Nihil Inherit, Chapter 5: Bear Witness

[ratherastory]

Chapter 4

Master Post

Chapter 5: Bear Witness

*

Castiel doesn't resemble himself much, Sam decides. Then again, his own memories are hardly reliable on any topic, let alone an angel he somehow knows from a lifetime that he hasn't lived. For once Sam managed to sit down before he passed out, and he leans back against the wall, trying to stem the steady trickle of blood from his nose with a diner napkin fished out of his pocket, and looks up at the stern countenance of the angel standing before him.

“You're different,” he says, and the angel just tilts his head in a way that barely suggests acquiescence. “I thought you said you weren't temporal.”

“It's... complicated. I am at once as I was, and as I am now.”

“Well, that makes sense,” Dean mutters, crouching next to Sam and looking as though he's just waiting for an excuse to spring at the angel's throat. “How do you know my brother, anyway?”

“All the angels know of Sam Winchester. The boy with the demon blood.”

Sam feels sick. Castiel hasn't spoken of him in those terms in months. “Right.”

“You going to explain that?”

“I forgot you didn't know about that yet,” Sam crumples the bloody napkin in the palm of his hand. It's no easier this time, to explain what the yellow-eyed demon showed him while he was in Cold Oak. The shadowy figure standing hunched over the crib, the blood. “And Mom came in, she caught him...” he trails off, unsure whether to tell Dean the whole of it.

“She died because she interrupted him?”

“I'm sorry.”

“What are you apologizing for?”

Sam looks up at Castiel beseechingly, but the blue eyes are expressionless. “There's... there's more. But I don't know if you want to hear it.”

“Sam, you just told me you got demon blood fed to you by the thing that killed Mom. How much worse can it possibly be?”

“Your mother entered into a contract with the demon known as Azazel,” Castiel supplies, when Sam falters.

“That's a lie!” Dean is on his feet in a flash, gripping the lapels of Castiel's coat so hard he comes close to tearing the fabric. “Mom never ―she wouldn't!” he says, his voice dangerously soft.

Sam forces himself unsteadily to his feet, puts a hand on Dean's arm just at the shoulder. “Mom was a hunter, Dean. You... you're the one who told me.”

Dean doesn't move. “Shut up, Sam. You don't know what you're talking about. I don't know who this guy is, or how he's managed to screw with your head―”

“Your brother speaks the truth. He did not witness this ―you did,” Castiel says firmly, unfazed by Dean's belligerence. “But you have not done so yet, and likely never will, now. There is no need.”

After a moment Dean lets go of Castiel's coat, takes a step back. “You expect me to believe my mother, of her own free will, sold her soul to a demon?”

“No, not her soul,” Sam clears his throat. “She didn't know what she was trading. The demon killed everyone ―her parents, Dad... he offered a trade: Dad, in exchange for an unnamed favour in the future.”

“And you expect me to believe she'd do something like that?” Dean's voice breaks, just enough that Sam can hear it, hear the pain he'd have given anything to avoid inflicting.

“He took everything from her,” he keeps his tone gentle. “Snapped Dad's neck right in front of her, killed her parents. She was barely more than a kid, Dean.”

“We don't have time for this,” Castiel interrupts again. “You have important work to do, and we are running out of time. The Seals are breaking, and you are the only one who can stop it, Dean.”

Sam looks at Castiel, seeking out confirmation of what he's long suspected in the angel's expression.“I was right, wasn't I? The first Seal... it was Dad, wasn't it?”

“Yes.”

“Sammy?”

He tries not to hear the quiet desperation in Dean's tone, pleading with him to take it all back, to make the world go back to normal.

“It's what Dad said in Wyoming... in the cemetery,” he says, not meeting his brother's gaze. “Why he apologized. It's... he spent too long in Hell, Dean. He... he broke. It's not his fault,” he adds hurriedly. “Everyone breaks, eventually, and God knows how long he spent down there. He lasted longer than anyone could expect.”

“What do you mean, he broke?” Dean demands. “Sam, what the fuck?”

He gropes for the word to convey what Dean told him, back in the other lifetime that haunts him. “You... they torture souls in hell. But that's not what makes people into demons... they offer people a choice, Dean. The torture stops, if they agree to take the torturer’s place. Every day. For years. Over and over. Until they break. Time... it runs differently there. A decade for every month up here.”

Dean turns away, rubs a hand over his mouth. “So what? So Dad decided to... they're demons anyway, right?” his voice shakes. He doesn't believe a word he's saying.

“Your father was a righteous man,” Castiel says, his tone suddenly gentle. “He gave freely of himself to save you, but it was this that was the world's undoing.”

“And it is written, that the first seal shall be broken when a righteous man sheds blood in Hell. As he breaks, so shall it break,” Sam murmurs, the memory coming back in a dizzying rush.

Dean is shutting down. Sam can see it in the shuttered look in his eyes, the set of his jaw, the way his shoulders are starting to hunch inward. It's too much, too fast, years of knowledge all being condensed in a few inadequate sentences, and it's only going to get worse. He tightens his grip on his brother's shoulder, only to have Dean shrug him off.

I did this, Sam thinks. I traded Dean's soul for Dad's, and he's never going to forgive me for it. He can't bring himself to regret it, remembers the look of relief tinged with guilt and regret on his father's face in Wyoming. His father is no longer in Hell, managed to find his way out before he was irretrievably lost. Between his father and Dean, there's no contest, there never has been, not where he's concerned.

“Dean? Say something,” he pleads.

His brother doesn't look at him, just turns on his heel and stalks out through the blasted doors of the warehouse, leaving Sam standing dejectedly in his wake. Castiel stands to the side, looking after where Dean just disappeared.

“He is upset.”

Sam snorts. “That's putting it mildly.” He leans against the wall of the warehouse, closing his eyes as another wave of dizziness assaults him. “Give him time. Hell, I lived through all of that and I barely understand it.”

“You remember, then.”

He shakes his head. “Not everything. Probably not nearly enough. You were right, though. The human body isn't exactly built for this.”

“I know. It's why I can't reveal these things to you,” Castiel says, looking more earnest than he has since Sam first saw him in the roadside diner. “The knowledge is likely to overwhelm you, when you do remember. I wish it could be otherwise, but we cannot take the risk of your mind succumbing before the time is right.”

Sam feels sick. “I didn't end up changing much, did I? Dean is still the one who has to finish it.”

Castiel nods briefly. “Yes.”

Sam lets himself slide down the wall to sit on the floor again. “God, I feel like utter shit,” he groans.

“You were warned this could happen.”

“Doesn't mean I have to enjoy it,” he leans his head back against the wall and lets his eyes close, scrubs futilely at the renewed trickle of blood from his nose. “I should go after him. He shouldn't be alone too long.” He doesn't move, his legs turned to rubber.

“You can barely stand,” Castiel points out. “If you wish, I will make sure he is all right.”

“Thanks, Cas.” Even with his eyes closed, Sam can tell the angel is tilting his head to the side with that same quizzical expression. “What?”

“It's not important. I will go check on your brother.”

“Be patient with him, okay? He hasn't had much time to process all this.”

“Time is of the essence, Sam.”

“I know, but you know him: the more you push, the more he'll resist,” he opens his eyes to look up at the angel. “You remember that, right? I mean, you said you weren't... angels aren't temporal, so you remember everything?”

Castiel doesn't answer, simply turns and walks away.

*

Dean is tight-lipped and uncommunicative when he finally comes back, but Sam is too damned tired and dizzy and nauseous to bring himself to tackle any of the huge elephants currently occupying the space between them in the Impala. He finds more diner napkins in the glove compartment, manages mostly to stem the flow of blood that's stubbornly still seeping over his upper lip. Dean doesn't say anything, and even though Sam doesn't want him to hover or fuss because there's really nothing to be done, part of him still feels perversely bereft, and he slumps in his seat, wrapping one arm around his ribcage, lets his eyes slip shut. He doesn't sleep, though, feels the miles churn by under the wheels of the car.

“What'd Castiel say?” he asks finally, needing to break the silence.

“Nothin'.”

“Uh-huh. Is that the same nothing that Dad said to you before he died?” It's unfair, but he can't keep the bitterness out of his voice.

“Don't you fucking start, Sam.”

“So tell me what he said.”

“You were there. It's not like he and I had a special heart-to-heart when you weren't listening. You need another napkin?”

“I'm not bleeding on your upholstery. Don't be a stubborn ass, Dean.”

“Sam, bleeding or not, if you don't shut up, so help me I will hit you.”

“Are you ever going to tell me?”

“Not if you keep nagging like an old woman.” Dean pulls up in front of the motel, snatches his bag out of the trunk and stalks into the room, leaving Sam to trail after him after locking up the car. “I'm not talking about this now, Sam. I'm not in the mood to have you lie to me right now, okay?”

Sam drops onto his bed, tosses the remains of the napkins in a crumpled bloody ball into the waste basket by the bedside table, toes off his boots, and lets himself sink onto the bed. It's hard, and as usual slightly too short for comfort, and he fights off a sudden surge of anger at all the things that haven't changed, no matter how hard he tries. The motels are still crappy, the Seals are still breaking, and his brother once again thinks he's lying to him, even though this time he's not.

“Whatever,” he mutters, throwing an arm over his eyes. “'M not lying,” he adds, for good measure.

The bathroom door slams, effectively ending the conversation, and Sam drifts to sleep to the sound of water running behind the closed door.

*

For the first time since he can remember, Sam is up long before Dean. He glances over at his brother, who's sprawled face down on his bed, one hand wedged under his pillow where he keeps his favourite hunting knife. Sam smiles when he realizes his brother is drooling, face mashed so hard against his pillow that the fabric will likely leave crease marks in his skin. It's been a long time since he's seen Dean get a full night's sleep. He makes his way blearily into the bathroom, finds that the shower head is, as usual, a few inches too low to shower comfortably, and just adds it to the list of things that apparently never change.

Sam dry-swallows his meds, heads out to find a diner that's open at five in the morning. He's trying to juggle two full cups of coffee and a bag of muffins when his cell phone goes off, and there's a moment of near-disaster when he tries to balance one cup on top of the other, but eventually he manages to get the phone flipped open without scalding himself or dropping the muffins

“Sam?”

“Bobby,” he feels a grin spread over his face in spite of himself. “Everything okay?”

“Boy, are you allergic to givin' me peace of mind?”

“What?” the grin turns into a bewildered scrunch as Bobby's gruff tone registers.

“You and that idjit brother of yours swan off after asking for what's got to be the most dangerous summoning ritual I know, go calling up God only knows what sort of creature, and if that wasn't bad enough, you left me hangin' after that without so much as a by-your-leave. If you were closer, boy, I would tan both of your hides, see if I wouldn't!”

Sam winces. “Sorry, Bobby. Things kind of got a little crazy.”

“The guy you summoned break your fingers or something? Or did both your phones run out of juice at the same time?”

“Sorry, Bobby.”

“So aside from the fact that you're up to your asses in trouble, I gotta get my news from Pamela? And don't say you're sorry again, boy.”

“Sor― uh, yeah. No. I mean... right. Yeah, it's all pretty messed up. There's just been a lot to take in. We should have called.”

“Damn straight. Where's your brother? You're not the only one gonna get a piece of my mind,” Bobby growls.

“He's asleep back in our room, as far as I know. I just went to get us coffee. Bobby, it's five in the morning. How come you're calling this early?”

There's a pause, and Sam can picture Bobby scratching his head under his baseball cap. “Yeah, well, I was worried. Wanted to know if you boys went to check in with Olivia yet.”

“Uh, that the hunter you were telling Dean about?”

“That's the one. I ain't heard from her since the day before yesterday. Same with a few of the other hunters I've been in touch with about this whole devil's gate fiasco. Now, I know what you'll say: it ain't rare for a hunter to be out of range for a while, but I got a bad feelin' about this whole situation.”

“I hear you. Let me just get a pen, and you give me the lady's address.” Sam gives up on keeping hold of his coffee, and sets everything on the ground in order to take down the information in his notebook. “It'll take us at least a day to get there, Bobby, even at the speed Dean drives.”

“Okay. I'll keep trying her in the meantime.”

“Give Ellen our best, would you?”

“What?” Bobby sounds startled. “Oh, well, sure. She's gone, though. Went to look for Jo day before yesterday. I'll tell her when I talk to her next.”

“Oh. Uh, okay, yeah. Makes sense,” he stammers, guilty that he hasn't so much as spared a thought for Jo in all of this mess. “Look, we'll call you later, okay?”

“You better, or else I'm gonna come lookin' for ya.”

Sam chuckles at that. “We certainly don't want that. Take care, Bobby.”

Dean's still asleep when he gets back, face turned away from the window, the sunlight streaming in from the window and making his hair glow even blonder than usual. He doesn't so much as stir at Sam's approach, long since used to telling the difference between his brother moving about the room and an intruder. Sam sits at the tiny, wobbly table provided by the motel, and leans back in his chair, feeling the muscles in his neck and shoulder unknot. If Dean were awake he'd mock him for days, possibly even weeks, for being a giant girl and watching him sleep, but he's not. Sam smiles to himself, takes a sip of his coffee, and decides it's completely worth it to buy Dean a new coffee if his gets cold while he sleeps.

*

“The symbol you saw ―the brand on the ghosts, yeah? Mark of the Witness,” Bobby says.

“Witness to what?”

“The unnatural. None of them died what you'd call ordinary deaths. See,these ghosts -- They were forced to rise. They woke up in agony. They were like rabid dogs. It ain't their fault. Someone rose them... on purpose.”

“Who?”

“Do I look like I know? But whoever it was used a spell so powerful It left a mark,a brand on their souls. Whoever did this had big plans. It's called "the Rising of the Witnesses." It figures into an ancient prophecy.”

“Wait wait wait,” Dean holds up a hand. “What book is that prophecy from?”

“Well, the widely-distributed version's Just for tourists, you know,” Bobby says in a conspiratorial tone. “But, long story short: Revelations. This is a sign, boys.”

“A sign of what?”

“The Apocalypse.”

*

The world is upside-down when Sam opens his eyes. He blinks, can't make sense of what he's seeing. There's a vast expanse of dirty grey fibre that looks as though it might once have been powder blue stretching out before him. It's rough under his fingers, and a moment later he identifies it as carpet, which means he's on the floor. There's a thin pillow under his head, protecting him from the filth and God knows what else, and when he shifts his head slightly he catches sight of the toe of Dean's boot. His brother is sitting on the floor next to him, his back against the bed, watching him.

“You back?”

“'s I gone?”

“Manner of speaking. You okay to get up if I help you?”

He swallows a groan, nods gingerly, his head throbbing. “Think so. Happened?”

Dean rolls his eyes as he gets to his feet. “What happened, moron, is that apparently I can't even get a full night's sleep around you. Okay, you ready?” He props Sam up, shoves his hands under his arms. “On three. One!” He hauls Sam to his feet, pivots, and in one smooth motion sits him onto the bed, nudges him until he's stretched out his entire length. He sits on the edge of the bed next to Sam's hip, blows out his cheeks. “I'm gonna become an insomniac, and you'll have only yourself to blame.”

Sam swallows, ignores the twinge of guilt and fear that comment elicits ―you've lost enough sleep because of me― and manages a smirk before throwing one arm over his eyes to block out the light. “Wouldn't want you to miss out on your beauty sleep. You'll send civilians screaming into the night otherwise.”

Dean snorts and smacks his arm. “You got a smart mouth on you, Samantha. You learn all that scintillating wit at Stanford?”

“God-given talent,” Sam grins, then presses his lips together in a tight line as his stomach performs a flip-flop and threatens to rid itself of the few sips of coffee he had earlier. He shifts, realizes his jeans are wet and sticking to him, and feels his face burn. “Guess I need to change, huh?”

“It's coffee.”

He blinks. “What?”

Dean gives him a reassuring thump on the shoulder. “You spilled your coffee all over your lap when you went down. It's a fucking miracle you didn't scald yourself in a place we'd both regret.”

“Thank God for small fucking mercies. I still need to change, though,” he swallows a mouthful of saliva, trying to keep his stomach settled.

“Sam?”

He flaps his free hand in what he hopes is a reassuring manner, swallows. “'M okay. Just feel a little sick. We need to go. Time 's it?”

“A little after eight, and we're not going anywhere. You can barely move. I'll take the room for an extra day,” Sam can picture Dean rubbing a hand over his mouth, the way he always does when he's worried. “I'm gonna dig out a new card, see if we can't get you checked out by a doctor. Tell me you took your meds this morning.”

“I don't think the pills are gonna do much anyway, Dean.”

“Can't hurt. Did you take them?”

“Yes, jeez.” Sam pushes himself up onto his elbows, trying to ignore the feeling of being weighed down by lead, the flare of pain in his head. “Bobby called. Wanted to know if we'd been to see his contact yet.”

“It can wait,” Dean says firmly, shoving him back none too gently with a hand to his chest.

“No, it really can't. Let me up, we have to go. It... things are about to get bad, Dean,” he fixes the most earnest look he can manage on his brother, and knows he's won when Dean breaks eye contact first with an exaggerated eye roll, but the look he gives Sam is anxious.

“So, I take it you saw something?”

He doesn't get a chance to explain before pain explodes behind his eyelids, and the stench of burnt rubber overwhelms him. He reaches out blindly, clutches at Dean's wrist when he finds it with his fingertips, lets himself get lost in the white flash of light.

*

“You think I made a deal?”

“That's exactly what we think.”

“Well, I didn't.”

“Don't lie to me.”

“I'm not lying.”

It's the only time he won't lie to his brother for the next nine months.

*

“Stop! You can't just fly in there reckless, Sam. We need you to take the bitch out.”

“Oh, I'll take her out, all right,” the same cold fury comes bubbling back to the surface, and it tastes like blood in his mouth.

“You get one shot, and you're it. You're the only one who can do it, Sam. So if she kills you first...”

“What?” It comes out flat, toneless. He knows what she's driving at, but he can't bring himself to care.

“You don't want to survive,” she says, realization coming at long last.

“Come on.” It's habit to protest. He spent a year lying to Dean about this, it's nothing now to lie about wanting to die.

“It's a kamikaze attack. You want to die fighting Lilith.”

Would that really be so bad? He wants to ask. Instead he snorts softly. “That's stupid.”

Because he's Sam Winchester. He doesn't get to play martyr, that's Dean's role. Sam is meant to be the self-centered one, the one who's stronger, meant to survive everything. Dean's been telling him that for months, now, repeated it often enough that Sam is pretty sure Dean believed it, by the end. It was a lie designed to reassure them both, and as far as Sam can tell it worked for at least one of them.

“Is it stupid? I know you, Sam. You kill Lilith and survive? It means you have to go on without your brother, and the mere idea of it is killing you. Come on, this isn't what Dean died for. You think this is what he would have wanted?”

“Shut up. You don't know anything about me, or anything about what Dean would have wanted.”

“I can't let you do this. Not yet. It's suicide!”

He could kill her right now, and she knows it. The muscles in her throat constrict visibly as she swallows. He lets the cold fury seep into his voice, enjoys the feeling as he watches her cower.

“Get out of my way.”

*

“So what, now? I'm off the hook and you're on, is that it? You're some demon's bitch-boy? I didn't want to be saved like this.”

“Look, Dean, I wish I had done it, all right?”

“There's no other way that this could have gone down. Now tell the truth!”

The last thread of temper snaps. He can't remember the last time he wasn't angry. At the universe, at his father, at Dean. At himself.

“I tried everything! That's the truth. I tried opening the Devil's Gate. Hell, I tried to bargain, Dean, but no demon would deal, all right? You were rotting in Hell for months. For months, and I couldn't stop it. So I'm sorry it wasn't me, all right? Dean, I'm sorry.” And he is. Sorry for everything. Everything he's done, everything he's still going to do. Always sorry.

“It's okay, Sammy,” his brother's voice shakes, ever so slightly. “You don't have to apologize. I believe you.”

I wish I believed myself.

*

The next time Sam wakes up, Dean is gone. His heart stutters in his chest ―I dreamed it all they ripped him apart he's gone I'll never see him again― until he catches sight of Dean's duffel bag lying half-open on the other twin bed, dirty laundry mingling with clean because they've each never had more than the one bag to their name. He pushes himself upright, presses the heel of his hand against his right eye as his head throbs. It's been a couple of weeks of near-constant pain, and bitterly he reflects that he damned well ought to be used to that by now, only he's not, and showing no signs of becoming used to it.

The floor tilts a bit when he tries to stand, and he braces himself against the bed until the world holds still again. His jeans have mostly dried, and he peels them off with a grimace of disgust. He feels gross, and his mouth tastes as though something crawled in there and died. There's no note from Dean anywhere, no message on his phone, but he figures he can't be far, and so he leaves the rest of his clothes in a pile on the floor and runs himself the hottest shower he can manage without passing out.
Dean's still gone by the time he gets out of the bathroom, and only comes back into the room when Sam is doing up the last buttons on his shirt.

“Where'd you go?” he winces at the accusing tone in his voice, tells himself he's imagining Dean's guilty flinch.

“Lunch,” Dean doesn't meet his eyes, brandishes a cardboard tray with coffee cups in it, and Sam catches sight of a paper bag in his other hand. It's a perfectly reasonable excuse, except the Dean he knows from before wouldn't have left him alone, unconscious and unprotected for even five minutes. “You spilled breakfast, so I went for refills and sandwiches, once I was sure you weren't about to die or anything. Figured we could both use some food. How you feeling?”

Sam lets the white lie go, makes a so-so gesture with one hand. “Better than before. We really need to go, though.”

“Yeah, you said that before,” Dean turns his back on Sam, all but drops the food onto the table, and Sam knows he's in for a fight now. He's always been able to read everything Dean is thinking and feeling, and his brother knows it, which is why he's keeping his back to him. It means Dean is planning to fight dirty if he has to. “You want to explain to me again why I shouldn't be dragging your convulsing ass to a hospital?”

“Hospital wouldn't help.”

“How do you know?” Dean throws over his shoulder, not quite looking at him.

“Because I just do, all right? Just this once, I need you to trust me on this,” Dean's not the only one who can play dirty.

“Sam, you just had two seizures in a row. For all I know, your brain is fucking disintegrating in your head, and I just... I can't―”

Oh.

Sam gets it, suddenly. He steps up behind Dean, puts a hand on his arm, just below the shoulder. “Hey, it's okay. I'm not going anywhere, okay? This shit is freaking me out, too, but I don't think it's fatal. It's... it sucks, but I think it looks worse than it feels.” He gives Dean's arm a squeeze, and hopes to God that he's telling the truth. Dean nods once, jerkily, turns to face him.

“Promise me that when we're finished with this, you'll let me take you to a doctor, get your meds adjusted, or something. Take a break from the apocalypse and figure out what's going on with you? I feel like I'm losing my mind, here.”

Easy enough promise to make. Sam's pretty sure that whatever's going on with him, it's the same as the apocalypse, so they won't really be taking a break. “Sure. We make this one last stop, check in on Bobby's friend, and then we'll do whatever you want.”

His brother's shoulders drop a fraction of an inch. “Okay, then.”

They load up the car in silence, and for a moment Sam's throat tightens as he realizes that, in spite of his best intentions, he's just lied to his brother yet again.

*

“Thanks for keeping this warm for me, Sam.”

She's different from what he remembers, but it's unmistakeably her, smirking as she toys with the knife he's carried with him for so long now. He can't even muster up the energy to pretend he's surprised. He's still half-drunk, and he doesn't care anymore.

“Ruby.”

“It's nice to be back. Where I was, even for hell, it was nasty. I guess I really pissed Lilith off. Imagine my relief when she gave me one last chance to take it topside. And all I had to do was find you and kill you.”

Relief floods through him. He's going to hell, has always known that's where he's bound, but at least now he won't be away from Dean anymore.

“Fine, go ahead. Do it!” he can hear the cringing, pleading, pathetic note in his voice, and doesn't even hate himself for it. He almost weeps when she spins around and stabs the other demon with her. God dammit, it was supposed to be him...

“Grab your stuff,” she hisses. “We've got to go. Now!”

*

The first ghost appears in a gas station restroom.

*

Sam's head hasn't stopped aching in hours, no matter how much Tylenol or Aspirin he takes, desperate enough to ignore the warnings about what might be happening to his liver as a result. He's slumped in the passenger seat of the Impala, too exhausted to even try to sort through everything that's spiralling through his brain. Images crowd on top of each other, blurring together before separating again. A girl he thinks he ought to know ―Ruby, a sort-of memory supplies― sprawled naked over a bedspread; a silver flask, clutched so hard in his hand that his knuckles have turned white. Every time he lets himself drop back into an uneasy half-sleep the images speed up, leaving him dizzy and confused.

He doesn't even remember the end of the argument about going to the hospital, but he must have won, he figures, because they're currently barrelling down the highway at speeds that would have him bitching at Dean under normal circumstances. He shifts in his seat, tries to sit up straighter in the hopes that it'll ease the tension he can feel creeping up his spine and into his neck and shoulders. Dean glances over at him.

“You okay?”

Sam grunts noncommittally. He can't be sure what's going to come out of his mouth. He wants to say something reassuring, something that'll prove to Dean that he's fine, that he's stronger than he was before, that this time, it's all going to be different, but he can't make his brain work.

“Sam, say something or I'm hauling you to the nearest hospital.”

He unglues his tongue from the roof of his mouth. “I think she's supposed to be helping us.”

“What? Who? What are you talking about?”

“Ruby.”

“Ruby?” Dean's head jerks, his expression startled, and Sam thinks he might throw up again.

“It might not happen. You didn't recognize her, but she knew who you were. I don't remember why.”

“Why would I recognize her?”

“You didn't. I think that was the point.”

“I'm going to pretend that made sense, just so I don't lose my mind, here,” Dean's grip tightens on the steering wheel. “This Ruby chick, you think she's trying to help us?”

“She was there when you died... kept me from...” the words dry up in his throat, and he grinds the heel of his hand into his eye socket, trying to force the headache into the background, and Dean reaches over with his right hand, grips Sam's bicep so hard that Sam is pretty sure his fingers are going to leave bruises.

“Sam, I don't know how many times I have to repeat this to you: I'm not dead. I never died. I don't know where the hell you got this idea that's stuck in that freakish brain of yours, but it's wrong, you hear me? I'm not going anywhere, and I'm not letting anything happen to you.”

As long as I'm around, nothing bad is going to happen to you.

“You need me to pull over?” Dean pulls his hand back reluctantly.

Sam shakes his head slowly, carefully. “No, 'm okay for now. Next gas station, maybe? Just five minutes.”

“Just say the word. We can stop anytime you like ―this stupid expedition is all your idea, you know.”

“I know. Trust me, if I didn't think it was important, we wouldn't be here,” Sam keeps his eyes open, although the only thing he wants right now is to lapse into unconsciousness. Talking out loud seems to be helping to keep the more confusing thoughts at bay, though, which is a mercy. The vision of slim, brown-haired Ruby lying pliant under him ―all luminous brown eyes and curling pink tongue― slips away, and he lets out a breath he didn't realize he was holding.

They stop at the first gas station Dean spots. Sam leaves his brother to pump gas into the car, humming Unforgiven under his breath, and the sound is at once reassuring in its familiarity, and makes something twist uncomfortably in Sam's chest, because he knows exactly what it means when his brother starts channelling Metallica. He stumbles into the restroom, finds it less filthy than many of the gas stations with which he's had to make do over the years, and runs the cold water in the sink, leaning against the Formica counter and resolutely not looking at his reflection in the mirror.

He's cold and achy and miserable, and his head still hurts, though perhaps not as badly as before, or so he hopes. He splashes water on his face, trying to sort out what he remembers from what he thinks he remembers from what might have happened except that it didn't, and then he stops before he throws up. Again. It's almost a full minute before he realizes that the cold isn't all him, that his breath is misting before him. He glances up at the mirror, and his eyes widen.

“Neil.”

*

“Well, if it isn't my 'grief counselor,'” Neil Levine smirks, using his fingers to mimic quote marks in the air. “What, no hug for me this time?” he asks sardonically as Sam whirls on the spot, instinctively gripping the sink behind him for balance.

Sam stares, can't figure out why he's at once surprised to see the kid from Greenville, Illinios there and at the same time not surprised at all. “You're not...”

“I'm dead,” Neil says, answering a completely different question than the one Sam meant to ask. Apparently ghosts can't read minds either. “Turns out you can't 'jump-start the healing' after the girl you love breaks your neck.” He does the air-quote thing again with his fingers, and it takes Sam a moment to realize the boy is throwing their words back at him.

“Neil, we tried to get you away from Angela, remember? You're the one who refused to come with us.”

Neil's image flickers briefly, like a lightbulb with a faulty connection. Sam's always reminded of one of the old televisions from the countless crappy motel rooms they stayed in, where the screen would jump and fritz out randomly. The temperature drops another ten degrees, and Sam hears the mirror behind him crack, the sound like a gunshot in the tiled room.

“You left me there to die!” the ghost snarls, and with another flicker he's standing so close that Sam can feel the beginnings of frostbite on his skin. “I was fucking terrified, and she was right there, right in the fucking closet, and you knew! You knew and you left anyway!”

“I'm sorry,” Sam's apologizing, even though he knows this wasn't their fault. It's a reflex.

“I know you are.” Neil is suddenly calm, his expression impassive as he drives his hand into Sam's chest.

Sam screams, knees buckling as Neil's hand wraps itself around his heart. With more strength than he ever had in life, the boy yanks him off the ground with his other hand, and slams his face into the sink, never relinquishing his grip on Sam's heart, squeezing so hard Sam is sure he's going to die, and what a sorry way to go it is.

“You're always sorry,” Neil snarls into his ear, “no matter how many innocents you leave in your wake. You're always goddamned apologizing, and you're always too late. How many people have to pay the price for you?”

Sam's pretty sure he should have some sort of witty comeback, but he was feeling crappy even before Neil started trying to redecorated the restroom with his skull, and there are black spots dancing before his eyes. His chest is screaming, the freezing sensation so terrible it feels like it's on fire. He brings up his hands, flails uselessly at Neil, because, well, Neil is a goddamned ghost. It strikes him as vaguely unfair that ghosts can hit him but that he can't hit back. Then again, the ghosts probably think it's unfair that he gets to live while they don't. Neil misinterprets his choked, half-hysterical giggle.

“Don't you fucking laugh at me!”

He can't manage to voice any kind of denial, and his vision starts to blur, going grey, then white around the edges. His throat works convulsively, his mouth sounding out his brother's name, but it's hard to scream when there's no air left in your lungs.

“Don't you fucking laugh! I died and it's all your fault!”

“Yeah?” Dean's interrupts Neil's diatribe, and if Sam had any breath left he would cry with relief. “As I recall, it wasn't us who raised a girl from the dead on the off chance we might get lucky.”

As he's talking, Dean calmly raises the sawed-off shotgun he's carrying, steps to the side, and empties the contents into the ghost. Half of the rock salt catches Sam in the chest, tearing his shirt to ribbons, and he curls up on himself on the floor, coughing and gasping, arms wrapped around his ribcage.

“Y'okay Sammy?” Dean's kneeling next to him, one hand on his arm.

“Fuck,” Sam gasps once he's mostly caught his breath. “Tell me I apologized after Ellicott.”

“Yeah, rock salt's a bitch,” Dean agrees, patting his shoulder, then hauls him to his feet, propping him up. “You good?”

“Lemme get back to you on that.”

*

“What the fuck was Neil Levine doing in there anyway? I thought we salted and burned him just on general principle before we left Greenville.”

Dean has Sam seated on the back seat of the Impala and is peeling away his shirt, making a face at the lacerations on his chest and the new bruises blossoming under the old crop generously provided by the last few demons they ran into. They pulled out of the gas station like bats out of hell, but Dean insisted on stopping ten minutes later behind the most ramshackle-looking abandoned barn within a ten-mile radius. Sam hisses through his teeth as the cloth pulls where it's stuck to one of the cuts.

“I was expecting Henricksen,” he mumbles, gripping the frame of the car to keep his balance.

Dean lets go of his shirt, rummages in the first aid kit, and pulls out a penlight. “Hold still. How bad did you hit your head, man?”

“'m not concussed, Dean,” he jerks his head back irritably as the light stabs right through to the back of his skull.

“Okay, then why the hell would you have expected Henricksen to show up in some random gas station rest room in the middle of Illinois? I mean, we haven't seen the guy since we wasted that nurse's ghost back at the Green River County Detention Centre. I've kept an ear to the ground, you know, and there hasn't been so much as a whisper that he's getting close.”

Sam just shakes his head. If he gives Dean the this-happened-before speech yet again, he's pretty sure one or both of them is going to freak out completely, and he'd give good odds that it's him. Dean presses his lips together, frustrated, and starts dabbing at Sam's chest none too gently with a disinfectant swab from the kit. He works in silence for a while, and Sam is content to let him, even when he wordlessly breaks out the suture kit and stitches up some of the nastier lacerations. He flinches when Dean jabs him a little too hard, and his brother glances up.

“Sorry. Hey, you're the one with the free hands, here. You want to try Bobby's friend again? See if she picks up?”

“Sure. Just... don't poke as hard with that damned needle, would you?”

Dean grins. “You got it, princess. I'll even remove the pea from under your mattress tonight.”

He rolls his eyes, mumbles “jerk” under his breath, and forces Dean to stop what he's doing until he's found both his phone and the paper on which he wrote Olivia's number. A few moments later Dean is back at work, and Sam is listening to the phone ring, anxiety knotting his stomach.

Hey, it's Olivia. I'm not in. Leave a message.

“Uh, hi, Olivia. Sam Winchester again. Just trying to see if you're there. Please call me back, or Bobby. Thanks.”

Dean breaks off the last of the suturing thread with his teeth. “Okay, you're done. Let's hit the road.”

Neither one of them gives voice to the thought that Olivia is probably long beyond their help.

*

“Who sent 'em?”

“You didn't tell Dean?” The blond girl looks up at Dean, then smirks at Sam, dabbing at the blood on her split lip. “Well, I'm surprised,” she says, though she looks anything but.

“Tell me what?”

“There's a big new up-and-comer. A real Pied Piper.”

“Who is he?”

“Not he,” she says, her expression derisive. “Her. Her name is Lilith.”

“Lilith.”

“And she really, really wants Sam's intestines on a stick. Guess she sees him as competition.”

“You knew about this?” Dean's eyes are pleading with him to deny it, to level with him, and Sam says nothing.

Another lie. One of the first, and they all add up.

A new leader has risen in the West, he remembers, and the words send a shiver through him.

*

“Sam, you still with me?”

He forces his eyes open, twists his mouth into a rueful grin. “Always,” he says softly, and his grin widens when Dean rolls his eyes.

“I swear to God you have a uterus in there.”

*

They get to Olivia Lowry's well after midnight. The house is plunged in darkness, and Dean pulls up into the driveway without bothering to be subtle about it. It feels good to be doing something though, Sam thinks, anything so long as it's not sitting and stewing in his own juices. He's done enough of that in the past few days to last him a lifetime. As long as he keeps moving, he can keep the confusion at bay. Like a shark, he tells himself, but doesn't bother sharing the joke with Dean.

“Too much to hope that she's just asleep, huh?” Dean says quietly as they trot up the porch stairs to her front door and rings the bell.

“Probably.”

When there's no answer, Dean starts to pound on the door. “Olivia! You home?” He looks over and catches Sam watching him with a smirk. “What?”

Sam shrugs. “I dunno, man. For someone who's so adverse to authority figures, you've got a hell of an imposing knock. I almost expected you to shout 'Police: open up!' or something.”

“Smartass. Get the lock, would you?”

It's tougher to break into a hunter's home, but hunters are more on guard against the supernatural than other human beings as a rule, and after a few minutes which are hell on Sam's knees and back and make his already abused chest sting, the lock gives way with an audible click. Sam reaches for the light switch just inside the door once Dean is over the threshold, and isn't entirely surprised when nothing happens.

“Lights are out.”

“I can see that.”

“No, I mean, they don't work.”

“I knew what you meant!” Dean hisses back. “Get your ass in here, already.”

“Salt line,” Sam notes, stepping forward to stand just behind Dean's shoulder. “It's not complete, though. Looks like something got across.”

“Something really pissed off.”

Dean's in Olivia's living room, staring at a spot Sam can't see on the floor. He moves up behind him again, and his mouth twists when he sees the body lying sprawled there, the ribcage torn wide open, broken bones protruding through the skin blood congealed on the floor beneath. Dean tears his eyes away from the mess in front of them, and in two quick strides he makes his way to the wall where Olivia very obviously kept a hidden panel with all her weapons. It's open now, revealing her entire arsenal, which apparently was no match for whatever came after her.

“Salt line over the back door, too,” Sam points, just as Dean grabs a small device to inspect the readings.

“EMF. Olivia was rocking the EMF meter.”

“Spirit activity,” Sam says, knowing it's superfluous, but reluctant to let silence fall back over the room.

“Yeah ―on steroids. I've never seen a ghost do this to a person.”

“Something's up, for sure. I'm thinking if you hadn't interrupted back there, our friend Neil would have done something pretty similar to me.”

“Good thing I'm so awesome, then.” There's no humour in Dean's words, and Sam nods.

“We should call Bobby, let him know what happened.”

“Yeah. You, uh, you good in here? I'm gonna step out, give him a call.”

“I'm okay. You go ahead, I'll, uh... well, I don't know what I'll do. I guess we should phone in a tip to the local cops.”

“Right. I'll wait for you in the car.”

*

They check in on Jed Buckner at Bobby's request, and find him at the end of a long trail of blood and intestines on his kitchen floor, the skin flayed away from the ribs that protrude jaggedly from his chest. His shotgun is lying ten feet away, broken and useless.

“I checked in on Carl Bates and R.C. Adams,” Bobby tells Dean over the phone. “They've redecorated... in red. You boys better get back here as soon as you can.”

“What the fuck is going on, Bobby?” Dean is driving even faster than usual. “Why the hell are all these spirits going after hunters?”

Sam rouses himself at that, memory sparking. “Witnesses,” he says, earning himself a confused glare from Dean.

“Hang on, Bobby. What?”

“There was a mark on Me ―on Neil's arm. Almost like a brand, shaped sort of like an 'A.' Tell him.”

“Bobby, I'm passing Sam to you. Tell him yourself. I'm not going to drive, talk and try to translate Sam-speak at the same time,” Dean tosses the phone into Sam's lap.

The might-have-been images are crowding in again, and Sam digs his fingers into his thigh, trying to ground himself. He focusses on the mark itself ―it was the same both times― describes it in as much detail as he can.

“Yeah,” Bobby sounds thoughtful. “I may have seen that before. You two need to move. Get your asses here before all hell breaks loose.”

Too late, Sam thinks. Aloud, he says, “We're on our way, Bobby. At the speed Dean's going, we'll be there in six hours, maybe five. You think it might be the Rising of the Witnesses, right?”

“How'd you know? Even I ain't sure of that.”

Sam knows Bobby can't see him shrug. “It's a psychic thing. Listen, Bobby, we might not be able to get to you in time. I think there's a spell, it's in one of your books―”

“How the―”

“Bobby! It's not important how, okay?” Sam snaps. “We'll deal with my freaky psychic shit when we don't have rabid homicidal ghosts on our asses.” He rubs his forehead. “I can't believe I just said that. Look, can you call me back when you find the spell? If we can't get to you in time, we might have to do it ourselves, and we'll need to find the ingredients.”

“Yeah, okay. Sit tight, and git your idjit asses up here before that becomes necessary, you hear me?”

“Sure.” He flips the phone shut. “Bobby's looking up the spell that'll get rid of the spirits,” he says, probably unnecessarily.

“Yeah, I got that. You want to fill me in, psychic-boy?”

Make the gun float to you there, psychic-boy.

Sam twitches. “Don't call me that.”

“Touchy.”

“Just... don't, okay? Anything else, but not that.”

“So what's going on?”

“It's a spell, a really powerful one, called the Rising of the Witnesses. You remember Walter Dixon?”

“The douchebag writer in Hollywood who got all those spirits to kill for him? This is the same thing?”

“Same idea, on steroids,” Sam echoes quotes Dean's earlier words. “It was the mark that tipped B ―us off,” he explains, pinching the bridge of his nose in a futile attempt to mitigate the headache that's building in intensity as he tries to keep his names and pronouns straight, memory fighting with reality. “The spell is so powerful, it leaves the mark behind, like a brand. It's called the Mark of the Witnesses.”

“Witnesses to what?”

“The unnatural. These are all ghosts of people who died at the hands of some monster or demon or whatever. Then they were forced to rise, and so they're in agony. They're... they're like rabid dogs unleashed on the world, Dean. Whatever they're doing, it's not their fault.”

“Yeah, well, it's still our problem.”

*

“It's the little girl. Her face is awful.”

*

Sam is jolted out of a dream in which Lilith is about to gouge out Dean's eyes with a cake fork, giggling like a little girl with a new toy, when his brother slams on the brakes, throwing them both forward so violently that Sam comes close to smashing his head on the dashboard. For a moment he can't do anything but sit there, shaking, each breath harsh and ragged in his ears, his whole body humming with the sudden surge of adrenaline.

“Dean?”

Dean is shaking, hands gripping the wheel so tightly his knuckles have turned white. “Holy fuck,” he mutters, and before Sam can stop him he's out of the car and running into the empty road.

“Shit shit shit!” Sam scrambles to unbuckle his seatbelt, hurries to pop the trunk of the Impala while trying to keep an eye on his brother. “Dean, for the love of God, get back in the car!” he snatches up two shotguns, sprints around the car to find Dean standing directly in the glow of the headlights. He thumps one of the shotguns against Dean's chest, waits for him to hold onto it. “What'd you see?”

Dean shakes his head. “I ran her down. It doesn't make any sense. Didn't you say it was people who died from supernatural causes?”

“The spirits? Yeah. Why? Who did you see?” Sam tugs on his arm, and Dean lets himself be led back to the car, looking over his shoulder the whole way.

“Layla. It can't have been her, can it? She... she had cancer. There's no way, right?”

“I have no idea, man.”

“Aren't you supposed to know this stuff? What happened to 'it's all happened before'?”

Dean gets bitchy every time he's stressed, and Sam doesn't know why he's surprised and hurt every single time his brother snipes at him. After twenty or so years of this, he figures he ought to be used to it by now, but then, Dean has always instinctively known which of his buttons to push. Sam shoves him none too gently toward the driver's side door.

“Fuck you. It's different now, anyway. It didn't happen like this, and I suggest you don't push it, not if you don't want me puking instead of helping.”

Dean swears under his breath. “You feel like maybe this is all happening way too fast? I feel like I'm in front of one of those machines that spits out baseballs in batting cages. Every time I think I'm starting to figure things out, that fucking thing sends four more balls flying at my head, and I don't even know what questions to ask or where to even start thinking about all this shit.”

“Get down!”

Dean drops flat on his face on the asphalt, and Sam empties his shotgun into the greyed-out face of Layla Rourke. Dean barely waits until she's disappeared to jump back into the car and start up the engine again.

“See? That's exactly what I'm talking about!”

Sam slams his own door shut a moment later. “We're definitely not going to make it to Bobby's in time.”

“Yeah, well, we're gonna go anyway. He hasn't answered his phone the last few times I tried him.”

“What? Why didn't you say anything?”

Dean shrugs, speeding up, although he keeps a careful eye on the road ahead. “You were out cold. You know you talk in your sleep now? Crazy fucked-up shit, Sammy. Lilith and angels and Satan and the end of the world. Like the waking world isn't weird enough.”

“Satan?” Sam snorts.

“You know. The devil.”

“Lucifer.” Even thinking the name makes him feel disoriented.

“Whatever. Same guy. I'm more worried about Lilith, frankly. Creepy, is what it is. Baby-eating monsters from the Pit.”

Sam can't help but agree, feels his mouth twist in disgust. “One step at a time. We need to find a place to cast that spell: we need an open fire.”

“I want to get to Bobby's. He's got a fireplace.”

“I get that you're worried, but we won't be able to help him if we get killed. We need to find a spot that's sheltered, build a fire, do the spell, and then we'll book for his place. We got all the components at the last stop ―no thanks to you, I might add.”

“Crazy old biddy,” Dean grumbles. “Sometimes I wonder where the hell Dad got all those references he put down in his journal. She was seven different kinds of crazy and creepy.”

Sam spreads his palms. “Beats me. Dad worked in mysterious ways. Especially mysterious, given Mrs. Szcezepanski's... leanings,” he shudders.

“I was half afraid she was gonna whammy us and use my bits as components for herself.”

“Ew. Seriously, never say that again. Come on, we need to find a place to stop, sooner rather than later. You know I'm right.”

Dean puffs out his cheeks, and Sam knows he's won.

“Fuck.”

*

The spot they find is less than ideal, all sorts of exposed with nothing better than a flimsy lean-to at their backs ―and with spirits, there's no guarantee that even that will be safe. Sam barely has time to trace a salt circle around himself and Dean while his brother starts building a fire with the really terrible half-rotted kindling they found in the shed before the spirit of Layla Rourke reappears and hurls herself at them, bouncing off the salt barrier with a howl of fury.

“Hiding again, Dean!” she snarls, hands curled into fists. “Why don't you come out here and explain to me again why you deserved to live and I had to die!”

Dean's shoulders hunch, but he doesn't turn around.

“Do you know what it's like, to die of brain cancer?” She's circling, now, and Sam can feel the wind whipping up around them, unnaturally strong.

“Salt line's not going to last long at this rate,” he warns.

“It's not a nice, quick, clean death. It's long, and messy, and filled with pain and lunacy,” Layla's eyes are wild with fury. “All my hair fell out, you know. Bet you wouldn't have flirted with me at the end, when I was bald and covered in bed sores, drooling and sitting in my own filth. My mother, my mother who prayed and prayed and took me with her everywhere to find a cure ―she's the one who bathed me and listened to me scream for two months. Two months, Dean!”

“Layla, I didn't ―it wasn't right,” Dean turns to her, unable to ignore her any longer.

“Two months of not knowing who I was or who she was, of constant agony, of wishing I was dead already. All so you could live with your conscience clean,” she spits. “How does your conscience feel now?”

Sam raises his shotgun and blasts her full of rock salt. “Dean, the fire!”

“Right,” Dean stares at the spot where Layla disappeared for a moment, then shakes himself, and gets back to work. “Fucking wood is damp. This is going to suck.”

“We don't need a blaze, just enough of a fire to get us through the spell.”

“You think you can get rid of us that easily?”

Neil Levine reappears just to Sam's left, making him jump in spite of himself. He whips around, shotgun levelled, keeps his finger off the trigger. The salt line is keeping them back for now, although the howling wind promises that it won't last for long. Already he can see the edges of the circle fraying, melting away grain by grain.

“Hey, Dean, remember me?”

It doesn't take Sam long to recognize poor deluded Ronald Resnick, his curly hair greasy against his scalp. He looks much the same as he did the last time Sam saw him, fat and awkward, but there's no mistaking the anger radiating from him.

Dean looks up again. “Ron? With the laser eyes, right?”

“Yeah, that's right,” Ron says, as Neil continues to hurl abuse at Sam. Layla reappears, but seems content to let Ron do the talking for the moment. “I'm dead because of you. You were supposed to help me!”

“Come on, Ron, I thought we were pals,” Dean spreads his palms.

“That was when I was breathing!”

“Dean, for fuck's sake!” Sam empties another round into Ronald, watches him disappear, just as Layla and Neil start screaming abuse again. “Use lighter fluid to start it if you have to. I can't keep shooting them, I'm going to run out of ammo, and we need that for when the salt goes.”

“I got it!” Dean snaps, turning back to the fire.

The three spirits are all circling now, clawing at the air where the ring is keeping them from coming forward, shrieking and gibbering. Behind Sam the shed begins to creak and groan and shudder under the effect of some unseen force. He swears, trying to keep an eye on it and the ghosts all at once, feels a tremor of relief when he catches sight of a flicker of flame coming from the makeshift campfire with which Dean is struggling.

“Hurry up!”

“Yelling at me isn't going to make it go any faster!”

Sam pivots on one leg, trying to keep the ghosts in his line of sight. The salt circle is almost gone, and he's pretty sure he's not going to have enough ammunition to keep them all at bay if they get through before the spell is ready. Then all at once they disappear, and a young girl takes their place. She's plain, with mousy brown hair that reaches to her shoulders.

“Sam Winchester. Still just as pathetic as ever. What, you don't recognize me?” she takes a slow, deliberate step toward him, stops just shy of the circle. “This is what I looked like before that demon cut off my hair and dressed me like a slut.”

His heart skips a beat.

“Meg.”

*

More grains of salt filter away. The wind is whipping Meg's hair over her face, and Sam finds himself wondering inanely how a spirit manages to be affected by a physical manifestation of the air. Then he finds himself wondering where the other spirits have got to.

“Nothing to say to me? I've always wanted a chance to talk to the two of you alone, when I wasn't choking on my own blood.” She raises her hands in a gesture of mock-forgiveness. “Oh, it's all right! I'm just a college girl ―sorry, was a college girl. Until I got jumped by a cloud of black smoke one day, and got trapped in here,” she taps the tip of her index finger against her temple. “I was awake the whole time, you know. She got off on making me watch while she tortured and killed people. Did unspeakable things with my body.

“I'm sorry,” Sam stutters.

“Oh yeah? So sorry you had to throw me off a building?”

“We ―we didn't know!” he blurts, suddenly understanding Dean's urge to explain himself to these people. Because they are people, under there, trapped and suffering.

“I kept waiting, praying! I was trapped in there screaming at you, 'Just help me, please!' You're supposed to help people, Sam! Why didn't you help me?”

He swallows a lump in his throat. “I'm sorry...”

“Stop saying you're sorry!”

Her voice rises to a shriek. A plank tears itself loose from the shed, and he barely manages to duck out of the way as it comes whirling at his head. Crouching at his feet, Dean is frantically trying to combine the spell components in an improvised bowl, and he yelps as the tip of the plank clips his shoulder. The bowl clatters to the ground, spilling its contents, and Dean curses, trying to scoop them back together.

“It wasn't just me, you know. I had a little sister who worshipped me. You know what that's like, don't you Dean? What younger siblings are like?” Dean ignores her, but she keeps on, relentless. “ She was never the same after I disappeared. She just... She just got lost. And when my body was lying in the morgue ―beaten and broken― do you know what that did to her? She killed herself! Because of you! Because all you were thinking about was your family, your revenge, and your demons! Fifty words of Latin a little sooner, and I'd still be alive. My baby sister would still be alive. That blood is on your hands!”

With a terrible crack the shed comes apart, and Sam finds himself desperately ducking flying debris all while trying to keep his shotgun trained on Meg as the salt line finally breaks under the onslaught. With a shriek she throws herself at Dean, and only a desperate move on Sam's part allows him to dispel her with a blast of rock salt which tears at his brother's jeans jacket.

“Hey! Watch the merchandise!” Dean quips, before turning back to the paper in his hand, begins to chant in Latin, his words all but snatched away by the whistling wind.

“Dean!”

Sam twists, fires another round into the livid face of Layla Rourke, barely manages to get the gun around before Ronald drives his hand into his chest. He feels the blood singing in his veins, and for a glorious moment he thinks he might be able to hold his own until the end, even as Meg comes at him, shrieking and screaming and crying, the Mark of the Witness burning scarlet against her skin.

“You saw how I suffered! You saw what that demon did to me, and you're letting that bitch live! Why is Ruby so special that you're letting that girl she's possessing suffer?” she screeches, still hurling every piece of debris in the vicinity at them both. This time she latches onto Sam, and a cold so intense it feels like fire suffuses his body. “I saw him with her! I saw! You're no better than the things you hunt. You're filthy monsters!”

He can't move. His body has turned to ice. Dean is still chanting, any interruption tantamount to a death sentence, the remains of the shed hurtling past so quickly Sam can feel the movement of the air in their wake. Dean is vulnerable, intent only on the spell; he has to do something now, or they're lost. He feels his heart stutter ―almost stop entirely― as he focuses, and the pieces of debris swirl up into the air as though swept up in a funnel, whirling and crashing, but well clear of his brother. Sam's vision goes dark around the edges, and he barely catches sight of Dean, half-sprawled on the ground, dumping the contents of the bowl into the feeble flames at their feet before something heavy collides with the back of his head, and everything goes dark.

*

Sam blinks, sees stars stretching above him in the night sky.

“Dean?”

“Yeah, Sammy. I'm here.”

His mind blurs. “I don't remember what I was going to ask. Y'okay?”

“I'm fine. It's okay, you'll remember later.”

“'s important. Think it was about Ruby.”

“Leave it be for now.”

*

Chapter 6