FIC: Swear By All Flowers (SPN, Sam/Dean) (2/6)
PART TWO: like some passing afternoon
Sam waited while they walked back to the car. He waited while Dean walked over to the soda machine and bought a Mountain Dew, still pretending like everything was fine. He even waited until they were both seated in the Impala before saying, "Tell me."
Dean gave him a hard look and leaned against the passenger-side window, his arms crossed and shoulders curled defensively. "Tell you what?"
"No, I mean," Sam paused, took a breath, and tried not to scream at Dean for putting on the same old act, even now. The thought of Dean, dead, Dean dead, dead Dean kept circling in his mind. "Tell me what the curse is doing. What's wrong with you?"
Dean bit his lip, rubbed at his face. Sam was suddenly struck by how old Dean looked, and it wasn't just the way his hair was starting to go prematurely gray at the temples. He looked tired. His eyes were bloodshot and the crow's feet at the corners were getting deeper. The shock-white scars the demon had left on his face were starting to blend with the growing paleness of his skin.
Dean looked like shit. How had Sam not noticed?
"It's nothing concrete, Sam. It's just a bunch of symptoms all mashed up together in a blender." Dean stared straight ahead at nothing, lips curled. "Fatigue, nausea, diarrhea. Weird bruises in the shapes of demonic symbols. Eyesight's sensitive." He turned to Sam. "And sometimes I piss blood and it feels like my dick's on fire. Pretty soon, my organs are gonna start shutting down. Had enough?"
Yes, thought Sam, but he refused to rise to Dean's baiting. "When were you going to tell me?"
"I just did."
"But you can't just -" Sam stopped himself, glared out at the road ahead of them.
"Sam," and Dean sounded exhausted. "Can we just not do this? Can we just..."
Sam swallowed. "Dean, I can't not do this."
Dean was silent a moment. "Yeah," he said finally. "I know."
Blinking back the burn in his eyes, Sam started to go over the information Dean had given him. Curse... demon... Dean dying. He couldn't make his brain work, and Dean had given him fuck-all to go on. Sam would have to ask Dean for his and Bobby's notes, but not now. Later. When Sam could think straight.
"Hey, we gonna move any time soon here?" Dean's voice jolted Sam from his thoughts, and he realized that they were still sitting in the car. He hadn't even put the key in the ignition.
"Yeah," said Sam. "Just, give me a second."
Dean seemed to expect Sam to just give up, but there was no way in hell that was going to happen. Sam had saved Dean before, he could do it again. He would do it again.
And besides, Dean had lost enough to the demon. Sam still woke up some days wondering why he had been the one to emerge from that last battle unscathed, while Dean had been the one hospitalized for two weeks. Hell, Dean had looked like he'd been shoved through a cheese grater. Even now, scar tissue marred one side of Dean's jaw and ran thin lines of white through his right eyebrow.
Sam had lost enough to the demon over the years, and there was no way he would let the demon have this. Not his brother. Not Dean.
Dean was right, though, about finding the cure. Sam could do that on his own, and Dean wouldn't have to worry about it.
In the meantime, Sam was going to be at Dean's side every moment until Dean was sick of him, and quite possibly every moment past that. If Dean thought anything else, he was crazy.
"Seriously," said Dean. "Sometime today?"
"Yeah, I heard you the first time," said Sam. He started the car.
*
Sam was getting That Look, all big unhappy eyes and determined jaw. It made Dean feel itchy. That Look of Sam's was usually reserved for grieving widows, sad puppies and suicidal spirits, not Dean. When That Look was turned on Dean, it usually resulted in carnage, mayhem, and Sam getting whapped soundly upside the head until he cut it out.
Of course, it also usually resulted in Sam figuring out some way to save the day, but Dean wasn't holding his breath this time.
"Stop looking at me like that," said Dean.
"I'm not looking at you," Sam said immediately, which would have carried more weight if he hadn't been staring at Dean for the past two minutes.
When Sam looked back over at him, cautiously, Dean offered him a pasted-up fake smile, just smarmy enough to get under Sam's skin. Sam turned back to the road, and Dean could see the little muscle in Sam's jaw flexing.
"You wanna stop here?" said Sam. He kept watch on Dean out of the corner of his eye. "For the night, I mean."
"Whatever," Dean replied, and Sam turned into the motel's parking lot and turned off the ignition. The light from the vacancy sign cast watery white light down through the windshield, and for a moment, Dean felt like they were under the ocean.
"I feel like I should be saying something." Sam stared out the window, his hand still gripped around the keys in the ignition like he'd forgotten what to do with them.
Dean grimaced. "Yeah, you usually do."
Sam coughed out something that sounded like a laugh, and Dean looked over at him, startled. Sam was smiling.
Sam looked back at him. "I really missed you, you know," Sam said, and his grin abruptly turned down at the corners. "Look, I just want you to know that I -"
"And, there we go, ladies and gentlemen, that's enough of the Sam Winchester Moping Hour," Dean interrupted. "And I am freaking starving, so let's check in and order some pizza, and I won't have to listen to your 'woe is us' routine, okay?"
"All right," said Sam. He looked so forlorn that Dean broke his own rule, reached over and squeezed Sam's shoulder with his bad hand. Dean wasn't particularly surprised when Sam covered his hand with his own and squeezed back hard, like the world was ending.
They sat in the Impala under the light of the Justice Fishermen's Lodge Motel sign, three days after Dean had shown up on Sam's doorstep, and Dean forgot all the other shit and just soaked in the fact that his little brother was alive, warm and well under his grip.
*
Dean entered the room with two coffees and a bag full of McGriddles and cheap apple pies. Somehow he managed to balance his load and still brandish a crumpled and refolded newspaper at Sam's innocent, still-trying-to-sleep form.
"Hey, I got an actual case for us," Dean said.
Sam blinked at Dean blearily. "Yeah?"
Dean dumped the McGriddles on the bed and set one of the coffees on Sam's stomach. Sam yelped, but managed to grab the cup before it tipped over and scalded various important bits of anatomy. Dean waggled the newspaper in Sam's face.
"Get this," said Dean. "Three mysterious disappearances in the woods up in New York state, all in the past two months. Some creepy place called Hemlock Lake."
Sam squinted at Dean and the newspaper, noticing that Dean was still wearing his sunglasses. The last time Dean had worn sunglasses every day had been when they were kids, the summer when Dean had watched The Blues Brothers for the fifth time. Dean had been humming het 'em up, move 'em out, rawhide under his breath for days, and kept giving passing police cars a speculative glance.
Sam had always thought that Dean somehow missed his calling. When he found himself wondering if that made him Elwood or Jake, Sam decided it was better just to drop the thought entirely and get some caffeine into his system.
"What the fuck are you staring at?" said Dean, and threw the newspaper at Sam's head. Yeah, Dean would be Jake. He had that Belushi charm.
"Nothing," said Sam. He took a careful sip of the coffee and nearly scalded his tongue off. "Shit. So, what's this case?"
"Three teenagers, all boys, disappear in the area of Hemlock Lake. One washes up on the shore of the lake, drowned. Another one? They found pieces. Bits of his bones with all the flesh stripped off. They haven't found the third guy, but what are you willing to bet he's met a pretty nasty end, too?"
"Huh." Sam took another sip of coffee, but it hadn't cooled down any and he burned his mouth again. "That's odd, though. Different M.O. each time. Are there any other patterns, or is this just a recent thing?"
Dean shrugs. "I couldn't find much online. But, get this - they have a local ghost. Some Indian chick that dove into the lake to escape some dudes from a neighboring tribe that were trying to kill her. Apparently, she haunts the lake now."
Sam grabbed a McGriddle. "So, what, she's just now decided to start drowning and skinning people?"
Dean shrugged. "Hey, don't ask me. Ask the locals."
"So we're going to New York, then."
"Looks like." Dean paused, then muttered, "We might have to take a detour into New York City first. The family of one of the boys lives there."
"The Big Apple? Really."
"Yeah, really," said Dean snippily.
"Awesome."
Sam had only been to New York City once, even though his dad and Dean had been there a few times on some hunts. Sam had gone as part of a class trip in his sophomore year at Stanford; that was how he'd met Jess. They'd wandered through the Met together for three hours, then they'd ditched the rest of the group to go get coffee. It had been one of the best days of Sam's life.
"Hey," Dean said suddenly, "What are you doing these days, anyway?"
Sam raised his eyebrows at Dean. "Huh?"
Dean made a swirling gesture with his hand, and Sam wondered at himself that he actually understood what Dean was asking.
"I told you. I have an internship -"
"Right, right, environmental whatsits. That's very granola of you. But why the hell are you there?" Dean gave him some intense look that Sam couldn't read. "Weren't you gonna do the whole law school thing?"
"So?" Sam shrugged. "I changed my mind."
"And your internship." Dean's brow was furrowed. "They're okay with you randomly taking off for weeks at a time?"
"Nah," said Sam, finally managing to take a sip of coffee that didn't scald his tastebuds. "Are you kidding? I didn't even give notice. They've probably found someone else by now."
"Jesus," muttered Dean. "So, you're okay with losing your job, just like that."
"It wasn't like I was going to be there forever, Dean."
"But you just don't care?"
Sam set down his coffee cup. "No. I don't care. I didn't care. Don't you get it? I've been waiting for you."
And that was it, really.
It hadn't been the first time Sam had trouble adjusting to "normal" life. He'd been distracted, lonely, finding it hard to concentrate on classes that should have been easy, but that was something Sam was expecting. When he had first shown up at Stanford, it had taken Jess's influence to help bring Sam into the fold of normalcy. It had taken her love and attention to make Sam's new life seem worth something. But the second time around, Sam wasn't nearly prepared to find someone else to fill that role.
So Sam waited; he stayed in school, and he graduated with a good GPA, and he got a job, and he got an apartment, and he got a roommate and some friends, and all along, he made damn sure that none of it actually meant anything at all.
Sam knew that Dean would come back eventually; he didn't want anything tying him down when it was time to go.
Dean, though, was looking at Sam like he'd never seen him before.
"Waiting for - what the hell is going on with you?" Dean said angrily. "This was your fucking dream, and you're just -"
Sam shook his head. "It wasn't my dream, okay? It used to be, but my dream got screwed up. This… this was just me trying to get it back, and it didn't work."
"Why didn't it work?"
Because you weren't part of it, Sam didn't say. Because I'm never going to be that same stupid kid again. Because the part of me that gave a shit about two kids and a picket fence is broken and I might never get it back.
Because I don't care about anything but you, and that's never going to change.
Dean just stared at Sam for a long minute, waiting for him to say something. Then he shook his head. "Fine, whatever. Don't tell me."
He turned around and started rifling through his duffel. Sam stared at the back of Dean's head, willing himself to speak, but in the end, it was so much easier just to let Dean be angry.
*
They stopped again in Akron, Ohio, because Dean was feeling sick. He waved off Sam's attempts to help, cursing Sam in between his bouts with the toilet bowl. Finally, Sam left Dean alone and disappeared off to a nearby library, laden with Dean and Bobby's extensive notes on the curse.
When Sam came back to the motel a few hours later, his face lined with disappointment, Dean pretended not to notice. He'd warned Sam that there was no hope, and yet the kid had to go and have some anyway. It was no good.
Sam turned on the bedside lamp, and Dean winced, the sudden light making his head feel like it was going to explode. "Uh, Sam? Can you -" but Sam was already switching it off.
"Shit, shit, sorry." He glanced over at Dean and shoved his hands in his pockets, restless. "Do you need anything?"
Dean shook his head and shivered a little under the covers. "No, I'm fine. I'll be fine in a couple hours, I - these things don't last long. Once it's dark, I can drive."
Sam paced a little, then came over to Dean's bed and sat down beside him. "Can I see?"
Dean rolled his eyes, but presented Sam with his arm. There was a sickly-purple bruise on the underside of his forearm, rimmed with burst veins. Sam took Dean's arm with warm fingers and traced the outline of the bruise. Dean shivered again, but not from cold, and he held his breath until Sam let go of him.
"Are there any more?"
Dean closed his eyes and nodded, too exhausted to joke or deflect. God, he hated himself these days. Weak, useless. He felt Sam drawing back the blankets, then Sam's fingers skating along his thigh, slowly cataloging the bruises and their shapes. Everything had been in the notes he'd given Sam, but Dean knew that Sam needed to see for himself. Otherwise Sam would be convinced that they were missing something.
Sam's fingers traveled up under Dean's T-shirt, making him flinch, and Sam pulled the shirt back to expose Dean's stomach.
The pause was long enough that Dean opened his eyes. Sam seemed to sense that Dean was watching him, and he met Dean's gaze, his eyes full of some dark emotion Dean couldn't identify.
"Jesus, Dean," said Sam. "I can't believe you didn't say something."
"They don't hurt," said Dean, and he tugged his shirt back down. "They're just annoying. I can't say I enjoy being some demonic curse's doodle pad."
"Yeah," Sam said quietly, and he drew the covers up to Dean's shoulders, tucking him in like a five year old. Dean would have protested - that kind of shit made his skin crawl on a good day, much less a day where it actually felt good to get tucked in -- but Dean decided to be selfish and enjoy the moment. It had been a long time since Dean had been touched by someone he loved.
Sam sat there for a moment, then got up and moved to the other bed. "I'll wake you later," he said quietly. "If you're feeling well enough then, we can drive for a couple more hours. We'll make New York by tomorrow afternoon."
Dean snuggled further into the covers, still feeling the echo of Sam's touch on his skin. "Sounds like a plan," he said quietly.
He slept soundly for the first time in months. By the time Sam gently shook him awake, Dean was ready to drive the Impala again; he still felt exhausted, but it was his normal level of exhaustion, not the crippling illness of the past few hours.
Dean closed his eyes and smiled. He'd made it through another wave of sickness and still not given in to the inevitable, and for the first time, he was glad.
He was still shuffling his way around a yawning Sam, trying to find his socks, when he remembered a scrap of his dream. It had been a good one, Dean thought. For some reason he felt like his dad must have been in it; Dean had the distinct impression that his dad had been proud of him. A good dream. There wasn't much more Dean could ask for, these days.
Dean found his socks just in time for Sam to toss him the car keys. Dean's reflexes were slowed with sleep, and he almost didn't catch them before they hit him in the forehead.
"Watch out," said Dean, "You trying to kill me early?"
Sam just smiled.
*
Although one of the victims was originally from a small town near Hemlock Lake, the families of two of the boys lived deep within the sprawling metropolitan wilds of New York City. It was bad enough that they had to set foot in the city itself, but even worse was the fact that Sam argued they should park the Impala and take the subway. It would be easier than trying to find parking where they needed to go, he said. As usual, the smug little fucker was right.
"Don't tell me you're afraid of the subway," said Sam.
"Shut the fuck up," said Dean. "Why are you standing that close to the edge? Jesus Christ, Sam, do you want to get decapitated?"
Sam rolled his eyes at Dean and turned back to the tracks, leaning over to watch for the train. "You're totally shitting your pants, dude," Sam said, then, before Dean could protest, "Here we go, this one's ours."
Dean pushed onto the subway car through the confused jostling of passengers, keeping an eye on Sam's broad shoulders. Sam found a spot to stand and grabbed onto one of the metal bars, and Dean followed suit.
"I fucking hate public transportation," Dean growled.
More people shoved onto the car after Dean, forcing him to take a couple steps closer to Sam. The train started, and Dean lost his balance and lurched into Sam's side.
"Ow!" Sam swore under his breath and elbowed Dean away. Dean pretended not to notice that Sam's shove doubled as a support to help Dean regain his balance. He elbowed Sam back and planted his feet firmly, tightening his grip on the bar overhead.
Even with the support of the bar, Dean had to lean into Sam with every turn and twist in the track. Sam was turned slightly away from Dean, his head above those of most of the other people on the car, and Dean found himself with a sudden mouthful of Sam's shoulder when the subway train stopped.
"Not our stop yet," said Sam. Dean tried to ignore how goddamned good Sam smelled. Coffee and sweat under the stronger scent of fabric softener. With a mental sigh of defeat, Dean closed his eyes against the subway and just lived in Sam-world for a moment, inhaling deeply through his nose.
The doors closed, leaving the car a little less crowded than it had been before. Dean took the opportunity to grab a seat that had opened up next to Sam's legs, squeezing in between a big, burly construction worker and a smokin' hot businesswoman.
He was sitting close enough to the businesswoman that her skirt kind of rode up her leg a little as Dean squirmed to get comfortable, and for a moment, Dean reconsidered his stance on public transportation. That was fine. The woman wasn't wearing hose, and Dean could see the tiny, almost invisible blonde hairs on her upper thigh where she hadn't bothered to shave. Dude. For a moment, Dean wondered how bad he'd get arrested if he pretended to straighten her skirt for her.
Sam kicked Dean in the ankle.
Dean sent Sam a glare, then caught glimpse of something out of the corner of his eye. There was a little, wizened old woman sitting on the bench across from Dean. She was curled into an old, torn purple shawl that almost covered her completely, and her bony little feet were planted firmly on the floor. She was barefoot.
Dean got a crawling sensation, and looked up at the woman's face again. Her mouth was nothing but a crooked slit across her face, unsmiling and caked with brown at the corners. She regarded Dean steadily from tiny, wrinkled little eyes that gleamed puke-yellow in the subway lighting, and kept looking even after Dean pointedly stared back.
And, okay, that was just not natural.
Dean kicked Sam in the ankle.
"Dean, it's just a subway, it's not going to eat you." Sam sounded amused. Oh, sure. That was all well and good when there didn't happen to be a psychotic old lady troll thing staring Dean down.
Dean caught Sam's eye and made motions with his eyebrows. He crossed his arms and surreptitiously pointed at the old crone, calculating an angle where he knew she couldn't see him gesturing. Sam ruined his fine efforts at subterfuge by immediately turning and looking right at the lady.
The crone stopped staring at Dean long enough to stare at Sam, instead. Sam nodded and smiled politely, then made an apologetic expression with his forehead that Dean recognized as Sam-speak for sorry about my brother, he's a retard. Dean kicked Sam in the ankle again.
Dude, the bitch had not even blinked.
"Dean," said Sam. His polite smile was kind of strained.
"What do you think," Dean stage-whispered. "Zombie? Troll? Maybe a harpy."
Sam's smile looked really strained.
The subject in question let out a low chuckle, dashing Dean's hopes that she was senile enough not to understand he'd been talking about her.
"I am quite alive, my dear," she said raspily. Her voice was a cross between a croak and a cough. "And when I checked in the mirror this morning, I saw no wings." She tilted her head back and looked down her nose at Dean - and it was a very, very long nose.
"Coulda fooled me," Dean muttered.
"Well," she said, and there was an odd lilt to her tone, something that rang false as a mask. Dean just did not have a good feeling about this lady. "You're an interesting pair, aren't you?"
"What the hell are you?" Dean demanded. He ignored Sam's desperate stomp on his toes; could barely feel it anyway, thank God for steel-toed boots.
The old lady just cackled, and the train ground to a halt. The doors farted open, and she got to her feet with an odd sway. Without another word, she drifted out of the car, and it took Dean a second to realize that Sam was following her. Shit, apparently it was their stop.
When Dean caught up to Sam, there was no sign of the woman.
"What the hell was that?" asked Sam. He seemed more curious than pissed, which meant...
"You thought she was weird, too, didn't you," said Dean.
"No!" said Sam. "Okay, yes."
Dean stabbed a finger in the air, victorious.
"But it doesn't mean anything, Dean. If we got suspicious of every weird person on the subway, we'd be here for years."
"She was giving me a look, Sam."
"Dude, not every little old lady is out to get you."
"You never know." Dean took a few steps, then turned around. "You coming or what?"
Sam heaved a long-suffering sigh and followed.
*
They talked with the parents of the kids, but got nowhere. The folks were grieving, and one of the mothers was crying so hard it made Dean's head ache in sympathy, but they didn't know anything. Dean and Sam left them with fake business cards and told them to, if they remembered anything, "anything at all, just call this number and ask for either Mr. Duchovny or Mr. Anderson," and then they headed back to the Impala.
They rented a room in a nearby rundown hotel for some exorbitant price, and Dean crashed almost immediately. His cheeks burned from having to admit that he had been exhausted by what was essentially a day of research, but Dean reasoned that it was New York - that was enough to suck the energy out of anybody sane.
Dean fell asleep to the comfortable sound of Sam leafing through books. Pages rustled, and occasionally Sam would pause and write something down, his pen scratching quietly at the paper. Dean had the flitting thought that this would be a good way to die; if he couldn't go out in a blaze of glory, then just this: sinking slowly into sleep with Sam sitting next to him, breathing evenly and keeping watch.
Hours later, Dean was jolted awake by the sound of the door opening. After a heart stopping moment where he realized he was completely unarmed and didn't even know where his knife was, he recognized the bumbling figure as Sam.
He listened to Sam rummage through one of their bags, then stumble his way to the bathroom in the dark. When Sam turned the light on in the bathroom, it hurt Dean's eyes, so he closed them quickly and continued to pretend he was asleep.
A few minutes later, Sam came back out. Dean could hear him walking with a slow, careful pace. Too careful, like Sam was overly concerned about where his feet were going.
All of a sudden, Dean realized that his brother was stinking drunk.
Too annoyed to continue faking sleep, Dean rolled over to face where Sam was standing, raising himself up on his elbow. "Dude, where've you been?"
Sam stopped dead, wobbling slightly, and looked at him. "Hey," he said slowly. "Sorry I... woke you. You okay?"
Dean sighed. "I'm fine, Sam. Or at least I was fine until my brother stumbled in completely blitzed. What the hell are you doing?"
"I -" Sam shook his head, his movements jerky, then he sat down on the edge of Dean's bed like the motion had made him dizzy. "Nothing, I'm not doing anything." He let out a laugh. "Isn't that the problem, though?"
"Sam, just go to sleep. You know how you get."
Sam made a sniffly noise and turned to Dean. "How I get?"
"You know," Dean said uncomfortably. "You turn into a whiny bitch when you're drunk, all right?"
Sam regarded him way too steadily. "You used to like getting me drunk. Remember? When we were kids."
"You were less whiny back then." Which was a blatant lie; when they were kids, Sammy had been whiny as hell when he was drunk, but it had also been damn hilarious to hear him go on long, rambling tirades about school and Dad and the popularity of Cheerios and shit.
"I know when it changed," said Sam. "I know when you decided you didn't like me drunk anymore."
Sam reached out and put a hand on Dean's chest, like he was going to push him back down to lie on the bed, but then he just left it there.
"Sammy," said Dean. "Seriously, man, get some sleep. What time is it?"
"It was that night," said Sam. "You remember that night? Nah, 'course you do."
That night. Dean swallows, remembers that night, the night he decided he had to leave Sam at Stanford and not come back. They'd been at a bar, a little dive off the edge of campus, and Sam had been drunk and laughing, his body pressed close to Dean's in their tiny booth.
*
California was hot, but it was the kind of hot that let Dean relax, leading to no more discomfort than sweat and a craving for beer. His shirt was sticking to his back a little, and Sam had pressed his mouth right up against Dean's ear. Dean knew, knew that Sam was close enough that he could feel the shudder that ran through Dean, the way Dean trembled at the feel of Sam's hot, moist breath.
Hey, Sam had said, hey, hey, hey. You're stayin', right? Cause I - it'd be so much fun, Dean, we'd have a blast, you know, you and me could go hunting whenever and just, come back. Come back and stay here while I finish school, and we could have, and Sam paused, his boisterous plan-making suddenly taking a turn for hesitant. Like, an apartment together.
Dean had closed his eyes, leaned his shoulder into Sam's. He meant it, Dean realized. Sammy really meant it.
Yeah. Yeah, Sam, that'd be - yeah.
It'd be great, Sam said, finishing Dean's stammered reply. He leaned back and grinned so huge that Dean thought Sam's jaw might pop out of its socket, his teeth bright and dazzling. Good. I - good. His hand curled around Dean's shoulder, intimate. Like it meant something.
Maybe this was it, Dean thought. Maybe this was his, all this. Sammy and a real home and the demon gone. Maybe this was his happy ending.
Sam, still smiling, glanced out over the bar. Dean saw the exact moment when something - someone - caught his attention. His eyes widened a little, and his grin took on a wicked edge.
Hey, Dean, said Sam, Look at her. Over there.
Dean's face froze. He glanced in the direction Sam was looking and saw about ten people who could classify as a "her."
Go for it, Dean said, ignoring the gnawing in his gut. You can do anything you want now, remember?
Sam looked at him, as intently as he watched the road. You sure?
Dean laughed it off. What are you asking me for, man?
A pause, then a nod. I'll be right back, okay? Sam said.
Dean could only watch, the pit of his gut burning in sudden, fierce, selfish jealousy, as Sam squeezed his shoulder once and slid out of the booth to go talk to the blonde number seated at a table across the room with some of her friends. The blonde was already laughing, flipping her hair self-consciously, intent on Sam's approach.
Dean watched Sam introduce himself. He watched Sam charm her, compliment her taste in reading material, and even though he couldn't hear any of the conversation, he imagined that Sam was inviting her to get coffee with him, or something else equally sensitive and endearing. Dean watched every second of it, right up until Sam laughed and touched the girl's shoulder, natural as anything. Then with a nod at Sam to let him know he'd be back at the hotel, Dean had left.
There was no way Sam hadn't noticed Dean's reaction, his shudder at Sam's mouth next to his ear. Dean felt sick. The girl - the girl was a message for Dean to back off, before he did something stupid and unforgivable.
But of course, she wasn't just that, no, because Sam was an honorable type, Sam probably wouldn't even leave before she woke up in the morning. He'd probably stick around long enough to make coffee. Maybe even long enough to marry her and have lots of disgusting, perfect little babies.
That night. That night was the night Dean turned into the most selfish prick in the world and abandoned Sam, not just leaving for a little while but staying away for almost two years, just so he wouldn't have to watch his brother fall in love with someone else again.
*
"It was that night in that hotel," Sam finished blearily, "The one with those creepy dolls."
Dean breathed.
"I asked you to kill me, once." Sam paused. "And I'm sorry, did I tell you I was sorry?"
"Yeah, Sammy," Dean said softly. "You said you were sorry."
"Well, I am," Sam insisted. "But I know you didn't like it, didn't like me asking, and also - you didn't like that I," and Sam broke off, looked at Dean like his heart was breaking.
"It's okay, Sammy," said Dean. He smoothed Sam's hair back, ignoring the drunken consternation on Sam's face as he tried to figure out how to phrase whatever else he wanted to say. "It's okay. Just go to sleep."
Sam finally nodded, and shifted further onto Dean's bed.
"Hey, hey, whoa there," sputtered Dean, "I meant in your own bed, dude. I'm not putting up with your kicking all night."
Sam gave him a bleak grin. "Whatever, dude," he said, sounding a little more sober. "I'm not the one who kicks. You," and Sam suddenly sighed, and before Dean knew it, he was flat on his back with Sam's huge hands pushing him into the mattress and kneading at his arms. Sam slung one leg over Dean's hip, like he wanted to pin him down, and breathed heavy against Dean's jaw.
"Sam -"
"Dean," said Sam, and his lips traced over the line of Dean's chin and up to Dean's mouth, barely touching.
"You're drunk," Dean murmured. His lips brushed Sam's as he spoke.
"Yeah," Sam whispered. "Does it matter?"
Dean closed his eyes against Sam, the shape of him half-shadow, Sam's eyes bright with liquor and something else that Dean didn't want to see. "Yeah. It does."
Sam didn't move.
"Sam," said Dean. "Get off of me."
Slowly, slowly, Sam inched off of him, collapsing into the leftover space on the bed and flinging his hand over his eyes. Dean recognized the pose as Sam trying not to cry, and he quickly rolled over, curling into the blankets and away from Sam's body.
After about twenty minutes passed, Dean heard Sam fall asleep, heard his breathing getting deeper and slower, but he couldn't quite get there himself. All he could do was think about Sam's touch, Sam's mouth hovering over his. Sam, offering something that he knew damn well Dean could never accept.
Dean squeezed his eyes shut. That was all it really was, and that was the part that hurt most. Sam was feeling guilty, and he willing to do anything to make Dean happy, anything at all. Even - what? Kiss him? Hold him? More?
No way. Dean didn't want that. He didn't want any of it.
He stayed awake all night, staring into the shadowy corners of the room until his eyes burned.
*
The next morning, Dean was so quiet that Sam felt like puking for more reasons than just the hangover. Fuck. He was such a goddamned idiot.
"So," Sam said, trying to sound at least somewhat gung-ho, "I was thinking we've probably done enough research around here, and that maybe we should check out the lake itself, see how the situation is there."
"Sounds good," said Dean. He continued packing his duffel bag, shoving another pair of dirty socks in the pocket on the side.
Sam shouldn't have gotten drunk, he really shouldn't have, but it had seemed like a good idea at the time. It wasn't every day that a guy realized his brother was right all along; that there was a curse he can't break, and a life he couldn't save. A life more dear to him than anything.
Sam was pretty sure he was still reeling, although part of it could have been the mass quantities of alcohol he'd consumed the night before. Sam hadn't wanted to give up, but every new symbol and every new notation about the curse's structure had reinforced the same outcome that Dean and Bobby had found. Dean was going to die, and there was no cure. Not even a loophole.
He took a breath. "Dean," said Sam. Dean flinched, almost imperceptibly, and Sam grit his teeth.
"Sam," Dean parroted, and zipped up the duffel, hoisting it onto his shoulder. "Okay, let's go."
It was a long drive to Hemlock Lake, over five hours, but they'd gotten an early enough start that they should be able to make it before the libraries closed. Even so, it took them almost an hour just to get out of New York City and on the road. Dean didn't say a word the entire time, just shoved his sunglasses onto his nose and leaned against the window.
When they got near Hemlock Lake, they drove up Route 15 and stopped in Livonia, one of the nearest towns with a library. Dean begged off of research, claiming that he'd just wander into a few shops or diners and get the lay of the land.
"You know me, Sam," said Dean. "I'm the people person, and - well, you're the guy that looks at the microfiche all day, cause I'm sure as hell not going to."
"Gee, thanks," said Sam, but Dean waved him off and ambled down the street. Sam watched him go, his heart feeling shriveled and dead in his chest.
*
Dean stopped in a tiny bookstore full of motivational posters and Precious Moments calendars. It was the first place he'd seen where someone might be willing to strike up a conversation, but he was wondering if information was worth having to stare at big-eyed ceramic cherubs.
The only person in the store was a big, gruff guy who sheepishly explained that he usually worked at the gas station down the road and was just there watching the store for his mother. "Is there anything you're looking for, though?" he asked. "We just got the newest Chicken Soup book in."
Jesus Christ. Dean was still waiting for them to come out with Chicken Soup for the Demon Hunter's Soul; until then, they weren't of much use to him.
"Nah, man, but I was wondering if you knew anything about that local ghost story," said Dean.
The guy's brow furrowed. "The one about the Holleran place?"
Dean blinked. "Actually, I meant the one about the lake."
"Oh!" Bookstore Guy's face lit up. "I love that one. The tale of Onnolee, the Indian maiden."
Dean squinted his eyes and mimed excitement. "That's the one. I'm curious, what's the version you've heard?"
The guy shrugged. "There aren't many versions that I know of, just the one. Back in the fourteenth century or so, this girl Onnolee was a member of the Munsee tribe. Her tribe got slaughtered by an enemy village, but Onnolee was spared and taken to the enemy chieftain."
"Right," said Dean, and nodded for him to go on. The guy smiled, his lips crinkling behind his heavy beard.
"Anyway, Onnolee stabbed the chieftain and killed him. She knew she'd be found and murdered for what she'd done, so she took off running. The other tribe took after her, with all these arrows flying and whatever, but Onnolee made it all the way to this crag overlooking Hemlock Lake, and she jumped."
"Cool girl," Dean nodded. "Sounds like a really old story, too. Have there been recent spottings?"
The guy shrugged. "Some kids say they seen her, but I doubt it. I don't think anybody's really seen her in over a hundred years, if they ever did. I mean, ghosts? It was probably just some trick of the light."
"Huh," said Dean. "Well, thanks for your help."
Dean begrudgingly bought a bookmark with a Bible quote on it, his little way of saying thanks to the guy for his help, then left to meet up with Sam. He had the feeling they were missing something.
*
"So, she showed me the town's earlier birth and death records, and that's the thing - nothing like this has happened before." Sam handed Dean a stack of printouts, like he thought Dean would actually need - or want - to look at them. "There's been a couple of drownings over the years, and some kid getting crushed by a wagon, but no pattern. Whatever this is, it started recently."
Dean took the printouts and pretended to read the first page. His eyes hurt pretty badly, but he didn't think Sam could tell from watching him. "Did your new girlfriend have anything else to show you?"
Sam sighed exasperatedly. "You mean, the librarian?"
"Yeah," said Dean. "What was her name? Helen?"
"Heather dug up some eyewitness reports, some newer ones and some from about two hundred years ago," Sam continued, ignoring Dean's raised eyebrows, "And each account said the same thing: blue smoke, vapors, figure made of mist, et cetera. Some people said they saw Onnolee more clearly, but that's about it. Nothing that couldn't be explained by natural phenomena, and nobody said anything about the mist suddenly turning evil and skinning people."
"Huh," said Dean.
"Yeah," said Sam.
"Time to take a look for ourselves?"
"You got it."
Neither of them mentioned the previous night.
*
Onnolee wasn't there.
They hiked in circles until night had fallen, trying to find any trace of EMF, but there was nothing. There was nothing by the lake's edge, either, even in the spot where the locals had found the one boy washed up on shore.
"She's not here," said Dean. "Nothing's here. What the fuck?"
Sam shook his head. He didn't have an answer. He shook the EMF reader a little, wondering if there was some kind of short or a loose battery.
Beside him, Dean suddenly stiffened.
"I knew it," said Dean. "I knew it."
Sam looked up, scanning the woods around them. He almost didn't see her; she was dressed all in brown fur and nets of sinew, and she blended in with the bark of the trees. Sam only saw her because of her eyes - shiny, black eyes glinting unblinkingly from the brush. She was looking right at him.
"It's the fucking crone," said Dean. "It's the fucking subway bitch, Sam."
Sam blinked, but the old woman was gone. He could still feel her stare; it had been alien and utterly knowing.
"Where the hell did she go?" whispered Sam, but the next moment, he had his answer. There was a rustle, another rustle, and then he and Dean were confronted by a small, rickety looking house.
At first, Sam thought the house was on stilts; then one of the stilts moved.
The house took a step closer.
"Dude," said Dean, "You have got to be kidding me."