whitlow's chipper assistant deposits them in her office with tall glasses of iced tea. When Whitlow herself breezes into the office, Sam jumps to his feet and nudges Dean to do the same. She's one of those women who could be sixty or forty or anywhere in between, with a trim figure and flawlessly made-up face. A Bluetooth device nestles on her ear under her perfectly tousled, artfully colored blonde hair. "Normally we could chat out on the patio," she says, nodding at a set of French doors behind them, "but it's just so cold! Did you Yankee boys bring the cold down with you?"

Sam politely drinks his tea, hiding a quick smirk as Dean sips at his own and grimaces at the syrupy sweetness. "Sorry about that, ma'am," he smiles. "Maybe we can get this case wrapped up soon, and take it back up north with us."

Dean rolls his eyes, clearly done with Sam's attempt to get into the woman's good graces. "Miss Whitlow," he says, all business, "What can you tell us about Bud Phillips?"

"Oh, Bud!" She lays a hand dramatically on her chest. "Good night! It just doesn't make any sense. I wouldn't believe it if he hadn't confessed. Bud was crazy about Laura."

"Crazy about her?" Sam asks. "You think he could have been jealous?"

"Oh no. It wasn't romantic at all. They've been dear friends for years, but that's all." She leans in, conspiratorily. "Bud liked men. Not that I care, you know? But it was sad, because Bud's people were always so religious, and they never could accept it."

"What about Laura? Did she go to church? She didn't happen to go to Bethel Pentecostal Church, did she?"

"Goodness, no," she laughs. "The truth is, she was a wedding-and-funeral kind of girl. Never stepped foot in a church unless she had to. It's not something we talk about, you know." She rolls her eyes. "In this town, if you want to get anywhere, you've got to be all about God and country. But no, Laura didn't have anything for church."

"So she wouldn't have sung in the church choir..." Dean raises his eyebrows almost imperceptibly, and Sam nods. There goes the angry choir director theory. Either Laura Lightner's death is unrelated to the Montrose and Kramer killings, or they weren't caused by dear old salted-and-crispy Miss Gwen after all. Dammit. They've wasted so much time. How many more people are going to die because he can't figure this one out?

"No, she never sang in a church choir," Chrissy answers. "And if she did, it certainly wouldn't be that church. She was there for the funeral, of course. But she wouldn't attend there regularly."

Dean perks up. "The funeral? Do you mean Belinda Montrose's funeral?"

"Yes, that's right. Randy's mother. The guitar player in her band." She leans in again, lowering her voice. "Randy's daddy killed his mama. So sad. Mercy killing, they say. On account of her cancer. But you just never know about people, do you?"

"No, ma'am," Sam smiles. "You never do. But what is it about that church? You seem to think she'd have something against Bethel in particular."

"Pentecostals." She shudders dramatically. "Bethel tries to be all high-class and uppity, but they're just a bunch of snake-handling, speaking-in-tongues Pentecostals. And if that weren't enough - and the good Lord knows it is - the church was founded by a murderer."

Sam almost chokes on a sip of tea. "Excuse me? A murderer? Pastor Fleming?"

"The very same." She leans back triumphantly, arms crossed. "I see you've heard of him. Y'all are aware that he claimed to be a faith healer, I assume."

Sam sneaks a look at Dean and catches his quick intake of breath. Faith healer. Dean doesn't exactly have a soft spot for faith healers.

"Well." Chrissy continues. "He started out with simply laying his hands on people. Harmless nonsense," she sniffs. "But people believed in him and his church kept getting bigger. And then... You know how con artists will pretend to be faith healers, and they'll act like they're removing a tumor from some poor old fool's abdomen, but they've really just got chicken parts hidden in their hand?"

"He was one of those?"

"Worse." She looks around, as if worried that spies would infiltrate her carefully-decorated office. "He actually cut a woman open and rooted around inside her, thinking he was pulling out her cancer."

"Jesus," Dean blurts. "That's fu - that's messed up."

"I know!" she nods. "Can you believe it? She died, of course, but they were able to keep it pretty quiet because she was terminal anyway. On her deathbed. Her family didn't want the spectacle. From what I understand, they were embarrassed to be involved in it, and who can blame them? Such nonsense." She exhales disdainfully. "So he was never charged. The whole thing was swept completely under the rug."

"And how do you know about this?" Sam asks. None of his research into the church had revealed anything quite so dark.

"Oh, you know. People talk. Most people nowadays think it's an urban legend. I'm sure no one in that huge fancy church thinks their dear Pastor Fleming could have killed anybody. But the woman who died? My great-aunt Millie knew her people." Chrissy waves a well-manicured hand. "Goodness! I do rattle on! I'm sorry. You didn't come here to listen to old Nashville gossip."

"Well, ma'am," Sam smiles, "it was definitely interesting." And possibly useful. "But we were hoping to find out more about Bud Philips. Can you think of any reason at all why he might have done this? Did he and Laura have a fight?

"No, never. Bud was always very protective of her, like she was his little sister."

"So you knew him pretty well?"

"Oh, yes. I'm close to all of them. Bud, the band. I've met their folks, too. A good publicist learns these things about her clients. The human touch, you know? It helps me come with an angle for their story."

Sam catches Dean's raised eyebrow again. After their emotional interviews with Darius Montrose and Cheryl Kramer, Chrissy Whitlow's businesslike approach is unsettling. But at least she's a fountain of information.

"And Bud was so worried about her health," she continues. "I swear, I don't understand why he would up and kill her!"

"Why was he worried about her health?"

"Well, she was diabetic, and she had a hard time controlling it. My aunt Jenny was the same way. Brittle, they used to call it. She was very brittle. That's why she never had children - her doctors said it could have killed her. Of course, that husband of hers was always out tomcatting around, so I imagine he managed to have a child or two, even if she couldn't!"

"I'm sorry," Sam says, confused. "Her husband? Laura's husband?"

"No, sweetie, my aunt Jenny's husband!" Chrissy pats Sam's arm familiarly. "Oh, goodness, I'm just rattling on again. You boys must be bored to tears. No, Laura wasn't married. She had a boyfriend, but he up and left her a month or so ago. But that's a whole 'nother story!" She pauses for an extravagant sigh and a sip of tea. "Poor Bud, he was heartbroken for her. Bud's mama died of diabetes, you know, so he was extra concerned about Laura, bless his heart. He was always hovering around her, carrying her supplies, asking when she last ate, making sure she tested. She thought it was sweet, but personally, I thought it was a little much."

So, Bud Phillips, loving and caring friend to Laura Lightner, gouges her open with a kitchen knife. Dean may disagree, since Dean is being unreasonably obtuse about this case, but she fits the pattern.

He glances at Dean, who gives him a subtle nod. "That's all the questions we have for today, ma'am. Here's my card." He pulls out a business card, checking to make sure it's the right one - who is he today? Osbourne? That's the one. "If you think of anything else, please give me a call."



[ 10. Steady feet don't fail me now, I'mma run till you can't walk ]

Sam may pick restaurants based on the availability of vegetables and free wifi, but Dean picks a barbecue place based on two things - the number of trucks in the parking lot, and the presence of a screen door. "Trust me, Sammy," he says. "The two most important indicators of a quality barbecue joint." He's right, of course; the food is stellar, and he plows through a plateful of ribs while Sam daintily - in comparison, anyway - eats something that requires a fork.

"So," Dean says, picking the meat off his last rib. "It's not Miss Gwen after all. Unless Lightner's not one of them." He gestures toward Sam. "Which is still a possibility, you have to admit."

"Dude," Sam smiles. "You realize you're literally waving a rib at me while you talk about a woman who was split from pelvis to sternum."

Sam's in a better mood, considering how pissed off he was when Dean let him sleep. And maybe it just proves Dean was right, and he did need the rest. Or maybe he's trying to throw him off-guard. Either way, Dean's going to appreciate it while it lasts. "If you can't stand the heat, get out of the kitchen." He grins and drains the last of his beer. "What do you think? Different pissed-off ghost? Someone the faith healer couldn't heal? Maybe that last cancer patient?"

"Maybe," says Sam. He catches their waitress's eye and holds up two fingers and his still half-full bottle of beer, and that's... uncharacteristic.

"Uh, Sam? You trying to get me drunk?"

Sam shrugs. "Nothing you've ever complained about before." The waitress appears with two fresh bottles and whisks Dean's empty away. And he's not complaining, really he's not. After everything that's happened, nothing sounds more appealing than simply having a drink (or two or three or four) with his brother and forgetting it all for a while.

On the other hand, the last time Sam got drunk, he made Dean promise to kill him. So. Maybe not so appealing after all.

"I guess you and Dad used to drink together more than we do," Sam says. He's speaking kind of slowly, as if he's choosing his words carefully. Dad's still a minefield.

"Yeah, I guess." Dean takes a long draw and tries to decide whether he wants to reminisce.

"Dean... what did Dad say at the end, exactly?"

Um, no. Dean does not want to reminisce at all. "I told you what he said."

"No, you really didn't. You told me the gist of it, but what exactly did he say?"

"Exactly? Why the fuck you wanna know exactly what he said?"

"Dammit, Dean -"

"Drop it, Sam," Dean warns him.

But of course Sam can't let it go; he's like a dog on a goddamn bone. "He was my father too. You don't think I should know what his last words were? Especially since they were about me?"

"And is that gonna make it any better? Knowing the words? I mean, he told me that if I couldn't save you, from whatever it was that I have to save you from, that I was gonna have to take you out. Like putting down a rabid dog. Is there a good way to say that? Is there some wording he could have used that's gonna make that okay?"

Sam stares at his beer bottle for a minute and begins peeling off the label. "It's not a bad analogy, you know," he finally says. "A rabid dog."

"Goddammit, Sam."

"No, really," he continues, still focused on his bottle. "I mean, a dog gets rabies. It's not the dog's fault. You feel bad for the dog; it doesn't deserve rabies. But you can't let it run around killing people just because it's not the dog's fault, right?" He looks up and meets Dean's eyes. "You've got to put aside your feelings about the dog and just do what has to be done."

"Oh, for fuck's sake! What do you think this is, Old Yeller or something? And you keep ignoring the other half of this. He said I had to save you. If I couldn't save you, that's when I had to... to whatever." Dean tips his beer back, swallowing the last of it. "And I am gonna save you, from whatever it is. So it doesn't matter."

"And you really don't know what it is you're supposed to save me from," Sam says.

"No, Sam, I really don't. You think I'm lying?"

Sam leans back in his chair, silently staring at Dean, his lips pressed together in a thin line. When he finally speaks, his voice is as sharp as shattered glass. "I just think you went pretty quickly from Dad didn't say anything at the end to Oh yeah, Dad said I might have to kill you. So maybe you forgot about that part. And maybe you forgot to tell me something else, too."

Fucking Sam. Maybe Dean just couldn't talk about it yet. Maybe he just needed to pretend it didn't happen. Maybe he was trying to convince himself Dad was delusional there at the end, until Sam blew that theory out of the water by being immune to some goddamn mysterious demonic virus.

Dean's plate of discarded bones stares up at him like a hunter's funeral pyre, cracked and bloody and singed, and he's going to vomit if he has to keep looking at it. He lurches to his feet, pulls out his wallet, and slams some money on the table. "I haven't forgotten anything," he growls. Because the universe will not fucking let him.

He stomps out of the restaurant, sinks into the Impala, turns the key, and lets the music wash over him. The thing with Dad, with Sam, it's like a broken rib, or a dislocated finger that won't stay popped back into place. It's just a low-grade pain that's there all the goddamn time, and when he manages to forget it for a bit, manages to start living his life again, it sends a jolt down his spine to remind him that it's still there. And shit, he's tired of it.

After a few minutes, he's hit with a burst of cool air as the door opens and Sam slides into the passenger seat. He's silent for a minute, a minute Dean spends staring at the steering wheel, or his own hands, or anything else but Sam. "It's just... not knowing what could happen," Sam finally says.

"Listen," Dean groans. "I know, without a doubt, that you are not going to hurt any innocent people. Okay? You're not even capable of it. I know this."

"Yeah, and two years ago you knew, without a doubt, that I wasn't capable of having psychic visions. So, there's that."

And, well, Dean doesn't really have a response for that. Other than the response he's always given, it won't happen because I'm not going to let it happen, and that doesn't really work any longer, does it?

"It's freaking me out, okay?" Sam continues. "And I know it's freaking you out too."

Yes, it is, it's freaking him the fuck out, but he can't let Sam know that, because it doesn't matter, he's not going to kill his little brother, so there's nothing to freak out about. And even if there was, one of them has to stay sane. And he still can't look at Sam. "You really think I can do that," he says, still staring straight ahead. "Just. Just fucking murder you."

"Not murder," Sam says quietly. "Just putting down a rabid dog. Mercy killing. Euthanasia."

"Hunt you. Like Gordon fucking Walker."

"No, not like Gordon. This is different."

"How?" Dean snaps. "How is it different?"

Sam sighs and rubs his eyes. "Gordon wanted to kill me pre-emptively, before I showed any signs. I'm not asking you to do that. I just need you to watch me. You know me better than anyone, Dean. You'll know if I'm going darkside. And then you'll need to stop me. But not until then."

"Jesus, Sam." That's not any different. Sam still ends up dead.

"And yes, I do think you can do it," Sam says. "Because that's what you do. You save people. And if you need to take me out to save people, I think you can do it."

Dean groans in frustration. "If I save people, can we just assume I'm going to save you? Can we just agree on that, and forget about the rest of it? For now, anyway? Please?"

Sam's quiet for a minute. "Yeah, sure," he mumbles eventually. But he's clearly not ready to drop it altogether, and Dean wonders how long this reprieve will last.

The drive back to the motel is sullenly silent. Tennessee has been an absolute bust. Dean was hoping for blue skies and warm breezes and maybe even a girl, a long-legged Southern belle with an accent as thick and sweet as honey, to distract him from the shitstorm his life has turned into. And instead it's cold and gray and he just lost half his family and Sam's trying to get him to throw away the other half and this fucking case is a stark reminder of everything he's trying his damnedest not to think about right now.

He's had a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach ever since he woke up in the hospital, choking on whatever had been shoved down his throat, something that wasn't just an oxygen tube. He feels like he's been hollowed out; like his father's last words were a dull knife that scraped out his insides, scraped out everything he was supposed to be.

Maybe it's so cold because all of his own goddamn ghosts are following him.

///

When they get back to the hotel, Sam sits down to find out what he can about Bud Phillips. Dean's too restless to stay in the room, too afraid of what Sam's going to say; he's got to get out.

"I think I'm going to go check out the church," he says, slipping the EMF reader into his pocket. "See if I find anything." Sam nods, tosses a be safe over his shoulder, and Dean accepts it for the apology that it is.

He takes the pedestrian overpass across the highway, pausing to watch the clueless motorists again. It's dark, and the headlights of the oncoming cars look like pairs of malevolent yellow eyes. He thinks about his brother muttering through his nightmare in the car, and wonders if Sam sees yellow eyes when he dreams about Dad. Or maybe it's just Dean. Like it's just Dean who remembers the feel of the demon hand inside him, burning, squeezing, wringing the life out of him, who wakes up from those dreams patting himself down and checking that the dampness making his shirt stick to his skin is sweat and not blood.

The door to the old church, the office wing, is locked. Dean walks over to the sanctuary building and easily pushes the massive door open. It's softly lit, but he doesn't see anyone inside. He needs to walk around with the EMF meter, but he can't bring himself to take it out of his pocket. He sits on the last pew, mindlessly running his thumb back and forth over the plush red velvet cushion, and tries to think about the job. Tries to care.

"Son? Can I help you?"

The voice is gentle, but in the cavernous quiet of the church, it makes Dean jump. The speaker is an older man in a dark suit, with thinning hair and kind eyes. "I'm sorry," Dean stammers, standing quickly. "I was, ah, I was looking for Pastor Clark. Is he here?"

The man takes a seat in the pew next to Dean and peers at him over his glasses. "He's not, but I'm a pastor here too. Perhaps there's something I can help you with?"

What the hell. This guy's older than Clark; he might know more of the backstory. Dean sits down again. "I'm from the FBI," he says, reaching for his ID. "Agent Rhodes. I was talking to Pastor Clark about the history of the church, and I just had a few more questions. But maybe you can answer them, Pastor..."

He waits for the pastor to fill in the blank with his name, but when he looks up, he's thrown by the man's kind but freakishly intense stare. He doesn't show any interest in Dean's fake ID, but just pins him down with his steady gaze and says "The history of the church? Is that really the question you want answered?"

Huh.

Actually, no, it's not.

Actually, the question Dean really wants answered is what the fuck is going on with my little brother? What am I supposed to save him from, and how am I going to do it?

"Son," the pastor says softly. "There's someone very important to you. Someone who needs help."

"Yes." Yes, oh god, yes. Someone I have to save but I can't, I don't know how.

"How can I help you? Who is it that you're trying to save?"

Without hesitation, Dean says "My brother. Help me save my brother."

The man smiles. "But Dean," he says, "you already know how to save him."

And suddenly he realizes this kind old man is right. Dean knows exactly what is wrong with Sam, and he knows how to fix it.

The dark cloud of worry and fear that's been following him for months, ever since Dad whispered in his ear, begins to lift. It's going to be okay. Sam is going to be okay. Dean laughs with joy and relief. It's hard to believe the answer has eluded him for so long - it's so beautifully simple.



[ 11. Something pulls my focus out and I'm standing down ]

It takes Sam about twenty minutes to crack into the Nashville medical examiner's database. He's surprised Laura Lightner's preliminary autopsy report is actually ready, not even 24 hours after her death, but presumably she got the celebrity special treatment. The report uses cold, clinical language to describe a gruesome scene. Ligature marks on her wrists and ankles. A 12-inch wound gouged into her abdomen and stretched open, internal organs shoved aside. Why go to all that trouble, Sam wonders again. This isn't how you murder someone. This is something else. And then...

Fetus, approximately 12 weeks gestation, partially removed from the uterus.

What?

Oh, shit. Laura was pregnant. And Bud Phillips tried to cut the baby out of her.

With a shudder, Sam opens a new tab and searches for images of Laura Lightner and Bud Phillips. He finds what he's looking for quickly - apparently Belinda Montrose's funeral was well-covered by paparazzi, both professional and amateur. There's Laura, with her bodyguard, entering Bethel Pentecostal Church. There's Bud, apparently on his way out, shaking Pastor Clark's hand on the huge steps. All of the killers were at the church right before the killings took place. The common denominator isn't just the victims, it's the killers.

The victims were all sick, in one way or another. What did the killers have in common, other than being at the church? They didn't appear to have any incentive to harm the people they killed. In fact, they all had reasons to be protective of them.

Suddenly something clicks into place. He grabs his phone, flicks through the recently dialed numbers, and stops on Chrissy Whitlow.

"Hello, Ms. Whitlow, this is Agent Osbourne again. I hope I'm not bothering you at a bad time. I just have one more question, and I know it's going to sound odd. Randall Montrose's mother had cancer, right? Well, you seem to be pretty close to the family." (Actually, you seem to be a gossipy busybody, which is probably why Laura didn't tell you she was pregnant.) "Do you happen to know what type of cancer she had? Where it started?"

"Oh, yes!" she exclaims, sounding excited to have information worth sharing. "It was all up in her spine and her brain, but it started in her throat. Esophageal cancer."

And her loving husband carved up her throat. Butchered it. Like he was trying to cut something out of her.

"Thank you, Ms. Whitlow. That's very helpful. You have a nice evening."

Sam clicks his phone shut. Paul Kramer had a monstrous disease lurking in his brain, and his mother smashed his skull. Laura Lightner had a high-risk pregnancy, a fetus inside her belly that could kill her, and her close friend and protector tried to rip it out of her. And Darius Montrose carved up his beloved wife's throat, right where her cancer started.

He's pretty sure he knows what's going on, and he's got a theory about what's behind it. And he really, really needs to talk to Dean. He jumps when the phone buzzes in his hand. "Dean? I was just about to call you. Are you still at the church?"

"Yeah," Dean replies. "You need to come over here."

"What did you find?"

"I don't want to try to explain it over the phone. Just get over here. I'm in the main part."

"What, the sanctuary?"

"I don't know, Sam." Dean sounds annoyed. "The part where the people sit. With the stage."

Sam laughs. "That's the sanctuary. I'll see you in a minute. I found something too. I think I know what's going on.

"Tell me when you get here."

///

Sam takes the steps of the pedestrian bridge two at a time. From the top of the bridge, he can see that the office wing of the church is dark and the parking lot is deserted. The huge sanctuary is lit from within, its stained glass windows glowing softly. The ornate wooden door is open just a crack. He slips inside and pulls the door closed behind him. Dean is at the front, leaning against the carved communion table.

"Hey," Sam says as he trots up the aisle. The word echoes in the vast empty sanctuary, and he lowers his voice. "I think I figured out the commonality. Laura Lightner was pregnant. She would have been really high risk, with her diabetes so out of control."

"Huh," Dean says. "Come up here."

Sam mounts the steps, feeling vaguely uneasy for some reason. Maybe because it seems inappropriate for him to be up here, or maybe because Dean seems... off.

"Bud tried to cut the fetus out of her," he continues. "And Belinda Montrose's cancer -"

"C'mere, Sam," Dean interrupts, waving him closer. "Stand right here. I want to show you something."

Dean steps aside and Sam takes his place, with his back against the massive communion table. "What am I looking at?" he asks.

But all he sees is Dean's fist.



[ 12. Yeah I know that everyone gets scared, but I've become what I can't be ]

Sam's unconscious body slumps backward onto the huge communion table, just as Dean planned. He quickly pulls him all the way onto it - or as close as he can get; those stupidly long legs are still dangling a little off the edge, but it will be okay - and works his coat and suit jacket off. He ties Sam's wrists and ankles to the carved legs, and loops another rope around his neck; not enough to choke him, just enough to keep him still. Sam really, really needs to hold still for this. He's barely finished before he hears Sam's awakening moan, and he moves into his line of vision. "Hey, Sammy," he says, as his brother begins to jerk at the ropes. "Don't panic. It's okay."

"What the fuck, Dean?" Sam blinks at him, confused. "What happened?"

"I'm sorry, man," Dean says. And he is sorry. He hates having to knock him out, tie him down, frighten him. But he instinctively knows Sam won't go along with his plan, that he'll fight him every step of the way. And in the long run, this is for his own good. "Don't worry. This won't take long."

"What won't take long?" Sam's voice rises in panic. "What are you doing?"

Dean wishes Sam could feel his joy. "I'm saving you. I know what's wrong with you, and I know how to fix it."

Sam doesn't believe it. He doesn't understand. He struggles as Dean unbuttons his shirt. "Please, Dean. You don't know what you're doing. This isn't you. You've got to get control. This isn't you, Dean!"

Dean nods and tries to sound reassuring. "It's okay, Sammy. I know you're scared, but it will only hurt for a little bit, and then you'll be fixed."

Sam's eyes widen when Dean takes out the knife; he flinches as Dean slides it beneath his undershirt and slices it open. "What are you going to do?" he says. "How are you going to fix me?"

Sam looks terrified - pale and trembling, straining against the rope at his throat, struggling to free his bound wrists and ankles - and it breaks Dean's heart. He wishes he could make him understand how important this is. But in the end, he doesn't have to understand. After all, you don't explain to a baby why he's getting a measles shot. You just do it. It hurts a little bit, and then he's okay, and he's protected. Safe. And that's what Dean does. He keeps Sam safe.

"Don't worry," he says, trying to keep his voice calm and soothing. But it's so hard to stay calm; his pulse races with the exhilaration of saving Sam. "Whatever this curse is? The thing Dad was worried about? I know how to get rid of it. I'm just going to cut it out of your heart. It's so simple, man. I don't know why I didn't think of it before."

Sam swallows hard and stares into Dean's eyes as if he's trying to reach someone behind them. "Cut out my heart? That will kill me, Dean," he says calmly. "Do you understand that? If you cut out my heart, I'll die. I know you're in there somewhere, Dean. I know you don't want to kill me. Please don't do this."

Dean laughs. "I'm not cutting out your heart, genius. I'm cutting something out of your heart. There's a curse in there and I have to get it out." Poor Sam. He really doesn't get it. But that's okay; it will be over soon and he'll be healed. Clean. Dean positions the knife over Sam's chest. He pictures a dark, cold spot in Sam's heart, like a tumor that needs to be removed. He visualizes the muscle he'll have to cut through, the rib he'll have to break, to get to it. He places his left palm on Sam's chest and spreads his thumb and forefinger, planning where to make his cut.

"Dammit, Dean! I know you're in there! Stop this! Please, Dean!"

"Shhh, Sammy." He's fighting it so hard, he's rubbed his wrists raw and bloody, and his breathing is ragged against the rope at his throat. "It's okay. I'll do it so quick; you won't feel a thing."

Suddenly Sam's eyes widen with understanding. "No, Dean. Don't do it fast. Do it slow. Do it as slow as you can. Please."

"Slow?" Dean is relieved Sam isn't fighting, but he's confused. "Slow will hurt. Why do you want me to do it slow?"

"I just do. Please. It's very important to me. I'll stop fighting if you promise to do it as slowly as possible, okay?" Sam's eyes are pleading; Dean can't say no to him. He nods, and slowly draws the blade through the skin, making a long, shallow cut over Sam's heart. Blood wells up and drips down the side of Sam's chest. He grimaces; his whole body stiffens. "Are you watching, Dean?" he says through clenched teeth. "Are you paying attention? Are you looking at it?"

Dean laughs. "Of course I'm watching. You think I can find your heart with my eyes closed?" He pushes the knife back into the cut, working it deeper. Slowly, because Sam asked. More blood wells out of the cut, pooling in the hollow of Sam's throat, dripping over the side of the communion table, spattering onto Dean's shoes. The blood makes Dean uncomfortable. Something pricks at the edge of his consciousness. He reminds himself of the curse, a dark stowaway in Sam's heart. Get rid of it. Get it out of Sam.

"Dean," Sam gasps. "Listen. This is important. I need you to know that I understand what's going on, and I know it's not your fault." His voice breaks. "Do you hear me? Do you understand? I know why this is happening, and I don't blame you. Please don't blame yourself."

Dean stares at Sam in confusion. If he knows what's happening, why does he think Dean would blame himself for anything? Dean is saving him. Dean's going to be the hero.

"No! Don't look at my face!" Sam pleads. "Look at the cut. Look at what you're doing. Look at it, Dean. Concentrate on it. Look at the blood. Please, God, look at the blood."

Dean frowns and goes back to his work, sliding the knife deeper and deeper, exposing a white flash of bone as Sam writhes. Of course I'm concentrating. I have to concentrate. This is so important. It's the most important thing I've ever done. There is a roaring in his ears, but he doesn't let it distract him. I'm going to save Sam, right here and now. Save Sam. Protect Sam. Jesus, look at all the blood. Keep going. It's the only way to save Sam. Save Sam. That's what I do, I save Sam. I protect Sam. The roaring is louder and louder and it sounds, it sounds familiar, it sounds bad, it sounds like - what? It sounds like Sam, screaming in pain. Screaming in pain and bleeding and fuck, blood is everywhere, Sam's blood, why is Sam so bloody, I have to save him, save Sam protect Sam and shit, I'm the one hurting him, I'm the one holding the fucking knife and cutting my little brother open, slicing my way down to his fucking heart, and I'm going to kill him and he forgives me because he knows, he knows, oh God, I am trying to cut out part of Sam's heart -

The knife clatters to the floor.

"Sam? Sammy?" The roaring (the screaming, Sam's screaming) has stopped. Dean yanks off his shirt and presses it to the wound.

Sam is calm now, gray and still, eyes clenched tightly shut, quietly murmuring look at the blood, look at the blood. His breaths are rapid and shallow, and Dean can feel his heart beating (oh God his heart why why why?) through the bloody shirt. For just a fleeting moment, he almost knows what he was doing. Why he was doing it. It's like a name he can't remember, on the tip of his tongue. Then it's gone, and Dean's standing there, hands slick with his brother's blood, and he has no idea why.

"Sam?" he croaks. "Jesus, Sam, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I don't know, I don't know, what the fuck, Sam? Can you hear me?" He pats Sam's face with his free hand. "Sam? Sam!"

Sam opens his eyes and gives Dean a weak smile. "Hey," he says quietly. "You're back."

"Oh, God" says Dean, pressing on the bloody shirt with one hand while he fumbles for the knife on the floor with the other. "I don't know what the fuck just happened here." He slices the ropes with a shaking hand. "I don't know why I did that, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I don't know-"

"I do," Sam says, still quietly. So quietly. It's so quiet in here now. "I know why you did it. I know it's not your fault, okay? It's not your fault. Whatever happens, it's not your fault."

"Shut up, Sam. Nothing's gonna happen. I'm getting you to a hospital right now and you're gonna be okay and nothing's gonna happen, you got me? You're gonna be okay."



Sam's eyelids flutter open and he squints in confusion, then anxiety, as he realizes he's in a hospital. Dean's done this too many times. He's watched Sam do this way too many times. Then Sam recognizes him, gives him a quick once-over to make sure he's alive and well, and closes his eyes again.

"So, uh. Those Satan worshippers you pissed off. I told the cops about them."

Sam nods. Even when he's barely conscious, he understands the importance of matching stories. His eyes slide open again and trace the path of the IV in his forearm.

"Blood," Dean says. "You, ah, you lost some blood. They're just topping you off."

Sam nods again. "We doing a dine-and-dash?" he mumbles.

"Nah, we're here till they kick us out. We're not leaving until I know for sure you're okay." Dean pauses. Jesus Christ. Nut up, Winchester. "I have no idea why I did that, Sam. I can't explain it. I can't even begin to explain it."

"It's okay. I know it's not your fault."

"Yeah, so you said. You seemed pretty sure you knew exactly why it happened."

"I think so." Sam's more alert now, though he's not trying to sit up. "I think it was Pastor Fleming, the faith healer. Well, his spirit. I think he takes protective instincts and twists them into overdrive."

"No, wait," Dean stumbles over this information in his head. "That doesn't make any sense. If I was trying to protect you, why did I...?" He can't finish that thought, because the end of it is try to kill you.

"Remember the woman who had the tumor? And he thought he was ripping it out? All of the victims had something inside them that was harming them. Darius Montrose tried to cut out his wife's cancer. It started in her throat." Dean has a vivid picture of Belinda Montrose's butchered throat in his mind's eye, and yeah, that makes a sick kind of sense. "Laura Lightner was the same way. She had a high risk pregnancy, and Bud tried to cut it out of her. But Cheryl Kramer was different. Paul had schizophrenia, and that's not a literal thing, like a tumor or a baby, but she still tried to get it out of his brain, like it was something physical she could pluck out."

Sam pauses, like he expects Dean to say something that pulls it all together. After a few seconds he looks away and says "He made you think you could rip something bad out of me. You kept telling me you were going to fix me, that you were getting something out of my heart."

And oh, shit, Dean gets it. Whatever the hell is going on with Sam, Dean was trying to carve it out of his brother's heart. "Fuck. Sam," he says. "You know that wasn't really me, right? You know I'm not walking around on a daily basis thinking there's something bad inside you that I need to cut out."

Sam closes his eyes and doesn't respond for a minute. He doesn't open them when he finally speaks. "Those people all had something that was harming them. Something inside them. Belinda's cancer, Laura's pregnancy, Paul's schizophrenia. And they all had someone who took care of them, who loved them, that wanted it gone."

Sam's looking at Dean now, silently, like he's trying to decide what to say, or how to say it, or if it should be said at all. "Dean?" he says softly. "Tell me the truth. Do you know what's wrong with me?"

"Other than the fact that I tried to fucking kill you?"

"No, not that. You were pretty convinced there was something in my heart. Is that what Dad told you? Is that's wrong with me? Is that what the demon meant? There's something about my heart?" He takes a deep breath. "I mean I know, it's just symbolic. The heart is just a muscle; it's not like it really holds your soul or your inherent goodness or anything like that. But if Dad told you I was basically evil, that it was part of what I am, when you were in the trance you could have interpreted that, you know, as my heart. Like Paul's mother trying to get something out of his brain." Dean stares at him, dumbfounded. "Do I have... am I... what did Dad know?"

Oh, Jesus. "Sam, please, don't."

"Dean. If you know, tell me. Do I have some kind of evil in me? In my heart? Is that why the demon had plans for me?"

If there's one thing Dean knows about his brother, it's that he doesn't have evil in his heart. "No, man, no. I'm sorry. I don't know. If Dad knew, he didn't tell me. All he said was that I had to save you, and if I couldn't, I might have to kill you. I don't know what I have to save you from. I don't know why that asshole made me think it was in your heart. I don't know. I'm sorry."

"Okay." Sam's voice is quiet and sad, and disappointed, like it would make it better if you knew why your brother might have to kill you, why he was willing to slowly carve out your heart...

"Hey, Sam? Why'd you let me do that?"

"Let you?" Sam raises his bandaged arm to point at himself, his jaw bruised, his throat purple and red. "What part of this says I let you do anything?"

"I mean, I remember you telling me to do it slow. What the fuck was that all about? Why did you want me to do it slow?"

"You remember that?"

"Yeah. That's the first thing I remember. You telling me to do it slow and to look at what I was doing." (The blood, God, the blood.)

"I wanted you to see the blood. Cheryl and Darius both said they saw the blood and then they woke up. Like they knew what they'd done as soon as they saw the blood. So I thought, you know, maybe the sight of the blood snapped them out of the spell. It didn't occur to me until..." Sam's voice trails off.

"Until I tried to kill you. You just figured that out right then and there." Right as I was slicing my way down to your heart. "God, Sam. I am so sorry."

Sam grins weakly. "It was a pretty good theory. And I was right."

"Yeah, you were right." And if you'd been wrong, I would have just slowly and painfully carved your fucking heart right out of your chest. "But why the hell is this happening in the first place? You got a brilliant theory about that?

"Honestly, the only thing I can think of is Pastor Clark. It could be his prayers for healing are accidentally triggering it. He prayed for Belinda. I'm sure he prayed for Paul. I know Bud Phillips talked to him at Belinda's funeral, and maybe he asked him to pray for Laura. Doesn't matter. If we get rid of whatever is holding Fleming here, that should take care of it."

Good old Pastor Clark, who was so concerned about Sam's well-being... "Wait a minute. That son of a bitch prayed for you!"

Sam laughs a little, then winces and puts a hand to his chest. The chest that Dean just carved up and no, no, fuck, stop thinking about it, stop picturing what would have happened if Sam hadn't figured it out, stop imagining coming out of that trance to find yourself standing over Sam's bloody corpse, just fucking stop.

Dean stands up, because he has to do something that doesn't involve looking at his brother's pale, bruised face and bandaged body. He checks the progress of Sam's blood transfusion. "Looks like you're almost done here. How do you feel?"

Sam takes a deep breath. "This is why you have to do it, Dean," he says. "If it comes to it."

Dean whirls around to face him. "No, Sam. This is why I can't do it. You've got no idea how I feel right now. You don't know what it feels like," he says, slapping his palm on his chest, "knowing I almost killed you. And this time it wasn't even intentional. How the fuck am I supposed to kill you on purpose? How am I gonna feel after that? How am I supposed to live with that?"

"How's it gonna feel if you don't?" Sam says softly. "I'm sorry, I know it's not fair that it's all on you, but it is. How will you feel if you let me go darkside, and civilians end up dead? What if I kill someone? What if I hurt you, Dean? You're gonna make me live with that?" Sam's voice breaks, and Dean wants to say, to hell with the civilians, Sam. Just once, can't we be more important? Just this once? He wants to say, watching you burn the world couldn't be any worse than watching you die at my hand. He wants to say a lot of things. But he doesn't. There's no point. He collapses back into the chair and very carefully avoids looking at Sam, because that's going to break him right now.

Sam takes silence for assent, composes himself, and continues. "Dean? If it comes down to that. If you do have to do it." He bites his lip and looks at Dean warily, like he expects him to stop him. But Dean's going to let him finish; he owes him that much. "I don't want to know, okay? I don't want to see you or know it's coming. Just sneak up behind me or do it in my sleep if you can. I don't want to watch."

Again. Sam doesn't want to watch Dean try to kill him again.

So this is where they are. They're negotiating how Dean's going to kill his little brother. Okay then. He scrubs a tired hand down his face and sits hunched over, elbows on his knees, staring at Sam's blood still caked under his fingernails. He'd do anything for Sam, except the one thing he wants most, and he doesn't know how he got here. He doesn't know how this is his life.

"You know, if I ever have to put a bullet in your brain, I'll need a second one for me, right?"

At one time, Sam would have fought him. At one time he did fight him - in that exam room in Oregon, steadily and stupidly insisting that it didn't have to be over for Dean, that he could kill his brother in cold blood and the world would keep on turning. But now Sam doesn't fight. He just turns away, staring at nothing. "As long as you do me first," he says quietly. "Please."

It's words. It's just words. Words like it's going to be okay or it was just a nightmare, it's not going to come true. Or nothing bad's going to happen to you as long as I'm around. Words, it turns out, don't mean anything. But there is one thing he can tell him, one thing he can make true.

"It's okay, Sammy," Dean says. "I won't let you hurt anyone. I promise."



Back to chapter 2