Jacob's Ladder (SPN fic)
Jacob’s Ladder
It started when Dean slammed his finger in the Impala's trunk.
"Drat," he said, examining his bruised nail. "Goshdarnit."
Goshdarnit? Sam tipped his head. Had someone been watching too much Leave it to Beaver again?
Sure, it seemed a little weird, but not enough to say anything. Dean was rubbing his temples as they crossed the parking lot towards the restaurant, but he seemed cheerful enough, bumping his shoulder against Sam's as they crowded into the booth.
Things were fine.
They found a table and sat down. Dean was surprisingly respectful of the blonde waitress who lingered at their table, even though she was obviously ready to be flirted with. "I think we're good here, Miss," he said after she'd taken their order. "Unless Sam, you want anything else?"
"No," said Sam, blinking. "I'm good."
Well, it wasn't so out of character; Dean had toned it down, since Lisa - hell, since that first Armageddon. Maybe he just wasn't in the mood.
She left, and Dean whistled softly to himself, pattering out a drum solo on the side of the table.
"You're chipper," Sam noted.
"It's a beautiful day to be alive, Sammy."
So Dean was feeling happy - that wasn't cause for concern, really, was it? Things weren't so bad that a good mood was cue to whip out the holy water.
Come to think of it, he'd been pretty perky for the past few weeks.
They ate quickly, barely talking, Dean stealing fries from Sam's plate. They were on a hunt, but a nice old-fashioned one, lots of research and a salt-and-burn in the near future, nothing apocalyptic about it. Just a pissed-off spirit in a South Carolina manor house, nothing they couldn't handle.
Dean seemed totally normal when they were back in the Impala, talking his usual nonsense to her, flipping through the radio stations with his typical enthusiasm, humming along to the songs he liked. Maybe he really was just feeling unusually cheerful?
He did reach for the duffel as soon as they pulled up at the motel, rummaging for the bottle of painkillers they kept on top and dry-swallowing one.
"Your finger hurting?" asked Sam, watching him.
"Nah. Headache." Dean drummed along to Bad Company without any apparent ill effects. He seemed to be having a lot of headaches, this past month. But that wasn't particularly surprising, with the amount they drank, and the stress of hunting.
He was still humming as they unloaded the bags into the room, fumbling at the lock with the key-card with apparent good humor, snorting a little to himself when it finally opened. Then he settled at one on the bed and took up a book. Sam opened the lap top and sat across from him, frowning.
They had quickly determined that the hauntings were most likely coming from a little-known slave cemetery on the property; generations of misery could pack quite the punch in the afterlife. "'Jacob Williams,'" read Sam, now, aloud. "'Died on the property after his wife and son were sold upriver.' Sounds like a good candidate … would explain why he targets the father last."
"'S sad," Dean commented, looking genuinely sympathetic. "Poor guy."
"Um, yeah … I guess?" It wasn't like Dean to empathize with murderous ghosts.
"Ouch," said Dean suddenly, leaning forward. "Headache's back. Phooey."
"Okay, what's with the baby talk?" said Sam, rummaging in the duffel for Advil, wordlessly handing it over. Dean shook three into his palm, then hesitated and put one back. He swallowed the recommended dose.
"Huh?"
"'Phoeey'? what's next, 'dagnamit'?"
"S'not nice to swear, Sammy," said Dean, shrugging as if this was something he'd said - or heard - many times before. Which was weird, because John Winchester had been a creative and reckless curser, not exactly the kind of guy to hold back just because there were kids around.
Sam rolled his eyes. "Whatever."
They headed out as soon as it was dark, packing the shovels and the rock-salt shotgun. It took them several hours of searching to find the scattering of tiny, hand-carved head stones in a weedy patch of grass behind the wreck of what had probably been slave quarters.
"Man, it just doesn't seem fair," said Dean, examining the nearest stone. "Any one of these guys has a pretty justified beef with the family that owns the manor."
"Yeah well, I'm thinking it's time for Jacob to move on," said Sam, lighting up the graves with his flashlight one by one. "Here, Dean - it's here."
They dug in silence, Dean taking the lion's share of the work while Sam held the flashlight and the shotgun. Finally, in the crumbled dust of what had probably been a pine box, they found the brittle remains of Jacob Williams. The skeleton was curled in on itself, as if in reproach, the skull cradled in disjointed hands.
For once, it was an easy burn. Nothing bothered them as they sprinkled the salt and the lighter fluid: Sam lit a match, and they heard a distant scream as the grave caught fire. It died out when the last bone collapsed into ash.
Sam glanced up to find Dean, with his eyes closed, muttering something under his breath. Sam wasn't close enough to hear him before he looked up, gave a half-smile, and reached for the shovel to start filling in the hole.
Sam joined in, eager to be done and get back to the motel.
When it was done, Dean tidied up the mound of earth, and for a moment they stood together over the grave. Sam was impatient to get going, but Dean didn't seem to be in any hurry. He gently knocked the dust off the headstone with the back of the shovel.
"Dude, what?" said Sam.
Dean wiped his face with the back of his hand. "Nothing, man. Was just thinking how much I miss dad."
Sam turned in astonishment and found Dean with tears in his eyes, not enough to trickle down over his cheeks but enough to make his lashes sparkling wet.
Sam couldn't remember the last time Dean even mentioned their father.
Dean turned his face into Sam's shoulder, wordlessly requesting the comfort that Sam had forgotten to offer him until then, and he lurched into action too late, wrapping one awkward arm around Dean's back. "Jeez - uh, alright, man, alright, calm down. It's alright, dude. Jeez." He thumped him heartily between the shoulder blades.
Dean wiped his face on Sam's jacket - and, ew - and then pulled back. "Thanks, Sam," he said, his voice husky. "I just … I just really miss him, sometimes." Dean sniffed audibly and rubbed his forehead. "Alright. C'mon, let's get back."
Sam trailed after him back to the car, his mind buzzing, trying to figure out what could be causing the changes in his brother. So far the only symptoms of the - curse? (Sam decided he would be calling it a curse until he found a better explanation) seemed to be that Dean was more in touch with his feelings. Also he seemed somewhat more affectionate, happier. Those were really weird symptoms for a witch to have cast.
They were quiet in the car, Sam still stunned, Dean humming softly under his breath.
Sam listened closely: Ave, Maria.
"Christo," whispered Sam. There was no effect. Somehow, he wasn't surprised; that would be too easy.
They stumbled into the motel room together, Dean immediately working his boots off with a sigh of relief. It wasn't even that late, maybe 10 pm: after a successful hunt like tonight, Dean would usually be reaching for a flask right now, maybe heading for the bar. But he didn't seem to be doing anything other than relaxing on the bed.
Sam opened the laptop and typed hexes, personality changes into the search bar. "You feeling okay, dude?" he asked carefully.
Dean sat up, looked surprised. "Yeah, Sammy, I'm good. Why?"
"You just seem a little … off."
Usually Dean bristled at any insinuation that he wasn't fine - his favorite word - Dean was fine even if he was missing a limb or two. But instead of his usual protests, he seemed to stop and think about it.
"I am a little tired?" he offered, finally. "Maybe I should turn in early."
Sam glanced at the clock. 10:15. "Yeah?"
"Yeah, I'm beat, dude. Think I'm gonna settle in for the night." Dean acted as if, you know, he admitted personal weaknesses all the time.
Sam searched his face, but there was no sign that Dean even registered that anything was wrong. "Okay, sure," he said finally. "You take a nap, man, I'll try to keep it down. You gonna be okay if I keep the lights on?"
"Sure, Sammy, no problem." Dean heaved himself up and patted Sam's shoulder affectionately as he passed, heading into the bathroom to shower and change.
Sam turned back to the computer and began scanning the pages.
Dean came back in about ten minutes, damp and pink from the shower, dressed in his boxers. And then, in front of God and everyone, he dropped to his knees at the side of the bed, closed his eyes, and bent his head, muttering under his breath.
Then he got up and pulled back the sheets as if nothing had happened.
"Dude, did you just say bedtime prayers?"
"Shut up," said Dean, rolling over to bury his face in the pillow. "Sleep now." He was rubbing his temples again, pulling the blankets up over his head.
Sam waited to the count of twenty, then ducked into the bathroom to place a surreptitious call. His hands were shaking as he dialed.
"Something wrong with Dean?" asked Bobby, as soon as he picked up. It was pretty much the only reason Sam called these days, after the whole soulless almost-slitting-your-throat situation.
"It's totally weird, Bobby," said Sam, pouring out the whole story. "The crying, the prayers - you think it sounds like a curse or something?"
"I don't know what to tell you, Sam. Nothing you're saying seems to raise any flags for me. I mean, he got a little emotional. And Dean's always been pretty spiritual," said Bobby, sounding confused. "Right? I mean, he's the one who was always dragging us to church when you were kids."
"What?" As far as Sam knew, Dean had only been in church to steal holy water.
"Kinda sounds like you're the one who's off here."
Sam hung up.
For a while he paced in the bathroom, his mind racing. What kind of spell could affect someone as far away as Bobby? And why wasn’t he infected, himself?
Sam wished they could hit the road, now, see if proximity to the town was making any difference. But Dean was already asleep, and Sam was tired too, surprisingly enough. His head was aching dully. He felt weighed down and anxious, and it was hard even to think straight - way too late to start researching something with symptoms as vague as relaxation and good humor. He'd have to turn in and start fresh in the morning, figure this whole thing out then.
He went back to the beds and checked on Dean, who was resting normally, breathing deep and even. Cautiously, he took a pulse - normal - and brushed his knuckles over his brother’s forehead. No fever. Dean slept placidly on under his inspection, face untroubled. That was weird, too.
Sam sank into the other bed and closed his eyes, trying not to think about it anymore tonight. For a long time he dozed in and out, until finally he sank into proper sleep.
The devil was waiting for him.
He wasn’t even able to scream as he was chopped into smaller and smaller pieces, and it wasn't real, please God don't let it be real, please, God -
"Sam! Sammy, wake up for me, little bro." That was Dean's voice, and Sam opened his eyes to see his brother's worried face, staring down at him. "Shh, I gotcha, I gotcha. Think you were having a nightmare, dude. Alright?"
Dean hauled him up into a sitting position and immediately slotted himself in next to Sam, one of his arms going tight around Sam's shoulders to draw him in to Dean's chest.
Wrong, this was wrong. Whatever Chuck's fangirls might like to believe, Dean was not in the habit of climbing into Sam's bed. Sam shook his head, but his eyelids were drooping, trying to force themselves closed. "Wha'?" he croaked.
"S'alright, alright now, Sammy." Dean's voice was deep, gentle, fingers stroking through Sam's hair. "It's still early. Go back to sleep." He pressed a kiss to Sam's hairline, dry and sweet. Sam was so startled that he froze, which apparently did nothing to discourage Dean from planting another one, soft against his temple.
This wasn't right. It wasn't that Dean didn't take care of him - he did, better than anyone in the world - but Dean wasn't physically demonstrative. He followed the John Winchester rules of masculinity - no hugging, no talking: just selling your soul without a word to prove you loved someone.
Sam wanted to stop everything right here, say what the fuck, dude, but somehow it wasn't possible - he was so tired, his eyes barely staying open, even before Dean pulled the blankets up, muttering low and comforting in his ear. "Go back to sleep, Sammy."
Dean even smelled different, like earth and sandalwood, a cleaner, woodsier scent than Sam was used to.
Half-asleep and half-awake, Sam drifted in the warmth, aware that Dean was still talking, almost under his breath, one of his hands still buried in Sam's hair, scratching gently at his scalp. He tried to listen to what he was saying, but it barely seemed to make any sense:
"An' then this dude Jacob, he leaves his father-in-law's house and heads back to the fields of Edom. I know, just like the cheese, right? So he's heading back, and he hears that Esau's got like an army or something heading towards him."
Dean wasn't much of a storyteller, never had been - all of Sam's fairytales had featured Batman and the Thundercats, growing up.
"So Jacob splits up the camp, you know, totally freaking out, and he sends ahead a bunch of sheep or goats or whatever, trying to buy his brother off." Dean pauses to adjust their position, settling Sam’s forehead into the notch of his shoulder.
"But you know, the Big Dude already told him, you know, like, that his kids will be all 'as the sand of the sea' or whatever. Right? 'which can't be numbered for their multitude.'" Dean lingered over the words as if they were familiar.
Sam grunted, wanting to stop him, needing to ask him a question, but Dean tucked him in tighter and continued, gruff and low:
"So I don't remember the next part so good, cuz Cas said it didn't happen this way, but whatever, Jacob like wrestles an angel or something? Right, makes no sense. I know. Clearly he'd get his ass handed to him. Whatever. The point is, this dude finally runs into his brother face to face, and Esau's not even mad at him, after all that."
Dean was silent for a second, wondering.
"Instead Esau runs out to meet him and gives him a hug, tells him he can keep his stupid goats or whatever. Says he has his brother and he's happy with that. S'cool, right?"
Tomorrow, thought Sam, tomorrow he was going to figure this out. But for now Dean's voice was rambling on, and Sam let himself lose the flow of the story, and in spite of himself, he slept.
But in the morning Dean had made coffee and fetched breakfast before Sam even woke up, and he watched Sam sit up with even more than his usual intense concern.
"You feelin' any better?" he asked.
Sam nodded dumbly.
"Seemed like a bad one, last night," he said, his voice nothing but low and caring. "Was it about hell?"
As if he didn't know that Winchesters never talked about that. As if they ever acknowledged it had happened.
"Yeah," muttered Sam, embarrassed. "Sorry."
"Dude, it's alright. I'm here for you, you know that." Dean patted his shoulder, pushing an Egg McMuffin into his hands.
"Dean, where did you hear that story, the one you told me last night?"
Dean blinked, apparently thinking back. "Jacob and Esau?" he asked, cocking his head. "S'in the Bible, dude."
Sam tried and failed to imagine Dean, pouring through the Gideon tomes from the top drawer of their hotel rooms. "Yeah?" he probed.
Dean rubbed at his temples, reaching automatically for the painkillers they kept by the bed for hangovers. "It's just something Cas used to tell me," he added, guilelessly.
Well, that was possible, Sam supposed; he was guessing there were lots of late-night conversations he hadn't been privy to.
It did seem damn weird that Dean would mention Cas, since he'd been avoiding that topic just like he avoided every subject that made him uncomfortable. Like hell. Or Lisa and Ben. Ellen and Jo, Dad, the fact that Sam had started the apocalypse …
Dean reached for the other Egg McMuffin and unwrapped it, but instead of stuffing it directly into his mouth, he paused over it with his eyes closed, lips moving wordlessly. Sam leaned close enough to hear the almost soundless whisper, which we are about to receive, Amen.
When he was finished, he raised the sandwich as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.
"Dude," said Sam. "You're praying again."
Dean took a bite. "Whah?" Clearly his table manners were not among the affected traits. Dean swallowed, reached for the coke. "S'good to be thankful for what you're given, Sammy." The way he said it, it sounded like he was quoting someone, like he expected Sam to catch the reference - but Sam couldn't think who might have ever said that to them.
"Dude, you just prayed. Over a burger. Who are you even praying to?"
Dean seemed puzzled by Sam's confusion. "To the Big Guy," he said, as if it should be obvious.
But before Sam could speak again, Dean flinched, as though he'd been subjected to electric shock, and bent forward, reaching for his temples. "Shoot, my head," he moaned.
"Dean? Dean!" Sam darted forward to pull him up before he slid off the chair. "You okay? Dean? You hearin' me?"
"Sorry, Sammy," said Dean, pawing at his tee shirt. "Felt a bit like I was struck blind on the road to Damascus, there." He blinked, cautiously, sat up, licking his lips. "Think it's okay now."
He stood up cautiously, one hand resting warm on Sam's shoulder.
"Seriously, dude, what's with all the biblical references?" asked Sam, gripping his upper arm. His heart was pounding in his chest. Whatever was happening to Dean, it was getting worse, and fast.
Dean blinked. "What, Damascus? Cas told us that one, dude, that night in Missoula."
"What?"
Sam could only remember being in Missoula one time, and it was a miserable night in December when the heat went out and their father was two days late back from a hunt. He remembered that Dean had finally built a tent out of the bedclothes to trap the heat, and they'd huddled together beneath it, slept sitting up.
"Yeah, remember?" Dean squinted at him. His eyes were blodshoot and red. "Sam." He looked around. "Sam ... where's Cas?"
Sam lurched to his feet. "What?"
When Dean went down, he went down hard, clutching his head as his legs went out from under him and he dropped to his knees on the dirty carpet.
"Dean!" Sam hurtled the distance between them, grabbing his brother's shoulders before he face-planted. "Dean, man, talk to me, what's wrong?"
"S'my head, Sammy," said Dean, sounding dazed as he squinted up at Sam with his hands clutching his temples. "My head hurts so bad …"
Oh god, thought Sam, frantic as he clutched his brother against his side. Could this be some neurological thing? Stroke, aneurism? Dean had had enough head injuries, in his day: were all these symptoms - the personality changes, the headaches - symptoms of some kind of medical thing?
"Dean, man, I think we gotta get to the hospital," said Sam, his fingers already reaching for the phone on the table.
"Wanna lay down," said Dean, his voice rough and small. "Help me get to the bed."
Sam's free hand went to his neck, which seemed to have trouble supporting the weight of his head, and cupped it gently, helping him keep eye contact. "I think we gotta go, man."
Dean honest-to-God whimpered, and Sam took a page out of Dean's recent playbook, stroking a hand over his short, spikey hair.
"Feels good," Dean slurred, letting his head rest in the cradle of Sam's massive palm. "Like Cas used to do."
Sam blinked. Sure, he hadn't been with them every second of the day, but he couldn't remember Cas ever petting Dean like this. He couldn't remember them touching much at all.
"Gotta wait for Cas," Dean mumbled. “He’ll fix this.”
"Dean, Cas is -" dead, Sam started to say, biting it off at the tip of his tongue. If Dean was delirious, there was no sense in upsetting by blurting out something like that. But how could he forget that - the door to purgatory opening, the Leviathan?
Dean was still rambling: "Always comes when we need him. Used to make me feel better," muttered Dean, closing his eyes. "Remember?"
Sam tapped Dean's cheek, trying to help him focus. "Man, what? What about Cas?"
"Watched out for us. Used to tell us stories."
Nothing was making any sense. "When, Dean?" He asked, carefully keeping his voice even. "When did Cas used to do this?"
"When we were kids," said Dean.
Sam almost dropped him.
"Oh yeah," he asked, trying to sound casual. "Cas used to come visit?"
"All the time," said Dean.
For just a second, in a flash, Sam caught a glimpse of an alternate history, one he could almost remember: Castiel, listening to Dean talk about his day at school, with baby Sammy on his lap. Cas, his adoring eyes fixed on Dean's childish face. The grown-ups couldn't see him, but he was real, telling them old stories in the night when John wasn't there, making them feel safe.
Then a rocketing bolt of pain shot through Sam's head, as though his skull would split, and he almost screamed, clutching his temples.
Not real. It wasn't real.
“S’m?” garbled Dean.
"Come on, man," managed Sam, wrapping Dean's heavy arm over his shoulder. "Gonna get you to the bed, bro. Here we go."
How long, thought Sam, heart ice-cold with fear. How long had Castiel been altering Dean's memories, changing the timeline? At first it might not have made any impact, or not enough to notice, but how long before Sam could notice the difference in adult Dean's personality?
Dean went with him willingly, biting off a moan as they got to their feet together. Sam shepherded him over to the bed and helped him lie back, rearranging the blankets around him, fussing over the position of his head. "How's that? Any better?"
"Hurts, Sammy," Dean whispered.
"It's gonna be alright," said Sam helplessly, "You can sleep it off. You want some more Tylenol, huh? You want Vicodin?"
Dean didn't answer, his eyes glazed, staring at some point Sam couldn't see. "Cas," he muttered. "Missed you, buddy."
He slumped back against the pillows, his face gentle and slack. For the first time, Sam noticed the blood at his ears, sliding down his neck.
"Dean?" asked Sam, hardly daring to breathe. "Dean, can you hear me?"
He didn't react, didn't flicker.
Sam staggered away from the bed, terrified, trying to think straight. Castiel, trapped in the past, like some kind of shadow of himself -
He stumbled to the door and threw it open, barely made it outside before he dropped to his knees. He forced himself to close his eyes, folding his hands in his lap, forced himself to look down.
"Cas," he stammered. "Castiel, please stop. Something's wrong. You're killing him here, in our time. Please, Cas, stop."
He didn't know why he could still remember, long after Dean forgot - didn't know why things were changing at different rates. But it was clear that the rapidly-altering timeline was killing his brother - that somehow being the nexus of so many changes was more than a human mind could handle.
So he concentrated, hoping somehow that a prayer could still reach through time, could still find an angel, or whatever was left of him after his vessel was gone. "God, Please."
There was no answer.
He knelt in the glow of the streetlamps, in front of the open door, gradually aware of the tears streaming down his cheeks. His next step was calling 911 and his family didn't always come back from hospitals.
And how fucked up was this, that the one thing that had ever made Dean feel any better, the one source of comfort he had ever found, was killing him? That him being happier than Sam had seen him since they were kids was just a sign something was wrong?
"Please, Cas," he begged, on last time. Then he forced himself back to his feet, knees groaning in protest, and swung around back to the room, hurrying to the bedside.
Dean was still lying back against the pillows, but he was no longer limp. He was sweating, face tight with pain - but awake.
"Dean. Dean, hey." Sam sank on to the bed next to him, reaching for his arm to shake him. "Dean."
Dean startled and shrugged away from the touch, and that was the first sign to Sam that he was really back to normal. Sam could barely swallow back a sob - even half-conscious, his brother rejected any attempt at comfort. Dean only knew two kinds of contact, painful and sexual, and wasn't that just a depressing thought.
But it wasn't quite true, Sam recalled suddenly. He slid his hand to Dean's meaty shoulder. This was how their father had touched them - that warm clasp, instead of a hug.
Dean relaxed at the touch, turning his face towards Sam without opening his pinched eyes. "S'mmy?"
Sam squeezed again and left his hand there. "Yeah, Dean, it's me. How you feelin'?"
"Like somebody ran over my head with a backhoe," Dean gritted out. "What the hell happened?"
"What do you remember?"
"The manor house," said Dean. "Jacob Williams. Did - did something happen? Demon?"
Sam calculated quickly. If Castiel had heard his prayer and reversed his appearances in Dean's childhood, the timeline might have already been reset. Maybe nobody but Sam would remember anything.
"You'll be alright, dude," Sam soothed. "I'll tell you all about it when you wake up."
At least Cas was out there, somewhere, right? Maybe trapped in the past, less than what he used to be, but at least he was alive. Maybe he'd eventually work up the strength to make the jump back to the present.
Sam was pretty sure he knew somebody who missed him, kind of a lot.
"Feel like shit," said Dean.
"Yeah," said Sam, sitting next to him on the bed. He let his hand drop to the general area of Dean's knee. Dean didn't move away, and he gave it a reassuring pat. "I know, man. I know."
FIN