Fic: But I've become what I can't be (2/3)

[caranfindel]

[ 5. Steady hands just take the wheel ]

Dean angrily shoves a tape into the cassette player and his finger twitches on the volume knob, filling the car with sound as if he's trying to physically fill the space between them with Led Zeppelin.

Sam faces forward, looking out the windshield. Not looking at Dean. Resisting the urge to slide his gaze to the left, to see if Dean's knuckles on the steering wheel are as white as he suspects they are, to see how tightly his jaw is clenched. Pretending he didn't see Dean flinch at what Cheryl Kramer said. He tells himself it's out of respect for Dean's privacy, so he doesn't feel scrutinized, and that's part of it, but it's also because if he sees how tightly wound Dean is, he'll be afraid to talk about it. And he has to talk about it.

"It's not going to be like that, you know," he says.

"What?" Dean's eyes don't leave the road.

"I'm just saying, it doesn't have to be like that," Sam practically has to shout over the music, and crap, this is going well, isn't it? All he wants is a calm, reasoned discussion about a subject that's painful but can't be ignored. Is that too much to hope for?

"Dammit, Sam, you're talking over The Immigrant Song. How many times do I have to tell you, never talk over The Immigrant Song!"

Yes, it's too much to hope for.

He reaches over and pops the tape out, earning a jaw-clenched glare. "It doesn't have to be traumatic," he continues. "Or violent."

"What the fuck are you talking about?" Dean demands. Even though Sam's pretty sure he knows exactly what he's talking about.

"I know what you were thinking back there, with Mrs. Kramer. And it's not going to be like that. If you have to. You know."

Dean's eyes are still locked on the road. "Sam. I told you, I'm not -"

"No. Don't you do that. Don't go back on your word. Dad said you might have to - to stop me, and you promised you would. You promised, Dean." Sam winces at his own words. He sounds like a whiny baby brother demanding a promised ice cream cone. The kind of baby brother who doesn't understand yet that big brothers, and fathers, and those who are some incongruous combination of the two, sometimes make promises they can't keep.

"Well, fuck my promise," Dean snaps. "He had no right to ask me to do that, and neither do you." And Sam saw that one coming, but it doesn't make it any easier, because he knows what Dean was thinking as he listened to Cheryl Kramer's story; he knows exactly what Dean's afraid of. But he sees himself in her, too. In Darius Montrose. He sees himself submerged in guilt and grief over a death he caused when he wasn't himself, and he can't let that happen. People (more people) can't die just because Sam exists.

"You're really just gonna ignore what Dad said?"

"You know, if Dad wanted to be in charge of things, he could have fucking hung around, couldn't he? Dad can just..." Dean flinches, and Sam knows what he was about to say. Dad can just go to Hell. Except. Yeah. "Dad can go fuck himself," Dean says.

"So you're just going to let me turn into some kind of monster? Into what we hunt? You're really going to do that to me?"

"Sam, I am not having this conversation with you."

"Ignoring it isn't going to make it go away."

"Jesus Christ, Sam! What part of not having this conversation did you not understand?"

Sam opens his mouth to speak, but Dean pushes the tape back in and twists the volume knob, and whatever he was going to say is drowned out by Robert Plant's wail. And the truth is, he's not sure what he can say anyway.

The ride back to the motel is both uncomfortably noisy and disturbingly quiet.



[ 6. And every glance is killing me ]

Once they're in the room, Dean shucks off his suit jacket, grabs a beer from the mini fridge, and starts flipping through channels. He pauses on a college basketball game and makes sure it's not Stanford before he flops onto a bed and puts the remote down. Sam parks at the small table with the case files and Dean doesn't know what he's looking for, but he's probably not going to find it. Because bad things just happen sometimes, and it doesn't always mean there's some kind of supernatural evil involved. Sometimes life just shits all over you, and there's not a goddamn thing you can do about it.

"So," Sam says. "Schizophrenia. And cancer."

And... silence.

"And?"

"I'm not sure. It's just... You know. Both the victims were sick. Could it be related?"

Dean grunts. Could be, but probably not. Because, once again, sometimes life just shits on you. Sometimes. More often than not, if you're a Winchester.

"I don't know, Sam," he sighs. "It's a big church. It could still be a coincidence."

"Not big enough. Statistically, this is still way out of whack."

"Yeah, but statistics aren't really our kind of thing, are they? I mean, there's got to be some additional weirdness, and we haven't found it."

Dean doesn't even know why he's resisting. They've certainly followed weaker trails. And he should welcome the distraction of a case - anything to steer his mind, and Sam's for that matter, away from more dangerous topics. But a case where people are murdering their family members really isn't that much of a distraction from those more dangerous topics, is it?

"Well, the music background," Sam muses. "They were both in choir at the church. That could be the connection." He continues paging through the files. "Whoa," he says, after a couple of minutes. "Look at this." He hands Dean a crime scene photo of the Montrose bedroom.

Dean flicks his eyes over the photo, but he's not particularly interested. And maybe, just maybe, he doesn't want to see what poor old Binny looked like after her loving husband offed her. Maybe he doesn't want to be reminded that you can love the person you're killing, you can think you're doing the right thing, you can maybe even think you're ending their pain, and it's still bloody and awful and they're still dead. "Nice," he says, tossing it onto the bed. "I like their curtains."

Sam rolls his eyes and pushes it back toward him. "Doesn't that seem like... overkill to you? I mean, he didn't just slit her throat. Look at the size of that wound."

Dean sighs and picks up the photo again. Sam's right. Darius Montrose didn't just cut his wife's throat, he practically butchered it. "It looks like anger to me," he says. "Like he was mad as hell. Maybe everything wasn't so rosy over there after all." He slides the photo back to Sam, who studies it for a few minutes before dropping it back into the file.

"Or maybe something was influencing him. This isn't the work of a man putting his beloved wife out of her misery. This looks angry. Or ritualistic."

"So what are you thinking?"

"I'm thinking... " Sam drums his fingers on the table. "Neither of the killers remembers anything - they both say they woke up afterward. So something was in control of them. Something that let up as soon as the victim was dead, since both of the killers were the ones who called 911."

"And you think that something might have been...?"

Sam bites his lip uncertainly. "Angry spirit? Gwen Gilchrist seems like the most likely suspect. The choir director. Pastor Clark said she died a few weeks ago, right? So the choir director dies, and a few weeks later, people who left her choir start dying. Violently."

Yahtzee. Dean's ready to pounce on it. "And dear sweet Miss Gwen doesn't like it when someone stops the music. Well, we know what to do about that. Salt and burn the old girl."

"Hold on," says Sam. "That's just my first guess. We don't need to run off and - "

Nope. Nope. Dean's had enough. He's ready to finish this job and get the fuck out of Tennessee, and he's satisfied that torching dear sweet Miss Gwen is going to accomplish that. "Sam. Come on, man. This one's cut and dried. Let's send her on her way, and then we can go on ours."

Sam sighs. "Fine. We've got a few hours of daylight left before we can do anything. We should go check out where she was buried."

But Dean figures that after that fiasco of a conversation in the car, his brother owes him one. "I've got a better idea," he says, digging his keys out of his pocket and tossing them to Sam. "You do that while I sit in a nice warm motel room and watch the rest of this basketball game. And bring back dinner."

Sam tosses a pillow at his brother's head as he heads out the door but makes no other protest, which can only be interpreted as you're right, wise older brother, and I accept my penance. He stretches out on the bed, flipping through the channels again, but he can't concentrate on sitcom reruns and college basketball. His thoughts keep creeping back to Belinda Montrose's bloody body, stretched out on her own pretty bed, and he wonders if Darius waited until she was asleep, or if her eyes were wide open with terror and betrayal as the person who loved her most in the world stood over her with a knife in his hand.



[ 7. Time to make one last appeal for the life I lead ]

Gwen Gilchrist's final resting place is about 45 minutes outside of Nashville. Dean accepts this news with a noncommittal grunt and settles down happily with his burger and fries, but Sam's still uneasy. His theory about Miss Gwen was just that; a theory. Dean jumped at the chance to blame the deaths on the choir director, but Sam's not quite sure.

On the other hand, it's not like salting and burning her corpse is going to hurt her, so. Hardly worth an argument. One thing Sam has learned over the years is how to pick his battles, and he's got more important things to fight for right now.

When it's time to leave, Dean heads out first to get the Impala warmed up. By the time Sam gets in the car it's uncomfortably hot, with the heater control pushed all the way into the red. "Jesus," he says, moving it back toward the center. "It's a freaking sauna in here."

Dean slaps his hand away and turns the heat up again as he pulls out of the parking lot. "I'm freezing, asswipe. Deal with it." Sam sighs and peels off his jacket. He struggles to stay awake, but Dean's too quiet, and the warmth and the gentle rocking of the Impala make it harder and harder to keep his eyes open, and maybe he can just rest them for a minute.

When he opens his eyes again, it's bright daylight. Dean's driving with his hands loose on the wheel, tapping out a drumbeat with his fingertips. His hair is ruffled by the breeze from the open window. He turns to smile at Sam; not the shit-eating grin he keeps in his pocket and pulls out when he needs it like a fake ID, but an easy, natural grin that Sam doesn't think he's seen in months. Sam smiles back and turns toward his own window, watching the scenery drift by. The car slows, and he hears the tires crunching on gravel as Dean pulls onto the shoulder. They park under a pine tree, beside a split-rail fence. When he turns to ask Dean why they've stopped here, the driver's seat is empty.

Outside the car, a dark-haired man in a leather jacket is leaning against the fence, staring out over a clear, still lake that mirrors the brilliant blue sky overhead. Sam gets out of the car and stands next to him, resting his arms on top of the fence. The man doesn't turn to him, but he speaks.

"Something you want to tell me, son?"

So many things. I miss you and I love you and I'm sorry but mostly this. "Dammit, Dad, you know how fucked up this is, right? How could you keep it a secret from me? Didn't I have a right to know?"

John smiles sadly. "I tell you what you need to know, Sam. I always have."

Sam's hands curl into angry fists. "And you didn't need to tell me what's wrong with me? That a demon is interested in me? That Dean might have to kill me?"

"Like I said, I tell you what I can. There are things I don't know. There's information you can't be trusted with. There are decisions you can't be the one to make."

"What the fuck, Dad. This is about me. How long have you known? You couldn't even give me a little warning?"

"What's the point?" John's still looking over the lake, not at Sam, but his expression turns dark. "What if I had told you that you needed to stay so I could keep an eye on you? So I could stop you before anything happened? Would you have listened? Or would you have blown me off and done what you wanted to do, like you did when I told you to shoot the demon? If you had just followed orders back in that cabin, this would all be over now. But no, you had to spare my life, and for what? I'm dead anyway, and the demon is still out there."

"No, goddammit, that's not fair. Dean stopped me from shooting you."

John laughs bitterly. "That was your decision, Sam. Dean can't stop you from doing anything you really want to do. If he could, you would never have left us."

"Left us? God, you make it sound like a failed marriage. I wanted to live my own life. That's what eighteen-year-olds are supposed to do."

"Normal eighteen-year-olds. But you were never a normal eighteen-year-old, and you know that. You've always known that."

"I could have been, if you'd just - "

"No, Sam. You didn't listen to me then. Shut up and listen to me now." His father turns toward him, wearing that familiar expression that says he is completely done with Sam's shit. "You've always been different, and you've always known it. And you didn't do anything about it. Even if I had told you not to get close to anyone, because there's something wrong with you, you wouldn't have listened to me."

Oh no, you don't. You don't get to put this back on me. "We'll never know, will we? Because you didn't fucking tell me!"

Someone perches on the fence next to Sam. He seeks a flash of white out of the corner of his eye, and if he turns his head just a tiny bit to the left, he knows he'll see golden skin and golden hair and a white nightgown soaked in blood. He stares resolutely at the calm, glassy lake, dipping his head a little so his hair curtains his eyes. Don't look, don't look. "Dad. I don't know what I'm supposed to do."

"Here's what you're supposed to do, son. Keep after the demon. And let Dean take care of the rest."

He can smell her now, the smell of her favorite perfume mixed with the smell of blood and burnt flesh, and no one should know what that smells like.

"You shouldn't have asked Dean to do this."

"Why? You don't think he can?"

"Of course he can." Sam hangs his head lower. He hears the low patter of something dripping onto the ground, and looks down to see blood puddling at his feet. Rivulets of blood make their way to the lake, staining the shore crimson. Don't look. "But he won't. He keeps telling me he won't."

"He will." John nods confidently, his faith in his older son unwavering as always. "You just have to keep working on him. Let him know how important it is. He's not going to let anyone die just because you're tainted. You know he'll come through in the end."

But he shouldn't have to. "You know, I could take care of it myself. Just eat a bullet right now. Wouldn't that solve everything?" The entire lake is blood-red now, dark and sinister under the brilliant sky.

"No," John says emphatically. "You keep hunting that demon. You owe it to your mother. Let Dean decide what needs to be done about you. That's why I told him, not you. You hear me, Sam?"

"Sam. Sam." Something's poking at his left arm. Don't look. Don't look.

But he can't help it. He looks. He looks and she's wrapped in a white shroud, like Dad was. He looks and watches her burst into flame, a bright halo of fire consuming the linen that covers her beautiful face. "You'll burn like I did," she says. "No, not like I did. You won't be alive when you burn." She laughs and reaches for him, a flaming arm escaping the crumbling, burning shroud. "I'll see you soon, baby."

I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. Sam pushes away from the fence, away from his dead father and his dead girlfriend and the dark bloody lake.

"Shouldn't have looked, Sam," his father says. "She'd still be alive if you hadn't ever looked at her."

Something is still poking his arm. "Sam. Sam. Come on, man. Wake up."

He opens his eyes and he's back in the too-warm car, still cruising down a cold dark highway.

Oh, fuck me.

He groans and rubs his eyes. The warmth of the car is too much like heat radiating from flames, and it brings back the sense memory, the bitter smell of smoke and burnt hair and singed flesh. He leans his head against the cool window, avoiding the concerned look he knows Dean's giving him.

"You okay?"

I'm a hand grenade.

"Peachy."

"Wanna talk about it?"

"Nope. Air, dude. I need some air." He rolls down his window and leans into the rush of cold air, waiting for it to wash the dream away.

"Fine!" Dean scowls. "I'll turn down the heat if you'll stop sticking your head out the window like a damn dog." He flicks the heat control and Sam sags back into his seat. "You sure you don't want to talk about it?"

"Very sure." Sam runs a hand through his hair. "All I want to do is salt and burn this grave and stop any more people from dying."

Dean turns and smiles at him. "Luckily, that's one thing we're pretty damn good at."

///

The cemetery is small and poorly lit; two factors in their favor. A single sodium light weakly illuminates the parking lot. Gwen Gilchrist's grave is over the crest of a small hill, hidden from the main road and the light of the parking lot, which is even better. The gravesite is fresh enough that it doesn't have a full cover of grass, which makes for easy digging. Everything is in their favor so far. It only makes Sam wonder what's coming.

Dean helps Sam dig until the hole is too deep to see out of easily; then he hops out to stand guard while Sam finishes digging. When he's cleared off enough dirt to reveal the coffin, still whole and polished, he knows they're thinking the same thing: she hasn't been dead very long. Not nearly long enough to be reduced to bones. He stops and rubs his wrist mindlessly - it's still a little sore, a week after Dean sawed through the cast with a hunting knife.

"Come on, Sam," Dean grumbles, peering down into the hole. "She's not getting any deader." With a sigh, Sam works the tip of the shovel under the coffin lid, trying to pry it open, but it's sealed tight. After a few fruitless minutes he gives up and slams the shovel into the top of the coffin, splintering the section right above her heart. He works methodically, exposing her torso, her legs, and finally her face, before he tosses the shovel up onto the grass.

"You know, I got this if you need a break," Dean says, extending a hand to help haul Sam out of the grave. "I mean, if your arm hurts. I don't think anything's happening here. If she was pissed at us, she'd have your head by now." Sam's not fooled. Dean wasn't in the habit of cutting him slack just because his arm was in a cast, and he knows why he's making the offer now. This is something he's been doing lately, when he judges Sam vulnerable. Not making him watch people burn. Not when they still look like people, anyway. And he appreciates the thought, really he does, but it's not like it makes a difference. It's not like he stops thinking about Jess until he's reminded by someone else's flaming corpse. It's not like Miss Gwen's ever going to be the one he sees burning on the ceiling in his sleep.

"I'm good," he replies. He pours a carton of salt into the grave as Dean thumbs open the lighter fluid and empties it over the shattered coffin. "Remember what Dad always said. As soon as you think you don't need a lookout, that's when you find out how bad you need one."

Dean nods silently and lights a match. His face is lit with gold for a moment as he sets the entire pack ablaze; then the flaming pack cartwheels gracefully onto Miss Gwen's mortal remains. Sam watches her burn and wonders if Dean's thinking about other things Dad said.

Even doused with a quart of lighter fluid, it takes Miss Gwen almost an hour to burn to the point where they're comfortable covering her back up again. Dean stands as close to the warmth of fire as possible, as if the smell of formaldehyde-preserved flesh burning doesn't bother him. And maybe it doesn't. Sam's not entirely sure he's got a handle on what bothers Dean any more. They shovel the dirt back into the grave, gather their shovels and duffle bag, and head back to the parking lot.

When they top the hill, Dean stops dead in his tracks. "Shit."

There's another car in the small parking lot, just a few yards from the Impala. "Shit," Dean mutters again. He takes a few steps back, into the shadows. "Windows are fogged up," he says. "It's probably just teenagers making out."

"Yeah, but even teenagers making out could have seen our fire from here."

"Maybe. If they came up for breath." Dean looks around, scanning the area, assessing the situation. "Okay." He gestures with his shovel. "We're gonna go the long way around, stay out of the light, drop our stuff off over there, by the side of the road. You're gonna stay there and wait, and I'll come back with the car and pick you up."

"Why me?"

"Cause if anybody has to explain to a cop why he's standing in front of a cemetery with a couple of shovels and a duffle bag full of lighter fluid empties, I want it to be you, not me." Dean grins at Sam, hoists his load again, and leads the way, tracing a path well outside of the dim pool of light. He leaves Sam at the main road, trotting silently into the shadows, and a few minutes later Sam hears the Impala's engine rumbling toward him.

"Think they saw you?" he asks as he slips into the passenger seat.

"Dunno." Dean shrugs. "Wasn't trying to be stealthy at that point. Didn't want to look suspicious. I figure, if they did notice me, they'd assume I was there for the same reason they were."

Sam reaches for his phone and opens the police scanner app. "Probably ought to keep an ear to the ground anyway."

"Whatever. We're gonna be out of here before they can find us, anyway. Let's get showered and catch a little sleep so we can get out of here before checkout."

The words almost leave Sam's lips. No. Wait. I'm not sure we've actually fixed anything yet. But he thinks better of it, and remains quiet on the way back to the hotel. Quiet and awake.



[ 8. They're trying to come back, all my senses push ]

Dean lets Sam have the first shower. Partly because he's an awesome big brother, and partly because he's finally warm (nothing like a nice, easy salt and burn to get your blood pumping) and he isn't looking forward to stripping in the chilly bathroom. Might as well let Sam get it warm and steamy for him.

But mostly because he's an awesome big brother.

And okay, partly because Sam was quiet on the way back from the cemetery and he's obviously working up the courage to talk about you-know-what again. Because he knows an easy, successful hunt puts Dean in a good mood, and he's figured out he made a tactical error by trying to talk about something so completely fucking awful right after Cheryl Kramer's interview, and if Dean knows one thing about Sam, it's that he never gives up. So he knows, he fucking knows the little shit is going to bring it up again. And that's why he plans to take a long damn shower and, with any luck, Sam will be asleep when he gets out.

But when Sam comes out of the bathroom, in sweatpants and a t-shirt that's rapidly darkening from his still-dripping hair, he parks at the small table with his laptop.

"Dude. It's late, and checkout's at noon. Go to bed."

Sam doesn't even look up. "I want to listen to the police scanner a little bit longer. Just in case."

So much for Dean's luck. "Paranoid much? No one reported us. We would have heard it by now."

"And also." Sam clears his throat. "I'm not sure we should leave yet."

Dean sighs and rubs his face. His hand reeks of smoke and lighter fluid (and maybe scorched Miss Gwen, but he doesn't like to think about that) and he really wants a shower. "What, you planning on making a vacation out of this? Visit the Grand Ole Opry? If you're worried about witnesses, don't you think we should hit the road?"

"I'm just saying." He won't even look at Dean. "I mean, yeah, it could have been her. It was probably her. But we didn't really look at other options."

Well, shit. "You got a long list of other options you didn't tell me about?" Dean pulls off his shirt and hurls it at the pile of dirty laundry in the corner of the room.

"No." Sam is displaying all of his typical indecisive tells - chewing his lip, running a hand anxiously through his hair. "I don't know. Probably not. It was probably her."

"It's over, Sam," Dean mutters as he stomps into the bathroom. "The job is fucking over. We ganked the ghost. Just drop it." Drop it and let me get out of here.

The bathroom is warm and steamy and the water's still hot, and this is good. This is one good thing he gets to have. But he has barely scrubbed off the stench before Sam knocks and then pokes his head in the door.

"Dean! Hurry up and get out of the shower. Something happened."

"Fuck. Someone saw us?"

"No. I'll tell you when you're out."

Dean groans in frustration, and then spends another ten minutes under the hot water. If no one's on their tail, he's not going to rush his shower just to make Sam happy. By the time he opens the bathroom door and steps back into the chilly room accompanied by a cloud of steam, Sam is... crap. Sam is halfway into his Fed suit, white shirt hanging open as he stands at the table, pecking at the laptop.

"Dude," he says, clearly agitated. He beckons Dean to the table and turns the laptop toward him. "This is Laura Lightner. She was just murdered, like, less than an hour ago. I heard the chatter on the police scanner."

Sam has pulled up Laura Lightner's website, which shows a pretty blonde... singer, Dean reads. A country singer. "Well, that's a damn shame. Now explain to me why it's worth dragging me out of the shower."

Sam reaches over and scrolls down the page. "This is her band. Look at this guy. It's Randall Montrose."

"Randall Montrose. As in..."

"As in Darius and Belinda Montrose, yeah. Their son. I saw her picture at their house yesterday, and I knew she looked familiar, but I couldn't think of her name until I heard it on the scanner. But check this out. The Montrose's son plays guitar in her band. And now she's dead."

And now Dean sees where this is heading. "Come on, Sam. That's gotta be a coincidence."

"Does it?" Sam paces back and forth as he buttons his shirt. "The murderer was still on the scene, Dean. He's the one who called the police. Just like Montrose and Kramer."

"That still doesn't mean anything. What's her connection to the church?"

"I don't know," Sam admits.

"So, you're just guessing her death might be related to the others."

"Listen." Sam stops pacing and turns toward Dean, all earnest expression and puppy dog eyes. "You were willing to believe me when I thought Gwen Gilchrist might be the cause of these deaths. I need you to be willing to believe me now."

"But Sam, what is there to believe? You don't have anything."

"Laura Lightner's bio says she's known Randall Montrose since they were teenagers. Maybe she went to their church. Maybe she sang in the choir."

"Okay, but if that's the connection..." Dean trails off, because he doesn't like where this is going.

"Yeah. If that's the connection, if it's got something to do with the church, then either Gwen Gilchrist was tied to something other than her body... or it wasn't her at all."

Dean considers his options. He could go along with Sam's theory, spend more time in godforsaken Nashville, stuck on this already-finished job that keeps reminding him of things he's trying not to think about. Or he could pull rank, tell Sam they're done, and listen to him bitch and moan about it for days.

There is, of course, the slim chance that Sam is actually right.

But mostly, there is the very good chance that if Sam doesn't have this job to distract him, he's going to go back to his new favorite topic of discussion.

Shit.

He sighs and reluctantly reaches for his suit. "You have an address, I hope."

"Got it off the scanner," Sam says, scooping the keys off the table. "I'll go warm the car up for you." He smiles, warm and appreciative and completely oblivious to Dean's true motives, and Dean suddenly doesn't feel like such an awesome big brother any more.

///

They're blocked at the gate but they slip in easily thanks to Sam, who spins their most boring research assignment ever story a little harder, oozing boyish little brother charm that just makes you want to be nice to him; all perfect smile and sincere eyes and this might be part of our pattern or it might not, and sure would be nice if we could deal with it while we're here, and this way we won't have to call you and ask questions later, and goddamn, the boy can bullshit. Dean doesn't remember him being that good at it before he left, but then again, they never really used him for that kind of stuff. Not like you're gonna stick an 18-year-old kid in those situations and expect people to fall for it. So when did he pick it up? Did he hone his skills at Stanford? Did he find it necessary to bullshit his way through that life as thoroughly as he does this one? Did trying to escape the family business actually made him better at it?

Laura Lightner's house was warm and inviting at one time, but now it's a beautiful, rustic abattoir. It probably smelled like gardenias or lavender or something girly a few hours ago, but now it reeks of blood and gunpowder. Overstuffed leather sofas and a huge stone fireplace are eclipsed by the dark spots of drying blood pooled across expensive rugs. Blue sheets are draped over two bodies; one in the center of the room and another in the corner. Dean eyes the second body and gives Sam a questioning look - he only mentioned Laura Lightner, not a second victim. Sam shrugs.

They flash their badges at the guy in charge, who introduces himself as Detective Wilburton. Sam starts his story again but Wilburton waves it aside. "Bill radioed me," he drawls. "You're okay. Just be quick about it, and don't touch anything, okay?"

Sam goes down on one knee next to the body, lifting the sheet with his pencil. His eyebrows shoot up and his forehead furrows in that way that means he's found something disturbing. But when he looks up at Dean, he shakes his head briefly. You don't need to come over here. I've got it.

Dean watches him for a minute, then turns back to the detective. "So, who's the other vic?"

"Not a vic. That's the guy that killed her."

"That's your theory, or..."

"Don't need a theory. Got a confession." Wilburton grimaces. "Son of a bitch gutted her, called to tell us he killed her, and then, when we got here, told us his fucking sob story and then yanked a gun out of his jacket and made a move on Andrews over there." He tips his head toward a uniformed officer at the other end of the room, clearly distressed, giving his own interview. "Suicide by cop."

"Shit."

"Damn straight. Those fuckers are the worst. Standing there holding his own goddamn gun and he couldn't do it. If you can't live with whatever kinda monster you've turned into, take care of it your own damn self. Don't make a cop do it. Am I right?"

Dean's breath catches because no, that's not right at all, and suddenly Sam's right there and please god, don't let him have heard that, don't give him any ideas. Don't take care of it your own damn self, Sam. Please.

But if Sam heard what Wilburton said, he doesn't break character. He just asks "Who is he? Do you know?"

The detective scowls at the blue-draped shape on the bloody floor. "Bud Phillips. Her bodyguard. You gotta appreciate the irony, I guess."

"And he called the police on himself," Sam says, as he scribbles the name in his notebook.

"Yep. According to dispatch, he said he woke up and she was dead, and he was holding the knife. When our guys got here, he told them he knew he must have done it, but he didn't remember any of it." Sam raises his eyebrows at Dean and yeah, yeah, okay. That's a familiar story. Goddammit.

"So then," Wilburton continues, "he started bawling. Said he couldn't believe he killed her, he didn't deserve to live, blah blah blah. Andrews tried to talk him down, and he whipped a gun out of his jacket, but he didn't point it at himself, he pointed it at Andrews. So the kid had to take him out." Wilburton tips his head toward Andrews again. "Don't know if you've ever had to take someone out in the line of duty, but it messes a fella up."

"It does," Dean agrees. (You have no idea.)

Wilburton flashes a sympathetic look at poor messed-up Andrews and turns back to Dean. "Now, tell me this. Guy had a Glock in his pocket. So why did he take the girl out with a knife? From her own kitchen?"

Sam's brow furrows again. "Her own knife?"

"Looks like it. Matches the set in the kitchen." He shrugs and looks around. "Crazy. Look, you guys got what you're looking for? I need to go take care of business."

"Yes, thank you," Sam says, digging in his pocket for a card. "Would it be possible to get a copy of your report when it's available? Here's my email address."

"Sure thing, kid." Wilburton pockets the card, and Sam watches to make sure he's out of hearing range before turning back to Dean.

"So, get this. He didn't just kill her. He tied her up and then sliced her wide open. Why would he do that? He had his own gun. Why would he go to all the trouble of getting a knife from the kitchen and tying her up, when he could just shoot her?"

Dean remembers what Wilburton said. Gutted her. "Because it wasn't just about her being dead."

"Right. Like Belinda Montrose. Ritualistic, or something."

"So, what do you want to do now?"

"I want to find out if she was connected to the church," Sam says, failing to suppress a yawn. "We should talk to her manager or somebody."

"Okay, but it's too early to call people yet," Dean points out, gesturing at the dark purple sky through Laura Lightner's massive, probably very expensive windows. The dark shadows under Sam's eyes almost match the sky, and Dean knows Sam won't call a break for himself, but he'll stop if Dean needs it. "I'm about to fall over, man. Let's try to get a couple hours of sleep."

Sam presses his lips together like he's trying to come up with an argument, then shrugs. "Okay. Couple hours."

///

Sam's sleep comes in short restless bursts, something that can't be ignored since he also wakes Dean every time he gasps his way out of a nightmare. Finally, as the sky begins to lighten to a cold, pale gray dawn, he falls into a deeper sleep. Dean quietly switches off the alarm on the cheap clock/radio, checks Sam's phone and turns that alarm off as well (double alarm, Sammy? really?), and settles in.

Suddenly he's awakened, not by Sam muttering and thrashing, but by a hard smack on his arm. His fingers are already wrapped around the knife under his pillow when he hears his brother's very angry voice.

"Dammit, Dean! It's two in the afternoon!"

"Good." Dean releases the knife and rubs his face. "You slept."

"Yeah, I slept all right. I slept the whole damn day away." Sam's pacing, practically trembling with furious energy. "You turned my alarm off? You turned both alarms off? Why would you do that?"

"Cause you needed to sleep, man. We needed to sleep."

"Dean, people are dying. Don't you think stopping that is more important right now?"

"Wait, come on, Sam."

"Shit, Dean. Laura Lightner is dead because we didn't take care of it. How many more deaths are you willing to have on your hands? Because I've fucking had enough!"

"Dude." Dean puts up a hand. Sam is going completely off the rails, which is Dean's cue to stay calm. "Stop. Listen. Did you have any other ideas, other than the choir director? Is there anyone you decided not to salt and burn because we focused on her?"

Sam's anxious pacing fizzles and he slumps onto the bed. "No."

"All right. So, we didn't ignore any other clues. We didn't sleep through anything we should have been doing. We're doing all we can do, all right? But you gotta sleep, man. I'm worried about you."

"This isn't about me."

"Fine, but you can't save anyone if you're running on fumes. Look. It's not on your hands, what happened to Laura. It's awful, but it's not your fault. We didn't know. We couldn't have stopped it."

Sam stares silently at the floor for a minute. When he looks up, his face is twisted into a sad mockery of a smile. "You know, there's a difference between not your fault and couldn't have stopped it. They're not the same thing." He quickly slips on jeans and boots, pulls a jacket over the t-shirt he slept in, and puts his phone in his pocket. "I'm going to make some calls. Find someone to talk to about Laura and Bud Phillips. I'll bring you some coffee." The door shuts almost silently behind him, leaving Dean to wonder what the fuck just happened.

///

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