Resolution 6/?
By Sunrize83
Rating: GEN, PG-13
Characters: Sam, Dean
Summary: For two weeks he'd been living on edge, desperate to fill the blanks in his memory, terrified of what he might see if he did. It was every bit the horror show he’d imagined. Post-ep for Born Under a Bad Sign.
Word Count: 2,534 (this chapter)
Author's note: Hope everyone's still with me. Thanks as always to iamstealthyone for her beta magic.
Disclaimer: The characters and situations portrayed here aren't mine. This story is for entertainment purposes only.
Dean turns, the shotgun clutched loosely in his hand. “No.”
Anger flares inside him--not white-hot, but a slow, cold burn. “It’s not your decision.”
“You’re what they’re hunting, remember?” Dean stares him down, his face set and hard. “I’m not letting you within a hundred miles of the bastards.”
He curls his fingers into fists, struggling against the overwhelming urge to smash them into Dean’s face. “You can’t stop me.”
The shotgun comes up, aimed at his chest. “Wrong again.” Dean’s voice is cool, but there’s anguish in his eyes. “You lost it this morning, Sammy. You’re out of control, and I can’t trust you out there. Now sit in the chair.”
Though the anger simmers higher, he does as he’s told. Until he sees Dean pull plastic restraints from the weapons bag
“What are you doing?”
There’s not a shred of sympathy on Dean’s face. “Keeping you safe.”
Disbelief, fury, betrayal bubble up. “No!” It bursts from him in what feels like a physical punch so strong his vision goes dark.
He gasps and blinks. Dean’s on his ass, and the plastic ties are skittering across the floor.
He’s out of the chair while Dean’s still fumbling to stand, reeling from whatever knocked him off his feet. Arm looped around his brother’s neck, he applies pressure, ignoring the way Dean’s limbs first flail, then gradually still.
“I have to do this,” he grits through clenched teeth. “And I can’t let you stop me . . .”
“. . . stop doing this because it’s really starting to piss me off. Sammy?”
Two sharp smacks to his cheek, and Sam came up swinging. Bright lights, cold tile, the sour odor of urine all assaulted his senses, and pain knifed through his forehead, blurring his vision. He gasped, curled forward, and would have taken a header if not for the hands that gripped his arms.
“Whoa! Easy there, tiger.”
Relaxing into the hold, he blinked again, and things slid into focus.
Dean’s eyes were lined with worry that belied the light tone of voice. “You with me now?”
“What happened?” The words came out a dry croak as he gazed past Dean’s shoulder.
A bathroom. He was sitting on his ass on the grimy floor of a public bathroom.
“You tell me.” Dean studied him with sharp intensity. “You said you had to take a leak. That was ten minutes ago. I found you on the floor, out of it.”
Images flickered through his mind--snugging his arm around Dean’s throat, his brother’s scrabbling fingers, the heavy, limp weight of Dean’s body--and Sam’s head throbbed dully. He pressed the heel of his hand to his forehead, squeezing his eyes shut.
Dean’s fingers, warm and steady, brushed the side of his face. “Talk to me, Sam, or I’ll haul your ass to the nearest hospital.”
With a grimace, Sam opened his eyes. “No you won’t.”
Dean scowled. “Smart ass. Was it another flashback?”
Maggie’s chicken soup churned sickly in his stomach, but he met Dean’s gaze without flinching. “Yeah.” He swallowed hard against the nausea. “A flashback.”
Dean rubbed a hand over his mouth. “What was it this time?”
“Just me knocking Jo around. Nothing we didn’t already know.” Sam grabbed hold of a sink and dragged himself upright, swaying with the head rush.
Dean steadied him. “Careful.”
“I’m okay, Dean.” He did his best to look reassuring around the unrelenting ache in his head. “Go pay the bill. I’ll be out in a minute.”
Dean hesitated, still watchful. “You sure you’re okay? ’Cause you look like crap.”
“Thank you, Florence Nightingale.” Sam waved him off and turned on the nearest tap. “I’ll be right out.”
He held it together until he heard the soft whoosh-thunk of the door closing. Propping his hands on the sink, he dropped his chin as his breathing stuttered and hitched. His head continued to throb, his eyes felt dry and gritty, his chest too tight--all the usual post-vision side effects.
God, had it been a vision? A vision of him choking--killing--Dean?
Sam plunged his cupped hands under the cold water and splashed it onto his face, running his damp fingers back through his hair. He stared at the hollow-eyed, haggard face in the mirror. Remembered the cold burn of fury, the tangible explosion of raw emotion. Of power.
Just like he’d felt in Max Miller’s closet.
“My plans for you, Sammy. You, and all the children like you.”
Was this it? Had Meg been the catalyst, his first step down the path toward the dark side?
Though his heart was hammering in his chest, Sam straightened and drew in a deep breath, consciously smoothing the furrow in his brow and relaxing the set of his jaw. He had to get a grip before he walked out there, or Dean would know something was wrong.
And if there was one thing he was certain of, one thought that cut cleanly through the tangled web of confusion, shock, and fear, it was this:
Dean can’t know.
Dean would try to reassure him. He’d flash that annoying smirk and say the vision was crap because no way could Sam ever get the drop on him. Then he’d repeat the same thing he’d been saying for months--nothing bad would happen to Sam as long as he was around.
But what if Dean was the one that needed protecting? From Sam? The nightmare with Meg had taught him an important lesson: Dean would die before he’d do anything to hurt Sam.
And Sam was not about to let that happen. He’d put a bullet in his own brain first.
When he walked out of the restroom, Dean was slouched against the counter, chatting with Maggie. Though he appeared relaxed and completely focused on her, Sam knew from the subtle loosening of his brother’s shoulders that Dean had been watching for him. Worrying about him.
As he reached them, Maggie held up a white paper sack. “Some soup for the road,” she explained, then winked at Dean. “And a piece of pie.”
Beaming, Dean pressed a hand over his heart. “Maggie, you’re an angel.”
“Thank you.” Sam took the bag, warmth from the container of soup heating his palm.
“Don’t thank me. Just stay healthy,” she said, shaking a finger with mock severity.
Sam forced a smile. Great. Not only was he lying to Dean, he’d helped deceive poor Maggie into giving them free food.
Back in the car, the food stowed behind his seat, Sam turned away from Dean’s furtive looks and shut his eyes. Feigning sleep, he sorted through the confusing images from whatever cerebral event he’d experienced in the bathroom: Dean’s stony expression . . . “You’re what they’re hunting” . . . “I can’t trust you” . . . The pure, sharp edge of anger . . . Dean struggling . . . weakening . . .
Sam swallowed, his throat dry and burning. He’d done terrible things while Meg had possessed him. He’d become what they hunted, and he’d hurt Dean. Badly. If what he’d seen was a flashback . . . It would be just like his brother to keep something like this from him.
Except it didn’t feel like a flashback. It felt like a vision.
Sam’s heart thudded against his ribs, and he had to work to keep his breathing slow and even. If it was a vision, then it was going to happen. Unless he stopped it.
Of course, the quickest way to clear things up would be to ask Dean.
“Dude, did I happen to, like, choke you while I was possessed?”
Real smooth.
And one little problem. If it had never happened--and he was becoming more and more certain that it hadn’t--Dean would want to know why Sam had asked. And he’d never let it drop until he had an answer.
So, yeah. Not an option.
“What did you really see, Sam?”
Dean’s voice startled him, and Sam jerked before he could catch himself.
“I know you aren’t sleeping, so you might as well cut the act.”
With a soft sigh, Sam opened his eyes and uncurled. Dean was wearing the same face he’d worn every time Sam had tried to put one over on him since they were kids.
Sam did what he’d always done in response. “Huh?”
Dean narrowed his eyes. “You heard me.”
Déjà vu. That was how well it usually worked.
With a shake of his head, Sam sat up straighter. “I don’t know what you want from me. I already told you, it was about Jo.”
“That’s all of it?” Dean didn’t attempt to hide his skepticism. “You were practically catatonic, Sam.”
“What can I say? Punching and nearly sexually assaulting a good friend takes a lot out of me.” Sam pressed his lips together and glared at the ribbon of blacktop.
To his surprise, Dean let it go.
They drove in silence for the next several minutes. Lulled by the hum of tires on pavement and the tapping of Dean’s fingers on the wheel, Sam replayed what he was becoming convinced was a vision, searching for a way to make sense of what he’d seen.
“Remember that summer we lived in Iowa?”
Sam snapped his gaze to Dean, one eyebrow raised. “Okay, random.”
Dean ignored the jab. “You were what--eight?”
“Nine.” Sam furrowed his brow. “Why?”
“What was the name of that kid you hung around with? The one with the pansy-assed haircut?”
“Bailey.” Sam quirked his lips. “He couldn’t help it. His mom worked in a salon.”
“Kid was a walking trouble magnet,” Dean said, both irritation and admiration in his voice, “and he pulled you into all his stupid schemes.”
“Yeah, well, you weren’t around much that summer.” Sam slumped lower in his seat, arms laced across his chest. “Too cool for your little brother.”
Dean flashed him a smirk before returning his gaze to the road. “Always have been, Sammy. Just took you awhile to figure it out.”
He’d walked right into that one. With a huff, Sam shook his head. “And again I ask, Why?”
“That was the summer--thanks to pansy-assed Bailey--that I figured it out.” Dean rested one wrist on the wheel, his eyes shifting between Sam and the road. “See, you do this thing when you lie, Sam. You tense up, just a little. You press your lips together. And you won’t look me in the eye.” He chuckled and shook his head. “You must’ve done it about ten times that summer.” His smile faded. “And you’ve done it every time I’ve asked what you saw in that flashback.”
“Dean, I . . .” Sam caught himself. Shit. He was doing it, every tell Dean had just described.
Dean pulled the car to the side of the road. Turning off the engine, he pinned Sam with unrelenting eyes. “Just spit it out, Sam. Considering the way you’re acting, I can pretty much guess it involves me.”
“Then why don’t we just drop it?” Sam snapped. “Sounds like you’ve got it all figured out.”
“So it was about me.” With a sigh, Dean scratched the back of his head. “Sam, don’t you think I’ve got a right to know?”
Pressing the back of his head against the cool window, Sam tried to think around the ache. “Dean, I’m not sure . . . It’s all messed up.”
“No problem.” Much of the anger had leaked out of Dean’s voice, leaving only stubborn patience. “You just tell me what you can, and we’ll figure it out together.”
He was tired, and his head throbbed, and a part of Sam wanted Dean to know. Hoped he’d have all the answers if he did. He drew in a deep breath. “It’s . . . I’m not sure where we are, but . . . I’m pissed, and you’re pissed, and you’ve got a gun. You say you want to keep me safe, but that just makes me mad, and . . .” He bit his lip and resolved not to let himself off the hook. “I . . . hurt you, Dean. It . . . it looks bad, and I don’t know--”
“You’re making it sound worse than it was.”
Sam broke off, his jaw dropping at Dean’s calm statement. “What?”
“It wasn’t that bad.” Dean pointed to himself. “Hey, look. I survived--and with my devastatingly good looks intact.”
It felt as if everything were moving a beat ahead of him. “You mean . . . you know what I saw?”
“Dude, flashback. I was there, remember?” Dean’s expression softened at Sam’s confusion. “I knew we should’ve talked about this. But it was no big deal, and I didn’t want you blaming yourself any more than you already were.”
Sam stared at Dean as he tried to process his brother’s total lack of concern. “But it looked like a big deal. It looked like . . . I could’ve killed you.”
Dean snorted. “Yeah, right. It was a knock on the head, Sam. I’ve gotten worse from your garden-variety poltergeist.”
Sam’s stomach plunged, and his breath caught in his throat. He kept his expression carefully neutral as Dean talked on.
“And while we’re on the subject, I want to make it clear that next time you ask me to kill you? I’m going to hit you over the head. We are so not going there again. Understand?”
“Yeah.” Sam swallowed, trying--and failing--to moisten his desert-dry throat. “Yeah, I understand.”
“Good.” Dean started the engine, checked over his shoulder, and pulled onto the road. “This is exactly why you shouldn’t keep stuff from me, Sammy. You hold out on me, and I can’t help you. We’re in this thing together, and that means . . .”
Dean’s voice faded to an unintelligible buzz drowned out by Sam’s pounding heart and jumbled thoughts. He had no memory of the incident Dean had described. But he could piece it together.
He’d turned to his brother in a drunken moment of weakness and fear back at that creepy hotel they’d investigated. He’d begged Dean not to let him become evil, to kill him if the worst should happen.
And then Meg had come along. She’d plucked that incident from his brain like a piece of ripe fruit and tried to use it against Dean.
Sam had no trouble envisioning how things might have gone if Dean had fallen for Meg’s little ruse and shot him. Discovering Sam had been possessed and not evil would have done more than kill Dean. It would have destroyed him. And from what Dean wasn’t saying, the bitch had come damn close to succeeding.
Just thinking about it filled Sam with an icy rage as intense as what he’d felt in the vision. If given the chance, he knew he’d kill Meg without hesitation. And without regard to her host.
And if he could do that . . .
Maybe he could turn that rage on the only person who really mattered.
Who he’d die for.
Sam closed his burning eyes. He had some thinking to do.
Go to part 7
Rating: GEN, PG-13
Characters: Sam, Dean
Summary: For two weeks he'd been living on edge, desperate to fill the blanks in his memory, terrified of what he might see if he did. It was every bit the horror show he’d imagined. Post-ep for Born Under a Bad Sign.
Word Count: 2,534 (this chapter)
Author's note: Hope everyone's still with me. Thanks as always to iamstealthyone for her beta magic.
Disclaimer: The characters and situations portrayed here aren't mine. This story is for entertainment purposes only.
Dean turns, the shotgun clutched loosely in his hand. “No.”
Anger flares inside him--not white-hot, but a slow, cold burn. “It’s not your decision.”
“You’re what they’re hunting, remember?” Dean stares him down, his face set and hard. “I’m not letting you within a hundred miles of the bastards.”
He curls his fingers into fists, struggling against the overwhelming urge to smash them into Dean’s face. “You can’t stop me.”
The shotgun comes up, aimed at his chest. “Wrong again.” Dean’s voice is cool, but there’s anguish in his eyes. “You lost it this morning, Sammy. You’re out of control, and I can’t trust you out there. Now sit in the chair.”
Though the anger simmers higher, he does as he’s told. Until he sees Dean pull plastic restraints from the weapons bag
“What are you doing?”
There’s not a shred of sympathy on Dean’s face. “Keeping you safe.”
Disbelief, fury, betrayal bubble up. “No!” It bursts from him in what feels like a physical punch so strong his vision goes dark.
He gasps and blinks. Dean’s on his ass, and the plastic ties are skittering across the floor.
He’s out of the chair while Dean’s still fumbling to stand, reeling from whatever knocked him off his feet. Arm looped around his brother’s neck, he applies pressure, ignoring the way Dean’s limbs first flail, then gradually still.
“I have to do this,” he grits through clenched teeth. “And I can’t let you stop me . . .”
“. . . stop doing this because it’s really starting to piss me off. Sammy?”
Two sharp smacks to his cheek, and Sam came up swinging. Bright lights, cold tile, the sour odor of urine all assaulted his senses, and pain knifed through his forehead, blurring his vision. He gasped, curled forward, and would have taken a header if not for the hands that gripped his arms.
“Whoa! Easy there, tiger.”
Relaxing into the hold, he blinked again, and things slid into focus.
Dean’s eyes were lined with worry that belied the light tone of voice. “You with me now?”
“What happened?” The words came out a dry croak as he gazed past Dean’s shoulder.
A bathroom. He was sitting on his ass on the grimy floor of a public bathroom.
“You tell me.” Dean studied him with sharp intensity. “You said you had to take a leak. That was ten minutes ago. I found you on the floor, out of it.”
Images flickered through his mind--snugging his arm around Dean’s throat, his brother’s scrabbling fingers, the heavy, limp weight of Dean’s body--and Sam’s head throbbed dully. He pressed the heel of his hand to his forehead, squeezing his eyes shut.
Dean’s fingers, warm and steady, brushed the side of his face. “Talk to me, Sam, or I’ll haul your ass to the nearest hospital.”
With a grimace, Sam opened his eyes. “No you won’t.”
Dean scowled. “Smart ass. Was it another flashback?”
Maggie’s chicken soup churned sickly in his stomach, but he met Dean’s gaze without flinching. “Yeah.” He swallowed hard against the nausea. “A flashback.”
Dean rubbed a hand over his mouth. “What was it this time?”
“Just me knocking Jo around. Nothing we didn’t already know.” Sam grabbed hold of a sink and dragged himself upright, swaying with the head rush.
Dean steadied him. “Careful.”
“I’m okay, Dean.” He did his best to look reassuring around the unrelenting ache in his head. “Go pay the bill. I’ll be out in a minute.”
Dean hesitated, still watchful. “You sure you’re okay? ’Cause you look like crap.”
“Thank you, Florence Nightingale.” Sam waved him off and turned on the nearest tap. “I’ll be right out.”
He held it together until he heard the soft whoosh-thunk of the door closing. Propping his hands on the sink, he dropped his chin as his breathing stuttered and hitched. His head continued to throb, his eyes felt dry and gritty, his chest too tight--all the usual post-vision side effects.
God, had it been a vision? A vision of him choking--killing--Dean?
Sam plunged his cupped hands under the cold water and splashed it onto his face, running his damp fingers back through his hair. He stared at the hollow-eyed, haggard face in the mirror. Remembered the cold burn of fury, the tangible explosion of raw emotion. Of power.
Just like he’d felt in Max Miller’s closet.
“My plans for you, Sammy. You, and all the children like you.”
Was this it? Had Meg been the catalyst, his first step down the path toward the dark side?
Though his heart was hammering in his chest, Sam straightened and drew in a deep breath, consciously smoothing the furrow in his brow and relaxing the set of his jaw. He had to get a grip before he walked out there, or Dean would know something was wrong.
And if there was one thing he was certain of, one thought that cut cleanly through the tangled web of confusion, shock, and fear, it was this:
Dean can’t know.
Dean would try to reassure him. He’d flash that annoying smirk and say the vision was crap because no way could Sam ever get the drop on him. Then he’d repeat the same thing he’d been saying for months--nothing bad would happen to Sam as long as he was around.
But what if Dean was the one that needed protecting? From Sam? The nightmare with Meg had taught him an important lesson: Dean would die before he’d do anything to hurt Sam.
And Sam was not about to let that happen. He’d put a bullet in his own brain first.
When he walked out of the restroom, Dean was slouched against the counter, chatting with Maggie. Though he appeared relaxed and completely focused on her, Sam knew from the subtle loosening of his brother’s shoulders that Dean had been watching for him. Worrying about him.
As he reached them, Maggie held up a white paper sack. “Some soup for the road,” she explained, then winked at Dean. “And a piece of pie.”
Beaming, Dean pressed a hand over his heart. “Maggie, you’re an angel.”
“Thank you.” Sam took the bag, warmth from the container of soup heating his palm.
“Don’t thank me. Just stay healthy,” she said, shaking a finger with mock severity.
Sam forced a smile. Great. Not only was he lying to Dean, he’d helped deceive poor Maggie into giving them free food.
Back in the car, the food stowed behind his seat, Sam turned away from Dean’s furtive looks and shut his eyes. Feigning sleep, he sorted through the confusing images from whatever cerebral event he’d experienced in the bathroom: Dean’s stony expression . . . “You’re what they’re hunting” . . . “I can’t trust you” . . . The pure, sharp edge of anger . . . Dean struggling . . . weakening . . .
Sam swallowed, his throat dry and burning. He’d done terrible things while Meg had possessed him. He’d become what they hunted, and he’d hurt Dean. Badly. If what he’d seen was a flashback . . . It would be just like his brother to keep something like this from him.
Except it didn’t feel like a flashback. It felt like a vision.
Sam’s heart thudded against his ribs, and he had to work to keep his breathing slow and even. If it was a vision, then it was going to happen. Unless he stopped it.
Of course, the quickest way to clear things up would be to ask Dean.
“Dude, did I happen to, like, choke you while I was possessed?”
Real smooth.
And one little problem. If it had never happened--and he was becoming more and more certain that it hadn’t--Dean would want to know why Sam had asked. And he’d never let it drop until he had an answer.
So, yeah. Not an option.
“What did you really see, Sam?”
Dean’s voice startled him, and Sam jerked before he could catch himself.
“I know you aren’t sleeping, so you might as well cut the act.”
With a soft sigh, Sam opened his eyes and uncurled. Dean was wearing the same face he’d worn every time Sam had tried to put one over on him since they were kids.
Sam did what he’d always done in response. “Huh?”
Dean narrowed his eyes. “You heard me.”
Déjà vu. That was how well it usually worked.
With a shake of his head, Sam sat up straighter. “I don’t know what you want from me. I already told you, it was about Jo.”
“That’s all of it?” Dean didn’t attempt to hide his skepticism. “You were practically catatonic, Sam.”
“What can I say? Punching and nearly sexually assaulting a good friend takes a lot out of me.” Sam pressed his lips together and glared at the ribbon of blacktop.
To his surprise, Dean let it go.
They drove in silence for the next several minutes. Lulled by the hum of tires on pavement and the tapping of Dean’s fingers on the wheel, Sam replayed what he was becoming convinced was a vision, searching for a way to make sense of what he’d seen.
“Remember that summer we lived in Iowa?”
Sam snapped his gaze to Dean, one eyebrow raised. “Okay, random.”
Dean ignored the jab. “You were what--eight?”
“Nine.” Sam furrowed his brow. “Why?”
“What was the name of that kid you hung around with? The one with the pansy-assed haircut?”
“Bailey.” Sam quirked his lips. “He couldn’t help it. His mom worked in a salon.”
“Kid was a walking trouble magnet,” Dean said, both irritation and admiration in his voice, “and he pulled you into all his stupid schemes.”
“Yeah, well, you weren’t around much that summer.” Sam slumped lower in his seat, arms laced across his chest. “Too cool for your little brother.”
Dean flashed him a smirk before returning his gaze to the road. “Always have been, Sammy. Just took you awhile to figure it out.”
He’d walked right into that one. With a huff, Sam shook his head. “And again I ask, Why?”
“That was the summer--thanks to pansy-assed Bailey--that I figured it out.” Dean rested one wrist on the wheel, his eyes shifting between Sam and the road. “See, you do this thing when you lie, Sam. You tense up, just a little. You press your lips together. And you won’t look me in the eye.” He chuckled and shook his head. “You must’ve done it about ten times that summer.” His smile faded. “And you’ve done it every time I’ve asked what you saw in that flashback.”
“Dean, I . . .” Sam caught himself. Shit. He was doing it, every tell Dean had just described.
Dean pulled the car to the side of the road. Turning off the engine, he pinned Sam with unrelenting eyes. “Just spit it out, Sam. Considering the way you’re acting, I can pretty much guess it involves me.”
“Then why don’t we just drop it?” Sam snapped. “Sounds like you’ve got it all figured out.”
“So it was about me.” With a sigh, Dean scratched the back of his head. “Sam, don’t you think I’ve got a right to know?”
Pressing the back of his head against the cool window, Sam tried to think around the ache. “Dean, I’m not sure . . . It’s all messed up.”
“No problem.” Much of the anger had leaked out of Dean’s voice, leaving only stubborn patience. “You just tell me what you can, and we’ll figure it out together.”
He was tired, and his head throbbed, and a part of Sam wanted Dean to know. Hoped he’d have all the answers if he did. He drew in a deep breath. “It’s . . . I’m not sure where we are, but . . . I’m pissed, and you’re pissed, and you’ve got a gun. You say you want to keep me safe, but that just makes me mad, and . . .” He bit his lip and resolved not to let himself off the hook. “I . . . hurt you, Dean. It . . . it looks bad, and I don’t know--”
“You’re making it sound worse than it was.”
Sam broke off, his jaw dropping at Dean’s calm statement. “What?”
“It wasn’t that bad.” Dean pointed to himself. “Hey, look. I survived--and with my devastatingly good looks intact.”
It felt as if everything were moving a beat ahead of him. “You mean . . . you know what I saw?”
“Dude, flashback. I was there, remember?” Dean’s expression softened at Sam’s confusion. “I knew we should’ve talked about this. But it was no big deal, and I didn’t want you blaming yourself any more than you already were.”
Sam stared at Dean as he tried to process his brother’s total lack of concern. “But it looked like a big deal. It looked like . . . I could’ve killed you.”
Dean snorted. “Yeah, right. It was a knock on the head, Sam. I’ve gotten worse from your garden-variety poltergeist.”
Sam’s stomach plunged, and his breath caught in his throat. He kept his expression carefully neutral as Dean talked on.
“And while we’re on the subject, I want to make it clear that next time you ask me to kill you? I’m going to hit you over the head. We are so not going there again. Understand?”
“Yeah.” Sam swallowed, trying--and failing--to moisten his desert-dry throat. “Yeah, I understand.”
“Good.” Dean started the engine, checked over his shoulder, and pulled onto the road. “This is exactly why you shouldn’t keep stuff from me, Sammy. You hold out on me, and I can’t help you. We’re in this thing together, and that means . . .”
Dean’s voice faded to an unintelligible buzz drowned out by Sam’s pounding heart and jumbled thoughts. He had no memory of the incident Dean had described. But he could piece it together.
He’d turned to his brother in a drunken moment of weakness and fear back at that creepy hotel they’d investigated. He’d begged Dean not to let him become evil, to kill him if the worst should happen.
And then Meg had come along. She’d plucked that incident from his brain like a piece of ripe fruit and tried to use it against Dean.
Sam had no trouble envisioning how things might have gone if Dean had fallen for Meg’s little ruse and shot him. Discovering Sam had been possessed and not evil would have done more than kill Dean. It would have destroyed him. And from what Dean wasn’t saying, the bitch had come damn close to succeeding.
Just thinking about it filled Sam with an icy rage as intense as what he’d felt in the vision. If given the chance, he knew he’d kill Meg without hesitation. And without regard to her host.
And if he could do that . . .
Maybe he could turn that rage on the only person who really mattered.
Who he’d die for.
Sam closed his burning eyes. He had some thinking to do.
Go to part 7