Work Text:
The bar was just as noisy and filthy as Sam had anticipated it being. Dean sure knew how to pick them. Not that Dean seemed to care: he was too busy downing another beer.
“We’re supposed to be working,” Sam pointed out. Dean, predictably, snorted and dismissed him.
“No, you decided to make this a work night. I’m here enjoying a drink which would be far easier if you’d let me, y’know, drink it.”
Sam pursed his lips and turned his gaze back to the bar. For a Wednesday night, the place was hopping, filled with a steady mix of locals and not-so-locals.
It was also one of the same places that their three victims had visited in the days leading up to their bizarre afflictions.
Sam thought about the files back at their room. Three seemingly unrelated people had suddenly wound up with the weirdest of afflictions: blindness that struck out of nowhere, feet burned away without a fire, and a limb twisted so badly it was nearly severed. It was the last one that’d caught their eye, and Dean had agreed to check it out. It was their level of weird, and there were a number of things that could be at play. Sam was betting on a curse or magic of some sort.
Getting Dean to check out hunts these days was hit or miss. Either Dean was far too invested in getting in some violence, or he wanted nothing to do with it. And Sam understood that it was only a month or so out from their dad’s death, but he just…
He just wanted his big brother back. Watching Dean constantly ignore everything was exhausting.
Like now, when Dean flagged the bartender down for yet another bottle. “How many have you had?” Sam asked.
“Lay off,” Dean growled.
Fine, he’d go another route. “Does this seem like the sort of place that Annie Dawkins would frequent?”
That got some form of response, at least. Dean spun around on the stool, all cool and calm, but Sam knew his brother was scanning the bar. “Not really,” he agreed. “Maybe it was the sight of all the women with their choice of apparel that made her go blind.”
Sam’s lips turned up. Annie had seemed far more of a church mouse than someone who’d hang out in a dive bar where the usual dress code was low and flirty. “Yeah, that’s what I was thinking. The other two places that Gerald and Jimmy went to didn’t remember her at all, though.”
“Are you gonna drink your beer or what?” Dean interrupted, glancing at him with a raised eyebrow.
“I thought we were going to work the case,” Sam said, aiming for patient. Calm, steady, everything that Dean wasn’t these days. If Sam wanted them to get back to any semblance of normal, of business as usual, he had to stay patient.
“I thought you weren’t going to be such a stick in the mud,” Dean retorted. “Guess we don’t all get what we want.”
Something tugged at the back of Sam’s head, just a light touch, and he jerked around. There were plenty of people around but nobody stood out to him. He rubbed at the base of his neck absently.
“What?” Dean asked, sounding far more alert than before. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing, just…a weird feeling,” he admitted.
Dean settled back down and turned to his whiskey. “Yeah, well, when you get something that’s tangible, sparky, you let me know.”
“Well, I’m tangible.”
Sam barely managed to not roll his eyes. A woman with long dark hair and a button-up top stood beside Dean, eyes clearly all for his brother. She bent a little to catch Dean’s eye, but Sam almost told her the effort wasn’t necessary: she had his attention. Far more than Sam had had. “I’m Melissa,” she said.
Dean gave her a slow smile, one that came out with his voice. “Dean. I like tangible,” he agreed. “I’m a tangible kind of guy.”
“Except when it comes to what we’re actually here for,” Sam muttered.
He should’ve expected Dean to hear him and turn on him, but he startled when Dean did so with more than a little irritation. “Back off,” Dean told him. “I mean it. Let it go, Sam.”
He turned back to Melissa and plastered on the fake smile Sam hated so much. “Sorry about my little brother—he’s a wet blanket.”
“I can see that,” she said, never taking her eyes off of Dean.
Sam didn’t know why he suddenly found himself so pissed off. Maybe it was the constant dismissal he got from Dean ever since they’d built Dad’s funeral pyre. Maybe it was the way that Dean was only invested in a hunt if it got to be bloody. Or maybe it was the fake smile that Dean kept giving Melissa, not even really interested, just going through the motions to avoid looking at Sam or thinking about anything.
He shoved away from the bar and headed for the door. If Dean wanted to play at normal, fine. Sam had a case to work.
He got outside and a handful of steps away from the door when a hand caught around his elbow. “Where the hell are you going?” Dean asked. Melissa hung behind at the door, looking confused.
So Dean could pay attention when he wanted to. “I’ve got work to do,” Sam told him. “You know, the work we’re supposed to be doing, together.” The work they did really well together when Dean was Dean.
Dean rolled his eyes. “All work and no play makes for a dull Sammy.” He gave Sam a grin, but it was the same fake grin he’d been giving everyone else. For him to give it to Sam hurt.
“Just go scratch your itch already,” Sam snapped, suddenly done.
Dean immediately dropped the grin and glared at Sam. “Excuse me?”
It was out before he could stop it. “I wouldn’t want you to avoid thinking about things when you could easily scratch one out.”
He managed to avoid the punch only because he’d known it would come. Dean’s eyes were filled with anger, almost swimming with rage, and a little bit of what Sam was certain was probably hurt.
Guilt came in a minute later because this was what he’d wanted, right? For Dean to get back to business as usual? Sure, it was business as usual without him, but at least it was something that resembled normal. And here Sam was chewing on him for it.
He began to open his mouth, the apology and regret on his tongue, but Dean instead gave him a hard shove backwards. He stumbled over his feet and stared, surprised. “You know what? I think I will,” Dean snapped, and he turned away. Melissa stared at the two of them but went with Dean. The door shut just as Dean gave her a bright and fake smile. Still playing at being super cheerful.
There was nothing else he could do now. Sam slowly aimed his feet towards the motel and started walking.
Dean wouldn’t take an apology at the moment. Dean shouldn’t have had to accept one because Sam shouldn’t have opened his stupid mouth and said anything. This was what he’d wanted, dammit, Dean doing Dean things after Dad had died. He’d hoped that the open road after the Impala had been fixed would do something.
The only thing it had done had been to drive Dean into a hunting frenzy, a drinking stupor, and an outright punching mood anytime that Sam tried to be gentle and help him open up. Sam had tried patience, tried getting him to talk, tried every single trick in the book that Dean had used on him last year after Jess. Something, anything, to help Dean come to terms with the loss and even lean on Sam a little. It was the least that Sam could do.
But nothing worked. Nothing seemed to let Dean know that he could depend on Sam, that Sam would stay, that Sam could be the person that Dean needed.
He made it back to the motel and got inside. The empty room felt even worse than it had when they’d first arrived, dingier and grimier somehow. Just as hollow as Sam felt.
He shouldn’t have pushed. He should’ve just let Dean go and left it alone. He just missed his big brother, the guy who Sam had always leaned on, the one he could always count on. To not have that larger than life guy anymore left Sam reeling in more ways than one.
Maybe a shower was a good idea. He could mull over a few ideas on how to talk to Dean, how to phrase an apology that might actually be accepted. Dean did better with things that weren’t outright: “bitch” and “jerk” stood in well for I love you.
He missed that, too.
Mind made up, he headed for a clean set of sleepwear and the promise of a soothing shower.
__
“He had no right to talk to you like that.”
Dean just grinned and downed another swig of beer. “He’s just uptight. He’ll straighten out.”
Melissa pursed her lips. “I don’t care. It’s not right. I mean, I saw him giving you a hard time before I even came over to say hello. You should’ve punched him, he would’ve deserved it.”
Yeah, that had felt wrong the instant he’d almost connected with Sam’s face. Again. The shove had been less bloody but no less charged, and seeing Sam fall back had sated the anger at the time. Sam’s wide eyes, full of shock and hurt, had given him grim satisfaction.
It sat in his gut with the beer now, churning around and around, and he took another pull to see if it would settle.
“He’s just…going through some rough stuff,” Dean told her. It was the same stuff that Dean was going through, so he knew what it felt like. The suffocation that sat around the corner, waiting to sneak up on you and choke you, the grief that waited to tear you to bloody shreds.
Dean wasn’t interested in diving head-first into that, no matter how hard Sam tried to get him there. If Sam wanted to suffocate and rip himself apart every day, that was his choice.
But that didn’t mean he wanted Sam to live that way, either.
His guilt finally got the better of him, and he tugged his phone out of his pocket and checked it. No missed calls, no texts. No Sam reaching out to apologize the way his little brother had clearly been aiming for right before Dean had come back inside.
“So…?”
Dean forced the irritation down and turned to Melissa with another too-wide grin. “Yes?”
“Your place or mine?”
She was a nice distraction, he had to give her that. Her dark curly hair, her bright red lips, she was everything he could ask for on a night like this. She had a coy grin on her face that begged his attention and he found himself drifting closer.
Sam’s uneasy gaze came to mind, him sticking like glue to his side ever since that vampire case, and Dean reluctantly pulled away.
“What’s the matter?” Melissa asked, frowning.
Dean glanced at his phone and bit his lip. A text would do. He kept it short and simple, but direct enough to let Sam know that he was…
Trying? Still there?
U get back ok? he sent. That was simple enough.
Melissa peered over his shoulder, and Dean put his phone back in his pocket. “I assume you don’t want either place with that,” she said, and she sounded annoyed. “I mean, if you need to go check on him…”
Watch out for Sammy, came Dad’s voice, followed swiftly by the last thing he’d ever said to Dean, and Dean was suddenly so angry again he could barely breathe. He downed the rest of the beer bottle and set it down on the bar top, then turned to Melissa with a grin.
Sam could take care of himself. Dean needed a night without little brothers who tried to make him face his feelings or dads who gave horrific last orders. And he was going to get it here with Melissa.
“I’m thinking shots,” Dean told her, and her eyes widened, a broad smile growing on her face. “What do you think about shots?”
“I say lead on,” she said, and Dean turned to flag the bartender.
__
They wound up going back to her place after more than a few drinks. She wasn’t far from the bar, as it turned out, and she was fun. A moment of sanity in the crapfest that was his life at the moment.
She went to the kitchen and brought back more alcohol after a bit, though it was clear what she was more interested in. Dean didn’t so much as think twice because hey, he was only human, and she was getting hotter by the minute. They were in the middle of getting a bit less formal, him working to ditch his belt, when his hand brushed something in his pocket. His cell phone.
Frowning he reached in and pulled it out. The screen stayed blank, and he opened it to be sure. No missed calls, no missed texts. No response from Sam. “What’s wrong?” she asked when it became clear he wasn’t going any further at the moment.
“Nothing,” he said absently, but there was something wrong. It’d been hours since he’d left Sam standing outside the bar and he should’ve been blowing up Dean’s phone. All Sam had done lately was worry about where Dean was, when he was going to get back. Dean usually stayed in touch and that seemed to satisfy his little brother.
For Sam to not reply to Dean’s simple text…something was wrong.
He hit speed dial number 1 and lifted the phone to his ear. He was overreacting like he told Sam he was doing all the time, worrying about nothing. Knowing Sam, the kid had his computer up and was sulking about Dean almost hitting him again. Guilt began to grow inside him again at the memory but he pushed it aside.
Six rings, then the voicemail. “Hi, you’ve reached Sam Winchester. Please leave a message—"
“So…are we, or aren’t we?”
He glanced back at Melissa where she stood. Her shirt was completely unbuttoned and she grinned, clearly waiting.
He couldn’t ignore the alarm bells ringing in his head, though. Sam should’ve answered. Sam should’ve texted back. They were in town on a hunt that was hurting people in random ways and he’d let Sam go back by himself.
“Sorry,” he told her, and redid his belt. Melissa’s grin dropped in surprise. “I’ve gotta go.”
“What, do you have a wife?”
That was worthy of a snort. Sam would love that comparison. “Uh, no, little brother.”
Surprise melted into irritation. “So what? He’ll be fine. You don’t need to go to him. We were having fun, right?”
Fun was only fun when he knew Sam was safe. And at the moment, that wasn’t something he knew with surety. He should’ve texted Sam again back at the bar. He should’ve checked in at any point in the past few hours. He should’ve known something was off.
When the hell had his big brother radar gotten so shoddy?
“Sorry,” he said, not sorry in the slightest, and he left.
The Impala made short work of the distance between the house and the motel. There was a faint light inside their room, but they’d left a light on before heading to the bar, too. Maybe Sam hadn’t even made it back. Or maybe he was inside, stewing.
Cursing under his breath, he slid out from the driver’s seat and headed for the door. “I swear to god if you’re in there,” he muttered angrily, jamming the key into the lock. It turned and he stepped inside, more than ready to give Sam hell.
Then he stopped, frozen, eyes trying to make sense of what he was seeing.
Sam sat on his bed, dressed in his sleep shirt and shorts. His hair looked frazzled, like it had gotten wet without being dried properly. His hands, coated with blood, clawed at his legs, digging deep gouges into his shins and sending even more blood flowing down to his bare feet.
Dean stared, gaping in horror. Even as he watched, Sam kept digging, making little pained noises but staying dedicated to his task.
He pulled himself from his horror and flew inside, letting the door slam shut behind him. “What the hell happened?” Dean asked, racing to Sam’s side. “Sam, stop, stop, Sammy—”
“It itches,” Sam whimpered, eyes flooding with tears. “Oh god, it itches, and I can’t, I can’t stop it, it won’t stop.”
The blood flowing down Sam’s legs was testament to that. He grabbed Sam’s wrists and dragged them away from the bleeding legs. It took far more effort than he’d expected with Sam fighting him the whole way. “Sam, stop,” he ordered again. “You’re just ripping your leg to shreds, c’mon, easy, I got you. Just stop a minute, all right?”
“Can’t,” Sam gasped. His fingers writhed and trembled, and Dean stared in horror at the black, congealed blood underneath the fingernails. “Can’t, can’t, Dean, gotta, please, just please—”
Fine. He’d have to do this the hard way. Dean glanced around quickly for what he’d need and let go of Sam’s wrists. Even as Sam dove for his legs again, Dean wrapped him in a tight embrace and shoved his own feet hard against the floor, sending them both toppling over the side of the bed.
He couldn’t quite cushion the fall but it wasn’t super hard. Just hard enough to jar Sam a little, stun him enough for Dean to grab the cuffs out of the nearby bag and wrap one around a single wrist. The leg of the bed was the closest thing he had, and he threw the cuffs around it before catching Sam’s remaining wrist. Only when he was done did he finally let himself assess the damage.
The sight made him want to throw up. Bloody grooves ran up and down Sam’s shins, his knees, and the side of his thighs. The shorts didn’t seem to be hiding any blood there, thank god, but his legs were like ground meat. There wasn’t any pattern to them, just deep grooves of desperation.
Sam let out a wail and fought to get his hands free. “Take it easy,” Dean cautioned, wincing as Sam’s wrists dug into the handcuffs. “Hey! Sammy!”
“Please,” Sam begged. “Dean please.” He tugged at the restraints again before he sobbed and buried his head into the carpet. “Please, please, oh god please.”
Dean ran a hand over his mouth and wasn’t surprised to find it shaking. For a second, he felt completely overwhelmed, because what the hell was he supposed to do? There was blood everywhere with the smell turning his stomach, Sam was handcuffed to the bed because he wouldn’t stop, and the sound of Sam’s cries were making his chest tight.
No. He couldn’t be this person. He needed to be Dean Winchester. More than that, he needed to be Sam Winchester’s big brother. And that was something he could always be.
Injuries first. He darted for the first aid kit and popped it open, grabbed the gauze and tape, then desperately searched for the antibiotic cream. There, right next to the bug bite stuff.
Wait. Where was the anti-itch tube? “Sam, where’s the anti-itch stuff? Did you try that?” he asked.
The only response was another choked sob. A rustling sound made Dean turn, only to see Sam’s foot curling up and digging into his calf. “Hey, hey, no,” Dean protested, hurrying over to push Sam’s foot away. Sam keened and curled over towards the floor. His legs began to slide frantically against the floor, desperate for friction to ease the itch.
This wasn’t going to get any better. There was really only one way to keep Sam from scratching himself raw without hurting him further. Dean winced but hurried back to the first aid kit, pulling out one of the small glass jars and a syringe. Desperate times called for desperate measures, and this one was about as desperate as Dean had felt in a long time.
Sam rolled and kept trying to get free, trying to scratch his legs, and Dean could hear his muffled sobs and pleas. His chest ached at the sound. “Sorry, Sammy,” he murmured once he had the syringe at hand. He sat down on Sam’s back, pinned his brother as best as he could, then pressed the syringe in at the side of his neck. Sam didn’t even seem to notice the pinch, just kept trying to scratch at his legs and pull his hands free.
It didn’t take long for the sedative to take effect. Slowly Sam’s body went limp beneath him and the hitched breaths evened out. Dean stayed until he was certain Sam was out, then carefully rolled off of him.
The room was a mess. Blood stained the carpet from where Sam had rubbed his calves against it, and the bedsheets were a lost cause. The amount of blood left Dean more than a little alarmed, as did Sam’s pale face beneath the tears staining his cheeks. More than past time to dress the wounds that Sam had gouged into his legs.
They were a mess, too. Dean turned Sam over and cringed at the damage. Sam had left grooves in the front of his shins. Some were deep enough that Dean was pretty sure he’d have to stitch them up. He moved to kneel beside Sam and something dug into his knee. Frowning, he pulled out the item and found the anti-itch cream, cap missing, completely empty. Well, that answered one question.
“God, Sammy, what the hell?” he whispered. Because that was the bigger question: what in the hell had caused this? What had Sam gotten into that had caused this level of itching?
Bug bites were a possibility, but there didn’t seem to be any on Sam. Sam’s hair was dried funny, indicating a shower, but a quick glance up into the bathroom showed the typical soap. That wasn’t it, then. Maybe the detergent from the towels? Or the sheets?
This didn’t make a damn lick of sense. His mind kept spinning as he pulled the first aid kit closer and settled in to stitch and dress the wounds. Some were as deep as Dean had feared, but most of them weren’t going to need a needle and thread. Barring complications, Sam would actually come out of this without scarring, and he’d never been so thankful for Sam keeping his fingernails so short.
It still didn’t answer the question of what had caused it, though. And while the sedative was currently working, keeping Sam out for the count and itch-free, it wasn’t going to last. Dean couldn’t keep him sedated either. No, he needed to nip this now before Sam’s bizarre actions continued.
Bizarre. He stiffened. Their case. It had to be the case. Because this level of compulsion that Sam couldn’t overcome, that anti-itch cream and handcuffs couldn’t hold back? This from the guy who could stay still and quiet for an hour after being stabbed in order to not give away their position?
Yeah, not his kid. Something else was going on.
First, getting Sam somewhere more comfortable, now that he was bandaged and stitched. He managed to drag his brother over to the clean bed and settle him down, then redid the handcuffs to the headboard with a grimace. Better safe than sorry, especially if something supernatural was going on. Which reminded him of other precautions he needed to take.
What the hell had Sam said he thought it was? Dean had been so focused on tuning him out that he didn’t know what Sam’s theories had really been. Guess he’d be playing solo on this.
The closest bottle of holy water did nothing when he carefully washed the blood streaks away from Sam’s hands and his legs. Neither did the sprigs of rosemary or white sage. A quick recitation of an exorcism got no response. Sam stayed under, only twitching every now and then to indicate that he was experiencing discomfort. Whatever it was, it still wasn’t done.
So, not a possession, not a ghost sickness, not a spirit remnant. Which left a lot of nasty alternatives…or a curse. A curse would leave someone scratching until they couldn’t get stop. Curses were all about compulsions that no amount of personal strength could break.
Sam twitched again. “Come on,” Dean muttered to himself. “Figure it out.”
Okay, Sam hadn’t been anywhere without Dean, so that most likely ruled out a tribal land curse. Cursed item was possible but not likely unless it was something in the bar or the room. Otherwise, Dean had touched more crap in the witnesses’ homes than Sam had.
Which left a person. Somewhere, somehow, Sam had pissed someone off. But who? It wasn’t like the kid had gone anywhere without Dean, and no one had cast a dismissive eye at him. Well, no one but Melissa, but-
Dean froze. Melissa. Melissa, who’d been super irritated about Sam’s pissy attitude. Melissa, who Sam had written off as another one-night stand.
Just go scratch your itch already.
“Dammit the hell,” Dean cursed. Of course he’d managed to wine and dine a witch. She was most likely the one behind all of the mishaps in town, too. At least none of them had been fatal yet, but one of the guys affected had been hospitalized. She was escalating.
And she’d set her sights on Sam.
Fury flooded through him but it was all for the kid who even now lay trembling, fingers jerking in a macabre need to scratch, face beginning to pinch with pain. This wasn’t going to let up until the curse ended.
It was easy to grab everything he needed into one bag. He glanced back at Sam from the door, worry making him hesitate. If he wanted this to end, he had to leave, but it felt too much like abandoning Sam. If he left, Sam would be alone, defenseless, and literally handcuffed. Salt and wards were his only protection.
Sam huffed out a small moan, and that decided him. “I’m coming back,” he swore. Sam didn’t hear or acknowledge him, and Dean clenched his fist around the handle of the bag before locking the door behind him.
She’d messed with his little brother, the only family he had left. It was going to be her last mistake.
__
Knowing where she lived helped him with getting inside. The window near the back door eased open without so much as a squeak. He couldn’t hear her but he could see lights on in the living room. The basement door stood ajar, and it looked ominously dark inside.
Slowly he crept downstairs, keeping his footsteps light and easy. He fumbled at the wall for a light switch and instantly the basement was illuminated. A few boxes, an old mirror, a washer and dryer—
And a neat little altar at the other side.
Yeah. He’d figured as much. His lips turned up into a snarl as he headed straight for the altar. A few of the typical statues, a bowl of incense, everything that suggested your normal pagan or wiccan simply looking to have somewhere to pray.
The bloody knife and the bound effigies on the front were a little less religious in nature.
His eyes took them all in at a glance: one figure with a limb completely twisted, another with burnt feet, a third with a blindfold over the eyes. That explained their three victims, and the golden curl tied around the blindfold lined up neatly with Annie Dawkins.
And there, on the end, was one with powder covering the legs. A lock of hair looked dark, wavy, and familiar, and he wondered when the hell she’d managed to snip Sam’s hair clean. She must’ve been in the bar longer than he’d thought.
“I wouldn’t do that, if I were you.”
Dean’s arm swung around, gun already aimed at the stairs. Melissa stood, not even stiffening up at the sight of the barrel pointed at her. If anything, she just looked even more annoyed. “You came after my little brother. Give me a good reason not to pull the trigger,” he snapped.
“It’s itching powder,” she said, rolling her eyes. “It’s not going to kill him. He’ll live. A little scratchy, but—”
“A little scratchy?” he said incredulously. Was she seriously that clueless? “I came back to him sunk into his legs, blood everywhere. He couldn’t stop scratching.”
Her glare faded into uncertainty. “You’re exaggerating.”
He leveled the gun perfectly with her head. “Undo it. Now.”
“I can’t, even if I wanted to. It’s a twenty-four-hour hex, that’s all. That’s all any of the hexes are. One day and done.”
Not a single other person had been curtailed by twenty-four hours. “Your hexes are out of control, then,” Dean told her. “You undo it or I’ll undo it for you.”
“Hey, I was trying to do something nice for you! He was just ragging on you, like you weren’t an adult,” she protested. “He didn’t deserve to do that! And then he called me an ‘itch to scratch!’ I figured I’d give him a taste of his own medicine. That’s what they all got. A taste of their own medicine.”
She was so out of touch it wasn’t even funny. “These aren’t a day and done, sweetheart. Annie is blind. Gerald can’t walk. Jimmy can’t feel his feet. And now my brother’s scratching his legs to the point of needing stitches. You wanna tell me how the hell you justify any of those?”
Melissa had gone increasingly pale as he’d talked. Slowly she shook her head, but it was more out of denial than outright dismissal. “It wasn’t, I mean, you don’t understand. They all deserved it. It wasn’t supposed to be a, a permanent thing. Just a little hex! To teach them a lesson!”
He was more than done with her. “Bet I can stop all of them with a simple tip of the hand,” he said, and he reached back for the board that the altar was built on.
“No!” she shouted, and he followed her with the gun when she moved forward. “You don’t know what you’re doing!”
“I know what I’m undoing,” he said. “You hurt Sam and for what? Because he pissed you off?”
She’d missed the whole reason Sam had been there, urging him to not keep drinking, coaxing him to think about the hunt. It had nothing to do with treating Dean like a child and everything to do with trying to step up and be Dean’s brother, helping keep Dean focused on what mattered.
Sam was the whole reason he was even standing anymore. And suddenly he just wanted to be back in the motel, making sure Sam was okay.
He gripped the edge of the altar and swung it out, sending it flying against the wall. “No!” Melissa shouted, running forward, but the damage was done. The candles fell to the ground, broken, and the statuary were nothing but shards. The bowl holding the bloody knife shattered, sending the blood inside spattered over the concrete floor.
Melissa knelt beside the broken pieces of her altar, head hung low in defeat. A memory of Sam writhing in the handcuffs came to mind, and he lifted the gun towards the back of her head, furious and more than ready to put two in her skull. The urge to pull the trigger was almost overwhelming, needing to scratch her out. She’d hurt Sam for no other reason than she’d wanted to hurt him. At the end of the day, giving someone a ‘piece of their own medicine’ was just an excuse to hurt someone and feel justified for doing it.
Which was what he’d be doing, shooting her now. Her altar was destroyed; she was powerless. Killing her now was pointless.
Slowly he lowered the gun. Melissa carefully pulled together the scraps of the bowls, never knowing how close her life had come to ending.
He headed back up the stairs, then paused halfway and glanced back at her. “You can tell yourself what you were doing was justified,” Dean said, and she went still. “You can try and say it was what they deserved. But the fact that you didn’t even look them up to see what became of them afterward, to see if they’d changed after you hexed them, that means you were really doing it for you.”
She didn’t say anything, but her shoulders dropped even further. Dean kept going.
He had somewhere else to be.
__
The first thing he felt was an ache throbbing in his legs. It pulsed in time with the headache that had taken up residence in his skull, and he shut his eyes tighter to try and stave it off, tried to twist onto his side to make it more comfortable.
His legs brushed against something and pain flared, hot and bright and so vivid that he couldn’t stop a whimper from getting out. It felt like someone had torched his leg and he instinctively reached down to put the fire out.
Hands caught his wrists before he could make contact. “Yeah, let’s not touch that yet, Sammy, how’s that?”
Slowly Sam opened his eyes. Dean hovered over him, hands gentle on his wrists. His smile was small but genuine, even with the worry in his eyes. “Keep your hands above the waist. Trust me.”
All he could feel was the ache that was slowly dulling back to an incessant throb. It ran hand in hand with his headache that had only gotten worse. Even his fingers hurt, for some reason. Before he could ask, however, Dean reached over and grabbed a glass of water. His other hand held pills, and Sam didn’t even think, just grabbed and downed them both. Whatever they were, they could only help.
He handed the water back after a few swallows and managed to find his voice. “Wha’ happened?”
Dean made a face. “I found our witch. She targeted you.”
Witch? What? But they hadn’t even started digging into any likely suspects. They’d barely interviewed the witnesses. They hadn’t even been in town for a day.
His confusion must’ve reflected on his face because Dean gave a snort. “Yeah, I know. Turns out, you’re still a trouble magnet. Including at bars with pissy witches.”
Sam winced. Of course. “Least I didn’t hit on ‘er,” he pointed out.
Dean rolled his eyes. “Whatever. She was still hot.” He began to say something else, then stopped.
The throbbing was enough to pull Sam’s attention back to his legs. He managed to sit up enough to glance down at his legs, then immediately wished he hadn’t. White bandages covered every part of his calves and shins, and a few patches went up his thighs. His hands were similarly covered, and small dots of blood sat at the tips. One slight shift of his legs made the throbbing turn into the fiery pain again, and he immediately went still.
Dean’s hands caught him and carefully settled him back down. “She took your words as inspiration,” he said. “She didn’t like you calling her an ‘itch’ so—”
“So I scratched myself,” Sam said quietly. Memory began to return, none of it pleasant. The horrible itching starting in the shower, getting worse as he got out and dried off. Frantically trying to find the anti-itch cream and none of it helping. He’d turned to his hands then in sheer desperation, anything to make the itching just stop.
He didn’t remember much beyond that. It was all a haze of pain and digging in deeper and someone keeping him from trying to scratch the bone-deep itch. Dean must’ve kept him from ripping himself to shreds. And, from the looks of it, wrapped him up too.
Thanks wouldn’t be taken very well at the moment. “You take care of her?” he asked instead.
A shadow passed over Dean’s face, fast enough that anyone who didn’t know him would’ve missed it, but Sam knew his brother better than that. So when Dean gave a grin and said, “Of course I handled it,” Sam immediately shook his head.
“That’s not what I asked.”
The grin stayed but it seemed frozen, waiting to shatter. Sam found himself holding his breath, his chest tight. Dean would’ve been well within his rights to take her out. She was a witch, and things looked to have been escalating.
But Dean’s instant turn to violence these days left Sam frightened for his big brother. Because this wasn’t the guy he knew, the man he leaned on. At this rate, he wasn’t sure he’d get Dean, his Dean, back.
Dean’s grin finally fell and he let out a heavy sigh. “Left her cleaning up the remains of her altar. It looks like everyone’s back to normal, and there haven’t been any other weird incidents. Pretty sure she’s done as far as black magic goes.”
Sam blinked. “Really? Just like that?”
“Seems like. As soon as I sent it all flying—”
“No, I mean…” The words clogged in his throat and refused to come out.
Fortunately, Dean could read him, too. “I know what you meant.” He rubbed a hand over his face, and the action was so reminiscent of what their dad used to do that for a moment Sam couldn’t breathe.
“I wanted to.”
Sam kept staring. Dean’s gaze stayed fixed on the bed. “I wanted to pull the trigger, Sam. I mean, I came back and found you bleeding all over the place and clawing at yourself. I was…I was scared,” Dean admitted, voice rough, and Sam caught hold of his elbow. A silent I’m here that couldn’t be missed.
Dean didn’t take his hand but his shoulders did come down a little. “She thought it was some twenty-four-hour hex or something. She’d never even bothered to look at what happened after. All she cared about was dishing out her twisted form of justice.” He swallowed. “I could’ve done it. I had the gun in my hand. I just…couldn’t. I would’ve felt like her: making justifications for doing what I wanted.”
Dean’s face twisted in pain and remorse. Desperate to right a wrong and protect Sam, but still not willing to cross the line just because he could.
The hand grasping Dean’s elbow tightened. “But you didn’t,” he said softly. Dean dared to look at him then, and Sam smiled. “You didn’t. You had every reason to, and you didn’t. Because you dealt with the problem and made the right call.”
His smile widened a bit. “That’s the big brother I know.”
Dean didn’t say anything, just stared at Sam with almost desperation. Sam let his own gaze reflect the strength and surety that Dean couldn’t seem to find these days. Strength to keep Dean from tumbling. Surety that Dean would make the right choice when push came to shove. And so far, Dean had done that.
Dean was in there, underneath the grief. All Sam had to do was wait for him to come out.
His leg shifted and Sam let out a hiss as fresh pain flared. “We’re staying put until you can actually walk,” Dean said as he rose. “Don’t move: I wanna check your stitches.”
Stitches? Sam winced at the sudden knowledge. “Oh yeah,” Dean called from the bathroom. “You did a number. It’s not bad enough you’ve got hair like a sasquatch, apparently you’ve got claws like one, too.”
“At least I didn’t make out with a witch,” Sam said. His next breath came easier, the tightness waning. His legs still hurt like hell and healing was going to be a bitch. They still had to make sure that the victims were okay.
Dean just glanced out of the bathroom and raised his eyebrows. “Pretty sure it was a better choice than scratching one out myself,” he said, amused. Sam rolled his eyes and got a full chuckle for his efforts.
But he had Dean. Not a shadow of him but his real big brother. Dean was buried under the grief that came out like anger, and every day a little bit more of that grief fell away. Eventually, Dean would come back out.
Sam would stay by his side and make sure of it.
END