Supernatural: Carouselambra (2/5)
All disclaimers, notes, warnings and summary are in the Master post: Carouselambra
Chapter Three
2006
Sam was still carrying him across the field when Dean woke up, and he woke up swinging.
Sam reacted quickly, intending to lay him gently on the ground, but Dean wasn't having any part of it. The second his feet hit the grass, he shoved Sam away, knocked himself off-balance, and fell on his ass.
"Hey, Dean. Hey."
"Stay the fuck away!" Dean shoved himself back with his hands, his heels skidding on the dew-dampened grass as he scrambled to escape. "The fuck off me!"
Sam held his hands out to his sides with his palms turned up and out, assuming the least threatening position he could. He forced himself to speak calmly and managed to keep his voice gentle, which surprised him, because what he really wanted to do was freak the hell out.
"Hey, it's me. Sam."
"You stay away from Sam!"
"No, Dean." Sam knelt down as close to his brother's side as he dared. One thing he remembered clearly from the time when panic attacks were common was that when Dean got like this, there was always danger of a fist striking out and catching him. "I am Sam. Look at me."
Dean looked at him then, for the first time since he'd hit the ground. In the distant lights from the parking lot, Sam could see how wild and unfocused Dean's eyes were, and how truly terrified he was. It didn't last long, only a few seconds, but it was long enough to be unsettling, because Dean never looked like that.
Dean blinked a few times, seemed to get hold of himself, and looked up at Sam again.
"Sammy? You okay?" He glanced around the field nervously. "Where'd he go? Why are you still here? I told you to run!"
So maybe he'd been too hasty thinking Dean had gotten hold of himself.
"It's okay, Dean. Calm down. He's not here. He never was."
"Yes, he was!" Dean argued. He lurched forward and grabbed the front of Sam's jacket with his left hand, pulling him close. "He was just here. He threw me into the wall, and I told you to run, and ..."
Sam laid his hand atop Dean's on his jacket. "Look around you. Do you see a motel room?"
Dean glanced around again, shaking his head quickly.
"What you're talking about? Happened eight and a half years ago. He's dead."
"What?" Dean blinked again, and genuine confusion replaced the nervousness and anxiety on his face. "No, he was just here."
"You hit your head in that basement, you blacked out." Sam knew he was leaving out the part about Dean having passed out before he hit his head, but since Dean would never admit that, there really was no point in saying it. He reached out with his left hand slowly, carefully pressing on Dean's head behind his right ear. There was nothing he could feel, no noticeable lump, but he'd check it again at the motel just to make sure. "What you saw wasn't real; it was all in your head."
"Not real," Dean repeated. He closed his eyes and let his head fall forward. "Nothing happened. Just a dream."
"Yeah, man," Sam said. "Just a dream."
When Dean opened his eyes again, there wasn't a single trace of any of the emotions that had been in them before. Instead, they were filled with what might have been anger and what was definitely embarrassment. He let go of Sam's jacket quickly.
"What the hell, dude?"
"I don't know."
Sam lowered himself to sit on the ground next to Dean, pulled his right knee up and rested his arm across it. "I don't think we should have come here, Dean. We should have sent Caleb, or maybe Pastor Jim could have found someone."
"Why?"
"Because we're acting like this! You just had a panic attack! A panic attack, man, you haven't had one of those in years. And I'm not much better. I'm barely functioning, can't concentrate, and I can't shake this feeling that ..." Sam threw his hands up in exasperation. "I just think, I don't know, maybe we've got PTSD or something?"
"So take a Midol."
"Dean!"
"Yeah, I know, not funny. Whatever. But Sam, we're not ... I mean ... what trauma?"
"What trauma?" Sam had to wonder sometimes how Dean could keep a straight face when he said things like that. "What? Were you even here the last time?"
"Yeah, Sam, I'm pretty sure I was." Dean's voice was angry and tight, but he calmed down almost immediately. "And guess what? Nothing happened."
Sam just shook his head, because there was really nothing he could say that wouldn't end badly.
Dean rolled to his hands and knees and pushed himself to his feet. He was a bit unsteady, prompting Sam to jump to his own feet and move a bit closer to him. "Dude, back off. I can walk."
"I know," Sam said, but he didn't step back.
"Where's my car?"
"Right over there." Sam pointed it out. The dark shape against the school building was both familiar and comfortable.
Dean grunted as he started walking, and they headed back to the car together. Sam stayed close by his side the entire time. Neither of them spoke as they walked, or on the drive back to the motel. Both of them were too wrapped up in their own memories to even consider trying to keep each other company.
Sam walked into the room, tossed the car keys on the desk, and went straight to his bed, closing his eyes as he flopped down across it. Dean shut and locked the door behind them, and Sam heard some scraping sounds that he recognized as Dean fixing the salt line.
"What do we do now?" he asked without opening his eyes.
"You can do whatever you want," Dean answered tiredly. "Just stay in the room. I'm gonna take a shower."
Sam cracked his eyes open and glanced at Dean. There was some mud on his jeans, from where he'd fallen in the field, but he wasn't anywhere near as dirty as he usually got on a job. Sam made a mental note to start keeping track of Dean's sudden obsession with personal hygiene. It was a small thing, and it might mean nothing, but it was a sudden change in behavior. And with the way things were going, chances were pretty good that it was a sign of something much bigger.
"I think I should probably call the police," Sam said. "Let them know where Zack Mason is."
"It can wait." Dean walked past Sam and toward the bathroom. "Because you can't call them from here, and you sure as hell aren't going out alone to look for a payphone."
Sam sighed deeply. He was tired all the way to his bones, and he just wanted this day to be over. "Dean ..."
"Later, Sam," Dean said as he closed the bathroom door. He sounded as weary as Sam felt.
Sam reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out his phone, then held it arms' length and stared at it. Dean was right; he couldn't call the police from the room phone, because they'd trace it too easily, and the same was true of his cell phone. He just felt like there was something more he should be doing, someone he should be calling.
He shot up straight on the bed and started scrolling through his contact list. He pressed the dial button almost immediately.
No one answered, but then again, he hadn't been expecting anyone to. It was almost two in the morning in Iowa, and he had no idea where the person he was calling actually was. It didn't really matter when he called, though, and he knew that. He wasn't getting anything but voicemail. It wasn't going to be enough, and he knew that, too. It hadn't been enough the week before, and it wasn't going to be enough now, but he didn't know what else to do.
"Dad ... Dad, it's Sam. Listen, I know ... you didn't call me back last time, and I just ... I thought you might wanna know that Dean's okay. Or, I guess, I mean, he's alive, and he's not sick anymore. But he's not really okay. Neither of us is. We're ... Dad, we're in Johnston, Iowa. And I don't know what we're up against here, but we really can't do this alone. Dean's blacking out and I'm ... I think I'm losing it, Dad. We need help." Sam swallowed hard and forced himself to keep going. "I just wanted to ... I don't know. I really need you to call me back, Dad, okay? I just ... I really need you to do that."
He couldn't think of anything to else to say, so he flipped the phone closed and pressed it to his forehead. It had been a waste of time, and he knew it, but it had made him feel a little better at least. John knew where they were and what they were doing, and even if they didn't get the same from him, well, he really should know that Dean wasn't dead, even if he hadn't bothered to call and find out for himself.
The sound of the shower cut off, and a couple of minutes later, Dean stepped out of the bathroom wearing clothes that he had to have stolen from Sam. Dean didn't own any sweatpants, and the grey t-shirt he was wearing was at least one size too big. Sam shook his head and wondered again exactly what was going on in his brother's head. Dean never got dressed to go to bed; he slept in his shorts and maybe a shirt, if it was chilly.
"Are you feeling okay?" he asked as Dean walked past him.
Dean shook his head and threw back the blankets on his bed. "Just cold. I'll give 'em back tomorrow."
"No," Sam said. "It's okay. But you don't have a fever or anything, do you?"
Dean glared at him across the space between the beds as he settled down and pulled the blankets up.
"Okay, okay." Sam put his hands in the air and stood, turning around to dig through his bag. He needed to find something he could sleep in, because his usual pajamas were on his brother. "How's your head?"
"It's fine."
"Did you take any ...?"
"I'm good. Knock it off."
"I'm gonna hop in the shower real quick. I'm assuming you left me some hot water." He was trying his best to pretend that everything was normal, but he knew it fell flat. Everything was so not normal that it wasn't even close to funny. "You get some sleep."
"I'm tryin' to. It'd be easier if you'd shut up."
Sam nodded and pulled an extra pair of grey sweats out of the bottom of his bag. "I'll wake you up in two ..."
"Do it and die, Sam. I swear to God."
Sam let his arms fall to his sides and turned his head. Dean was lying on his right side, facing the window, with the blankets pulled all the way up to his shoulders. It was pretty clear that as far as Dean was concerned the conversation, and the whole day, was over.
Sam reached over and flipped off the light between the beds, then headed for the bathroom.
1998
It took Dean less than a second to realize just how screwed they were. He was defenseless, Sam was clueless, and they were alone. Even if he had known of a way to banish a spirit without weapons or the ability to move - and he was sure Dad or Bobby knew one, if there was such a thing - they'd still have been in trouble.
Dean had taken John's warnings seriously, and had done the most thorough job of salting the windows and doors that he'd ever done, but it hadn't been good enough. Something - and he didn't doubt for a second that it was the spirit that John and Bobby were there to kill - had still managed to get in. He couldn't believe that he'd been so careless, so stupid. What had he forgotten?
But he didn't have the time to worry about that; he needed to protect Sam. And to do that he needed more information than he had. What kind of spirit was it? What did it do? Why did John think it was a threat to Sam but not to Dean? He wished John had shared the intel that he and Bobby had gathered on the thing, but they'd taken it with them. There was only one way he might be able to figure out what he needed to know about the thing, so even though it was a long shot, he gave it a try.
"Who the hell are you?"
The spirit tilted its head and leered at Dean as it walked toward him. The expression it wore on its face made Dean's skin crawl, made him wish that he could go take a shower of his own. Just the way it was looking at him made him feel filthy. Without saying a word, the thing made it very clear just exactly what kind of a threat it was, and what it would want from Sam.
"You stay away from him," Dean growled. "You stay away from him or I swear to God ..."
"Coy," the thing said.
"What?" Dean had been expecting a monster's voice, rough and cracked and evil, but that wasn't what he heard. This voice sounded like any other average person, really, more like a mild-manned business man than a serial killer. But the evil was still there.
"You asked me my name," it said. "I'm Coy Holman."
Dean glared at it even as he pulled futilely against the invisible force that had him pinned.
"And you ..." The leer was back, and if it was possible, it was growing more disturbing the closer Holman got. "You are Dean Winchester. And in the shower?" Holman turned his head slightly so he could glance back down the hallway toward the bathroom door, and the bastard actually licked its lips. "That's little Sammy."
Dean was shaking now, both with hatred and the exertion of trying to free himself. No one wore that expression while they were talking about his brother and walked away from it. This son of a bitch was toast.
Just as soon as Dean got himself off the wall.
"Don't you fuckin' touch him!"
Holman turned back around and walked slowly across the room. When its face was only inches from Dean's, close enough for Dean to smell its rancid, rotting breath, it leaned forward. Dean's heart pounded in his chest, his breath coming in shorter and shorter gasps, as Holman leaned himself even further in. Dean shuddered when he felt the thing's lips brush against his ear.
"You know what I want, don't you, Dean?" it whispered. "Daddy didn't tell you, but you know what I want. And I always get what I want."
Sam chose the worst possible moment to step through the bathroom door. "Hey, Dean ... ?"
"No!" Dean cried out. "Run, Sam!"
But Sam didn't run; Sam froze. He stood there at the end of the hallway, shirtless in a pair of brown sweatpants, still dripping from his shower and with steam still rising from his skin. His eyes widened, all of the color drained from his face, and he looked so much younger than his actual fourteen years that it made Dean's heart ache. Sam really was still just a kid, young and scared and somehow, even after all he'd seen, impossibly innocent.
'Not like this,' Dean begged silently, though he had no idea who he thought was listening. 'Please don't let him lose that like this!'
And then Sam was moving, running just like Dean had told him to. But he wasn't running away.
He was running toward his brother.
"Dean!"
Holman flicked his right hand with an air of boredom, and Sam stopped in his tracks. Before Sam's face had a chance to register anything more than confusion, he flew to his right and his back slammed into the far wall of the room.
"Hello, Sammy," Holman said. He walked away from Dean and toward Sam with that disgusting smile back on his face. "My name is Coy. Coy Holman. It is truly a pleasure to meet you. I have heard so much about you."
Sam turned toward Dean, his expression one of fear and confusion. Dean's struggles to free himself grew frantic.
"You let him go," Dean demanded. "He's just a fuckin' kid. You let him go!"
Holman turned his head, redirecting the lustful inspection away from Dean's half-naked little brother and back to him. "Yes, he is." Just the sound of this thing's voice was setting Dean's nerves on edge - oozing and slimy and dripping with every disgusting thing Dean could imagine. "Just a little boy. I like that."
Dean swore that he'd do anything to keep those eyes from turning back to Sam, to keep them from raking up and down Sam's body like they were currently doing to his. He just wasn't entirely sure how to do it. Under Holman's wanting gaze, Dean felt like a slab of raw meat, and if the way Holman was licking his lips was any indication, the spirit was hungry for some medium rare. But no way in hell was he looking at Sammy like that, even if Dean had to cut the fucker's eyes out.
"I get what I want, Dean," Holman repeated, loud enough for Sam to hear what he was saying. "Daddy's gone, and he's not coming back until morning. I've got all the time I need." Holman stepped close to Dean again, so close that its leg brushed against the outside of his thigh, and he turned his head to look at Sam.
Sam stared back at him, dark eyes filled with terror. Dean didn't know if Sam had fully caught or understood the implication and threat under Holman's words, though he hoped that he hadn't. But it was obvious that he had figured out enough to know that the situation was bad. And Holman was right about one thing - Dad was gone, and he wasn't going to be back in time.
"And how old are you, Dean? Daddy didn't say."
"Eight ... nineteen," Dean answered without taking his eyes off of Sam's.
"Oh, and it's your birthday, I heard. So, nineteen just today then?" Dean knew it was close to him, could sense it moving around next to him, but refused to look at it. "You don't look nineteen."
"Fuck you."
Holman clicked his tongue in admonishment as he walked around him. "Now, Dean, that's not very nice. Surely you don't want to be making me angry right now, do you?" It stepped in front of him, blocking his view of Sam, and lowered his voice again. "Or were you making me an offer?"
Dean felt the spirit's hand on his chest, its cold, dead fingers running up and down his ribs, and he shivered. Holman's touch, even through the fabric of his t-shirt, was like pure ice, leeching all the warmth from his skin and leaving freezing tracks in its wake. Holman circled him again.
He wanted to close his eyes and pretend it wasn't real, but he couldn't look away from Sam. He'd messed everything up. He hadn't been able to protect Sam at all. The least he could do was stay with him, stay focused on him, no matter what happened.
Holman pulled back, moved away until he stood between them. "Isn't it ironic, boys? Daddy and Uncle Bobby, making such a big fuss about protecting you from me, but they brought me right to you. And all their talk about salt and keeping me out? They had you lock me right in here with you. It's almost too perfect, isn't it? Almost like they knew."
Dean glared at Holman with every ounce of hatred he could muster. "They didn't know shit."
"No, you're right, they didn't." Holman's voice was light, teasing. "Well, they did know that I left one laying in the woods behind this motel, but they didn't know that I could come here because of him. They didn't know that I was listening to them in my house, when they were talking about pretty little Sammy back at the motel, and how much I'd like him. They didn't know that I was already here when they left. And they had no idea the lengths I'm willing to go to get what I want."
"Dean?"
Sam's voice was small, frightened and confused. He seemed as vulnerable as he was, the perfect prey. Holman took two steps toward him, with that damned perverted smile on his face, and Dean had never wanted to wrap his hands around something's neck so badly in his life.
"I will fucking kill you." All of the hatred that Dean had ever felt toward every single evil thing he'd ever seen dripped from the words.
Holman moved himself from one side of the room to the other so fast that Dean had to stifle the urge to gasp in surprise. Then his lips were against Dean's ear again, words whispered so softly that Dean knew there was no way Sam could hear them. For that, he would be forever thankful.
"You're feisty, Dean. Pretty. A bit old for my taste, yes, but I have to admit, you've got me intrigued." Venom, evil and unholy lust dripped from every word. "I came here for Sammy, that's true. But I might be persuaded to change my mind."
He knew how to keep it away from Sam.
Chapter Four
2006
The phone was ringing when Sam came out of the bathroom, and he rushed forward to grab it. He didn't know how long it had been ringing, but it hadn't woken Dean up yet, so it couldn't have been very long. He had no idea who would be calling them at three in the morning, and he didn't dare to let himself hope it was John, but it had to be important. He flipped it open without looking at the caller ID and pressed it to his ear.
"Hello?"
"Sam? That you?"
Sam pulled the phone away and stared down at the display. He recognized the voice on the other end, and that's whose name was on the screen, but it didn't make any sense.
"Sam?"
"Bobby?"
"Yeah." He could almost hear the smile on Bobby's face. "How ya doin', kid? How's that brother of ...?"
"What's going on? Why are you calling me?"
"What?" Now he sounded offended. "An old friend can't call just to catch up?"
"At three in the morning? No, not really." Silence fell on both ends of the line. "Bobby?"
"I just heard that maybe you boys had run into some trouble, and I was wantin' to make sure you were okay. That's all."
Sam wasn't really a naturally suspicious person - that had always been Dean - and Bobby was one of the few people in the world that he trusted completely, but that set off alarms in his head. "What kind of trouble?"
He heard Bobby draw a ragged breath. "Well, that thing in Nebraska last week, for starters. And you ever keep something like that from me again, I'll put my boot so far up your ass ... Damn it, Sam, your brother is dyin', you call me!"
Sam ran his hand through his hair nervously and sat down in the desk chair. "Yeah, about that ... Bobby, I just ... I mean, I don't ..." He took a deep breath and blew it out. "I'm sorry. I should have called."
"Damn right you shoulda called! Shoulda been the first person you called, right after your daddy."
Sam blinked in confusion. "How'd you know I called my dad?"
The answer was silence, but only for a second. "Well, ya did, didn't ya?" Sam nodded his head but didn't speak. "Doesn't matter anyway. Next time it happens, to either of you, you call me. Got it?"
"Yeah, Bobby," Sam said softly. "Yeah, I got it."
"All right. Now ..." Another pause, but this one was heavier. Sam knew something big was coming. "I hear you boys are down in Johnston."
Sam jumped to attention in the chair. "Heard how?"
"With my ears. Hunters talk, Sam, it's no big deal. I just wanna know what the hell you two think you're doin' there."
"It's a hunt," Sam said. "It seemed like a simple thing, in and out. We've been here less than a day."
"And?"
Sam drew another deep breath and rubbed at his forehead with his hand. "And ... I don't think we should be here at all. We're not handling it well, and there's too many coincidences. It seems like everywhere we go, we end up getting pulled back into the Coy Holman hunt, somehow. Like this whole damn job was just to bring us here and fuck with our heads."
"What's goin' on, Sam?"
"I don't know. I mean, one minute we're fine and the next ... I'm flipping out or forgetting really basic stuff, or Dean's having a panic attack or passing out, or ..."
"Dean passed out?"
"Yeah," Sam answered absently. "In Holman's basement."
"You were in Coy Holman's basement!?" Sam jerked his head away from the phone at Bobby's bellow. "Boy, where the hell was your head?"
"It was an accident! We didn't know where we were. Or at least, I didn't know where we were. Dean said he'd been there before. We found one of the victims' bodies down there ..."
Bobby interrupted him with a loud sigh. "Let me talk to Dean."
"He's sleeping."
"Well then wake him up! I need to talk to him."
"All right. Hang on." Sam pushed himself to his feet and walked over to the beds, tapping Dean on the leg when he reached him. "Dean, wake up. Bobby's on the phone. Wants to talk to you."
Sam waited a few seconds for the expected response, which should have been Dean rolling to his back, grumbling, and reaching for the phone. Dean didn't move, which Sam chalked up to him being more tired than Sam had thought he was, so he tried again.
"Hey, Dean." He shook Dean's leg and raised his voice. "Wake up already."
Again, there was no response.
"Come on, man," Sam said tiredly. "Bobby's waiting for you."
He meant to shake Dean's shoulder lightly, nothing more. But when he grabbed his arm, there was no resistance at all, and Dean flopped from his side onto his back. His arms were limp, his eyes were closed, and he was pale as a sheet. His lips were parted slightly, and his eyes had dark circles around them.
"What can I say, man, it’s a dangerous gig."
"No!" Sam cried out. His heart jumped into his throat, and he found it suddenly impossible to breathe. He bent his leg and put his knee on the bed, grabbed both of Dean's shoulders and shook him. The phone fell from his hand, ignored in his haste to get to Dean, and landed on the floor next to his foot, but Sam didn't notice. "Wake up! Dean! Wake the fuck up!"
He could hear someone calling his name over and over again, but it wasn't Dean, so he ignored it. He put his hands on either side of Dean's face and turned his head back and forth, looking for blood from a head wound that he knew hadn't been that bad, but there was nothing. "No, no, no," he muttered. "No, this isn't happening. Come on, Dean. Wake up. Please!"
"Sam! Damn it, boy, answer me! Sam!"
Sam jumped when he finally recognized Bobby's voice for what it was, and he scrambled to pick the forgotten phone up from the floor. "Bobby! Bobby, he won't ... I can't ..."
"Just calm down, Sam."
"I can't calm down! Bobby, he looks like ... oh, God, he's so pale, and he's barely breathing, and he won't wake up!"
"Is this what he did in that basement?"
Bobby's question didn't strike him as important, not up against his brother unconscious on the bed. "Dean, you gotta wake up!"
"Sam! Is this what happened at Holman's place?"
"What?" Sam shook his head as he fought to get control of his thoughts. "Yes. Yeah, this is what he did there."
"And what fixed it?"
"I don't know," Sam answered. "I was carrying him, and he just all of a sudden woke up."
"You carried him away from the house?"
"Yeah, yeah."
"Sam, you listen to me, and you listen good. You put your brother in the car, and you run. Get him the hell outta there. Do it now."
"What? Why?"
"Because if he's doin' the same thing, then I'm thinkin' there's a damn good chance that whatever's makin' him do it is local. Get him far enough away from it, and ..."
"Okay, okay. Hang on." Sam grabbed his jacket off his bed and put it on over his t-shirt, slipped his bare feet into his shoes, and put the phone into his coat pocket without closing it. Then he grabbed Dean's shoulders and pulled him up, putting a hand behind his head when it fell back. Sam pressed Dean's forehead against his shoulder, wrapped his other arm around Dean's waist, and pulled him to the edge of the bed. Half a second later, he had his brother draped across his shoulder again and was on the way out the door.
It took him less than a minute to get the car door open and Dean laid down awkwardly across the back seat. He made sure Dean's legs were out of the way and then slammed the door. Only then did he think to pat his pockets down for the keys. He remembered throwing them down on the desk when they'd gotten back, so he ran back into the room to grab them. He picked up one duffel bag, his laptop bag, and Dean's shotgun on the way out, just in case, locked the door behind him, and jumped behind the wheel.
He supposed that someone somewhere was going to be bothered by the tires squealing in the parking lot at that hour, but he really didn't care.
It wasn't until he was on the interstate, leaving Johnston behind them at eighty miles an hour, that he pulled the phone out of his pocket.
"Is this gonna work, Bobby?" Sam risked a worried glance at Dean in the rearview mirror.
"I have no idea. But it's better than staying there and doin' nothing, isn't it?"
"Bobby ..."
There were so many things unsaid in that one name, years of pain, hope, and loss mixed with two weeks of constant fear, all swirling together in Sam's mind, and it was circling Dean.
"Where are you?"
Sam nodded his head, appreciating the distraction. "On I80, headed west."
"Okay. Get off on one-forty-one. Stay on it, and head for Coon Rapids. The Elms Motel. You should be there in about an hour, and I'll be there in a little under two."
Those times didn't make sense to Sam, and for the first time he noticed that the sounds coming through the phone behind Bobby's voice weren't the ones he'd expect from the house.
"Bobby, are you ...?"
"Been on the road for an hour already, Sam. I was comin' to you, whether you wanted me or not."
Sam smiled in spite of the situation and blinked away the moisture that suddenly filled his eyes. "Thank you, Bobby."
"Don't thank me yet," Bobby answered. "If this works, and we get him woke up, then you can thank me."
"And until then?"
"Just keep drivin', Sam. Call me if ya need anything. Otherwise, I'll see ya in a few."
Dean blinked, trying to clear away the remnants of the bright white flash, and then looked around.
He was standing at the end of a driveway he knew he'd been in before, in a neighborhood that he knew was familiar, but he couldn't place where he was. A row of shrubs to his left moved with the breeze, and at the end of the driveway stood a modest but well maintained two-story white house with a large front porch and red shutters. The closest houses he could see looked to be in the same condition, but they were all quiet. Everything was quiet; he couldn't even hear any birds.
As Dean looked around, he came to two conclusions very quickly. First, he wasn't where he had been only seconds before and second, he'd managed to lose track of Sam. The first problem he'd figure out later. The second he had to fix immediately.
"Sam!" he called out as he started up the driveway. "Sammy!"
He didn't understand where Sam could have gone so fast. He was just a kid, after all, if a freakishly tall one for fourteen. He knew he'd just been standing right beside him, just a few feet away, even though he couldn't remember any more detail than that. He picked up his pace as he moved forward, checking every inch of the yard. As he rounded the back corner of the house, he saw the bulkhead door standing wide open, so he walked toward it.
"Sam?" he called down the stairs and into the darkness. He could see the interior basement door standing open, too, so went down to it and leaned in. "Sam, you down here?"
He'd only taken a few steps into the basement when something heavy slammed into his back, driving him face-first into the wall and knocking the air out of his lungs.
"I knew you'd come back, Dean."
And suddenly, everything that had been muddied and confused in Dean's mind snapped into focus. He was in Coy Holman's basement, and that was Coy Holman's voice whispering in his ear.
"No," he said through clenched teeth. "This isn't real. You're dead!"
"Am I? Are you so sure of that?" The man at his back grabbed his left wrist, twisted it up behind him, and leaned against him harder. "Don't I feel real to you?"
"He killed you. You're dead," Dean insisted.
"He tried to kill me." He yanked on Dean's wrist again, this time making him yelp in pain. "And you let him. You're both going to pay for that, you know. I told you to be nice, didn't I? But you had to make me angry."
Dean was struggling with every ounce of strength he had, but it did him no good. His efforts earned him nothing but an elbow in his back, pinning his chest so tightly to the wall that he couldn't breathe, and a hand in his hair that yanked his head back.
"You're leaving now, Dean, but don't you worry. You'll be back."
Dean's head was pulled back further before it was shoved into the concrete wall. He immediately felt the blood running down his forehead and the ache in his chest that made it so hard to breathe, but he managed to spin and face Holman.
"Tell little Sammy that I said hello."
Dean woke up about thirty miles from Johnston, and it was neither a peaceful nor an easy waking. He bolted up from the seat so fast that he almost smashed his own head into the window, gasping for breath, swinging his right hand blindly in front of him, and with his left hand pressed against his chest.
"Sam!"
Sam pulled the car off to the side of the road and slammed on the brakes so hard that it was still sliding when he threw it into park. He spun around in his seat to face his brother, but his relief at seeing Dean awake was almost immediately overridden by Dean's obvious distress. "Hey! Dean, calm down. You're awake. It's okay."
"He's here!"
"No, Dean, he's ..."
But Dean didn't wait around to hear what else Sam said. He yanked the handle hard, threw open the door, and bolted out of the car.
"Shit." Sam turned off the ignition and climbed out after him.
"Dean?" Sam rounded the hood of the Impala and saw that Dean hadn't gone far after he'd left the car. It looked like he'd only managed to stumble a few steps away before he'd fallen to his knees, and he was hunched over in the ditch, heaving and retching, coughing and gagging when nothing but watery bile came up. That was when Sam realized that he hadn't seen Dean eat anything since they'd gotten to Johnston, and he could have kicked himself for not noticing sooner.
Then Dean was done, and his head dropped to his chest like he didn't have the energy to hold it up anymore. He was wobbling back and forth on his knees, and Sam jumped forward to stop him from falling face-first in his own mess.
"Easy, Dean," he said softly as he reached for his brother's arm. "Take it easy."
Dean came alive when he noticed someone moving toward him, and he pushed himself back with his knees, landing on his ass in the mud again. He crab-crawled backward with one hand, holding the other in front of himself in self-defense. He didn't stop moving until he'd backed himself up against the Impala and had nowhere else to go. He spent a few seconds scuffing the rocks hard enough to make Sam worry that he was going to slice his bare feet open.
And then he just stopped. Dean's head fell forward again, and when he lifted his hands to press them against his temples, Sam saw just how much he was shaking.
Sam went down to one knee at Dean's side and reached a tentative hand toward his shoulder, but Dean saw him coming and brushed him off.
"Don't, Sam! Just ... give me a minute."
Sam settled himself on the ground in front of Dean, close enough to be there if he needed him, but far enough away that he couldn't be accused of crowding him, crossed his legs in front of himself and leaned back on his hands. Dean closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the door of the Impala. The deep breaths he was taking seemed to be helping calm him down, because he wasn't shaking as badly.
Several moments passed in silence before Dean spoke again.
"He's not dead."
Sam was shaking his head before Dean had finished his statement. "That's not possible. No way. There's just no way."
"Well there's gotta be some way, because he's not."
"No, I'm telling you, Dean, it's impossible. It was a whole canister of salt, half a bottle of lighter fluid and a whole box of matches. It was a fuckin' bonfire. No way he survived that."
Dean opened his eyes and turned his head slightly so he could look directly at more Sam.
"And how do you know all that for sure?"
Sam ducked his head and stared at the ground. Coy Holman hadn't exactly been a popular topic of conversation over the years, because none of them particularly wanted to talk about him, and Sam was fairly sure that Dean wouldn't want to hear what he had to say about it anyway, so he'd never actually told Dean how he knew that Holman was dead. The few times it had come up, Dean had always seemed to just accept what he said as fact, without needing to know details. Sam shrugged and raised his head, staring straight ahead into the darkness.
"Because I was there."
"You were where?" Dean asked, and even though Sam couldn't see the expression on his face, he knew what it was. Dean was pissed. "At Holman's grave? He took you on a fucking job?!"
And getting madder.
"It wasn't just any job, Dean, it was ..."
"It was dangerous is what it was! And stupid. And reckless, and ... You were fourteen years old! What if Holman had ...?"
Sam looked up when he heard Dean's head hit the car door.
"Hey," he said softly. "I was fine."
"No, you were fourteen. No way in hell did you ... Damn it!" Dean looked directly at him again. "No fourteen year old kid needs to be watching his father dig up and burn a human body. I don't care whose it is."
Sam bit his lip as he nodded his head. Dean's reaction wasn't exactly unexpected, and that was a large part of why Sam had never told him he'd gone with John to salt and burn Coy Holman's remains. But now that he'd actually seen Dean react to just knowing he'd been there, there was no way that Sam would ever tell him who'd actually lit the fire.
"You don't have to do this, Sam. I think I'd feel better if you didn't."
"It doesn't matter anyway," Dean said. "Because whatever Dad did to him, it didn't work. I'm tellin' ya, Sammy, it's him. I talked to the son of a bitch."
Sam scratched his head absently as he tried to ignore the growing sense of dread that was coming over him. "Okay, well, if that's possible, Bobby'll know how he did it, right? How he could have survived? Bobby always knows things like that."
"Bobby?"
"Um, yeah," Sam answered with an awkward smile. "We're actually meeting up with him."
"Bobby as in Uncle Bobby? Robert Singer?"
"Yes, Bobby Singer. You know some other Bobby that could help us with an angry serial killing spirit problem?" Sam could feel the tension radiating off of Dean, even though he didn't understand exactly what was causing it. Yes, their last encounter with Bobby hadn't ended well, but Sam had always known that Bobby's anger was directed solely at John. Bobby loved both Sam and Dean, no matter what. Dean had to know that.
"Maybe you don't want to admit it yet, Dean, but we need help. Especially if what you just said about Coy Holman is true."
"So you called Bobby?"
"No!" Sam answered quickly. "Bobby called me."
Dean's immediate answer to that was silence. Dean had always been the suspicious one, and Sam knew that he was having the same thoughts, questions and doubts about that phone call that Sam himself had when he'd heard Bobby's voice on the other end of the line.
"Why?"
"He said he heard we were down here. And ...," Sam continued on, not wanting to give Dean a chance to ask how. "He's pissed about the Nebraska thing."
"How pissed?"
"I'm thinking he'll hug you, smack me, and then smack you."
He heard Dean sigh. "Guess we've got that comin', huh?"
"Oh, yeah. Apparently it's a rule. If one of us is dying, we're supposed to call Bobby."
A few more seconds of silence passed. "Where are we supposed to hook up with him?"
"The Elms Motel in Coon Rapids. He won't be there for an hour after we are, though, so we've got time. If you just wanna ..."
"Wanna what?" Dean interrupted. "Sit in a ditch on the side of the road at ... what time is it, even?"
Sam hit the light on the side of his watch. "Almost four."
"Damn." Dean brushed his hands off on his pants, and started pushing himself to his feet. "We should get going." Sam was on his feet first, and he reached back down to help Dean up from the ground.
"Sam ..."
There was a warning in Dean's voice, and Sam recognized it for what it was. He stopped himself from grabbing Dean's arms like he'd planned, pulled back slightly, and offered his hand instead.
Dean looked up at it for a few seconds before grasping Sam's forearm tightly; Sam wrapped his hand around Dean's arm in response and pulled him to his feet. They walked the few steps to the front passenger door and when Sam kept going, heading for the driver's side, Dean sighed and pulled it open. He crossed his arms and leaned against the roof to watch Sam walk around the front of the car.
Sam pulled his door open, but stopped when he noticed Dean standing there. "What?"
"How do you kill a spirit that doesn't have a body?"
Sam took a long breath and blew it out. "I don't know." He was still shaking his head when he sat down in the seat and pulled the door shut behind him.
Dean looked around at the darkness for a few seconds before getting in. The engine roared to life and the Impala pulled away from the side of the road, heading back out onto the highway.
Part Three
Chapter Three
2006
Sam was still carrying him across the field when Dean woke up, and he woke up swinging.
Sam reacted quickly, intending to lay him gently on the ground, but Dean wasn't having any part of it. The second his feet hit the grass, he shoved Sam away, knocked himself off-balance, and fell on his ass.
"Hey, Dean. Hey."
"Stay the fuck away!" Dean shoved himself back with his hands, his heels skidding on the dew-dampened grass as he scrambled to escape. "The fuck off me!"
Sam held his hands out to his sides with his palms turned up and out, assuming the least threatening position he could. He forced himself to speak calmly and managed to keep his voice gentle, which surprised him, because what he really wanted to do was freak the hell out.
"Hey, it's me. Sam."
"You stay away from Sam!"
"No, Dean." Sam knelt down as close to his brother's side as he dared. One thing he remembered clearly from the time when panic attacks were common was that when Dean got like this, there was always danger of a fist striking out and catching him. "I am Sam. Look at me."
Dean looked at him then, for the first time since he'd hit the ground. In the distant lights from the parking lot, Sam could see how wild and unfocused Dean's eyes were, and how truly terrified he was. It didn't last long, only a few seconds, but it was long enough to be unsettling, because Dean never looked like that.
Dean blinked a few times, seemed to get hold of himself, and looked up at Sam again.
"Sammy? You okay?" He glanced around the field nervously. "Where'd he go? Why are you still here? I told you to run!"
So maybe he'd been too hasty thinking Dean had gotten hold of himself.
"It's okay, Dean. Calm down. He's not here. He never was."
"Yes, he was!" Dean argued. He lurched forward and grabbed the front of Sam's jacket with his left hand, pulling him close. "He was just here. He threw me into the wall, and I told you to run, and ..."
Sam laid his hand atop Dean's on his jacket. "Look around you. Do you see a motel room?"
Dean glanced around again, shaking his head quickly.
"What you're talking about? Happened eight and a half years ago. He's dead."
"What?" Dean blinked again, and genuine confusion replaced the nervousness and anxiety on his face. "No, he was just here."
"You hit your head in that basement, you blacked out." Sam knew he was leaving out the part about Dean having passed out before he hit his head, but since Dean would never admit that, there really was no point in saying it. He reached out with his left hand slowly, carefully pressing on Dean's head behind his right ear. There was nothing he could feel, no noticeable lump, but he'd check it again at the motel just to make sure. "What you saw wasn't real; it was all in your head."
"Not real," Dean repeated. He closed his eyes and let his head fall forward. "Nothing happened. Just a dream."
"Yeah, man," Sam said. "Just a dream."
When Dean opened his eyes again, there wasn't a single trace of any of the emotions that had been in them before. Instead, they were filled with what might have been anger and what was definitely embarrassment. He let go of Sam's jacket quickly.
"What the hell, dude?"
"I don't know."
Sam lowered himself to sit on the ground next to Dean, pulled his right knee up and rested his arm across it. "I don't think we should have come here, Dean. We should have sent Caleb, or maybe Pastor Jim could have found someone."
"Why?"
"Because we're acting like this! You just had a panic attack! A panic attack, man, you haven't had one of those in years. And I'm not much better. I'm barely functioning, can't concentrate, and I can't shake this feeling that ..." Sam threw his hands up in exasperation. "I just think, I don't know, maybe we've got PTSD or something?"
"So take a Midol."
"Dean!"
"Yeah, I know, not funny. Whatever. But Sam, we're not ... I mean ... what trauma?"
"What trauma?" Sam had to wonder sometimes how Dean could keep a straight face when he said things like that. "What? Were you even here the last time?"
"Yeah, Sam, I'm pretty sure I was." Dean's voice was angry and tight, but he calmed down almost immediately. "And guess what? Nothing happened."
Sam just shook his head, because there was really nothing he could say that wouldn't end badly.
Dean rolled to his hands and knees and pushed himself to his feet. He was a bit unsteady, prompting Sam to jump to his own feet and move a bit closer to him. "Dude, back off. I can walk."
"I know," Sam said, but he didn't step back.
"Where's my car?"
"Right over there." Sam pointed it out. The dark shape against the school building was both familiar and comfortable.
Dean grunted as he started walking, and they headed back to the car together. Sam stayed close by his side the entire time. Neither of them spoke as they walked, or on the drive back to the motel. Both of them were too wrapped up in their own memories to even consider trying to keep each other company.
Sam walked into the room, tossed the car keys on the desk, and went straight to his bed, closing his eyes as he flopped down across it. Dean shut and locked the door behind them, and Sam heard some scraping sounds that he recognized as Dean fixing the salt line.
"What do we do now?" he asked without opening his eyes.
"You can do whatever you want," Dean answered tiredly. "Just stay in the room. I'm gonna take a shower."
Sam cracked his eyes open and glanced at Dean. There was some mud on his jeans, from where he'd fallen in the field, but he wasn't anywhere near as dirty as he usually got on a job. Sam made a mental note to start keeping track of Dean's sudden obsession with personal hygiene. It was a small thing, and it might mean nothing, but it was a sudden change in behavior. And with the way things were going, chances were pretty good that it was a sign of something much bigger.
"I think I should probably call the police," Sam said. "Let them know where Zack Mason is."
"It can wait." Dean walked past Sam and toward the bathroom. "Because you can't call them from here, and you sure as hell aren't going out alone to look for a payphone."
Sam sighed deeply. He was tired all the way to his bones, and he just wanted this day to be over. "Dean ..."
"Later, Sam," Dean said as he closed the bathroom door. He sounded as weary as Sam felt.
Sam reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out his phone, then held it arms' length and stared at it. Dean was right; he couldn't call the police from the room phone, because they'd trace it too easily, and the same was true of his cell phone. He just felt like there was something more he should be doing, someone he should be calling.
He shot up straight on the bed and started scrolling through his contact list. He pressed the dial button almost immediately.
No one answered, but then again, he hadn't been expecting anyone to. It was almost two in the morning in Iowa, and he had no idea where the person he was calling actually was. It didn't really matter when he called, though, and he knew that. He wasn't getting anything but voicemail. It wasn't going to be enough, and he knew that, too. It hadn't been enough the week before, and it wasn't going to be enough now, but he didn't know what else to do.
"Dad ... Dad, it's Sam. Listen, I know ... you didn't call me back last time, and I just ... I thought you might wanna know that Dean's okay. Or, I guess, I mean, he's alive, and he's not sick anymore. But he's not really okay. Neither of us is. We're ... Dad, we're in Johnston, Iowa. And I don't know what we're up against here, but we really can't do this alone. Dean's blacking out and I'm ... I think I'm losing it, Dad. We need help." Sam swallowed hard and forced himself to keep going. "I just wanted to ... I don't know. I really need you to call me back, Dad, okay? I just ... I really need you to do that."
He couldn't think of anything to else to say, so he flipped the phone closed and pressed it to his forehead. It had been a waste of time, and he knew it, but it had made him feel a little better at least. John knew where they were and what they were doing, and even if they didn't get the same from him, well, he really should know that Dean wasn't dead, even if he hadn't bothered to call and find out for himself.
The sound of the shower cut off, and a couple of minutes later, Dean stepped out of the bathroom wearing clothes that he had to have stolen from Sam. Dean didn't own any sweatpants, and the grey t-shirt he was wearing was at least one size too big. Sam shook his head and wondered again exactly what was going on in his brother's head. Dean never got dressed to go to bed; he slept in his shorts and maybe a shirt, if it was chilly.
"Are you feeling okay?" he asked as Dean walked past him.
Dean shook his head and threw back the blankets on his bed. "Just cold. I'll give 'em back tomorrow."
"No," Sam said. "It's okay. But you don't have a fever or anything, do you?"
Dean glared at him across the space between the beds as he settled down and pulled the blankets up.
"Okay, okay." Sam put his hands in the air and stood, turning around to dig through his bag. He needed to find something he could sleep in, because his usual pajamas were on his brother. "How's your head?"
"It's fine."
"Did you take any ...?"
"I'm good. Knock it off."
"I'm gonna hop in the shower real quick. I'm assuming you left me some hot water." He was trying his best to pretend that everything was normal, but he knew it fell flat. Everything was so not normal that it wasn't even close to funny. "You get some sleep."
"I'm tryin' to. It'd be easier if you'd shut up."
Sam nodded and pulled an extra pair of grey sweats out of the bottom of his bag. "I'll wake you up in two ..."
"Do it and die, Sam. I swear to God."
Sam let his arms fall to his sides and turned his head. Dean was lying on his right side, facing the window, with the blankets pulled all the way up to his shoulders. It was pretty clear that as far as Dean was concerned the conversation, and the whole day, was over.
Sam reached over and flipped off the light between the beds, then headed for the bathroom.
1998
It took Dean less than a second to realize just how screwed they were. He was defenseless, Sam was clueless, and they were alone. Even if he had known of a way to banish a spirit without weapons or the ability to move - and he was sure Dad or Bobby knew one, if there was such a thing - they'd still have been in trouble.
Dean had taken John's warnings seriously, and had done the most thorough job of salting the windows and doors that he'd ever done, but it hadn't been good enough. Something - and he didn't doubt for a second that it was the spirit that John and Bobby were there to kill - had still managed to get in. He couldn't believe that he'd been so careless, so stupid. What had he forgotten?
But he didn't have the time to worry about that; he needed to protect Sam. And to do that he needed more information than he had. What kind of spirit was it? What did it do? Why did John think it was a threat to Sam but not to Dean? He wished John had shared the intel that he and Bobby had gathered on the thing, but they'd taken it with them. There was only one way he might be able to figure out what he needed to know about the thing, so even though it was a long shot, he gave it a try.
"Who the hell are you?"
The spirit tilted its head and leered at Dean as it walked toward him. The expression it wore on its face made Dean's skin crawl, made him wish that he could go take a shower of his own. Just the way it was looking at him made him feel filthy. Without saying a word, the thing made it very clear just exactly what kind of a threat it was, and what it would want from Sam.
"You stay away from him," Dean growled. "You stay away from him or I swear to God ..."
"Coy," the thing said.
"What?" Dean had been expecting a monster's voice, rough and cracked and evil, but that wasn't what he heard. This voice sounded like any other average person, really, more like a mild-manned business man than a serial killer. But the evil was still there.
"You asked me my name," it said. "I'm Coy Holman."
Dean glared at it even as he pulled futilely against the invisible force that had him pinned.
"And you ..." The leer was back, and if it was possible, it was growing more disturbing the closer Holman got. "You are Dean Winchester. And in the shower?" Holman turned his head slightly so he could glance back down the hallway toward the bathroom door, and the bastard actually licked its lips. "That's little Sammy."
Dean was shaking now, both with hatred and the exertion of trying to free himself. No one wore that expression while they were talking about his brother and walked away from it. This son of a bitch was toast.
Just as soon as Dean got himself off the wall.
"Don't you fuckin' touch him!"
Holman turned back around and walked slowly across the room. When its face was only inches from Dean's, close enough for Dean to smell its rancid, rotting breath, it leaned forward. Dean's heart pounded in his chest, his breath coming in shorter and shorter gasps, as Holman leaned himself even further in. Dean shuddered when he felt the thing's lips brush against his ear.
"You know what I want, don't you, Dean?" it whispered. "Daddy didn't tell you, but you know what I want. And I always get what I want."
Sam chose the worst possible moment to step through the bathroom door. "Hey, Dean ... ?"
"No!" Dean cried out. "Run, Sam!"
But Sam didn't run; Sam froze. He stood there at the end of the hallway, shirtless in a pair of brown sweatpants, still dripping from his shower and with steam still rising from his skin. His eyes widened, all of the color drained from his face, and he looked so much younger than his actual fourteen years that it made Dean's heart ache. Sam really was still just a kid, young and scared and somehow, even after all he'd seen, impossibly innocent.
'Not like this,' Dean begged silently, though he had no idea who he thought was listening. 'Please don't let him lose that like this!'
And then Sam was moving, running just like Dean had told him to. But he wasn't running away.
He was running toward his brother.
"Dean!"
Holman flicked his right hand with an air of boredom, and Sam stopped in his tracks. Before Sam's face had a chance to register anything more than confusion, he flew to his right and his back slammed into the far wall of the room.
"Hello, Sammy," Holman said. He walked away from Dean and toward Sam with that disgusting smile back on his face. "My name is Coy. Coy Holman. It is truly a pleasure to meet you. I have heard so much about you."
Sam turned toward Dean, his expression one of fear and confusion. Dean's struggles to free himself grew frantic.
"You let him go," Dean demanded. "He's just a fuckin' kid. You let him go!"
Holman turned his head, redirecting the lustful inspection away from Dean's half-naked little brother and back to him. "Yes, he is." Just the sound of this thing's voice was setting Dean's nerves on edge - oozing and slimy and dripping with every disgusting thing Dean could imagine. "Just a little boy. I like that."
Dean swore that he'd do anything to keep those eyes from turning back to Sam, to keep them from raking up and down Sam's body like they were currently doing to his. He just wasn't entirely sure how to do it. Under Holman's wanting gaze, Dean felt like a slab of raw meat, and if the way Holman was licking his lips was any indication, the spirit was hungry for some medium rare. But no way in hell was he looking at Sammy like that, even if Dean had to cut the fucker's eyes out.
"I get what I want, Dean," Holman repeated, loud enough for Sam to hear what he was saying. "Daddy's gone, and he's not coming back until morning. I've got all the time I need." Holman stepped close to Dean again, so close that its leg brushed against the outside of his thigh, and he turned his head to look at Sam.
Sam stared back at him, dark eyes filled with terror. Dean didn't know if Sam had fully caught or understood the implication and threat under Holman's words, though he hoped that he hadn't. But it was obvious that he had figured out enough to know that the situation was bad. And Holman was right about one thing - Dad was gone, and he wasn't going to be back in time.
"And how old are you, Dean? Daddy didn't say."
"Eight ... nineteen," Dean answered without taking his eyes off of Sam's.
"Oh, and it's your birthday, I heard. So, nineteen just today then?" Dean knew it was close to him, could sense it moving around next to him, but refused to look at it. "You don't look nineteen."
"Fuck you."
Holman clicked his tongue in admonishment as he walked around him. "Now, Dean, that's not very nice. Surely you don't want to be making me angry right now, do you?" It stepped in front of him, blocking his view of Sam, and lowered his voice again. "Or were you making me an offer?"
Dean felt the spirit's hand on his chest, its cold, dead fingers running up and down his ribs, and he shivered. Holman's touch, even through the fabric of his t-shirt, was like pure ice, leeching all the warmth from his skin and leaving freezing tracks in its wake. Holman circled him again.
He wanted to close his eyes and pretend it wasn't real, but he couldn't look away from Sam. He'd messed everything up. He hadn't been able to protect Sam at all. The least he could do was stay with him, stay focused on him, no matter what happened.
Holman pulled back, moved away until he stood between them. "Isn't it ironic, boys? Daddy and Uncle Bobby, making such a big fuss about protecting you from me, but they brought me right to you. And all their talk about salt and keeping me out? They had you lock me right in here with you. It's almost too perfect, isn't it? Almost like they knew."
Dean glared at Holman with every ounce of hatred he could muster. "They didn't know shit."
"No, you're right, they didn't." Holman's voice was light, teasing. "Well, they did know that I left one laying in the woods behind this motel, but they didn't know that I could come here because of him. They didn't know that I was listening to them in my house, when they were talking about pretty little Sammy back at the motel, and how much I'd like him. They didn't know that I was already here when they left. And they had no idea the lengths I'm willing to go to get what I want."
"Dean?"
Sam's voice was small, frightened and confused. He seemed as vulnerable as he was, the perfect prey. Holman took two steps toward him, with that damned perverted smile on his face, and Dean had never wanted to wrap his hands around something's neck so badly in his life.
"I will fucking kill you." All of the hatred that Dean had ever felt toward every single evil thing he'd ever seen dripped from the words.
Holman moved himself from one side of the room to the other so fast that Dean had to stifle the urge to gasp in surprise. Then his lips were against Dean's ear again, words whispered so softly that Dean knew there was no way Sam could hear them. For that, he would be forever thankful.
"You're feisty, Dean. Pretty. A bit old for my taste, yes, but I have to admit, you've got me intrigued." Venom, evil and unholy lust dripped from every word. "I came here for Sammy, that's true. But I might be persuaded to change my mind."
He knew how to keep it away from Sam.
Chapter Four
2006
The phone was ringing when Sam came out of the bathroom, and he rushed forward to grab it. He didn't know how long it had been ringing, but it hadn't woken Dean up yet, so it couldn't have been very long. He had no idea who would be calling them at three in the morning, and he didn't dare to let himself hope it was John, but it had to be important. He flipped it open without looking at the caller ID and pressed it to his ear.
"Hello?"
"Sam? That you?"
Sam pulled the phone away and stared down at the display. He recognized the voice on the other end, and that's whose name was on the screen, but it didn't make any sense.
"Sam?"
"Bobby?"
"Yeah." He could almost hear the smile on Bobby's face. "How ya doin', kid? How's that brother of ...?"
"What's going on? Why are you calling me?"
"What?" Now he sounded offended. "An old friend can't call just to catch up?"
"At three in the morning? No, not really." Silence fell on both ends of the line. "Bobby?"
"I just heard that maybe you boys had run into some trouble, and I was wantin' to make sure you were okay. That's all."
Sam wasn't really a naturally suspicious person - that had always been Dean - and Bobby was one of the few people in the world that he trusted completely, but that set off alarms in his head. "What kind of trouble?"
He heard Bobby draw a ragged breath. "Well, that thing in Nebraska last week, for starters. And you ever keep something like that from me again, I'll put my boot so far up your ass ... Damn it, Sam, your brother is dyin', you call me!"
Sam ran his hand through his hair nervously and sat down in the desk chair. "Yeah, about that ... Bobby, I just ... I mean, I don't ..." He took a deep breath and blew it out. "I'm sorry. I should have called."
"Damn right you shoulda called! Shoulda been the first person you called, right after your daddy."
Sam blinked in confusion. "How'd you know I called my dad?"
The answer was silence, but only for a second. "Well, ya did, didn't ya?" Sam nodded his head but didn't speak. "Doesn't matter anyway. Next time it happens, to either of you, you call me. Got it?"
"Yeah, Bobby," Sam said softly. "Yeah, I got it."
"All right. Now ..." Another pause, but this one was heavier. Sam knew something big was coming. "I hear you boys are down in Johnston."
Sam jumped to attention in the chair. "Heard how?"
"With my ears. Hunters talk, Sam, it's no big deal. I just wanna know what the hell you two think you're doin' there."
"It's a hunt," Sam said. "It seemed like a simple thing, in and out. We've been here less than a day."
"And?"
Sam drew another deep breath and rubbed at his forehead with his hand. "And ... I don't think we should be here at all. We're not handling it well, and there's too many coincidences. It seems like everywhere we go, we end up getting pulled back into the Coy Holman hunt, somehow. Like this whole damn job was just to bring us here and fuck with our heads."
"What's goin' on, Sam?"
"I don't know. I mean, one minute we're fine and the next ... I'm flipping out or forgetting really basic stuff, or Dean's having a panic attack or passing out, or ..."
"Dean passed out?"
"Yeah," Sam answered absently. "In Holman's basement."
"You were in Coy Holman's basement!?" Sam jerked his head away from the phone at Bobby's bellow. "Boy, where the hell was your head?"
"It was an accident! We didn't know where we were. Or at least, I didn't know where we were. Dean said he'd been there before. We found one of the victims' bodies down there ..."
Bobby interrupted him with a loud sigh. "Let me talk to Dean."
"He's sleeping."
"Well then wake him up! I need to talk to him."
"All right. Hang on." Sam pushed himself to his feet and walked over to the beds, tapping Dean on the leg when he reached him. "Dean, wake up. Bobby's on the phone. Wants to talk to you."
Sam waited a few seconds for the expected response, which should have been Dean rolling to his back, grumbling, and reaching for the phone. Dean didn't move, which Sam chalked up to him being more tired than Sam had thought he was, so he tried again.
"Hey, Dean." He shook Dean's leg and raised his voice. "Wake up already."
Again, there was no response.
"Come on, man," Sam said tiredly. "Bobby's waiting for you."
He meant to shake Dean's shoulder lightly, nothing more. But when he grabbed his arm, there was no resistance at all, and Dean flopped from his side onto his back. His arms were limp, his eyes were closed, and he was pale as a sheet. His lips were parted slightly, and his eyes had dark circles around them.
"What can I say, man, it’s a dangerous gig."
"No!" Sam cried out. His heart jumped into his throat, and he found it suddenly impossible to breathe. He bent his leg and put his knee on the bed, grabbed both of Dean's shoulders and shook him. The phone fell from his hand, ignored in his haste to get to Dean, and landed on the floor next to his foot, but Sam didn't notice. "Wake up! Dean! Wake the fuck up!"
He could hear someone calling his name over and over again, but it wasn't Dean, so he ignored it. He put his hands on either side of Dean's face and turned his head back and forth, looking for blood from a head wound that he knew hadn't been that bad, but there was nothing. "No, no, no," he muttered. "No, this isn't happening. Come on, Dean. Wake up. Please!"
"Sam! Damn it, boy, answer me! Sam!"
Sam jumped when he finally recognized Bobby's voice for what it was, and he scrambled to pick the forgotten phone up from the floor. "Bobby! Bobby, he won't ... I can't ..."
"Just calm down, Sam."
"I can't calm down! Bobby, he looks like ... oh, God, he's so pale, and he's barely breathing, and he won't wake up!"
"Is this what he did in that basement?"
Bobby's question didn't strike him as important, not up against his brother unconscious on the bed. "Dean, you gotta wake up!"
"Sam! Is this what happened at Holman's place?"
"What?" Sam shook his head as he fought to get control of his thoughts. "Yes. Yeah, this is what he did there."
"And what fixed it?"
"I don't know," Sam answered. "I was carrying him, and he just all of a sudden woke up."
"You carried him away from the house?"
"Yeah, yeah."
"Sam, you listen to me, and you listen good. You put your brother in the car, and you run. Get him the hell outta there. Do it now."
"What? Why?"
"Because if he's doin' the same thing, then I'm thinkin' there's a damn good chance that whatever's makin' him do it is local. Get him far enough away from it, and ..."
"Okay, okay. Hang on." Sam grabbed his jacket off his bed and put it on over his t-shirt, slipped his bare feet into his shoes, and put the phone into his coat pocket without closing it. Then he grabbed Dean's shoulders and pulled him up, putting a hand behind his head when it fell back. Sam pressed Dean's forehead against his shoulder, wrapped his other arm around Dean's waist, and pulled him to the edge of the bed. Half a second later, he had his brother draped across his shoulder again and was on the way out the door.
It took him less than a minute to get the car door open and Dean laid down awkwardly across the back seat. He made sure Dean's legs were out of the way and then slammed the door. Only then did he think to pat his pockets down for the keys. He remembered throwing them down on the desk when they'd gotten back, so he ran back into the room to grab them. He picked up one duffel bag, his laptop bag, and Dean's shotgun on the way out, just in case, locked the door behind him, and jumped behind the wheel.
He supposed that someone somewhere was going to be bothered by the tires squealing in the parking lot at that hour, but he really didn't care.
It wasn't until he was on the interstate, leaving Johnston behind them at eighty miles an hour, that he pulled the phone out of his pocket.
"Is this gonna work, Bobby?" Sam risked a worried glance at Dean in the rearview mirror.
"I have no idea. But it's better than staying there and doin' nothing, isn't it?"
"Bobby ..."
There were so many things unsaid in that one name, years of pain, hope, and loss mixed with two weeks of constant fear, all swirling together in Sam's mind, and it was circling Dean.
"Where are you?"
Sam nodded his head, appreciating the distraction. "On I80, headed west."
"Okay. Get off on one-forty-one. Stay on it, and head for Coon Rapids. The Elms Motel. You should be there in about an hour, and I'll be there in a little under two."
Those times didn't make sense to Sam, and for the first time he noticed that the sounds coming through the phone behind Bobby's voice weren't the ones he'd expect from the house.
"Bobby, are you ...?"
"Been on the road for an hour already, Sam. I was comin' to you, whether you wanted me or not."
Sam smiled in spite of the situation and blinked away the moisture that suddenly filled his eyes. "Thank you, Bobby."
"Don't thank me yet," Bobby answered. "If this works, and we get him woke up, then you can thank me."
"And until then?"
"Just keep drivin', Sam. Call me if ya need anything. Otherwise, I'll see ya in a few."
Dean blinked, trying to clear away the remnants of the bright white flash, and then looked around.
He was standing at the end of a driveway he knew he'd been in before, in a neighborhood that he knew was familiar, but he couldn't place where he was. A row of shrubs to his left moved with the breeze, and at the end of the driveway stood a modest but well maintained two-story white house with a large front porch and red shutters. The closest houses he could see looked to be in the same condition, but they were all quiet. Everything was quiet; he couldn't even hear any birds.
As Dean looked around, he came to two conclusions very quickly. First, he wasn't where he had been only seconds before and second, he'd managed to lose track of Sam. The first problem he'd figure out later. The second he had to fix immediately.
"Sam!" he called out as he started up the driveway. "Sammy!"
He didn't understand where Sam could have gone so fast. He was just a kid, after all, if a freakishly tall one for fourteen. He knew he'd just been standing right beside him, just a few feet away, even though he couldn't remember any more detail than that. He picked up his pace as he moved forward, checking every inch of the yard. As he rounded the back corner of the house, he saw the bulkhead door standing wide open, so he walked toward it.
"Sam?" he called down the stairs and into the darkness. He could see the interior basement door standing open, too, so went down to it and leaned in. "Sam, you down here?"
He'd only taken a few steps into the basement when something heavy slammed into his back, driving him face-first into the wall and knocking the air out of his lungs.
"I knew you'd come back, Dean."
And suddenly, everything that had been muddied and confused in Dean's mind snapped into focus. He was in Coy Holman's basement, and that was Coy Holman's voice whispering in his ear.
"No," he said through clenched teeth. "This isn't real. You're dead!"
"Am I? Are you so sure of that?" The man at his back grabbed his left wrist, twisted it up behind him, and leaned against him harder. "Don't I feel real to you?"
"He killed you. You're dead," Dean insisted.
"He tried to kill me." He yanked on Dean's wrist again, this time making him yelp in pain. "And you let him. You're both going to pay for that, you know. I told you to be nice, didn't I? But you had to make me angry."
Dean was struggling with every ounce of strength he had, but it did him no good. His efforts earned him nothing but an elbow in his back, pinning his chest so tightly to the wall that he couldn't breathe, and a hand in his hair that yanked his head back.
"You're leaving now, Dean, but don't you worry. You'll be back."
Dean's head was pulled back further before it was shoved into the concrete wall. He immediately felt the blood running down his forehead and the ache in his chest that made it so hard to breathe, but he managed to spin and face Holman.
"Tell little Sammy that I said hello."
Dean woke up about thirty miles from Johnston, and it was neither a peaceful nor an easy waking. He bolted up from the seat so fast that he almost smashed his own head into the window, gasping for breath, swinging his right hand blindly in front of him, and with his left hand pressed against his chest.
"Sam!"
Sam pulled the car off to the side of the road and slammed on the brakes so hard that it was still sliding when he threw it into park. He spun around in his seat to face his brother, but his relief at seeing Dean awake was almost immediately overridden by Dean's obvious distress. "Hey! Dean, calm down. You're awake. It's okay."
"He's here!"
"No, Dean, he's ..."
But Dean didn't wait around to hear what else Sam said. He yanked the handle hard, threw open the door, and bolted out of the car.
"Shit." Sam turned off the ignition and climbed out after him.
"Dean?" Sam rounded the hood of the Impala and saw that Dean hadn't gone far after he'd left the car. It looked like he'd only managed to stumble a few steps away before he'd fallen to his knees, and he was hunched over in the ditch, heaving and retching, coughing and gagging when nothing but watery bile came up. That was when Sam realized that he hadn't seen Dean eat anything since they'd gotten to Johnston, and he could have kicked himself for not noticing sooner.
Then Dean was done, and his head dropped to his chest like he didn't have the energy to hold it up anymore. He was wobbling back and forth on his knees, and Sam jumped forward to stop him from falling face-first in his own mess.
"Easy, Dean," he said softly as he reached for his brother's arm. "Take it easy."
Dean came alive when he noticed someone moving toward him, and he pushed himself back with his knees, landing on his ass in the mud again. He crab-crawled backward with one hand, holding the other in front of himself in self-defense. He didn't stop moving until he'd backed himself up against the Impala and had nowhere else to go. He spent a few seconds scuffing the rocks hard enough to make Sam worry that he was going to slice his bare feet open.
And then he just stopped. Dean's head fell forward again, and when he lifted his hands to press them against his temples, Sam saw just how much he was shaking.
Sam went down to one knee at Dean's side and reached a tentative hand toward his shoulder, but Dean saw him coming and brushed him off.
"Don't, Sam! Just ... give me a minute."
Sam settled himself on the ground in front of Dean, close enough to be there if he needed him, but far enough away that he couldn't be accused of crowding him, crossed his legs in front of himself and leaned back on his hands. Dean closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the door of the Impala. The deep breaths he was taking seemed to be helping calm him down, because he wasn't shaking as badly.
Several moments passed in silence before Dean spoke again.
"He's not dead."
Sam was shaking his head before Dean had finished his statement. "That's not possible. No way. There's just no way."
"Well there's gotta be some way, because he's not."
"No, I'm telling you, Dean, it's impossible. It was a whole canister of salt, half a bottle of lighter fluid and a whole box of matches. It was a fuckin' bonfire. No way he survived that."
Dean opened his eyes and turned his head slightly so he could look directly at more Sam.
"And how do you know all that for sure?"
Sam ducked his head and stared at the ground. Coy Holman hadn't exactly been a popular topic of conversation over the years, because none of them particularly wanted to talk about him, and Sam was fairly sure that Dean wouldn't want to hear what he had to say about it anyway, so he'd never actually told Dean how he knew that Holman was dead. The few times it had come up, Dean had always seemed to just accept what he said as fact, without needing to know details. Sam shrugged and raised his head, staring straight ahead into the darkness.
"Because I was there."
"You were where?" Dean asked, and even though Sam couldn't see the expression on his face, he knew what it was. Dean was pissed. "At Holman's grave? He took you on a fucking job?!"
And getting madder.
"It wasn't just any job, Dean, it was ..."
"It was dangerous is what it was! And stupid. And reckless, and ... You were fourteen years old! What if Holman had ...?"
Sam looked up when he heard Dean's head hit the car door.
"Hey," he said softly. "I was fine."
"No, you were fourteen. No way in hell did you ... Damn it!" Dean looked directly at him again. "No fourteen year old kid needs to be watching his father dig up and burn a human body. I don't care whose it is."
Sam bit his lip as he nodded his head. Dean's reaction wasn't exactly unexpected, and that was a large part of why Sam had never told him he'd gone with John to salt and burn Coy Holman's remains. But now that he'd actually seen Dean react to just knowing he'd been there, there was no way that Sam would ever tell him who'd actually lit the fire.
"You don't have to do this, Sam. I think I'd feel better if you didn't."
"It doesn't matter anyway," Dean said. "Because whatever Dad did to him, it didn't work. I'm tellin' ya, Sammy, it's him. I talked to the son of a bitch."
Sam scratched his head absently as he tried to ignore the growing sense of dread that was coming over him. "Okay, well, if that's possible, Bobby'll know how he did it, right? How he could have survived? Bobby always knows things like that."
"Bobby?"
"Um, yeah," Sam answered with an awkward smile. "We're actually meeting up with him."
"Bobby as in Uncle Bobby? Robert Singer?"
"Yes, Bobby Singer. You know some other Bobby that could help us with an angry serial killing spirit problem?" Sam could feel the tension radiating off of Dean, even though he didn't understand exactly what was causing it. Yes, their last encounter with Bobby hadn't ended well, but Sam had always known that Bobby's anger was directed solely at John. Bobby loved both Sam and Dean, no matter what. Dean had to know that.
"Maybe you don't want to admit it yet, Dean, but we need help. Especially if what you just said about Coy Holman is true."
"So you called Bobby?"
"No!" Sam answered quickly. "Bobby called me."
Dean's immediate answer to that was silence. Dean had always been the suspicious one, and Sam knew that he was having the same thoughts, questions and doubts about that phone call that Sam himself had when he'd heard Bobby's voice on the other end of the line.
"Why?"
"He said he heard we were down here. And ...," Sam continued on, not wanting to give Dean a chance to ask how. "He's pissed about the Nebraska thing."
"How pissed?"
"I'm thinking he'll hug you, smack me, and then smack you."
He heard Dean sigh. "Guess we've got that comin', huh?"
"Oh, yeah. Apparently it's a rule. If one of us is dying, we're supposed to call Bobby."
A few more seconds of silence passed. "Where are we supposed to hook up with him?"
"The Elms Motel in Coon Rapids. He won't be there for an hour after we are, though, so we've got time. If you just wanna ..."
"Wanna what?" Dean interrupted. "Sit in a ditch on the side of the road at ... what time is it, even?"
Sam hit the light on the side of his watch. "Almost four."
"Damn." Dean brushed his hands off on his pants, and started pushing himself to his feet. "We should get going." Sam was on his feet first, and he reached back down to help Dean up from the ground.
"Sam ..."
There was a warning in Dean's voice, and Sam recognized it for what it was. He stopped himself from grabbing Dean's arms like he'd planned, pulled back slightly, and offered his hand instead.
Dean looked up at it for a few seconds before grasping Sam's forearm tightly; Sam wrapped his hand around Dean's arm in response and pulled him to his feet. They walked the few steps to the front passenger door and when Sam kept going, heading for the driver's side, Dean sighed and pulled it open. He crossed his arms and leaned against the roof to watch Sam walk around the front of the car.
Sam pulled his door open, but stopped when he noticed Dean standing there. "What?"
"How do you kill a spirit that doesn't have a body?"
Sam took a long breath and blew it out. "I don't know." He was still shaking his head when he sat down in the seat and pulled the door shut behind him.
Dean looked around at the darkness for a few seconds before getting in. The engine roared to life and the Impala pulled away from the side of the road, heading back out onto the highway.
Part Three