For wolfpup

Cages of the Mind
K Hanna Korossy

He didn't even think twice about it at first. Poltergeists were known for throwing things, including people, so when Dean was lifted with a yelp and tossed into the nearby wardrobe, Sam just made a face and kept going.

Poltergeists came in different strengths and breeds. This one had actually attached to the family and moved into the house with them instead of being tied to a place. That meant that instead of using Missouri's wards in the four walls, they had to pull the 'geist loose from the house and then banish it. Kind of like the exorcism they'd done on the plane, Sam explained, and Dean had heaved a great sigh. Terrific. But they'd gone in anyway; it was what they did.

Sam strewed the last of the herbs along the walls of the room they'd picked for the main event and took a moment to pause by the heavy wardrobe. The door had slammed shut after Dean, and he heard his brother rattling it from the inside. Sam gave it a halfhearted tug, not surprised when it didn't move, then raised his voice.

"Hold on, I'm almost finished."

Dean's murmur was petulant but unharmed, and Sam smiled as he turned away to finish his task. Just in time to duck a heavy framed picture that shattered against the wood of the wardrobe.

"I'm all right!" he called, and hurried back to the center of the room.

Okay, recite the ritual. Keep ducking, even though one invisible shove sent him sliding into the far wall. Sam winced back to the center of the room and kept reading. Lit the one bag of herbs he'd kept, and said the last few words.

The wind that whipped through the house shrieked a protest, and Sam closed his eyes as it blew his hair into his face, stirred up dust, whirlpooled around him. There was a feeling like suction, then sudden silence.

Gone. With only minimal property damage and no Winchester blood spilled. Not bad. Sam set the journal down on the floor and hurried back to the wardrobe, pulling at the door.

It didn't budge.

Huh, it had not only slammed the door but locked it. Clever poltergeist. Sam dove into his jacket for his lockpick set and knelt stiffly to get to the lock.

Pounding again from the inside. "Sam!"

"Just a minute—you're locked in," he called back.

"Get me out!"

He muttered something uncomplimentary under his breath and twisted the small tools. The lock clicked open, and Sam stood, grabbing the brass handle and pulling again.

Nothing.

"Okay, that's just…weird," Sam said to the door, brow knitting.

"Sammy, what's the hold-up?"

Dean's voice was muffled and quiet through the solid wood, but Sam could hear him fine when he verged on yelling as he clearly was doing now. Sam responded in kind. "It's stuck."

A few solid thumps; Dean was kicking the door. Which wasn't a bad idea, but didn't seem to be doing any good. "Well, get it unstuck!" he yelled.

"Right," Sam drawled. "Why didn't I think of that?"

Okay, the door was unlocked but not opening. It was possible it was jammed, but considering how Dean had gotten inside in the first place, Sam was guessing this had a supernatural cause, not a natural one. He turned and went back to scoop up the journal, then returned to the wardrobe and leaned against it as he flipped through the pages.

"What're you doing?" Dean asked from inside.

"Checking Dad's journal. I think I remember…right, here. An unsealing ritual."

"What, you think that thing sealed me in here? Can they even do that?"

Sam shrugged. "Something's holding the door shut. Okay, here goes."

He took the time to say the words slowly and make sure he got them right, enunciating carefully. He'd never used this ritual before, and some of the words were foreign on his tongue. Still, Latin was Latin, and the chant finished easily enough.

There was a flare, then…nothing. Sam grimaced and tried the door. Still stuck.

Dean pounded from the other side. "Sam?"

"It didn't work," he answered, uneasiness starting to stir in him. The poltergeist was gone; its effects should have dissipated with it. There was something going on here he didn't get, and that was always bad news. Sam leaned in closer to study the wardrobe itself, running fingers over the edge of the door, looking for any strange carvings, latches, something unusual.

The thumps grew louder, light tremors under his fingers, and it took Sam a moment to realize Dean was throwing himself bodily at the door.

"Dude, take it easy, you're gonna hurt yourself!" he yelled at his brother.

"Can't stay in here—I need to get out…" And suddenly, Dean didn't sound mad.

He was scared.

Sam could have smacked himself when he realized what the real cause for concern was here. He should have seen this coming. The wardrobe wasn't airtight, and it was only wood. Sooner or later, Sam would get through it. But Dean, Dean was claustrophobic, and "sooner or later" wouldn't be good enough.

"Dean," Sam called, then louder when the thumping continued. "Dean!"

There was a pause. A determinedly steady "What?" followed.

"Just take it easy, okay? I'm gonna get you out, just give me a few minutes."

"Chainsaw," Dean abruptly called back.

Sam blinked. "Dean, I don't think—"

"Get the chainsaw, Sam." And even through an inch of solid wood, Sam heard the quaver.

"All right," he said reluctantly. "I'll be right back, just…breathe, okay?"

Dean's answer would have gotten him arrested in some counties, but made Sam grin. His brother wasn't giving up yet.

He ran out to the car, taking the steps down from the porch two at a time. This was actually a commissioned job for once, with pay and everything. The family was gone until the Winchesters called to say they could return, and there was no pressure of time or covertness to worry about. Nothing but Dean going crazy in that wooden box.

Sam pawed through the trunk, amazed anew at how much could fit in there, and finally yanked the chainsaw out. As well as their most powerful gun, the axe, and everything else that seemed like it might be useful. Then he ran back inside, moving fast despite the weight of the small armory he carried.

Muted thumps rained against the door again. Sam flinched, laid his palm flat against the cool wood. "Dean, don't. You're gonna hurt yourself."

"Get me out of here, Sam!"

He sounded angry again, and Sam was relieved for that. He knew it was a defense mechanism, a way to shore up his crumbling composure, but he'd take a furious Dean over a frightened one any day. "I'll get you out, I promise," Sam said, then revved up the chainsaw. "Stand back." He laid teeth against wood…

…and was repelled so hard, he nearly lost his grip on the tool.

Sam staggered back a step, staring incredulously at the wardrobe. Okay, an unyielding lock was one thing, but some sort of ward or protection cast over the whole piece of furniture? That was a whole new level of power.

Not good. Very not good.

Sam gave it one more shot, moving to the side of the wardrobe, away from the door. He was more cautious this time, but the same thing happened. Disconcerted, Sam cut the motor.

"What happened?"

He swallowed, not wanting to give Dean this news. "There's something…protecting it. It won't let me cut through."

Thunk, thunk, thunk. Dean had gone back to kicking, as hard as he could from the sound of it.

"Dean," Sam leaned forward, leaning against the wood with both hands. "Try to calm down, all right? You're going to hurt something if you keep fighting it like that. I'm going to get you out, I swear, you just need to give me a little time to figure this out."

"Sam, I can't stay in here."

"Yes, you can, for a little while longer. That's all I'm asking, Dean, all right? And I'll be here the whole time."

Dean's voice seemed closer, and Sam could picture him leaning against the other side of the door in despair. "Yeah, okay, whatever." But it was faint, stretched-thin bravado.

"I'm on it, man, just hang on," Sam soothed.

There was a different kind of thump and slide, and he realized Dean had slipped down the door to sit on the floor of the wardrobe. A moment later, he heard the muted strains of…humming begin. "What a Way to Go," by the sound of it. Sam smiled a little and gave the wood a regretful pat in lieu of his brother, then got to work.

He moved the wardrobe away from the wall to examine the back, climbed a chair to look at the top, felt every inch of the sides and front. He tried the axe, prying the door with a knife, shooting the lock with the gun. He did a cleansing spell, blessed the wardrobe, did an exorcism. He tried to pry the lock loose, then the hinges.

Nothing. From the wardrobe, or from Dean inside.

"Dean?" Sam finally called, trying to keep the worry out of his voice.

It took a few seconds. "Yeah."

He knew this voice. This was the way Dean had sounded on the plane, his just-barely-hanging-on voice, one Sam hadn't often heard in his life. He leaned his forehead against the wood. "Nothing's worked so far, but I'm not giving up. I think I need to do some research on the house and the wardrobe—I'm gonna go get the laptop, okay?"

"Sammy…don't leave."

And if anything gave him a clue as to how bad it was for Dean, that was it, that raw, humiliated plea. Sam closed his eyes. "The car's right outside. I'll be gone less than a minute."

"I don't think…Sam, I can't stay in here."

Oh, God, his voice was wobbling. Sam's chest felt tight. "Kick the door while I'm gone, all right? Maybe it'll loosen something."

There was a soft scrabble of sound, then the thumping started again. It wasn't much, was probably stupid even, and Dean in his right mind would have scoffed at Sam giving him busy work. But neither of them were really at their best just now, and Sam would do whatever worked. Whatever it took to keep Dean together.

He dashed for the car.

It wasn't more than twenty seconds before he was skidding back into the room, the Dell under his arm. Dean was still working on the door, curses rising now in between the kicks, and Sam winced through a smile. At least he was still fighting.

"I'm back, Dean. I'm back," he yelled over the din, and heard the pounding falter, then stop.

"Sam?"

"Yeah, it's me. I'm here. I'll have you out soon."

"Dude, this sucks."

He cracked a smile. "Yeah, I know. Just a little while longer, all right?" He settled on the floor by the wardrobe, opened the computer and booted it up.

"I get out of here, I'm staying outside, I don't care if it's raining, snowing, whatever."

He grinned at that one, relieved beyond expression to hear his brother sound almost normal. Maybe the physical workout had done him good. Dean always needed to do something. "All the time? You gonna sleep outside?"

"We've gone camping before."

"Yeah, and we had such a great time." He'd researched the house already, but not the families that had lived there before. It was a place to start. "That mean you're not gonna drive the car again, either?"

"The car's never tried to eat me," Dean shot back.

"The wardrobe's not trying to eat you, it's just…lonely."

A moment. Then, "Dude, you sure you're not the one going crazy here?"

Sam laughed. Then sobered as he read. "I think I found something."

Muffled movement. Dean sitting up, leaning forward, attentive to him even though Sam couldn't see him. "What?"

He read on, heart twisting, sinking at the unfolding story. Oh, God, no wonder the poltergeist had gone crazy in this house. Sam swallowed. "Somebody died in the basement."

He could feel Dean's confusion. "So?" That wasn't so unusual in an old house.

"Dean…it was a kid. The parents locked him downstairs and, uh, he starved to death."

Dean would be running a shaky hand through his hair now, rubbing at his eyes. Sam pulled at his lip, also thinking, putting pieces together like Dean surely would.

He wouldn't have heard Dean if he hadn't been listening for him.

"Locked away…"

Sam nodded morosely. It happened sometimes, an angry spirit visiting on others the torture it had suffered during its life, knowing nothing but its own pain. There wasn't any ritual for that, nothing to be done but to salt and burn the bones. But…it was hard when it was a child.

And this time it meant leaving Dean here alone, too.

"No."

Sam didn't understand at first, staring uncertainly at the door. "Dean…"

"No." A growl now. "No, I'm not staying in here because some murdered kid is throwing a temper tantrum! No…" The whole wardrobe started to shake as Dean attacked it from the inside, using the only weapon he had to free himself.

Sam scrambled to his feet, blood draining from his face. This was what he'd feared, Dean snapping, instinct and terror taking over rationality, but he'd really thought he'd get Dean out of there before that happened. Now, he was not only helpless to do anything but stand on the other side and listen to his brother's terror, he also had to leave in order to save him.

But he couldn't leave Dean like this.

Sam flattened himself against the door, absorbing his brother's wild fear. "Dean," he said tightly, throat narrowing. "Dean! Listen to me. Please. I need you to listen to me."

He could almost hear the harsh panting, the skitter of fingernails on the hard wood.

"Dean, please. Please. Listen. It's me, it's Sam."

One last thump, like surrender, Dean's body probably slumped against the other side of the door. There was a sound suspiciously like a sob, but Sam would swear later he hadn't heard a thing.

"Just give me one more hour, okay? One hour, Dean—you can do that. I am not leaving you in here, I promise."

Utter silence.

"Check your watch, bro, okay? Use the light on it and count with me. I'll be back in one hour."

"Sammy…"

His chest clutched. The last time he'd heard Dean say his name that raggedly, Sam had nearly been choked to death by a poltergeist. They didn't have the best track records with the things. "I won't be far, and I'll be back soon. Trust me, Dean. Please."

He wasn't sure he'd get a response. Wasn't sure Dean even understood completely what Sam was saying or asking of him, besides that Sam was leaving. Wasn't sure, for once, what was going through his brother's head until he heard the near whisper. "Go."

Sam's eyes burned with emotion. This was courage, not facing down a werewolf or a wendigo. "I'll be right back. Count with me, Dean. Hang on for me."

He was on his feet and out of there before he became trapped in his brother's despair.

00000

The article he'd found online mentioned funeral arrangements, so thankfully, Sam already had a location. There was the small obstacle of it being late afternoon, full sunlight, but there was no chance in Hell he was waiting until nightfall to dig up the bones. He'd just have to improvise.

The cemetery was an older one on the edge of town, however, and there was no one in sight when Sam screeched up to the walkway. At least one thing in their favor.

It took him eleven precious minutes to find the simple headstone, and Sam had never dug up a grave in less than an hour and a half. But there would be no neat squared corners this time, no care to keep from pulling muscles nor keeping an eye out to make sure he wasn't seen. Sam started digging with all he had, sending dirt flying, single-minded in his determination to finish this and get back to Dean. Because Dean…he couldn't think about what his brother was going through.

He didn't know if there was something behind his brother's claustrophobia or if it was just a random fear, but it was something Sam remembered from even their childhood. In hide and seek, Dean didn't hide in small spaces, and on hunts, Dad had never wedged him for safety into some of the small crevices he'd tucked Sam into. It didn't actually seem to be so much a fear of four shrinking walls as the loss of control, however; Dean had come back far more haunted from the one time he'd been arrested and held for twenty-four hours than he had from any tight spaces. It was just part-and-parcel of his brother, and Sam had never thought twice about it except to take the close quarters himself whenever needed and save the open areas for Dean. They'd always balanced like that, like Dean faced fire for him now.

Sam did know something about fear, though, and how few things really got to Dean. And if Sam could help at least this one this time, he would do everything in his power to do so, and a few that weren't.

The coffin was plain wood, befitting a child who had been unloved. Sam ignored the lump in his throat, knowing the boy wasn't responsible for what had happened to him or what he'd become. But he was still hurting Dean, and that meant Sam couldn't afford any sympathy. He crashed through the coffin with his shovel blade, exposing the bones, and wasted no time on regrets before he grabbed the lighter fluid and canister of salt. Sam was still scrambling up out of the grave when the flames whooshed to life behind him, and he threw himself onto the dirt out of the way.

Sam only gave himself a moment to catch his breath, then was pulling his phone out, speed-dialing Dean. He listened to the ring as he jogged back to the car, glancing at his watch as he went. One hour, three minutes. Another five before he could get back to the house, but Dean should be free now.

Just not answering his phone.

Sam swore and tossed the shovel into the back seat before climbing into the car. The cemetery would just have to fill in their own "vandalized" grave. He had to go.

The house was silent as Sam thundered back in through the front door, yelling his brother's name. The wardrobe was in the living room just off the foyer, and Sam careened through the doorway, not sure what he'd find.

The previously sealed door stood wide open, and Sam wouldn't notice until later that its inside was scratched and pockmarked and bloodied. All he had eyes for now was Dean, huddled against the wall beside his former prison, turned slightly away like he couldn't stand to look at it. He was shaking, one arm wrapped around himself and blood smearing his shirt, and didn't look up at Sam's arrival.

"Dean," he said much more softly, crossing the room in long, silent strides. Sam crouched down in front of his brother, trying to catch the distant gaze. "C'mon, man, come back."

Dean gave a full-body shudder, eyes shifting from a muddy brown to a clearer green even as Sam watched. Seeing Sam for the first time, and taking a deep, shaky breath. "Took you long enough," he said roughly, and closed his eyes.

Sam's mouth quirked. "You're welcome." He lifted a hand, wondering what he could do to help, to say I'm sorry you had to go through that and It's okay now. But he was the one who'd grown up with hands stroking back his hair and curling around his shoulder or the nape of his neck. Touching didn't have the same history of comfort for Dean, who had been raised by a much colder parent.

For the most part.

Hesitating only over mechanics, not willingness, Sam settled on the floor next to his brother, sides touching. Gently, he inched himself like under Dean's arm until it was draped over his shoulder, hanging loosely down his chest. Then he just sat.

He could feel Dean's heart just starting to slow down. His ribcage rising and falling more regularly. His swallow, then the flex of his arm. A palm eventually pressed flat against Sam's breastbone and stayed there, as if Dean were the comforter. And he was, but this kind of touching—Sam's safe, we're together—this was what meant something to Dean, too.

They sat there a long while, Sam no longer caring about the passing time. He watched shadows slowly stretch across the floor, turning with the sun. There was no pressing need to talk, which he figured Dean would appreciate, just one question he couldn't help ask when he finally felt Dean's body stop twitching and start relaxing.

"Did this…did something happen when we were little?"

Dean's head tipped back against the wall. His hand moved up from Sam's chest to drape over the knob of his shoulder, casual contact now instead of desperate. Regaining his equilibrium, and in another hour they wouldn't talk about this again, would pretend it hadn't even happened. Which was why Sam had to ask now.

He clasped Dean's hand by the palm, turning it to look at the scraped and red-stained fingertips and broken nails, and winced. Dean's toes were probably mangled, too, and God knew what bruises were hiding under his clothes. "You don't have to tell me if you don't want to."

A snort. Yeah, they both knew how good Sam was at letting things go. Dean eased his hand free, and Sam released him. It would keep until they got out of there. "It's no big deal, Sammy—Dad didn't lock me in a closet or anything when I was a kid."

Sam had realized only recently that it was never "when we were kids" with Dean. It was "when you were a kid" or "when I was," like Dean's childhood had ended when Sam's had begun. He sat up a little straighter, also resting his head against the wall. "So tell me."

Dean's mouth pursed, a facial shrug. "I was eight, and Dad was out for the day. I was taking care of you. I thought I heard something in the basement, and even though Dad didn't like us going down there, I went to check it out. I wasn't even sure if he'd laid salt lines along the windows."

Sam sat in motionless silence, absorbing every detail to add to the meager few Dean had offered him over the years of their lives back then.

"I guess the stairs were old—they caved under me after a couple of steps, took me down hard. I hit on my ankle, messed it up pretty bad."

Sam could see where this was going, and it wasn't pleasant.

"Just my luck, there was no door in the basement, so I was pretty much screwed for getting out of there on my own. It wasn't small or tight or anything, just…pitch black except for the light from the doorway. And I can remember thinking…please don't let anything block the light, because that meant you'd showed up, and I was scared you were gonna fall in and kill yourself." Dean chuckled. "You weren't exactly good at listening those days. Actually, kinda like now."

Sam poked him in the ribs. "What happened?" he asked softly.

"You came looking for me, of course, but I think you knew something was wrong, 'cause you stayed up there like I begged you to. We didn't have cell phones back then, but I bet you would've made a good Lassie and fetched me one if we did. Instead, you just stayed there and sang to me until Dad came home a couple of hours later. And, dude, if I never hear Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star, I'll die happy. I think you went through about a hundred verses of it that day."

Sam watched a stray sunbeam break into a rainbow on the opposite wall as it hit the window glass just right. "I don't remember."

"Yeah, well, I'm not really surprised—you were four. We started working on how to dial Dad the next day, though."

"I do remember that," Sam said dryly, earning a soft huff of laughter from Dean.

"You would. I stuck Jujubes on the numbers so you'd want to practice."

Sam smiled. The memory was faint but there, forgotten until now. He wondered how many of his innocent childhood stories had histories like this behind them.

Not small or tight or anything, just…pitch black. Trapped. Hurt. Helpless to protect his brother.

Sam gave him a soft look. "You're a good brother, Dean," he said earnestly.

Dean groaned and started to push up. "Aw, man, I knew it was a mistake, letting you cuddle. I'm okay, all right? Just got a little tight in there. Are we done now, can we go?"

Sam scrambled up first and offered a hand, which Dean knocked aside. Sam hid a smile when the stubborn ass wobbled a little on his feet but then steadied and gave him a smirk.

"See? I'm fine."

"Yeah, you're Superman," Sam groused affectionately. "Come on, you wanted outside, remember? I think I saw some camping grounds when we were heading into town."

"No way." Dean was shaking his head. He headed with determination out the door, leaving Sam to pick up the journal and the equipment he'd dragged in from the car. "I want a hot shower and a soft bed. Oh, and French fries. Lots of French fries…"

Sam followed him out, grinning and humming.

How I wonder what you are…

The End