Intimations of Morality: Second Limb
Intimations of Morality: Second Limb
Chapter Rating: PG-13
Chapter Word Count: 3742
All warnings in Main Post
Back to First Limb
Sam uses his lockpicks on the bathroom door after an hour. Dean hasn’t answered any of the questions Sam’s shouted at him, hasn’t so much as made a sound beyond unavoidable retching noises.
When Sam finally gets the door open, Dean’s standing shirtless in front of the mirror, prodding at the pink line of flesh marring his shoulder. It still hurts, stinging like it’s a fresh cut, but the injury looks healed, like a shadow of a wound. Further down his arm is a similar mark that feels just the same.
It was real. It had to have been. Dreams don’t chew you up and then spit you out broken.
From the way Sam’s ducking and weaving in the doorway, he’s trying to get Dean’s attention, look him straight in the eye, but Dean won’t, can’t. He still has visions of blood, sweat, and come playing through his head, and he can’t chance letting Sam see that on his face.
Sam lets out an exasperated sigh. “Fine. Ignore me. But I’m calling Bobby to see if he knows what the hell that damned thing is and how we can get rid of it.”
Dean’s blood runs cold at the sound of the other hunter’s name. Oh fuck, Bobby. Could he even face Bobby-or Jo-ever again? He takes a deep breath to steel himself, locks eyes with his own reflection. Of course he could. That wasn’t here, wasn’t now. He’ll just lock it all away and carry on like nothing happened.
Yeah, right.
Sam’s doing a fair impression of Charlie Brown’s teacher in the other room, obviously on the phone with the man in question. Fuck, what happens if Bobby needs particulars to figure out just what that fucking doll is? How exactly can Dean say “well, we’re all evil, we kidnapped you, tortured the living hell out of Jo, and then I had some of the most intense sex of my life with my own brother” and make it sound like it’s just another small detail of a job?
The call ends quickly. Too quickly. Sam’s back in the doorway and Dean drops his eyes instantly to avoid catching his brother’s gaze. “We’re driving out there.” Sam’s voice is heated, frustrated. “Bobby basically said we had some nerve pulling his leg like that, then he hung up. Why the hell would he think we’re joking about something like this?”
Dean just shrugs, but he realizes it’s the wrong move because Sam’s stepping into the bathroom and closer to him. He places a hand on Dean’s shoulder, and Dean absolutely refuses to close his eyes and lean into the touch. All of the anger is gone from Sam’s voice when he says, “Dude, you’re freaking me with the silent treatment. Come on, what the hell happened?”
Dean dips away from Sam’s hand, already missing the warmth of it on his skin, and focuses his eyes somewhere around the area of Sam’s left nostril. It’s not eye contact, but it’s a start. “South Dakota’s about a day’s drive from here if we want to avoid Chicago. Let’s get moving.” Not the answer Sam wanted, but apparently he’s appeased that Dean’s at least talking.
Sam goes to check them out of the room while Dean throws on a shirt and begins packing up their things. Their clothes seem to have exploded all over the place in their two nights here, and he’s finding socks in places he didn’t even think possible. He’s bending to retrieve the knife under his pillow when he catches sight of the wicker doll on the sheets, dropped mercilessly in his frantic bid for the bathroom earlier.
It looks so innocuous in his palm, harmless in every way. How something like that could be affecting him so badly…
“What the hell are you doing to me?” Great, now he’s talking to inanimate objects. What did he say earlier about a straight jacket?
Sam’s knocking on the door, having returned the room key, and Dean shoves the doll back in his pocket before letting his brother inside. They each grab their duffels and head out to the car.
The car. Dean goes statue-still when they reach it. All the differences are there: the fenders he couldn’t quite bang back into perfect shape, the mirrors he had to salvage off a different old Chevy. It’s just more concrete proof that this is now, this is real. He stands, unable to take his eyes away, until a pointed cough snaps him out of it.
Just as Dean was staring at the car, Sam’s staring at him. “Dean? Keys?”
“But you have th-“ he catches his slip before it fully makes its way past his lips, but Sam’s instantly squinting at him suspiciously. “Right, keys.” Dean drops his bag, pulls the keys from his jacket pocket, unlocks the car. There’s a moment of trepidation before he pops the trunk, and his hands almost shake as he pulls it open. Just a normal, everyday car trunk, if you ignore the catch to the secret weapons compartment. No rips, dents or blood to be seen. It’s simultaneously a breath of fresh air and a kick in the pants.
Sam’s bag thumps into the trunk (Jo made a whump noise) then he reaches over for Dean’s bag. Their fingers brush over the handle, and Dean’s torn between grabbing hold or jerking back like Sam’s on fire.
Instead, he just lets Sam take the duffel-nothing wrong here, no sir-and shuffles his way to the driver’s seat. This is going to be a long trip.
*****
Sixteen hours later, Dean’s still at the wheel. Despite Sam’s persistence, Dean has refused to let his brother drive. He insists he’s fine, not tired in the least, just get him another large cup of burnt coffee at the next rest stop and everything will be a-okay.
Sam had passed out about 100 miles ago, and Dean welcomed the relief. From Jersey to Ohio, Sam had used everything in his arsenal to get Dean to talk about what happened, what had him so freaked. When that didn’t work, Sam had switched tactics, talking about everything except the doll and Dean’s distress. And yeah, Sam when he’s not being a moody little bitch is great. Sam when he’s being an insufferable little brother, not so much.
Now, somewhere in the middle of Wisconsin, all is quiet, just Sam’s light snores and some local classic rock station playing low on the radio. And Dean’s got nothing left to do but think. How’s he going to deal with this? There’s no way he’ll be able to show up at Bobby’s and act like everything’s okay. It’s like he has two versions of life playing through his head, and Dean is certain he’ll take one look at their old friend and see nothing but hatred and a desire to rip them both limb from limb. And Sam…how can he face Sam day after day, just knowing…everything?
Dean lets his eyes shift down the seat to where Sam’s resting peacefully. His little brother looks so relaxed, almost angelic, in sleep. Always has, because only in sleep do all of Sam’s worries melt away. He doesn’t look like he’s carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. He looks…
Dean tries to shake the thoughts from his head before they get carried away, but he’s already remembering just how incredible Sam looked, miles of bare skin just aching to be touched and tasted. How those muscles shifted and flexed as Sam writhed over him. The way Sam screwed his eyes closed just when his orgasm hit but then raised them to half-mast as he and Dean calmed down together.
He lets out a low groan. “I am so screwed.”
*****
Fifty miles outside of Bobby’s place, Dean starts getting nervous.
When they’re twenty-five miles away, he gets twitchy.
Ten miles, and he’s downright panicking.
“Dean, calm down. It’s just Bobby. Why are you freaking out about seeing him?”
“I’m not.” Liar. “I just think we should stop and get food or something first. And grab a motel room while we’re at it. And maybe see the sights. We really never have explored South Dakota before, right?” Dean mentally slaps himself in the back of the head because there’s no way that suggesting they sightsee hasn’t sent red flags up in Sam’s head.
“We’re going to Bobby’s. Now.” Fuck. Dean nearly steers the car into a ditch at that point, half-expecting to find himself pinned to a hardwood floor again. He shakes his head clear, determined not to go into that mental place.
“Fine.”
When they pull into the yard, there’s two new dogs prowling on chains and what looks like it was once a lime green pickup resting on cinderblocks just to the side of the driveway. Nothing out of the ordinary. Sam hops out of the car as soon as they come to a stop, but Dean’s glued to his seat, unable to even pull the keys from the ignition.
Outside the car, Sam huffs and stomps over to the driver’s side. He seems to be flitting between frustration and concern as he wrenches the door open, literally yanks Dean out by his arm. Sam reaches back in to grab the keys, slipping them into his pocket, then he latches onto Dean again and marches them up Bobby’s front steps.
Bobby’s opening the door before Sam even knocks, and he looks pissed. Dean flinches back, almost bolts, half expecting some sort of weapon to appear from behind Bobby’s back, but Sam’s grip on his arm holds him in place. Instead, he drops his eyes to the ground, refusing to even look at the older hunter.
Bobby tips his hat back before he speaks. “Boys, I don’t know who told you that old spook story, but you sure as hell took ten years of my life by even joking those things are real.”
Sam’s hold loosens a little, stunned at Bobby’s outburst and looking a little poleaxed. Bobby seems to notice Sam’s reaction, because his glare softens a little. “Sam, you were joking, right?” Sam gives the tiniest of head shakes and all the air rushes out of Bobby’s lungs in a whoosh. “Jesus Christ, which one of you got it?” Barely a whisper now.
Dean’s still looking at the porch floor like a repentant child when he pulls the doll from his pocket, hand slightly shaking when he lifts it up for Bobby to see. Bobby hisses through his teeth, taking an involuntary step backwards before demanding, “Both of you in the house.”
The door’s barely closed before Bobby wraps his fingers around Dean’s wrist, holding the hand with the doll steady. There’s no malice in the gesture though, and Dean finds himself meeting the other man’s eyes and seeing only concern, which eases some of the knots twisting inside. Bobby’s eyes then flicker downward to stare at the doll. “It looks broken. The two arms-“
“Were straight last night.” Sam interrupts. He’s looking terrified now, they all are. “Bobby, what the hell is this thing?”
“They’re not supposed to be real.”
“We fight things that aren’t supposed to be real every day.”
“Well, these dolls are what those things tell ghost stories about. Legends of legends, that type of stuff.”
“How much do you know about them?” Dean is more than happy to let Sam do all the talking at this point. “Are there books we can use?”
Bobby shakes his head slowly. “No, no books. Like I said, they’re not supposed to really exist, so it’s nothing better than hearsay, and piss-poor hearsay at that. I’ve heard old wives’ tales with more facts behind them than these things. Story goes that some high-level demon whispered in some poor son-of-a-bitch’s ear about three wicker dolls that are supposed to drive you mad with barely a touch.”
Sam’s looking straight at Dean now, even though he’s still talking to Bobby. “How so?”
“No one’s really certain. Methods change, depending on who’s telling the story, but the running theory is that one of the dolls makes you experience your greatest wish until reality just isn’t good enough, one finds some pivotal point in your life and twists it to the worst possible conclusion, and one does something like age regression, sends you back to a point in your childhood to relive it all again.”
There’s a few seconds of silence before Dean realizes the conversation has stopped, and he looks up to find both Sam and Bobby staring at him expectedly. “It’s the second one. The, um, pivotal moment or whatever.”
“You’re sure?” Bobby asks incredulously.
Dean takes a deep breath and nods. “It showed me - “ and Sam flinches hard at those words. Trips Dean up for a second and he has to start over. “As far as I can tell, it’s what would have been if Dad hadn’t been able to fight off the Demon for that second in the cabin. When you got loose and shot him. Never happened.”
Sam’s eyes are like saucers, mouth gaping slightly. “But I shot him to keep the Demon from killing you.”
“I know.”
“So…over there, you’re dead?”
“No.”
“But if I didn’t - “
“You made a deal.”
Those last words seem to suck all the sound out of the room, so much so that Dean’s ears are aching for some sort of noise. He finds himself continuing just to break the quiet. “You made a deal. Gave yourself up willingly. The Colt too, for all I know. Dad’s still possessed, you’re all powerful with the psychic crap and pretty damn insane if you ask me, and I…I’m along for the ride.” He cuts himself off there, nearly bites through his tongue to keep from confessing everything else. This is why he doesn’t talk about shit, damn it. Once he starts, might as well settle in for the long haul.
Sam stares at him for a long time, gears in his head obviously going a mile a minute. Dean’s about to make some smart ass remark about smoke coming out of Sam’s ears when his faint whisper rings loud and clear over the deafening silence. “Dad’s alive there?”
Dean chokes back the lump in his throat, determined to keep calm for the sake of his sanity. “Yeah.”
All this time, Bobby has been watching them back and forth like a tennis match, and finally he speaks up. “Dean, how exactly does it work? How’s it affecting you?”
“Basically, I fall asleep here, I wake up there. I fall asleep there, I wake up here.”
“So like a dream?” Bobby sounds hopeful; dreams they can work with. Charms, herbs, a few meditation rites. Kid’s stuff.
“God, I wish.” He shrugs off his jacket and pulls aside the collar of his shirt, revealing the slash mark in his shoulder. “Got this from a knife fight with Gordon Walker. He was hun-he was there.” The near slip gets Dean’s heart running a marathon in his chest. It’s one thing to mention his brother’s joined the Dark Side without a flashlight; it’s something entirely different to all-out say they’re being hunted because of their psychotic killing spree. Family fun at its finest.
Too late, he realizes that Sam’s leaning in to examine the wound. There’s a puff of hot breath against Dean’s exposed skin, and he bites back the moan it conjures. Now is so not the time to be dealing with that little issue in all this. Faster than can be considered casual, Dean adjusts his shirt back to normal, but Sam’s not moving. In fact, he’s staring at the same spot like Dean still has the cut out on display.
“Bobby, what happens if Dean gets really hurt there? Or dies?” Sam Winchester, always the optimist. “Would he still wake up here?”
“I really don’t know.”
*****
Despite Bobby’s disappointing assurance that there are no books on the subject, Sam is determined to find something. Any kind of reference to the dolls or their victims, something about a way to defeat the effects, just anything helpful. Sam sets up shop at Bobby’s kitchen table, laptop at a bizarre angle that miraculously allows him to piggyback off some neighbor’s wireless internet. Bobby starts calling old pals who may know more about the legend than he does, hunters who have more experience with lore than weaponry or have been in the field so long they’ve earned the luxury of retirement.
And Dean’s chugging coffee like there’s no tomorrow. Sam had made him promise not to sleep until they find something, and right now caffeine is a divine gift. Two pots down, and a third is brewing happily on the counter.
He’s trying to focus on the tome in front of him, the only book Bobby said might have a reference of a time someone speculated about the dolls, but everything’s turning into a blur. Doesn’t help that the whole book is in Latin. Dean rubs a hand over his face, knuckles at his eyes, stifles a yawn. Three more gulps of coffee, and he’s still on the same sentence. “Fuck this.”
Sam quirks an eyebrow when Dean pushes himself away from the table. “No offense, Sammy, but translating dead languages isn’t exactly riveting to me. It’s actually more likely to put me to sleep than anything. I’ve gotta…gotta actually do something.” For the fifth time in the last two hours, he opens the refrigerator. Yep, still empty. “How about I go grab dinner? Burgers from that place in town?”
“Actually, food sounds like a good plan.” Sam’s attention drifts back to the computer screen as he digs into his pockets. Pulls the keys out, lifts them high and jingles them on their keyring, and Dean’s hit with such a strong case of déjà vu that his knees almost buckle.
When Dean doesn’t grab the keys immediately, Sam glances back, and Dean can only imagine what his own face looks like in order to make Sam’s drop that quickly. “Dean, you okay?”
Dean tries to smile, his usual smokescreen, but it comes out more a grimace than anything. “Yeah, I just forgot you had the keys is all. Couldn’t find them in my pocket, thought I’d lost them.” Yeah, real smooth. With more force than necessary, he grabs the keys out of Sam’s slackened fingers and heads out the door without another moment’s hesitation.
*****
Zephram’s Burgers and Bait is the closest thing to a fast food restaurant that Bobby’s neck of the woods has. Family owned and operated for half a century, and proud of it. And for a place that sells nightcrawlers along with their French fries, the burgers are actually pretty damn good; ever since they put in a drive-thru ten years ago, there’s always been a line of cars circling the building.
Tonight’s wait is considerably longer than usual though.
“Sorry, sir. Garrett forgot to drop a fresh load of fries in the oil, so they’re not ready yet.” Dean has no clue who this Garrett kid is or why the girl at the window is talking about him like Dean should, but if she's blaming him for food tardiness, then so will he. Stupid, lazy bastard, that Garrett. “If you just park over there, someone will come out with your order.”
Dean pulls into a space not too far from the drive-thru window, puts the car into Park. Laces his fingers together and bends backwards over the front seat until he’s rewarded with a small pop in his upper back. He thinks over his plan of action one more time: get the food, head back to Bobby’s, wait for Sam to accomplish an amazing feat of Geekboy proportions. It’s a good plan, a solid plan. Sam’s research powers haven’t let him down yet.
Just have to wait for that damned food. And ignore the fact that when he slouches down just right, the seat back is actually a very comfortable pillow. And that the rumbling of the engine is more soothing than a lullaby.
He only realizes he’s shut his eyes when the light behind his eyelids shifts from the warm glow of sunset to something much brighter and artificial; his equilibrium tilts wildly, no longer upright against the seat but lying flat against an unyielding surface. Suddenly, he’s aware of a living furnace plastered to his side, pressure across his chest-an arm hugging him close, his subconscious informs him with a little chirrup of something heated-and cool air over naked skin that feels tight and dirty. His stomach clenches, ice water flowing through his veins, and he screws his eyes shut tighter in frustration. You fell asleep in the car. Wake up, you idiot. Wake. Up.
The floorboards creak just beyond his feet, and Dean doesn’t need a hunter’s instincts to tell him something’s wrong. He lifts his head, lets his eyes crack open, and his dazed, sleep-addled brain only registers one thing: light glinting off a knife’s edge.
Reflexes kick in. Dean rolls sharply over his brother’s sleeping form, grabs Sam’s skinning knife lying just to the side, and lets it fly. The balance is off, as skinning knives aren’t meant to be thrown, but somehow the blade hits home with an answering groan.
Somewhere beside them, Jo’s screaming something unintelligible. How’s she’s still alive, Dean doesn’t understand, but then the haze fades around him and her cries become crystal clear. “Bobby! No!”
It’s all in slow motion. Dean’s eyes focus immediately, just in time to watch Bobby clutch helplessly at the knife hilt jutting from his abdomen. Dean has the chance to take in the frayed ropes at the man’s wrists, his restraints sawed through while they were asleep, then Bobby’s lunging at him again with his own knife raised high. And Dean just sits there, waiting for it.
The knife point is a hairsbreadth away from Dean’s face when the air shifts. Bobby and his knife are gone, flung hard and fast into the opposite wall, a sickening crackcrunch echoing in the room when they hit. He crashes to the floor, an epic sprawl of limbs, then it’s over, with only Jo’s crying punctuating the quiet.
There’s movement right beside Dean, and he turns as Sam props himself up on his elbows. Sam’s eyes are dark and glittering, and he gives Dean an assessing look.
“What do you think? Waffles for breakfast?”
To Third Limb
Chapter Rating: PG-13
Chapter Word Count: 3742
All warnings in Main Post
Back to First Limb
Sam uses his lockpicks on the bathroom door after an hour. Dean hasn’t answered any of the questions Sam’s shouted at him, hasn’t so much as made a sound beyond unavoidable retching noises.
When Sam finally gets the door open, Dean’s standing shirtless in front of the mirror, prodding at the pink line of flesh marring his shoulder. It still hurts, stinging like it’s a fresh cut, but the injury looks healed, like a shadow of a wound. Further down his arm is a similar mark that feels just the same.
It was real. It had to have been. Dreams don’t chew you up and then spit you out broken.
From the way Sam’s ducking and weaving in the doorway, he’s trying to get Dean’s attention, look him straight in the eye, but Dean won’t, can’t. He still has visions of blood, sweat, and come playing through his head, and he can’t chance letting Sam see that on his face.
Sam lets out an exasperated sigh. “Fine. Ignore me. But I’m calling Bobby to see if he knows what the hell that damned thing is and how we can get rid of it.”
Dean’s blood runs cold at the sound of the other hunter’s name. Oh fuck, Bobby. Could he even face Bobby-or Jo-ever again? He takes a deep breath to steel himself, locks eyes with his own reflection. Of course he could. That wasn’t here, wasn’t now. He’ll just lock it all away and carry on like nothing happened.
Yeah, right.
Sam’s doing a fair impression of Charlie Brown’s teacher in the other room, obviously on the phone with the man in question. Fuck, what happens if Bobby needs particulars to figure out just what that fucking doll is? How exactly can Dean say “well, we’re all evil, we kidnapped you, tortured the living hell out of Jo, and then I had some of the most intense sex of my life with my own brother” and make it sound like it’s just another small detail of a job?
The call ends quickly. Too quickly. Sam’s back in the doorway and Dean drops his eyes instantly to avoid catching his brother’s gaze. “We’re driving out there.” Sam’s voice is heated, frustrated. “Bobby basically said we had some nerve pulling his leg like that, then he hung up. Why the hell would he think we’re joking about something like this?”
Dean just shrugs, but he realizes it’s the wrong move because Sam’s stepping into the bathroom and closer to him. He places a hand on Dean’s shoulder, and Dean absolutely refuses to close his eyes and lean into the touch. All of the anger is gone from Sam’s voice when he says, “Dude, you’re freaking me with the silent treatment. Come on, what the hell happened?”
Dean dips away from Sam’s hand, already missing the warmth of it on his skin, and focuses his eyes somewhere around the area of Sam’s left nostril. It’s not eye contact, but it’s a start. “South Dakota’s about a day’s drive from here if we want to avoid Chicago. Let’s get moving.” Not the answer Sam wanted, but apparently he’s appeased that Dean’s at least talking.
Sam goes to check them out of the room while Dean throws on a shirt and begins packing up their things. Their clothes seem to have exploded all over the place in their two nights here, and he’s finding socks in places he didn’t even think possible. He’s bending to retrieve the knife under his pillow when he catches sight of the wicker doll on the sheets, dropped mercilessly in his frantic bid for the bathroom earlier.
It looks so innocuous in his palm, harmless in every way. How something like that could be affecting him so badly…
“What the hell are you doing to me?” Great, now he’s talking to inanimate objects. What did he say earlier about a straight jacket?
Sam’s knocking on the door, having returned the room key, and Dean shoves the doll back in his pocket before letting his brother inside. They each grab their duffels and head out to the car.
The car. Dean goes statue-still when they reach it. All the differences are there: the fenders he couldn’t quite bang back into perfect shape, the mirrors he had to salvage off a different old Chevy. It’s just more concrete proof that this is now, this is real. He stands, unable to take his eyes away, until a pointed cough snaps him out of it.
Just as Dean was staring at the car, Sam’s staring at him. “Dean? Keys?”
“But you have th-“ he catches his slip before it fully makes its way past his lips, but Sam’s instantly squinting at him suspiciously. “Right, keys.” Dean drops his bag, pulls the keys from his jacket pocket, unlocks the car. There’s a moment of trepidation before he pops the trunk, and his hands almost shake as he pulls it open. Just a normal, everyday car trunk, if you ignore the catch to the secret weapons compartment. No rips, dents or blood to be seen. It’s simultaneously a breath of fresh air and a kick in the pants.
Sam’s bag thumps into the trunk (Jo made a whump noise) then he reaches over for Dean’s bag. Their fingers brush over the handle, and Dean’s torn between grabbing hold or jerking back like Sam’s on fire.
Instead, he just lets Sam take the duffel-nothing wrong here, no sir-and shuffles his way to the driver’s seat. This is going to be a long trip.
*****
Sixteen hours later, Dean’s still at the wheel. Despite Sam’s persistence, Dean has refused to let his brother drive. He insists he’s fine, not tired in the least, just get him another large cup of burnt coffee at the next rest stop and everything will be a-okay.
Sam had passed out about 100 miles ago, and Dean welcomed the relief. From Jersey to Ohio, Sam had used everything in his arsenal to get Dean to talk about what happened, what had him so freaked. When that didn’t work, Sam had switched tactics, talking about everything except the doll and Dean’s distress. And yeah, Sam when he’s not being a moody little bitch is great. Sam when he’s being an insufferable little brother, not so much.
Now, somewhere in the middle of Wisconsin, all is quiet, just Sam’s light snores and some local classic rock station playing low on the radio. And Dean’s got nothing left to do but think. How’s he going to deal with this? There’s no way he’ll be able to show up at Bobby’s and act like everything’s okay. It’s like he has two versions of life playing through his head, and Dean is certain he’ll take one look at their old friend and see nothing but hatred and a desire to rip them both limb from limb. And Sam…how can he face Sam day after day, just knowing…everything?
Dean lets his eyes shift down the seat to where Sam’s resting peacefully. His little brother looks so relaxed, almost angelic, in sleep. Always has, because only in sleep do all of Sam’s worries melt away. He doesn’t look like he’s carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. He looks…
Dean tries to shake the thoughts from his head before they get carried away, but he’s already remembering just how incredible Sam looked, miles of bare skin just aching to be touched and tasted. How those muscles shifted and flexed as Sam writhed over him. The way Sam screwed his eyes closed just when his orgasm hit but then raised them to half-mast as he and Dean calmed down together.
He lets out a low groan. “I am so screwed.”
*****
Fifty miles outside of Bobby’s place, Dean starts getting nervous.
When they’re twenty-five miles away, he gets twitchy.
Ten miles, and he’s downright panicking.
“Dean, calm down. It’s just Bobby. Why are you freaking out about seeing him?”
“I’m not.” Liar. “I just think we should stop and get food or something first. And grab a motel room while we’re at it. And maybe see the sights. We really never have explored South Dakota before, right?” Dean mentally slaps himself in the back of the head because there’s no way that suggesting they sightsee hasn’t sent red flags up in Sam’s head.
“We’re going to Bobby’s. Now.” Fuck. Dean nearly steers the car into a ditch at that point, half-expecting to find himself pinned to a hardwood floor again. He shakes his head clear, determined not to go into that mental place.
“Fine.”
When they pull into the yard, there’s two new dogs prowling on chains and what looks like it was once a lime green pickup resting on cinderblocks just to the side of the driveway. Nothing out of the ordinary. Sam hops out of the car as soon as they come to a stop, but Dean’s glued to his seat, unable to even pull the keys from the ignition.
Outside the car, Sam huffs and stomps over to the driver’s side. He seems to be flitting between frustration and concern as he wrenches the door open, literally yanks Dean out by his arm. Sam reaches back in to grab the keys, slipping them into his pocket, then he latches onto Dean again and marches them up Bobby’s front steps.
Bobby’s opening the door before Sam even knocks, and he looks pissed. Dean flinches back, almost bolts, half expecting some sort of weapon to appear from behind Bobby’s back, but Sam’s grip on his arm holds him in place. Instead, he drops his eyes to the ground, refusing to even look at the older hunter.
Bobby tips his hat back before he speaks. “Boys, I don’t know who told you that old spook story, but you sure as hell took ten years of my life by even joking those things are real.”
Sam’s hold loosens a little, stunned at Bobby’s outburst and looking a little poleaxed. Bobby seems to notice Sam’s reaction, because his glare softens a little. “Sam, you were joking, right?” Sam gives the tiniest of head shakes and all the air rushes out of Bobby’s lungs in a whoosh. “Jesus Christ, which one of you got it?” Barely a whisper now.
Dean’s still looking at the porch floor like a repentant child when he pulls the doll from his pocket, hand slightly shaking when he lifts it up for Bobby to see. Bobby hisses through his teeth, taking an involuntary step backwards before demanding, “Both of you in the house.”
The door’s barely closed before Bobby wraps his fingers around Dean’s wrist, holding the hand with the doll steady. There’s no malice in the gesture though, and Dean finds himself meeting the other man’s eyes and seeing only concern, which eases some of the knots twisting inside. Bobby’s eyes then flicker downward to stare at the doll. “It looks broken. The two arms-“
“Were straight last night.” Sam interrupts. He’s looking terrified now, they all are. “Bobby, what the hell is this thing?”
“They’re not supposed to be real.”
“We fight things that aren’t supposed to be real every day.”
“Well, these dolls are what those things tell ghost stories about. Legends of legends, that type of stuff.”
“How much do you know about them?” Dean is more than happy to let Sam do all the talking at this point. “Are there books we can use?”
Bobby shakes his head slowly. “No, no books. Like I said, they’re not supposed to really exist, so it’s nothing better than hearsay, and piss-poor hearsay at that. I’ve heard old wives’ tales with more facts behind them than these things. Story goes that some high-level demon whispered in some poor son-of-a-bitch’s ear about three wicker dolls that are supposed to drive you mad with barely a touch.”
Sam’s looking straight at Dean now, even though he’s still talking to Bobby. “How so?”
“No one’s really certain. Methods change, depending on who’s telling the story, but the running theory is that one of the dolls makes you experience your greatest wish until reality just isn’t good enough, one finds some pivotal point in your life and twists it to the worst possible conclusion, and one does something like age regression, sends you back to a point in your childhood to relive it all again.”
There’s a few seconds of silence before Dean realizes the conversation has stopped, and he looks up to find both Sam and Bobby staring at him expectedly. “It’s the second one. The, um, pivotal moment or whatever.”
“You’re sure?” Bobby asks incredulously.
Dean takes a deep breath and nods. “It showed me - “ and Sam flinches hard at those words. Trips Dean up for a second and he has to start over. “As far as I can tell, it’s what would have been if Dad hadn’t been able to fight off the Demon for that second in the cabin. When you got loose and shot him. Never happened.”
Sam’s eyes are like saucers, mouth gaping slightly. “But I shot him to keep the Demon from killing you.”
“I know.”
“So…over there, you’re dead?”
“No.”
“But if I didn’t - “
“You made a deal.”
Those last words seem to suck all the sound out of the room, so much so that Dean’s ears are aching for some sort of noise. He finds himself continuing just to break the quiet. “You made a deal. Gave yourself up willingly. The Colt too, for all I know. Dad’s still possessed, you’re all powerful with the psychic crap and pretty damn insane if you ask me, and I…I’m along for the ride.” He cuts himself off there, nearly bites through his tongue to keep from confessing everything else. This is why he doesn’t talk about shit, damn it. Once he starts, might as well settle in for the long haul.
Sam stares at him for a long time, gears in his head obviously going a mile a minute. Dean’s about to make some smart ass remark about smoke coming out of Sam’s ears when his faint whisper rings loud and clear over the deafening silence. “Dad’s alive there?”
Dean chokes back the lump in his throat, determined to keep calm for the sake of his sanity. “Yeah.”
All this time, Bobby has been watching them back and forth like a tennis match, and finally he speaks up. “Dean, how exactly does it work? How’s it affecting you?”
“Basically, I fall asleep here, I wake up there. I fall asleep there, I wake up here.”
“So like a dream?” Bobby sounds hopeful; dreams they can work with. Charms, herbs, a few meditation rites. Kid’s stuff.
“God, I wish.” He shrugs off his jacket and pulls aside the collar of his shirt, revealing the slash mark in his shoulder. “Got this from a knife fight with Gordon Walker. He was hun-he was there.” The near slip gets Dean’s heart running a marathon in his chest. It’s one thing to mention his brother’s joined the Dark Side without a flashlight; it’s something entirely different to all-out say they’re being hunted because of their psychotic killing spree. Family fun at its finest.
Too late, he realizes that Sam’s leaning in to examine the wound. There’s a puff of hot breath against Dean’s exposed skin, and he bites back the moan it conjures. Now is so not the time to be dealing with that little issue in all this. Faster than can be considered casual, Dean adjusts his shirt back to normal, but Sam’s not moving. In fact, he’s staring at the same spot like Dean still has the cut out on display.
“Bobby, what happens if Dean gets really hurt there? Or dies?” Sam Winchester, always the optimist. “Would he still wake up here?”
“I really don’t know.”
*****
Despite Bobby’s disappointing assurance that there are no books on the subject, Sam is determined to find something. Any kind of reference to the dolls or their victims, something about a way to defeat the effects, just anything helpful. Sam sets up shop at Bobby’s kitchen table, laptop at a bizarre angle that miraculously allows him to piggyback off some neighbor’s wireless internet. Bobby starts calling old pals who may know more about the legend than he does, hunters who have more experience with lore than weaponry or have been in the field so long they’ve earned the luxury of retirement.
And Dean’s chugging coffee like there’s no tomorrow. Sam had made him promise not to sleep until they find something, and right now caffeine is a divine gift. Two pots down, and a third is brewing happily on the counter.
He’s trying to focus on the tome in front of him, the only book Bobby said might have a reference of a time someone speculated about the dolls, but everything’s turning into a blur. Doesn’t help that the whole book is in Latin. Dean rubs a hand over his face, knuckles at his eyes, stifles a yawn. Three more gulps of coffee, and he’s still on the same sentence. “Fuck this.”
Sam quirks an eyebrow when Dean pushes himself away from the table. “No offense, Sammy, but translating dead languages isn’t exactly riveting to me. It’s actually more likely to put me to sleep than anything. I’ve gotta…gotta actually do something.” For the fifth time in the last two hours, he opens the refrigerator. Yep, still empty. “How about I go grab dinner? Burgers from that place in town?”
“Actually, food sounds like a good plan.” Sam’s attention drifts back to the computer screen as he digs into his pockets. Pulls the keys out, lifts them high and jingles them on their keyring, and Dean’s hit with such a strong case of déjà vu that his knees almost buckle.
When Dean doesn’t grab the keys immediately, Sam glances back, and Dean can only imagine what his own face looks like in order to make Sam’s drop that quickly. “Dean, you okay?”
Dean tries to smile, his usual smokescreen, but it comes out more a grimace than anything. “Yeah, I just forgot you had the keys is all. Couldn’t find them in my pocket, thought I’d lost them.” Yeah, real smooth. With more force than necessary, he grabs the keys out of Sam’s slackened fingers and heads out the door without another moment’s hesitation.
*****
Zephram’s Burgers and Bait is the closest thing to a fast food restaurant that Bobby’s neck of the woods has. Family owned and operated for half a century, and proud of it. And for a place that sells nightcrawlers along with their French fries, the burgers are actually pretty damn good; ever since they put in a drive-thru ten years ago, there’s always been a line of cars circling the building.
Tonight’s wait is considerably longer than usual though.
“Sorry, sir. Garrett forgot to drop a fresh load of fries in the oil, so they’re not ready yet.” Dean has no clue who this Garrett kid is or why the girl at the window is talking about him like Dean should, but if she's blaming him for food tardiness, then so will he. Stupid, lazy bastard, that Garrett. “If you just park over there, someone will come out with your order.”
Dean pulls into a space not too far from the drive-thru window, puts the car into Park. Laces his fingers together and bends backwards over the front seat until he’s rewarded with a small pop in his upper back. He thinks over his plan of action one more time: get the food, head back to Bobby’s, wait for Sam to accomplish an amazing feat of Geekboy proportions. It’s a good plan, a solid plan. Sam’s research powers haven’t let him down yet.
Just have to wait for that damned food. And ignore the fact that when he slouches down just right, the seat back is actually a very comfortable pillow. And that the rumbling of the engine is more soothing than a lullaby.
He only realizes he’s shut his eyes when the light behind his eyelids shifts from the warm glow of sunset to something much brighter and artificial; his equilibrium tilts wildly, no longer upright against the seat but lying flat against an unyielding surface. Suddenly, he’s aware of a living furnace plastered to his side, pressure across his chest-an arm hugging him close, his subconscious informs him with a little chirrup of something heated-and cool air over naked skin that feels tight and dirty. His stomach clenches, ice water flowing through his veins, and he screws his eyes shut tighter in frustration. You fell asleep in the car. Wake up, you idiot. Wake. Up.
The floorboards creak just beyond his feet, and Dean doesn’t need a hunter’s instincts to tell him something’s wrong. He lifts his head, lets his eyes crack open, and his dazed, sleep-addled brain only registers one thing: light glinting off a knife’s edge.
Reflexes kick in. Dean rolls sharply over his brother’s sleeping form, grabs Sam’s skinning knife lying just to the side, and lets it fly. The balance is off, as skinning knives aren’t meant to be thrown, but somehow the blade hits home with an answering groan.
Somewhere beside them, Jo’s screaming something unintelligible. How’s she’s still alive, Dean doesn’t understand, but then the haze fades around him and her cries become crystal clear. “Bobby! No!”
It’s all in slow motion. Dean’s eyes focus immediately, just in time to watch Bobby clutch helplessly at the knife hilt jutting from his abdomen. Dean has the chance to take in the frayed ropes at the man’s wrists, his restraints sawed through while they were asleep, then Bobby’s lunging at him again with his own knife raised high. And Dean just sits there, waiting for it.
The knife point is a hairsbreadth away from Dean’s face when the air shifts. Bobby and his knife are gone, flung hard and fast into the opposite wall, a sickening crackcrunch echoing in the room when they hit. He crashes to the floor, an epic sprawl of limbs, then it’s over, with only Jo’s crying punctuating the quiet.
There’s movement right beside Dean, and he turns as Sam props himself up on his elbows. Sam’s eyes are dark and glittering, and he gives Dean an assessing look.
“What do you think? Waffles for breakfast?”
To Third Limb