Chapter Text
The docks are cold, even though the building keeps him sheltered from most of the water's breeze. He watches and waits, waiting for his target, and
There. Not even looking around, still worried. Not focused. The perfect shot.
He follows behind silently, watching and waiting for the right moment, watching to see when the back'll turn. Too much trust, too much heart from this one, even when he knows better.
Only makes the kill sweeter.
He turns around at the cocking of the gun, eyes wide in horror and shock, but still doesn't move when it's raised, trigger pulled, hammer thrown, and
Bang
He watches Dean fall into the ocean, swallowed up by the water quickly turning red with blood. The current pulls him under, Dean's face frozen forever in fear, and Sam smirks.
Sam bolted up in bed, panting heavily. He closed his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose to try and steady his breathing. Nausea crept up, but he swallowed it back, focused on breathing. In, out. In, out.
When he could breathe without passing out or throwing up, he hesitantly turned towards the bed nearest the door.
Dean slept on, lips parted slightly, softly snoring. Whole, in one piece. Alive. One bullet-wound, but he wasn't dead.
Sam turned back to look at his hands in his lap. He stared at the blood underneath his fingernails and shuddered. Three days, and it was still there, his hands forever stained with blood. A hunter's blood. Jo's blood.
Dean's blood.
The light from the streetlight outside came through the center of the curtains, and with it, Sam could see his hands soaked and dripping with blood. He quickly moved his gaze upward, and found himself staring into the mirror above the dresser.
Staring into black eyes.
He shut his eyes tight and buried his face in his hands, all too late forgetting the blood. He couldn't feel it on his face, though, so he left them there to cradle his head. Three days, and the nightmares wouldn't stop. Every night, Dean died by his hands.
Every night since he'd been released from Meg.
They were on another hunt, trailing a spirit, something easy and routine. Something that didn't involve a lot of shooting; just salting and burning. Sam wasn't sure if Dean was doing it because he didn't trust Sam around guns, or because he knew Sam wouldn't trust himself around guns.
Probably the latter. The past few days, Dean had been nothing but gentle with him, cautious and careful, being obnoxious enough for Sam to not start saying Christo (and wasn't that an irony), but steady enough to be calm. Caring. Even though he'd been the one shot.
Sam flinched at the reminder and opened his eyes to stare at the bedspread covering his legs. If he kept them closed, he'd only see Dean being shot again. Or Sam digging his thumb into Dean's wound, seeing tears in his brother's eyes, seeing pain and fear but no fighting back.
Why wouldn't Dean fight back? Sam had more than earned that punch Dean had laid into him. Sam deserved more than a single frickin' punch, but Dean refused to deliver. Refused to do anything except treat him like he was porcelain, wouldn't even let Sam bring the issue up. Dean never treated him like glass, had never done it before, and Sam wasn't sure whether to be grateful or annoyed.
Like there was any choice when Dean was alive to be either one.
A memory teased at the back of his mind, another time Dean had treated him the same way. When he tried to reach the thought, though, it slid through his fingers. The only memory in his mind right now was of Dean falling over the side of the dock, eyes wide in pain and fear.
Sam slid the covers away in a sudden move and swung out of bed. There was no way he was going back to sleep. It was going to take everything he had to not remember what had happened when he was awake.
Besides, it was only three in the morning. It wasn't that far off until daylight.
The diner's bathroom sink was pristine white, albeit cracked in a few places with age. Still, it was clean and shining, and the blood was only making it dirty. Wrong.
Sam gritted his teeth and continued to scrub at his hands.
They'd gone out for breakfast, Dean taking one look at Sam in the morning and apparently deciding he wasn't going to leave Sam alone. Not even to go grab breakfast. Any other day, and Sam would've seen it as smothering, would've been aggravated that he was being treated like a child.
Now, though, the fact that Dean wanted to be around him, didn't seem to be scared of him, was a fact that Sam was going to cling to.
The blood continued to swirl around in the sink, and Sam imagined for a brief moment that it would stain. He turned the water to the farthest side of 'Hot' at that, desperate to get rid of the blood. Desperate to get rid of the reminder of what he'd done.
It was under his nails, too. He should've grabbed a toothpick from the diner to dig it all out with. Next time he had a chance, he would. He used his other fingernails instead, scrubbing and cleaning out the blood as best he could. The boiling water only made the blood look worse, darker, and Sam rubbed furiously, tears pricking the back of his eyes. God but it wasn't ever going to come off.
“Sam?”
Sam jerked sharply at the sudden voice, then the following pound on the door. “You in there?” Dean called again.
Sam swallowed hard and tried to find his voice. “Y-Yeah, I'll be, uh, I'll be right out.” He turned back to his hands, biting his lip to keep in the sob at how much blood there still was. He couldn't let Dean see this.
“You okay?”
Sam nodded vigorously, forgetting that Dean couldn't see him. “Sam?” Dean called again a moment later, and the doorknob rattled and clicked, the door sliding in.
In a flash Sam was against the door, holding it shut. “Just...just give me a minute, okay? I swear I'm okay.”
“Then hurry it up,” Dean said, but he sounded worried despite the annoyed words. “I want to hit the road, get to the house before dinner.”
Sam glanced around the bathroom, looking for a solution to his hands. How was he going to be able to hide them from Dean? It was a wonder Dean hadn't seen the blood yet over the past few days, but how could he not? It was all right there, bright and obvious, covering Sam's hands from his wrists to his fingertips. He shuddered, tightening his hands into fists, then flinching at the sudden sting of pain.
Good; he deserved it. But Dean didn't need to see, shouldn't have to see it.
Finally deciding there was nothing in the bathroom to make his hands magically clean, or to help him hide them from Dean, he shrugged his jacket loose until the sleeves were past his hands. He tucked them inside, his fingertips wrapping around the fabric at the edge to keep the sleeves from slipping. It wasn't perfect, but it would have to do.
Satisfied, he pulled the door open and found Dean waiting on the other side. His brother's foot was tapping anxiously against the tiled flooring, and his eyes immediately darted to Sam's face, his worry obvious. Sam felt as if he were passing a test of sorts and shifted uncomfortably in the doorway. He felt the urge to hide his hands behind his back, but resisted. Nothing suspicious, business as usual.
Dean finally nodded slowly, still not looking happy or unworried. “Let's go,” he said, and led the way out of the diner. Sam kept a firm grip on his sleeves and followed after him. No backwards glances, no hesitation in walking, no tense line to his shoulders. Sam knew that Dean was still watching him, though.
It was proven as much when they got to the car and both took their seats. Dean glanced over at him, no attempts to hide the search, and frowned at Sam's covered hands in his lap. “You sure you're okay?” he finally asked after a long moment.
Sam nodded tightly. Dean stared at him long and hard, then turned back to the wheel at last. The sigh of relief from Sam was silent, but still. Last thing he needed was for Dean to start looking more closely and see the blood. He'd have to find a better way besides drawing his sleeves down.
They pulled off onto the road, Sam lost in his thoughts.
The house was quiet, save for a small rush of air that blew through a broken window and the roof. It'd been abandoned for over a decade, and the subsequent ruin was already massive. The wood floor looked solid, at least.
Even still, traversing across it went slow. A few holes here and there had Dean frowning and sidestepping them. “I'm not sure I wanna try the stairs,” he muttered. “If this floor's bad, and parts of the roof are missing, then the second story's bound to be even worse, right?”
Sam nodded absently, his eyes on the EMF in his hands. It was halfway across the graph, a small whine breaking the silence of the room. He raised it towards the stairs in question and saw it climb briefly to the top, then fall back to halfway when he pulled it back towards himself. It refused to stay at the bottom of the graph, though, like it had before Dean had handed it off to Sam at the door. He swallowed hard and tried to focus on the job.
“Entire house has to be full of something,” Dean said quietly, and Sam raised his eyes to meet his brother's. Dean's look was full of understanding, and Sam felt himself flush at being so transparent. A long minute passed before Dean reached a hand out to Sam's. “I've got it, Sam.”
Before Sam could reply, Dean was stepping over, his hand catching Sam's to carefully take the EMF. Sam flinched away, and the EMF tumbled as Dean jerked in his own surprise. The EMF fell to the floor between them, a small whine the only sound in the sudden silence, while Dean stared in shock. Sam swallowed miserably and kept his hands tucked back and hidden.
He'd almost gotten the blood on Dean's hands. He hadn't meant to increase Dean's worry, which was exactly what he'd done, but he couldn't let Dean see the blood, and he sure as hell wasn't letting it touch his brother. It was bad enough it was on his own hands.
Dean finally found his voice. “What the hell was-”
The EMF suddenly gave a high pitched wail, causing both of them to freeze. The wail continued, nonstop, and Dean carefully picked it off the floor. The wail slid down to its normal whine, and with a glance at Sam, he lowered the EMF back to the floor. The wail returned, and Dean snatched it up while reaching for the bag slung over his shoulder. “Guess we're not going upstairs after all,” he said, pulling out the shotgun. He handed it to Sam while he dug through the bag for his handgun, and Sam stepped away.
Dean paused in his search and turned to Sam, annoyance crossing his face for the first time in days. “Are you gonna be able to do this?” he asked. “You can't shy away from guns forever Sam, and I get it, I do. You're still freaked out about being possessed, but-”
“I shot you,” Sam said as firmly as he could. “What part of that don't you understand?”
“It wasn't you,” Dean insisted, and Sam snorted. How come there was still blood on his hands? Why was Dean still treating him as if he hadn't shot him?
The memory from earlier in the morning tried to surface again, but it was cloudy at best, and Dean was speaking again. “Look, I need you to have my back for this. This spirit's taken out twenty people already, and all the local authorities can do is lock the place down. We've got three suspects, but we need it narrowed down to one, which means we've gotta see it and possibly find out if it's tied to anything, because two out of the three suspects were cremated. It's a nasty sonuvabitch, and I need you with me,” he said, his voice softer now. He pulled out the handgun and offered it next to the shotgun. “Which one?”
Without hesitation Sam took the shotgun, refusing to even look at the handgun. Dean sighed but set the bag on the floor, along with the EMF detector. “Let's see if we can't find the basement,” he said quietly.
They made their way across the floor carefully, checking each room before moving on to the next. In the kitchen, they found a door, weathered but solidly closed. They took their places beside the door, guns at the ready. Sam's heart was racing in his chest for more reasons than the spirit, and the look on Dean's face told him his brother knew it. “You ready?” Dean whispered, and Sam gave a stuttering nod. No, he wasn't ready. He had a gun with ammunition in it, and his brother wasn't the least bit concerned. The sleeves had fallen back to their regular positions, leaving his hands wide open, which meant Dean had to be able to see the blood, didn't he?
Dean's fingers tightened around the knob, but before he could open it, the door flew open. Sam flew backwards, hands tight on the shotgun, eyes pinned to the figure that was now in front of him. It was an older man with eyes that bled, and the howl he gave made the hairs on the back of Sam's neck stand up. “Sam!” Dean shouted, and Sam's fingers shook as he lined up the shot. One shot, and it'd be enough to buy them time to get out.
The spirit turned fully to face him, and the blood slid down his face to the neck, the shoulder, Dean's shoulder bright red as he plummeted down to the cold waters below-
Then Sam was flying backwards, hitting the wall and knocking the wind out of him briefly. Dean was cursing, shots were fired, and Sam managed to get his breath back just as the spirit dove for him. He grabbed the shotgun and took off, hurrying back through the rooms.
Focus, dammit, he berated himself. This wasn't Dean; this was a spirit that was going to kill his brother if Sam couldn't get the shot off. Next time, Sam wouldn't miss. He'd seen the pictures of the victims, shredded apart and blood everywhere. He refused to have his brother's blood on his hands again.
Sounds from up ahead caught his attention, and he slid into the next room. The air was stirring up in the room, and Sam fumbled with the shotgun, trying to get his shaking fingers to check that it was loaded. Two rock salt rounds: perfect. He snapped it shut and hurried to pump it as sounds from the other room approached, and he flew out into the open to take aim as a figure rounded the corner.
Dean.
The shotgun fell instantly from suddenly numb fingers, the surprise on Dean's face sliding into fear, terror, and god, he'd dropped the gun, wasn't going to shoot-
Then Dean was tugging him forward and reaching for the shotgun as the howl came up from behind Sam. The spirit. One shot, and the howl increased before tapering off.
“We're out of here, now,” Dean managed, panting. Sam couldn't even nod, and moved at last when Dean caught hold of his jacket and pulled him out of the house. They stopped quick for the bag and the EMF, and then they were out in the car, the only sound their harsh breathing.
Sam shut his eyes and clenched his hands tightly in his lap. He'd almost shot Dean again. He'd been so certain about getting the shot off, and if he hadn't hesitated longer than a second, Dean would have a chest full of rock salt. Again. Just like the first time Sam had shot him.
“As soon as we find a motel, we're talking,” Dean said. His voice was low, but the emotion was indiscernible. Sam swallowed past the fear rising in his chest and looked out the window, away from the bloody hands. Anything but the blood he could practically feel.
His eyes caught the side mirror outside the car, and his eyes, pitch black, stared back at him. Sam shut his eyes and turned to lean against the door, biting his lip. Dean was staring at him, he could feel it, and the sudden thought that Dean had seen his eyes made his heart freeze in his chest. No. No no no.
He'd already tried sipping holy water the other day, but nothing. Of course, they knew now that holy water didn't work on every demon, and what if there was something there that couldn't be touched by it? What if he couldn't be touched by it?
He had to know. Had to know if he was still putting Dean in danger, if the possession had unlocked something deep inside of him, had to know if maybe he was still possessed. But how? The EMF, maybe; it'd been halfway in the house. It was in the bag between them on the seat. He waited until the car started up and began to move, then reached into the bag, his hand feeling through the weapons to find the EMF.
He finally opened his eyes and reached over to open the bag. There, in the center between the shotgun and the handgun, was the EMF, still whining at the halfway point. Sam stared before closing the bag with shaking hands.
“It's still juiced up from the house,” Dean said, his voice cutting through Sam's fear. One hand stayed on the wheel while the other reached into the bag and pulled out the EMF. It still whined, even as Dean waved it around. “See?” He kept Sam's gaze, then placed the EMF back in its bag. “It's the house, Sam, not whatever you're thinking it is.”
Right. Like Dean didn't know what he was thinking about. The only problem was, Dean wasn't believing him. Dean was trying to soothe Sam's fears, trying to make it all better, completely ignoring the possibility that Sam had been left wrong by the possession.
And god, Sam wanted to believe him. Wanted to believe he wasn't still possessed, that he was okay, but the blood on his hands, the black eyes every time he saw his reflection...
But Dean could be right about the EMF. Sam turned towards the window and bit his lip hard, tears burning in his eyes. His mind was a mess, jumbled thoughts turning each way, and Sam had to know. Had to know, one way or another.