(All The Things) Come Back To You, 2/3

[topaz119]

The sun had set by the time they finished with dinner, though the sky behind the mountains was still streaked with colors. Dean made a quick detour up to the room to grab an EMF meter and a couple of heavy flashlights. He tossed a box of salt into a backpack and decided he was as ready as he was gonna be to start back teaching Sam how to hunt.

Sam took the flashlight and followed Dean silently as he cut behind the diner and up the alley behind the rest of the buildings. Whatever was going on, they didn't need to stroll right up the sidewalk saying hi along the way. The construction lights were still on, but they threw shadows like crazy: deep ones, ones that were easy to slide into. It was just like riding a bike, and from how Sam stuck with him, Dean thought it was one more thing Sam didn't know he knew until it was right there in front of him.

They edged around the giant pile of dirt and rubble that used to be the gym, pausing in the shadows. Dean reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out the EMF meter.

"Here," he said, handing it to Sam. "You do the honors."

Sam looked it for a second but got it turned on easily enough, and really, it was no surprise at all when the thing lit up like a Christmas tree.

"Okay," Sam said, looking around, and if his eyes were a little wild, Dean thought he was entitled to be freaked, what with how this was more or less his first hunt and all. "That's not good, is it?"

"No," Dean sighed. "It probably isn't." Everything looked quiet, though, so he jerked his head toward the remaining part of the building and held out his hand for the meter. "Come on; let's see what else sets this thing off."

It turned out that they got readings everywhere; sometimes they dropped to only three lights, but most of the time, it was off the charts.

"Something's been all over this place," Dean muttered. "A lot."

"Yeah, but what kind of a thing?" Sam murmured back.

"Could be any--" Dean broke off as an eddy of cold air curled around him. He heard Sam swear, and out of the corner of his eye caught a flicker of movement right before a wrench went sailing past his head. He jerked to a stop, then waved Sam back toward the new construction, even if that was right out in the open.

"Anything that can knock over a crane is just playing with us if it's using a wrench," Dean murmured. Sam nodded and backed slowly toward the street. Dean followed, equally slowly. The cold drifted around him, and he could see Sam twitching as it circled him, too, but it let them keep going, step by step. Dean was betting it would leave them alone if they got into the street, away from the school. The orange vinyl construction fencing was right on the edge of his vision, but right when he thought they were free and clear, somebody--a person, a man--shouted, "Hey, what do you think you're doing?" and it all came crashing down.

Dean could feel the thing, whatever it was that was stalking them, gathering strength, energy building up and up. The guy shouted again and Dean recognized Tom's voice.

"Sammy," Dean yelled, fumbling with the backpack, going for the box of salt. "Get him out of here."

He spared a glance and saw that Sam had Tom and was dragging him back, Tom still yelling. Dean figured a little salt might buy them a couple of seconds at least, but before he could do more than get the box out of the backpack, the windows across the front of the long, low building that had housed classrooms blew out, sending a blizzard of glass and brickwork straight at him.

He got an arm up over his eyes but the rest of him got hammered, even as the shock wave knocked him back and down, dropped him below the trajectory of everything but the leading edge of the stuff that followed it. Most of it crashed down past where he was, not on top of him, which was good, but he could feel the energy building up around him again, and figured he didn't have much time before Round Two started.

It took longer than it should have for him to roll over and push up to his hands and knees; his head swam and he must have gotten a cut or two around where his arm had shielded his eyes, because he was pretty sure it wasn't sweat he was trying to blink past. He made it three or four feet, shards of glass and bits of stone digging into his palms, when someone--Sam--grabbed him and hauled him to his feet, throwing one arm over his shoulders and dragging him along, and, ow, fuck, Jesus, he'd definitely taken one too many in the ribs. Tom stepped up and took the other side, which Dean appreciated and all, but goddammit, he'd told Sam to get clear, and judging by the steady cursing coming from the two of them Dean wasn't the only one who felt the cold swirling around them, tighter and tighter, like their very own personal tornado. Dean didn't think they were gonna end up in Oz, though.

"Salt," he gasped. "Backpack."

Sam shoved him onto Tom and dove for where Dean had dropped his backpack in the general chaos of getting knocked ass over teakettle.

"Go," Sam snarled, and Tom kept them moving. Dean tried to make his mouth and brain work together long enough to make sure Sam knew what to do, but Sam was already with the program, tossing handful after handful of the salt back to where the cold was deepest. It worked, at least enough to get them across the street to the garage.

"I'm good," Dean panted. "Make sure Sam's--"

"I'm fine," Sam said, coming up to where Tom had Dean propped against the cinderblock wall next to the door to the office. "I'm not the one who got blasted--"

He broke off suddenly when Dean lifted his head.

"Dean?" Sam's voice sounded wrecked, and Dean straightened up in alarm. Sam was staring at him as though Dean was the ghost or spirit or whatever had just kicked the shit out of them, and okay, Dean definitely wasn't at a hundred percent, but he didn't think he was looking that bad. "Dean, God--"

Sam reached for Dean, his hand shaking as he touched whatever was still dripping down the side of Dean's face, and fuck, Dean really didn't like how the rest of Sam was shaking, too, or how he was suddenly so pale he almost looked green.

"Dude," Dean said, breathing steady and even, because the last thing they needed now was for him to gray out and take a header. If Sam was freaking over some blood, Dean going down wasn't going to help matters. "It's a couple of cuts, nothing bad. Just, you know--you get cut on the head, it bleeds like a bitch."

Sam kept staring at him, long enough that Dean almost turned to Tom to ask if he'd lost an eye or something, but he couldn't look away from Sam and the naked emotion on his face. People were starting to congregate; Dean was vaguely aware of some of them staring at him and Sam and Tom, some of them crossing the street to the high school. Jennie was there; Dean heard her asking Tom what the hell was going on, but mostly his world had narrowed down to him and Sam.

"Sammy?" Dean whispered. "Come on, man, you're starting to scare me."

"Right," Sam said, blinking, and if his voice was still hoarse, he was making enough of an effort to shake off whatever had him freaked that Dean could relax a little. "Here," he added, digging a bandana out of his pocket and folding it into a square. His hands were steady now, too. "Let me put some pressure on that before you bleed out."

Dean automatically ducked away from the bandana--who the fuck knew what was in Sam's pockets, and he wanted to stick it on an open wound?--but Sam made a disgusted noise and held Dean steady, one big hand wrapped around Dean's jaw while he pressed the cloth firmly to the cut that was dripping blood into Dean's eye.

Dean hissed at the first touch but made himself stay still, closing his eyes and swallowing down the nausea from the sudden sharp pain on top of the dull pounding. He could feel Sam still watching him, and beyond Sam, Tom and Jennie and who knew how many other people, but he couldn't quite bring himself to care. He stood there and let the conversation flow over him, until Sam said, sharp and forceful, "No. He needs to get this taken care of--where's the closest--"

"Relax," Dean muttered, without opening his eyes. "I just need a shower and a couple of butterflies on the worst of it."

Dean could practically hear Sam gritting his teeth, but when he answered, he only said, "Fine. But I'm still checking you out when you're done and I will drag your ass to a hospital if I think you need to go."

"Yes, dear," Dean said, more grateful than he'd ever admit. He wasn't in the mood to deal with civilians, and Sam in guard-dog mode was pretty effective in keeping people away. It probably had something to do with the snarl that was right below the surface. Jennie wasn't all that impressed, Dean could tell, but she let them get up to the room anyway.

"Where's the first aid kit?" Sam asked, sitting Dean down on a straight-backed kitchen chair, grunting in irritation when Dean told him it was still in the trunk of the car back at Tom's, where they'd just come from. "Don't move."

"Yeah, 'cause I figured I'd go try to pick up a little entertainment in this one-horse town with blood dripping down my face," Dean muttered as Sam headed back toward the door. He thought he heard Sam say something under his breath as he clattered down the stairs, his boots making a godawful racket on the metal treads. It sounded less than flattering, but Dean figured he'd let it slide.

Sam was back pretty quick; either he sprinted or Dean lost a little time sitting there with nothing but the pounding in his head to keep him company, but he didn't guess it much mattered. Sam took the bandana away and aimed Dean toward the bathroom, hovering not quite obnoxiously as Dean stripped off his filthy t-shirt.

"If I promise not to pass out and hit my head on the tile and drown, will you let me shower in peace?" Dean asked as he started in on his jeans.

"You know, not even you are stubborn enough to keep from passing out from sheer force of will," Sam answered, which was about the answer Dean was expecting, so he shrugged and finished stripping down, breathing a sigh of relief when the water came flooding out of the showerhead at something near boiling. He'd cleaned up in cold water often enough, but he wasn't in the mood for an ice bath tonight. Sam was a shadowy figure on the other side of the multiple layers of shower curtains--and at least the bathroom was clean and mildew-free, right down to the plastic liner. Dean could forgive a lot for that.

"You're gonna need to cut some butterflies," Dean called, hissing a little as the hot water got into the gash over his eyebrow. "Scissors are--"

"Yeah, got it," Sam said. "I don't think we really need to clean you up with holy water, but we probably should, just in case."

"Mother hen," Dean muttered, but it was SOP, drilled into both of them by Dad, so he let it go with the one comment and tipped his head back to let the spray hit it full-force. Before he could ask, Sam tossed him the little bar of travel soap Dean always kept stashed in the side of his duffel, and there were few things in life--not counting those rated for adults only--that beat getting all the grime and crap of a hunt off under a hot shower. Dean took inventory of sore spots but didn't find anything other than a couple of places that were likely to come up spectacularly bruised. Not great, but not bad after a showdown with a pissed-off spirit.

Sam had a towel waiting; when Dean stepped out of the shower with it wrapped around his hips, Sam's eyes flickered over him head to toe, lingering on the tattoo and the marks Cas had left, but all he asked was whether they just had to deal with the one cut over Dean's eye. His hands were quick and competent, but it still seemed to take forever to rinse the damn thing out with holy water and get the edges butterflied back together. Dean's headache had officially graduated to monster-sized by the time they were through; Sam shook out a couple of ibuprofen and dropped them in Dean's palm.

"I don't know," he said, looking critically at his work. "I still think we should get that checked out professionally--stitches, or glue, maybe."

"Dude," Dean said, shuddering for extra effect. "Stitches will scar and nobody is putting glue on my face."

"Don't be such a baby," Sam said, washing his hands one more time and heading back into the bedroom.

"Just making sure we understand each other." Dean dug around in his bag and found clean boxers and jeans. He pulled them on and then sat down to check out the damage to his coat, which was thankfully limited to some smudges and scuff marks. The jeans he'd been wearing were a mess, though, and the collars on his shirts were stiff with the blood they'd caught. He tossed them aside and looked up to find Sam watching him, his eyes dark and unreadable.

"I can go find a laundromat," Sam offered.

"Yeah, might as well." Dean shrugged. "Grab everything and make a night of it."

Sam nodded and pulled clean clothes out of his duffel before disappearing into the bathroom to change, which was oh-so-princess of him. Dean thought he probably should give him a hard time about it, but his headache was only just starting to ease off so he settled for rolling his eyes while he found a clean shirt and finished getting dressed himself. Sam emerged from the bathroom and squawked for a minute about Dean staying in the room to rest, which Dean ignored. He did let Sam shoulder the bag of dirty clothes, though.

"I'm really not in the mood to deal with questions from Jennie," Dean said, looking up and down the street, hoping to catch a clue of which way to go. All the streetlights being out didn't help. "But I'd rather do that than walk around this town in the dark."

"Yeah," Sam sighed, and pushed open the door to the diner. There was a group of regulars clustered around the little TV Jennie kept under the counter; before Dean took two steps into the place, he knew something bad had gone down. Jennie waved them over, her face serious. There were about a million things Dean would rather be doing than walking across that room to find out what had happened, but his feet were on automatic. At least Sam was there with him.

The TV went to commercial right as they arrived and the group started breaking up, Dean catching murmurs of how awful and still not done yet as people moved toward the door. Jennie caught his eye and reached for the coffee; Dean nodded Sam toward one of the booths against the back wall and braced himself for whatever had happened.

"They say it's an aftershock from the bad quakes earlier this year, along the New Madrid Fault. Big for an aftershock, enough piled on top of the rest to knock out some dams." Jennie kept her voice low. "The TVA lost one, a big one; they felt the quake all the way up through Indiana and Michigan, east almost to the coast."

Dean really wanted to throw the mug of coffee across the room and curse Michael and Lucifer and every damn one of them for how their gifts kept on giving, but Sam was watching him, so he made himself take one slow, careful sip of Jennie's full-bore coffee.

"Hell," he sighed, keeping it to that. "You got a phone that works, Jennie?"

"Sometimes," she said. "By the back door," she added as she headed back to the counter.

"Lisa?" Sam asked, quietly.

"Yeah," Dean said, digging through his pockets for the paper with her number on it. "I mean, it's probably okay, but…"

Sam nodded. As Dean slid out of the booth, Sam asked, "You want me to order you anything?" Dean shrugged. "You should eat something," Sam said, with a look that said Dean didn't have much of a choice in the matter. "I'll figure out if there's a laundromat, but if you can keep something down--"

"Chill, Sam," Dean said. "Get me whatever."

Picking up the beat-up phone, Dean dialed slowly and told himself not to get all twisted up if the call didn't go through. Half the time you were lucky to get a dial tone at all, and that was with nothing but the stress of everything Michael and Lucifer had dumped on the existing infrastructure. Dean didn't have to be a genius to know it was going to take time--and a hell of a lot of money--to dig back out from all that. Add in all the stuff they'd just seen on the news, and there were a lot of things that were going to have to be right for Dean to get a call through. Even if he couldn't get in touch with Lisa, it didn't mean anything bad had happened.

He did a bang-up job on the pep talk, enough that when a barely awake Lisa picked up on the first ring, he almost dropped the receiver.

"Hey, it's me," he managed, before she hung up or the line went dead.

"Hey, you," Lisa answered. "Where--

"Everything okay there?" The connection was starting to get fuzzy.

"We're fine--oh, the earthquakes? We're good."

"Okay, good," Dean said, sighing. "Sorry to wake you up; I just saw the news and--"

"We barely felt anything here, not even enough to break any windows," Lisa said, her voice fading in and out. "Ben is bitterly disappointed. It's completely unfair, he says."

"I'd probably have been the same way when I was his age, but I gotta tell you, right now, I'm fine with the unfairness of it all."

"I hate to tell you this, but I think you might be growing up," Lisa said dryly, and Dean knew she was rolling her eyes at him. "Where are you?"

"Montana," Dean said, adding, "I found Sam," in a rush. The line went all static for a couple of seconds, but Dean hung on and it cleared up, at least enough to be able to make out words again.

"--found Sam?" Lisa was saying. "Is he--?"

"I don't really know," Dean said. "I mean, mostly, yeah, he's okay, but--" He stopped in frustration as the line staticked out again. "It's weird," he tried again, when the crackling stopped. "The whole situation."

"What isn't, these days?" Lisa said, quick and sharp.

"You said it," Dean snorted. "Look, I don't know what the deal is here, or what's going to happen, but we're on our way to the coast, so--"

"You need to do what you need to do," Lisa said. "When I told you that you could come back, it was an invitation, not an obliga--."

The crackling and popping got so loud Dean yanked the phone away from his ear until it calmed down.

"--my god, I hate this," Lisa said, very faint and far away. "Dean, take care of yourself, and take care of Sam--"

"Lisa--"

"We are fine--"

With a final pop, the line went dead. Dean could try again, but it probably wasn't going to be a better connection. At least he knew everything was okay, and Lisa knew he wasn't dead by the side of the road somewhere, and that looked like it was going to have to be enough. He hung the receiver up and headed back into the dining room. The booth was empty and the duffel bag of laundry was gone, but Sam's notebook was sitting on the table right next to a mug of coffee and a slice of pie, cherry by the looks of it.

Dean got three bites in before Sam was sliding back into the booth, asking, "How'd you know that wasn't mine?"

"Because your menu-OCD has you somewhere between peach and raspberry." Dean took another thoughtful bite, and licked the back of the fork for good measure. "'Sides, cherry's my favorite; I get dibs automatically."

Sam snorted, but only stole some of the coffee, which Dean was prepared to offer since it probably had been Sam's to start, judging by all the sugar and crap in it. "I found the laundry place," Sam said. "Got everything going and figured I could settle up for the pie and then go put stuff in the dryers if you weren't off the phone."

"All done, Sammy." Dean scraped the last bite off the plate, then sucked a little smear off the back of his knuckle. It was good stuff; he wasn't going to waste it, no matter how pained Sam looked at his lack of manners. "You got cash?"

"I'm good." Sam dropped a couple of bills on the table. "You get the call through?"

"Yeah," Dean said, distracted by Tom walking in and making a beeline for Jennie. Sam made an impatient tsk; Dean pulled his attention back to their conversation. "Sort of--we talked for a couple of minutes, but…"

"But you still feel like you should be there," Sam said. "You know, you don't have to babysit me--"

"Not now, Sam," Dean said. Tom and Jennie were through with their whispered conversation and Dean wasn't happy about how they were watching him and Sam. "C'mon, move. We can have the stupid argument about how I'm not leaving you at the laundromat just as well as we can have it here."

He nodded toward the counter. Sam sounded like he was grinding his teeth, but he shut up and fell into step with Dean. They got halfway to the door before Tom cut them off.

"I think we need to talk," Tom said, low and serious. Dean sighed and Tom's eyes narrowed in annoyance, which was really too damn bad, given the way Dean's head was still pounding. "Yeah, sorry to put you out, but something's going on and you two are involved--"

"No," Sam snapped. "Not really, except for the part where I just dumped some bloody clothes in a washer and spent a good hour getting my brother cleaned up."

"Nobody asked you to go poking your noses into our business--"

"Because you guys were handling it so well on your own," Sam said. Dean sighed again and both of them turned to look at him. Dean rolled his eyes at Sam.

"Fine," Sam snapped. "Your call. But we're not doing this standing in the middle of the room." He turned and stalked back to the booth, not looking back. Dean would have sighed again, except he was starting to sound like he'd sprung a leak, so he kept it to a shrug and followed.

"Get Jennie over here, too," Sam said. "We're doing this once, and then I'm getting him--" he nodded at Dean, "someplace quiet."

"Seriously," Dean asked Tom. "How bad do I look?"

Tom slid into the booth and shrugged. "You look like you went a couple of rounds after last call."

"There, see?" Dean said to Sam. "It's not like that hasn't happened before. Chill." He turned back to Tom and Jennie. "Okay, look, you're not going to like this, but I'm not in any mood to sugarcoat it. Whatever is fucking around with the construction site, it isn't alive, not like you're thinking, and it sure as hell doesn't have anything to do with me or Sam."

"Not alive," Jennie said slowly. "You mean--"

"A ghost," Sam said. "Spirit. We thought maybe a poltergeist or a curse, but when we were up there it was cold, like a haunting."

"Oh, wait just a minute," Jennie said. "You can't expect us to believe--"

"Jen," Tom said. "I was there, and they're not kidding."

"There was something there," Dean said. "No doubt about it; whether it was a ghost or--"

"It was a ghost," Sam said, firm and sure, as though he had any idea of what he was talking about. "So what we need to know is who--anyone who might have died there, or somebody who's gone missing, someone who died angry or might have a grudge. I can research it, but if you can at least give me a pointer, we can figure out who it might be and--"

He stopped as Tom shook his head.

"I--saw it," Tom said, and took Jennie's hand. "Saw him."

"Tom?" Jennie looked down at their clasped hands, and then up at Tom's face. "Tommy?"

"Who'd you see?" Sam asked, in that voice he always used on witnesses, the one that was quiet and sincere and invited trust.

"Jen, it was Bud."

Dean shrugged when Sam flicked his eyes over; it didn't mean a thing to him, but it had clearly hit some button with Jen. She'd lost all color in her face, and when she smoothed her hair back with her free hand, Dean could see the finest of tremors in it.

"It can't be, Tom--"

"Just for a second, he was clear as day, Jen." Tom nodded to Sam. "He saw it, too."

"I saw a man," Sam said, and Dean kicked him under the table, because, hello, maybe Dean could have heard this a while ago? "No idea who, but yeah, I saw him."

Jennie looked at Dean, who held his hands up in surrender. "Don't look at me; I was on the ground trying not to get blasted." Her eyes flickered over the cut on his forehead, and then dropped back down to where Tom was still holding her hand. "While we're at it, maybe we could get a little clarification of who you're talking about?"

"Buddy was my older brother," Jennie said, short and brusque. "He was the sweetest guy you'd ever meet and he died last year in his sleep, upstairs in the room you're staying in."

"Peachy," Dean said.

"He wouldn't do anything like… this, Tom," Jennie said. "You know he wouldn't. What they were saying, angry--Buddy couldn't hurt anyone; hell, he couldn't even stand it if somebody didn't have enough money for dessert."

Tom laughed a little and shook his head, but he kept holding on to Jennie's hand.

"We used to have major battles over that," Jennie said, looking back at Dean. She didn't let go of Tom's hand, Dean noticed that. She was clinging to it as though it was all that was keeping her upright. "I told him he was giving all our profits away, and he'd say he was okay with not making money for the week, I could have his share."

"You said he died upstairs?" Sam asked, shooting Dean a look like they were crazy not to have noticed anything. Dean shrugged, Winchester code for Dude, you were there, too. "Did he work somewhere, or--"

Jennie shook her head, and Tom sighed. "Bud was… well, I don't know that anyone ever got a diagnosis, but he was--"

"He was Buddy," Jennie said, fiercely. "We all looked out for him and we made sure he was okay, and he made sure we didn't get all caught up in the--the unimportant stuff and forget about living, about taking the time to be here. He loved life; he would never hurt anyone."

"Okay," Dean said, with what he thought was damn good patience, given that his head was pounding and his ribs were stiffening up even as they sat around and debated the issue. "And you're sure it was him you saw?"

Tom nodded.

"Then if you can tell us where he's buried, we can take care of it," Sam said, quietly.

"Meaning?" Jennie asked, and the look on Sam's face twisted something hard inside of Dean.

"Jennie--" Dean started.

"No, tell me." She looked at Dean, and then back at Sam, who frankly looked sick to his stomach. "Why do you have to know where he's buried to take care of it?"

"Because the best way to take care of a ghost or spirit is to salt and burn the bones," Dean finally said.

"Oh, God," Jennie said. "You dig him up?" She turned and stumbled toward the back, toward the restrooms. Dean shrugged helplessly at Tom, who closed his eyes for a second, then nodded once and went after Jennie.

"I hate this," Sam said, almost to himself. "I don't want to have to do this, Dean."

"C'mon, Sam," Dean said. "It's--it sucks, yeah, but I can take care of it--"

"No," Sam said. "I don't want you to have to do it either."

"It's the fastest way, man," Dean said. "I know you don't remember--"

"Don't," Sam said, and Dean shook his head in frustration but bit down on the impulse to tell Sam he didn't need this shit. He didn't, but he could understand where Sam was coming from. They sat in silence until Jennie came back, Tom following behind. She was pale and still, and looked a good ten years older than the woman who'd first waited on them.

"Is this him?" she asked, pulling a picture out of the pocket of her long apron and thrusting it at Sam. "Is that who you saw?"

Sam took the snapshot, handling it carefully. He looked at it for a couple of seconds and then nodded.

"You're sure," Jennie whispered, not a question, and Dean reached over and pulled a chair up for her to sit down in. Sam slid the picture over to where Dean could see; it was Jennie and a guy, Jennie wearing a sweatshirt from the diner and the guy in one that read This Is Tiger Country. He wore a big knitted scarf in the high school colors and they were standing on the fifty-yard line of the football stadium.

"He loved Tiger football," Jennie said. "He never graduated--never got past the eighth grade, and even that was mostly just because everybody loved him--but he never missed a game, ever." She looked up at Tom and smiled, shaking her head a little. "He went to practices and scrimmages and nagged one or the other of us into driving him to pretty much every away game, too."

"Jennie, look," Sam said. "We don't have to do... that."

"Sam--" Dean started, because what the hell, but Sam ignored him.

"We could try to get him to move on--"

"Sam," Dean said, but it was too late. Jennie was all over the idea--not that Dean guessed that he blamed her. Hearing that two guys were going to dig up your dead brother so they could burn what was left of him was not something that would go over big with most anyone, but it wasn't good, what Sam was doing. It was only getting her hopes up and it was going to be a thousand times worse when they did have to go do the salt-and-burn.

"I need to talk to you, Sam," Dean said, interrupting whatever plan Sam thought he had going, the one he was selling Jennie and Tom on. "Now."

He got up from the table and headed toward the door, not looking back to see if Sam was following, because if he wasn't, there was going to be hell to pay and Dean absolutely did not care about Sam not remembering. Sam followed him, though; was right behind him when Dean went out the door and around the corner and into the little parking lot.

"Dean--" Sam started to say, and Dean knew that voice. It was the let's-be-reasonable voice, the one Sam had always used when he thought he knew better than Dean and it was enough to push Dean right over the edge.

"Don't you 'Dean' me," Dean hissed, shoving Sam back against the brick wall hard enough that Sam grunted as his back made contact. "What the hell was that, Sam? Seriously--you can't just up and decide to take last night's dream for operating instructions and turn it loose on some civilian. That is dangerous and you should know it, memories or not."

Dean poked Sam hard in the chest, and wasn't surprised Sam grabbed his hand, but he didn't twist it or push Dean back. He just stood there, one big hand wrapped around Dean's, and said, "I didn't dream it, Dean. I…"

He shrugged helplessly and it hit Dean, what he was saying, or trying to say.

"You remembered it," Dean said, his mouth and throat suddenly dry. "You… remember."

"Everything," Sam said. "Everything."

"Fuck, Sam," Dean whispered, jerking his hand out of Sam's. "Why didn't you--how long?" Sam stared down at where Dean's hand had been, and Dean maybe lost it a little more, because he didn't really think Sam wasn't going to talk to him, but some part of his brain didn't get the message, and from a distance, he saw himself shove Sam against the wall again and repeated, "How long?"

"Tonight," Sam finally said. "When I got over to you and Tom, and I--you were bleeding and I…" He stopped and looked down again, swallowing hard, but looked Dean in the eye and finished, "I saw you at Stull, after I beat you half to death, and it, everything snapped back in."

It was--Dean had too much shit in his brain to even try to come up with something coherent, but Sam was watching him like he had no idea what to expect except he didn't think it was going to be good, so Dean tried to pull himself together. "Lucifer," he finally croaked out, and when Sam only tensed up more, managed to add, "You didn't beat me up, Lucifer did."

Sam shook his head and if he didn't quite smile, he at least didn't look like he was braced for a punch. Dean took a deep breath and pulled as much of his shredded self-control together as he could. "Shit, man," he said, and grabbed Sam. Sam stood there for a second, and then his arms came up around Dean, tight and hard. All the air went out of Sam in a big shuddering sigh that Dean would so be giving him shit for, except for how he was doing the same thing. Sam held on like he was drowning and Dean didn't care, even if the bruises over his ribs were raising holy hell about it. He couldn't help grunting, though.

"Sorry," Sam said, backing off a little but still holding on. "Your ribs--"

"Are fine, Sammy," Dean said, but he stepped back a little. Sam nodded and let him go, and Dean gave himself a couple of seconds to wallow in all the crap that came bubbling up when he looked at Sam and it was Sam, for real and true, looking back. "Stop mother-henning me."

"Sure," Sam said. "As soon as you can breathe without flinching."

"I was doing fine until you went all Sasquatch on me."

"Please," Sam said. "Who grabbed who?"

It was actually pretty ridiculous, the two of them standing in an empty lot in the middle of freaking Montana, arguing over nothing, stupid grins on their faces. Then again, what was his life if not ridiculous, Dean thought.

"Yeah, fine, whatever," Dean said. "We still need to deal with how you just set everyone inside up for--"

"I meant what I said," Sam answered, sobering up fast. "I--I just." He shook his head. "I am so sick of, of having to destroy everything."

"Sam," Dean sighed. "This thing's already gotten pretty violent."

"I know," Sam said, quietly. He reached out, almost touching the cut over Dean's eye, stopping short of it. "I--can we try, at least?"

Dean looked at him carefully, because there was something more going on, but he was still a little off-balance from everything, so he was willing to let it go at that. For now. Sam watched him with an equal amount of care, and Dean found himself saying, "Yeah. Yeah, we can try." He shrugged at Sam. "I guess I'm kind of tired of it, too."

"Okay," Sam said, in a rush. "Okay--we can--"

"We go in locked and loaded," Dean said. "And the first sign of trouble, we're digging him up."

"Yeah," Sam said. "Yeah, of course. But you're okay with trying it the other way first." He smiled at Dean, as though Dean had given him every Christmas he'd never gotten growing up, and, swear to God, Dean got such a rush out of making Sam look like that, he had to roll his eyes and sigh, just to cover it up.

"Yeah, yeah," Dean said, turning back toward the street. "Come on, little brother. Let's go see what it's going to take to talk Buddy into going into the light."

* * *

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3