Fic: If I Have Freedom (7/15)

[jedisapphire]

Chapter VI: Back from the Mouth of Hell

Chapter VII: Things which Cannot Be

Dean kept one eye on Sam as he drove.

His brother was riding shotgun. Dean had insisted on the seatbelt, despite Sam's mutterings about how they never used seatbelts.

"Technically I shouldn't even be letting you in the front seat," Dean pointed out. "You need a car seat at the very least."

"Dean!"

"So… seatbelt."

Dean had been grateful he'd insisted on that when a passing patrol car stopped them on their way out of town. Dean had cursed softly - he had just been going twenty over the limit, that shouldn't even count as speeding, damn it! - and pulled over, hoping the guy wouldn't want to open the trunk and Sam wouldn't have an attack. He thought it would be all right: Sam was half asleep, and as long as nobody raised their voice and no shots were fired, it should stay that way.

He rolled down the window.

"Officer?"

"Going a little fast there, weren't you, son? What's the hurry?"

"I -"

The officer bent to see inside. "You really shouldn't have a kid that young up front with you."

"I know," Dean said, putting on his best ingratiating smile. "But he hates riding in the back alone. He's very good, though, never gets in my way when I'm driving."

"Is he OK? He looks kind of sick."

"Just recovering from the flu. He gets a little tired out still. That's why I let him sit up here. I want to be able to keep an eye on him."

"I suppose that's why you were speeding, too."

Dean opened his mouth, trying to think of something, but fortunately Sam chose that moment to open his eyes and blink blearily at Dean.

"Sammy?" Dean asked. "You OK, there, kiddo?"

Sam, still not really awake, looked from Dean to the police officer. Nothing changed in his expression, but Dean saw the tiny flicker in his eyes, too tiny for anyone else to notice, that said that no matter what state his body was in, Sam's brain was up and running.

"Look," the officer said with a sigh, "put your son in the back and we won't say any more about it."

Sam stared at the officer, eyes widening, lips twisting into a pout, looking as though he might start crying any minute. Dean had to choke down a laugh: Sam was good. He himself was about ready to give Sam anything he wanted to take that expression off his face, and he knew it was fake.

The officer groaned and shook his head. "Why does this happen to me? I'm not out to hurt you, kid… Fine, just - just go. Don't have any accidents."

Dean thanked him, waiting till he was out of earshot to tell Sam, "Next time I complain about the eyes, you sock me one, OK?"

Sam gave him a tiny smile before curling up against the door and shutting his eyes again.

Dean drove till they reached a deserted stretch of road where they'd often stopped before, for beer or to stretch their legs, on their way to and from Bobby's. He pulled onto the shoulder, got out, and went around to the passenger side to open the door, undo the seatbelt, and help Sam out.

A dirt path led from the road to a small clearing in the trees. Dean carried Sam to the clearing and put him down in the middle of it.

"Stay where I can see you," he warned, and settled down at the edge of the clearing with his back to one of the trees to watch Sam.

Normally Sam would have been using the time to pace, needing to stretch his freakishly long legs after being cramped up in the Impala. Now he seemed a little drowsy and uncoordinated, although glad for the fresh air, as he wandered around the clearing. Dean let him be: he could see Sam; it was a small clearing so he could get to him in a few seconds if there was a problem; and the ground was soft dirt so Sam wouldn't really hurt himself even if he tripped.

The winter air was cold. Dean shivered, huddling into his jacket and feeling very grateful to Bobby for remembering to get a couple of small hoodies for Sam.

The winter air was too cold.

Dean was instantly alert. "Sam, come here."

He scrambled to his feet and met Sam halfway, snatching him up and holding him close with one arm, pulling out his shotgun with his other hand. He felt the unnatural chill again and he knew he'd been right - they weren't alone.

"Dean?" Sam whispered. His body was four but his mind wasn't: he knew what the cold meant as well as Dean did.

"I've got you," was all Dean said.

Damn it! Just their luck for some supernatural fugly to show up now, when he'd finally managed to get Sam out of the house for a bit and Sam had actually gone a whole hour awake - well, kind ofawake - without memories or screaming. He should've known it couldn't last.

A twig snapped behind him and Dean whirled, squeezing off a shot.

There was nothing but the echo of laughter in the air.

"Damn it," Dean hissed.

"Dean, put me down."

"Don't be an idiot."

"You can't do this, Dean! You can't hunt with a four-year-old. Just put me down and deal with whatever it is and I'll wait till you're done."

"Not happening, Sammy."

"But -"

"Sammy."

Sam sighed, sounding like he thought Dean was an idiot - which was rich, coming from him. But he settled down and stopped arguing.

Then the noise came again - closer.

Dean spun, looking for the source. Before he could find it, something slammed into the back of his head and he went down into darkness, losing his grip on both the gun and Sam.

Sam managed to roll out of the way just in time to keep Dean from falling on him. He scrambled to his feet and ran to his brother.

"Dean!" He shook him. No response. "Dean!"

Sam couldn't turn Dean over to check him, he was too damn heavy and for some reason his hands and arms simply refused to work the way they normally did. He did manage to check his brother's pulse, which was steady, so Dean was probably all right and not concussed and would wake up in a couple of minutes.

Meanwhile, though, there was something in the clearing with them. Sam could sense it like a whisper on the wind.

Sammy.

Oh, brilliant. A spirit that knew his name. That was -

Dean was picked up and thrown into a tree. Sam couldn't keep himself from yelling as his brother collapsed bonelessly to the ground.

Sammy.

Crap. Crap. The thing, whatever it was, was after him, and it was using Dean to get to him.

Sam backed away, considering his options. He could go for the shotgun Dean had dropped, but it would be no good against something he couldn't even see, and with the unconnected way his hands were working now he'd probably wind up hitting Dean. So, no. Time for Plan B.

Get the thing the hell away from his brother.

Sam bolted from the clearing.

He knew without looking that the thing was following him. He could hear its voice in his head.

Sammy. Mine.

It sounded like it was ahead of him and behind him at the same time.

Bloody Winchester luck! If he could just keep it from getting him for a few minutes, long enough for Dean to come round and come find him, he'd be OK. Dean would kill him, of course, but other than that he'd be OK.

A tree root poking out of the ground caught his unsuspecting foot. Sam went down hard.

He was on his feet again right away, running, but by the time he'd taken two steps he was lifted into the air.

Sam swallowed, waiting to be slammed into a tree trunk the way Dean had been, but it didn't happen. He just hung there in midair, the thing holding him by his collar, while the wind whistled through the trees.

Where was Dean? Surely he should have been on his feet again by now? Unless being thrown into the tree did more damage.

Sam swallowed, feeling sick.

Dean's not coming, Sammy. Dean can't save you from me.

Something about the voice in his ear was Hell and fire and the rack, and suddenly memories were overwhelming Sam again, even as he struggled desperately against the grip on his collar and the pictures and sounds pouring into his head he knew he was losing both battles because -

"You're weak, Sam. Pathetic. Just my luck that I got stuck with you."

Dean's hand on his arm, rubbing it gently, rubbing feeling back into it after hours of being naked in the numbing cold, and Dean's hand is gentle and familiar but his voice isn't.

Actually it is.

If it weren't familiar it would be OK because then Sam could tell himself that it wasn't Dean, but it is familiar and it's speaking the words Sam has always imagined his brother would speak if he weren't forced to silence by the job their father shoved on his shoulders when he was a child and Sam was a baby.

Dean seems to know what he's thinking.

"Yeah, I know. I never asked for the job, Sam. Never wanted it. I mean, watching after a pain-in-the-ass like you? Why the hell would I choose that?" And now the hand on his arm is pressing down like it's trying to snap his bones. "See, that's the thing. Dad chose it for me, but I'm un-choosing it now."

"Dean," he whimpers.

"Dean isn't going to save you."

Sam cringed, a feeling of despair coming over him because normally when the voices in his head told him Dean despised and hated him, the voices outside promised him Dean was proud of him and needed him and was right there and was going to stay there until Sam was feeling better.

"I'll let you choose, Sam. The knife or the rack. What's it going to be?"

"Dean, please."

"Good God, you're begging. You really are pitiful. I can't believe you're even my brother… You know, you're not. You can't be. There's just no way."

"Dean -"

"Demon-spawn. That's what you are."

The knife came down, white hot pain erupted in his chest, and Sam screamed.

Dean jerked awake.

He knew right away that he couldn't have been out for very long - a few minutes, tops - but he could tell that things had already gone horribly wrong.

Sam was nowhere to be seen.

Dean got to his feet unsteadily, cursing his own weakness and stupidity. He had to be a freaking hero and insist that he was going to take Sam on a drive. He should've known something would come after them. When had they ever managed to do anything without something coming after them?

He spotted his shotgun lying on the ground in the middle of the clearing and picked it up.

How was he going to find his brother now?

Then he heard it - a high, agonized scream that was too familiar from hours of holding Sam through the pain and the tears, and for the first time he was relieved to hear it. It meant Sam was alive.

"SAMMY!" Dean gripped the shotgun tighter and ran in the direction of the sound. "Sammy, hold on! I'm coming!"

"Dean!"

That was Sam's voice again, and whether Sam was lost in his own head begging Dean not to hurt him or having a moment of lucidity and begging Dean to save him, Dean couldn't tell. It didn't matter. Sammy was in trouble and Sammy was yelling for him and he was going to find whatever had taken Sammy and subject it to a slow and excruciating death.

"Dean, please! Dean!"

The voice was weaker this time, and coming from farther away. Dean ran harder. "Sammy! Sammy, hold on! I'm coming to get you!"

"DEAN!"

And then there was silence.

"Sam!" Dean yelled, as loudly as he could while running all out. "SAMMY!"

No response.

"Damn it," he growled, making for the place the last cry had come from.

He raced through the trees, shoving aside any branches and bushes that were stupid enough to get in his way, leaping over rocks and fallen trees, until -

Sulphur.

It was so strong it was almost choking him. Dean turned in a hopeless circle.

"Sammy! SAM!"

Then he saw one tiny, bloody handprint on the nearest tree trunk.

"Oh, God."

Chapter VIII: Phantoms Grim and Tall