The Killing Moon
6. Never Look Back, Walk Tall Act Fine
Sam sits next to his brother's gurney and reads an old chewed up copy of the Reader's Digest that has one of those real-life accounts of some dumb farmer out in the heartland, and Christ, it's always Iowa, deciding it would be a really great idea to climb into his combine harvester to unjam the mechanism without switching it off first, and who then has to crawl five miles to the nearest town carrying his own severed leg in his mouth.
He suddenly thinks what a great story that could be for the next time he has to explain his brother's battered, marked hide, even tests it out. "Scars, yeah. Sucked into his combine harvester. Forgot to switch it off first, leaned in, and bam." And, you would totally do that, Dean, he thinks. You'd stand there and look at all those whirring parts and wonder what would happen if you stuck your hand in there, just a little bit, just to see-
"You're thinking out loud, dude," his brother rasps. "I so would not do that. What kind of fuckin' idiot you think I am?"
Dean shifts on the gurney, groans, and don't fucking tempt me, Sam thinks, because now the gut-cramping fear has worn off he's feeling a dull rage, the kind of anger that isn't going to end well if he gets into it with his brother now. And if he's honest, he feels worn out too, utterly depleted by his brother's sheer lack of care for himself. He takes in Dean's pallor, shadowed eyes still glazed from sleep, cuts, bruises, and wonders how the hell he can save him from anything when he maybe doesn't want to be saved.
"Where am I?" Dean croaks. "Christ." He swallows thickly, floats a hand to his neck. "Hurts. Did I detour to Heinz Field and deep throat the Steelers or something?"
"Don't joke about that," Sam spits, icy but he can't help it. "Not that."
He wonders if Dean even knows what he's said, if he knows how it's like cold, hard steel lancing through Sam's heart, because of what his brother was forced to do, just a kid with a mouth to feed. Sam's mouth, which means that when all's said and done, his brother did that for him. "You've had ten years to come to terms with that. I haven't. So don't ever joke about that."
Dean chews his split lip, winces, eyes Sam with something like caution. "I'm sorry," he says, gravel-voiced. "I didn't think."
Sam snorts. "Of course not. Why change the habit of a lifetime?" And then, because of his dull rage, "Your throat hurts because they had to stick a tube down it to pump your stomach, Dean. After your lost weekend. Care to guess how much blood was in your alcohol?" He knows his tone is scathing, sees his brother flinch slightly.
"Uh… no." Dean at least has the decency to sound subdued as he pushes up onto his elbows, winces again, reaches up and gingerly touches his cheekbone. "Christ. M'face. Nose. Tell me it isn't broken, Sam. Sam?"
Sam waits that extra few minutes, draws a sly satisfaction from the fact that Dean's eyes take on an expression of alarm that's laughable under the circumstances. Priorities ass-over-tip, as usual. "Don't worry Dean, you're still the pretty one," he says dryly. "Though I doubt the same could be said for your liver." He sees Dean relax, can't resist another dig. "But you are yellow."
"What? What the fuck?" his brother croaks. "Yellow? Why the fuck am I yellow? Is that a joke?"
"Nope, you're jaundiced. Liver gave out," Sam says, managing to inject just enough pained sympathy to make it convincing. "You're on the transplant list… probably take six months or so to find a match, so Bobby and me are heading back home while you wait it out here. They said I could donate a portion of my liver that would grow to fit you, but it's pretty complicated surgery so I passed." He whistles. "You should see yourself. Skin, whites of your eyes, even your teeth. Buttercup yellow."
Dean is gaping at him, eyes huge, mouth open, expression crestfallen. He slowly looks down at his hands and forearms, studies them. The usual tan-lite, with a smattering of freckles. He looks up, and now he's nodding slightly, lips just curling in a slow, amused smile. "Douche."
"I had you, Dean. By the balls. Admit it."
Dean flops back on the bed with a sigh. He doesn't admit it.
"The next time you throw a bender like that, Dean, you will turn yellow," Sam adds, and could kick himself as the b-word leaves his mouth.
"A bender, you say?" Dean murmurs thoughtfully.
He rubs his brow, and Sam kicks himself even harder. "I'm sorry," he says, and finds himself automatically parroting his brother's own words. "I didn't think."
He can see the irony isn't lost on Dean - his brother lets out a low snort of amusement. "Dean," Sam goes on, thinking he might as well strike while his brother just might be feeling guilty enough about his one-man keg party to open up like he did after Bigfork. "What, why… why are we here?"
Dean stares at him, seems to be evaluating him, Sam can see his brother's thought process, see something dark flit across Dean's eyes before he drags the corners of his mouth up into a pale shadow of the shit-eating grin Sam has long associated with avoidance.
"We're here, Sammy, because God saw that it was good," Dean husks, nodding wisely and regretting it if the hand that creeps up to his neck again is anything to go by.
"Genesis?" Sam says. "You're quoting the old testament at me, Dean?"
Dean shrugs. "Old testament. Big book of Jewish fairy tales. Prog rock band. Whatever takes your fancy, dude."
Sam's anger ramps back up swiftly. "Cut the crap, Dean," he snaps. "You know what I mean. Bobby said you just cut and ran. And I saw you. You froze. Why? What the hell was that? What the fuck drove you to drink so damn much you were circling the drain when we found you? Why are we here?"
He's struck a nerve, he thinks, because his brother suddenly starts drumming his fingertips on the mattress either side of himself.
"I didn't fr-"
"Yes you did, Dean. I saw you," Sam jumps in, and he sees his brother's jaw tighten. "You froze and it almost got you killed - almost got me killed too, because it totally threw me. Be honest with me, Dean, because I have had it to here. I swear I have."
He waits, sees his brother's jaw is still set, nothing forthcoming. "Dammit, Dean," he barks. "Tell me what that was, because you're compromising your safety and mine with this." He knows he's effectively browbeating his brother now, and it works because Dean blurts it out.
"What he said, that kid. He said something to me, something that…" Dean stops just as abruptly, shakes his head slightly.
Jesus, Sam thinks, it's like trying to drag a pardon out of the Governor of Texas. "Dean. Come on, man, I need more. What? What did he say?"
"Something he… Bender. Used to say. Before. Before he… turned. That I was messing with his head."
Dean's voice is so hushed it's barely audible, but Sam hears him loud and clear, sees him screw his eyes shut, and he wonders if the image in Dean's head is as vivid as the one in his: Bender flipping his dazed brother over onto his belly, fumbling with his pants, that's what you get for messin' with my head…
"It just. I didn't expect it," Dean says, still low. "Just. Took me by surprise is all. And I…" He trails off.
"Needed a drink." Sam supplies, resigned.
His brother shrugs again, looks away despondently.
"Dean. I know there must be things that, I don't know, act as triggers, I guess," Sam says. "I've read up on it. The after-effects. But getting hammered isn't the solution."
Dean looks back, smiles wanly. "You've read up on it," he echoes. "Well, what a fuckin' relief."
"Dean, I-"
"No. Just, no," Dean bites out, his voice ragged, his hand coming up to rub at his throat. "Okay? For many reasons, Sam, but mainly because I'm fine. I got drunk is all, and got in a fight. That's my coping mechanism, always has been. This is me working through it, Sam, and it doesn't always involve roadside confessions and hugs. We talked, yeah. I feel better for it and I've moved on. And all I want is to be able to have a drink without my own personal fuckin' temperance society dogging my every shot. 'Cause I sure as hell don't remember taking the pledge."
Dean pauses, clears his throat, steadies his breathing. "Now. Who the fuck am I anyway?"
And the moment is over, Sam realizes, as Dean fast forwards to the basics of waking up in hospital with faked health insurance. He keeps his voice resolutely neutral. "Richard Carpenter," he says, and he feels his deflated satisfaction from earlier balloon again when his brother throws up in his mouth.
"Richard Carpenter," Dean hisses, and he fists his hands.
Sam leans in close, smiles. "You got it. Payback's a bitch, Dick. And guess what? We've only just begun."
Dean stares back at him, scowls, and then he brightens a tad. "Richard Carpenter," he drawls, like he's trying it on for size. "Well Sammy, you know what that means…" He lets it hang for a second. "You're the Karen of the family."
Damn. Servage. So Sam belts it right back with a perfect forehand to the back of the court, acing the chalk line.
"Funny that, since you're the one who's starving himself to death."
She hates it when a plan falls apart.
The suit is waiting for her in the office when she gets back from grabbing a quick doughnut break, stands up as she moves to walk past him.
"Officer Hudak? Yes?"
Tall, built, good-looking. Has G-man written all over him.
"Yeah, what do you need?" she answers tersely.
"Agent Seeley Booth, FBI," the man says, waving his ID. "I'm here following up a couple of missing person reports you've had recently… hikers lost out in the woods. Uh…" He opens his file, starts glancing through it, so Hudak saves him the trouble.
"Wesley Schweitzer and Mara Costello. And I thought the FBI only got involved with missing persons if it was children."
"Yep, those hikers," Booth confirms. "And officer Kelley Szuba, from this department. And yes, we don't have a dedicated missing persons unit. But we get involved in cases like this as needed."
Hudak doesn't think fast enough not to double-take at that one. "To my knowledge, Kelley Szuba hasn't officially been reported missing," she says. "And I'm not aware that you are needed here, agent Boot."
He winces minutely. "Booth. It's Booth," he says patiently. "And the fact your colleague's tent and camping gear were found in the woods and she hasn't turned up would seem to suggest the worst." He pauses before going on, since she's made her irritation so abundantly clear. "Look. I'm not trying to step on your toes here. Her dad's an ex-fed and he's pulling some strings up in DC. Now, my follow-up indicates there was a spate of hiker disappearances in the woods here earlier this year, and sporadic disappearances before that going back a decade."
Well, no point in denying that. "That's correct," Hudak concedes. "This is timber wolf country, agent Booth. Hiking the woods is risky. We found remains that had been…" Jesus, how to describe them?
"We know, we had them transferred to DC day before yesterday, to the Jeffersonian. The squints there say the remains had been, uh…" The agent grimaces as he looks at his file, and Hudak has to work to stop her mouth forming a sly grin at the fact he seems he's having the same difficulty.
"From what I saw, they were well-chewed," she says evenly, pouring herself a mug of coffee. "Not much meat left on them at all, just stripped bones really, with some of the ligaments intact."
He grimaces again. Score one for Kathleen.
"Well-chewed by something that left teeth marks that weren't from wolves," Booth continues then. "This your desk?" He pulls a chair across, sits down. "They can do all sorts of things with forensics these days," he muses, pulls some photographs out of his file. "These teeth marks." He lays the photographs out on her desk, taps one of them with his pen. "They're from something else."
"Bear?"
"Not a bear."
"Wild boar?"
"Nope." He raises an eyebrow. "Not native to this state, officer. As I'm sure you know."
He's done his homework, she'll give him that. "There isn't anything else out there big enough to kill a person," she offers. "As I'm sure you know, agent Booth."
He gives her a long look, seems to be considering whether or not to spit out what's on his mind. "The earlier sporadic disappearances I mentioned," he starts, leans forward slightly and stares her right in the eye. "They included your brother. And you were involved in apprehending one Joseph P. Bender for those crimes. In fact, you shot him while making the arrest. In the face. Point blank."
Hudak nods, wishes her throat hadn't suddenly dried up. "Yes. He was trying to escape. And I shot him in self-defense, as should be clear from your files, agent Booth. Bender and his sons assaulted me. I was debriefed by a couple of agents from your Duluth field office and cleared of any wrongdoing."
Booth seems genuinely discomfited, or maybe he just fakes it really well. "Officer Hudak, I don't mean to give you the impression you're under any suspicion with regards to that, and I'm sorry if I have."
"Really? Okay." She leaves it there.
He clears his throat. "So. The Benders. Case file says the body of Jared Bender also was found at the Bender property, beaten to death with an ax… fingerprints on the weapon not matched in the FBI database, but found pretty much all over the house when it was dusted. UNSUB is still at large." He looks up. "Your report says you left both Bender brothers alive and secured while you went to call for back up and that you were attacked and knocked out while doing so. Lee Bender, the older brother, has not been seen since then. Which is right about the time these disappearances started up in the spring, and the remains of Kendall and Carson Lang were found in the woods, by yourself. And of course, the whereabouts of the other hikers is still unknown."
Hudak nods, cool, calm, collected on the outside, but her mind is frantically backtracking, trying to visualize what she wrote, because she's suddenly finding out it's damned true that lies trap you, that they're so utterly forgettable, that it's so easy to paint yourself into a corner when you haven't been entirely on the level. And then, just for a second and totally out of the blue, she wonders why Booth hasn't mentioned the kid. And she remembers what Swenson said: about how he hadn't even known there was a kid sister, and despite everything that happened she feels a horrified sadness at the fact that no one even knew of the girl's existence, and the kid never really had a chance.
Booth taps his pen on the desk again, brings her back to reality.
"We conducted searches for Bender, but we never tracked him down," she says. "Your colleagues in Duluth didn't show up until the remains were found. So we were searching with very limited manpower. By the time we got any help with it, we assumed Bender had either moved on or died out there." She thinks that maybe there are some advantages to being thought of as stupid hicks by the feds, that maybe this particular fed won't labor the point too excessively if he thinks the piss-poor Bender search was just a snafu perpetrated by a bunch of yokels who wouldn't know a serial killer if he introduced himself as Mr Bundy and asked to borrow a hammer.
"Okay," Booth picks up. "Well, as you know, various remains found at the Bender property suggest there was, uh, cannibalism going on there. The bones we have at the Jeffersonian… as well as the, uh, not-wolf-not-bear-not-boar teeth marks, they also have human teeth marks on them, officer. And I'm really sorry if this is difficult for you. With your brother and everything. I know his car was found at the Bender place."
Hudak trains her features into a rigid mask and stares into space. "It was a long time ago."
"We think Bender's still out there," Booth is saying now, from somewhere far away. "We think he killed his brother and the Langs, the other hikers too, probably. And that he's responsible for these latest disappearances."
He's not the bad guy, Hudak knows. But she can't help flipping back to what Bobby Singer said on the phone about not getting back out of the woods alive. Booth is a young guy, early thirties or so by all appearances. She knows this is leading inexorably towards a team of feds, Booth probably included, going in there and maybe never being seen again. She has Kelley Szuba's digital camera in her desk drawer, spied it in the undergrowth fifteen minutes before she and Conrad stumbled across Szuba's deserted campsite, still doesn't know why she picked it up and pocketed it without saying anything when Conrad's back was turned. Some sixth sense perhaps.
It's like Booth reads her mind because he suddenly glances over at Szuba's desk, sees her nameplate, sees the photographs pinned on her corkboard, and his face comes alive. "Your colleague, Kelley Szuba. Her dad says she hiked the woods all the time. She take those pictures there?"
She can see the calculating look in his eyes, can see him adding it all up, and she suddenly thinks maybe that's what makes the difference between being stuck here in Frigid, Minnesota, and being a G-Man working out of DC - the ability to jump from nameplate to pictures to a camera that might possibly have photographs on it if Szuba had it with her in the woods, photographs of whatever is responsible for her vanishing off the face of the earth. If they can find the camera at the campsite. And looking for it means a team of feds, Booth probably included, going in there and maybe never being seen again.
Christ. Because the thing Kelley Szuba photographed a split-second before she dropped her camera isn't a wolf, or a bear, or a boar. It isn't anything thus far found in nature.
And handing over the camera means a team of feds, Booth probably included, going in there and maybe never being seen again.
Booth is unfolding a map now, laying it across Hudak's desk. "Your colleague, officer Beck… he pinpointed Kelley Szuba's campsite as being about two klicks in from the trailhead, in a north-easterly direction."
Klick, Hudak notes. Ex-military.
"Officer Hudak?"
He would have to speak to Conrad first.
"Sounds about right," she says.
Fuck.
The doctor they spoke to isn't too happy at Dean checking out AMA, but is considerate enough to take Sam to one side as his brother wobbles about getting dressed.
"Word of warning," she says. "No painkillers of any kind when he's drinking or hungover - the combination could cause a gastrointestinal bleed or liver failure, both if he's really unlucky." She glances over at Dean. "You never know," she continues, not unsympathetically. "Perhaps the inevitable head after the night before might give him pause to think about what he's doing. Sometimes it can be that simple."
And that's pretty much it: Dean is officially released back into the wild, and not remotely impressed at being relegated to the back seat of Bobby's truck. "Those guys jacked my weed," he grouses, rifling through his pockets as they pull into the motel parking lot.
Bobby snorts loudly. "If you scored some weed and they took it, they were doing you a favor," he snaps as they exit the cab. "Just like they were doing you a favor when they didn't beat the living shit out of you and didn't call the cops when you were laying in the dirt. With your weed. And your gun. And your fingerprints. And your rap sheet."
Dean scowls, strides ahead, shoulders slumped, and Sam ranges up alongside Bobby. "Are we going to tell him Hudak called?" he asks, quiet so his brother can't hear. It's the first chance he's had to mention it, the first time he's even thought about it since Dean came round.
"Don't see how we can avoid it," Bobby says, slowing to a crawl. "She said she'd left a couple of messages on his cell, so unless you can get hold of it and erase them he'll find out himself anyway."
They both shoot a quick look over to where Dean is leaning on the motel room door, hands in his pockets, gazing down at his boots, miles away.
"I'm in two minds about it," Bobby continues. "I can go and deal with this thing myself, but I think we both know he isn't going to like being left out of the equation. He owes her. Thing is, taking him along could make him or break him. Could be just what he needs to clear this out of his system once and for all… being back there, being face to face with it in the woods where it all went down. But he's a mess. Will he cope?"
Sam thinks about the puck hunt, his brother's sheer energy, his zest. "He was totally different on the hunt in Montana, and when we were tracking Hanniger, despite what happened afterwards," he ventures. "It's like he came alive."
"So you vote to take him?"
Sam sighs. "Jesus. I don't know. But he can't stay where he is. This limbo he's in… he has to get out of it, Bobby, one way or the other."
Bobby nods slowly. "Okay. We'll talk to him. You never know, he might not even want to go. But I can tell you one thing kid - if he does go, it's on my terms. And that means no booze. I'm talking prohibition, Sam, and I need to know you'll back me up if it gets nasty with your brother."
Sam thinks about what Dean said, about his coping mechanism, knows it's a pile of steaming horseshit just like he knew it was when the words left his brother's lips. He nods. "One hundred percent, Bobby. He'd do it for me even if I fought him every step of the way."
Dean's waving over at them now, shuffling about. "What are you two chinwagging about?" he hollers throatily. "I need some caffeine. Hurry it up."
Sam roots out the room key, turns to make his way towards his brother, and Bobby reaches out to snag his arm. And then he reaches into his pocket, surreptitiously pulls out a baggie, shakes it.
"Is that the uppers?" Sam whispers, and his heart sinks, because he's totally forgotten that conversation is on the cards too.
"No, son, actually it isn't, although I will no doubt be tackling that with your brother once he misses them," Bobby says, his eyes darkening. He opens the bag, holds it out to Sam.
He peers in. "What is that?" he murmurs. "Is that peyote? Jesus, has he-"
"It isn't peyote, kid," Bobby says, glances in at the contents himself. "Though now you mention it, it does look like peyote." He shoves the baggie back in his pocket. "Remember what the doc back there said about stuff they give to alcoholics that can make them sick if they drink any liquor?"
"Yeah… Antabuse," Sam says, even as he feels his gut twitch at the way Bobby so casually drops the accusation of alcoholism into the conversation. "I had a friend at college who took it for his drinking." He's mystified now, furrows his brow. "That's not Antabuse."
"Nope. Coprinopsis atramentaria," Bobby says. "Ink cap mushrooms. Edible and totally safe. Unless consumed with alcohol, in which case they make you sick as a sick thing. Those of us in the know call it tippler's bane. Found a convenient patch of them growing under the hedge just over there."
Sam gapes. "Jesus, Bobby. Are you sure it's safe? And do you think it's really necessary?"
Bobby puts the baggie back in his vest pocket. "It isn't pleasant, but it hasn't killed anyone yet. And believe me, I'm hoping it ain't gonna be necessary. But if it is, I will have no problem with sneaking him some of these. So, Sam…" And he repeats what he said before, slowly, carefully, meaningfully. "I need to know you'll back me up if it gets nasty with your brother."
Dean is expecting some sort of blow up now they're back at the motel, though he doesn't know whose prospective rage bothers him most. He weighs it up in his mind: Sam's toxic-teen sulk, pained tolerance and agonized glances of sheer hurt, compared to Bobby's grizzly bear with its paw caught in a gin trap.
But - nothing. Sam boots up Bobby's laptop, starts tapping away as Bobby starts packing his duffel. Dean sits and watches them, senses it's a forced calm, the lull before the storm.
"Problem?" Bobby inquires blandly.
As neutral as Bobby's tone is, it startles Dean in the quiet. "No sir," he cracks out sharply, in his best US Marines Private Winchester reporting for latrine duty, sir-yes-sir, and jiggles his leg.
"Only you look worried," the old man says. "Like the prodigal son having just rung the doorbell. Something you need to talk about, kid?"
Kid. That's a good sign.
"I just. I. Need a drink." Dean slithers the words out, muffled, like maybe it'll make a difference, gets up and reaches towards the table for his car keys.
"Sit your ass back on that chair," Bobby says, still amiable. "Right now."
"But I need a-"
"Son, you need a drink like Custer needed more fuckin' injuns!" Bobby barks, the easy tone gone, the decibel level skyrocketing, the words dipped in poison and zipping at Dean so fast and hard and unexpected it's like they came from a blowpipe.
Sam is sitting just beyond Bobby, hunched over, and Dean sees him straighten up, sees his shoulders square and go rigid, and Christ, even the back of his brother's head is pissed off with him.
He sits back down stiffly, chews his split lip because his whole body is trembling slightly now and his mouth is dry, and he really, really, needs a drink, needs that shot of confidence, that comforting warmth, the lassitude that starts in his belly and blooms out to his toes and the tips of his fingers somewhere around the third or fourth shot, that spaced-out high that sends the knot of anxiety that exists permanently smack-bang between his eyes miles away, out to the Nome, Alaska of his brain.
He sits in nervous silence for a couple of minutes. "So," he husks out feebly, once he's reasonably sure Bobby isn't about to take a swing at him. "What am I looking at here, guys? The Betty Ford clinic?"
Nothing.
"Sam?"
Still no reaction, and Jesus, Dean feels about as popular as a pork chop at a fuckin' synagogue, feels nauseous even. "Guys?" he says again, uncertainly, and he can feel his throat constricting painfully, his chest clenching, feel this wave of raw, hopeless misery start to engulf him. "I'm not a drunk," he mutters. "I'm just letting off steam. Is all. Working things out. In my head."
Bobby still doesn't say anything, looks hard at Dean for a long minute, his expression unreadable. And then he smiles the smile of a man who sure as heck isn't smiling on the inside. "Got a call from Kathleen Hudak," he says.
All at once those stretched-out moments, the strained silence, the tension that was so palpable Dean felt its shadow on his face, lift. "Yeah?" he mutters, schooling his voice into what he hopes is nonchalance.
"Seems like there might be something still in the woods up there and-"
Dean pushes up from the chair, almost unaware he's moving in his sheer panic. "He's dead. You said he was dead," he cries, and he knows his voice is cracking with anxiety. "Dammit, Sam, you said-"
And Sam is right there, hands on Dean's shoulders. "Dean. Lee Bender is dead. Dead. I killed him myself. This is something else. Something else."
Dean is gripping Sam's forearms, can feel sweat beading a trail between his shoulders and down his spine. Sam pushes him steadily back down into the chair, and suddenly he feels exhausted, wiped. "Lee Bender is dead," he repeats, almost to himself. "Dead. You killed him. Killed him dead. Jesus. I really… I need a drink."
Sam is sitting on the bed now, speaking in reassuring tones. "Dean," he's saying. "You don't have to go. Bobby reckons he can handle it. We can sit this one out, dude."
And Christ but it's tempting, so tempting. But his vocal cords just won't cooperate. "I'm going," Dean says. "I owe her. I promised I'd be there if she ever needed help." He looks up at Sam, and from Sam over to Bobby, and he can see something in the old man's eyes, and yeah, so it might be pity but mostly it's sympathy, which he can just about tolerate if needs be.
"I know you're both worried about me," he forces out. "I know you think I'm struggling with this, and maybe I am. Sometimes. But mostly I'm fine. It's getting easier. Better. And I think this'll be good for me. Face up to it. Lay some old ghosts."
Bobby nods slowly. "Okay. Well. I told her we'd be there by tomorrow so we'll get on the road. But Dean…"
Bobby waits for Dean to look up before he goes on.
"The drinking ends. Now. Because I don't want to be relying on you for back up out there if you're loaded, and I don't want your brother put in danger by it again either." The old man's voice fractures a little as he continues. "And God knows, boy, I don't want you getting hurt or worse because you're smashed or your hands are shaking so bad you can't handle a gun."
Dean nods, feels heat flush his face because he knows damn well he put his brother at risk in Bigfork, in Valentine Bluffs and now in Punxsutawney.
And he thinks that maybe if he holds onto that thought, focuses on that responsibility he's borne for twenty years, then maybe the little green wheels won't follow him to Hibbing.
Next
Sam sits next to his brother's gurney and reads an old chewed up copy of the Reader's Digest that has one of those real-life accounts of some dumb farmer out in the heartland, and Christ, it's always Iowa, deciding it would be a really great idea to climb into his combine harvester to unjam the mechanism without switching it off first, and who then has to crawl five miles to the nearest town carrying his own severed leg in his mouth.
He suddenly thinks what a great story that could be for the next time he has to explain his brother's battered, marked hide, even tests it out. "Scars, yeah. Sucked into his combine harvester. Forgot to switch it off first, leaned in, and bam." And, you would totally do that, Dean, he thinks. You'd stand there and look at all those whirring parts and wonder what would happen if you stuck your hand in there, just a little bit, just to see-
"You're thinking out loud, dude," his brother rasps. "I so would not do that. What kind of fuckin' idiot you think I am?"
Dean shifts on the gurney, groans, and don't fucking tempt me, Sam thinks, because now the gut-cramping fear has worn off he's feeling a dull rage, the kind of anger that isn't going to end well if he gets into it with his brother now. And if he's honest, he feels worn out too, utterly depleted by his brother's sheer lack of care for himself. He takes in Dean's pallor, shadowed eyes still glazed from sleep, cuts, bruises, and wonders how the hell he can save him from anything when he maybe doesn't want to be saved.
"Where am I?" Dean croaks. "Christ." He swallows thickly, floats a hand to his neck. "Hurts. Did I detour to Heinz Field and deep throat the Steelers or something?"
"Don't joke about that," Sam spits, icy but he can't help it. "Not that."
He wonders if Dean even knows what he's said, if he knows how it's like cold, hard steel lancing through Sam's heart, because of what his brother was forced to do, just a kid with a mouth to feed. Sam's mouth, which means that when all's said and done, his brother did that for him. "You've had ten years to come to terms with that. I haven't. So don't ever joke about that."
Dean chews his split lip, winces, eyes Sam with something like caution. "I'm sorry," he says, gravel-voiced. "I didn't think."
Sam snorts. "Of course not. Why change the habit of a lifetime?" And then, because of his dull rage, "Your throat hurts because they had to stick a tube down it to pump your stomach, Dean. After your lost weekend. Care to guess how much blood was in your alcohol?" He knows his tone is scathing, sees his brother flinch slightly.
"Uh… no." Dean at least has the decency to sound subdued as he pushes up onto his elbows, winces again, reaches up and gingerly touches his cheekbone. "Christ. M'face. Nose. Tell me it isn't broken, Sam. Sam?"
Sam waits that extra few minutes, draws a sly satisfaction from the fact that Dean's eyes take on an expression of alarm that's laughable under the circumstances. Priorities ass-over-tip, as usual. "Don't worry Dean, you're still the pretty one," he says dryly. "Though I doubt the same could be said for your liver." He sees Dean relax, can't resist another dig. "But you are yellow."
"What? What the fuck?" his brother croaks. "Yellow? Why the fuck am I yellow? Is that a joke?"
"Nope, you're jaundiced. Liver gave out," Sam says, managing to inject just enough pained sympathy to make it convincing. "You're on the transplant list… probably take six months or so to find a match, so Bobby and me are heading back home while you wait it out here. They said I could donate a portion of my liver that would grow to fit you, but it's pretty complicated surgery so I passed." He whistles. "You should see yourself. Skin, whites of your eyes, even your teeth. Buttercup yellow."
Dean is gaping at him, eyes huge, mouth open, expression crestfallen. He slowly looks down at his hands and forearms, studies them. The usual tan-lite, with a smattering of freckles. He looks up, and now he's nodding slightly, lips just curling in a slow, amused smile. "Douche."
"I had you, Dean. By the balls. Admit it."
Dean flops back on the bed with a sigh. He doesn't admit it.
"The next time you throw a bender like that, Dean, you will turn yellow," Sam adds, and could kick himself as the b-word leaves his mouth.
"A bender, you say?" Dean murmurs thoughtfully.
He rubs his brow, and Sam kicks himself even harder. "I'm sorry," he says, and finds himself automatically parroting his brother's own words. "I didn't think."
He can see the irony isn't lost on Dean - his brother lets out a low snort of amusement. "Dean," Sam goes on, thinking he might as well strike while his brother just might be feeling guilty enough about his one-man keg party to open up like he did after Bigfork. "What, why… why are we here?"
Dean stares at him, seems to be evaluating him, Sam can see his brother's thought process, see something dark flit across Dean's eyes before he drags the corners of his mouth up into a pale shadow of the shit-eating grin Sam has long associated with avoidance.
"We're here, Sammy, because God saw that it was good," Dean husks, nodding wisely and regretting it if the hand that creeps up to his neck again is anything to go by.
"Genesis?" Sam says. "You're quoting the old testament at me, Dean?"
Dean shrugs. "Old testament. Big book of Jewish fairy tales. Prog rock band. Whatever takes your fancy, dude."
Sam's anger ramps back up swiftly. "Cut the crap, Dean," he snaps. "You know what I mean. Bobby said you just cut and ran. And I saw you. You froze. Why? What the hell was that? What the fuck drove you to drink so damn much you were circling the drain when we found you? Why are we here?"
He's struck a nerve, he thinks, because his brother suddenly starts drumming his fingertips on the mattress either side of himself.
"I didn't fr-"
"Yes you did, Dean. I saw you," Sam jumps in, and he sees his brother's jaw tighten. "You froze and it almost got you killed - almost got me killed too, because it totally threw me. Be honest with me, Dean, because I have had it to here. I swear I have."
He waits, sees his brother's jaw is still set, nothing forthcoming. "Dammit, Dean," he barks. "Tell me what that was, because you're compromising your safety and mine with this." He knows he's effectively browbeating his brother now, and it works because Dean blurts it out.
"What he said, that kid. He said something to me, something that…" Dean stops just as abruptly, shakes his head slightly.
Jesus, Sam thinks, it's like trying to drag a pardon out of the Governor of Texas. "Dean. Come on, man, I need more. What? What did he say?"
"Something he… Bender. Used to say. Before. Before he… turned. That I was messing with his head."
Dean's voice is so hushed it's barely audible, but Sam hears him loud and clear, sees him screw his eyes shut, and he wonders if the image in Dean's head is as vivid as the one in his: Bender flipping his dazed brother over onto his belly, fumbling with his pants, that's what you get for messin' with my head…
"It just. I didn't expect it," Dean says, still low. "Just. Took me by surprise is all. And I…" He trails off.
"Needed a drink." Sam supplies, resigned.
His brother shrugs again, looks away despondently.
"Dean. I know there must be things that, I don't know, act as triggers, I guess," Sam says. "I've read up on it. The after-effects. But getting hammered isn't the solution."
Dean looks back, smiles wanly. "You've read up on it," he echoes. "Well, what a fuckin' relief."
"Dean, I-"
"No. Just, no," Dean bites out, his voice ragged, his hand coming up to rub at his throat. "Okay? For many reasons, Sam, but mainly because I'm fine. I got drunk is all, and got in a fight. That's my coping mechanism, always has been. This is me working through it, Sam, and it doesn't always involve roadside confessions and hugs. We talked, yeah. I feel better for it and I've moved on. And all I want is to be able to have a drink without my own personal fuckin' temperance society dogging my every shot. 'Cause I sure as hell don't remember taking the pledge."
Dean pauses, clears his throat, steadies his breathing. "Now. Who the fuck am I anyway?"
And the moment is over, Sam realizes, as Dean fast forwards to the basics of waking up in hospital with faked health insurance. He keeps his voice resolutely neutral. "Richard Carpenter," he says, and he feels his deflated satisfaction from earlier balloon again when his brother throws up in his mouth.
"Richard Carpenter," Dean hisses, and he fists his hands.
Sam leans in close, smiles. "You got it. Payback's a bitch, Dick. And guess what? We've only just begun."
Dean stares back at him, scowls, and then he brightens a tad. "Richard Carpenter," he drawls, like he's trying it on for size. "Well Sammy, you know what that means…" He lets it hang for a second. "You're the Karen of the family."
Damn. Servage. So Sam belts it right back with a perfect forehand to the back of the court, acing the chalk line.
"Funny that, since you're the one who's starving himself to death."
She hates it when a plan falls apart.
The suit is waiting for her in the office when she gets back from grabbing a quick doughnut break, stands up as she moves to walk past him.
"Officer Hudak? Yes?"
Tall, built, good-looking. Has G-man written all over him.
"Yeah, what do you need?" she answers tersely.
"Agent Seeley Booth, FBI," the man says, waving his ID. "I'm here following up a couple of missing person reports you've had recently… hikers lost out in the woods. Uh…" He opens his file, starts glancing through it, so Hudak saves him the trouble.
"Wesley Schweitzer and Mara Costello. And I thought the FBI only got involved with missing persons if it was children."
"Yep, those hikers," Booth confirms. "And officer Kelley Szuba, from this department. And yes, we don't have a dedicated missing persons unit. But we get involved in cases like this as needed."
Hudak doesn't think fast enough not to double-take at that one. "To my knowledge, Kelley Szuba hasn't officially been reported missing," she says. "And I'm not aware that you are needed here, agent Boot."
He winces minutely. "Booth. It's Booth," he says patiently. "And the fact your colleague's tent and camping gear were found in the woods and she hasn't turned up would seem to suggest the worst." He pauses before going on, since she's made her irritation so abundantly clear. "Look. I'm not trying to step on your toes here. Her dad's an ex-fed and he's pulling some strings up in DC. Now, my follow-up indicates there was a spate of hiker disappearances in the woods here earlier this year, and sporadic disappearances before that going back a decade."
Well, no point in denying that. "That's correct," Hudak concedes. "This is timber wolf country, agent Booth. Hiking the woods is risky. We found remains that had been…" Jesus, how to describe them?
"We know, we had them transferred to DC day before yesterday, to the Jeffersonian. The squints there say the remains had been, uh…" The agent grimaces as he looks at his file, and Hudak has to work to stop her mouth forming a sly grin at the fact he seems he's having the same difficulty.
"From what I saw, they were well-chewed," she says evenly, pouring herself a mug of coffee. "Not much meat left on them at all, just stripped bones really, with some of the ligaments intact."
He grimaces again. Score one for Kathleen.
"Well-chewed by something that left teeth marks that weren't from wolves," Booth continues then. "This your desk?" He pulls a chair across, sits down. "They can do all sorts of things with forensics these days," he muses, pulls some photographs out of his file. "These teeth marks." He lays the photographs out on her desk, taps one of them with his pen. "They're from something else."
"Bear?"
"Not a bear."
"Wild boar?"
"Nope." He raises an eyebrow. "Not native to this state, officer. As I'm sure you know."
He's done his homework, she'll give him that. "There isn't anything else out there big enough to kill a person," she offers. "As I'm sure you know, agent Booth."
He gives her a long look, seems to be considering whether or not to spit out what's on his mind. "The earlier sporadic disappearances I mentioned," he starts, leans forward slightly and stares her right in the eye. "They included your brother. And you were involved in apprehending one Joseph P. Bender for those crimes. In fact, you shot him while making the arrest. In the face. Point blank."
Hudak nods, wishes her throat hadn't suddenly dried up. "Yes. He was trying to escape. And I shot him in self-defense, as should be clear from your files, agent Booth. Bender and his sons assaulted me. I was debriefed by a couple of agents from your Duluth field office and cleared of any wrongdoing."
Booth seems genuinely discomfited, or maybe he just fakes it really well. "Officer Hudak, I don't mean to give you the impression you're under any suspicion with regards to that, and I'm sorry if I have."
"Really? Okay." She leaves it there.
He clears his throat. "So. The Benders. Case file says the body of Jared Bender also was found at the Bender property, beaten to death with an ax… fingerprints on the weapon not matched in the FBI database, but found pretty much all over the house when it was dusted. UNSUB is still at large." He looks up. "Your report says you left both Bender brothers alive and secured while you went to call for back up and that you were attacked and knocked out while doing so. Lee Bender, the older brother, has not been seen since then. Which is right about the time these disappearances started up in the spring, and the remains of Kendall and Carson Lang were found in the woods, by yourself. And of course, the whereabouts of the other hikers is still unknown."
Hudak nods, cool, calm, collected on the outside, but her mind is frantically backtracking, trying to visualize what she wrote, because she's suddenly finding out it's damned true that lies trap you, that they're so utterly forgettable, that it's so easy to paint yourself into a corner when you haven't been entirely on the level. And then, just for a second and totally out of the blue, she wonders why Booth hasn't mentioned the kid. And she remembers what Swenson said: about how he hadn't even known there was a kid sister, and despite everything that happened she feels a horrified sadness at the fact that no one even knew of the girl's existence, and the kid never really had a chance.
Booth taps his pen on the desk again, brings her back to reality.
"We conducted searches for Bender, but we never tracked him down," she says. "Your colleagues in Duluth didn't show up until the remains were found. So we were searching with very limited manpower. By the time we got any help with it, we assumed Bender had either moved on or died out there." She thinks that maybe there are some advantages to being thought of as stupid hicks by the feds, that maybe this particular fed won't labor the point too excessively if he thinks the piss-poor Bender search was just a snafu perpetrated by a bunch of yokels who wouldn't know a serial killer if he introduced himself as Mr Bundy and asked to borrow a hammer.
"Okay," Booth picks up. "Well, as you know, various remains found at the Bender property suggest there was, uh, cannibalism going on there. The bones we have at the Jeffersonian… as well as the, uh, not-wolf-not-bear-not-boar teeth marks, they also have human teeth marks on them, officer. And I'm really sorry if this is difficult for you. With your brother and everything. I know his car was found at the Bender place."
Hudak trains her features into a rigid mask and stares into space. "It was a long time ago."
"We think Bender's still out there," Booth is saying now, from somewhere far away. "We think he killed his brother and the Langs, the other hikers too, probably. And that he's responsible for these latest disappearances."
He's not the bad guy, Hudak knows. But she can't help flipping back to what Bobby Singer said on the phone about not getting back out of the woods alive. Booth is a young guy, early thirties or so by all appearances. She knows this is leading inexorably towards a team of feds, Booth probably included, going in there and maybe never being seen again. She has Kelley Szuba's digital camera in her desk drawer, spied it in the undergrowth fifteen minutes before she and Conrad stumbled across Szuba's deserted campsite, still doesn't know why she picked it up and pocketed it without saying anything when Conrad's back was turned. Some sixth sense perhaps.
It's like Booth reads her mind because he suddenly glances over at Szuba's desk, sees her nameplate, sees the photographs pinned on her corkboard, and his face comes alive. "Your colleague, Kelley Szuba. Her dad says she hiked the woods all the time. She take those pictures there?"
She can see the calculating look in his eyes, can see him adding it all up, and she suddenly thinks maybe that's what makes the difference between being stuck here in Frigid, Minnesota, and being a G-Man working out of DC - the ability to jump from nameplate to pictures to a camera that might possibly have photographs on it if Szuba had it with her in the woods, photographs of whatever is responsible for her vanishing off the face of the earth. If they can find the camera at the campsite. And looking for it means a team of feds, Booth probably included, going in there and maybe never being seen again.
Christ. Because the thing Kelley Szuba photographed a split-second before she dropped her camera isn't a wolf, or a bear, or a boar. It isn't anything thus far found in nature.
And handing over the camera means a team of feds, Booth probably included, going in there and maybe never being seen again.
Booth is unfolding a map now, laying it across Hudak's desk. "Your colleague, officer Beck… he pinpointed Kelley Szuba's campsite as being about two klicks in from the trailhead, in a north-easterly direction."
Klick, Hudak notes. Ex-military.
"Officer Hudak?"
He would have to speak to Conrad first.
"Sounds about right," she says.
Fuck.
The doctor they spoke to isn't too happy at Dean checking out AMA, but is considerate enough to take Sam to one side as his brother wobbles about getting dressed.
"Word of warning," she says. "No painkillers of any kind when he's drinking or hungover - the combination could cause a gastrointestinal bleed or liver failure, both if he's really unlucky." She glances over at Dean. "You never know," she continues, not unsympathetically. "Perhaps the inevitable head after the night before might give him pause to think about what he's doing. Sometimes it can be that simple."
And that's pretty much it: Dean is officially released back into the wild, and not remotely impressed at being relegated to the back seat of Bobby's truck. "Those guys jacked my weed," he grouses, rifling through his pockets as they pull into the motel parking lot.
Bobby snorts loudly. "If you scored some weed and they took it, they were doing you a favor," he snaps as they exit the cab. "Just like they were doing you a favor when they didn't beat the living shit out of you and didn't call the cops when you were laying in the dirt. With your weed. And your gun. And your fingerprints. And your rap sheet."
Dean scowls, strides ahead, shoulders slumped, and Sam ranges up alongside Bobby. "Are we going to tell him Hudak called?" he asks, quiet so his brother can't hear. It's the first chance he's had to mention it, the first time he's even thought about it since Dean came round.
"Don't see how we can avoid it," Bobby says, slowing to a crawl. "She said she'd left a couple of messages on his cell, so unless you can get hold of it and erase them he'll find out himself anyway."
They both shoot a quick look over to where Dean is leaning on the motel room door, hands in his pockets, gazing down at his boots, miles away.
"I'm in two minds about it," Bobby continues. "I can go and deal with this thing myself, but I think we both know he isn't going to like being left out of the equation. He owes her. Thing is, taking him along could make him or break him. Could be just what he needs to clear this out of his system once and for all… being back there, being face to face with it in the woods where it all went down. But he's a mess. Will he cope?"
Sam thinks about the puck hunt, his brother's sheer energy, his zest. "He was totally different on the hunt in Montana, and when we were tracking Hanniger, despite what happened afterwards," he ventures. "It's like he came alive."
"So you vote to take him?"
Sam sighs. "Jesus. I don't know. But he can't stay where he is. This limbo he's in… he has to get out of it, Bobby, one way or the other."
Bobby nods slowly. "Okay. We'll talk to him. You never know, he might not even want to go. But I can tell you one thing kid - if he does go, it's on my terms. And that means no booze. I'm talking prohibition, Sam, and I need to know you'll back me up if it gets nasty with your brother."
Sam thinks about what Dean said, about his coping mechanism, knows it's a pile of steaming horseshit just like he knew it was when the words left his brother's lips. He nods. "One hundred percent, Bobby. He'd do it for me even if I fought him every step of the way."
Dean's waving over at them now, shuffling about. "What are you two chinwagging about?" he hollers throatily. "I need some caffeine. Hurry it up."
Sam roots out the room key, turns to make his way towards his brother, and Bobby reaches out to snag his arm. And then he reaches into his pocket, surreptitiously pulls out a baggie, shakes it.
"Is that the uppers?" Sam whispers, and his heart sinks, because he's totally forgotten that conversation is on the cards too.
"No, son, actually it isn't, although I will no doubt be tackling that with your brother once he misses them," Bobby says, his eyes darkening. He opens the bag, holds it out to Sam.
He peers in. "What is that?" he murmurs. "Is that peyote? Jesus, has he-"
"It isn't peyote, kid," Bobby says, glances in at the contents himself. "Though now you mention it, it does look like peyote." He shoves the baggie back in his pocket. "Remember what the doc back there said about stuff they give to alcoholics that can make them sick if they drink any liquor?"
"Yeah… Antabuse," Sam says, even as he feels his gut twitch at the way Bobby so casually drops the accusation of alcoholism into the conversation. "I had a friend at college who took it for his drinking." He's mystified now, furrows his brow. "That's not Antabuse."
"Nope. Coprinopsis atramentaria," Bobby says. "Ink cap mushrooms. Edible and totally safe. Unless consumed with alcohol, in which case they make you sick as a sick thing. Those of us in the know call it tippler's bane. Found a convenient patch of them growing under the hedge just over there."
Sam gapes. "Jesus, Bobby. Are you sure it's safe? And do you think it's really necessary?"
Bobby puts the baggie back in his vest pocket. "It isn't pleasant, but it hasn't killed anyone yet. And believe me, I'm hoping it ain't gonna be necessary. But if it is, I will have no problem with sneaking him some of these. So, Sam…" And he repeats what he said before, slowly, carefully, meaningfully. "I need to know you'll back me up if it gets nasty with your brother."
Dean is expecting some sort of blow up now they're back at the motel, though he doesn't know whose prospective rage bothers him most. He weighs it up in his mind: Sam's toxic-teen sulk, pained tolerance and agonized glances of sheer hurt, compared to Bobby's grizzly bear with its paw caught in a gin trap.
But - nothing. Sam boots up Bobby's laptop, starts tapping away as Bobby starts packing his duffel. Dean sits and watches them, senses it's a forced calm, the lull before the storm.
"Problem?" Bobby inquires blandly.
As neutral as Bobby's tone is, it startles Dean in the quiet. "No sir," he cracks out sharply, in his best US Marines Private Winchester reporting for latrine duty, sir-yes-sir, and jiggles his leg.
"Only you look worried," the old man says. "Like the prodigal son having just rung the doorbell. Something you need to talk about, kid?"
Kid. That's a good sign.
"I just. I. Need a drink." Dean slithers the words out, muffled, like maybe it'll make a difference, gets up and reaches towards the table for his car keys.
"Sit your ass back on that chair," Bobby says, still amiable. "Right now."
"But I need a-"
"Son, you need a drink like Custer needed more fuckin' injuns!" Bobby barks, the easy tone gone, the decibel level skyrocketing, the words dipped in poison and zipping at Dean so fast and hard and unexpected it's like they came from a blowpipe.
Sam is sitting just beyond Bobby, hunched over, and Dean sees him straighten up, sees his shoulders square and go rigid, and Christ, even the back of his brother's head is pissed off with him.
He sits back down stiffly, chews his split lip because his whole body is trembling slightly now and his mouth is dry, and he really, really, needs a drink, needs that shot of confidence, that comforting warmth, the lassitude that starts in his belly and blooms out to his toes and the tips of his fingers somewhere around the third or fourth shot, that spaced-out high that sends the knot of anxiety that exists permanently smack-bang between his eyes miles away, out to the Nome, Alaska of his brain.
He sits in nervous silence for a couple of minutes. "So," he husks out feebly, once he's reasonably sure Bobby isn't about to take a swing at him. "What am I looking at here, guys? The Betty Ford clinic?"
Nothing.
"Sam?"
Still no reaction, and Jesus, Dean feels about as popular as a pork chop at a fuckin' synagogue, feels nauseous even. "Guys?" he says again, uncertainly, and he can feel his throat constricting painfully, his chest clenching, feel this wave of raw, hopeless misery start to engulf him. "I'm not a drunk," he mutters. "I'm just letting off steam. Is all. Working things out. In my head."
Bobby still doesn't say anything, looks hard at Dean for a long minute, his expression unreadable. And then he smiles the smile of a man who sure as heck isn't smiling on the inside. "Got a call from Kathleen Hudak," he says.
All at once those stretched-out moments, the strained silence, the tension that was so palpable Dean felt its shadow on his face, lift. "Yeah?" he mutters, schooling his voice into what he hopes is nonchalance.
"Seems like there might be something still in the woods up there and-"
Dean pushes up from the chair, almost unaware he's moving in his sheer panic. "He's dead. You said he was dead," he cries, and he knows his voice is cracking with anxiety. "Dammit, Sam, you said-"
And Sam is right there, hands on Dean's shoulders. "Dean. Lee Bender is dead. Dead. I killed him myself. This is something else. Something else."
Dean is gripping Sam's forearms, can feel sweat beading a trail between his shoulders and down his spine. Sam pushes him steadily back down into the chair, and suddenly he feels exhausted, wiped. "Lee Bender is dead," he repeats, almost to himself. "Dead. You killed him. Killed him dead. Jesus. I really… I need a drink."
Sam is sitting on the bed now, speaking in reassuring tones. "Dean," he's saying. "You don't have to go. Bobby reckons he can handle it. We can sit this one out, dude."
And Christ but it's tempting, so tempting. But his vocal cords just won't cooperate. "I'm going," Dean says. "I owe her. I promised I'd be there if she ever needed help." He looks up at Sam, and from Sam over to Bobby, and he can see something in the old man's eyes, and yeah, so it might be pity but mostly it's sympathy, which he can just about tolerate if needs be.
"I know you're both worried about me," he forces out. "I know you think I'm struggling with this, and maybe I am. Sometimes. But mostly I'm fine. It's getting easier. Better. And I think this'll be good for me. Face up to it. Lay some old ghosts."
Bobby nods slowly. "Okay. Well. I told her we'd be there by tomorrow so we'll get on the road. But Dean…"
Bobby waits for Dean to look up before he goes on.
"The drinking ends. Now. Because I don't want to be relying on you for back up out there if you're loaded, and I don't want your brother put in danger by it again either." The old man's voice fractures a little as he continues. "And God knows, boy, I don't want you getting hurt or worse because you're smashed or your hands are shaking so bad you can't handle a gun."
Dean nods, feels heat flush his face because he knows damn well he put his brother at risk in Bigfork, in Valentine Bluffs and now in Punxsutawney.
And he thinks that maybe if he holds onto that thought, focuses on that responsibility he's borne for twenty years, then maybe the little green wheels won't follow him to Hibbing.
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