The Other Son: Chapter Twenty-Two
Title: The Other Son
Author: revenant_scribe
Chapter Twenty-Two: CIRCLE
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: R
Warnings: AU, wincest, semi-spoilers for 1.18 'Something Wicked'. Violence!
A/N: There is no new Winchester being added into the mix here. This is definitely not one of those fics. Please leave a review! It keeps my muse happy and makes my day!!
Summary: Sam knows there are a lot of things about his father that he will never understand, or agree with -- the first and foremost being why John Winchester is so unnerved by his son's visions. It's why Sam goes alone to Fitchburg when images of the town's 'welcome' sign flash through his head while he's driving and leave him reeling for hours after. He's only looking for a hunt, but what he finds is about to turn Sam's entire world upside-down, and threaten its very foundations.
chapter twenty-two | CIRCLE
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THEN
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Sam’s jaw clenched and his fingers flexed around the steering wheel, and then he peeled away from the curb and into the road. “Where are we going?” Dean asked.
“To Bobby’s.”
“Why?”
“You don’t know what you’ve done,” Sam said. He noted, in some distant part of his mind, that he spoke slow and deep, like his dad always did when he was angry. Fierce, with rough edges in his tone. Sam always thought that quiet chilled voice was more terrifying than when his dad would yell. “If you won’t send him out, and he won’t leave, then I’ll rip him from you. But they don’t get to have you.”
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NOW
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The impala kicked-up gravel as it took a tight turn then came to a lurching stop in front of Bobby Singer’s house. Sam was up and out of the car before Dean had even fully recovered from the hard stop, and a second later Sam was opening the passenger door and prying Dean out of the car as though he weren’t capable of moving himself. “Dude, what the fuck.” Sam said nothing, his grip unchanging as he maneuvered Dean up the steps.
“Sam, Dean,” Bobby said as he held the door open. Dean wondered if Sam had called ahead because the man didn’t seem at all perturbed by the scene that confronted him. Then again, it wasn’t as if Sam had let them stop and spend the night some place, it had been a straight trip and there had never been a moment when he had been out of Sam’s sight, save for bathroom breaks, and even then, Dean was pretty sure Sam had been standing right outside.
“Do you have that room in the basement ready?” Sam asked as he chivvied Dean through to a chair. Dean collapsed into the stiff wooden seat and looked up around him, books in stacks - so many they were practically furniture - and some design on the ceiling. Dean wondered if it was on purpose that the chair Sam had shoved him into was at the direct center of the sigil.
“Sam, this is a bit more complicated than that.”
“No,” Sam said, running a frustrated hand through his hair. “No. We’re exorcising that thing out of him, and that’s the end of it.”
“Hey now,” Dean said, having had just about enough of being pushed and shoved and spoken of as if he wasn’t even in the room. He got that Sam was pissed, he even got that his lover felt he had pretty strong reason to be pissed, but there was a line, and Dean was just about there. He got up from the chair and started heading for the door, “I’ve told you Sammy, I’ve been telling you until I’m just about blue in the face. This isn’t over, and I intend to see it through.”
Sam gaped at him a moment, and Dean wondered if there was a particular reason for that. He hadn’t said anything that he hadn’t been saying since Sam had figured out there was a demon riding shotgun inside him. “How did you cross that line, you son of a bitch?” Sam snarled. For the first time, Dean actually felt frightened of his lover. Sam had been a snarling, pissy ball of dark energy since they’d hit the road to Bobby’s and it seemed like that was only going to get worse. It was probably a good thing that Dean had lasted as long as he had - proof that he had made the right call. But it seemed increasingly likely that Sam was never going to understand that Dean had spent a lot of time agonizing over it, and actually knew what he was doing. He sat back in the chair obediently and looked up at the man who had always managed to make him calm, make him feel secure. “How?” Sam yelled, his voice deep and thick and echoing off the walls.
“Sam,” Bobby interrupted. A quick jerk of his head and Sam was walking to the other room, but not before tossing a dark look Dean’s way. Dean supposed that they were trying to keep their voices low, keep him from hearing their discussion, but it wasn’t as if there was an awful lot of space in the house, and between his own abilities and Astaroth’s he could hear them as if they stood right next to him.
“The devil’s trap didn’t hold him,” Sam said, and he sounded bewildered. “It held him in the car, he never struggled.”
Dean closed his eyes as Bobby explained, “It wouldn’t have worked, not even in the car. Most likely he was just following what you asked him to do.”
“But why?”
“Sam.” Bobby sighed. “Look, it’s not a regular possession. The host is conscious and entirely willing here. There’s a deal they’ve struck - between Dean and whatever demon’s in him - and both parties are obliged to see it to its end.”
“It needs to leave now.”
“You know the only way to break it,” Bobby said. Dean wondered why that sounded ominous. Had Sam encountered something like this before? Maybe that was why he was so angry, because the last time it hadn’t worked right.
“Raphael’s Circle,” Sam said. “But you said - Bobby, in my vision - it was…”
“It’s not pretty. But short of letting that thing ride Dean until their bargain is complete it’s the only option.” Dean wondered if he should make a break for it. He could feel Astaroth, a dark warmth inside him pressing and encouraging him toward the door, but Dean wouldn’t budge. He was doing everything he could to protect himself but if that meant losing Sam then Dean knew where he stood, so he stayed still and waited, trusting that his lover wouldn’t do anything to hurt him.
“Okay,” Sam said. “Alright.”
Bobby and Sam came back into the room, and though he tried to catch Sam’s eye his lover avoided his gaze, just pulled him up and started directing him down the stairs to the basement. “Sam,” Dean tried. His voice was rough from his continuous efforts to explain. “Will you let me explain now? Will you listen now?” There was a heavy metal door standing open, Dean could see inside the room and he knew what Sam intended to do. “Please. Sam, no, wait. Just let me talk. Just let me tell you everything and if you still think I’m an idiot then do whatever you want to me, just let me explain.”
“No, Dean,” Sam said. He shoved Dean in the room and the door was closing.
“Stop shoving us around!” Dean cried - only he knew his shout was not fully him. Astaroth was rearing-up inside him, encouraging him to speak aloud the hurt. “Stop throwing us away! Sam!”
………………………………………..
Sam’s jaw clenched as he twisted the lock closed, winced at the change in Dean’s voice. “You asshole! You fucking asshole! You have no idea what you have done! You do not know the consequences!” Astaroth’s black eyes glared dark as fire through the bars as Sam looked up. “You’ve damned him. You’ve damned him to the most excruciating fate! You’re a fool!”
“Don’t speak to me as if you care whether Dean lives or dies,” Sam said, his voice quiet as he leaned close to the bars. Astaroth screamed, him voice loud and harsh, resounding off the iron walls. Sam slammed the grate closed and hurried up to the main floor.
“Are you sure you want to do this, Sam?” Bobby asked. He had the book open on his desk and was already making the appropriate markings on the floor, just below the Devil’s Trap.
“Yeah,” Sam said. There was a thick silence between them, the decision to continue hanging heavy on their shoulders. “Is there - is it possible that breaking the deal between them could mean that Dean has to go to Hell?”
“No,” Bobby said. “The reason the circle is so brutal is because both parties are still fully committed to the pact, a third party is simply trying to sever it. Even if there was some clause in the deal with regard to breaking it, it wouldn’t hold.”
Sam looked down at the desk, at the herbs ready to be burnt in the fire, at the book that described the markings. He recalled his vision, the sound of the screams that he only now was realizing would soon be Dean’s. For one fleeting moment, he felt regret, worried that he was making the wrong choice, that maybe he should talk to Dean before he inflicted the circle on him. But then he thought of Astaroth’s vicious, snarling threats, and felt resolved.
………………………………….
The morning mist hung thick and damp in the air. Cicada’s chirruped in the heat - not even midday at already the heat was setting in, making it hard to breathe. He slid on the mucky bank, one boot landing in the water. Around him trees sprung up tall, their roots knotted and disappearing beneath the water. Overhead a bird startled and took flight.
Sunlight crept in through the gapes in the leaves and made the mist glow. It was a dream - except that it was a nightmare. In front there was a tiny figure - so small. His feet bare and pointing down toward the forest floor, his face peaceful, eyes closed - but his body was covered in blood and gore. Freckles masked by mud and the brittle brown of dried blood caked thick on pale skin. “Daddy, we’ll find Dean. We’ll find him.” The fire should have been hot, but he couldn’t feel it. He knew, knew there was any number of reasons why it was impossible for his little boy to be alive - could categorize the severe injuries, not the least of which was the blue of his boy’s lips and the rope around his tiny pale neck.
“My boy, my boy.” It didn’t stop him from clutching at the body, holding him gently in his arms and trying to work the rope loose even as the fire burned - consumed the tree.
“We’ll find Dean, Daddy.”
It had been so long since he had held his eldest in his arms, so long since he had given him a hug. And here he was, limp and lifeless. He pressed a kiss to his son’s temple, begged for him to wake up. Tried to hold his little boy’s back closed over the place where the spine should be. “I’m so sorry, my boy. I’m so so sorry.” His tears weren’t enough to wash his son’s face clean, dot of red blood like freckles.
“We’ll find Dean.”
“He’s right here, Sammy. Dean’s right here.”
John shot up from bed, his training forcing his body into a tight ball as he rolled, grabbed the gun from beneath his pillow. He hit the nightstand and sent some of his belonging spilling onto the floor, but he held his crouch for a moment, scanned the room and held his gun while he got his breath back. He supposed what was odd was that he hadn’t had the dream a thousand time before, but John couldn’t help but wonder why the dream had hit him right then. He’d put all of that behind him - where it should be.
With a heavy exhalation, John tucked his gun beneath his pillow once more, turned the bedside lamp on while he collected everything he had sent to the floor. The photograph of himself with his two boys was on the ground and he picked it up like a treasure, smoothed its edges. He had taken to setting it on his nightstand sometimes, usually just after a hunt. All of those times that he knew his boy would have been waiting with a smile: “It’s okay, Dad.” Only John would never hear that again. Carefully he replaced the photograph in its place and returned to the items on the floor. His wallet had fallen by the bed and leaned over to grab it, dropped it back on the nightstand and then frowned at the paper that was sticking out, no doubt jostled loose by the drop. He pulled it free and looked at the photograph of a smiling woman, her hair held back by a bandana, her left arm disappearing across the crease, and John knew what he would find on the other side. Tentatively, John flipped the folded photograph and looked at the gawky teenager that smiled back at him - so bright and carefree. He’d tucked the picture away, convinced himself it was a mistake, but a part of him sat there wondering - what if it was possible. He had no idea how it could be, and the boy’s talents weren’t like his boy’s had been. But then, John hadn’t ever had a chance to talk to his son, figure out exactly what it was that went on with regards to his ability. Guilt reared its head, he found himself wanting it to be a mistake, a wistful trick his mind was playing on him.
The similarities, though, were hard to ignore. If it were true, and his boy had somehow survived the demons and the staged death, and by some serendipitous chance ended-up reconnecting with his family - John didn’t have it in him to abandon the boy again. He tucked the photograph back in his wallet, and moved to sit on the edge of his bed, ran his hands through his hair and perched his elbows on his knees. It was impossible and improbable and likely a waste of time, but he would rather put it to rest, kill any suspicion, destroy any lingering hope about it, and finally move on. Ever since he had first seen the photograph there had been a heavy feeling inside him, like every moment of the day was spent moving through molasses. Better to make a few inquiries and put it all to rest.
…………………………………..
It took Bobby and Sam both to maneuver Dean into the circle. All the while Dean’s eyes shifted from black to green, and his voice went from pleas to curses. There was a brief moment, when Dean crumpled to the floor at the very center of the circle, where Sam worried that he’d be able to walk free of it just as easily as he had walked away from the devil’s trap, but it held him in its closest ring. “As the ritual cleanses him, he’ll have more room, until finally he won’t be bound by it any longer,” Bobby explained. “You’re sure about this?”
“Yes,” Sam said, hated Bobby’s repeated questioning because the more he was asked the more he had to commit to what they were about to do. “What do I do?”
“Nothing,” Bobby said. “I’ll recite the incantation and you toss that packet we made onto the fire, and the rest is just a matter of time.”
“How much time?”
“Dunno,” Bobby said with a shrug. “Varies, as far as I can tell. Sam…”
“I’m sure. I know what I am doing. This has to be done.”
“Sammy,” Dean whispered, he sounded completely spent, so tired and broken and defeated that it made Sam ache, but he clenched his fists and then reached for the small packet of herbs he’d mixed and nodded to Bobby.
It wasn’t a Latin incantation, Sam knew from Bobby that the language was Aramaic and he’d wanted nothing more than to press his friend on how and why he’d learned that dead language, but there hadn’t been the time. It was lilting and rough and Sam watched as sparks danced along the plain black lines that denoted the circle. Dean was curling into himself, whimpering, a tiny ball in the empty space at the center. The chant was long, and Sam watched and waited, until a nod from Bobby told him it was time, and he tossed the small packet into the fire and watched as Dean twisted and writhed, no longer Dean at all, but Astaroth - screaming in crescendo of pain. Bobby finished the chant and Sam waited, waited for the writhing to stop, waited for the black smoke to rise from his lover and show that it was all over. It didn’t stop. Dean screamed in a broken, shattered voice, sobbed and sucked in breath.
Sam felt his anger rising with every futile thrash Dean made on the ground before his feet. What the hell had he been thinking, summoning a demon like that? Offering himself like that? Where did striking a deal with something that hell spat up start sounding like a good idea? He wondered if he should tell Dean that it was demons who killed his father - to make it completely clear what a dumb fool thing he’d done.
Sam clenched his teeth and turned on his heel, left the house and walked and walked until he was certain he was at the edge of Bobby’s extensive property. One of the dogs trailed after him, keeping an eye, but Sam didn’t care, he was fuming and even as far from the house as he was he could still hear Dean screaming, one of the other dogs barking constantly. He wondered if it would be better to take the impala and just drive and drive until he was able to breathe again, but he didn’t trust himself behind the wheel of a car.
When the sky began to turn dark, his steps took him back toward the house. There was a quiet surrounding the lot, crickets chirruping and the dog had been hushed, intermittently a broken cry was carried in the night air but everything seemed softer. Everything except Sam. He managed to go as far as the back porch but couldn’t bring himself to go inside. The clatter of pots and pans told him where Bobby was, but he had no desire to see if there had been anything left from Bobby’s dinner. He stayed on the porch and listened and ground his teeth and worried that all he had left was anger toward the man he had come to love.
The screen door creaked and then slammed closed and pulled Sam from his dark thoughts, and Bobby joined him, leaning against the railing. Sam watched as the older man winced as Dean cried-out again, his voice tired and rough. It sounded as if he would give anything to just be let alone to sleep but the spell was working its way through his body and wouldn’t give him even a moment. Sam didn’t bother to ask how Dean was, it seemed obvious. “I don’t want a lecture.”
“Good,” Bobby said. “I don’t have one to give.” They were silent, Sam not quite believing that the older man he regarded as an uncle didn’t have something to say. “I brought you a coffee.” Sam took it gratefully and without comment. Bobby hadn’t added any milk or cream though he knew how Sam took his coffee, and Sam found himself relieved, savored the bitter edge to the scalding drink.
“I don’t know if I can ever forgive him, Bobby,” Sam said. The truth hard to voice. He wondered how long Dean had been possessed, if there were times when the demon had been closer to the surface - Sam had slept with, kissed, made love to Dean, and now he found himself questioning every one of those moments. Who had he really been kissing?
Bobby nodded, finished off his coffee and turned to Sam. “Never’s a long time. When you’re around as long as I have been you realize - there isn’t much worth holding onto that long.” He clapped a hand on Sam’s upper arm as Sam turned to stare out into the dark. “Night.” The screen door banged shut once more, a moment later Dean choked out a pained whimper - didn’t seem to have the energy for much more.
Sam stretched his arms out and rested his forehead on his forearms, listened as Dean muttered pleas for it all to stop, for the pain and the hurt to go away. He begged and begged, and then another wave hit and he moaned. Sam didn’t notice the tears until he lifted his head and the cold air chilled them on his skin. Cautiously, he pulled open the door and stepped inside, watched as Dean’s fingers flexed and dug into the wood of the floor, scratched and scrabbled as he moaned.
It was heartbreaking, and Sam was filled with nothing but regret. He should have known that whatever was happening to his lover was bad enough that he would consider something so extreme. “Dean.” He breathed, tried to steady himself, and when he spoke again it was stronger. “Dean.”
“Sam, Sammy. Please, please. Make it stop. Please.” Sam closed his eyes and clenched his fists. Dean’s legs were sprawled into the second ring of the circle; there were three more rings. It was nearing midnight, there were dark smudges on Dean’s pale skin and he’d already lost most of his voice.
Crossing to the outermost ring of the circle, Sam dropped down and reached his fingertips forward - didn’t touch, didn’t dare reach into the ring where Dean was trapped lest Astaroth rear-up. “I’m right here. I’m right here, Dean. You’re doing fine. It’ll be over soon. I promise. I promise.”
……………………………………………
The population of Fitchburg, those that he had spoken to, swore up and down that Dean Curran was a native of the small town. Some had stories about the trouble he got into in grade school, others remembered having known him forever, “We grew up together,” Sophia insisted. No one, however, seemed to have any specific memories of Dean Curran before the age of eleven. “Why do you want to know?” She wiped down the counter and brought her coffee over. She’d apparently been living in the Curran house, keeping the place up so it would be in good shape when Dean returned there.
“Because,” John said, taking a bit of the sandwich she had made him. “There isn’t any record of a birth certificate. In fact, there’s no record of his being to a doctor, let alone the hospital before the age of twelve.”
She blew her bangs out from her eyes and frowned, her hip jutting out as she tapped her mug. “I remember we would get into mischief all of the time. Once, we climbed the apple tree in Mr. Pickins' yard at night and stole some apples, and Dean fell out when the lights turned on. He -“
“Broke his arm,” John finished. “That’s the first time he was in hospital.”
“Huh,” she said. “We were always getting into trouble, I suppose we just had better sense when we were younger not to damage ourselves.”
“Nobody remembers his mum walking around town pregnant, though they agree she must have. He doesn’t have any records - not even baby shots or check-ups. You’re certain he wasn’t adopted?”
“Damned certain,” Sophia said, and then looked down at her mug. “Pretty sure?”
“Because it’s like he didn’t exist before he was eleven.”
“Which is ridiculous,” she said. “Where are you going with all of this, anyway? Is he in some kind of trouble?”
“No,” John said. “I just - I’m not sure he was born here.”
She shrugged and then finished off her coffee, set the mug in the sink and turned back, one hand on her hip the other resting on the counter. “But I have this sense that I’ve known him for forever! I mean, I have known him forever! How can the whole town have this sense? I mean, I knew his mum, and she’d talk about when he was a baby.”
“What did she say?”
“I - nothing really specific. I mean -“ her frown deepened and she stalked over to the coffee table, drawing out several volumes of family photo albums and flipping through them with the ease of familiarity. “There’s nothing here. There’s no pictures of them all together until he’s older, no baby photos, nothing. But I know he wasn’t adopted! The Curran’s would talk about it, and I have - memories…”
“But nothing specific, am I right? Whenever they talked it was general.”
“I think - yeah. Holy shit.” She traced a finger over a photo of her and Dean as scrawny prepubescents, wet from running through the sprinklers and laughing in their bathing suits. “I’m freaking out a little. What could do that?”
“Could be a spell, or maybe another psychic. Or something else.”
“Something else like, a demon, something else?”
“Maybe.”
“Where was he before he was here?” John sat back from the counter, panic merging with excitement, guilt and a struggling hope.
………………………………………….
Dean blinked open his eyes reluctantly. Every part of him ached, and even though he could only squint, there still seemed to be too much sunlight. “Easy,” a warm voice said. The ground was hard beneath him and he tried to shift so his bones weren’t pressing into the ground. “Have some water.” A hard slipped under his neck and propped his up some, held a glass to his lips and he tasted water, room temperature and it hurt his throat to swallow, but it was still blessed relief. “I’m gonna lift you up now, just take it easy. We’ll go real slow.”
“Sam?” Dean wondered aloud, and then winced because his voice was rough as gravel and quiet as anything.
“Don’t speak. We’ll get you upstairs and you can lie down in a real bed.” Which sounded just lovely. He tried to wrap his arms around Sam’s neck, help with the lifting because as strong as Sam was, Dean was still a fully-grown man, but he found he had no strength in him at all. He listened to Sam’s crooning and felt his eyes dropping closed, his last thought the idle hope that Sam didn’t trip on the stairs and send them both hurtling to the floor.
………………………………………….
“How is he?” Bobby asked by the door as Sam settled Dean into bed.
“Not too good. But I figure once he sleeps we’ll get a better sense of that.” He sat on the bed, tucked the covers up around Dean’s shoulders and smoothed them down.
“Want some lunch?”
“Yeah,” Sam said, then turned to look at the other man and smiled. “Please,” he added.
“I got some leftover chicken I can make into a sandwich, some fires and some coleslaw.”
“Sounds good.” Bobby paused a moment before he nodded and turned away, his footsteps heavy on the wood as he tromped down the stairs. Sam turned back to the sleeping figure on the bed, his hand petting gently through Dean’s hair, listening to the steady breathing. Dean had passed out just before noon, the ritual still continuing despite him being down for the count. Sam had watched as shudders and spasms would wrack the smaller frame periodically, sometimes causing Dean’s back to arch and his arms to flop to the ground. There were bruises on his body, most of them from the involuntary writhing and spasms from the pain. There was a dark purpling bruise from Dean’s temple to just above his chin on the right of his face, and Sam thought he should get some ice.
His cell phone broke the silence, and Sam startled. He’d forgotten he still had it with him, and quickly he left the room, flipping the phone open before it could ring again and wake Dean. “Hello?”
“Sam?” John said. “Where’s Dean?”
“He’s here, we’re at Bobby’s. Dad, look there’s something -“
“You boys stay right there, I’m coming to you.”
“Dad?” Sam asked, because that tone was all too familiar and at the same time, absolutely foreign. John sounded half excited, half determined. Sam wondered if there was some kind of breakthrough on the hunt for the demon. He’d been so wrapped-up in Dean, worrying and then with the circle that he’d barely even wondered what his dad had been doing. “Are you okay?”
“Sammy.” There was such affection and warmth in the way John said his name that Sam felt nothing but worry. “Everything’s fine.”
“Dad?” Sam asked, but there was the dial tone again and Sam braced his arm against the wall and dropped his head against it. He needed a moment. A moment to get himself together so he could help Dean, figure-out what they needed to do, figure-out what the hell had made him do such an idiot thing. And if John was heading to Bobby’s, Sam wanted to know the reason before he explained what had been happening. He hoped that they could just side-step explaining the circle to John, maybe he would be so distracted with whatever breakthrough had happened with the Demon that Sam wouldn’t have to admit to how much he had screwed-up - how close he had come to losing Dean.
<< END OF CHAPTER >>
[MASTER POST]
free web counter
Author: revenant_scribe
Chapter Twenty-Two: CIRCLE
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: R
Warnings: AU, wincest, semi-spoilers for 1.18 'Something Wicked'. Violence!
A/N: There is no new Winchester being added into the mix here. This is definitely not one of those fics. Please leave a review! It keeps my muse happy and makes my day!!
Summary: Sam knows there are a lot of things about his father that he will never understand, or agree with -- the first and foremost being why John Winchester is so unnerved by his son's visions. It's why Sam goes alone to Fitchburg when images of the town's 'welcome' sign flash through his head while he's driving and leave him reeling for hours after. He's only looking for a hunt, but what he finds is about to turn Sam's entire world upside-down, and threaten its very foundations.
chapter twenty-two | CIRCLE
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THEN
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Sam’s jaw clenched and his fingers flexed around the steering wheel, and then he peeled away from the curb and into the road. “Where are we going?” Dean asked.
“To Bobby’s.”
“Why?”
“You don’t know what you’ve done,” Sam said. He noted, in some distant part of his mind, that he spoke slow and deep, like his dad always did when he was angry. Fierce, with rough edges in his tone. Sam always thought that quiet chilled voice was more terrifying than when his dad would yell. “If you won’t send him out, and he won’t leave, then I’ll rip him from you. But they don’t get to have you.”
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NOW
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The impala kicked-up gravel as it took a tight turn then came to a lurching stop in front of Bobby Singer’s house. Sam was up and out of the car before Dean had even fully recovered from the hard stop, and a second later Sam was opening the passenger door and prying Dean out of the car as though he weren’t capable of moving himself. “Dude, what the fuck.” Sam said nothing, his grip unchanging as he maneuvered Dean up the steps.
“Sam, Dean,” Bobby said as he held the door open. Dean wondered if Sam had called ahead because the man didn’t seem at all perturbed by the scene that confronted him. Then again, it wasn’t as if Sam had let them stop and spend the night some place, it had been a straight trip and there had never been a moment when he had been out of Sam’s sight, save for bathroom breaks, and even then, Dean was pretty sure Sam had been standing right outside.
“Do you have that room in the basement ready?” Sam asked as he chivvied Dean through to a chair. Dean collapsed into the stiff wooden seat and looked up around him, books in stacks - so many they were practically furniture - and some design on the ceiling. Dean wondered if it was on purpose that the chair Sam had shoved him into was at the direct center of the sigil.
“Sam, this is a bit more complicated than that.”
“No,” Sam said, running a frustrated hand through his hair. “No. We’re exorcising that thing out of him, and that’s the end of it.”
“Hey now,” Dean said, having had just about enough of being pushed and shoved and spoken of as if he wasn’t even in the room. He got that Sam was pissed, he even got that his lover felt he had pretty strong reason to be pissed, but there was a line, and Dean was just about there. He got up from the chair and started heading for the door, “I’ve told you Sammy, I’ve been telling you until I’m just about blue in the face. This isn’t over, and I intend to see it through.”
Sam gaped at him a moment, and Dean wondered if there was a particular reason for that. He hadn’t said anything that he hadn’t been saying since Sam had figured out there was a demon riding shotgun inside him. “How did you cross that line, you son of a bitch?” Sam snarled. For the first time, Dean actually felt frightened of his lover. Sam had been a snarling, pissy ball of dark energy since they’d hit the road to Bobby’s and it seemed like that was only going to get worse. It was probably a good thing that Dean had lasted as long as he had - proof that he had made the right call. But it seemed increasingly likely that Sam was never going to understand that Dean had spent a lot of time agonizing over it, and actually knew what he was doing. He sat back in the chair obediently and looked up at the man who had always managed to make him calm, make him feel secure. “How?” Sam yelled, his voice deep and thick and echoing off the walls.
“Sam,” Bobby interrupted. A quick jerk of his head and Sam was walking to the other room, but not before tossing a dark look Dean’s way. Dean supposed that they were trying to keep their voices low, keep him from hearing their discussion, but it wasn’t as if there was an awful lot of space in the house, and between his own abilities and Astaroth’s he could hear them as if they stood right next to him.
“The devil’s trap didn’t hold him,” Sam said, and he sounded bewildered. “It held him in the car, he never struggled.”
Dean closed his eyes as Bobby explained, “It wouldn’t have worked, not even in the car. Most likely he was just following what you asked him to do.”
“But why?”
“Sam.” Bobby sighed. “Look, it’s not a regular possession. The host is conscious and entirely willing here. There’s a deal they’ve struck - between Dean and whatever demon’s in him - and both parties are obliged to see it to its end.”
“It needs to leave now.”
“You know the only way to break it,” Bobby said. Dean wondered why that sounded ominous. Had Sam encountered something like this before? Maybe that was why he was so angry, because the last time it hadn’t worked right.
“Raphael’s Circle,” Sam said. “But you said - Bobby, in my vision - it was…”
“It’s not pretty. But short of letting that thing ride Dean until their bargain is complete it’s the only option.” Dean wondered if he should make a break for it. He could feel Astaroth, a dark warmth inside him pressing and encouraging him toward the door, but Dean wouldn’t budge. He was doing everything he could to protect himself but if that meant losing Sam then Dean knew where he stood, so he stayed still and waited, trusting that his lover wouldn’t do anything to hurt him.
“Okay,” Sam said. “Alright.”
Bobby and Sam came back into the room, and though he tried to catch Sam’s eye his lover avoided his gaze, just pulled him up and started directing him down the stairs to the basement. “Sam,” Dean tried. His voice was rough from his continuous efforts to explain. “Will you let me explain now? Will you listen now?” There was a heavy metal door standing open, Dean could see inside the room and he knew what Sam intended to do. “Please. Sam, no, wait. Just let me talk. Just let me tell you everything and if you still think I’m an idiot then do whatever you want to me, just let me explain.”
“No, Dean,” Sam said. He shoved Dean in the room and the door was closing.
“Stop shoving us around!” Dean cried - only he knew his shout was not fully him. Astaroth was rearing-up inside him, encouraging him to speak aloud the hurt. “Stop throwing us away! Sam!”
………………………………………..
Sam’s jaw clenched as he twisted the lock closed, winced at the change in Dean’s voice. “You asshole! You fucking asshole! You have no idea what you have done! You do not know the consequences!” Astaroth’s black eyes glared dark as fire through the bars as Sam looked up. “You’ve damned him. You’ve damned him to the most excruciating fate! You’re a fool!”
“Don’t speak to me as if you care whether Dean lives or dies,” Sam said, his voice quiet as he leaned close to the bars. Astaroth screamed, him voice loud and harsh, resounding off the iron walls. Sam slammed the grate closed and hurried up to the main floor.
“Are you sure you want to do this, Sam?” Bobby asked. He had the book open on his desk and was already making the appropriate markings on the floor, just below the Devil’s Trap.
“Yeah,” Sam said. There was a thick silence between them, the decision to continue hanging heavy on their shoulders. “Is there - is it possible that breaking the deal between them could mean that Dean has to go to Hell?”
“No,” Bobby said. “The reason the circle is so brutal is because both parties are still fully committed to the pact, a third party is simply trying to sever it. Even if there was some clause in the deal with regard to breaking it, it wouldn’t hold.”
Sam looked down at the desk, at the herbs ready to be burnt in the fire, at the book that described the markings. He recalled his vision, the sound of the screams that he only now was realizing would soon be Dean’s. For one fleeting moment, he felt regret, worried that he was making the wrong choice, that maybe he should talk to Dean before he inflicted the circle on him. But then he thought of Astaroth’s vicious, snarling threats, and felt resolved.
………………………………….
The morning mist hung thick and damp in the air. Cicada’s chirruped in the heat - not even midday at already the heat was setting in, making it hard to breathe. He slid on the mucky bank, one boot landing in the water. Around him trees sprung up tall, their roots knotted and disappearing beneath the water. Overhead a bird startled and took flight.
Sunlight crept in through the gapes in the leaves and made the mist glow. It was a dream - except that it was a nightmare. In front there was a tiny figure - so small. His feet bare and pointing down toward the forest floor, his face peaceful, eyes closed - but his body was covered in blood and gore. Freckles masked by mud and the brittle brown of dried blood caked thick on pale skin. “Daddy, we’ll find Dean. We’ll find him.” The fire should have been hot, but he couldn’t feel it. He knew, knew there was any number of reasons why it was impossible for his little boy to be alive - could categorize the severe injuries, not the least of which was the blue of his boy’s lips and the rope around his tiny pale neck.
“My boy, my boy.” It didn’t stop him from clutching at the body, holding him gently in his arms and trying to work the rope loose even as the fire burned - consumed the tree.
“We’ll find Dean, Daddy.”
It had been so long since he had held his eldest in his arms, so long since he had given him a hug. And here he was, limp and lifeless. He pressed a kiss to his son’s temple, begged for him to wake up. Tried to hold his little boy’s back closed over the place where the spine should be. “I’m so sorry, my boy. I’m so so sorry.” His tears weren’t enough to wash his son’s face clean, dot of red blood like freckles.
“We’ll find Dean.”
“He’s right here, Sammy. Dean’s right here.”
John shot up from bed, his training forcing his body into a tight ball as he rolled, grabbed the gun from beneath his pillow. He hit the nightstand and sent some of his belonging spilling onto the floor, but he held his crouch for a moment, scanned the room and held his gun while he got his breath back. He supposed what was odd was that he hadn’t had the dream a thousand time before, but John couldn’t help but wonder why the dream had hit him right then. He’d put all of that behind him - where it should be.
With a heavy exhalation, John tucked his gun beneath his pillow once more, turned the bedside lamp on while he collected everything he had sent to the floor. The photograph of himself with his two boys was on the ground and he picked it up like a treasure, smoothed its edges. He had taken to setting it on his nightstand sometimes, usually just after a hunt. All of those times that he knew his boy would have been waiting with a smile: “It’s okay, Dad.” Only John would never hear that again. Carefully he replaced the photograph in its place and returned to the items on the floor. His wallet had fallen by the bed and leaned over to grab it, dropped it back on the nightstand and then frowned at the paper that was sticking out, no doubt jostled loose by the drop. He pulled it free and looked at the photograph of a smiling woman, her hair held back by a bandana, her left arm disappearing across the crease, and John knew what he would find on the other side. Tentatively, John flipped the folded photograph and looked at the gawky teenager that smiled back at him - so bright and carefree. He’d tucked the picture away, convinced himself it was a mistake, but a part of him sat there wondering - what if it was possible. He had no idea how it could be, and the boy’s talents weren’t like his boy’s had been. But then, John hadn’t ever had a chance to talk to his son, figure out exactly what it was that went on with regards to his ability. Guilt reared its head, he found himself wanting it to be a mistake, a wistful trick his mind was playing on him.
The similarities, though, were hard to ignore. If it were true, and his boy had somehow survived the demons and the staged death, and by some serendipitous chance ended-up reconnecting with his family - John didn’t have it in him to abandon the boy again. He tucked the photograph back in his wallet, and moved to sit on the edge of his bed, ran his hands through his hair and perched his elbows on his knees. It was impossible and improbable and likely a waste of time, but he would rather put it to rest, kill any suspicion, destroy any lingering hope about it, and finally move on. Ever since he had first seen the photograph there had been a heavy feeling inside him, like every moment of the day was spent moving through molasses. Better to make a few inquiries and put it all to rest.
…………………………………..
It took Bobby and Sam both to maneuver Dean into the circle. All the while Dean’s eyes shifted from black to green, and his voice went from pleas to curses. There was a brief moment, when Dean crumpled to the floor at the very center of the circle, where Sam worried that he’d be able to walk free of it just as easily as he had walked away from the devil’s trap, but it held him in its closest ring. “As the ritual cleanses him, he’ll have more room, until finally he won’t be bound by it any longer,” Bobby explained. “You’re sure about this?”
“Yes,” Sam said, hated Bobby’s repeated questioning because the more he was asked the more he had to commit to what they were about to do. “What do I do?”
“Nothing,” Bobby said. “I’ll recite the incantation and you toss that packet we made onto the fire, and the rest is just a matter of time.”
“How much time?”
“Dunno,” Bobby said with a shrug. “Varies, as far as I can tell. Sam…”
“I’m sure. I know what I am doing. This has to be done.”
“Sammy,” Dean whispered, he sounded completely spent, so tired and broken and defeated that it made Sam ache, but he clenched his fists and then reached for the small packet of herbs he’d mixed and nodded to Bobby.
It wasn’t a Latin incantation, Sam knew from Bobby that the language was Aramaic and he’d wanted nothing more than to press his friend on how and why he’d learned that dead language, but there hadn’t been the time. It was lilting and rough and Sam watched as sparks danced along the plain black lines that denoted the circle. Dean was curling into himself, whimpering, a tiny ball in the empty space at the center. The chant was long, and Sam watched and waited, until a nod from Bobby told him it was time, and he tossed the small packet into the fire and watched as Dean twisted and writhed, no longer Dean at all, but Astaroth - screaming in crescendo of pain. Bobby finished the chant and Sam waited, waited for the writhing to stop, waited for the black smoke to rise from his lover and show that it was all over. It didn’t stop. Dean screamed in a broken, shattered voice, sobbed and sucked in breath.
Sam felt his anger rising with every futile thrash Dean made on the ground before his feet. What the hell had he been thinking, summoning a demon like that? Offering himself like that? Where did striking a deal with something that hell spat up start sounding like a good idea? He wondered if he should tell Dean that it was demons who killed his father - to make it completely clear what a dumb fool thing he’d done.
Sam clenched his teeth and turned on his heel, left the house and walked and walked until he was certain he was at the edge of Bobby’s extensive property. One of the dogs trailed after him, keeping an eye, but Sam didn’t care, he was fuming and even as far from the house as he was he could still hear Dean screaming, one of the other dogs barking constantly. He wondered if it would be better to take the impala and just drive and drive until he was able to breathe again, but he didn’t trust himself behind the wheel of a car.
When the sky began to turn dark, his steps took him back toward the house. There was a quiet surrounding the lot, crickets chirruping and the dog had been hushed, intermittently a broken cry was carried in the night air but everything seemed softer. Everything except Sam. He managed to go as far as the back porch but couldn’t bring himself to go inside. The clatter of pots and pans told him where Bobby was, but he had no desire to see if there had been anything left from Bobby’s dinner. He stayed on the porch and listened and ground his teeth and worried that all he had left was anger toward the man he had come to love.
The screen door creaked and then slammed closed and pulled Sam from his dark thoughts, and Bobby joined him, leaning against the railing. Sam watched as the older man winced as Dean cried-out again, his voice tired and rough. It sounded as if he would give anything to just be let alone to sleep but the spell was working its way through his body and wouldn’t give him even a moment. Sam didn’t bother to ask how Dean was, it seemed obvious. “I don’t want a lecture.”
“Good,” Bobby said. “I don’t have one to give.” They were silent, Sam not quite believing that the older man he regarded as an uncle didn’t have something to say. “I brought you a coffee.” Sam took it gratefully and without comment. Bobby hadn’t added any milk or cream though he knew how Sam took his coffee, and Sam found himself relieved, savored the bitter edge to the scalding drink.
“I don’t know if I can ever forgive him, Bobby,” Sam said. The truth hard to voice. He wondered how long Dean had been possessed, if there were times when the demon had been closer to the surface - Sam had slept with, kissed, made love to Dean, and now he found himself questioning every one of those moments. Who had he really been kissing?
Bobby nodded, finished off his coffee and turned to Sam. “Never’s a long time. When you’re around as long as I have been you realize - there isn’t much worth holding onto that long.” He clapped a hand on Sam’s upper arm as Sam turned to stare out into the dark. “Night.” The screen door banged shut once more, a moment later Dean choked out a pained whimper - didn’t seem to have the energy for much more.
Sam stretched his arms out and rested his forehead on his forearms, listened as Dean muttered pleas for it all to stop, for the pain and the hurt to go away. He begged and begged, and then another wave hit and he moaned. Sam didn’t notice the tears until he lifted his head and the cold air chilled them on his skin. Cautiously, he pulled open the door and stepped inside, watched as Dean’s fingers flexed and dug into the wood of the floor, scratched and scrabbled as he moaned.
It was heartbreaking, and Sam was filled with nothing but regret. He should have known that whatever was happening to his lover was bad enough that he would consider something so extreme. “Dean.” He breathed, tried to steady himself, and when he spoke again it was stronger. “Dean.”
“Sam, Sammy. Please, please. Make it stop. Please.” Sam closed his eyes and clenched his fists. Dean’s legs were sprawled into the second ring of the circle; there were three more rings. It was nearing midnight, there were dark smudges on Dean’s pale skin and he’d already lost most of his voice.
Crossing to the outermost ring of the circle, Sam dropped down and reached his fingertips forward - didn’t touch, didn’t dare reach into the ring where Dean was trapped lest Astaroth rear-up. “I’m right here. I’m right here, Dean. You’re doing fine. It’ll be over soon. I promise. I promise.”
……………………………………………
The population of Fitchburg, those that he had spoken to, swore up and down that Dean Curran was a native of the small town. Some had stories about the trouble he got into in grade school, others remembered having known him forever, “We grew up together,” Sophia insisted. No one, however, seemed to have any specific memories of Dean Curran before the age of eleven. “Why do you want to know?” She wiped down the counter and brought her coffee over. She’d apparently been living in the Curran house, keeping the place up so it would be in good shape when Dean returned there.
“Because,” John said, taking a bit of the sandwich she had made him. “There isn’t any record of a birth certificate. In fact, there’s no record of his being to a doctor, let alone the hospital before the age of twelve.”
She blew her bangs out from her eyes and frowned, her hip jutting out as she tapped her mug. “I remember we would get into mischief all of the time. Once, we climbed the apple tree in Mr. Pickins' yard at night and stole some apples, and Dean fell out when the lights turned on. He -“
“Broke his arm,” John finished. “That’s the first time he was in hospital.”
“Huh,” she said. “We were always getting into trouble, I suppose we just had better sense when we were younger not to damage ourselves.”
“Nobody remembers his mum walking around town pregnant, though they agree she must have. He doesn’t have any records - not even baby shots or check-ups. You’re certain he wasn’t adopted?”
“Damned certain,” Sophia said, and then looked down at her mug. “Pretty sure?”
“Because it’s like he didn’t exist before he was eleven.”
“Which is ridiculous,” she said. “Where are you going with all of this, anyway? Is he in some kind of trouble?”
“No,” John said. “I just - I’m not sure he was born here.”
She shrugged and then finished off her coffee, set the mug in the sink and turned back, one hand on her hip the other resting on the counter. “But I have this sense that I’ve known him for forever! I mean, I have known him forever! How can the whole town have this sense? I mean, I knew his mum, and she’d talk about when he was a baby.”
“What did she say?”
“I - nothing really specific. I mean -“ her frown deepened and she stalked over to the coffee table, drawing out several volumes of family photo albums and flipping through them with the ease of familiarity. “There’s nothing here. There’s no pictures of them all together until he’s older, no baby photos, nothing. But I know he wasn’t adopted! The Curran’s would talk about it, and I have - memories…”
“But nothing specific, am I right? Whenever they talked it was general.”
“I think - yeah. Holy shit.” She traced a finger over a photo of her and Dean as scrawny prepubescents, wet from running through the sprinklers and laughing in their bathing suits. “I’m freaking out a little. What could do that?”
“Could be a spell, or maybe another psychic. Or something else.”
“Something else like, a demon, something else?”
“Maybe.”
“Where was he before he was here?” John sat back from the counter, panic merging with excitement, guilt and a struggling hope.
………………………………………….
Dean blinked open his eyes reluctantly. Every part of him ached, and even though he could only squint, there still seemed to be too much sunlight. “Easy,” a warm voice said. The ground was hard beneath him and he tried to shift so his bones weren’t pressing into the ground. “Have some water.” A hard slipped under his neck and propped his up some, held a glass to his lips and he tasted water, room temperature and it hurt his throat to swallow, but it was still blessed relief. “I’m gonna lift you up now, just take it easy. We’ll go real slow.”
“Sam?” Dean wondered aloud, and then winced because his voice was rough as gravel and quiet as anything.
“Don’t speak. We’ll get you upstairs and you can lie down in a real bed.” Which sounded just lovely. He tried to wrap his arms around Sam’s neck, help with the lifting because as strong as Sam was, Dean was still a fully-grown man, but he found he had no strength in him at all. He listened to Sam’s crooning and felt his eyes dropping closed, his last thought the idle hope that Sam didn’t trip on the stairs and send them both hurtling to the floor.
………………………………………….
“How is he?” Bobby asked by the door as Sam settled Dean into bed.
“Not too good. But I figure once he sleeps we’ll get a better sense of that.” He sat on the bed, tucked the covers up around Dean’s shoulders and smoothed them down.
“Want some lunch?”
“Yeah,” Sam said, then turned to look at the other man and smiled. “Please,” he added.
“I got some leftover chicken I can make into a sandwich, some fires and some coleslaw.”
“Sounds good.” Bobby paused a moment before he nodded and turned away, his footsteps heavy on the wood as he tromped down the stairs. Sam turned back to the sleeping figure on the bed, his hand petting gently through Dean’s hair, listening to the steady breathing. Dean had passed out just before noon, the ritual still continuing despite him being down for the count. Sam had watched as shudders and spasms would wrack the smaller frame periodically, sometimes causing Dean’s back to arch and his arms to flop to the ground. There were bruises on his body, most of them from the involuntary writhing and spasms from the pain. There was a dark purpling bruise from Dean’s temple to just above his chin on the right of his face, and Sam thought he should get some ice.
His cell phone broke the silence, and Sam startled. He’d forgotten he still had it with him, and quickly he left the room, flipping the phone open before it could ring again and wake Dean. “Hello?”
“Sam?” John said. “Where’s Dean?”
“He’s here, we’re at Bobby’s. Dad, look there’s something -“
“You boys stay right there, I’m coming to you.”
“Dad?” Sam asked, because that tone was all too familiar and at the same time, absolutely foreign. John sounded half excited, half determined. Sam wondered if there was some kind of breakthrough on the hunt for the demon. He’d been so wrapped-up in Dean, worrying and then with the circle that he’d barely even wondered what his dad had been doing. “Are you okay?”
“Sammy.” There was such affection and warmth in the way John said his name that Sam felt nothing but worry. “Everything’s fine.”
“Dad?” Sam asked, but there was the dial tone again and Sam braced his arm against the wall and dropped his head against it. He needed a moment. A moment to get himself together so he could help Dean, figure-out what they needed to do, figure-out what the hell had made him do such an idiot thing. And if John was heading to Bobby’s, Sam wanted to know the reason before he explained what had been happening. He hoped that they could just side-step explaining the circle to John, maybe he would be so distracted with whatever breakthrough had happened with the Demon that Sam wouldn’t have to admit to how much he had screwed-up - how close he had come to losing Dean.
<< END OF CHAPTER >>
[MASTER POST]
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