Keep The Empty From His Eyes 4/6

[lennelle]

Summary: John gets what he wished for, Sam pays the price.

Previous chapter



Bobby Singer was waiting for them on the rickety porch of his house. At the sight of them he scratched his beard and adjusted the cap he constantly wore on his head.

John pulled the Impala into the Salvaged yard and Bobby was at Dean's window before the keys were out of the ignition. Dean climbed out of the car and let the door fall shut, he and Bobby stared at each other for a moment.

A smile broke out on Bobby's face, "It's been a while, kid," he exclaimed, yanking Dean into a hug. Dean gasped at the sheer force of the embrace; it had indeed been a long time. The last time Dean remembered seeing Bobby he'd been chasing their father off his property with a shotgun.

Dean grinned into the old man's shoulder and squeezed back. "It's good to see you, Bobby," he replied after he'd taken a step back, he glanced over his shoulder to Sam who was still sitting in the back seat, "It's really good to see you, Bobby, seriously."

Bobby followed Dean's gaze, "You'd best bring him inside," Bobby all but ordered John, barely giving him a second glance. He headed towards the house, not waiting for John to answer.

Sam left the car door open on his way out, Dean had been ready for that and he shut it behind him as he followed their father up the porch steps. Dean worried Sam would trip, he didn't look down at his feet to see where he was going, he only stared aimlessly ahead and limped along, his jeans sticking to the cuts on his knees.

John had ordered Sam to sit on Bobby's old moth-eaten couch; the same one Sam and Dean had spent their childhood watching cartoons on whenever they would stay at the salvage yard. He glanced around the room, appreciating that nothing had changed in the years he'd been away. Books piled up around the room, all ancient and well-used with peeling covers and yellowing pages.

Normally Sam would be flicking through the stacks, asking Bobby a million questions a minute about The Pack Habits of Werewolves, ignoring Bobby when the old man snapped at him, usually with a fond smile, to get his 'grubby mitts' off of his stuff. But Sam just sat there, staring blankly, like he had done for the past couple of days.

Bobby eyed the boy for a good minute then he snapped his fingers in front of his face, as Dean had expected there was no reaction. Bobby moved over to his kitchen and pulled out a rusty box from one of the cupboards. He came back to the room and opened it to reveal a collection of medical supplies. He pulled out a small hammer, similar to the ones found in doctor's offices.

"I've already tested this stuff," John interrupted. Bobby ignored him and arranged one of Sam's legs over his other knee.

"This kid grew, huh?" he mused and tapped Sam's knee with the tool. Sam's leg jerked slightly.

"Natural reflex is still there," Bobby muttered to himself. He rested Sam's leg back down and leaned up to look in his eyes, flicking a penlight at each pupil, "Normal reaction to light…" he mumbled. Bobby leaned back a bit and tilted Sam's head, Sam's eyes just stayed locked forward.

"It's weird," Bobby went on, Dean wasn't sure if he was actually talking to anyone, "His eyes seem…"

"Dead?" Dean supplied, "Like no one's home. Like a zombie. Like the light has gone out of them."

Bobby nodded, "I can't tell you if he's awake in there. I sure hope he's not."

"Can you do anything?" John asked impatiently. Bobby scowled at him then turned back to Sam.

"I found a spell before you got here," he grabbed a sheet of paper from his desk, "Hopefully they might be able to wake Sam up, but they won't break the spell."

Bobby held the sheet out in front of him and cleared his throat; he began chanting something in a language Dean had never heard of, it seemed to roll of the tongue in a slippery dialect before coming to guttural stops midsentence. Dean grimaced at the sound of it.

When Bobby was done he lit a match and held it in front of Sam's face, and then he blew it out. There was no gust of wind or shuddering chill, no sinister whisper or flash of lights. There was no indication that a spell had been cast.

"Did it work?" Dean asked hesitantly. Bobby had a disappointed look on his face, but nevertheless he went to Sam and tried to rouse him. Sam didn't react in any way and Bobby looked like he'd expected it.

"This is a strong spell," Bobby observed, tossing the match into nearby trash can, "He can't do a single thing without being told to, and by John Winchester, no less." Bobby sighed, "You said the witch used a powder?"

"Yeah," Dean answered, stepping forward, eager to do something, "It was shiny and black, she blew it into his face and said something… I don't remember what. The powder disappeared though, there wasn't a trace on him."

Bobby scratched his beard, thinking. "Did you not bring some of it with you? Like the jar she kept it in?" he asked.

"Don't you think we would have done that if we could?" John snapped.

Bobby scowled, "I'm sorry if I have a different impression of you these days, John. I can honestly say I don't know what's going on in that head of yours."

"Woah, guys!" Dean interrupted before either of them could speak up again, John was already balling his fists and Bobby crossed his arms over his chest. "You can cat fight all you want after we fix Sammy."

Bobby and John gave each other a distasteful look then grimaced and nodded, both clearly embarrassed at their behaviour.

"I, er, I've got some books for you to look at," Bobby said, stepping away awkwardly to rummage through the stacks, "It sounds like voodoo to me, nasty black magic. Since you guys were there you should read through these and tell me what sounds most familiar," he dropped a stack of books on the desk.

Dean gave Sam another check, the boy was still sitting on the sofa, looking completely oblivious to what was going on around him. He reluctantly went over to the desk where John and Bobby were sorting through books. Dean pulled up two extra chairs for himself and John and they all gathered around the table and got to work.

Bobby dumped a book thicker than both of Dean's fists put together on the table in front of him, a cloud of dust blew up from the impact and Dean coughed.

"Read up," Bobby ordered, sending Dean an amused smile. Dean groaned and turned the first page of A Brief History of Voodoo and Black Magic.

Hours passed and Dean was about ready to face-plant into the book he had laid out in front of him. Time had ticked by slowly as the three of them read through Bobby's old texts until it grew dark outside. John had been hopelessly flicking through pages for the past hour whereas Bobby had been scribbling notes and marking pages. John had always been more of a hunter than a researcher.

Dean turned another page, barely halfway through the book, and he forgot to breathe for a moment when he came across a page which described something very familiar.

"Hey," he caught the other's attention, sitting up in his chair, "I think this is it. It mentions black powder… blowing it into someone's face is supposed to mean…" Dean squinted at the page, "Giving your own air to the other to make a connection. Maybe that's how the spell-caster makes sure they also have power over the victim."

He glanced back at Sam who still hadn't moved a muscle, Dean felt relieved that he'd managed to remain unharmed. He wouldn't put it past Sam to get into trouble from just sitting on Bobby's couch.

Bobby nodded, gesturing for the book. Dean handed it over, arms straining under the weight of it.

"The incantation changes," Bobby read, eyes flicking across the page, "It depends who they're handing the reins over to," he looked up, "So, since your dad has control over Sam the witch would have had to mention that in the spell. It's a very specific incantation, takes someone powerful to do it properly."

"Does it say how to get rid of it?" Dean asked tiredly, rubbing his eyes. He slouched back into his chair and glanced at Sam over the shoulder, a small sense of relief went through him at the sight of him still being there.

"The witch who cast it can undo it," Bobby said with a sigh, Dean turned back to him, "But so can the person who has control over the victim's will," his eyes flicked over to John.

"She said that," Dean acknowledged, "She said dad has to appreciate Sam."

"Which I do," John cut in. Bobby snorted.

"John, I know you love your kids but…" he cut himself off as John's face grew redder, "I'm just saying that there has to be a point to it. I don't think she'd say something like that if she didn't mean it."

"Witches lie," Dean pointed out, then frowned, "But she seemed sincere to me. I think she actually thought she was doing people favours."

"Because she's cracked," John argued. Dean shrugged, he didn't disagree with him there.

"Cracked or not," Bobby interrupted, "She's the one holding the cards here if we can't figure out a counter spell."

"And what spell would that be?" John asked darkly. Bobby's moustache twitched, clearly trying to keep his temper for the boys' sake.

"Well, we can keep searching for it," Dean agreed, "But I need some caffeine right now or I'm going to keel over."

John and Bobby nodded their heads to indicate they also needed a cup of coffee, barely looking up from the books and papers in front of them.

Dean pushed out from the desk and got to his feet, stretching. He blinked sleepily a couple of times and looked over to the couch, something which had become a habit throughout the night. He froze when he noticed his little brother was no longer sitting where they'd left him.

"Dad," Dean snapped urgently, "Sam's gone."

Dean was striding towards the kitchen as Bobby and John got to their feet.

"I just saw him," Dean insisted, "He was right there only a moment ago."

"He can't go anywhere without me telling him," John said, panicked. Suddenly, he froze, eyes widening "She's here."

Dean felt the breath go out of him. He hurried into the kitchen, looking around frantically. He stopped, staring at the open cutlery drawer; a few spoons and forks were strewn clumsily on the floor beneath it. Dean didn't understand how none of them had heard the clatter.

"We have to find him. Now!" Dean yelled, already dashing up the stairs, the back door slammed shut behind Bobby, Dean could hear the old man calling for Sam and loading his shotgun. John's footsteps echoed as he descended into the basement.

Bobby's house was large, there were a lot of rooms upstairs, most of which stored more books. Dean had always wondered when he was younger why Bobby would need such a big house, when he'd asked his father John had said, 'Everyone gets into the life one way or another'. At the time Dean had assumed that meant something bad had happened but he never thought much further than that.

In the frantic moments he searched for his brother he couldn't help the thoughts popping into his head that Bobby might have had a family once.

He shook the thoughts from his head and rounded into the first room; it was dusty and dark, two empty single beds were up against opposite walls. This had been the room Sam and Dean used to stay in when John and Bobby had been on good terms. It looked like it hadn't been used since their last visit, the beds were made, the blankets untouched, a layer of dust had gathered on the chest of drawers like they hadn't been opened in a long time.

Once, when Sam and Dean were children, and well before Sam ever knew anything about the supernatural world, their father would leave them at Bobby's for weeks at a time. Dean admitted that those weeks had been some of the best of his childhood; Bobby cooked them dinner every night, he took them to the park to throw a ball around, he let Dean help him work on the cars. It was the closest to normal either of them had ever been.

During a particularly cold winter, Sam and Dean had been playing hide-and-seek. Dean let Sam hide first, the kid had practically begged him, obviously he'd thought he'd had the best hiding spot. Dean had covered his eyes and counted, listening to the sound of his six year old brother's feet scampering away.

Dean had been confident that Sam would be easy to find, but the time it took to find him kept getting longer and longer, and Dean grew more and more worried. Bobby had joined the search and they'd called for Sam to come out; the game was over now. Sam hadn't answered. The panic grew when they noticed the back door was open, letting a heavy fall of snow into the hallway.

Dean had been so sure Sam had run out to hide in the junk yard and was no doubt hypothermic at that point. When Dean had been sent to get blankets, in case Sam was outside, he'd found his little brother fast asleep, curled up in the linen closet.

Dean checked the whole room, even under the beds, and found nothing. He went to the old wooden door in the corner; the linen closet. Sam wasn't there, Dean knew he wouldn't be, but the memory was so Sam, he hoped he might find his little brother there.

He rushed back into the hallway and he could hear the John and Bobby were back downstairs again, talking urgently to one another, not arguing. They had more important things to worry about than their relationship problems.

Dean noticed one closed door at the end of the hall, a sliver of light peeked through the crack beneath it. As a trained hunter Dean ought to have moved stealthily towards the door, he should have had his gun raised and ready to fire if the need arose. He should have remembered everything his dad had taught him. But this was Sam. This wasn't some middle-class family with a haunted bathroom, or a few idiotic campers who insisted on checking out the source of the noise. This was Dean's little brother, and when Dean's little brother was in danger all reasonable thought went right out the window.

With only Sam on his mind Dean threw himself at the door, rattling it in its hinges, splintering the wood, as he yanked at the brass handle and barrelled into the room.

It was one of the few empty rooms in the house, one of the rooms Dean had rarely been in. There were no towers of books or stacks of papers, no dusty or forgotten furniture, just a few cardboard boxes shoved against the far wall and an antique iron chandelier which was draped in cobwebs.

But the light was switched on, casting a dim light through the room, causing shadows to rise up from all corners. Sam was in the centre of the room, shoulders slumped, arms hanging limply by is sides as he stared dazedly, looking almost mesmerised, at the red-headed witch who had been staring back until Dean had burst into the room.

"Get away from him!" Dean ordered, the words came out close to a scream. His gun was already in his hands, pointing at the witches head.

She raised an eyebrow, though her expression wasn't amused as it had been in the past, she looked slightly more serious this time, almost worried. Something frightened her and it wasn't the gun pointed at her head.

She waved her hand and Dean's weapon flew out of his grip, with another flick of her wrist he was launched back, body connecting painfully with the wall where he stayed pinned up like hunting trophy.

"I don't have time for this," She sighed, turning back to Sam, her long red hair swished behind her. It was dark and tangled, full of leaves and broken twigs.

When she had looked at Dean her eyes had been dark, almost impossibly black, the skin around her eyes had been a shadow of purple. When she looked at Sam there was a softness there, a light blue in her irises, a sad crinkle to her forehead. She stroked Sam's cheek in a gentle way which made Dean want to throw up.

"Leave him alone," he cried, trying to yank himself free, he was stuck and Sam was in danger.

Dean could hear the creak of a floorboard coming from the hallway. He turned his head, with much effort, and saw Bobby and his father stepping lightly towards the room, guns in their hands. Dean caught his father's eye and tried to warn them to be careful, John nodded.

John and Bobby rounded quickly into the room, there was a loud bang as someone's gun went off. John's arm went wide, the bullet hit the chandelier with a loud clang and both of their guns were cast to the other side of the room. There were two heavy grunts as John and Bobby connected with the wall. The three of them struggled against their invisible bonds.

The witch barely paid them any attention; she just stared at Sam sadly.

"I did this to teach your father a lesson," she explained to him, the blank look in Sam's eyes indicated he likely didn't hear what she was saying, "It was just a game. Then I realised who and what you were, Sam. I thought it would be best to leave you be, let your father figure out how to break the spell, let you go on with your life," she frowned, "Then I learned the true magnitude of who you are, who you're meant to be. What you're meant to be."

Dean felt his gut twist at the witch's words. "Please," Dean tried to keep his voice cool, "Isn't the villain monologue a little old by now?"

The witch flashed him an angry look, silencing him. "Always so cocky, even in the face of danger," she tutted, "I see inside you, boy, you're a scared child. But you know that. You know you're weak."

Dean's nostrils flared and he scowled at her. She ignored him and looked back to Sam. Dean glanced to his side, hoping for help. Bobby and John were still struggling, but Dean could see his father was trying to reach for the inside of his jacket where his second gun was hidden.

"I know what they've done to you, Sam," she went on quietly, "And I am sorry. I have to stop you, and everything you will do one day. I feared the Demon before, but now I accept what will happen to me for doing this, they won't be happy with me," there was a flash of fear in her eyes, "You'll destroy the world, but if you purge the sickness from your veins then maybe you'll have a chance beyond the veil, though I'm half-certain hell has a claim on you."

"What are you talking about?" Dean demanded, struggling harder. There was a sharp glint in the corner of Dean's eye and he looked over to see a steak knife in Sam's hand. He remembered the opened cutlery drawer in the kitchen. He yelled and pulled harder, fear gripping him tight. The witch ignored him and looked down to the knife in Sam's hand.

"Make yourself bleed," she commanded, "Slice your wrists."

There was a second that seemed to stretch out for a long time in which Sam didn't respond, a for that small second Dean thought the spell might be gone. He hoped his brother might be strong enough to save himself.

Dean screamed as Sam brought the blade to his arms and sliced his wrists. John had been shouting for Sam to stop over and over but the boy didn't hear. Blood pulsed from the wound and pooled around his skin, leaking into a puddle on the floor. He moved to the second wrist, his hand shaking slightly as he lost blood, he didn't even flinch as he sliced his second arm. The knife fell to the floor with a clang when he was done.

"Sam!" Dean choked.

The witch stepped back, watching Sam sway slightly. She seemed almost shocked, distracted for a moment. Dean found his limbs able to move further from the wall. There was a yell to Dean's side as John managed to rip himself away for a second, just long enough to draw his gun.

A shot rang out through the room. The witch dropped, a bullet wound leaking red in her temple. Her red hair splayed out, pooling against Sam's blood.

The three of them fell to the ground, the witch's spell died with her. Dean clambered to his feet and ran over just in time to catch Sam when he could no longer hold himself up.

"Sammy," Dean called desperately as he lowered them down. Bobby was there, yanking off his jacket and wrapping it around Sam's bleeding wrists.

"No no no," John fell to his knees at their side, fumbling for Sam's pulse, "He's still with us."

"Sam? Tell me you can hear me," Dean sobbed, the witch was gone, Sam had to be back. Sam just stared blankly ahead.

"It's a curse, Dean," Bobby said, tears gathering in his eyes, "Spells die, curses stick."

"Please, Sam," John begged, cupping Sam's cheek, his red-stained fingers painted Sam's skin. "I love you, kid, I need you."

The lights flickered, the room grew colder and Sam shuddered in Dean's arms, gasping, blinking hard. He shifted his head around weakly, looking at each man's face.

"Sam?" Dean could see the light return to his brother's eyes and he smiled through the tears, "I thought I'd never see you again."

Sam frowned up at him, eyes growing heavy, "Dean?"

The word was barely audible but Dean could read it on Sam's lips. He had a split-second of relief before his brother's eyes fell shut. Dean cried; Sam was going to leave him again.