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Saturday, June 9th, 2007 08:50 pm
I feel silly not having *anything* here...
:)
Part One



Back at the Union, Dean sprawled down onto one of the beds. He started to put his arms behind his head, winced, and then tucked his right arm up, leaving his left flat on the bed. Sam winced in sympathy and slouched into the chair, staring at the laptop. Squashing the guilt that surged up when he remembered why Dean putting his arm under his head would hurt. 'Sorry' was sounding as annoyingly pathetic to Sam's ears as it was to Dean's, anymore.

"So, okay...we've got a guy who can...make you forget all about him, who can control a...a spirit..."

"And who may or may not be a freakin' Civil War soldier."

"We don't know that," Sam argued mildly, sitting up a little straighter.

"I dunno, man – that coat, those books...the same name on the BDUs... Pretty damn hinky."

"Yeah, but not conclusive. Could just be...family heirlooms or something." Sam ran his fingers over the seam of the laptop but didn't open it. Dean sat up and untied his boots – kicked them across the floor. He peeled his socks off and tossed them at the open duffel in the corner. They fell a foot short. Then he just sat there, his hand coming up and absently rubbing his chest. "You okay?"

"Huh?" Dean looked up and for a moment his face – his expression – was just... Exhausted. Pure and simple. Dean was tired, and hurting, and Sam felt that all the way to his bones. Felt that everything he'd done – hurting Dean, ducking out on him, even leaving for Stanford – had all been straws. And the camel's back was near broke. "Just – a little sore, is all," Dean said, and Sam got up and moved to the edge of the bed, sitting down with one leg curled up under him.

"Yeah, it was intense." His own throat still hurt a little. Sam put his hand on Dean's, lacing their fingers a little so that the pads of his fingers were against Dean's chest, too. "Shoulder hurting?"

"It's fine," Dean muttered, and flopped back on the bed, scowling up at the ceiling.

Sam let his hand curl into a fist in his lap – uncurled it with an effort. "No it's not."

"Sam..." Dean closed his eyes, his mouth thinning. Lips pressing together and Sam felt a sudden surge of ridiculous panic.

"Dean – don't. C'mon, man," Sam said, putting his hand on Dean's thigh and squeezing and Dean twitched under his grip and opened his eyes again, squinting up at Sam.

"Don't what?"

"Don't get all...don't get quiet on me, okay? Just...don't."

Dean just looked at him for a long moment, his expression going from annoyed to blank to...something. Desperation, maybe. Or maybe just that exhaustion again, creeping in. "Then gimme something good to talk about, okay, Sam?" Deans voice went a little sideways at the end – cracking like thin ice and Sam shoved down the instant guilt guilt guilt and stretched himself out next to Dean.

On Dean, just a little. Knee coming up and inching over Dean's thigh – hand flat to Dean's chest again, the solid double-thump of Dean's heart making Sam's own heartbeat steady down from its panicked tripping. He leaned on his elbow, his face inches from Dean's. Letting his hand slide, slow and sure, up Dean's chest to his collarbone – to his throat. Thumb resting over the hollow, his fingers curling around the nape of Dean's neck.

"Good like...'right there'?" Sam murmured, pushing his nose into Dean's cheek – letting his lips brush the curve of Dean's jaw. "Like...'just like that'?" Sam kissed from jaw to earlobe – let his hand slide up a little higher, fingers slipping into Dean's rain-damp hair, thumb rubbing over and over the stubble-rough hollow of his cheek.

"Yeah," Dean sighed. Turning his face a little, his eyes half-closed and the tension going out of his neck with a little shiver. Shiver that turned into a shudder as Sam bit down on the side of Dean's throat, tongue flicking over the pinked flesh. "Do that again..."

"Do what again?" Sam asked, squirming a little lower – finding that sensitive spot under the point of Dean's jaw and nipping at it, getting his other hand under Dean's uninjured shoulder.

"Bite me," Dean said, tiny edge of amusement to his voice and Sam smiled against Dean's skin – did what he was told. "Ah...yeah..." Dean moved, suddenly – got his arm out from under Sam's ribs and around Sam's back – got his other hand up and over and into Sam's hair, tugging.

Sam went easily, letting Dean guide him – letting Dean pull him down. Meeting the hard, sharp-edged kiss with one of his own. Dean tasted like rain and salt and Dean and Sam dug his fingers into Dean's shoulder – shifted closer, hip to hip. Feeling Dean's hand on his back, rubbing. The kiss slowed – steadied – and Sam let himself get lost in it. Lost in the heat, and the slip of their tongues. Lost in the slow slide of Dean's hand along his spine – the callused stroke of Dean's fingers along the waist of Sam's jeans, slipping in under shirt and t-shirt, finding skin.

"Sam..." Dean said, his voice low and slow – warm as the room. "Sam..."

"Yeah, okay..." Sam untangled himself – got up off the bed, missing Dean's warmth already. Dean's duffle was across the room and he went over to it – dug down inside while he heeled his sneakers off. There. Slick-sticky tube rolled up in a worn t-shirt. Sam unrolled it and tossed the tube onto the bed – stood there against the dresser, and watched.

Watched Dean shrug off his button-up and then maneuver himself out of his t-shirt. Watched Dean skin out of his jeans and underwear and toss them aside. Watched Dean lay back, good arm under his head again, one leg bent, knee dipping toward to the bedspread. Left hand stroking in a lazy arc from sternum to navel to thigh.

"You just gonna stand there?"

"I like watching you," Sam said. He bent over and pulled his socks off – shed tee and Henley and flannel in one motion – shed his jeans, not even noticing the little cascade of change from his pocket. "You look like..."

"Like a porn star?" Dean asked, striking a pose. Lip caught between his teeth and his eyes so dark beneath his lashes and Sam breathed in, hard.

He walked to the foot of the bed and leaned his knees against it. "Like...like..." Sam couldn't say like what. His brain supplied half a dozen comparisons – a panther, an incubus, sex, an angel... Nothing – absolutely nothing that, on pain of death, he could say aloud.

"Look like I want you?" Dean asked, and his voice had lost the momentary teasing lilt. It was low and slow and rasping again – growl of a predator that sees and wants.

Sam felt it in his belly, a ripple of tingling heat. "Yeah. Just like that..." Sam dropped his knees to the bed and made his way up Dean's body. Tasting skin and sweat and the faintest sweet-sour of soap. Tasting musk when he dragged his mouth over Dean's cock, rolling the savory taste over his tongue before moving on. Tracing the tattoos with the tip of his tongue, wondering why Dean's skin didn't taste any different there.

Settling finally with his knees pressed against Dean's ribs – his hands cupping Dean's skull. Kissing lightly, at first. Shallow, nipping kisses that teased them both. Kissing deeper – harder – when Dean's fingers slid down his back and between his thighs, cool smear of lube making him shiver. Dean's hands pulled and Sam lifted himself up – leaned back and pushed down, tucking his face into the curve of Dean's neck when the blunt, warm pressure at his opening became a sweet burn.

"Ooh...yeah..." Dean whispered, and Sam breathed hard – sat up, arms straight, hips tilting for the best angle. Sliding down and down until his ass was cradled in the curve of Dean's hips. He didn't move for a long moment, his body flexing around Dean, his heart beating rabbit-quick. Sweat across his belly and cool on his back and Dean ran his hands up Sam's thighs, up to his hips. Held on, his thumbs rubbing in the hollow right below the bones, his gaze fixed on Sam's. "C'mon...Sam, c'mon..."

"Wanna...take my time," Sam said, grinding down. Easing up and up and down again in a smooth, slow glide. Friction and heat and that breath-catching surge of electric, tingling sensation when Dean's cock rubbed there, there, there on every upstroke. "Oh, fuck, I want..."

"I know what you want..." Dean's foot skidded on the bedspread as his hips bucked up, one hand rubbing up Sam's sweat-slick belly to his chest, the other doing a lazy, stuttering stroke over Sam's cock, out of time with everything else and teasing – maddening.

Sam leaned back – found Dean's thigh and braced there, fingers digging into the muscle. Other hand on Dean's chest, working himself faster – harder. Hair across his eyes and his chest hitching in ragged gulps of air. Back arching when Dean's nails scored across Sam's nipple – scratched not-lightly down his ribs. "Oh, oh..."

Dean's fist squeezed around Sam's cock – squeezed and slid and twisted and Sam felt that whip-crack of blood and sensation go through him, hard enough to make him curl over, fists on the bed. Hips stuttering hard, all rhythm lost, Dean's knuckles digging into Sam's belly as he came. And then Dean was bracing his feet on the bed, knees up – hands on Sam's hips again, on his ass, holding on tight. Dean's hips pistoning up and up and up, harder on every swing, it seemed, and Sam let his elbows give out – slumped down over Dean and sank his teeth into the top of Dean's uninjured shoulder and Dean came with a ragged groan, his heart jolting hard against Sam's chest. Then they both just lay there, panting, until Dean pushed half-heartedly at Sam's shoulder.

"What," Sam muttered, and Dean pushed again.

"Lemme up." Dean turned his head and kissed the side of Sam's neck and Sam lifted his head – pushed himself up onto his fists again, elbows bent and shaky, still. "Gotta pee."

"Nice afterglow talk."

"There's afterglow? I thought we'd have round two in the shower."

"In that shower? Not unless you want me to sprain something." Sam lifted his hand and lightly, lightly traced the tattoo that his gun shot had ruined. Guilt making his chest ache – guilt and anger, that Dean had to be scarred – had to be touched by the evil things they hunted. "Your shield knot's toast, man."

"Yeah." Dean's hand was on Sam's hip, just holding. Thumb rubbing in a little circle and Sam knew that was Dean saying: 'it's okay, it doesn't matter, I'm not mad at you...' It helped, a little. Made Sam feel like he could breathe, at least. "Got that one in...Kentucky."

"Wasn't that the place that was...gun shop, tattoo shop, palm readings?"

"Yup. Mustang Sally's Shoot the Moon," Dean laughed – shifted under Sam and then made an 'ick' face. "Dude. Squishy."

"God, you're gross." Sam lifted up and off – flopped onto his back while Dean slithered to the edge of the bed and stood up. "I'm gonna look up Benjamin Stone – see if anything pops."

"Cool." Dean twisted hard, right and then left and his backbone crackled – his left knee popped with an audible click. "Fuck, I'm starving."

"You're always starving."

"I'm a growing boy, Sammy." Dean sauntered into the bathroom and Sam rolled over – hauled the phone book out of the nightstand and started flipping back to the R's. "Get dumplings!" Dean called, over the whoosh of the toilet. "And pancakes!"

"So I guess we're getting Chinese," Sam muttered, but he was grinning.





"So, anything?" Dean leaned back against the sink, toothbrush stuck in his mouth. Screwing the cap back onto the tube and tossing it down by the little stack of plastic, plastic-wrapped cups.

"Well...there was a Benjamin Stone in the 18th Massachusetts. He was a corporal, originally from Dedham. Joined in 1861 but then there's no record of him mustering out or dying. No burial records, either." Sam linked hands behind his head and stretched, back arching and chin going up, and Dean grabbed the toothbrush handle and started to brush.

"So – what about the other uniforms?" Dean asked. Tried to ask, but obviously, the toothbrush was getting in the way because Sam made a face.

"Dude, you're spitting foam everywhere," Sam said, but he bent over his laptop again. "I found Benjamin Stones on lists from every war. World War one and two, Korea, Vietnam and the Gulf War. But – I mean, I found five for the first war, and...seven or eight for the second –"

Dean turned around and spit into the sink. "Yeah, okay, I get it. It could be him or a half a dozen other guys with the same name." Dean ripped the plastic off a cup and filled it – rinsed his mouth and spat a couple more times – rinsed his brush and his lips and the spatter of toothpaste off his chin and grabbed a towel, drying off. "Hey, did you ever look up –?"

"Yes, I've Googled myself and you. We're not unique snowflakes. Here, look at this." Sam turned the laptop around and Dean tossed the towel down and went to lean on the table edge. Sam was on some kind of Army website, if the camo borders and insignia were anything to go by. Two pictures dominated the screen. One was of a mud-spattered tank, perched lopsidedly on churned-up looking ground. The other was of four soldiers, shirtless and grinning, lounging atop the tank's mud-encrusted treads. The background suggested jungle of some kind – dense, heavy greens gone olive with time. The tank itself was Vietnam-era, an M48 Patton, Dean was pretty sure. "Look at the guy that's the second from the left," Sam said.

Dean leaned in closer. "Damn. That looks like him."

"Yeah. But - how? I can't find anything reliable about extending life spans. There are some spells but the ingredients are...impossible. And the Latin's worse than questionable – I wouldn't trust them."

"So – what about creatures? Anything that can look human and live that long?" Dean settled down on the edge of the bed, running his hands absently down the seams of his jeans. There was a new hole in the thigh.

"Well...vampires," Sam said, turning the laptop back around, and Dean snorted. "Yeah, I know, but we didn't know about them until about a year ago and to be honest..." Sam pushed his hand back through his hair and shrugged a little. "I don't know if I could tell a vamp from a human without doing a fang check. And we've only seen him at night or twilight, so..."

"So, that's a maybe." Dean picked at a loose thread – scrunched his bare toes into the carpet and yawned. "Anything else?"

"A few things...a wight, maybe. But nothing really fits. I still need to look around – make a couple calls."

"Yeah, tomorrow." Dean yawned again – stood up and stripped out of the jeans, tossing them in the general direction of his duffel. "I'm goin' to bed."

"What, no last minute run to the vending machine?" Sam asked, smiling. Shutting the laptop down and closing the lid – standing up and starting to undo the buttons on the flannel he'd put on after his shower.

"Dude, I brushed my teeth," Dean said, grinning to show off his pearly whites. He made a half-hearted attempt at pulling the rumpled sheets straight. "I'm all minty. Doesn't mix well with Doritos."

"You're such a connoisseur." Sam tossed his shirt over the back of his chair – slid his own jeans down his thighs and off and Dean felt that familiar, warm cramp of desire in his belly. Little shivery tingle all over his skin. When Sam stepped over to the bed he couldn't help himself – he reached out and pulled Sam tight against him. Warm, clean skin, ripple of muscle over bone and the smooth planes of Sam's back under Dean's palm. Silk of Sam's hair in his fingers as Dean pulled Sam down. Mouth to mouth, long kiss that left Dean a little breathless and a lot turned on.

"Come to bed," Dean murmured, and Sam blinked at him, his eyes dark and dazed.

"Okay...yeah, okay." The sheets were cool, but they warmed quickly.



"What's the total?" Dean asked, drinking the last mouthful of nearly-cold coffee in his cup.

"Fifteen, as far as I can tell. Starting in 1993. I'm not counting the two that were obvious homicides – a woman was shot to death right outside in ninety-four and a man was knifed in the common room in ninety-six. The others just...died."

"Huh. Coroner ruled 'em all natural causes?"

"Yeah. About half were – well, not homeless, exactly. Kind of – professional wanderers? They just – moved around from place to place, no permanent address, did odd jobs." Sam turned the laptop enough for Dean to see the pictures that he'd pasted into one file. Bearded faces, vagabond clothes – no women, and no kids.

"So – basically, people nobody'd miss."

"Pretty much. They didn't have any money or anything, and the only connection I can find is that hostel. A couple of the articles said the deceased had come on a recommendation from somebody they'd met in the street but none of them name the 'Preacher' or Benjamin Stone specifically."

Dean sighed, leaning back in his chair. Watching the passing cars through the rain-streaked window, a little too warm in the steamy atmosphere of the restaurant. "Okay, so, no hard link but...we saw what he did."

"What did he do? Hear me out," Sam added, holding up a hand and stopping Dean's immediate comeback. "We both felt that 'don't see me' thing he did. What if the other thing was the same kind of deal? Just an illusion or some kind of glamour?" Sam picked up his own coffee cup and held it in his hands, thumbnail idly scoring the edge. "I've read about spells or rituals to control spirits but they're really – involved. And they need some kind of focus. You can't just...just call 'em up like whistling for a dog."

"What if we just missed the focus? What if he had a – a talisman or something? Not like we frisked the guy. And besides – that place was trashed after, so unless he did it with his mind..." Dean deliberately didn't say Max's name, and neither did Sam, even though they were both thinking it.

"Yeah, I know." Sam took a sip of his drink and made a little face. Dean was sure that the soy-hazelnut-specially-imported-from-Timbuktu-bean drink Sam had ordered tasted even more foul cold than hot. "But even if he did, he'd have to invoke it, you know? There's always some kind of...chant or something. He didn't do anything."

"Well, then..." Dean grinned over at Sam, tipping his chair back. "We're just gonna have to make him do it again and pay more attention this time."

"What? No way. That plan sucks, man."

"He ran away, Sam! He didn't stand there and sic that thing on us and gloat while it ate our brains or whatever. He ran away." Dean let his chair back down with a thump and shoved his last couple sweet potato fries into his mouth – wiped his fingers on a pale-brown one hundred percent recycled napkin. "And this time we'll have a little rock salt locked and loaded."

"So we can shoot off a firearm in public? We're supposed to be keeping a low profile, Dean. Agent Henriksen, remember?"

"We'll just make sure we're somewhere that's not public. Lure him down a dark alley or something."

Sam gave a little laugh, the one that meant 'you are a complete whack-job'. "Oh, sure, okay. And what makes you think he'll come within ten feet of us, Dean?"

Dean smirked – reached into his jacket for the bible and held it up for Sam to see. "I'll bet he'll do about anything to recover this important freakin' family heirloom."

Sam just stared at him for a minute, then started shutting the laptop down. "Jeez, man. You stole a bible. That's low."

"My karma's good," Dean said, shrugging, and Sam laughed.



"I don't think he's coming," Sam whispered, and Dean shot him an irritated glance, shifting a little in his crouch behind a pew.

"He's coming, Sam."

"If he's got half a brain, he's a on a plane to Trinidad or something," Sam said, and Dean sighed.

"Look, if he's all into the whole family thing, he's gonna want his bible back. And if he's some kind of...creature, then it'll be lookin' to tear us a new one. Either way, he's coming."

"But what if –" Sam started and then stopped, sinking back into the shadows as the tall front door creaked open. They'd decided on the Trinity Episcopal Church as their location rather than a dark alley. It was raining – again – and Sam didn't like the number of uncontrollables in the alley situation. And the church had some built-in protections that just made more sense over all. Even if Dean preferred somewhere a little more Charles Bronson. There were soft, hesitant footsteps in the narthex and Dean could hear, very faintly, Sam moving away down the nave. Making his way around to the main doors so he could trap the man between them. Dean stood up from his crouch – stepped out into the aisle between the pews, shotgun held at an angle across his chest. Not pointing it, but making it clear he was armed.

The street light's glow sent strong beams of salt-pale light through the windows all along the stone walls. Dean knew he stood out clearly against it – as clearly as the figure standing undecided in the arch between narthex and nave. There was a pale sort of shadow just behind him and Dean cursed softly. The spirit was already there. "Hey there." Dean held the bible up, wiggling it a little. "Lose something?"

The man made a small, hissing sound and took a hasty couple of steps forward – stopped just past the first pew. "You broke into my room."

Dean tossed the bible down onto a pew. It fell with a slap, echoing a little in the vaulted space. "You sicced some kind of vengeful spirit on us."

"Oh, well, we're square then." The man took another few slow steps forward, looking warily around.

Probably looking for Sam. Behind the man, Dean could see Sam silently taking up a position in the archway, his own shotgun held ready across his chest. The spirit was nothing but a pale wisp, flickering in and out of existence at the man's shoulder.

"What do you want?"

"Want to know why you've got some dead guy on a leash."

The man didn't move – didn't seem to breathe for a long moment and then he lifted his hands out of his pockets and walked forward again, palms out and open. "I think you're a little...confused. I don't have any –"

"Cut the crap, man. We know what we saw. It's our job to know. We know you're killing people, and we're here to stop you."

The man took a last step, bringing himself into a slant of cool white light. He was as pale as the spirit, his longish hair wet and curling around his neck, his coat damp and spattered. The shadow behind him flickered a little more wildly, a low sizzle of sound coming from it. It made the hairs rise on the back of Dean's neck. "I'm not," the man said finally. He turned a little, catching sight of Sam and flinching. "I don't...don't kill – anyone."

"Benji, I'm not exactly a patient man –" Dean said, and Sam stepped closer, two long strides that brought him out of the shadows. Brought him too close.

"Is your name Benjamin Stone?" Sam asked, and Dean sighed. Trust Sam to want to know. To care. "Are you – the man in the bible? Is it yours?"

The man stared at Sam for a moment – reached into his pocket and Dean snapped his shotgun up to level, taking a step forward. "I wouldn't do that if I were you."

"Wh-what? I just – look, I'm just getting a – a cigarette," the man said. He pulled his coat open with his right hand – reached slowly with two fingers into his pocket. The man extracted a slightly crumpled pack of cigarettes and held them up – let his coat drop closed again and tapped a cigarette out. He lit it with a match from the book tucked into the cellophane, the flame trembling as the shadow darted up and then sideways, agitated. The man's hands were shaking.

"So – are you?" Sam asked again. Persistent as a freakin' terrier.

The man took a long pull off the cigarette and sighed, pluming smoke down his nose like a dragon. He seemed to relax, ever so slightly, his shoulders going down. The smoke eddied blue-white in the light and then spun off toward the ceiling, caught in the little current of wind that was stirring in the wake of the spirit's movements. "If I tell you... If I tell you who I am will you let me go?"

"Not if you're gonna keep killing people," Dean said, and Sam shot him a little look of pure frustration.

"Just – tell us. If you're really not killing anyone, we'll let you go."

*Oh, for fuck's sake,* Dean thought, but he nodded, letting himself relax into a sort of 'parade rest', the shotgun angled up in front of his chest. Sam leaned on a pew, his own gun pointing at the floor and the man took another long draw of smoke off his cigarette.

"I am. I'm Benjamin Stone. I was born in Dedham, Massachusetts in 1839," the man said, and this was Dean's cue to laugh – make a joke. To not believe. He didn't do any of those things. He just...listened, a little shiver going down his spine.

"You're almost one hundred and seventy years old," Sam breathed, and Dean felt that prickling again – a sort of horripilation of the flesh. Nothing should live that long – nothing could live that long naturally. Except maybe some turtles or something – tortoises. He'd have to ask Sam later.

"Yes. Almost." The man – Benjamin – flicked the butt of his cigarette with his thumb, sending ash tumbling to the polished wood of the floor. "My father was a school teacher and I was going to be, too, until the war." Benjamin looked up from studying the glowing tip of his cigarette, sending a little sideways grin at Sam. "That put rather an end to all that. To...a lot of things."

"So - how? The spells I've found are – pretty risky."

"Oh – very. Worthless, really. They all presume on the idea that man can transcend himself. Become something finer." Benjamin drew in a lungful of smoke and tilted his head back, his eyes tracking the flickering wisp high above him. It seemed to be circling directly above Stone. "But man cannot, and therefore, the spells fail."

"So what's your secret?" Dean asked. Impatient and unhappy with this extended conversation. He just wanted to get the job done – get out. Get out of Seattle, really. The salt air wasn't good for his girl.

"Me? I met a pair of Welshmen. Took the road less traveled, you might say." The shadow – the spirit – suddenly dove straight down, flicking right through Benjamin and he flinched, almost dropping his cigarette. "Stop it, Deryn," he said softly, and Sam perked up.

"What is that?"

"Who is that?" Dean clarified, and Benjamin took a shaky pull of his cigarette, running his hand back through his hair. A few ashes drifted down, catching in the dark strands. The pale shadow was circling lower now, about chest level and it flashed past Dean with a low sort of keening, all tatters and wisps, more air than substance.

"That's...one of them. My own sort of...haunting, you might say." Benjamin looked back and forth between Dean and Sam – made a sort of gesture, half-sketched bow. "I present Deryn Maddox, late of Dedham and Llansantffraed." The thing keened louder – spun faster, its edges becoming more solid – actual features emerging before blurring away. Benjamin leaned against the upright of the nearest pew, watching it. Sam watched it too – shot a puzzled look at Dean over Benjamin's head. Dean shrugged back. He had no idea why some dead Welsh guy would be haunting some should-be-dead New Englander. He didn't actually care.

"Look, Benji –"

"Don't call me that," Benjamin said, and the thing...laughed. It wasn't a good sound.

It stopped short a few feet from Benjamin, substance and form coalescing out of the air until a man stood there. Or, a memory of one. It was in Union blue, long hair and a full beard, mud on its boots. Blood on its face, and a hole torn through its chest that gleamed with the sick white of bone laid bare. Its mouth worked for a moment, soundless, and then it spoke in a voice that was like the groan of an old tree limb, rubbed raw by the wind. "Ay, an' only yoor sweet Ma calls thee tha' name, Benji-boy, nai?"

"Oh, man, this is just too weird," Dean muttered, and Sam made a sort of 'hold on' motion with his hand.

"Can you tell me why you're here?" he asked, and the spirit flickered – shattered and reformed, like smoke under a strong wind. It jumped from here to there and snarled, mere feet from Sam.

"Thou moidersome pup!" it growled. Lifted insubstantial fists, making a grab. Sam lifted the shotgun on pure reflex and the thing shattered apart again. There was a flat bar of pure iron welded to the underside of the gun barrel. Little trick Caleb had taught them.

"What –" Benjamin shot upright, frowning. His cigarette hit the floor, rolling under a pew. He took two fast steps toward the door – toward Sam.

"Sam, back up," Dean snapped, and Benjamin rattled off a string of words. Some kind of mangled Latin or hell, maybe Welsh and suddenly the spirit was there again, appearing with a little inrushing pop of sound. Called back, that much was obvious.

"Fuck - don't -" Dean didn't have time for more because the spirit leapt. Leapt straight toward Sam, God damnit, and Dean fired, desperate. Benjamin yelled, stumbling toward the opposite side of the aisle, his hand clutching at his shoulder. Blood wet and dark between his fingers and Dean huffed in sheer satisfaction.

Sam fired, too but the spirit was darting and swooping like a bat. It curled up and around Sam – around and around and Sam tried to aim, twisting and ducking.

"Sam, get down, damnit!" Dean centered his own gun again – put his finger on the trigger but didn't pull, not just yet. Sam dropped and the spirit dropped with him and for a moment they both glowed white-hot, Sam arching hard against the dark wood of the pew, eyes wide and mouth open. Benjamin shouted something and the spirit lifted – flowed toward Dean and Dean took his shot.

The spirit dissolved, but Sam wasn't moving and Dean didn't even look up to watch Benjamin's staggering run out of the church.





The air was murky. Blue-green and thick, motionless. Like being underwater. *Hey Dean, remember that time I almost drowned? We were jumping off that log and I slipped and hit the back of my head and you...saved me. Found me. It was so quiet, down there... Cool and green and still...*

"Sam, c'mon, Sam, wake up. Sammy, God damnit, wake up!"

Dean's voice was muffled – dopplered and echoing and not quite right. Sam's chest hurt and he pawed weakly at it.

"Yeah, there you go, c'mon now -"

"Sss...s-orry."

"Sorry for – what?" Dean's voice popped back to normal like Sam's ears had cleared – like coming up out of deep water into the air again and Sam took in a hard, hurting breath. "Jesus, Sam."

Sam coughed, fist pressing hard to his chest. He was so fucking cold. The blue and green panels of stained glass over the altar glowed faintly, making him blink. Making him lose where he was for a moment. "How many...times you g-gonna save me before you get t-tired of it?"

"What? What the fuck..." Sam winced as Dean hauled him upright – propped him none-too-gently against the pew behind him. "Dude, you need to wake up."

"M'awake," Sam mumbled. He pushed his palms flat to his eyes and scrubbed for a moment – blinked at Dean, who was more blur and shadow than anything. "Remember when I almost drowned?"

"You were thirteen," Dean said, automatic. "Did you hit your head?"

"Yeah, hit my head on that log, remember? It was r-really quiet down there."

"Shit." Suddenly everything was moving and Sam lurched and staggered and grabbed for balance, catching a handful of Dean's jacket and cracking his knuckles on the back of a pew. "Let's go, little brother. Somebody might have heard the shots."

"Did he get away? Is – he said –" Sam stopped and Dean jerked him back into motion, his shoulder under Sam's arm and his fingers tight around Sam's wrist – his arm around Sam's ribs.

"Yeah, he got away."

"Sorry."

"Fuck's sake, Sam! It's not your fault." The front door of the church was open and outside the rain had stopped. The air was cool, washed clean, and Sam took a long, long breath of it. Straightened up a little, taking more of his own weight and Dean squeezed his wrist. "Feeling better?"

"Yeah, I...I guess. What –?"

"You pissed off the Welshman," Dean said, amusement in his voice and Sam gave him a little shove with his free hand. Dean's fingers squeezed his wrist again and then let go. "You think you can make it on your own, big boy?"

"Fuck you," Sam said, but there wasn't any heat to it. He stood there for a moment, making sure, and then with a little nod at Dean they were both going down the stairs and across the street to the car, the hold-all with the shotguns in it swinging against Dean's thigh. Puddles and ripples of light under Sam's feet and he stared, fascinated, until something solid and cold and wet smacked him in the side.

"Sam, hey –"

"I'm good, I'm..." Sam found himself leaning against the side of the car, Dean's hand on his shoulder – Dean's fingers slapping lightly at his cheek. "Just a little – spaced, I guess."

"Yeah, just a little. C'mon, get in."

Sam let Dean open the door – let Dean manhandle him into the seat. It felt good to sit down. Dean slid in behind the wheel and started the car – sat there for a minute, looking at Sam. "What? Hey, let's get some...some waffles or something. Wanna?"

"Waffles? You fucker." Dean laughed – revved the engine and pulled away from the curb and Sam looked over at him, puzzled. Smiling a little, because he really could never not smile when Dean laughed. "You wanted waffles after you almost drowned, too."

"Comfort food," Sam said, rubbing his hands together. Subconscious and automatic, because that's what Jess had always said. Jess and her girlfriends, eating waffles or cake or toast with cinnamon and sugar when they were bummed or pissed off or homesick.

"Natural tranquilizer," Dean countered. "All those carbs."

Sam looked sideways at Dean but Dean was intent on the road, fiddling with the defroster so he could de-steam the windshield. That was exactly something that Dean would know. And take advantage of. "Hey! All those times you snuck me toast and honey at bedtime..." Dean just chuckled and Sam slumped down in his seat, grinning. Watching the headlights and streetlights as they fractured and spangled and haloed in the spatter of rain across the glass. Flare and dim, flare and dim and revolve and he didn't notice when Dean parked and got out. Didn't notice his door opening until he all but fell onto the rain-wet sidewalk.

"Whoa, there, buddy. You sure you're okay? Lemme see your eyes." Dean had him up and pressed against the car – warm hands cradling Sam's face, tilting him toward the light.

"Dean? There's a martini glass floating in the air."

"It's neon, Sam." Dean gave Sam's cheeks a little shaking squeeze and then let him go. "You need grease and salt and processed sugar. Maybe a beer. Let's go." Dean slung his arm around Sam's shoulders and tugged him into motion.

"Neon?" Sam stared up at the tilting martini glass – the neon words in red and green. "Five...Point...Cafe. Do you think they'll have waffles?"

"Sure to have," Dean said, and shoved him through the door.


Cocooned in light, safe, warm, oh, mother, I see you, father, oh...what is that, something tugging, oh, it hurts...what is it, what...so cold...no, please, don't make me, no, no -

"No!" Sam jerked away – away from the hands that were pulling at him, the voice that was calling him. Invoking and conjuring and binding him. Jerked hard enough to tear himself loose and then there was nothing under his hand – nothing under his elbow or hip and he was falling. *Oh, God no, not again, not again...*

Thump right onto the floor, the sheet and blanket twisted around his legs, head and shoulders wedged uncomfortably against the wall. Sudden blaze of light and then Dean's face sticking up over the edge of the bed, his hair every which way and his lip looking suspiciously red.

"Dean?"

"You gonna hit me again?"

"What? I –" Sam wiggled, getting his legs all the way off the bed – getting twisted around enough to sit up a little. The back of his head ached. "Shit. I hit you? I'm sorry."

"You keep saying that tonight." Dean scooted closer and held out his hand and Sam took it. Surged upright and promptly toppled over, the sheet knotted so tightly around his calves that he couldn't even stand. "Tim-ber!" Dean laughed, and Sam swatted at him.

"Fuck." Sam wrestled with the sheets for a moment, kicking, but got distracted by Dean's lip – by the wary look in his sleep-heavy eyes. "Hey, really, I'm –"

"One sorry son of a bitch, yeah, I know." Dean grabbed a handful of sheet and yanked and Sam yelped.

"Ow! Jesus."

"Pussy. So...bad one, huh?"

"Uh." Sam rubbed his leg – looked over at Dean. Dean was wearing his 'do not bullshit me' expression, and his swelling lip made it slightly ridiculous. "It was weird. It was...a memory?"

"I dunno, was it? Jeez, Sam –"

"Yeah, yeah, okay, it was. That – guy. That spirit. It was...him, it was..." Grey fields at dawn, mist lying low in the craters and the hollows; winter-bare trees like lines of smudged charcoal and a low, leaden sky. Grey bone poking up through the dead grey earth; ragged tatter of rain-bleached cloth that could be butternut brown or Union blue – tangle of matted, grey hair. The shells churning up the earth and bringing the dead back to the light again and again...never enough salt to end them all...drown them in the sea and they would still come back, crying, crying...

"Sam, Sam –" Dean's hand on his shoulder, shaking him, hard little snap that brought the room – the golden light and the pale blue blanket – back into focus.

"No, no, I'm okay..." Sam wrapped his hand around Dean's wrist – looked at him, eyes wide. "He was a hunter, Dean. Him and his brother, they were hunters. And something...else. Something..."

"What? Something to do with that guy? That – Stone?"

"Yeah. No. Kind of. It was...he said..." Sam rubbed at his eyes, groping for the memory. The words. They were like little silver fish in his head: move too fast and they were gone, flicker-flash. If he was quiet – if he moved just so...

"Sam?"

"Sin eater. He said...sin eater, Dean."

"What the hell is that?"

"I dunno. But I'm gonna find out." Sam scrambled out of the tangle of sheet and blanket and bedspread and moved to the little round table by the door. His jeans were lying over the back of the chair and he grabbed them – hit the button and got his laptop powering up as he jerked them on. Behind him, on the bed, Dean flopped back with a groan.

"Well, fuck. It's three in the morning, Sam."

Sam didn't say anything, just waited.

"You want coffee, don't you."

Sam turned to look at Dean, a huge, wide-eyed smile on his face. "Coffee'd be great, Dean! Thanks!" He didn't duck quite far enough to dodge the pillow Dean threw.



"So – sin eater?"

"Sin eater. It's a really old concept. Kind of exactly what it sounds like. Someone dies, and the sin eater...eats their sins."

"Ookay..." Dean took a gulp of his coffee. Even freshly made, it was fucking awful. Damn cheap-ass hotel coffee. "Eats them how?"

"That's not...exactly clear. I mean, physically they eat bread and drink ale or wine or something that the dead person's nearest relative hands them across the body. How they actually eat the sins, I don't know. Dad didn't have anything in his journal but I found a few things online..."

"So, that dead guy was a sin eater? Or is it the other guy? Stone?"

"No, it was dead guy's brother." Sam pushed the laptop back a few inches and Dean sighed.

"How about you just tell me the story, okay?"

Sam grinned, lightning quick, and then sobered again. His eyes were smudged dark underneath. "Okay. The dead guy was Deryn. His brother was Ebrill. It was the brother that was the sin eater. It's...how they made a living, over in Wales. Their family was dead and they didn't have any money, so...somehow they stumbled onto that. In their hunting."

"How in fuck do you make a living eating sin?" Dean asked. The idea gave him the creeps.

"People paid them. Kind of – double indemnity, I guess, especially since not every town or whatever had a priest. But they were shunned, too. All that wickedness – they were unclean."

"That's gratitude," Dean muttered. He looked for a moment at the wood cut that was displayed on the laptop. Ragged man standing at a coffin, a stern-looking family holding a plate and cup out over it. "So – how'd he hook up with that Stone guy?"

"After they immigrated, they got kind of...drafted. The brothers were in the war with Stone – in the same company. Ebrill got hurt, bad enough that he was dying. They couldn't let him die with all that sin on his soul, so...they tricked him. Benjamin."

"Tricked him into taking the sins?"

"Yeah. Deryn told him it was just a – a church thing. He'd say the words but he needed someone there to take the bread and water. They'd got to be friends and Benjamin did it. He didn't know any Latin, he thought... Well, he just wanted to help his friends. Make his dying easier."

"So...connect the dots for me here, Sam. Why is that guy haunting him or – or whatever?"

"I'm not – a hundred percent on it, Dean," Sam warned, and Dean nodded. It being Sam, even only fifty percent was usually good enough. Sam stood up, stretching, then picked up his coffee and took a few steps, leaning up against the dresser. "After they tricked him, Benjamin knew something was wrong. Off. He confronted Deryn and Deryn finally told him. And Benjamin...killed him. Hid his body and ran away. He knew the brothers were into some weird stuff and he finally tracked down a friend of theirs who told him a little bit about hunting. Long story short –" Sam grinned faintly. "He figured out how to bring Deryn back."

"What the fuck for?" Dean couldn't imagine wanting to be haunted by the guy you'd murdered. Seemed like some kind of insane penance or something.

"I think at first he just wanted the – power or whatever taken away. Wanted to not be what they made him and he thought he could force Deryn to...take it back, or something. But he couldn't. It's pretty much a one-way thing. After that, well...I think he kind of kept him around for revenge. Not letting him rest."

"Great. But – it's gotta suck, having a vengeful spirit loitering around all the time. Why in hell would he keep him around this long? If he knows about hunters, why not just trap him somewhere instead of letting him loose all the time?"

Sam rubbed the back of his neck, looking unhappy. "The thing is...nobody believes in sin eaters anymore, Dean. He's been using Deryn to...to kill people so he can take their sins. Somehow, it's extending his life. He's using Deryn to keep himself alive."

"Fuck."

"Yeah."

"So... He can be killed, right? He's just a guy?"

"I'm...pretty sure, yeah. I sent out a couple emails and I'll make some calls..." Sam yawned and Dean stifled his own, hiding it in his coffee. "Damn. Make some calls later, when people are up."

"Sounds like a plan." Dean stared at Sam for a moment, taking in the drawn features – the way he was holding himself, as if he were hurting. "You got all this from his memories, huh?"

Sam made a little face – took a drink of his coffee and set it aside. "Yeah."

"All of them? I mean – this guys whole life?"

"I...don't think so. He wanted me to see the stuff about his brother and him. About Benjamin. I think the other stuff is just...overflow."

"What other stuff?" Dean asked, an uneasy feeling in his gut.

Sam wouldn't quite meet his eyes. "Let's just say...I know more about being a soldier now than I ever wanted to." Sam picked at a thread on his jeans, head down, and Dean wanted to throttle something. Wasn't bad enough, Sam was still brooding over shooting him. Now he had some dead guy's Civil War tour in his head, too.

Dean sighed – rubbed his hand over his face. His eyes felt gritty and he was just...damn tired. "Well, okay. We'll get on this in a couple hours. I need my beauty sleep."

"Got that right."

"Jealous?"

"In your dreams, you freak," Sam said, making that oh-so-bitchy face he'd perfected at fourteen. But then he smiled, and tired and thin a smile as it was, it made Dean feel a little better.


Part Three
Saturday, June 16th, 2007 10:23 am (UTC)
Good lord! You don't have to respond to all of these, lol!