Skies Grown Darker, 3/6 (SPN, Gen)

[parenthetical]

Title: Skies Grown Darker (Part 3 of 6)
Rating: R
Pairing: Gen
Beta: Thank you to my darling zooey_glass04, who, in addition to beta-reading this in record time, also gently reminded me that sometimes semicolons need to be allowed to grow up and fly the nest as full colons. You rock my world, dear.
Notes: Spoilers up to 2.04 only. I disclaim everything.
Summary: Set following 2.04 - Children Shouldn't Play With Dead Things. Dean and Sam try to find a way to move on, but some things can't be outrun. Gen.

Chapter One, Chapter Two

Chapter Three

His father's face twisted into a heated sneer, gold glinting in his eyes as he looms too close.

Numb where he's bound to the tree, and the moment of shock and joy and relief when Sam suddenly appears.

Sammy holding his first hunting knife, curved and sharp, light glinting along the blade.

A storm of memories was flooding through him, each one sharp and bright and real. Dean ricocheted from one to another, no logic or sense to it, unable to get his bearings.

It seemed to go on forever, and Dean could do nothing but let the tide take him.

Smoke all around and an acrid taste in his mouth, and he runs, cradling the baby tightly.

Working out the dents in the Impala's bodywork, slow and careful.

Fury and determination and grief in Sam's face as he says "Watch me."

Eventually the chaos in his mind dimmed enough for Dean to become tangentially aware that a world still existed outside of his suddenly overpowering memories. Slowly, he realised that he was lying down, curled up tightly around himself, and that every muscle in his body was protesting. Trying to straighten out proved to be a mistake, though, as the nausea hit him hard and fast, along with a memory of the shit he'd drunk for that ritual, vivid as if he were swallowing it that moment, and okay, he was going to throw up right now.

He lunged off the bed, and then nearly sprawled headlong on the floor as he tripped over something which the tiny part of his mind that was not preoccupied with the nausea or the memories identified as Sammy's stupidly long legs. But he would have to wait until some other time to figure out why Sammy's ridiculous legs were in his way, because otherwise he was going to be sick all over them.

He barely managed to reach the bathroom before his own legs gave way under him and he collapsed to the floor. Fortunately, it was a tiny bathroom, and he was able to just drag himself forward and bend across the toilet in time to throw up everything he'd eaten in living memory.

Memories of every time he'd ever been sick assaulted him, a chaotic jumble.

Fourteen and stomach flu, his dad's hand against the back of his head.

First human corpse, and this isn't a monster, it's a person - was a person - and he throws up behind a tree.

Hungover beyond belief, and god, he hopes his father doesn't catch him like this.

He retched and retched for what felt like forever, the memories swirling in his head, until finally he sank back, exhausted, and rested his head against the cold bathroom wall.

Gradually he became aware of something on the verge of his consciousness, and struggled to open his eyes.

Sammy was crouched in front of him, surprisingly close, with that expression of worry on his face that always made Dean want to break whatever was causing it. But he had a vague suspicion that was him, this time, and he was feeling plenty broken enough for the time being.

He rode out the tidal wave of memories that hit him when he looked at Sam, until he regained enough focus to realise that Sam was saying his name and holding out a glass of water.

Water. God. Yes.

Dean's hand was too shaky to hold the glass and Sam had to help him steady it while he sipped. Good as the water was, he was relieved to let Sam just take it away again.

"Dean?" Sam's voice was soft, and threaded through with the worry that Dean could never bear.

"Sammy," Dean answered, and was taken aback by how rough his voice sounded. But Sam was beaming at him, with that smile Dean didn't see enough of, so hey, things couldn't be too bad.

"How you feelin', man?" Sam asked finally.

Dean considered the question. "Like roadkill."

"Yeah, I'm kinda seeing that," Sam agreed. "Do you... I mean, are you remembering any more now?"

Dean couldn't help but laugh weakly, though every muscle in his body screamed in protest. "Jesus. Sam, you wouldn't even believe the kind of things I'm remembering right now."

Sam frowned. "What do you mean?"

All of a sudden Dean was exhausted, and the bathroom floor was looking awfully appealing. But he tried to focus on Sam's question. "Can remember everything, Sammy. Everything, you get me? Like, the name of every school we ever went to, and the look on your face when I baked you your first birthday cake, and the lotto numbers I read in this newspaper back when I was sixteen. Everything."

Sam was wide-eyed. "Jesus, Dean."

"Yeah," Dean agreed. "Sammy, you mind moving back a bit so I can crash here?"

"You're not sleeping on the bathroom floor, Dean," Sam said, a familiar note of exasperation entering his voice. "Come on, let me help."

Dean protested, but had shut up and conceded defeat by the time Sam had dragged him halfway back to his bed. He collapsed onto it and shut his eyes gratefully, wishing he could shut out the memories pounding through his head as easily.

He was vaguely aware of Sam saying "Get some sleep, Dean, we'll figure it out when you wake up", and then he was gone.

~*~
"What about that scar on your wrist?"

"You were right, it was the rokurokubi. They kept me tied up and I was fighting to get free. Got there in the end."

Despite Dean's assertion that he could now remember everything, a concept Sam was still trying to wrap his head around, Sam had suggested that they go through the specific things that they knew Dean had been unable to remember before, just to be certain that at least that problem had been rectified. Dean had not protested, and Sam suspected that even though he was trying to act casual, Dean was more shaken up by what had been happening to him than he would ever admit.

They had slept late, both exhausted by the night's events, and Sam hadn't woken until early afternoon. He'd had time to fetch coffee and food before Dean had even stirred. After a long shower and vast quantities of coffee, Dean had looked much more human than the previous night.

But Sam was well aware that his brother was far from back to normal, even if things were at least fucked up in a different way now. Dean was oddly distracted, getting lost in his own mind for alarmingly long periods of time. So far, it had twice taken Sam almost three minutes to snap Dean out of it.

"And the scar on the back of your neck, do you remember what caused it now?" Sam asked. He was trying to slowly work his way up to asking Dean how much he remembered about their father's death, and since he suspected Dean wouldn't react well to that, he was starting with less sensitive questions.

The way Dean's face just shut down, though, told him that he'd misjudged the sensitivity of this one. Sam could almost see Dean's barriers come slamming down.

"I remember," Dean said tersely. "I told you, Sam, I remember everything. You know, if you seriously plan to go through every single thing I'd forgotten, we're gonna be here for a hell of a long time."

Sam narrowed his eyes thoughtfully, then nodded slowly. "Okay, fine." He had a feeling that pushing Dean about the scar now would not be a wise move, but he filed it away in his mind to bring up again at a better time. "Just one last thing, then, and we'll move on, okay?" He hesitated for a moment, but they did have to be certain. "You remember what happened to Dad, now?"

All the colour drained from Dean's face, and Sam winced as Dean's eyes took on the glassy, inward-looking appearance that Sam was starting to associate with his brother being overwhelmed by memories.

"Dean?" he said softly, leaning forward. "Hey, Dean."

It was an agonisingly long minute before Dean suddenly blinked and refocused on Sam's face. He looked away immediately, but not before Sam caught a glimpse of the expression in his eyes.

"Dean?"

Dean cleared his throat. "Yeah." His voice was rough. "I remember. All of it."

Sam wondered a bit at that, but told himself not to overthink it - of course Dean was going to react strongly to those memories. Of course they were going to affect him. Both of them had still been struggling to deal with their father's death even before all of this had happened, and having those memories vanish and then return so violently was bound to hit Dean hard.

"Okay," Sam started, but Dean interrupted.

"Look, Sam, can we just... drop this for a while? I..." Dean rubbed at his face, looking suddenly exhausted again. "The memories aren't as bad now as they were last night. I think it's just going to take some time for them to fade back to normal, that's all."

Sam nodded. Dean was right: he definitely did seem better than he had in the middle of the night, although that wasn't necessarily saying much. Perhaps all he really needed was time and rest. And dragging up lots of old memories for him while he was unable to filter them out was probably not the kindest plan. "Sure, Dean. You know, maybe you should try to get some more sleep -"

"No," Dean said, more vehemently than Sam had expected, but then he cracked a grin and went on more casually, "Dude, it's only five o'clock, and I barely woke up a few hours ago. I don't think I could sleep right now."

Sam frowned slightly. "I think sleep would really help with the memories, though. And you still look pretty tired - you were awake most of the night. We still have some sleeping pills if you -"

"I said no, Sam," Dean said flatly. "In fact, I'm going stir-crazy in here. I want to get out of this motel room for a while."

Sam threw up his hands. "Okay, fine, whatever. God forbid you actually try and recover from what's happening to you. You want to go out? We'll go out. And if you pass out on the floor of some diner, I will leave you lying there, I swear."

"Whatever," Dean said, getting to his feet - somewhat unsteadily, to Sam's eye. "Come on if you're coming. I can't take this room one minute longer."

~*~
Dean had ordered coffee, lots of it, as soon as they'd arrived at the diner. The truth was that he was exhausted, and he suspected Sam was right, if he'd just lain down he'd have fallen asleep in an instant. But he really didn't want to go back to sleep until he had figured out what was going on with his dreams.

He hadn't remembered them until his memories had come flooding back the night before, and it was taking him a while to make sense of and reorder all those memories. Even before Celia had messed with his mind, he hadn't remembered more than fragments of his dreams. Hell, it wasn't like it was in any way unusual for him to be dreaming of some chick. Admittedly, those dreams didn't normally give him the weird feeling these dreams had, but he hadn't given it any more thought. So he was dreaming about some black-haired babe? Big deal.

Yeah. Right up until Sam had asked him what he remembered about his father's death, and it had all come crashing in at once: finding his own body lying in a hospital bed, seeing the indistinct shape hovering over him as the doctors tried to revive him, meeting black-haired Tessa and then realising who - what - she really was. The agonising choice she had offered him.

Her eyes suddenly glowing gold as the demon possessed her and threw him back into his body.

God. Dean rubbed at his forehead with one hand.

It wasn't as if he hadn't known before. He'd known damn well what his father had done, the deal he must have made and who - what - he'd made it with. He'd even said as much to Sam, said the words out loud, made them real. He'd known.

Only he hadn't, not really, not like he did now.

Today's your lucky day, kid.

"Hey."

Dean jumped slightly, caught off-guard, and met Sam's eyes across the diner booth. "What?"

Sam was looking concerned. "You all right? Your meal's getting cold."

His meal? Dean blinked down at the plate in front of him. The waitress must have brought it while he was distracted, and okay, it was a bad sign that he hadn't even noticed, so maybe Sam had a point.

"Just letting it cool," he muttered, and was grateful when Sam merely raised an eyebrow and refrained from calling him on his bullshit.

Dean took an absent bite of his burger and returned to his thoughts.

That his father had done that, had sacrificed his life - and to the demon, no less - to save Dean... There weren't even words for that. Dean would have given anything, now, to be able to go back and go with Tessa before his father could do it. If he hadn't fought so hard, resisted for so long...

He rubbed at his forehead again. Face it, Dean. Admit it. Own up to your mistakes. If you hadn't fought so hard to live, Dad would still be alive. And he and Sam would still have the Colt.

Okay. Now take a deep breath and move the fuck on, because crying over might-have-beens never changed a goddamn thing.

Dean tried to take his own advice, and even managed to choke down another bite of his burger.

So his weird-assed dreams recently, the ones he'd barely remembered, those had been his subconscious trying to remind him, Dean supposed. The fact that the dreams didn't match exactly with what he now remembered happening was probably irrelevant. Which meant that there was no reason why he should try to avoid sleeping.

He shoved his plate aside and wrapped his hands around his third mug of coffee instead.

"Aren't you going to eat that?" Sam asked, jerking his head towards Dean's abandoned burger.

"Nah," Dean said, aiming for casual, "I'm not that hungry." At Sam's look, he added, "Man, I can still taste that shit. It's gonna be a while before anything looks good, I'm telling you."

Sam pursed his lips. "Dean..."

Dean took another gulp of his coffee and refused to look at his brother.

Sam sighed in defeat. "Fine. Whatever."

There was a long silence, during which Sam concentrated on his meal and Dean drank his coffee and tried to cope with the memories that were swirling up in him again. It was their sharpness that bothered him most: memories shouldn't feel that real, that immediate. Not to mention that there were plenty of things he'd been happy not to think about.

The coffee was helping, though. The more awake he was, the easier it was to ride out the memories, even if he couldn't suppress them entirely. It seemed to be when he started getting tired that it became difficult to keep track of the difference between memory and reality.

He asked the waitress to bring him a refill.

It was Sam who eventually broke the silence. "We should call Bobby, let him know how it went. Warn him about the side-effects."

"Side-effects," Dean muttered under his breath, almost laughing, even though it wasn't amusing in the slightest. "It's not a side-effect, Sam. It's the effect. And I still say it's getting better."

"Getting better?" Sam repeated disbelievingly. "Dean, you were out of it for the entire night, and you've spent all of today staring off into space! You're not eating, you won't talk about it, you can't even keep track of what's going on around you! You call that getting better?"

Dean's hand tightened dangerously around his cup. "Compared to barely remembering a goddamn thing about my life yesterday, then yes, Sam, I do. You said yourself I was out of it right after the ritual; being a bit distracted now is nothing. I told you, it'll pass."

Sam's jaw clenched, but he took a deep breath, clearly forcing himself to calm down. "Look, either way, I promised we'd call Bobby and let him know how it went. Do you want to do it, or will I?"

Dean took a deep breath of his own. Truthfully, he really didn't feel up to talking to anyone other than Sam right now. On the other hand, he owed Bobby big time for everything he'd done for them over the past few months, let alone tracking down the ritual. "I'll do it."

He pulled out his cell phone and punched in Bobby's number from memory. "Bobby? This is Dean Winchester."

"Dean! Good to hear your voice. Did it work?"

"Yeah," Dean said. "Yeah, it did. Thanks, man, I really owe you."

"You run into any problems with it?" Bobby asked, and Dean was reminded yet again that Bobby was nobody's fool. "Rituals like that, seems like there's always some kinda catch."

Dean sighed. "If anything, it maybe worked a bit too well. I'm remembering all kinds of things, things I'd forgotten years ago. Everything. It's... Well. Should pass soon, I think."

"Everything?" Bobby repeated. "Damn."

"Yeah," Dean agreed.

There was silence on the line for a moment, then Bobby said, "Listen, Dean, I'm guessin' you may want to take a few days to recover, get your head back on straight, but after..."

Dean straightened unconsciously. "What's up, Bobby?"

Bobby sighed. "I'm not sure. But there's some weird stuff going on around here, and I'm thinkin' you boys would maybe find it interesting. Strange deaths." More softly, "Lotta kids been dying."

Dean met Sam's eyes across the table; although Sam could only hear his side of the conversation, he clearly knew something was wrong.

"We'll leave tonight."

Sam slowly set down his cup, staring at him.

Bobby sounded almost worried. "Dean, ain't no rush. Take a few days to recover -"

"I'm fine, Bobby," Dean bit out. "We'll leave tonight. See you soon." He hung up and tucked his cell phone away again.

Sam was still staring at him. "Dean? What's going on?"

"Bobby thinks there's something going on there we should look into," Dean said briefly. "Strange deaths. A lot of kids dying, he said."

Sam raised his eyebrows, waved one hand a little wildly. "And... what? We're just going to jump in the car and start driving? Now? Tonight?"

"Yes," Dean said curtly. "Or rather, I'm driving. You almost crashed my car, dude, if you think I'm letting you behind the wheel -"

His brother almost laughed in his face. "Oh, and you think you're safe to drive right now? You've barely been on the right planet today! You were out of it for hours, you've spent all evening brooding -"

"Oh, that's rich, Sam, that is really fucking rich coming from you," Dean snarled. He pulled out a couple of bills and threw them on the table, then he was on his feet and moving.

Sam was close behind him. "Damn it, Dean! Will you stop a moment?"

Dean slammed out of the diner and started down the street towards the motel. Sam finally grabbed his arm, forcing him to turn and stop. "Dean, for... Will you stop?!"

Dean stared at Sam's hand, clenched around his forearm, and then raised his gaze to Sam's face. But he didn't shake him off, and Sam went on.

"Jesus, Dean. I know how much you hate admitting it, but you are not okay right now. If you go rushing into something dangerous right away without giving yourself a chance to recover first, you're going to get hurt, Dean. I -" He sighed heavily, looking suddenly exhausted, and released his grip on Dean's arm. "Look, couldn't we at least stay here tonight? Come on, man, one night's not going to make any difference with whatever Bobby's run across. And we'll stand a better chance of being sharp when we get there."

Dean stared away down the street for a long moment, unseeing. Sam had a point. All right, Sam had more than a point - Sam was right. Dean didn't actually think he would end up running the Impala off the road, but he wasn't at his most focused.

But he desperately wanted to get the hell out of this town, out of this entire fucking state.

"Dean," Sam murmured softly.

"Fine," Dean said shortly. "We'll leave first thing in the morning, then. Early."

Sam let out a relieved breath. "Fine. Okay. Great."

The walk back to the motel took place in awkward silence. Sam retreated to the bathroom, ostensibly for a shower, but more likely to get away from Dean for a while. Dean lay down on his bed and stared up at the ceiling.

There was no reason why he shouldn't go to sleep. But he really didn't want to, and not just because he'd drunk a ridiculous amount of coffee at the diner.

In the end, he set about cleaning their weapons. It was a routine that had always soothed him, ever since their father had first allowed him to help as a child, long before he'd been allowed to fire a gun. It was so familiar now that he no longer had to think about what he was doing; he suspected he could do it in his sleep. It gave him something to occupy himself while he thought, or tried not to think.

He'd rather been hoping to stop thinking tonight, but it didn't look like his mind was going to cooperate.

The memories hitting him now were at least less sharp-edged than some of the ones he'd been hit by earlier. Sammy holding out his report card and beaming. His father clapping him on the shoulder, his smile almost proud. His mom smiling at him, kissing his forehead as he ran to her.

Sam had emerged from the bathroom at some point while Dean was distracted, and was perched on the other bed, rubbing his hair dry and watching Dean. Dean ignored him as best he could and focused instead on the knife he was currently sharpening.

His father had given him this knife. He'd been twelve, and his first proper knife, sharper, longer, more dangerous than any of the knives he'd been allowed before; sleeping with it under his pillow, both reassurance and reminder to be vigilant.

"- Dean? Dean?"

Dean blinked and looked up. Sam was staring at him, and judging by the expression on his face he'd been saying Dean's name for a while. Damn.

"What, Sam?"

Sam hesitated. "Just... are you okay? You've been sharpening that knife for ages."

"Gotta get it properly sharp," Dean said, then relented at the look on Sam's face. "I'm okay, Sammy, honestly. Just... a lot of memories to sort through. They're stronger when I'm tired," he admitted cautiously, reluctant to admit that to Sam for some reason.

Sam looked worried now. "I really think you maybe ought to get some sleep, Dean -"

Oh yes, that was the reason. Sam could switch from irritating younger brother to fussy mother hen in two seconds flat.

"Sam," he interrupted, "I'm okay. Stop hovering. I'll go to bed when I'm ready. Soon, okay?"

Sam didn't look convinced, but dropped the subject for the time being.

Dean slid the knife back into its sheath and picked up the next one.

When he next glanced up, Sam had retreated to bed, and appeared to be fast asleep. Dean checked his watch and raised an eyebrow; it was far later than he'd thought. He finished up with the knife he was working on and set about quietly packing everything away.

But when he switched off the lamp a few minutes later and slid into his own bed, he could feel himself tensing up. He really didn't want to go to sleep. Which was not to say he wasn't tired; he was exhausted, and it was getting hard to tune out the memories at all. He just had a horrible suspicion that sleeping would somehow be worse.

By the time he found himself snapping upright in bed only a couple of hours later, glowing gold eyes still vivid in his mind, he knew that he'd been right.

~*~
"Sam, wake up and move your ass, we're burning daylight."

Sam groaned and opened his eyes. Dean was standing over his bed, fully dressed and looking like he'd been up for hours. In fact, this looked like a post-second-coffee Dean. "What time is it?"

"'Bout six," Dean said. "Come on, get moving. I want to reach Bobby's sometime today."

With another groan, Sam sat up and stared at Dean, who had started packing things into a duffle bag. "Dude, when do you ever get up this early?"

"When I've got places to be," Dean shot back. "Are you gonna move it or not?"

Sam shook his head in disbelief and slid out of bed. It wasn't that Dean normally tended to sleep in late - unless he'd been out drinking the night before - but it was rare for him to get up before Sam. Sure, that was partly because Sam was usually woken up by nightmares, but even if they both slept through the night, Dean rarely got up before seven.

To wake up at six and find Dean awake, dressed and chivvying him to get up so they could hit the road was somewhat disconcerting.

He wanted to ask Dean how much sleep he'd gotten, whether he'd even slept at all. He wanted to ask if the memories were any less overwhelming this morning. But considering how prickly Dean had been the previous evening, he decided against risking any questions until they were on the road, at least. Sometimes Dean relaxed more when he was behind the wheel. Perhaps then he'd be willing to let Sam get away with a question or two.

Dean did seem less tense once they'd gotten underway. Sam drank the coffee his brother had had waiting for him when he'd woken him up, and thought about the way Dean had been behaving. It was understandable that he was acting oddly, Sam supposed; he couldn't quite imagine what it must have been like for him to lose his memories a little at a time. And then regain them all at once, so violently. Whether Dean was willing to admit it or not - hell, it was possible he didn't even fully realise it - he was not okay. He'd been spacing out far too much, gazing into the distance, entirely lost in the memories washing over him.

He was relieved that Dean had finally agreed not to set off last night, but he wished he could be certain Dean had got a reasonable amount of sleep.

"So," Sam hazarded after an hour or so. Dean had slowly been unwinding and was now humming along quietly to Blue Oyster Cult, which was probably a good sign. "Don't bite my head off or anything, man, but how are you doing?"

Dean shot him a glance. "Sammy... it just feels like you've done nothing but ask me how I am for days. I'm okay. Seriously. You need to chill out a bit, dude."

Sam arched an eyebrow. "Really? How many hours' sleep did you get, in that case?"

"Enough," Dean said, irritation creeping into his voice.

"Okay, fine," Sam said, conceding defeat. Trying to get Dean to open up was a matter of picking your battles very carefully.

He decided to try to get some sleep for a while. They had a fairly long drive ahead of them, and Dean might relax a bit if Sam just left him alone for a while. Besides, it had been a tiring few days.

~*~
Sam stirred and opened his eyes. He looked around, blinking.

The car wasn't moving. They were parked somewhere on the verge of a side-road. Sam scrubbed at his eyes and wondered why Dean had stopped.

Beside him, the driver's seat was empty.

Sam leaned forward and glanced around, and spotted his brother almost immediately. Dean was about twenty feet away near the treeline, pacing back and forth, one hand massaging between his eyes.

Not a good sign, Sam thought. Dean rarely stopped just to stretch his legs, especially when he was so concerned about making good time. It wasn't out of the question that he might have decided to stop anyway and simply chosen to let Sam sleep, because Dean was a hundred times the mother hen he'd accused Sam of being earlier, but more likely it would have been in some town where he could get coffee. No, something was definitely wrong.

Sam climbed out of the Impala, slamming the door behind him, but the noise didn't cause Dean to pause in his pacing. That made Sam hasten his step as he crossed the ground to reach his brother.

Dean didn't even seem to see him as he approached. He kept pacing, and while the hand he had pressed to his forehead made it difficult to read his expression, the tension in the line of his shoulders told its own story.

"Dean?"

Sam was hesitant to reach out and touch his brother if Dean was unaware of his presence; Dean was someone who it was safer to avoid startling if possible.

"Dean," he repeated instead. "Hey, Dean, come on."

"Son of a bitch," Dean suddenly muttered savagely, and whirled to slam his fist against the trunk of the nearest tree.

"Dean!" Sam reached out immediately, grabbing his brother's wrist in case he decided to take another swing and checking for damage. "Jesus, Dean..."

Dean was breathing hard, but he seemed to have come back to himself. He simply stared at Sam as he carefully inspected the hand.

"Jesus," Sam repeated again, shaking his head. "I don't think you broke anything, at least. You back with me now?"

"Sammy?"

It was almost a question, and the hopeless confusion in Dean's voice made Sam swallow hard.

"Yeah, Dean, I'm here," he said softly, still rubbing the bruised hand gently, since Dean seemed too disoriented to take it back, even if he was unlikely to accept any more physical contact than that. "You want to tell me what happened?"

"I..." Dean faltered. "I'm not sure. I was remembering..."

"What?" Sam prompted when Dean hesitated again. "What were you remembering, Dean?"

Dean was silent for a long moment, looking younger than Sam could remember him ever actually being. "Things best forgotten," he said finally, and pulled his hand out of Sam's grasp, rubbing at his face again. "I just had to get outta the car for a minute, walk it off. Guess I got caught up again, though."

"You nearly broke your hand punching that tree, Dean," Sam said. Worry was gnawing at him, and growing worse at the sight of Dean already starting to retreat back into himself. "It must have been a pretty bad memory."

Dean shook his head, though not in denial. "It was a long time ago. It was just... weird, reliving it again. It seemed different now." He shook his head again, more definitely this time. "Look, I'm okay now. Let's get out of here."

"Dean..." Sam tried again. "Listen, man, you can't keep trying to ignore all of this. It's obviously not working."

His brother shook his head once more, jaw clenching. "Sam, drop it. I'm fine, let's just -"

"Listen to yourself!" Sam exclaimed. "Dean, I'm serious, here! You have got to start letting me help you with this because you are losing it. You really think you can deal with a new job in this condition? At this rate you are going to get yourself killed, and excuse me if I'm not prepared to just sit idly by and watch!"

For a split-second, Sam thought that Dean might punch him again.

"What exactly is it you want, here, Sam?" Dean demanded instead, stepping up so close as to be almost intimidating, height difference be damned. "You think me spilling my guts to you is going to make the slightest difference? You can't change the past, Sam! You can't undo any of it, and you can't say anything that'll make it better, so why the hell should we waste our time talking about it?"

Sam forced himself to take a deep breath and stay calm. "I'm not saying I can just... wave a magic wand and make it all better, Dean. But I'll stand a hell of a lot better chance of being able to help, even if it's just by shutting the hell up, if I know what's going on with you." He stared at Dean's stubborn expression, and tried another tack. "Look, man, how many times have you been worried about something going on with me and tried to get me to open up to you about it?"

"Yeah, and how many times have you actually done it?" Dean muttered, but he was looking down at the ground now.

"Often enough," Sam said quietly. "Maybe not right away, but always, in the end. And I never wound up regretting it when I did."

There was a heavy silence for a moment before Dean exhaled sharply.

"Sam... This really wasn't that important. It was just... stuff from when we were kids. Like I said, it's just weird reliving it again now, with a different perspective. If it were something current, I'd tell you, okay? But if you want me to talk about every shitty memory I have of things long-since buried and gone, we're gonna get nothing else done for weeks, and Bobby says there are kids out there dying, Sam."

Sam nodded slowly, recognising that this was a time to be satisfied with how far he'd got, rather than pushing for more. "Okay. But you'll tell me if something current is bugging you?"

"Yes, Sam," Dean said in martyred tones, turning back towards the road. "Now if we're quite finished with the chick-flick moment, can we get back on the road?"

"Sure," Sam said agreeably, walking with him. "Just as soon as you give me the keys."

That brought Dean's head snapping around, and he stopped dead. "Dude, if you think -"

"Dean, if you think I'm going to sit back and let you drive while you're spacing out like this, you're an idiot," Sam overrode him. "Don't give me any of that you-almost-crashed-the-car bullshit. If you got even four hours' sleep last night, I'll be surprised. You want to hit the road again now? Fine. But I'm driving."

They stared each other down for a moment, until Dean finally pulled out the keys and threw them in Sam's direction, perhaps a little harder than strictly necessary, and strode off towards the car again.

The silence when they were back in the Impala was not as strained as Sam had feared. He concentrated on turning the car around and heading back to find the main road. He'd been asleep for most of the time Dean had been driving before, but it didn't take him too long to get his bearings.

"You should try to catch some sleep," he said finally, glancing sideways at Dean.

"Don't feel like it," Dean muttered, then had to suppress a yawn.

"Yeah, that was convincing," Sam mocked. "Look, man, you said before the memories are worse when you're tired, right? So get some sleep, maybe that'll help. You've barely slept in days, it's no wonder you're exhausted. Sleep deprivation doesn't suit you."

"I once went three days without sleep, I'll have you know," Dean said, sounding slightly insulted. "And I was fine."

"Oh, yeah, fine," Sam agreed readily. "If you call becoming obsessed with the idea that the perfectly harmless motel owner was a Manananggal and laying garlic and salt traps for her fine, that is."

"Yeah, well, she could have been," Dean muttered.

"She was an entirely normal, innocent woman who would have been well within her rights to kick us out of the motel for that," Sam said, a smile tugging at his lips at the memory. "The point being that lack of sleep is not good even for you, Dean. I'm pretty sure we've still got some sleeping pills if you really think you won't be able to sleep..."

"Jesus, you're a pushy bastard," Dean grumbled, slumping down in his seat. "Fine, I'll try to sleep. But don't even think of putting any of your crap emo music on, or I will kick your ass before I've even woken up, you hear me?"

"I think the phrase I'm looking for is 'shotgun shuts his cakehole'," Sam mused. "Go to sleep already."

Dean muttered something under his breath, but a few minutes later Sam heard his breathing even out.

If Dean hadn't been so obviously exhausted, Sam would have toyed with the idea of putting some of his own music on just to piss his brother off. As it was, he simply hummed softly to himself as he drove, enjoying the morning. Half ten, he noted, glancing at the watch. He could drive for two or three hours and then stop for lunch somewhere. And he'd insist that Dean go back to sleep and let him drive after lunch, too.

As it turned out, however, it was only about an hour later that Dean began to stir in his sleep. Since Dean was generally not a restless sleeper - a light sleeper, yes, but not a restless one - Sam kept a concerned eye on him. When Dean muttered "Tessa..." under his breath, Sam couldn't suppress a grin, and he was about to concede that Dean had a point about him turning into a mother hen when Dean suddenly started murmuring "No, no, no," and Sam's grin faded. No was not really a word Sam would have expected if Dean was simply dreaming about some hot chick.

Disquieted, Sam debated whether to wake Dean or just wait and hope that the dream would pass. He knew a thing or two about what nightmares could be like, and he was annoyed with himself for not realising sooner that they might have been part of the reason Dean had been so reluctant to go to sleep. It was almost to be expected that having so many memories dragged up so violently would cause nightmares. Although that also meant that it might be better to let Dean sleep and hope that his subconscious would deal with some of the memories while he was out.

Naturally, as soon as Sam had reached that decision, Dean shot upright with a gasp, staring around wildly.

"Whoa," Sam said, keeping his voice as soothing as he thought Dean would let him away with. "Easy, man. You okay?"

Dean groaned and scrubbed a hand across his face. "Peachy. How long was I asleep?"

"Barely an hour," Sam replied, sending him a sideways glance. "Nightmare?"

Dean grunted what could probably be taken as an affirmative, settling back down into his seat but keeping his eyes open.

"I guess it figures, after having so many memories dredged up," Sam offered. "You gonna tell me about it?"

There was a long silence, and Sam was about to try again when Dean finally spoke. "You remember when I woke up in the hospital?"

Sam glanced across at him. "Of course I do."

Dean was staring sightlessly out of the front window. "I couldn't remember anything from when I was in the coma. I knew what you told me, that we'd communicated, the things I'd told you, but I couldn't remember any of it."

A feeling of dread was settling in Sam's stomach. He wanted to say something, but had no clue what, now that he had a glimmer of an idea about where this was going. Instead, he stayed quiet and let Dean talk.

"I remember now." Dean cleared his throat. "There was a Reaper after me, while I was... out of my body. I saw it a few times, and I was trying to figure out a way to fight it when I met... when I met Tessa. She seemed to be in the same situation as me, said she'd come in for a routine op but there'd been complications. It wasn't until you brought the journal through that night that I realised... Reapers can affect our perceptions. And I realised that Tessa was the Reaper."

"What did you do?" Sam asked quietly. God, it was harder to talk about this than he'd expected. It hurt, remembering Dean lying so still and pale in that hospital bed. It hurt to think how very close Sam had come to losing him.

"I went after her," Dean said. "We... talked, I guess. Argued. Well, I argued. She was as calm as you'd probably expect from a Reaper. She tried to convince me to give in, go with her."

"But you didn't," Sam said with certainty and not a little relief. Dean's silence, though, made him glance over, and the sickening lurch in his stomach at the expression on Dean's face made Sam pull over, off the road, because there was no way he could drive and have this conversation at the same time. "Dean..."

"I don't know what I would have done, Sammy," Dean admitted painfully, quietly. "She said that if I stayed, I would - would become an angry spirit. That I'd become what we hunt. I didn't want to leave, but I didn't want that either. I don't know what I would have chosen."

There was a long silence, and Sam wanted to reach out to his brother so much that he almost ached with it. Instead he shifted a little closer, just enough for him to brush against Dean.

"As it was, I didn't get the chance to choose," Dean went on with forced briskness. "All of a sudden there was darkness spilling out of the vents and into Tessa. She barely had time to react before the demon possessed her. It all happened real fast. One minute we were talking, and the next, she turned around and her eyes... And it grabbed me and threw me and I woke up in bed with a tube down my throat."

Sam nodded, because he simply didn't know what to say. He'd started to suspect pretty soon after their father's death that he'd done something to bring Dean back, something that had cost him his life. He'd been careful not to say anything to Dean, hoping that Dean wouldn't make that connection, and until Dean had finally started talking to him about it after their run-in with the zombie girl - god, had that really been less than a week ago? It felt like a lifetime - he had honestly hoped that Dean hadn't put the pieces together.

And now, knowing, having absolute confirmation of the lengths their father had gone to in order to save Dean's life, Sam still didn't know what to say to help his brother cope with that knowledge.

"Anyway," Dean said finally, "I've been having dreams since then, about Tessa and the possession. I didn't remember them until after the ritual. I guess my subconscious has been trying to remind me about... all of that."

"No wonder you've been drinking so much coffee," Sam said softly, mustering a half-smile for his brother. "And I hate to say it, but you really could use some more sleep, Dean, dreams or no dreams."

Dean sighed. "Yeah, yeah, whatever. I know. Just..."

"Yeah," Sam agreed. "Look, how about you try and get some more sleep, and we stop for lunch whenever you next wake up? Even a few short naps in a row would be better than nothing."

"Fine, whatever," Dean said, slumping down and shifting around in an attempt to get comfortable. "But next time you have nightmares, I am so making you do the same thing. Payback's a bitch, Sammy."

Sam grinned. "I promise I'll take my medicine like a good boy."

"You'll take it like the pissy little bitch you are," Dean groused. "No illusions on that score. But you fucking will take it, I swear to god."

Sam laughed. "Fine. But you want to dish it out later, Dean, you got to take it now. So suck it up and go back to sleep, unless you want me to start singing you a lullaby or something?"

"Thought we were trying to avoid nightmares," Dean muttered under his breath, but his expression was lighter and he had closed his eyes again.

Sam smiled and turned the key in the ignition.

~*~
Sam didn't push ahead too hard during the journey, preferring to take things a little slower and give Dean time to sleep. His brother had dozed on and off for most of the day, a sure sign that he'd been even more exhausted than he'd admitted. The number of times Dean had startled awake from nightmares, though, had caused Sam some concern, and he'd resolved to try not to be quite so cranky next time Dean went all overprotective on him after Sam had nightmares. It turned out that watching it happen was no picnic either.

They arrived at Bobby's late that evening, late enough that Sam was confident Dean wouldn't insist on heading out to start investigating that night. Bobby welcomed them both with warm handshakes, giving Dean a quick once-over and enquiring gruffly how he was doing.

Dean played it all down, not that Sam had expected anything else, and then they busied themselves unloading the Impala and moving their bags into the room they'd stayed in after leaving the hospital, familiar after the months they'd lived there.

It was a little odd being back there: the place was too full of memories of that time, the stifling pressure of their grief. Sam swallowed hard and offered silent thanks for the fact that Dean was slowly starting to come back to him, no longer the silent ghost he'd been during their time there.

It was then that it occurred to Sam, perhaps a little belatedly, that if this place was bringing up bad memories for him, what the hell might it be doing to Dean in his current condition?

He dumped his duffle bag on the bed and hastened down the stairs to find his brother.

He exited the front door to see Dean standing behind the Impala, one hand resting on the trunk, staring at nothing, his face grave. Sam groaned silently and wished he'd had the sense to insist that they find a motel instead of coming to Bobby's; he resolved to ensure they didn't stay any longer than necessary. Taking a deep breath, he started towards his brother, walking forward to stand close, hoping that Dean would turn and meet his eyes. "Dean?"

It took a second, but Dean did turn in response, and Sam heaved a sigh of relief. Dean was blinking and looking slightly disoriented, but Sam took it as a good sign that he'd snapped out of it so quickly and didn't appear as distressed as he had that morning.

"Hey," Sam said quietly. "You okay? Being here, I mean?"

"Yeah," Dean said slowly. "Just... a lot of memories. But I'm okay. You had a point, making me sleep, I guess. Are you okay?"

Sam smiled smugly at his brother's admission, but sobered quickly. "Yeah. It's just a bit weird being back here."

Dean nodded silently.

"You ready to go in?" Sam asked after a moment. "Bobby's going to think we've gotten lost or something."

"Yeah," Dean said, abruptly business-like. "Let's go find out what's going on."

~*~
Dean accepted the cup of coffee Bobby passed him, ignoring Sam's slightly disapproving look. He was willing to let Sam get away with a certain amount of mother-henning if it made him feel better, especially if that meant Dean got to return the favour next time Sam had nightmares, but it would be a cold day in hell before Dean turned down a decent cup of coffee.

The house held as many memories as the salvage yard did. Dean didn't even attempt to suppress them entirely, but the amount of sleep he'd gotten in the car really had helped, and they weren't causing him to space out as much as he was certain they would have done if they'd driven through the night, as he'd originally planned.

It was always annoying when Sam turned out to be right, but if it meant Dean didn't have to be trapped in the memory of what he'd done to Meg, he would put up with it.

"So," Bobby was saying, "you doing all right, Dean?"

"Better," Dean said briefly. "I'm okay, Bobby."

"Good, glad to hear it," Bobby said, and Dean was reminded again that that was one of the things he liked about Bobby: he didn't pry, didn't ask awkward questions, just minded his own business. If Dean said he was okay, that was all that mattered to Bobby.

"Sorry to drag you both all the way back here," Bobby said, already moving on to the next topic, "but there's been some strange goings-on that I thought you boys would maybe want to know about."

"You said on the phone that people were dying," Dean said quietly. "Kids."

"A lot of 'em," Bobby confirmed. "C'mon through, let me show you."

Dean had been avoiding the front room as much as possible so far; the memories had been letting him off relatively light, but he hadn't wanted to tempt fate by spending too much time in the room where they'd trapped Meg, where he'd insisted that the exorcism be performed regardless of the consequences, where Meg had died as a result. But there wasn't much choice: that was where all Bobby's books were, and it wasn't like he could avoid it forever.

And the memories that washed over him when they followed Bobby through to the other room were bad, but not as overwhelming as he'd feared. Sam touched his arm fleetingly and they washed over him rather than dragging him down; he was able to exhale and give Sam a smile, albeit a slightly strained one, and refocus on what Bobby was saying.

"...saving the death notices." Bobby was pulling out a whole stack of newspaper clippings. "The doctors at the hospital don't have a clue, of course. They're talking 'bout some kind of epidemic, some infection or other. Bullshit, but they don't know no better." He passed the sheaf of clippings to Sam, who glanced at the first and began skimming through them.

"Didn't think nothing of it at first," Bobby explained as Sam read. "Started while you boys were here, near as I can tell, but it took a while for it to become obvious. Kids have been dying. Babies, most of 'em - usually about six months old. But some a bit older, two or three years. No previous illness in most cases, no obvious cause of death - they figured it was crib death at the start, but there got to be too many for 'em to believe that. "Natural causes", according to the autopsies, when they were carried out, though what that's meant to mean, I don't rightly know. Not convinced there's anything natural about 'em."

"And all these deaths happened around here?" Dean asked, watching Sam read.

"Near here, though most across the state line in Missouri." Bobby gestured to the clippings. "I'll let you draw your own conclusions, though. And it's late, you must both be tired. You can wait and get a proper start in the morning."

"Yeah," Dean agreed. In truth, he wasn't sure he would be able to sleep after dozing for most of the day, but he wasn't about to pass up an opportunity to retreat back up to the bedroom, either. Bobby was a good guy, but Dean really wasn't feeling hugely up to dealing with people right then, even Bobby, and especially not in this room. "I think maybe I will turn in now, actually. Sam, you coming up too?" Sam wasn't people, after all. Sam was Sam.

"Yeah, sure," Sam agreed absently, still studying the clippings.

Dean rolled his eyes, wished Bobby goodnight, and headed up the stairs. He was almost surprised to hear Sam following him: he'd thought his brother had already descended too deep into geek mode to have heard a word Dean had said, but apparently not.

Sam closed the door of the guest bedroom they were sharing behind them and dropped the newspaper clippings onto the table. "So what do you think?"

Dean shrugged, moving across to stare out the window for a moment before drawing the curtains. "Too early to say. But Bobby's got good instincts, and he wouldn't have asked us to come here if he didn't think this was our kind of gig."

His brother nodded thoughtfully, and began getting ready for bed. "True." He glanced up again at Dean, who was still standing motionless next to the window. "Aren't you going to bed?"

Dean sighed. "I guess. I just don't feel real tired, since someone insisted I spend the entire drive here sleeping."

"And it helped," Sam pointed out, his voice smug. "So bite me. And considering how little sleep you've been getting lately, Dean, I think you could probably use a little more now regardless."

With a defeated groan, Dean began stripping down for bed. Since it seemed his only other choices were to head back downstairs and talk with Bobby or sit and read death notices and stop his brother from sleeping, he'd put up with Sam's satisfied grin for the time being. And find some way to bring him down a peg or two the next day, naturally.

But he was not surprised when, long after they'd turned out the lights and Sam's breathing had evened out, he found himself lying awake, staring at the faint light filtering through the curtains.

It was weird, being back in this room. He'd spent so many nights lying awake, staring up at the ceiling. Sam had lain awake a lot too, both of them silent. Staying here for the months it had taken them to recuperate and repair the Impala, with only a few roadtrips to deal with nearby hunts, had been the longest he'd stayed in one place in he didn't know how long. Years.

It was just as well Sam had forced him to sleep. The memories of being here would probably have been completely overwhelming otherwise. He was still tired enough that he couldn't suppress them entirely, but they weren't blocking out all else like they had that morning.

That had been a bit alarming, in retrospect. Thank Christ he'd had the sense to pull over and get out of the car, because he didn't like to think what might have happened otherwise, and his baby didn't need to take any more hits. Those memories had hit him like a sledgehammer, and to be honest, he kind of thought a sledgehammer might have hurt less.

There were lots of things Dean just didn't waste time and energy dwelling on. Sam had always been the one to bitch about the way they'd grown up, the things they'd seen and done. Sam had wanted the perfect, picket-fence normal life, had always held a grudge for not getting it. Dean had just dealt, because he'd known how fake normal was, known how quickly it could (would) be ripped away, known that normal was over for him, gone. Sam had whined; Dean had sucked it up and got on with the job.

Like a good little soldier, Sam's voice whispered mockingly in his memory, and oh Christ, he really didn't need his mind to start going there next.

Dean had dealt, and he'd just set aside the things he'd sometimes wanted because things were the way they were. There were things they had to do, his Daddy had told him so, and that was that. Pull yourself together, Dean-o, you know better than that. And Dean had accepted it, pushed it all down, given up thinking about it except when Sam's complaints escalated to the point where Dean didn't know whether he wanted to punch Sam or himself.

All those memories coming back that morning, things he'd forced down and suppressed and blocked out, it had been more than just weird. Remembering Mikey, his best friend in the third grade, the first real friend Dean had managed to make after they left Lawrence and took off across the country, that had hurt. Dean was pretty sure he hadn't even remembered Mikey's name until the ritual dredged it all up again. He hadn't remembered his name, or the way they had laughed together, or the pie Mikey's mom had let him help her make, or any of the good stuff from the few months they'd spent in that town. And he'd only remembered the bare bones of Mikey confiding in him about the thing in his closet, or how his father had explained to him what to do before letting him go to the sleepover, making him repeat the Latin out loud again and again until he was satisfied. His father had been tracking something bigger, had trusted him to deal with the thing in Mikey's closet.

Dean thought he'd probably forced himself to forget how wide and terrified Mikey's eyes had been while Dean had dispatched the thing in the closet. Or how afterwards Mikey had whispered his name like a prayer and hugged him, and Dean had held on and tried to stop trembling because he'd done it, he'd protected Mikey, and Dad had only left him to deal with the closet-thing because he knew Dean could handle it and he had, so there was no point in shaking like a baby.

And remembering it all now, as an adult, was somehow different to living through it as a kid. Dean knew that the things that hid in closets were generally simple enough to dispatch, that even at that age he'd been well-trained and was not your average kid, but remembering how he'd felt that night now, without the protective childhood veil of Daddy knows best...

Dean had almost never got angry with their father, had always had faith that he knew what he was doing, that he knew best, that things were the way they had to be. Having those memories brought back that morning and feeling that unfamiliar anger and hurt swelling in him had been... terrifying. Sickening.

Being forced to pack up and leave town two days later after Dad killed what he'd been hunting, no time even to say goodbye to Mikey, and Dean had never bothered trying to make friends with the kids at his schools after that.

Dad passing nine-year-old Sammy the shotgun so he could deal with the thing in his closet, and Dean had sneaked into Sammy's bedroom to help, because Dad was - not wrong, never wrong, impossible - but... he couldn't expect Sammy to just...

Dad coming back to the motel and finding Dean feeding the stray puppy he'd found on the streets and yelling at him about the risks (rabies, Dean, diseases, you're meant to be looking after your brother, not stray animals, what if it had been a hellhound, would you even have known?) before taking it away, and Dean had never dared to ask whether he'd taken it to a shelter or abandoned it somewhere or just shot it.

All those memories and a thousand more like them, and Dean had never had the luxury of anger at the time because his father was all he had, but he'd been angry that morning when the memories overwhelmed him. He understood exactly why his father had acted the way he did in every one of those memories, understood it right down to the bone, but that hadn't taken away the terrifying flare of unfamiliar anger.

He hadn't really understood at the time why his father was apologising to him in the hospital, but he thought he might get it a bit better now.

Dean scrubbed a hand over his face and sat up, glancing across at his brother, still fast asleep. Thank Christ Sammy hadn't managed to force him to talk about those memories that morning. That was one conversation Dean did not ever want to have.

After a moment, Dean got out of bed as quietly as he could and decided to go downstairs and make himself some coffee. The memories waiting for him down there couldn't hit any harder than the ones currently circling in his head.

~*~
Chapter Four