Intimations of Morality: First Limb
Intimations of Morality: First Limb
Chapter Rating: NC-17
Chapter Word Count: 9492
All warnings in Main Post
“For you or Dad, the things
I’m willing to do or kill, it’s just...
it scares me sometimes.”
- Dean, Devil’s Trap
There’s never been anything like a normal, everyday exorcism. Especially not now, with demons learning new and fancy ways to keep themselves locked in their human hosts. Sure, there are different rituals and prayers for different situations - Dean memorized most of them before he was sixteen - and they’ve always been good at improvising in a pinch, but when you come down to it, there’s always some kind of shock before the big payoff.
Sam finds the job. Joseph Ravo, twenty six year old computer technician of Rahway, New Jersey. Coworkers had called him the perfect officemate: smart, friendly, hard worker. Then, after a three-day period of appearing tired and paranoid, Joseph disappeared. His wife of two years, Angela, was found dead in their home later in the week. Since then, a steady stream of murders has plagued the surrounding area, all victims matching the late Mrs. Ravo’s description.
Police are calling it the act of a psychopath, homicidal tendencies brought on by job stress. The Winchesters look at the newspaper photos and know the police could not be more wrong.
“Even with the sheet over her, you can tell her head’s about 180 degrees from where it should be,” Sam points out.
“And that guy looks like he’s 90 pounds soaking wet. Couldn’t crack a walnut unless he was on something, nevermind snapping someone’s neck like that.”
It takes less than a week to drive to New Jersey and investigate the Ravo home. The findings are a little disturbing: no EMF, no sulfur, no cold spots. Dean reacts with “who says you can’t teach an old dog new tricks” and Sam doesn’t acknowledge him, just purses his lips and keeps looking for signs.
Their second night in Rahway, Dean suggests a rolling stake-out, patrolling the neighborhood in case Joseph - or rather, the thing driving Joseph - decides to make an appearance. It’s pure luck that they find him as he’s pulling a mirror image of Angela through the front door of a for-sale two-story a couple streets over from Joseph’s home, and they waste no time in grabbing the necessary exorcism ingredients from the trunk and rushing into the house.
Dean kicks in the door, startling Joseph enough to halt his hands around the girl’s neck. The element of surprise is a wonderful thing, and Sam uses the split-second hesitation as a chance to unstop a bottle of holy water and splash it into Joseph’s face. The man stumbles backwards, releasing the girl in shock, but no steam rises from where the holy water hit him, and Joseph looks more confused than pained when he meets Sam’s eyes. “I’m all wet.”
Everyone else freezes in place, mostly astounded by the inanity of Joseph’s statement. Dean lets out a quiet Christo, and Joseph just snorts, looking all the part of an innocent computer geek. Then the girl breaks out of her stupor, crab-crawling backwards to the door, and suddenly Joseph launches himself back at her, lips pulled back in a snarl. She screams, and Dean barely manages to get a grip on the man’s arm before Joseph’s hands can close around her neck again.
“Get out of here!” Sam practically bellows at her as he moves to help his brother. “Run!”
She doesn’t hesitate, and Joseph’s struggling turns more frantic the closer she gets to the door. “No!” and his voice is high and panicked. “You don’t under - it told me - I have to, she lies.” When the girl escapes out the door, Joseph suddenly crumbles in their arms, limp as a ragdoll. “She lies, she kills. It told me, it showed me.”
When Joseph makes no move to follow her, the boys both release their holds and let him collapse to the floor, where he promptly draws his knees to his chest and begins rocking. Sam looks up. “Dean, I don’t think he’s possessed.”
“Yeah, I’m getting that feeling too. Maybe we are just dealing with a little cubicle-induced insanity. But something helped him give those girls the full-on Exorcist twist, and if it wasn’t a demon, then what was it?”
The man is still rocking on the floor, muttering to himself, so Sam crouches to his side and tries to look him in the eye. “Joseph, hey. What do you mean, ‘it told you?’”
“It told me. It showed me. She lies, she kills. It told me.” Now Joseph’s eyes look haunted, cold and hollow. “I have to, it told me.”
Sam tentatively touches Joseph’s shoulder, trying to still the other man’s movement. “What told you, Joseph? What?” Joseph’s eyes flicker to the corner of the room, and Dean stomps over. The floor is empty, save for a small bleached-white knot of something, and Dean bends down and pokes the object with a finger. It feels solid and neither hot nor cold, no runes or symbols carved into it, totally innocuous. Still crouched close to the ground, he pivots on the balls of his feet to face the other two men and points. “This thing?”
Joseph nods frantically. “It showed me. It told me.”
“Dude, enough with the broken record.” Dean pinches the ball between two fingers and stands up. “Sam, this guy’s taking orders from a marble. That’s a level of crazy I don’t think we’re ready to deal with.” He tosses the ball up like he’s looking for heads or tails, then snatches it out of the air.
An electric jolt flares through him the second his fingers curl fully around the knot, and suddenly Dean crashes to his knees. Sam’s up in a flash, calling his brother’s name and rushing to his side, but all Dean can register is the searing pain shooting into his skull and the feeling of something unfurling on his palm.
There’s thirty seconds of pure agony, and then it’s gone, quick as it came, and Dean’s blinking up into Sam’s worried face. He slowly opens his fist, and there is no longer a knotted marble but a small wicker man with rigid limbs in the palm of his hand.
“Reset.” Joseph’s whisper is barely audible, but both brothers turn his way at the new word. “You’ll see. You’ll know. It’ll tell you.”
*****
If the girl is smart, she has already called the cops, so Sam and Dean leave the scene as soon as Dean’s steady on his feet, leaving Joseph to the mercy of the Rahway PD. Even as they rush to the car, Joseph’s cries of “it’ll tell you” and “it’ll show you” haunt them, and Dean steers back to their motel with only one hand on the wheel; the other lies palm-up on his thigh with the wicker man resting inside.
“We’re burning this bitch the moment we’re back at the motel,” and Dean tries his best to hide the tension in his voice. If Sam hears it, he doesn’t say anything, his eyes riveted on the small doll. The slight headshakes and miniscule movements of Sam’s lips let Dean know that Sam’s wracking his brain to remember some hint or tidbit as to what they’re dealing with, and it’s a comfort knowing Geekboy's on the case, but Dean knows he won’t feel relieved until nothing’s left of the doll but ash.
They pull into the motel parking lot and without speaking they both know their roles. Upon exiting the car, Sam grabs the salt canister and lighter fluid, and Dean uses his free hand to dig a book of matches out of his pocket. They silently walk to the far side of the motel, out of sight from the road and room windows, and Dean unceremoniously drops the doll to the pavement. Sam gives it a liberal dousing of salt and accelerant; Dean lights the whole book and flicks it onto the mini-pyre. It goes up in flames immediately, reeking of kerosene and burnt hair, and the boys watch until the fire goes out.
As soon as they’re satisfied that there’s only dust remaining, Dean leads the way to their room. The door is barely closed when he glances at Sam and sees the we need to talk about this look on his younger brother’s face. “I’m fine, Sam,” Dean cuts him off at the pass.
“But Dean-“
“Seriously, I feel fine. No more headaches, no voices telling me to kill people like ol’ Joe back there. Now, if I wake up in the morning wanting to trade my girl for a VW Bug, feel free to call the nice young men in their clean white coats. I always did want to see if I could escape from a straight jacket.”
“I still think-“
Dean throws his hands up in frustration. “Dude, we torched the hell out of that thing, okay? Even if it did do something, it’s over now, so just let it drop.” He makes a big show of flopping onto his bed, still completely dressed, and curls his arms under his pillow. Dean’s always teased Sam about thinking too loud, and now’s no different. He can practically hear the argument and contrary words rattling around in his brother’s mind. “Go to sleep, Sam.”
Sam gives a sigh of resignation, but Dean knows he’ll pick up the discussion again in the morning. The room plunges into darkness when Sam clicks off the bedroom lamp, and Dean hears the springs of the other bed groan under his brother’s weight. Dean takes a deep breath, more to settle himself than anything, then lets himself fade slowly into unconsciousness.
And wakes up immediately on his back, flat on a cement floor. His vision swims for a moment - oh yeah, that’s a concussion - before he’s able to focus on his surroundings. It’s dark, that much is for certain, and the dirt and dust surrounding him lets him know the building he’s in is old or abandoned. There are mildewed sheets covering equipment nearby, the back room of a warehouse maybe, he can’t tell.
Dean’s mind races immediately with questions. Is he dreaming? How did he get here? Where’s Sam? Oh god, where’s Sam?
His inspection is rudely interrupted when a sudden weight drops onto his chest and something is pressed across his throat, cutting off his air supply. Dean flails wildly for a split second, caught off-guard by the attack, then comes back to himself in order to deal with the situation. His eyes widen when he sees who’s pinning him to the ground.
Gordon Walker is perched on his chest, struggling with all of his might to keep the barrel of a rifle lodged under Dean’s chin. The other hunter is covered with sweat, his lip split and brow bloodied from a slash just below his hairline, and the look in his eyes is one of pure determination.
Dean tries to choke out a question, but the words are cut off in his throat when Gordon thrusts harder on the gun, apparently trying to crush his windpipe with the weapon. “I’ve got Dean! He’s in here,” Gordon calls to an unseen someone, and Dean doesn’t want to wait around for whatever psycho backup Walker brought with him. Dean maneuvers the lower half of his body off the ground, pulls his legs up, and crosses his ankles across Gordon’s throat. The other hunter’s eyes go wide and he lets out a squawk of surprise when Dean yanks back, pulling Gordon backwards and off of him. Gordon loses his grip on the rifle when he hits the ground, and Dean immediately kicks it out of reach. He then lunges for the Bowie knife Walker has tucked into his boot and jumps to a fighting stance once he’s pulled it free. Gordon follows suit, pulling out another knife sheathed on his belt. Both men face off while they rub absently at their throats, attempting to ease the ache they both feel.
“So when did you bust out of jail?” Dean’s voice sounds scratchy and rough, and he renews his ministrations on the abused muscles in his neck.
“Jail?” Gordon snorts out a small sound of disbelief. “What do you mean ‘jail?’ Is this some new mind-fuck game you Winchesters cooked up?” Dean doesn’t have time to fully register his response though, because then Gordon’s moving at him, always quick on the offensive, and Dean has to twist away from the slash aimed right at his chest. The attack misses its initial target, but Dean doesn’t come out completely unscathed because the knife still manages to catch him in the upper arm.
The sight of first blood spilled seems to encourage Gordon, but he’s attacking more fevered now, slashes and jabs random and uncalculated. Dean ducks and weaves-the best offense is a good defense, right?-and he drops low to avoid a telegraphed thrust at his face. The follow-through nicks Dean in the shoulder though, and he rolls backwards to get out of range, hissing when it jars the new wound.
Gordon lets out a cold, humorless chuckle. “So much for the impervious Dean Winchester. This rate, I’ll have both you and Sam out of the picture in no time. And believe me, Sammy will go down screaming. Least I could do on behalf of everyone he’s hurt. Won’t that make me the conquering hero?”
Red flashes behind Dean’s eyes, anger curling hot at the threat, and Gordon’s words-more about Sammy and something about…did he say something about Dad?-get lost in the rush of blood pounding in Dean’s ears. With sudden perfect clarity, Dean sees the opening Gordon left in his stance, and he doesn’t hesitate in bringing up his own knife and plunging it high between Gordon’s ribs. Dean looks up in time to see the surprise on the other man’s face before Gordon’s knees give out and he crumples to the ground like a marionette with cut strings.
Dean pulls the knife free, a dripping mess, and slowly draws himself to his feet. He winces only slightly at the cuts on his arm and shoulder, but the pain reminds him that this can’t be a dream. This is real, and Gordon Walker, who Dean last saw being carted off by Indiana’s finest, is now bleeding out at his feet.
The sound of a shotgun pumping will grab anyone’s attention, and Dean’s head whips up just as a double barrel comes into view in the doorway. The gun is held in slender, feminine hands, and Dean can’t take his eyes away as the shooter steps out of shadows. Jo Harvelle stands glaring at him down the sight, eyes hard as flint and teeth grinding tight.
“Gordon?” She sounds more inquisitive than worried, and she doesn’t take her eyes off Dean as she calls to the other hunter. When she doesn’t get an answer, her lips pull back in a grimace and she steps slowly into the room. “You son of a bitch, you killed him!”
Dean holds his hands up in surrender, knife held in only a loose grip. “Whoa, Jo. He attacked me first. Self defense, right?”
Her harsh laugh isn’t the response he had been expecting. “What? Surprised we actually got the drop on you fucks for once?” She’s eyeing the knife in his hand like it’s a live animal waiting to strike, and even though part of Dean wants to drop it to just assure her that he’s not going to fight, a little voice in his head is telling him that it would be the last mistake he’d ever make.
“Damn it, Jo, what the hell is going on?”
He doesn’t get an answer. The shotgun suddenly flies out of Jo’s hands, clattering along the floor, and then she’s thrown hard across the room. Her arms flail for purchase when she starts to slowly slide up the wall, and Dean can only watch as realization comes upon him. And in his mind he’s shrieking like a girl, because this can’t be happening, it just can’t, that yellow-eyed son of a bitch can’t be here.
“You stay the fuck away from my brother.”
Dean jerks back to the door fast enough to give a man whiplash, and there Sam stands, glaring at where Jo has halted her ascent on the ceiling. Sam’s pulled to his full height, shoulders back and squared, and even though his eyes are practically screaming hatred, a wry grin sits on his face.
In an instant, Dean puts two and two together, and he’s right in Sam’s face. “Sam, stop it! Stop! What the hell are you doing?”
The outburst seems to shock Sam, and his brow furrows when he tilts his head to look Dean in the eye. Then the confusion melts away and a huge unfamiliar smile breaks on Sam’s face with a flash of teeth. “Dude, I’m sorry. I didn’t know you wanted to play with this one.”
Jo crashes to the ground face-first, and Dean swears he hears the snap of something breaking. Sam’s still smiling when he looks down at the knife gripped in Dean’s hand. “You have fun. I’ll just take the next one.”
“Ixnay on the playtime, boys.” Dean’s heart stops mid-beat at the sound of a voice more familiar to him than his own. He can’t bear to look over Sam’s shoulder, afraid that he’s hearing things and the doorway will be empty when he looks that way. But then the voice comes again: “Singer and the other Harvelle bitch aren’t too far off.”
“Dad?” Dean’s voice breaks on the single syllable.
John Winchester steps into the room, larger than life, and he stops just beside where Dean and Sam stand together. “’Dad?’ You haven’t called me that in forever. Guess Walker gave you a harder bash to the noggin than we thought, huh?” John and Sam share a chuckle, but Dean can only gawk at pieces of the man before him. He knows those are his father’s boots, the same pair he and Sam saved up for months to give him for his fiftieth birthday. That’s his jacket, on which he splurged and bought new after a ghoul slashed up his old one. His father’s hands, scarred from wounds Dean witnessed over the years. It’s him, it really is, flesh and blood, but there’s something terribly wrong, besides the obvious. Something about the way he’s talking, something Dean just can’t put his finger on…
Dean must have missed them asking him a question, because Sam suddenly slugs him in the arm - the uninjured one, thank God - and he is looking at Dean expectantly. “What?”
“I said, we got what we came for.” John glances at where Gordon’s body lies sprawled on the ground. “You did good, kiddo. As usual.” And Dean’s stomach rolls over and threatens to empty itself, because it all just snapped into place. For the first time since John walked in, Dean looks into his father’s face, knowing what he’ll find there.
He’s not disappointed. Saffron yellow eyes bore right into Dean’s, and Dean can’t look away. He’s only vaguely aware of the smile his father-no, not his father-is giving him, and then John’s arm comes up and pats him on the shoulder. “Good work like that deserves a reward, dontcha think?” Dean can’t answer, can’t say anything, so John just moves and hoists Jo, still unconscious, into a fireman’s carry.
“Hey Dean?” At some point, Sam moved away, and now he’s crouched over Gordon’s prone form, emptying the dead hunter’s pocket. His little brother still has the fucking grin on his face, and Dean can’t take it, wants to scream. “For your souvenir collection. Catch.” Sam tosses something small and white in his direction, and Dean grabs it more on instinct than desire.
He almost passes out when he sees what Sam threw his way. The little wicker man is resting in Dean’s palm once again, only now its right arm is coiled tight against its chest.
“Let’s go, boys.” John’s standing at the doorway, looking both ways like he’s about to cross the fucking street. “Night’s a’wasting, and Sleeping Beauty here isn’t going to stay out cold forever.”
Sam jumps up, wipes residual blood off on his jeans, then stalks over to Dean, grabbing his arm-oh god, right on the slash wound-on their way out of the room. And Dean follows numbly, absently placing the doll into his pants pocket.
*****
They sneak out the backdoor of the building and walk less than a block to where their car and their father’s truck are parked, hidden in a shadowy alley between two other warehouses. Dean stares at the Impala like she’s an anchor, something solid and familiar in this chaotic mess, but under his intense gaze he starts to notice differences. Bumpers curve at different angles, the wrong mirrors rest on the sides, even the taillights are a darker shade of red.
It hits him like ice water to the face: they’re not differences. Not really. They’re the same, at least the same they were before the crash. Before he had to scavenge around Bobby’s yard for spare parts and settle for something less than the originals while he rebuilt his baby girl.
John moves immediately to the trunk of the Impala, shifting Jo’s dead weight higher on his shoulder. “You mind popping ‘er open?” Dean reaches into his pockets, force of habit, but Sam is the one who pulls the keys out of his. Dean’s about to ask how she’s going to fit in the trunk with all the weapons in there when his brain finally kickstarts and he realizes they’re talking about putting Jo in the trunk and he’s not doing anything to stop it.
He rushes to Sam’s side, about to pull his brother back, when the trunk lid opens and the fetid stench of old blood assaults Dean’s senses. He recoils instantly, hand flying up to cover his nose, and in that moment gets a good look at the inside of the car. The weapons are gone, secret compartment removed, and Dad always said there was enough room to fit three bodies in the trunk of a ’67. But it looks like that theory has really been put to the test. The upholstery is covered in blood stains, more crusted brown than the original color showing. Furrows have been dug into the carpeting, and the part of Dean’s mind that hasn’t curled into the fetal position politely informs him that they’re from fingernails clawing to get out. The hood has dents pushing outward, caused by feet, fists, elbows, heads, Dean doesn’t know. It’s so very wrong, even his car is dark and twisted.
John rolls Jo off his shoulder, and she lands inside with an ominous whump. Dean can only watch as Sam slams the trunk shut again, and god there’s that smile again. Dean can’t remember if he’s ever seen his brother grin so much. It’s unnerving, to say the least.
John claps and rubs his hands together, a job well done. “I’ve got something I need to handle for a moment. Meet you boys back at the house.” Then he’s climbing into his truck, and the engine turning over sounds vicious.
Sam watches as the truck pulls away, then whips back to face Dean. “Come on, he’s gone. I’ll let you drive.” He’s jingling the keys high in the air, like it’s some kind of treat Dean has to beg for, and that’s all Dean can take.
“Sam, what the fuck is going on?” Panic rips Dean’s voice apart. “You…and Dad…that’s Jo in the trunk! We’ve got to let her out, man.”
Suddenly, Sam looks like a deer caught in headlights. “Oh fuck. Oh no, don’t do this again, Dean.” He drops the keys and grips both of Dean’s shoulders, staring him straight in the eye. “He won’t let you have another conscience crisis. He’ll kill you, you know it. You barely survived last time. You said yes to this, damn it! You begged to stay with the family.” Sam moves his hands to frame Dean’s face, his thumbs rubbing slow over Dean’s cheekbones, and Dean’s mind blanks out with the gesture. “Don’t make me watch him tear you apart. I don’t have a bargaining chip this time like I did in the cabin, can’t give myself over again. I won’t be able to save you.”
It clicks. The cabin. The car in all its original glory. The fucking Demon. ”You shoot me! You shoot me in the heart, son!”
Oh fuck.
It’s a sucker punch to the guts. Dean can’t move, can’t breathe, can only stare right back into Sam’s eyes, not knowing what he’s looking for but determined to find it.
Those eyes suddenly move toward him, drifting closed, and now Sam’s lips are on his - hard, insistent, almost bruising in their intensity. Dean grunts in protest, but Sam seems to take it as encouragement and tries to lick his way inside Dean’s mouth. Finally, Dean unfreezes, brings his palms up to Sam’s chest, and gives an epic shove. They both stumble backwards, and Dean glares because words are so beyond him right now.
Sam, on the other hand, looks worried. “Just how hard did that hunter hit you in the head? Normally, you can’t wait to get me bent over the nearest surface after a good hunt.”
Dean can’t even begin to list what’s wrong with that last statement, but he’s ready to try when a tickling starts in the back of his mind. Not unpleasant, but familiar.
“Come on,” and did Sam’s voice always have that slight echoing quality to it? Dean can’t remember. The keys jump from the ground into Sam’s palm, and wow Sammy looks so happy right now. “We’ll go home and play with your new toy, and you’ll remember how much fun it can be.”
“Okay, Sam.” Dean lets his younger brother corral him into the passenger seat, because that’s the way it’s supposed to be after all.
*****
They’ve driven for almost an hour when two things happen: Dean snaps out of it, and the pounding noise starts in the trunk.
Dean rushes to the far end of the seat, practically plastering himself against the car door. “Did you…you fucking whammied me?”
Sam doesn’t even look up from the road, just slides his hand across the leather and grabs Dean’s. “It got you into the car, didn’t it? Do I need to do it again to get you to calm down?”
“No! Keep your damned Jedi mind tricks to yourself.” Dean rips his hand out of Sam’s grip.
Sam’s laugh is punctuated by two loud bangs and a profanity-laden screech from behind them. “Oooo, she sounds pissed.”
“Wouldn’t you be if you were locked in a trunk?”
“Maybe. Though with one good mental shove, there wouldn’t be a trunk anymore.” Sam quickly turns serious and now he steals quick glances across at Dean. “You’re over this, right? No more ‘attack of the white hat’ syndrome?”
Dean chances meeting his brother’s eyes, and his breath catches. Sam looks worried, no, terrified at what Dean’s going to answer, and a lifetime of working to make that fear vanish from Sam’s face kicks into overdrive. “Yeah, Sammy. I’m fine.”
They could light whole cities with Sam’s grin at those words. “Great!” He lifts his chin, tipping his head back but keeping his eyes on the road, and raises his voice. “You hear that back there? He’s just fine!” Sam’s answered with two more bangs, and he just laughs loud and clear.
Thirty more minutes on bumpy back roads, then they pull up to a shack barely visible from behind trees and under vines of ivy. Sam reaches over to give Dean’s hand another squeeze and then hops out of the car, Dean following shortly after. Dean feels like he should recognize this place, like everything would be better if he knew where he was, but nothing comes to mind. Just a ramshackle one-story in the middle of god-knows-where.
Sam has opened the door to the backseat, and he’s rummaging around the floorboards, looking for something. “You go inside; I’ll be ah-HA!” He emerges triumphant, holding a roll of duct tape high above his head. “I’ll be right behind you.”
There’s no questioning the tape’s purpose, but before Dean can stop himself, he asks, “Wouldn’t it have been easier to do that while she was out cold?” And god, he can’t believe his mind just went there.
“Easier, yeah. But what fun is it if she’s not struggling, right?” Sam’s completely oblivious to the shudder that runs down Dean’s spine. “Go on. I’ll meet you in there.”
The fact that the steps to the porch didn’t even creak should have been Dean’s first clue that appearances are deceiving. He pushes open the wooden door-not even locked, for crying out loud-and just stops in his tracks. He’s not sure what he’d been expecting, but it wasn’t this. The place looks…cozy. Warm and inviting. Couches with full cushions, adorned with hand-knit afghans, rest in front of a huge fireplace just begging to be lit. Random knickknacks line the mantle, and Dean makes out a few framed photos-a smiling, older couple; a couple kids-mingling with the tchotchkes. The kitchen lies to the side, and it’s practically gleaming. The appliances are spotless, tile floor shining, not an item out of place.
Doesn’t exactly scream “evil lives here,” does it?
Dean slowly makes his way through the house, jaw dropped in awe. The first door on his right is cracked open, so he pushes it all the way and flicks on the light. The room is spacious, big enough to fit two queen-size beds and their matching bedroom sets. The bed closest to the door is meticulously made, sheets tucked in just so, with stacks of folded clothes resting at the foot. Even before he steps into the room, Dean can recognize Sam’s unique fashion choices among the clothing. The dresser beside the bed is undecorated, save for a book Dean would recognize anywhere: their father’s journal.
Without thinking, Dean moves to pick up the book. It feels lighter than he remembers, and with trembling fingers he slides open the catch. Among their father’s familiar scribbling are notes in Sam’s meticulous handwriting: “useless,” “good for a fight,” “can be reasoned with.” Dean doesn’t want to contemplate their meanings. Pages are missing, that much is for certain, and a quick flip-through reveals that every exorcism ritual their father had ever collected has been ripped out of the book, no doubt destroyed.
He hears the front door swing open, and Sam’s voice radiates through the house, “Honey, I’m home!” followed by a quick giggle and the sound of something heavy dragging. Dean drops the journal back on the dresser just seconds before Sam’s head pops through the doorway. “Hey, I’m going to set her up in the guest room. You good?”
“Yeah, Sam,” Dean replies numbly. “I’m just…I’m gonna change or something.”
Sam rolls his eyes. “Great, more laundry for me to do.” Then he’s gone, and Dean’s attention turns to the other side of the room.
This bed is definitely more helter-skelter. The bedsheets are practically thrown on the floor with the pillows bunched up against the wall. Clothing is strewn across the floor, no more than a day’s worth but Dean knows that shirt to be his own. In contradiction to the cleanliness of Sam’s dresser top, Dean’s is cluttered with objects, though indiscernible from a distance. He takes a few steps closer.
It’s a mess. Papers and photographs of people Dean doesn’t recognize. Small knives, scraps of fabric, jewelry, money clips. Trinkets of every sort litter the dresser. He takes a moment to survey the enormity of the collection, then grabs a paper at random, careful not to disturb the precarious piles around it. It’s a letter, covered in a girl’s loopy handwriting:
Dear Dad,
Thank you so much for my birthday package. My roommate is very jealous of my waterproof pajamas! Where do you find such crazy things…
“Reliving old memories?” Dean startles at the voice suddenly in his ear and flinches when a strong arm wraps around his waist from behind. Sam hooks his chin over Dean’s shoulder and begins reading the note in Dean’s hand. After a second, he snorts in amusement. “I remember that guy.” Sam’s other hand reaches out to the pile and he grabs a strip of bright purple fabric. “Those pajamas were pretty cool.”
Dean’s never been the type to freeze in the face of danger. Hell, he’s usually one to leap into the fray when it comes right down to it. But now, it’s like he’s a statue, Han Solo in carbonite-how can he think of something like that now-and it’s all because Sammy is scaring the ever-loving shit out of him.
He expects to wake up any second in that ratty motel in Rahway, where he’ll laugh with his Sam about the hazards of forgoing dinner. Bad dreams on an empty stomach and all that jazz. Any second now.
Please.
Deft fingers are trailing down Dean’s side, and he snaps upright when they start digging into his pants pocket. “Sam…” Dean tries for a warning tone, but it comes out too high, too broken for his own comfort.
“I know.” Sam’s pressing a smile into the side of Dean’s neck. “Not until after playtime, but still - “ Sam slowly pulls out the wicker doll and tosses it onto the dresser. “Wanted to make sure that was properly displayed with your other trophies. Walker deserves a place with his fellow hunters, don’t you think?”
Dean chokes down the bile rising in his throat. Hunters. Every single item in front of him has been taken from a hunter that apparently he and Sam had killed together.
Sam curls his fingers into Dean’s belt loops, pulling his brother’s back flush against his own chest. “Come on.” Barely more than a whisper, but Sam’s so close that his lips tickle Dean’s ear and the words seem to roar. “She’s already all comfy and waiting for us.”
The trip out of the room is barely better than a haze. Sam’s walking for them both, still holding Dean close and nudging Dean’s legs forward with his knees. Dean can hear their footsteps echo on hardwood floors, hardly notices when they pass a closed room-another bedroom, has to be-and now he’s confronted with a door looming directly in front of them. Sam’s hand snakes out to grab the doorknob, and Dean feels Sam’s hot mouth on his neck when his little brother twists the door open.
In what’s become a bad habit since this whole mess began, Dean freezes.
This is the living nightmare he’d been expecting. It’s the Marquis de Sade’s wet dream. He can’t even tell the room’s paint color; the walls are saturated with blood splatter. Shackles line down the walls, most vacant, some occupied, and god, is that the couple from the photographs outside? By the door sits a table with what looks like every knife from the Impala’s inventory, and the blades are gleaming, the only unbloodied items in the whole damn room.
At the center of the room is Jo, bound in manacles hanging from the ceiling, toes barely touching the ground with her arms pulled high and taut above her head. A tent of shirt and skin just below her throat indicates a broken collarbone, and Dean can only imagine the amount of agony that, combined with her positioning, must have her in.
“See? Snug as a bug.” Sam nuzzles into Dean’s neck, unaffected by the room’s horror.
“You’re insane.” The words leak out of Dean’s throat before he can stop himself, his eyes still riveted on Jo just hanging there.
Sam’s bark of laughter startles everyone else in the room, and the couple in shackles physically recoils. “Nice to meet you, Pot. I’m Kettle.” Slowly, as if he’s loath to part from Dean’s side, Sam pulls away and moves to the table. There’s two seconds of silent deliberation, then he chooses a knife and slides the handle into Dean’s palm. “Your favorite.”
The sad thing is, it is Dean’s favorite, always has been. Nice weight, good length for both fighting and utility work, an edge Dean’s honed to perfection after years of care. Dad gave him this knife on his twelfth birthday. He taught Sam hand-to-hand with this knife.
Dean’s trip down memory lane is interrupted when his father’s whiskey-rough voice growls from behind him. “Damn, she still has all her fingers. You boys feeling okay?”
And Sam-Sam just gives that fucking grin that Dean’s itching to punch off his face. “We’re getting there.”
“Well, when you’re done with her, I got you round two.” A body, hogtied and gagged with coils of rope, is thrown to their feet; Dean doesn’t look, but the ratty trucker’s cap tossed down after is the only clue he needs to know. “Harvelle took off in the other direction…”- is that son of a bitch still talking?-“but good ol’ Bobby just had to make sure she got clear, didn’t ya?”
Now Dean looks down. Never, in all the years they’ve known Bobby, has he ever seen that look on the older man’s face. Anger, yes. Pain, definitely. But mind-numbing, seething hatred? It makes Bobby look like a stranger.
And god, that glare is directed straight at him.
“Alright, kiddos,” John chuckles. “You two have fun. It’s not often we get a three-for-one sale.” Then he’s gone from the room, and Dean only faintly hears a door open and shut again.
Sam’s moving again, wraps his fingers around Dean’ wrist, pulling gently to move them closer to the center of the room. Dean takes one last look at Bobby curled up on the floor, then shifts his attention to Jo. She’s mirroring Bobby’s glower to a tee, and Dean is struck with the sudden realization that this is the second time tonight she’s glared at him with a knife in his hand.
“Jo?” He pulls his arm free from Sam’s grip and takes a further step toward her. “Jo?” he repeats softly.
“Fucking traitor!” The steel toe of her boot catches him in the face as she lashes out, and he stumbles backwards clutching his jaw. She screams suddenly, and Dean whips back around to see three of the knives from the table hovering just beyond her face, floating on invisible strings.
The grin’s gone from Sam’s face, but now his lips are pulled back in a snarl, teeth bared. “I told you not to touch him, bitch.” It comes out a growl, and something deep and low in Dean flip-flops in reaction to the near possessiveness hidden in the sound.
“Dean.” His little brother, eyes still dark with anger, is crooking his finger, indicating come here. “Did she hurt you?”
“Nothing permanent.”
“Good.” Sam’s voice is echoing in his head again. “Now, let’s show her what happens when you fuck with Winchesters.”
Dean looks down at the knife in his hand. Yeah, he can do that.
*****
The good news is Jo’s still breathing. That’s also the bad news because human beings shouldn’t have to live in that much pain.
The latest mental suggestion had worn off after only thirty minutes this time, just as Dean was shifting to slice through Jo’s other Achilles tendon. He had jumped back instantly, slipped on one of the many puddles of blood surrounding the scene, and fell hard onto his backside, where he had a ringside view of the truly sadistic nature of his little brother.
Apparently in Sam’s mind, psychic powers are for intimidation only. Playtime, as he’d called it, requires a more hands-on approach. The blades that had been floating before now lie still on the floor, and Sam’s circling Jo, a small skinning knife at the ready, as if he’s debating where the next cut would do the most damage, cause the most pain.
For one brief moment, Dean considers what would happen if he waited until Sam circled in front of him again, took him out, and then got Jo, Bobby and the others out to safety. His stomach rolls at the thought. No, forget rolling, it’s doing somersaults, cartwheels, and those fancy backflips the cheerleaders in high school used to perform at home games.
Could he do that to Sam? No, not in a million years.
It’s pretty clear to Dean at this point that this isn’t a dream. There’s no waking up from this…whatever this is. Whatever that little wicker bastard threw him into, this is it, end of the line. Just his little family, more fucked up than it ever has been. But that’s the problem: it’s his family. Dad’s here-well, not all here-and Sam…
Sam seems happy. They’re both covered in the blood of someone Dean has called a friend, there’s people cowering in fear all around them, screams are bouncing off the walls, and yet Sam keeps sending small, genuine smiles in Dean’s direction every time their eyes meet.
How fucked up is that?
Jo’s screaming again, Sam having made his decision of attack, and Dean takes a glance over in Bobby’s direction. He vaguely remembers the older man thrashing against his restraints at Jo’s first cry of agony, but now Bobby’s still, stiff as a board, glaring from beneath sweat-soaked hair that’s fallen into his face.
So, no waking up. This leaves his options at becoming one with his happy psycho-fuck family that would have made those Benders run for the hills, or killing his own brother for a group of people that loathe every ounce of his being and will probably gut him the first chance they get.
Real tough decision, that one.
“Hey.” Dean hadn’t even noticed the cries stopping, and when he looks back around, Sam staring at him with an eyebrow cocked. “All tuckered out?”
“Nah, just…watching you have fun.”
Sam pulls a face. “She’s not too bad. At least she’s a screamer, right?” Dean absently nods and watches his brother walk up next to him and sit down. “Do you remember that first time? That guy, Carter?” Dean just grunts, unable to think of something to say, and waits for Sam to continue.
“I was so nervous. Watching your face while I practiced my powers was one thing, but when Da - John told us we were going after other hunters, I thought for certain you were going to back out, leave us. You looked so scared and angry, and it was so soon after the cabin. But then Carter’s wife came out the kitchen and started charging at me with that cleaver, and you just…you left one hell of a mess, all because she was trying to hurt me. I knew then that everything was going to be okay.”
They sit there for a moment, watching Jo spin limply on the chains, then Sam slowly brings himself to his feet. “Well, that was a nice little moment of Zen.” He extends his hand-the one not still clutching the skinning knife-and Dean slaps his palm into it, welcoming the help up.
Sam all-out heaves, pulling Dean clear off the floor and flush against him, and Dean’s about to complain about the manhandling, but Sam’s suddenly kissing him again. It’s one-sided at first, Dean’s too shocked to even contemplate taking action, but then Sam tilts his head just a little and licks the crease of Dean’s lips like he’s seeking permission inside, and Dean just snaps.
Further down the rabbit hole, right Alice?
He opens up to Sam, who moans in appreciation when their tongues start warring for dominance. Dean snakes his hands up, one fisting the back of Sam’s shirt and the other curling tight into Sam’s hair, effectively mashing their lips harder together. He almost lets out a chuckle when he realizes he has to tilt his head up into the kiss, but the fact that he thinks that’s the strangest part of this whole thing stops him cold. It should feel weird, there should be some little voice in his head screaming stop, it’s wrong, but it never comes. Instead, some part of him is sighing in relief, saying it’s about damn time, and that should be the part that freaks him out.
Dean knows he’s a good kisser. Never had a single complaint in years of practice. But Sam must have been taking notes while they were growing up or something because he’s incredible. He’s slick and powerful and just the right shade of domineering, and Dean feels his body responding to the sheer heat of the kiss.
He isn’t even aware they’re moving, but there’s the clank of the knife hitting the hardwood floor and suddenly his back slams into a wall, and Sam is pressed hot against him, practically devouring his mouth. Sam must have grown six extra hands in the last minute, because Dean’s feeling them everywhere: trailing down his chest, gripping behind his shoulders, spreading wide along his hips, cupping his ass. Sam wedges a thigh between Dean’s legs, rubs just right, and the kiss breaks when Dean throws his head back and gasps.
Sam doesn’t miss a beat, immediately attacking the skin just under Dean’s jaw with a wet, open-mouth kiss and then blazing a trail down the column of his throat, alternating between little nips and licks. When he reaches the junction of neck and shoulder, Sam bites and Dean bucks hard and fuck, there’s that thigh again, and the groan that escapes Dean’s throat doesn’t sound entirely human.
Sam laves the wound with his tongue, humming proudly at Dean’s reaction. His multiple pairs of hands apparently decide to focus all their attention on one spot: the collar of Dean’s shirt. “Too many clothes.” The breathy words scorch Dean’s neck, and in no time there’s a ripping noise, and then cool air rushes over Dean’s chest, the front of his shirt now torn clean down the middle. Sam tugs the rest of the tattered shirt free, leaving Dean naked from the waist up, and promptly removes his own t-shirt as well.
Dean leans in to initiate the kiss this time, and Sam’s sharp inhale lets him know that he made the right move. There’s no finesse, just mindless passion and lust at this point, but Sam sucks Dean’s bottom lip into his mouth, teething on it just a little, and god, if this isn’t the most exhilarating kiss of Dean’s well-experienced life.
Chest to chest contact suddenly isn’t enough, and those deft fingers curl into Dean’s belt loops again to pull his hips forward; a jolt of electricity courses up Dean’s spine at the first feel of Sam’s erection pressing hot and hard through layers of denim.
Dean can’t remember when he’d actually closed his eyes, but when he opens them he’s suddenly very reminded of the fact that there are people-hurt, bloody, broken people-watching every move they make. He might have a lot of kinks, learning new ones every day apparently, but public sex has never been one of them.
“Sam.” Dean leans back just an inch for space, and Sam gives a needy whimper that almost dries the words in Dean’s throat. “Sam, wait.”
“No.” Sam latches onto Dean’s lips again, eating at his mouth, and it takes a Herculean effort for Dean to pull away a second time.
“S’just, oh jesus, they’re all watching.”
Sam smiles, huffing softly. “That’s your problem? I can fix that.” Brow furrowed, Dean starts to ask what that’s supposed to mean when he sees movement over Sam’s shoulder. One of the knives from the floor is back to hovering in front of Jo’s face, a centimeter from her right eye.
Dean chokes on his words but recovers quickly. “The bedroom’s right there. Can’t we just -“
“No.” Sam’s left foot hooks around the back of Dean’s ankle, a move that’s tripped Dean up since they were kids, and Dean’s not surprised to find himself spun around and flat on his back in the blink of an eye. Sam instantly straddles him, grinding down hard and dragging a moan from somewhere deep inside Dean. “Here. Now.
“I want them to watch. I want every last one of them to see me riding you, watch you fuck into me. They’re going to see just how crazy we make each other, how we get each other screaming, and when we’re done, we’re going to start right back over so that they don’t forget.”
Sam’s hips rock again to prove his point and Dean nearly bites through his lip to keep from yelling out. “Okay, Sam. Okay, just, fuck!”
“That’s the spirit.” He runs the palm of his hand over Dean’s chest, over his abs. Dean sucks in a breath and arches under the hand, clutching helplessly at Sam’s hips, and he watches Sam's eyes go dark and intense. In a heartbeat, Sam shifts back a little, fumbling Dean’s belt loose then moving quickly to undo his brother’s jeans, the metal clink of zipper teeth barely heard over their combined panting. Sam’s fingernails scrape slightly as he hooks his fingers under Dean’s waistbands, just enough to tickle, and then he peels Dean’s pants and boxers off in one slow, easy move.
Once Dean’s completely naked, Sam climbs to his feet, practically tearing off his own clothing. Dean barely has time to take a breath before Sam’s lying back on top of him, crashing their lips back together and rutting against Dean’s hip. Both men hiss when their cocks line up, and Dean shivers and nearly comes right there from the sensation.
Sam’s licking at the roof of Dean’s mouth, around the backs of his teeth, with his hands firmly planted on either side of Dean’s face. Dean drags blunt fingernails down Sam’s back, reveling at the shudder he receives at the gesture.
Sam eases off, worrying Dean’s lip between his teeth one last time before sliding down and away. Kisses down the side of Dean’s neck, sucks a bruise at the hollow of his throat, further down until he’s tonguing lazily around Dean’s nipple. He scrapes with his teeth a little, just enough to elicit a gasp, and he takes the opportunity to lift two of his fingers into Dean’s mouth. Sam’s expectations are clear, but he pauses just enough to demand “suck” before renewing his attention on Dean’s chest.
Dean’s mind is pretty much mush at this point, but he’s always followed orders well.
While he twists his tongue around Sam’s offered digits, futilely attempting to ignore their faint coppery taste, Sam continues his path southward, licking a broad solid stripe down Dean’s sternum to his abs, and Dean can’t help but hum in approval. Sam’s sitting on his own heels now, settled low between the V of Dean’s legs, and he extracts his fingers, slick and spit-shiny, as he begins nosing the coarse hair just above Dean’s groin.
Dean’s harder than he can remember ever being. He tries to imagine how they could have started this, when fucking a brother became normal to them, but then Sam passes his tongue over the head of Dean’s cock, and it’s so mind-numbingly amazing that Dean can’t form thoughts anymore.
The lick is followed by a kiss which is followed by Sam taking the whole head between his lips, and Dean starts clawing at the floorboards. He looks down when his brother hums around his dick, and only now Dean notices those fingers have vanished from sight behind Sam. There’s another hum just as Sam’s shoulder hitches, and holy hell Dean realizes Sam’s working himself open.
There’s wet heat all around him now, Sam dipping low to take him all in; Dean throws his head back with a howl when his dick hits the back of Sam’s throat. There’s three seconds of sheer bliss while Sam’s swallowing around him and then…nothing.
Sam’s off him in a flash and, in some perverse version of leap frog, springs from his position to straddle Dean once again. He surges forward into a kiss, and Dean can taste himself, precome and musk, on his brother’s lips. It’s like fucking ambrosia, and he sucks Sam’s tongue into his mouth in an attempt to get more.
“I want to feel you, Dean.” Sam’s sliding a hand between them now, grabbing Dean’s cock and holding him in position. “Days, weeks from now.” Sam drops just enough for the head to push past that tight ring of muscle, and he hisses just a little. “Fuck me hard enough that I can’t sit, can’t even think.” Then he just sinks and neither one of them can stifle their screams.
It’s pain, it’s pleasure, it’s every sensation Dean can possibly imagine, and fuck, if this is what this life has in store for him, he’ll accept it gladly. He cracks his eyes open to get a look at his brother, and his breath hitches in his throat. Sam’s arched backwards, his eyes screwed shut, mouth in an O of pure ecstasy, hands behind him resting on Dean’s thighs. He’s the very image of debauchery and the hottest thing Dean has ever seen.
Then the image blurs because Sam’s moving, thigh muscles tensing as he rides up and down on Dean’s cock. Dean bucks up, groping at Sam blindly, kneading the skin at his hips. “Oh fuck…oh Christ, Sammy.” He knows he’s yammering, but he can’t stop. “You’re just…god, fuck…”
Dean’s skin is on sensitivity overload, and Sam raking fingernails up his thighs causes Dean to cry out. “Harder.” Sam’s whimpering like he’s missing something important. “Harder, Dean.” And when has Dean ever said no to his brother?
He tightens his grip on Sam’s hips, ultimately stilling his brother’s motion, and thrusts hard. He hits something inside that makes Sam scream out, “There! There, damn it!” then he pounds away with abandon, hitting the same spot every time until Sam’s babbling just as much as he is.
Sam’s fisting himself now, jacking off at a furious pace, and the moans escaping both of them would make porn stars blush. Dean isn’t even aware he had set a rhythm until he starts losing it, hips stuttering as Sam clenches around him. He gives one final thrust up and his orgasm is wrenched out of him in hot bursts, stars exploding behind his eyes. Sam gives a barking cry and Dean focuses just enough to watch Sam shatter apart under the power of his own climax, come splashing hot across Dean’s stomach and chest.
They both shudder through their aftershocks, with little grunts and whimpers as they come down, then Sam rolls off Dean and collapses to the floor. Everything’s silent until Sam gets comfortable, tucking himself tight against Dean’s side, leg thrown over Dean’s hip and head resting on Dean’s shoulder. He’s wearing that grin, and you know, it’s not that bad once you’re used to it. “Again. I don’t want them to forget, remember?”
For the first time since this all started, Dean laughs. “Sure, Sammy. Just, give me a minute, okay?” There’s no answer because Sam’s yawning and nuzzling his head into the crook of Dean’s neck. Dean gives another little chuckle at all the sure signs that his little brother’s already halfway asleep. So much for round two.
This isn’t just post-coital exhaustion. This is sated, fucked-out bliss, and Dean can feel it pulling him under. He closes his eyes and just lets himself drift in the lull, content.
There’s a tapping noise behind him that’s interrupting his calm, though, and Dean lifts his head from the pillow. Pillow? He didn’t have a pillow a second ago. Or a bed. He definitely wasn’t fully clothed a second ago either.
“About time you woke up.”
Dean looks over his shoulder, and Sam’s staring at him from the other bed with just a slight upturn to his lips, working on the laptop. “I can’t remember the last time I saw you catch a full eight hours.”
“Eight…Sam…I…” Dean’s gaping, stumbling over words, and his confusion must be apparent because Sam’s looking worried now. Dean flips on the bed, turning on his side to face Sam, but the sudden movement sends pain flashing through his upper arm and shoulder.
He freezes at that, now only too acutely aware there’s something digging into his hip. Hesitantly, he reaches into his pants’ pocket, and he winces when his fingertips brush against a familiar texture. He draws the item out, already knowing what he’s holding, but Sam’s eyes go wide at sight of the wicker man, both arms now furled tight against the doll’s chest.
“Dean, what…”
Sam meets Dean’s eyes for a split second, then Dean’s bolting off the bed and into the bathroom just in time for his stomach to revolt.
To Second Limb
Chapter Rating: NC-17
Chapter Word Count: 9492
All warnings in Main Post
“For you or Dad, the things
I’m willing to do or kill, it’s just...
it scares me sometimes.”
- Dean, Devil’s Trap
There’s never been anything like a normal, everyday exorcism. Especially not now, with demons learning new and fancy ways to keep themselves locked in their human hosts. Sure, there are different rituals and prayers for different situations - Dean memorized most of them before he was sixteen - and they’ve always been good at improvising in a pinch, but when you come down to it, there’s always some kind of shock before the big payoff.
Sam finds the job. Joseph Ravo, twenty six year old computer technician of Rahway, New Jersey. Coworkers had called him the perfect officemate: smart, friendly, hard worker. Then, after a three-day period of appearing tired and paranoid, Joseph disappeared. His wife of two years, Angela, was found dead in their home later in the week. Since then, a steady stream of murders has plagued the surrounding area, all victims matching the late Mrs. Ravo’s description.
Police are calling it the act of a psychopath, homicidal tendencies brought on by job stress. The Winchesters look at the newspaper photos and know the police could not be more wrong.
“Even with the sheet over her, you can tell her head’s about 180 degrees from where it should be,” Sam points out.
“And that guy looks like he’s 90 pounds soaking wet. Couldn’t crack a walnut unless he was on something, nevermind snapping someone’s neck like that.”
It takes less than a week to drive to New Jersey and investigate the Ravo home. The findings are a little disturbing: no EMF, no sulfur, no cold spots. Dean reacts with “who says you can’t teach an old dog new tricks” and Sam doesn’t acknowledge him, just purses his lips and keeps looking for signs.
Their second night in Rahway, Dean suggests a rolling stake-out, patrolling the neighborhood in case Joseph - or rather, the thing driving Joseph - decides to make an appearance. It’s pure luck that they find him as he’s pulling a mirror image of Angela through the front door of a for-sale two-story a couple streets over from Joseph’s home, and they waste no time in grabbing the necessary exorcism ingredients from the trunk and rushing into the house.
Dean kicks in the door, startling Joseph enough to halt his hands around the girl’s neck. The element of surprise is a wonderful thing, and Sam uses the split-second hesitation as a chance to unstop a bottle of holy water and splash it into Joseph’s face. The man stumbles backwards, releasing the girl in shock, but no steam rises from where the holy water hit him, and Joseph looks more confused than pained when he meets Sam’s eyes. “I’m all wet.”
Everyone else freezes in place, mostly astounded by the inanity of Joseph’s statement. Dean lets out a quiet Christo, and Joseph just snorts, looking all the part of an innocent computer geek. Then the girl breaks out of her stupor, crab-crawling backwards to the door, and suddenly Joseph launches himself back at her, lips pulled back in a snarl. She screams, and Dean barely manages to get a grip on the man’s arm before Joseph’s hands can close around her neck again.
“Get out of here!” Sam practically bellows at her as he moves to help his brother. “Run!”
She doesn’t hesitate, and Joseph’s struggling turns more frantic the closer she gets to the door. “No!” and his voice is high and panicked. “You don’t under - it told me - I have to, she lies.” When the girl escapes out the door, Joseph suddenly crumbles in their arms, limp as a ragdoll. “She lies, she kills. It told me, it showed me.”
When Joseph makes no move to follow her, the boys both release their holds and let him collapse to the floor, where he promptly draws his knees to his chest and begins rocking. Sam looks up. “Dean, I don’t think he’s possessed.”
“Yeah, I’m getting that feeling too. Maybe we are just dealing with a little cubicle-induced insanity. But something helped him give those girls the full-on Exorcist twist, and if it wasn’t a demon, then what was it?”
The man is still rocking on the floor, muttering to himself, so Sam crouches to his side and tries to look him in the eye. “Joseph, hey. What do you mean, ‘it told you?’”
“It told me. It showed me. She lies, she kills. It told me.” Now Joseph’s eyes look haunted, cold and hollow. “I have to, it told me.”
Sam tentatively touches Joseph’s shoulder, trying to still the other man’s movement. “What told you, Joseph? What?” Joseph’s eyes flicker to the corner of the room, and Dean stomps over. The floor is empty, save for a small bleached-white knot of something, and Dean bends down and pokes the object with a finger. It feels solid and neither hot nor cold, no runes or symbols carved into it, totally innocuous. Still crouched close to the ground, he pivots on the balls of his feet to face the other two men and points. “This thing?”
Joseph nods frantically. “It showed me. It told me.”
“Dude, enough with the broken record.” Dean pinches the ball between two fingers and stands up. “Sam, this guy’s taking orders from a marble. That’s a level of crazy I don’t think we’re ready to deal with.” He tosses the ball up like he’s looking for heads or tails, then snatches it out of the air.
An electric jolt flares through him the second his fingers curl fully around the knot, and suddenly Dean crashes to his knees. Sam’s up in a flash, calling his brother’s name and rushing to his side, but all Dean can register is the searing pain shooting into his skull and the feeling of something unfurling on his palm.
There’s thirty seconds of pure agony, and then it’s gone, quick as it came, and Dean’s blinking up into Sam’s worried face. He slowly opens his fist, and there is no longer a knotted marble but a small wicker man with rigid limbs in the palm of his hand.
“Reset.” Joseph’s whisper is barely audible, but both brothers turn his way at the new word. “You’ll see. You’ll know. It’ll tell you.”
*****
If the girl is smart, she has already called the cops, so Sam and Dean leave the scene as soon as Dean’s steady on his feet, leaving Joseph to the mercy of the Rahway PD. Even as they rush to the car, Joseph’s cries of “it’ll tell you” and “it’ll show you” haunt them, and Dean steers back to their motel with only one hand on the wheel; the other lies palm-up on his thigh with the wicker man resting inside.
“We’re burning this bitch the moment we’re back at the motel,” and Dean tries his best to hide the tension in his voice. If Sam hears it, he doesn’t say anything, his eyes riveted on the small doll. The slight headshakes and miniscule movements of Sam’s lips let Dean know that Sam’s wracking his brain to remember some hint or tidbit as to what they’re dealing with, and it’s a comfort knowing Geekboy's on the case, but Dean knows he won’t feel relieved until nothing’s left of the doll but ash.
They pull into the motel parking lot and without speaking they both know their roles. Upon exiting the car, Sam grabs the salt canister and lighter fluid, and Dean uses his free hand to dig a book of matches out of his pocket. They silently walk to the far side of the motel, out of sight from the road and room windows, and Dean unceremoniously drops the doll to the pavement. Sam gives it a liberal dousing of salt and accelerant; Dean lights the whole book and flicks it onto the mini-pyre. It goes up in flames immediately, reeking of kerosene and burnt hair, and the boys watch until the fire goes out.
As soon as they’re satisfied that there’s only dust remaining, Dean leads the way to their room. The door is barely closed when he glances at Sam and sees the we need to talk about this look on his younger brother’s face. “I’m fine, Sam,” Dean cuts him off at the pass.
“But Dean-“
“Seriously, I feel fine. No more headaches, no voices telling me to kill people like ol’ Joe back there. Now, if I wake up in the morning wanting to trade my girl for a VW Bug, feel free to call the nice young men in their clean white coats. I always did want to see if I could escape from a straight jacket.”
“I still think-“
Dean throws his hands up in frustration. “Dude, we torched the hell out of that thing, okay? Even if it did do something, it’s over now, so just let it drop.” He makes a big show of flopping onto his bed, still completely dressed, and curls his arms under his pillow. Dean’s always teased Sam about thinking too loud, and now’s no different. He can practically hear the argument and contrary words rattling around in his brother’s mind. “Go to sleep, Sam.”
Sam gives a sigh of resignation, but Dean knows he’ll pick up the discussion again in the morning. The room plunges into darkness when Sam clicks off the bedroom lamp, and Dean hears the springs of the other bed groan under his brother’s weight. Dean takes a deep breath, more to settle himself than anything, then lets himself fade slowly into unconsciousness.
And wakes up immediately on his back, flat on a cement floor. His vision swims for a moment - oh yeah, that’s a concussion - before he’s able to focus on his surroundings. It’s dark, that much is for certain, and the dirt and dust surrounding him lets him know the building he’s in is old or abandoned. There are mildewed sheets covering equipment nearby, the back room of a warehouse maybe, he can’t tell.
Dean’s mind races immediately with questions. Is he dreaming? How did he get here? Where’s Sam? Oh god, where’s Sam?
His inspection is rudely interrupted when a sudden weight drops onto his chest and something is pressed across his throat, cutting off his air supply. Dean flails wildly for a split second, caught off-guard by the attack, then comes back to himself in order to deal with the situation. His eyes widen when he sees who’s pinning him to the ground.
Gordon Walker is perched on his chest, struggling with all of his might to keep the barrel of a rifle lodged under Dean’s chin. The other hunter is covered with sweat, his lip split and brow bloodied from a slash just below his hairline, and the look in his eyes is one of pure determination.
Dean tries to choke out a question, but the words are cut off in his throat when Gordon thrusts harder on the gun, apparently trying to crush his windpipe with the weapon. “I’ve got Dean! He’s in here,” Gordon calls to an unseen someone, and Dean doesn’t want to wait around for whatever psycho backup Walker brought with him. Dean maneuvers the lower half of his body off the ground, pulls his legs up, and crosses his ankles across Gordon’s throat. The other hunter’s eyes go wide and he lets out a squawk of surprise when Dean yanks back, pulling Gordon backwards and off of him. Gordon loses his grip on the rifle when he hits the ground, and Dean immediately kicks it out of reach. He then lunges for the Bowie knife Walker has tucked into his boot and jumps to a fighting stance once he’s pulled it free. Gordon follows suit, pulling out another knife sheathed on his belt. Both men face off while they rub absently at their throats, attempting to ease the ache they both feel.
“So when did you bust out of jail?” Dean’s voice sounds scratchy and rough, and he renews his ministrations on the abused muscles in his neck.
“Jail?” Gordon snorts out a small sound of disbelief. “What do you mean ‘jail?’ Is this some new mind-fuck game you Winchesters cooked up?” Dean doesn’t have time to fully register his response though, because then Gordon’s moving at him, always quick on the offensive, and Dean has to twist away from the slash aimed right at his chest. The attack misses its initial target, but Dean doesn’t come out completely unscathed because the knife still manages to catch him in the upper arm.
The sight of first blood spilled seems to encourage Gordon, but he’s attacking more fevered now, slashes and jabs random and uncalculated. Dean ducks and weaves-the best offense is a good defense, right?-and he drops low to avoid a telegraphed thrust at his face. The follow-through nicks Dean in the shoulder though, and he rolls backwards to get out of range, hissing when it jars the new wound.
Gordon lets out a cold, humorless chuckle. “So much for the impervious Dean Winchester. This rate, I’ll have both you and Sam out of the picture in no time. And believe me, Sammy will go down screaming. Least I could do on behalf of everyone he’s hurt. Won’t that make me the conquering hero?”
Red flashes behind Dean’s eyes, anger curling hot at the threat, and Gordon’s words-more about Sammy and something about…did he say something about Dad?-get lost in the rush of blood pounding in Dean’s ears. With sudden perfect clarity, Dean sees the opening Gordon left in his stance, and he doesn’t hesitate in bringing up his own knife and plunging it high between Gordon’s ribs. Dean looks up in time to see the surprise on the other man’s face before Gordon’s knees give out and he crumples to the ground like a marionette with cut strings.
Dean pulls the knife free, a dripping mess, and slowly draws himself to his feet. He winces only slightly at the cuts on his arm and shoulder, but the pain reminds him that this can’t be a dream. This is real, and Gordon Walker, who Dean last saw being carted off by Indiana’s finest, is now bleeding out at his feet.
The sound of a shotgun pumping will grab anyone’s attention, and Dean’s head whips up just as a double barrel comes into view in the doorway. The gun is held in slender, feminine hands, and Dean can’t take his eyes away as the shooter steps out of shadows. Jo Harvelle stands glaring at him down the sight, eyes hard as flint and teeth grinding tight.
“Gordon?” She sounds more inquisitive than worried, and she doesn’t take her eyes off Dean as she calls to the other hunter. When she doesn’t get an answer, her lips pull back in a grimace and she steps slowly into the room. “You son of a bitch, you killed him!”
Dean holds his hands up in surrender, knife held in only a loose grip. “Whoa, Jo. He attacked me first. Self defense, right?”
Her harsh laugh isn’t the response he had been expecting. “What? Surprised we actually got the drop on you fucks for once?” She’s eyeing the knife in his hand like it’s a live animal waiting to strike, and even though part of Dean wants to drop it to just assure her that he’s not going to fight, a little voice in his head is telling him that it would be the last mistake he’d ever make.
“Damn it, Jo, what the hell is going on?”
He doesn’t get an answer. The shotgun suddenly flies out of Jo’s hands, clattering along the floor, and then she’s thrown hard across the room. Her arms flail for purchase when she starts to slowly slide up the wall, and Dean can only watch as realization comes upon him. And in his mind he’s shrieking like a girl, because this can’t be happening, it just can’t, that yellow-eyed son of a bitch can’t be here.
“You stay the fuck away from my brother.”
Dean jerks back to the door fast enough to give a man whiplash, and there Sam stands, glaring at where Jo has halted her ascent on the ceiling. Sam’s pulled to his full height, shoulders back and squared, and even though his eyes are practically screaming hatred, a wry grin sits on his face.
In an instant, Dean puts two and two together, and he’s right in Sam’s face. “Sam, stop it! Stop! What the hell are you doing?”
The outburst seems to shock Sam, and his brow furrows when he tilts his head to look Dean in the eye. Then the confusion melts away and a huge unfamiliar smile breaks on Sam’s face with a flash of teeth. “Dude, I’m sorry. I didn’t know you wanted to play with this one.”
Jo crashes to the ground face-first, and Dean swears he hears the snap of something breaking. Sam’s still smiling when he looks down at the knife gripped in Dean’s hand. “You have fun. I’ll just take the next one.”
“Ixnay on the playtime, boys.” Dean’s heart stops mid-beat at the sound of a voice more familiar to him than his own. He can’t bear to look over Sam’s shoulder, afraid that he’s hearing things and the doorway will be empty when he looks that way. But then the voice comes again: “Singer and the other Harvelle bitch aren’t too far off.”
“Dad?” Dean’s voice breaks on the single syllable.
John Winchester steps into the room, larger than life, and he stops just beside where Dean and Sam stand together. “’Dad?’ You haven’t called me that in forever. Guess Walker gave you a harder bash to the noggin than we thought, huh?” John and Sam share a chuckle, but Dean can only gawk at pieces of the man before him. He knows those are his father’s boots, the same pair he and Sam saved up for months to give him for his fiftieth birthday. That’s his jacket, on which he splurged and bought new after a ghoul slashed up his old one. His father’s hands, scarred from wounds Dean witnessed over the years. It’s him, it really is, flesh and blood, but there’s something terribly wrong, besides the obvious. Something about the way he’s talking, something Dean just can’t put his finger on…
Dean must have missed them asking him a question, because Sam suddenly slugs him in the arm - the uninjured one, thank God - and he is looking at Dean expectantly. “What?”
“I said, we got what we came for.” John glances at where Gordon’s body lies sprawled on the ground. “You did good, kiddo. As usual.” And Dean’s stomach rolls over and threatens to empty itself, because it all just snapped into place. For the first time since John walked in, Dean looks into his father’s face, knowing what he’ll find there.
He’s not disappointed. Saffron yellow eyes bore right into Dean’s, and Dean can’t look away. He’s only vaguely aware of the smile his father-no, not his father-is giving him, and then John’s arm comes up and pats him on the shoulder. “Good work like that deserves a reward, dontcha think?” Dean can’t answer, can’t say anything, so John just moves and hoists Jo, still unconscious, into a fireman’s carry.
“Hey Dean?” At some point, Sam moved away, and now he’s crouched over Gordon’s prone form, emptying the dead hunter’s pocket. His little brother still has the fucking grin on his face, and Dean can’t take it, wants to scream. “For your souvenir collection. Catch.” Sam tosses something small and white in his direction, and Dean grabs it more on instinct than desire.
He almost passes out when he sees what Sam threw his way. The little wicker man is resting in Dean’s palm once again, only now its right arm is coiled tight against its chest.
“Let’s go, boys.” John’s standing at the doorway, looking both ways like he’s about to cross the fucking street. “Night’s a’wasting, and Sleeping Beauty here isn’t going to stay out cold forever.”
Sam jumps up, wipes residual blood off on his jeans, then stalks over to Dean, grabbing his arm-oh god, right on the slash wound-on their way out of the room. And Dean follows numbly, absently placing the doll into his pants pocket.
*****
They sneak out the backdoor of the building and walk less than a block to where their car and their father’s truck are parked, hidden in a shadowy alley between two other warehouses. Dean stares at the Impala like she’s an anchor, something solid and familiar in this chaotic mess, but under his intense gaze he starts to notice differences. Bumpers curve at different angles, the wrong mirrors rest on the sides, even the taillights are a darker shade of red.
It hits him like ice water to the face: they’re not differences. Not really. They’re the same, at least the same they were before the crash. Before he had to scavenge around Bobby’s yard for spare parts and settle for something less than the originals while he rebuilt his baby girl.
John moves immediately to the trunk of the Impala, shifting Jo’s dead weight higher on his shoulder. “You mind popping ‘er open?” Dean reaches into his pockets, force of habit, but Sam is the one who pulls the keys out of his. Dean’s about to ask how she’s going to fit in the trunk with all the weapons in there when his brain finally kickstarts and he realizes they’re talking about putting Jo in the trunk and he’s not doing anything to stop it.
He rushes to Sam’s side, about to pull his brother back, when the trunk lid opens and the fetid stench of old blood assaults Dean’s senses. He recoils instantly, hand flying up to cover his nose, and in that moment gets a good look at the inside of the car. The weapons are gone, secret compartment removed, and Dad always said there was enough room to fit three bodies in the trunk of a ’67. But it looks like that theory has really been put to the test. The upholstery is covered in blood stains, more crusted brown than the original color showing. Furrows have been dug into the carpeting, and the part of Dean’s mind that hasn’t curled into the fetal position politely informs him that they’re from fingernails clawing to get out. The hood has dents pushing outward, caused by feet, fists, elbows, heads, Dean doesn’t know. It’s so very wrong, even his car is dark and twisted.
John rolls Jo off his shoulder, and she lands inside with an ominous whump. Dean can only watch as Sam slams the trunk shut again, and god there’s that smile again. Dean can’t remember if he’s ever seen his brother grin so much. It’s unnerving, to say the least.
John claps and rubs his hands together, a job well done. “I’ve got something I need to handle for a moment. Meet you boys back at the house.” Then he’s climbing into his truck, and the engine turning over sounds vicious.
Sam watches as the truck pulls away, then whips back to face Dean. “Come on, he’s gone. I’ll let you drive.” He’s jingling the keys high in the air, like it’s some kind of treat Dean has to beg for, and that’s all Dean can take.
“Sam, what the fuck is going on?” Panic rips Dean’s voice apart. “You…and Dad…that’s Jo in the trunk! We’ve got to let her out, man.”
Suddenly, Sam looks like a deer caught in headlights. “Oh fuck. Oh no, don’t do this again, Dean.” He drops the keys and grips both of Dean’s shoulders, staring him straight in the eye. “He won’t let you have another conscience crisis. He’ll kill you, you know it. You barely survived last time. You said yes to this, damn it! You begged to stay with the family.” Sam moves his hands to frame Dean’s face, his thumbs rubbing slow over Dean’s cheekbones, and Dean’s mind blanks out with the gesture. “Don’t make me watch him tear you apart. I don’t have a bargaining chip this time like I did in the cabin, can’t give myself over again. I won’t be able to save you.”
It clicks. The cabin. The car in all its original glory. The fucking Demon. ”You shoot me! You shoot me in the heart, son!”
Oh fuck.
It’s a sucker punch to the guts. Dean can’t move, can’t breathe, can only stare right back into Sam’s eyes, not knowing what he’s looking for but determined to find it.
Those eyes suddenly move toward him, drifting closed, and now Sam’s lips are on his - hard, insistent, almost bruising in their intensity. Dean grunts in protest, but Sam seems to take it as encouragement and tries to lick his way inside Dean’s mouth. Finally, Dean unfreezes, brings his palms up to Sam’s chest, and gives an epic shove. They both stumble backwards, and Dean glares because words are so beyond him right now.
Sam, on the other hand, looks worried. “Just how hard did that hunter hit you in the head? Normally, you can’t wait to get me bent over the nearest surface after a good hunt.”
Dean can’t even begin to list what’s wrong with that last statement, but he’s ready to try when a tickling starts in the back of his mind. Not unpleasant, but familiar.
“Come on,” and did Sam’s voice always have that slight echoing quality to it? Dean can’t remember. The keys jump from the ground into Sam’s palm, and wow Sammy looks so happy right now. “We’ll go home and play with your new toy, and you’ll remember how much fun it can be.”
“Okay, Sam.” Dean lets his younger brother corral him into the passenger seat, because that’s the way it’s supposed to be after all.
*****
They’ve driven for almost an hour when two things happen: Dean snaps out of it, and the pounding noise starts in the trunk.
Dean rushes to the far end of the seat, practically plastering himself against the car door. “Did you…you fucking whammied me?”
Sam doesn’t even look up from the road, just slides his hand across the leather and grabs Dean’s. “It got you into the car, didn’t it? Do I need to do it again to get you to calm down?”
“No! Keep your damned Jedi mind tricks to yourself.” Dean rips his hand out of Sam’s grip.
Sam’s laugh is punctuated by two loud bangs and a profanity-laden screech from behind them. “Oooo, she sounds pissed.”
“Wouldn’t you be if you were locked in a trunk?”
“Maybe. Though with one good mental shove, there wouldn’t be a trunk anymore.” Sam quickly turns serious and now he steals quick glances across at Dean. “You’re over this, right? No more ‘attack of the white hat’ syndrome?”
Dean chances meeting his brother’s eyes, and his breath catches. Sam looks worried, no, terrified at what Dean’s going to answer, and a lifetime of working to make that fear vanish from Sam’s face kicks into overdrive. “Yeah, Sammy. I’m fine.”
They could light whole cities with Sam’s grin at those words. “Great!” He lifts his chin, tipping his head back but keeping his eyes on the road, and raises his voice. “You hear that back there? He’s just fine!” Sam’s answered with two more bangs, and he just laughs loud and clear.
Thirty more minutes on bumpy back roads, then they pull up to a shack barely visible from behind trees and under vines of ivy. Sam reaches over to give Dean’s hand another squeeze and then hops out of the car, Dean following shortly after. Dean feels like he should recognize this place, like everything would be better if he knew where he was, but nothing comes to mind. Just a ramshackle one-story in the middle of god-knows-where.
Sam has opened the door to the backseat, and he’s rummaging around the floorboards, looking for something. “You go inside; I’ll be ah-HA!” He emerges triumphant, holding a roll of duct tape high above his head. “I’ll be right behind you.”
There’s no questioning the tape’s purpose, but before Dean can stop himself, he asks, “Wouldn’t it have been easier to do that while she was out cold?” And god, he can’t believe his mind just went there.
“Easier, yeah. But what fun is it if she’s not struggling, right?” Sam’s completely oblivious to the shudder that runs down Dean’s spine. “Go on. I’ll meet you in there.”
The fact that the steps to the porch didn’t even creak should have been Dean’s first clue that appearances are deceiving. He pushes open the wooden door-not even locked, for crying out loud-and just stops in his tracks. He’s not sure what he’d been expecting, but it wasn’t this. The place looks…cozy. Warm and inviting. Couches with full cushions, adorned with hand-knit afghans, rest in front of a huge fireplace just begging to be lit. Random knickknacks line the mantle, and Dean makes out a few framed photos-a smiling, older couple; a couple kids-mingling with the tchotchkes. The kitchen lies to the side, and it’s practically gleaming. The appliances are spotless, tile floor shining, not an item out of place.
Doesn’t exactly scream “evil lives here,” does it?
Dean slowly makes his way through the house, jaw dropped in awe. The first door on his right is cracked open, so he pushes it all the way and flicks on the light. The room is spacious, big enough to fit two queen-size beds and their matching bedroom sets. The bed closest to the door is meticulously made, sheets tucked in just so, with stacks of folded clothes resting at the foot. Even before he steps into the room, Dean can recognize Sam’s unique fashion choices among the clothing. The dresser beside the bed is undecorated, save for a book Dean would recognize anywhere: their father’s journal.
Without thinking, Dean moves to pick up the book. It feels lighter than he remembers, and with trembling fingers he slides open the catch. Among their father’s familiar scribbling are notes in Sam’s meticulous handwriting: “useless,” “good for a fight,” “can be reasoned with.” Dean doesn’t want to contemplate their meanings. Pages are missing, that much is for certain, and a quick flip-through reveals that every exorcism ritual their father had ever collected has been ripped out of the book, no doubt destroyed.
He hears the front door swing open, and Sam’s voice radiates through the house, “Honey, I’m home!” followed by a quick giggle and the sound of something heavy dragging. Dean drops the journal back on the dresser just seconds before Sam’s head pops through the doorway. “Hey, I’m going to set her up in the guest room. You good?”
“Yeah, Sam,” Dean replies numbly. “I’m just…I’m gonna change or something.”
Sam rolls his eyes. “Great, more laundry for me to do.” Then he’s gone, and Dean’s attention turns to the other side of the room.
This bed is definitely more helter-skelter. The bedsheets are practically thrown on the floor with the pillows bunched up against the wall. Clothing is strewn across the floor, no more than a day’s worth but Dean knows that shirt to be his own. In contradiction to the cleanliness of Sam’s dresser top, Dean’s is cluttered with objects, though indiscernible from a distance. He takes a few steps closer.
It’s a mess. Papers and photographs of people Dean doesn’t recognize. Small knives, scraps of fabric, jewelry, money clips. Trinkets of every sort litter the dresser. He takes a moment to survey the enormity of the collection, then grabs a paper at random, careful not to disturb the precarious piles around it. It’s a letter, covered in a girl’s loopy handwriting:
Dear Dad,
Thank you so much for my birthday package. My roommate is very jealous of my waterproof pajamas! Where do you find such crazy things…
“Reliving old memories?” Dean startles at the voice suddenly in his ear and flinches when a strong arm wraps around his waist from behind. Sam hooks his chin over Dean’s shoulder and begins reading the note in Dean’s hand. After a second, he snorts in amusement. “I remember that guy.” Sam’s other hand reaches out to the pile and he grabs a strip of bright purple fabric. “Those pajamas were pretty cool.”
Dean’s never been the type to freeze in the face of danger. Hell, he’s usually one to leap into the fray when it comes right down to it. But now, it’s like he’s a statue, Han Solo in carbonite-how can he think of something like that now-and it’s all because Sammy is scaring the ever-loving shit out of him.
He expects to wake up any second in that ratty motel in Rahway, where he’ll laugh with his Sam about the hazards of forgoing dinner. Bad dreams on an empty stomach and all that jazz. Any second now.
Please.
Deft fingers are trailing down Dean’s side, and he snaps upright when they start digging into his pants pocket. “Sam…” Dean tries for a warning tone, but it comes out too high, too broken for his own comfort.
“I know.” Sam’s pressing a smile into the side of Dean’s neck. “Not until after playtime, but still - “ Sam slowly pulls out the wicker doll and tosses it onto the dresser. “Wanted to make sure that was properly displayed with your other trophies. Walker deserves a place with his fellow hunters, don’t you think?”
Dean chokes down the bile rising in his throat. Hunters. Every single item in front of him has been taken from a hunter that apparently he and Sam had killed together.
Sam curls his fingers into Dean’s belt loops, pulling his brother’s back flush against his own chest. “Come on.” Barely more than a whisper, but Sam’s so close that his lips tickle Dean’s ear and the words seem to roar. “She’s already all comfy and waiting for us.”
The trip out of the room is barely better than a haze. Sam’s walking for them both, still holding Dean close and nudging Dean’s legs forward with his knees. Dean can hear their footsteps echo on hardwood floors, hardly notices when they pass a closed room-another bedroom, has to be-and now he’s confronted with a door looming directly in front of them. Sam’s hand snakes out to grab the doorknob, and Dean feels Sam’s hot mouth on his neck when his little brother twists the door open.
In what’s become a bad habit since this whole mess began, Dean freezes.
This is the living nightmare he’d been expecting. It’s the Marquis de Sade’s wet dream. He can’t even tell the room’s paint color; the walls are saturated with blood splatter. Shackles line down the walls, most vacant, some occupied, and god, is that the couple from the photographs outside? By the door sits a table with what looks like every knife from the Impala’s inventory, and the blades are gleaming, the only unbloodied items in the whole damn room.
At the center of the room is Jo, bound in manacles hanging from the ceiling, toes barely touching the ground with her arms pulled high and taut above her head. A tent of shirt and skin just below her throat indicates a broken collarbone, and Dean can only imagine the amount of agony that, combined with her positioning, must have her in.
“See? Snug as a bug.” Sam nuzzles into Dean’s neck, unaffected by the room’s horror.
“You’re insane.” The words leak out of Dean’s throat before he can stop himself, his eyes still riveted on Jo just hanging there.
Sam’s bark of laughter startles everyone else in the room, and the couple in shackles physically recoils. “Nice to meet you, Pot. I’m Kettle.” Slowly, as if he’s loath to part from Dean’s side, Sam pulls away and moves to the table. There’s two seconds of silent deliberation, then he chooses a knife and slides the handle into Dean’s palm. “Your favorite.”
The sad thing is, it is Dean’s favorite, always has been. Nice weight, good length for both fighting and utility work, an edge Dean’s honed to perfection after years of care. Dad gave him this knife on his twelfth birthday. He taught Sam hand-to-hand with this knife.
Dean’s trip down memory lane is interrupted when his father’s whiskey-rough voice growls from behind him. “Damn, she still has all her fingers. You boys feeling okay?”
And Sam-Sam just gives that fucking grin that Dean’s itching to punch off his face. “We’re getting there.”
“Well, when you’re done with her, I got you round two.” A body, hogtied and gagged with coils of rope, is thrown to their feet; Dean doesn’t look, but the ratty trucker’s cap tossed down after is the only clue he needs to know. “Harvelle took off in the other direction…”- is that son of a bitch still talking?-“but good ol’ Bobby just had to make sure she got clear, didn’t ya?”
Now Dean looks down. Never, in all the years they’ve known Bobby, has he ever seen that look on the older man’s face. Anger, yes. Pain, definitely. But mind-numbing, seething hatred? It makes Bobby look like a stranger.
And god, that glare is directed straight at him.
“Alright, kiddos,” John chuckles. “You two have fun. It’s not often we get a three-for-one sale.” Then he’s gone from the room, and Dean only faintly hears a door open and shut again.
Sam’s moving again, wraps his fingers around Dean’ wrist, pulling gently to move them closer to the center of the room. Dean takes one last look at Bobby curled up on the floor, then shifts his attention to Jo. She’s mirroring Bobby’s glower to a tee, and Dean is struck with the sudden realization that this is the second time tonight she’s glared at him with a knife in his hand.
“Jo?” He pulls his arm free from Sam’s grip and takes a further step toward her. “Jo?” he repeats softly.
“Fucking traitor!” The steel toe of her boot catches him in the face as she lashes out, and he stumbles backwards clutching his jaw. She screams suddenly, and Dean whips back around to see three of the knives from the table hovering just beyond her face, floating on invisible strings.
The grin’s gone from Sam’s face, but now his lips are pulled back in a snarl, teeth bared. “I told you not to touch him, bitch.” It comes out a growl, and something deep and low in Dean flip-flops in reaction to the near possessiveness hidden in the sound.
“Dean.” His little brother, eyes still dark with anger, is crooking his finger, indicating come here. “Did she hurt you?”
“Nothing permanent.”
“Good.” Sam’s voice is echoing in his head again. “Now, let’s show her what happens when you fuck with Winchesters.”
Dean looks down at the knife in his hand. Yeah, he can do that.
*****
The good news is Jo’s still breathing. That’s also the bad news because human beings shouldn’t have to live in that much pain.
The latest mental suggestion had worn off after only thirty minutes this time, just as Dean was shifting to slice through Jo’s other Achilles tendon. He had jumped back instantly, slipped on one of the many puddles of blood surrounding the scene, and fell hard onto his backside, where he had a ringside view of the truly sadistic nature of his little brother.
Apparently in Sam’s mind, psychic powers are for intimidation only. Playtime, as he’d called it, requires a more hands-on approach. The blades that had been floating before now lie still on the floor, and Sam’s circling Jo, a small skinning knife at the ready, as if he’s debating where the next cut would do the most damage, cause the most pain.
For one brief moment, Dean considers what would happen if he waited until Sam circled in front of him again, took him out, and then got Jo, Bobby and the others out to safety. His stomach rolls at the thought. No, forget rolling, it’s doing somersaults, cartwheels, and those fancy backflips the cheerleaders in high school used to perform at home games.
Could he do that to Sam? No, not in a million years.
It’s pretty clear to Dean at this point that this isn’t a dream. There’s no waking up from this…whatever this is. Whatever that little wicker bastard threw him into, this is it, end of the line. Just his little family, more fucked up than it ever has been. But that’s the problem: it’s his family. Dad’s here-well, not all here-and Sam…
Sam seems happy. They’re both covered in the blood of someone Dean has called a friend, there’s people cowering in fear all around them, screams are bouncing off the walls, and yet Sam keeps sending small, genuine smiles in Dean’s direction every time their eyes meet.
How fucked up is that?
Jo’s screaming again, Sam having made his decision of attack, and Dean takes a glance over in Bobby’s direction. He vaguely remembers the older man thrashing against his restraints at Jo’s first cry of agony, but now Bobby’s still, stiff as a board, glaring from beneath sweat-soaked hair that’s fallen into his face.
So, no waking up. This leaves his options at becoming one with his happy psycho-fuck family that would have made those Benders run for the hills, or killing his own brother for a group of people that loathe every ounce of his being and will probably gut him the first chance they get.
Real tough decision, that one.
“Hey.” Dean hadn’t even noticed the cries stopping, and when he looks back around, Sam staring at him with an eyebrow cocked. “All tuckered out?”
“Nah, just…watching you have fun.”
Sam pulls a face. “She’s not too bad. At least she’s a screamer, right?” Dean absently nods and watches his brother walk up next to him and sit down. “Do you remember that first time? That guy, Carter?” Dean just grunts, unable to think of something to say, and waits for Sam to continue.
“I was so nervous. Watching your face while I practiced my powers was one thing, but when Da - John told us we were going after other hunters, I thought for certain you were going to back out, leave us. You looked so scared and angry, and it was so soon after the cabin. But then Carter’s wife came out the kitchen and started charging at me with that cleaver, and you just…you left one hell of a mess, all because she was trying to hurt me. I knew then that everything was going to be okay.”
They sit there for a moment, watching Jo spin limply on the chains, then Sam slowly brings himself to his feet. “Well, that was a nice little moment of Zen.” He extends his hand-the one not still clutching the skinning knife-and Dean slaps his palm into it, welcoming the help up.
Sam all-out heaves, pulling Dean clear off the floor and flush against him, and Dean’s about to complain about the manhandling, but Sam’s suddenly kissing him again. It’s one-sided at first, Dean’s too shocked to even contemplate taking action, but then Sam tilts his head just a little and licks the crease of Dean’s lips like he’s seeking permission inside, and Dean just snaps.
Further down the rabbit hole, right Alice?
He opens up to Sam, who moans in appreciation when their tongues start warring for dominance. Dean snakes his hands up, one fisting the back of Sam’s shirt and the other curling tight into Sam’s hair, effectively mashing their lips harder together. He almost lets out a chuckle when he realizes he has to tilt his head up into the kiss, but the fact that he thinks that’s the strangest part of this whole thing stops him cold. It should feel weird, there should be some little voice in his head screaming stop, it’s wrong, but it never comes. Instead, some part of him is sighing in relief, saying it’s about damn time, and that should be the part that freaks him out.
Dean knows he’s a good kisser. Never had a single complaint in years of practice. But Sam must have been taking notes while they were growing up or something because he’s incredible. He’s slick and powerful and just the right shade of domineering, and Dean feels his body responding to the sheer heat of the kiss.
He isn’t even aware they’re moving, but there’s the clank of the knife hitting the hardwood floor and suddenly his back slams into a wall, and Sam is pressed hot against him, practically devouring his mouth. Sam must have grown six extra hands in the last minute, because Dean’s feeling them everywhere: trailing down his chest, gripping behind his shoulders, spreading wide along his hips, cupping his ass. Sam wedges a thigh between Dean’s legs, rubs just right, and the kiss breaks when Dean throws his head back and gasps.
Sam doesn’t miss a beat, immediately attacking the skin just under Dean’s jaw with a wet, open-mouth kiss and then blazing a trail down the column of his throat, alternating between little nips and licks. When he reaches the junction of neck and shoulder, Sam bites and Dean bucks hard and fuck, there’s that thigh again, and the groan that escapes Dean’s throat doesn’t sound entirely human.
Sam laves the wound with his tongue, humming proudly at Dean’s reaction. His multiple pairs of hands apparently decide to focus all their attention on one spot: the collar of Dean’s shirt. “Too many clothes.” The breathy words scorch Dean’s neck, and in no time there’s a ripping noise, and then cool air rushes over Dean’s chest, the front of his shirt now torn clean down the middle. Sam tugs the rest of the tattered shirt free, leaving Dean naked from the waist up, and promptly removes his own t-shirt as well.
Dean leans in to initiate the kiss this time, and Sam’s sharp inhale lets him know that he made the right move. There’s no finesse, just mindless passion and lust at this point, but Sam sucks Dean’s bottom lip into his mouth, teething on it just a little, and god, if this isn’t the most exhilarating kiss of Dean’s well-experienced life.
Chest to chest contact suddenly isn’t enough, and those deft fingers curl into Dean’s belt loops again to pull his hips forward; a jolt of electricity courses up Dean’s spine at the first feel of Sam’s erection pressing hot and hard through layers of denim.
Dean can’t remember when he’d actually closed his eyes, but when he opens them he’s suddenly very reminded of the fact that there are people-hurt, bloody, broken people-watching every move they make. He might have a lot of kinks, learning new ones every day apparently, but public sex has never been one of them.
“Sam.” Dean leans back just an inch for space, and Sam gives a needy whimper that almost dries the words in Dean’s throat. “Sam, wait.”
“No.” Sam latches onto Dean’s lips again, eating at his mouth, and it takes a Herculean effort for Dean to pull away a second time.
“S’just, oh jesus, they’re all watching.”
Sam smiles, huffing softly. “That’s your problem? I can fix that.” Brow furrowed, Dean starts to ask what that’s supposed to mean when he sees movement over Sam’s shoulder. One of the knives from the floor is back to hovering in front of Jo’s face, a centimeter from her right eye.
Dean chokes on his words but recovers quickly. “The bedroom’s right there. Can’t we just -“
“No.” Sam’s left foot hooks around the back of Dean’s ankle, a move that’s tripped Dean up since they were kids, and Dean’s not surprised to find himself spun around and flat on his back in the blink of an eye. Sam instantly straddles him, grinding down hard and dragging a moan from somewhere deep inside Dean. “Here. Now.
“I want them to watch. I want every last one of them to see me riding you, watch you fuck into me. They’re going to see just how crazy we make each other, how we get each other screaming, and when we’re done, we’re going to start right back over so that they don’t forget.”
Sam’s hips rock again to prove his point and Dean nearly bites through his lip to keep from yelling out. “Okay, Sam. Okay, just, fuck!”
“That’s the spirit.” He runs the palm of his hand over Dean’s chest, over his abs. Dean sucks in a breath and arches under the hand, clutching helplessly at Sam’s hips, and he watches Sam's eyes go dark and intense. In a heartbeat, Sam shifts back a little, fumbling Dean’s belt loose then moving quickly to undo his brother’s jeans, the metal clink of zipper teeth barely heard over their combined panting. Sam’s fingernails scrape slightly as he hooks his fingers under Dean’s waistbands, just enough to tickle, and then he peels Dean’s pants and boxers off in one slow, easy move.
Once Dean’s completely naked, Sam climbs to his feet, practically tearing off his own clothing. Dean barely has time to take a breath before Sam’s lying back on top of him, crashing their lips back together and rutting against Dean’s hip. Both men hiss when their cocks line up, and Dean shivers and nearly comes right there from the sensation.
Sam’s licking at the roof of Dean’s mouth, around the backs of his teeth, with his hands firmly planted on either side of Dean’s face. Dean drags blunt fingernails down Sam’s back, reveling at the shudder he receives at the gesture.
Sam eases off, worrying Dean’s lip between his teeth one last time before sliding down and away. Kisses down the side of Dean’s neck, sucks a bruise at the hollow of his throat, further down until he’s tonguing lazily around Dean’s nipple. He scrapes with his teeth a little, just enough to elicit a gasp, and he takes the opportunity to lift two of his fingers into Dean’s mouth. Sam’s expectations are clear, but he pauses just enough to demand “suck” before renewing his attention on Dean’s chest.
Dean’s mind is pretty much mush at this point, but he’s always followed orders well.
While he twists his tongue around Sam’s offered digits, futilely attempting to ignore their faint coppery taste, Sam continues his path southward, licking a broad solid stripe down Dean’s sternum to his abs, and Dean can’t help but hum in approval. Sam’s sitting on his own heels now, settled low between the V of Dean’s legs, and he extracts his fingers, slick and spit-shiny, as he begins nosing the coarse hair just above Dean’s groin.
Dean’s harder than he can remember ever being. He tries to imagine how they could have started this, when fucking a brother became normal to them, but then Sam passes his tongue over the head of Dean’s cock, and it’s so mind-numbingly amazing that Dean can’t form thoughts anymore.
The lick is followed by a kiss which is followed by Sam taking the whole head between his lips, and Dean starts clawing at the floorboards. He looks down when his brother hums around his dick, and only now Dean notices those fingers have vanished from sight behind Sam. There’s another hum just as Sam’s shoulder hitches, and holy hell Dean realizes Sam’s working himself open.
There’s wet heat all around him now, Sam dipping low to take him all in; Dean throws his head back with a howl when his dick hits the back of Sam’s throat. There’s three seconds of sheer bliss while Sam’s swallowing around him and then…nothing.
Sam’s off him in a flash and, in some perverse version of leap frog, springs from his position to straddle Dean once again. He surges forward into a kiss, and Dean can taste himself, precome and musk, on his brother’s lips. It’s like fucking ambrosia, and he sucks Sam’s tongue into his mouth in an attempt to get more.
“I want to feel you, Dean.” Sam’s sliding a hand between them now, grabbing Dean’s cock and holding him in position. “Days, weeks from now.” Sam drops just enough for the head to push past that tight ring of muscle, and he hisses just a little. “Fuck me hard enough that I can’t sit, can’t even think.” Then he just sinks and neither one of them can stifle their screams.
It’s pain, it’s pleasure, it’s every sensation Dean can possibly imagine, and fuck, if this is what this life has in store for him, he’ll accept it gladly. He cracks his eyes open to get a look at his brother, and his breath hitches in his throat. Sam’s arched backwards, his eyes screwed shut, mouth in an O of pure ecstasy, hands behind him resting on Dean’s thighs. He’s the very image of debauchery and the hottest thing Dean has ever seen.
Then the image blurs because Sam’s moving, thigh muscles tensing as he rides up and down on Dean’s cock. Dean bucks up, groping at Sam blindly, kneading the skin at his hips. “Oh fuck…oh Christ, Sammy.” He knows he’s yammering, but he can’t stop. “You’re just…god, fuck…”
Dean’s skin is on sensitivity overload, and Sam raking fingernails up his thighs causes Dean to cry out. “Harder.” Sam’s whimpering like he’s missing something important. “Harder, Dean.” And when has Dean ever said no to his brother?
He tightens his grip on Sam’s hips, ultimately stilling his brother’s motion, and thrusts hard. He hits something inside that makes Sam scream out, “There! There, damn it!” then he pounds away with abandon, hitting the same spot every time until Sam’s babbling just as much as he is.
Sam’s fisting himself now, jacking off at a furious pace, and the moans escaping both of them would make porn stars blush. Dean isn’t even aware he had set a rhythm until he starts losing it, hips stuttering as Sam clenches around him. He gives one final thrust up and his orgasm is wrenched out of him in hot bursts, stars exploding behind his eyes. Sam gives a barking cry and Dean focuses just enough to watch Sam shatter apart under the power of his own climax, come splashing hot across Dean’s stomach and chest.
They both shudder through their aftershocks, with little grunts and whimpers as they come down, then Sam rolls off Dean and collapses to the floor. Everything’s silent until Sam gets comfortable, tucking himself tight against Dean’s side, leg thrown over Dean’s hip and head resting on Dean’s shoulder. He’s wearing that grin, and you know, it’s not that bad once you’re used to it. “Again. I don’t want them to forget, remember?”
For the first time since this all started, Dean laughs. “Sure, Sammy. Just, give me a minute, okay?” There’s no answer because Sam’s yawning and nuzzling his head into the crook of Dean’s neck. Dean gives another little chuckle at all the sure signs that his little brother’s already halfway asleep. So much for round two.
This isn’t just post-coital exhaustion. This is sated, fucked-out bliss, and Dean can feel it pulling him under. He closes his eyes and just lets himself drift in the lull, content.
There’s a tapping noise behind him that’s interrupting his calm, though, and Dean lifts his head from the pillow. Pillow? He didn’t have a pillow a second ago. Or a bed. He definitely wasn’t fully clothed a second ago either.
“About time you woke up.”
Dean looks over his shoulder, and Sam’s staring at him from the other bed with just a slight upturn to his lips, working on the laptop. “I can’t remember the last time I saw you catch a full eight hours.”
“Eight…Sam…I…” Dean’s gaping, stumbling over words, and his confusion must be apparent because Sam’s looking worried now. Dean flips on the bed, turning on his side to face Sam, but the sudden movement sends pain flashing through his upper arm and shoulder.
He freezes at that, now only too acutely aware there’s something digging into his hip. Hesitantly, he reaches into his pants’ pocket, and he winces when his fingertips brush against a familiar texture. He draws the item out, already knowing what he’s holding, but Sam’s eyes go wide at sight of the wicker man, both arms now furled tight against the doll’s chest.
“Dean, what…”
Sam meets Dean’s eyes for a split second, then Dean’s bolting off the bed and into the bathroom just in time for his stomach to revolt.
To Second Limb