Supernatural: Perpetual Motion [part 2/3]
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“You’re not gonna like this,” is what Dean wakes up to the next morning. He doesn’t like anything at the moment and from the way Sam’s slouching in his chair, Dean would bet he feels about the same.
“Awesome,” Dean croaks.
“Nightstand,” Sam says.
Dean turns to find a glass of water and some Advils. “You’re a fucking saint, Sam.”
“Patron Saint of Drunken Losers,” Sam replies, but his smartass smile doesn’t reach his eyes. He looks up and Dean realizes it’s an apology. It’s another few seconds before Dean’s sure of what Sam’s apologizing for.
His fingers move up his neck instinctively when the memory of Sam’s mouth working on it resurfaces. Sam looks down.
“What’s the happy news?”
“I just got off the phone with the Donnelsons in Wisconsin. You remember them? They had a ghoul problem a few years back.”
“Yeah. The ones with the hot daughter, right? What was her name, Cheryl or some shit?”
“Charlene is dead.”
“Wow, wonderful.”
“Not just dead, Dean. Toasted. Like-”
“Like the house yesterday.”
“Yeah.”
“When?”
“A month ago.”
“Shit, what are the chances?”
“Good,” Sam says. “The chances are really good.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve been making phone calls all morning since I saw this.” Sam tosses a newspaper onto the bed next to Dean. Dean picks it up and reads the article Sam’s circled in bright red marker.
“Rebecca and Gregory Brown. House struck by lightning last week, even though there was no storm at the time.” Dean’s eyebrow lifts as he reads.
“Nobody saw the lightning. They just couldn’t find another explanation,” Sam points out.
“Why do these names sound familiar?”
“Because Dad saved them from a poltergeist 12 years ago.”
“You gotta be kidding me.”
“Four other families that I’ve called today, Dean. Whatever this thing is it’s-”
“Targeting people we saved.”
“Exactly.”
“Almost like it’s-”
“Trying to get our attention, yeah.”
“Well, this is just lovely.”
“Regret dumping the rest of the whiskey on the carpet yet?”
Somehow, through the headache and first-thing-in-the-morning dose of bad news, Dean manages to laugh.
_______________________________________________________________
“I’m thinking some really badass demon,” Sam says after a few hours of inconclusive research.
“No sulfur,” Dean reminds him.
“Some demons can do that, right? If they’re powerful enough, bent on hiding traces?”
“Maybe. All the other really scary demons left more of it. Remember the trail Yellow Eyes used to make?”
“But he wanted credit for what he was doing.”
“So does this thing, if it’s trying to get our attention so bad.”
“I don’t know. It makes sense to me. This demon thought Hell on Earth was coming, we frustrated that a little bit, it wants revenge. It would explain why it only started up after I got out.”
“It didn’t,” Dean says too sharply. “I found more cases. It’s been at it for two years. I was just too busy playing house to notice.”
“Dean-”
“Don’t, Sam.”
“I know this is just about the worst thing it could do to you, but this isn’t your fault.”
He has to look up at Sam, just to reassure himself he’s there. Not the worst, Dean thinks. They’d already done the worst. This is just a bonus.
Dean clears his throat. “Can we focus on hunting this thing and not try to hug it out?”
“I’m just saying, if you want to talk about it. About anything, I’m-”
“You’re a fucking hypocrite, you know that? Why don’t you tell me about what happened in Hell? Why didn’t you warn me about what was happening to you until you couldn’t hide it anymore?”
Sam opens his mouth but Dean cuts him off.
“I’m not saying you have to. But you can’t act like I’m the only one keeping to myself this time.”
Sam’s face pulls back and Dean wishes he’d been a little nicer when he catches the hurt look in Sam’s eyes. “I didn’t mean to…I just know how much this is bothering you and I know you didn’t sleep well last night, and-”
“I drank more than an Irish frat boy on St. Patrick’s, Sam, of course I didn’t sleep well.”
“Don’t pretend that nightmare wasn’t my fault, Dean.”
Dean’s muscles tighten to the point where it’s uncomfortable, but he tries not to let anything show. “What nightmare?”
“I don’t know what he did to you.” Dean lets out a sigh of relief but Sam continues, “But he told me he was going to do it. I should have known that the dreams wouldn’t stop with me, that it would spread to you, and it was so hard to rein him in with all the alcohol.”
“Told you you drank too much.”
“No, don’t make a joke out of it, okay? I owe you an apology.”
“You don’t, Sam, can we let it go?”
“I know how awful those nightmares are, I’ve been stuck in them for months. You don’t have to be okay.”
Sam’s fingers reach out and brush Dean’s wrist and Dean thinks of those hands pushing him down, of Sam’s eyes blacked out, and the accusation that Dean wishes he could choose to ignore. Dean knows that if his brother ever went wrong, it really had been his fault.
“Don’t touch me,” he says on reflex. Sam’s hands pull away immediately and Sam looks stung. “I mean, just, don’t right now, okay?”
“I’m gonna see if I can dig something else up on the demon,” Sam says in a detached voice, pushing his chair out and leaving the room without a second glance.
_______________________________________________________________
“Who is this?” Sam grumbles into his cell.
“Umm…hello?”
“Yeah, hello, get to the point.”
“Is…is this a bad time?”
Sam wants to explain that, yes, four in the morning is a bad time, but the voice on the other end, however unfamiliar, sounds shaken. Sam gets himself under control.
“No, I’m sorry. What can I do for you?”
“Is this Sam or Dean Winchester?”
“It’s Sam. Who is this?”
“Matt. Matt Pike. You probably don’t remember me. You guys helped me and my family out a few years back. In Oklahoma. We, were, uh…evil bugs?”
“Right, yeah. That was a fun night. What can I do for you, Matt?”
“I think we have another situation.”
“More bugs?” Sam says, sorely regretting answering the call.
“Not really. It sounds more like when you guys were looking for ghosts? Wonky electronics and lights, mostly.”
Sam sits ups straighter. The only other call they’d gotten before one of these attacks had sounded like a regular ghost hunt, too. “Matt, where are you? Are you at school?”
“No, I’m home with my folks. They say it’s been going on for a few days. No one’s been hurt or anything so they didn’t want me to bother you but, I don’t know. Something’s-”
“No, you’re definitely right to have called. I need you to get your parents out of the house as soon as possible, okay? Hide out for a bit, Dean and I are on our way.”
“Yeah, but it’s just some lights, you don’t have to-”
“Get out of the house, Matt.”
Sam hangs up the phone and throws his duffel onto Dean’s sleeping form.
“Asshole,” Dean says groggily.
“Get dressed. We’re going to Oklahoma.”
“No way did you just wake me up for Oklahoma.”
“We have another one, Dean. The demon.”
Dean’s up and packed in less than a minute.
“Who is it this time?”
“Eight years ago. Remember the kid with the bugs?”
“Oh, yeah, your boyfriend.”
“Hilarious, Dean. I can’t stop laughing.”
“I’m just saying, you guys spent an awful lot of time trading girl talk.”
“Not the time.”
“Hey, why do you get to drive?”
“Because we’re not driving.”
“Oh. Okay. Cool. How are we getting there again?”
“I’m gonna try to…Dean, you have to let me at least try to get us there faster. We’ll never be able to save them if we drive.”
Dean’s eyes glaze over and Sam sees his throat tighten. Sam’s body flushes with shame and he has to wonder how, after everything that’s happened, he still doesn’t get how wrong using these powers is until Dean reminds him. “I mean. You can drive if you wan-”
Dean takes a deep breath and Sam can see how scared he is, even as he nods and tries to hide it. “You better not transport us to the moon, Sammy.”
He gets into the car and Sam follows him. Dean trusts him to get them to Oklahoma, so when Sam opens his eyes, that’s exactly where they are.
_______________________________________________________________
“The hotel? An entire hotel? A fucking hotel full of people just to take out one family? Really?” Dean kicks at the Impala’s tires.
“I don’t get it,” Sam says, voice trembling. “We...he couldn’t have called me more than an hour ago. They hardly had time to check in.”
“Sam-”
“I…I thought it would save them. I never would have done it but I thought…”
Dean wraps an arm around Sam’s shoulder and tries to support his brother, all the while staring at the smoking remains in horror. Sam buries his face in Dean’s chest and Dean doesn’t even bother trying to push him away. The smell of Sam’s hair centers him, keeps him from losing his grasp on the situation and if Dean lets a tear fall onto the crown of his brother’s head, Sam is never the wiser.
“Hey, Sammy,” Dean says in his softest voice. “I…we need to. Do you want me to check the remains and see if I find anything? You can wait in the car.”
Sam shakes his head. “I’m gonna tear this demon to shreds, Dean. I’m going to rip it apart with my bare hands.”
“Only if you beat me to it,” Dean says, running his fingers lightly down Sam’s spine. Sam’s muscles release a little and Sam finally pushes away from Dean.
Dean pokes around for about 45 minutes, fending off firemen and police. There’s nothing new here, it’s the same as before only on a much bigger scale. Dean doesn’t find anything helpful but luckily, Sam does.
“Dean, call Cas,” he says as soon as they reunite.
“Cas doesn’t really hang around so much anymore.”
“He’ll hang around this time. You were right, it’s not a demon. It’s an angel.”
Dean doesn’t need to ask Sam how he knows. There’s enough Lucifer left in him to recognize a brother.
_______________________________________________________________
“Hello, Dean. Sam, I am very glad to see you have escaped from-”
“Not glad enough to help him out, though, were you.”
“I had orders, Dean. There was no way to know that it would be Sam and not Lucifer who we pulled out.”
Dean’s response is downright animalistic and Sam has to jump between him and the angel to stop Dean from attacking.
“Look, we have a problem,” Sam says, attempting to stay calm. “A very serious problem.”
“I am aware of the situation.”
“Yeah? Then why is it still happening? You’re supposed to be keeping these dicks under lock and key, aren’t you?” Dean asks.
“We have had some defections.”
“Defections? What happened to the good ol’ smoke-the-crap-out-of-anyone-with-an-opinion method?”
“I am afraid our smoke-the-crap-out-of expert has, well, defected.”
Dean feels like he’s been hit by a freight train. He remembers Raphael’s anger, his threats, the same patterns of power outages and uninterested violence that had followed in his wake when he’d still been after Castiel.
“Jesus Christ,” Dean says, deflated.
“No, the messiah is not responsible. I spoke with him just last week.”
“Don’t bother,” Sam says when he sees Dean preparing to explain and he shuts his mouth, granting that there are more important things to focus on.
“Raphael is doing this?”
“That is the most likely culprit, yes.”
“Then why is he still alive?” Sam asks, his voice a threat.
To Dean’s surprise, Castiel turns to look at Sam and Dean can see that there’s genuine fear in him. Castiel’s an archangel now and the idea that Sam could hurt him actually manages to make the situation worse.
“He is older than me and one of very few still stronger. I am having a difficult time tracking him down; when I do he kills my soldiers. And those of my brothers who could have stopped him have all been taken out of commission by you and your-” Castiel doesn’t take his eyes off Sam, there’s a calculating look in his eyes that makes Dean’s skin crawl all the way to his bones. “Perhaps not quite out of commission.”
Sam’s eyes narrow and his eyebrows knit together. Dean gets a sinking feeling that Castiel has just given him an idea Dean is really not going to like. He turns back to the angel.
“You’re telling me there’s nothing we can do to stop him?”
“I think telling you of all people that would only convince you to try harder.”
Dean sees Sam’s lips tug up, pride in his eyes, and Dean’s heart tightens in his chest.
“I have something you can use to protect those you believe Raphael will target.”
“That’s a start until we know how to kill him,” Sam says, his voice unsettlingly confident.
“It’s a ritual. It will hide these targets from Raphael. It will cover 100 miles each time you do it and last for five years. It will protect these victims from any angel, good or bad intentions.”
“As if angels ever have good intentions,” Sam interrupts. “No offense, Cas.”
“I do not believe you are entirely sincere in saying that,” Castiel says, the barest hint of a smile.
“You knew about all of this and you didn’t bother to tell us because…?”
“I am sorry, Dean. I am trying to run Heaven and keep the forces of Hell at bay. I do not have the time to devote myself to a few hundred people you saved.”
Dean’s fists clench and Sam has to jump in again.
“Okay, look, no time for fighting, guys. We need to get going if we have to perform this ritual twenty-something times before Raphael kills anyone else, and Cas has to get back to Heaven.” Sam turns to Castiel. “You better teach us what to do and fast.”
_______________________________________________________________
They go back to Bobby’s to figure out the best plan of attack. Bobby gets the materials they need to perform the ceremony in bulk and he and Sam plot out the most efficient places to perform the ritual in order to cleanly cover the entire continental United States, everyone any Winchester ever moved so much as an inch to protect.
After they leave Bobby’s, however, they’re back on the road, back to living in cramped quarters, constantly together.
It gets to the point where every word Sam says, every shaky breath, every accidental touch goes straight to Dean’s dick and he’s nearly exploding trying to keep it in. He knows it’s happening to Sam, too, because Sam doesn’t try to hide it as much. When he wakes up hard with Dean’s body pressed against his, he doesn’t push him away on instinct, he doesn’t bother to muffle his moans when he’s in the shower, he doesn’t feign shyness and look away when Dean’s getting dressed.
Dean thought he’d settled this, thought he’d choked all of these feelings out of Sam the night he’d touched him, thought Sam had realized while at school what a disservice Dean had done him. It looks like Sam either never really learned the lesson or forgot it in Hell. Dean hates that the latter is more likely, that Sam only wants him when he doesn’t know better.
The situation reaches its peak while they’re working on the ritual for the 14th time. Sam catches Dean jerking off and instead of leaving the room or pretending not to notice, he reminds Dean that he owes him and whispers all the things he would do if Dean would let him, lips pressed to Dean’s ear. Dean knows Sam watches him over his shoulder and it’s the hottest thing he’s ever experienced, hotter than any sex he’s had, hotter than all the dreams he’s tried to forget.
Dean knows something has to be done and, in grand Winchester fashion, he settles on avoidance. They’re passing through New York on the way to their next mark; Dean doesn’t tell Sam exactly where they’re going until he’s parking the car.
“Why does this place look familiar?” Sam asks with an angry edge. Dean doesn’t answer, doesn’t hesitate, just makes his way up the path to the door. If he stops to explain, Sam will tear him a new one, maybe convince him to leave. Dean is dead set on getting his brother’s mind off him, since there’s not much hope left for him if Sam doesn’t let up.
“C’mon, Sammy. We’re passing by. It would be rude not to say ‘hi’ to your old flame.”
Dean knocks on the door, giving his brother his biggest smile.
“Dean?” Sarah says when she sees him on her doorstep and then Sam finally joins him. She smiles brightly, turning her attention to him. Dean is struck by how much better she looks, as if she wasn’t a knock-out eight years ago. “Sam!”
She opens the door all the way then, standing on tippy toes and flinging an arm around Sam’s neck. Sam hugs her back awkwardly and his eyes go comically wide.
“Sarah, hey! Umm…congratulations!”
She beams and Dean suddenly realizes the explanation for her glowing looks. She puts a hand over her belly-it’s enormous under her slight fingers.
“Thank you!”
“How far along are you?”
“Seven months. She’ll be my second.”
“Wow,” Sam says, turning to look at Dean with a smug look. “Isn’t that nice, Dean?”
“Heh. Hi, Sarah,” Dean says, feeling more than a little idiotic.
“Wow, well, umm. Not that it isn’t great to see you, but…what are you guys doing here?”
“What are we doing here?” Sam says, turning to Dean again, but then he has a little mercy. “We were passing through. Thought it would be rude not to stop in and say something.”
“Well, I’m glad you did. To be honest, I always kind of worried, you know, with that job of yours. Come in, by the way,” she lets the door go and turns into her house. “I’m sorry my husband isn’t here right now, he’d love to meet you. I think he’s only indulging me when he tells me he believes you exist.”
“Yeah. So. Husband. When did that happen?” Dean asks awkwardly.
“I met him a few weeks after you left, actually,” Sarah says, blushing and looking down.
“That’s great, Sarah. That’s so great for you.” Sam’s voice is so genuine that Dean’s heart gets stuck in his throat.
“I can make you guys lunch if you’re looking at a long day on the road?”
Seeing that he’s gotten them stuck, Dean sends Sam an apologetic glance and confirms that they would love some lunch.
She gives them a brief run through of her life, eager to hear about what they’ve been up to. Sam does most of the talking, leaving out a majority of what actually happened since he last saw her. Sarah watches him with a light in her eyes, an almost sad look like she’s sorry he got away, despite her obvious domestic bliss. Dean can sympathize.
He sits back and watches them interact, amazed as always at how well his little brother gets along with people he doesn’t know. Dean tries not to imagine the person Sam was at Stanford, because that only ever reminds him of how much Sam lost, how much he gained from it, and the tiny selfish part of him that can’t ever help being thankful Sam isn’t living the life he was supposed to have.
They say goodbye to Sarah in the early evening and Sam seems pleased by the day, even if he’s still glaring while he gets in the car.
“Was that everything you intended, cupid?”
“Fuck off,” Dean grumbles.
Sam jingles the keys in his hands and looks at Dean over the hood of the car.
“Was this your way of telling me you want to…should we go see Lisa? Or Cassie, maybe?”
Dean thinks of Cassie, of those too-intelligent eyes looking from Dean to Sam and immediately discovering what Dean can’t really hide anymore. He suppresses a shudder and shakes his head. “God no, I learned my lesson about ex-girlfriends.”
Sam laughs and unlocks the car.
_______________________________________________________________
They knock out the 15th ritual that night and call Bobby, who’s been monitoring the situation on unmarked territory, to find that there haven’t been any new attacks as far as he can tell. They celebrate with much healthier doses of alcohol this time, just a few beers between them. Sam doesn’t lose his grip and Dean loosens up a little, doesn’t flinch away from Sam like Sam’s a threat to him.
“Wanna go out?” Dean asks when the game they’d been watching finally ends in overtime.
Sam shrugs, then shakes his head.
“We haven’t done anything fun since before all of this angel stuff started. We should go. Find some girls or something.”
“Because that’s worked out so well for us in the past.”
“I’m just saying. So Sarah settled down. We could go find that hot doctor?”
“Leave it, okay? I’ll stop. I promise. You won’t ever have to hear another word about it. But I’m not going to pretend anymore. I’m sick of it. I’m sick of it and I’d rather just stick to my right hand than string some girl along and act like this isn’t what it is.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Sam can’t help letting out a bitter laugh at that. He draws closer to Dean, grabs onto the amulet around his neck. “I know why you left Lisa, Dean. I know why you broke that promise. And I honestly don’t see why we need to leave any more Lisas behind. I’ve wanted…I’ve been in love with you since I was 12 years old. You think I’m going to grow out of it now? That’s almost twenty years-not counting over a century in Hell-and I am so through with pretending.”
“Sam-”
“Let me finish, okay? I’m not asking you to do anything you don’t want to. It’s not like I don’t understand what your problem with it is. But I’m putting it out there. In case you ever change your mind. And if you don’t? Fine. But stop trying to change mine.”
Dean looks down at his hands and shakes his head. Sam knows what he’s thinking about, Dean’s lips always curve into the same guilty frown when he remembers. Sam knows he’s supposed to feel guilty for it, too. He pushed Dean for years, he pushed Dean until Dean did something he hates himself for-but Sam isn’t sorry. Sam knows why he did it, all of his stupid convictions about how wrong it was, his pathetic attempt to drive Sam away, like Sam would see the light or something.
But even when he was trying, Dean couldn’t make what they have ugly. If he’d really wanted to hurt Sam, he would have used him, but Dean only used himself, just gave Sam what he had to offer, like Dean’s done and will continue to do their entire lives. The worst thing he could bring himself to was still all for Sam and Sam will never forget the almost childlike wonder in his brother’s eyes as he watched, made Sam feel better than Sam ever thought he could. It was beautiful then and decades haven’t convinced Sam it will ever be anything else.
Even if the tenderness in the glance was replaced by self-loathing moments later, even if Sam genuinely regrets the way Dean remembers it, and even if it confirmed what he’d already suspected-that he had to get away from Dean or he would ruin him-Sam never has and never will regret it. Can’t feel guilty he still wants it. No longer sees the point in playing along with his brother.
Dean reaches a hand out and brushes it against Sam’s cheek and Sam turns his face into the touch, hoping for more. Moments later, Dean pulls away, makes something up about a game he wanted to watch and, for what feels like the millionth time, Sam’s lost him.
_______________________________________________________________
When Sam and Dean were kids, Dean used to let Sam win when they’d fight. When Sam was fourteen, he won for the first time-genuinely won because he was stronger. Dean was proud, but Dean was scared, too. He couldn’t win any fights after that; half the time Sam took them, half the time Dean gave them to him. When Sam was fifteen, he brought up a new kind of fight and Dean’s been trying his best to win it since. Dean knows this isn’t something he can let Sam have, but a part of him has always suspected Sam will win anyway. Sam is stronger. Deep down, Dean doesn’t want to win. The whole thing is an exercise in futility. Dean buries this knowledge for as long as he can.
_______________________________________________________________
After their meeting with Castiel, Sam begins to test the water. He doesn’t tell Dean at first, knows too well that although Dean might look the other way on one or two slips, on flickering lights or even the transporting if the situation is desperate enough, Dean will always hate this part of him.
Sam also knows that he’s in the wrong, that using powers has always gone badly in the past, even when his intentions were good. He pretends it’s not the same as the Lilith crusade, but deep down, it is. He’s never met Raphael but he hates him and, while a part of what drives him is to save people, Sam knows he’ll want to crush him even if their rituals stop him completely.
It’s hurting Dean to see the people they saved-the people Dean’s entire life was lived for, the excuse he told himself so he wouldn’t hate Dad’s orders, so he could forgive John for the way he made them live-die anyway, because of them. Sam sees the way all the life that’s slowly been creeping back into his brother dies with each new attack. It bothers Sam just as much as the killings do.
It’s not long before Dean catches on, of course. Dean watches too close lately and Sam’s never been great at hiding things from him anyway. But when he finally calls Sam out on it, it’s not what Sam expects at all.
“Turn the lights back on, Sam.”
Sam shifts awkwardly in bed. “I didn’t do that on purpose.”
“Cute, Sammy. Turn them back on. I’m not finished putting this gun back together.”
“Dean, I-”
“Look, just do it, man. I know you know how.”
Sam frowns. “I can’t always do it, though. It’s maybe a third of the time that I can work it on my own.”
“Nah. It’s all the time.” Sam hears Dean lay his gun down and the next time he talks, it’s from the edge of Sam’s bed. “They don’t control you, Sam.”
Sam closes his eyes, tries to remember back to everything Ruby taught him about feeling out what’s inside of him, understanding how it works. He doesn’t realize he’s hit on the right switch until he’s flipped it and the lights stutter back to life, along with the television.
“Good,” Dean says, hands rubbing Sam’s back and even though Sam knows it’s an act, Dean sounds so strong and so sure that Sam can’t question it. Dean slides into bed and puts an arm around Sam’s middle. “Now turn them back off.”
Sam’s eyebrows draw together, but when he looks up at Dean, Dean doesn’t appear to be the least bit troubled by what he’s asking.
“You want me to play with them?”
“It’s not a choice this time. They’re gonna be here no matter what, right? I want you to control them and…as much as I hate it, that means testing them. Come on, Sammy. I’m tired. Turn the lights off.”
Sam pushes farther into Dean’s embrace, feeling so safe and comfortable that for a second, he isn’t worried about whatever’s going on inside of him. He gets the lights and television off in moments, doesn’t even upset the air conditioning or the rooms directly next to theirs.
Dean rewards him with a kiss on the neck and Sam falls asleep smiling.
_______________________________________________________________
Together, they begin to shape Sam’s powers. They don’t try them it unless it matters. They drive when it’s one or two states; there are no one night vacations on the other side of the world. Sam’s learned his lesson. The powers aren’t supposed to make his life easier, he can’t get addicted. Dean trusts him not to, stops looking worried about it after a few weeks.
Teleportation is easiest. It’s counter intuitive, but Sam doesn’t have to struggle with it at all. It’s about longing, it takes the determination angels are supposed to feel to follow their orders. Sam has other reasons to want, completely different orders to follow, but the trick is still the longing.
He can do it when it’s important, when they have a ritual to lay down in California and they’re in Wisconsin. Sam closes his eyes and thinks he can save lives, they get there. It’s even easier when Dean tells him where to go. Sam is almost powerless to stop himself. At six, he would answer every question just to bring Dean home a paper with a gold star to hang on the refrigerator. At 13, he would risk his life to get the clap on his shoulder that always came with a successful hunt. At 29, Sam is no less driven to please his brother.
Killing is different than it was when Sam was working with demon powers. Moving things works about the same, lights and objects still require a press, prodding doesn’t change much from one monster to another. But killing is, not quite harder, just less rewarding. There was a thrill in killing before; demons feel downright gleeful when they destroy. It came from within, felt like pushing your body as wide as it could go, enveloping the enemy and crushing them. Killing now means going outside of himself, getting into his opponent and grabbing on to a part of them, something sacred that nobody is supposed to touch, and pulling it out where it can’t sustain itself anymore.
Sam only tests this on demons, monsters, things more vile than ghosts. He hates it nonetheless, feels polluted every time. Once they know Sam is capable of doing it, they don’t try it again for months.
The hardest thing to master is the dreams. Lucifer uses them to hurt Sam even worse once he starts to rein his other powers in. Despite how often he has to experience them, it takes a long time for him to figure out how they work.
_______________________________________________________________
After all 23 of the rituals are done, Sam and Dean make the trip back to Bobby’s lazily. They stop often: small hunts, visit places they’ve been fond of over the years, remind themselves that some of the people they’ve saved are still alive.
Bobby’s not in as good a mood. When they arrive, he’s is in the midst of conjuring Crowley and he admits that it’ll be the fifth time he tries since Sam went to Hell. That’s when Sam is finally told that Bobby never got his soul back from the demon at all.
Crowley seems as fed up with it as Bobby is when he shows.
“Look, I’ve told you, I can’t break the bloody contract. It’s not up to me. I’ve done everything I can, but I’m already not in their good graces and they’ll kill me if I try-”
Bobby’s about to say something. From the way his body tenses, Sam knows it’ll be one of the lectures Bobby’s been whipping Sam and Dean into shape with their entire lives. Sam steps between them, figuring he has a more effective method.
“No more talking,” Sam says, grabbing onto Crowley’s lifeline and twisting. The demon cries out.
“Sam?” Crowley looks like he’s seeing a ghost, which Sam’s not exactly surprised by. “Oh, God, are you-please tell me that’s Sam in there.”
“It’s Sam,” Dean says. “But Sam can do whatever you’re worrying about just as easily as…”
Sam tries to ignore the way Dean’s voice falters. He decides to take over then, protect Dean from having to get his hands any dirtier in what Sam’s doing than he already has.
“Who holds the contract, Crowley?” Sam demands.
“I can’t tell you.”
“Last time I checked, you were more interested in saving your own ass than staying on Hell’s good side. I’d hate to see you change your mind about that at a time like this.”
Unsurprisingly, Crowley folds in seconds.
“Bastian’s his name. Bastard’s tough to find, tougher to trap. Damn near impossible to kill. Look, he’s got eight more years. Just let it go.”
“Where can we find him?”
“Damned if I know.”
Sam tugs tighter and Crowley gasps. “Staunton, Virginia.”
“Send him back to Hell,” Bobby instructs.
Despite the bile in his gut, Sam shakes his head. “Better to just kill him.”
Crowley looks up in terror and Dean steps forward.
“He helped us.”
“Yeah, what he said,” Crowley interjects.
“Says who? He fed us to Lucifer. Twice.”
“Hell wouldn’t be up my ass if I’d been working for him!”
“He’s a demon,” Sam says, trying not to think of the demons in Hell, of the things he watched them do to souls, knowing they’d done those things to his brother. Sam learned his lesson about demons. “I’m going to kill him.”
“Sam. Listen to me, he helped us.”
“No. He’s one of them.” Sam’s halfway there when Dean grabs his arm and Sam turns to look at him. Dean isn’t even trying to pretend he isn’t terrified.
“Sammy, you’re gonna kill the one that holds the contract, right? Send him back to Hell. Don’t…don’t make it a habit.”
Reluctantly, Sam nods, lets go of his grip on Crowley’s lifeline. The demon takes a few deep breaths.
“No need to send me back down there, you know. I’m not hurting any-”
“Don’t try your luck,” Sam says. “Bobby, you want the honors?”
Bobby smiles wider than Sam can remember seeing him smile since they were kids. He chants an exorcism from memory and Crowley’s forced through the floorboards in a thick cloud of black smoke. The body is already dead; he hits the floor with a dull thud before they can catch him.
_______________________________________________________________
It’s never gotten easy for Dean to watch his little brother kill. Not like this, at least. Dean knows it’s not as bad as the demon blood, knows this is what they have to do to save Bobby. He’d still look away if it wasn’t so close; if a part of him doesn’t actually worry Sam might lose. Dean would shoot the bastard if that were an option, but first they have to get him to let Bobby’s soul go, and Bastian takes a lot of persuading.
The Colt is mostly useless, but Dean keeps it leveled at him just so Sam knows he isn’t alone. Dean can tell, even though Sam doesn’t say anything, how much he hates doing this. There’s nothing cocky in these kills, not like when Sam was high on bitch blood, and Dean knows he shouldn’t be as happy about how weary this makes Sam as he is.
Sam’s twisting and pulling at Bastian for forty minutes before he seals the promise to return Bobby’s soul with a kiss. Dean reminds himself to make fun of Bobby for that sometime, hopes that one day they’ll look back on this and find it funny.
It’s not now, not even when Sam’s killed Bastian and Bobby’s home free. There’s a pool of dark blood at the demon’s feet and Dean can’t miss the way Sam’s eyes dart down to it, the way his tongue licks over his lips for a split second before Sam closes his eyes, a pained expression on his face, and stomps out of the demon’s lair as fast as he can.
_______________________________________________________________
The night they kill Bastian, Sam has the single worst nightmare of his life. He doesn’t go out drinking with Dean and Bobby to celebrate, it’s not alcohol that clouds his brain. It’s worse, so much worse. Sam tries not to sleep that night, knowing something’s coming, but somewhere in the early morning he drops off and Lucifer sinks into him.
Sam’s already on his knees when the dream begins. His face is covered, his body is thrumming with blood and power and pure, unadulterated joy. The demon is still alive under him, Sam can hear its cries of pain, can feel it kicking. He drinks, human cries filling his ears all the while.
Dean stands off to the side, his face desolate, horrorstricken to an extreme that Sam has seen only a few times before: those times he’d watched Sam doing exactly what he’s doing now. It’s the face anyone would make if the one person they’ve believed in reveals themself to be less than human, a leech that stuck to Dean’s side not out of love but because he was convenient. Sam’s seen it before. Back then, Sam cared.
He doesn’t now. He could toss Dean aside with the ghost of a thought, send him tumbling out of his line of vision so he won’t be confronted by that face, but Dean isn’t important enough for him to even bother doing that. The only thing that matters is the blood. Sam wants it. Sam has always wanted it. There’s a taunting voice that reminds him he always will, that he’s nothing without it.
It’s Sam’s voice, but it’s not Sam’s thought. Somewhere distant, Sam is horrified by the scene. That Sam hardly exists. That Sam is with Dean, hating himself for what’s happening and just as powerless to stop it.
_______________________________________________________________
Dean isn’t sure what to do this time. Sam moans, hot and satisfied, and Dean thinks it’s a good dream. But the moans are occasionally broken by a whimper, a quick, dead sound so sad, Dean is shaking Sam awake before he has time to think about it.
Sam comes to life slowly. He’s drenched in sweat and he looks around for a second, stares blankly at Dean before he starts shaking violently. Dean pulls him in and Sam buries his face in Dean’s chest, repeating something over and over, something Dean can’t make out.
“Sam, what is it?” Dean pushes him out a little, just enough to look into his brother’s face.
Sam shakes his head. “No, no, I’m sorry, Dean, I’m so sorry.”
“Shh, hey, why are you sorry?”
“I want,” he says, licking his lips. “I want it.”
Dean has a feeling he knows what Sam’s talking about, but he can’t stop himself from asking anyway. “What do you want, Sammy?”
“Blood,” Sam says, his voice so soft Dean only understands because he already knew the answer. “I want blood. I want it, oh God, so bad.”
“No,” Dean says with all the conviction he can muster. “No, Sam. You don’t.”
“I do, I want it. I want it.”
“You just think that because he-”
Sam shakes his head. “I want it.”
Dean smiles then, surprises himself as well as his brother. “You want this, Sam,” Dean says, pulling Sam up for a kiss. Sam’s lips open limply, welcoming Dean in without actively returning it.
Dean kisses Sam deeply, then pulls away and presses a series of brief kisses to his lips, shutting him up.
Sam’s eyes are wide when he stops and he seems to have come to his senses, but there’s no smile like Dean had hoped for.
“You’ve never kissed me before,” Sam says in a gentle voice.
Dean can’t suppress a light chuckle. “No, I guess I haven’t.”
Sam turns over then, pushing out of Dean’s arms. “I don’t want you to do this just because I’m a wreck.”
“Sam, that’s not why.”
“It sure looks like it.”
Dean frowns, pulling at his brother’s shoulder. “Maybe I just realized that I’m doing us both more harm than good.”
“I don’t-”
“Look at me.”
Sam turns, his face set stubbornly. He looks so stupidly like Sam that Dean can’t help kissing him again, just because suddenly he’s realized that’s something he’s allowed to do.
“Sam, I just started. You can’t make me stop.”
Sam smiles then, the dimpled grin Dean fell in love with before he was old enough to understand it. “You sound like my big brother,” Sam says, pulling him back in. Dean doesn’t know how long they kiss before they fall asleep, but there are no more nightmares after that.
_______________________________________________________________
It’s late when Dean wakes up the next morning, sun shining into his face through the open motel window. There’s a warmth all around him from the rays, from Sam’s body heat next to him. Sam is awake, lying on his side, watching Dean. His lips are still swollen from too much kissing and Dean presses the pads of his fingers to his own.
It’s a weird thing to wake up to, the realization that he stayed up all night kissing his brother-and that nothing about it feels anything less than perfect.
“You’re not…changing you mind about what you said-did-last night. Are you?” Sam’s trying to sound accusatory and he pulls it off just fine, but Dean can sense the strong undercurrent of fear.
“Never,” Dean says, knowing despite the years he spent telling himself otherwise, that it’s the truth.
Sam’s face splits in half-a smile so young and blissful that Dean would swear Sam never went to Hell, never lost him, never died, never watched a loved one burn-like Dean wiped all of those bad memories away with one word.
“Good morning, in that case.”
Dean wraps a hand around the back of Sam’s neck and draws him in, lips locking tenderly.
“God, Dean,” Sam says, pulling away. “Do you have any idea how long I’ve been waiting for you to get your head out of your ass about this?”
“Eat me,” Dean replies.
“All in good time.” Sam sits up. “I am pretty hungry.”
“I’d make you breakfast, but you didn’t actually put out last night. There are strict rules to be followed, you know how it is.”
“I’ll make you breakfast,” Sam offers.
Dean makes a skeptical face. “Have you seen my brother around anywhere? He’s about your height and half as agreeable.”
“If you don’t want breakfast, just say you don’t want breakfast.”
Dean shoves at Sam until he tumbles off the side of the bed. “Cook me things, bitch.”
Sam laughs and when he gets his big ass off the floor, he’s still smiling, not even bothering to put on his usual pout.
“Alright, but don’t get used to it.”
Dean dozes off a little more until Sam pokes him in the side about thirty minutes later, the smell of scrambled eggs and bacon filling their motel room.
“Hey, Dean,” Sam says gently, like he’s both sorry to be waking Dean up and thrilled to be talking to him. The smile on his lips is hardly there but it’s so soft Dean wants to freeze Sam in place and spend the rest of the day memorizing it. On the whole, it’s a little too good to be true. “Wake up for real this time. Breakfast is ready.”
Dean sits up in shock. “Wait, you actually cooked me breakfast?”
“I said I was going to, didn’t I?”
“You’re creeping me out, Sam.”
“I’m just happy, Dean,” Sam says simply. “I’m just really, really happy.”
He gets up then, heads for the shower and Dean sits down for breakfast. Sam never had to cook much growing up, so he never got good at it and the food is passable at best. Dean could swear it’s the second best thing he’s ever tasted.
The day is nothing out of the ordinary. They go on with the hunt they started after leaving Bobby’s the day before; it’s a regular salt and burn about an hour away. Nothing much changes except for the thrill Dean gets when they brush, the thrill that makes him invent excuses to touch when Sam isn’t pressing against him doing the same thing. Sam kisses him at random times and Dean makes snide comments, jokes about things he’s been thinking for years and has never been allowed to say.
It’s the best day of Dean’s life until they’re back in the motel, exhausted from a day of chasing leads and trying to figure out whose bones to torch. Dean’s on the spare bed, doing maintenance on some rifles when Sam shuts his laptop and sighs.
“What’s wrong, little lady?”
Sam rolls his eyes, his lips curving up. Then he blinks a few times and Dean can tell he’s thinking of something unpleasant.
“Sammy?”
“Dean, I’m going to tell you about Hell.”
“No. Not today. C’mon, Sam. Any other day. I’ve been waiting months for you to bring it up. But not today.”
Sam stands and sits on the bed across from Dean, the one they sleep on, and gives Dean a determined look.
“I…I have to get it out, okay? I have to tell you…I want you to know why I got out. I want to do it while things are good. It’s not as scary now. Nothing’s scary right now and-I’m not a kid, I know that’s going to wear off. So I want to take advantage of it.”
“Ruin it. You want to ruin it.”
Sam’s eyes go wide and Dean puts the gun he’d been working on aside. “Don’t make that face, man. Seriously? Alright. Just…I was there, Sam. I know what they did to you. I know and I really just don’t want to think about it anymore.”
“You’re wrong, though. What happened to me down there? It’s totally different from what they did to you.”
“Worse?” Dean can only manage the one word, knows his voice will break if he tries to force a sentence out and if Sam is about to relive something worse than what Dean went through, it’s his job to stay strong.
“No, not worse. Not much better. Just different.”
Dean swallows and nods and Sam takes it as a sign to go on.
“The fall alone took a few years, I think. Michael buried him as far as he could go the first time he threw him down, so the cage took a long time to reach. I was mostly out of it for that. He took control again pretty quickly after I pulled us down, until we finally hit the bottom. He doesn’t need a meatsuit in Hell.”
“He let you go?”
“Not even close,” Sam half-laughs. “I think a part of him knew what was coming, so he tried to cling to me. Maybe that’s why there’s still so much of him left in...well, anyway, having him pulled out while he was still grabbing onto me like that hurt worse than anything I’ve ever felt, but eventually he had to let go. Dean, I could see him down there, true form and all. He really was beautiful. They both were.”
“What happened to them?”
“They finished the job,” he says with a shrug. “They killed each other.”
“Jesus. Seriously? So they’re-”
“Not gonna bother us again, to say the least.”
“And Adam?”
Sam shakes his head sadly. “Dead by the time I could reach him.”
“Poor kid,” Dean says.
“Maybe. I don’t think…he wouldn’t have made it out of Hell, Dean. It’s better this way.”
“How did you?”
Sam bites his lip. “I kind of…the cage didn’t close me off. It was made to stop an angel, you know? I don’t think Hell knew how to deal with me at all. I wasn’t a soul and my body couldn’t feel the heat, didn’t age despite the centuries…I guess Lucifer did something to protect me down there when he thought he’d be marching in and out, running Hell and Earth at the same time. But…I made it to Hell and I saw what they did to souls there. I saw what they did to you.”
“They didn’t do it to you?” Dean asks, relieved.
“No, but I wished they would sometimes. The demons, I don’t know if they thought I was still him or what but they…they groveled, Dean. They worshipped me. I would have rather been tortured.”
“Don’t say that.”
Sam smiles weakly. “No, I guess it’s for the better, anyway. Souls don’t get off the rack, not unless they’re torturing. They watch you down there until you’re a demon, don’t they? No chance of a soul getting out unless someone opens a Devil’s Gate. Not much hope, even for demons.”
Sam’s face is disgusted but unafraid and Dean is proud of his little brother before he even knows how he did it.
“You have to claw out. There are things there that try to drag you back and it hurts so much. You get so exhausted. But you have to keep going. For decades, Dean. Centuries sometimes. And if you stop, if you pause for one moment they get you. Drag you down. The chances of getting off the rack once are slim, twice is impossible. If you stop, Dean, you’re stuck forever.
“The only demons that make it out are the ones that hate enough. You have to have something to go back for, something that will drive you on and on through all of that. And you forget it so easily. They make you forget so that you don’t even know what you’re fighting for. You have to keep going on blind faith, on the belief that something is up there, something will still be waiting for you that’s worth all the pain. It’s hate for the demons but for me, it was you.”
Dean scrubs a hand over his face, takes deep breaths, and doesn’t let the tears spill over. He wants Sam to stop but Sam’s face doesn’t waver, eyes haunted, mouth tight.
“I didn’t know that, but I knew I had to get back, so I kept going. And when I got up to the surface…there’s this moment when you’re crawling out-you get hit by fresh air, real air. It’s so beautiful, Dean, it was the first decent thing I’d felt in almost 200 years. But if you stop to inhale, if you stop to enjoy it, the ground swallows you up and you’re back to square one. You have to get all the way out-I think just that last pull, that moment where you have to ignore the freedom and keep struggling was the hardest.
“When I got out, I saw you and I thought you were happy and I had no idea what the concept of happy was or how I knew you but,” Sam’s voice shakes, “I’m telling you this today for a reason, Dean. I want you to see, just so you never, ever have second thoughts about what we’re doing.
“There is nothing wrong about something strong enough to keep me going through all of that. There’s a reason I can only control what’s left of Lucifer with your help. There’s a reason for everything that’s ever gone right for us. I would still be down there, worse-I would be Lucifer and the Earth would be in ruins right now. That’s more important than any argument I’ve heard against this.”
Dean looks down and Sam lets out a light laugh that surprises Dean so much his head snaps back up.
“Sam?”
“It’s nice to have that off my chest. I don’t know how you do the emotional rock thing, man.”
Dean rolls his eyes, thankful Sam is offering him an out on the sharing and caring. “Years of practice, young grasshopper.”
Sam smiles, then looks at Dean tentatively. “So…are we on the same page here?”
Dean nods and then looks back to his guns, blatantly attempting to distract himself. “Yeah, Sam. We are.”
_______________________________________________________________
Dean doesn’t just let Sam fuck him that night, he begs him to. Sam takes his time, tries to fit a lifetime of wanting into one night, and it’s not a surprise that Dean is exhausted by the time they’re both drenched in come and sweat. They take a quick shower and Dean drifts off easily after that, but Sam keeps watch, worried that Dean will dream about the things he told him.
The few moments of Sam’s day that weren’t devoted to touching, tasting, claiming Dean were spent fixating on the dreams. Sam finally thinks he understands how Lucifer’s nightmares work. He doesn’t invent them. He can’t, he’s dead. It’s just a reaction triggered by the Grace and ill-will the angel left inside him. The Grace, Sam thinks, fills him with a dark, ugly feeling-not because Lucifer is telling it to, but because it remembers what he would have wanted. Sam’s mind does the rest of the work, which is why the dreams are worse than anything Lucifer could have thought up. Sam is doing it to himself. He figures he can train his powers to do the opposite just as instinctively.
Sam doesn’t really want to play with dreams at all, not even to make good ones. All he wants is to make his own nightmares stop and make sure they never go after Dean again. He doesn’t feel comfortable going into anyone’s head, least of all his brother’s, but he has to test this in order to fully understand it, and the way Dean begins to shiver and cry out breaks his heart. Sam can’t stop himself from trying if there’s a shot in hell he can give his brother something good to dream about for once. So he gathers Dean into his arms, closes his eyes, and floods him with all the warmth and goodness he can muster.
_______________________________________________________________
Dean steps forward and feels pavement materialize under his feet. He opens his eyes to an unimpressive sight-one of those playgrounds he and Sam rarely got to play on as kids. When they did, Sam would smile like they were the best things in his universe and Dean used to watch his brother run around with the other little kids.
Sometimes Dean would play with Sam, but when Sam found other children-
children his own age who weren’t always around-Dean would hang back and let him have his space, let those kids become Sam’s best friends for two hours and then disappear from his life forever. Dean was always jealous of them for those brief moments they had Sam’s attention.
He feels something grabbing at his foot and looks down. Sam can’t be older than five and Dean is struck by how odd it is that he’s not nine years old.
“Go play, Sammy,” Dean says, nodding his head at the other children.
“You play,” Sam says, pulling him forward by one hand. The way Sam smiles makes Dean’s chest feel crushed-Sam never got to be this carefree at this age. Dean could never give him enough to make him smile that wide.
“What do you wanna do? You want me to push you on the swing?”
Sam shakes his head, tugs on Dean again. Dean decides there’s no harm in picking him up, cradling him for a few seconds before Sam gets bored with him. Sam laughs and climbs out of his arms, up on Dean’s shoulder, as if Dean is a better jungle gym than the one in front of them. He feels little hands cover his eyes and terror grips him when his vision goes black.
There’s laughing to Dean’s right, Sam’s laughter. Dean can’t help turning to face it, opening his eyes to make sure it’s his brother.
Dean should realize it’s a dream from how bizarre the sight in front of him is, but in the moment it feels perfectly logical. Sam is sitting in a sandbox, but the sandbox is enormous, encompasses an entire shoreline. There are waves crashing gently about a foot away from where Sam is making a sandcastle. He’s still 5 years old, but he seems to have gotten smaller. Dean walks over to him, kneels down so they’re level.
“Hey, Sam. Want me to help you build your sandcastle?”
Sam looks at him like he’s an idiot. “My castle,” Sam says. “I build it.”
Dean tries to ignore how much that bothers him. Sam always did go out and build things for himself and Dean was supposed to support him, be happy about it. Dean really was proud of Sam for it, even when it stung.
“You make the wall,” Sam says matter-of-factly. “You have to keep it safe.”
He nods, sits in the sandbox and plays with his little brother for what feels like hours. Sam smiles proudly at everything he adds to it, shows it off to Dean, explaining what each new room is for.
Dean doesn’t realize the tide is coming in until it’s practically at the castle’s door and he’s seen the way sand walls hold out against crashing waves. Dean knows it’s just a sandcastle, he shouldn’t be so upset, but the protection he built isn’t strong enough and he can’t stand the thought that something is about to ruin what his brother is so proud of. Everything Sam ever made for himself got crushed like that, Dean doesn’t see why it’s too much to ask for one lousy sandcastle.
When the waves reach the walls, they crash against them and retreat without making any impact at all. They keep coming but nothing changes, like the sand Dean stacked against the tide is solid rock. Dean watches, mystified, until the water sinks back again. Sam looks at him then, his eyes twinkling.
“Thank you,” Sam says, the tone in his voice much older than it should be. “Thank you for keeping it safe.”
Dean wakes up shaking, realizes there are tears on his cheeks. Sam is watching him.
“It was a dream?”
“Was it a nightmare?” Sam asks, sounding defeated.
Dean tangles his fingers in his brother’s shirt. “Why was it only a dream?”
Sam brushes a finger over Dean’s cheek and leans down to kiss him. “Go back to sleep, Dean.”
_______________________________________________________________
Things are quiet for a few weeks, which Sam and Dean both know better than to trust. They take on hunts to fill the time, but they keep their eyes and ears out for anything out of the ordinary, anything that seems to have Raphael’s touch. The fact that nothing happens for a month and a half proves that Castiel’s plan worked, but neither of them are surprised when they get a call ending the brief period of respite. Dean learned two years ago that pissed off archangels will find their way around anything-until they’re good and dead, at least, which Dean is trying to believe means this Raphael mess is going to be over soon.
He breathes a sigh of relief when the call comes and it’s not from Lisa. He’d been on edge since the attacks started, terrified the angel would find the best way to get to him and use it, and as awful as it is to know their fix was as temporary as they’d feared, Dean can’t help being comforted that he didn’t put Ben and Lisa in any more trouble than he’d put any of the people he’d saved. It looks like Raphael not only couldn’t find him but didn’t have the slightest clue where he spent the last two years-he kind of regrets that Castiel is over his alcoholic phase, because he definitely owes the guy a few rounds for carving those creepy sigils into his ribs.
It’s still pretty nasty, of course. Raphael goes for the obvious move and targets Lawrence. They get a call from Jenny, who’d decided to stay in their old house after all, alerting them of some strange deaths: bodies showing up all over town, drained of blood. It’s not how the other attacks sounded, not an angel’s style at all. In fact, it sounds like a nest of vampires cut and dry, but Sam and Dean both agree before they even head for the town that somehow, Raphael has a hand in it.
As much as Dean loves a good vampire hunt, the better part of him wants to beg Sam to tap out of this one, call some other hunters and give them the heads up. Dean never liked going to Kansas, let alone Lawrence, but after what happened two years ago, the thought of it makes his stomach turn. Sam looks as sick over it as he feels, but neither of them vocalizes their complaints. People are in trouble because of them, people who would have been their friends and neighbors in a better world. If it’s a trap, they still have to walk right into it.
Back to Masterpost
OR
On to Part Three