He Said/He Did
K Hanna Korossy

"Mr. Elli-…? We'd…ask you…questions."

He blinked raw eyes at them—two men? His vision was iffy—and thought they were talking to him. But he wasn't sure. He wasn't…

"…-ison?"

Where was Dean?

His skin felt stretched almost to tearing when he turned his head, and he subsided with a gasp. He felt raw all over, actually, and his belly throbbed. He tried to swallow, his throat dried and swollen, and blinked at the men. Definitely two, in suits, standing over him. Not good. Dean…?

"Mr. Ellison? Can…hear me?"

He didn't know what their cover was or what had happened or where he was, and he was too foggy to bluff it out. If Dean wasn't there to run interference, then he couldn't do this. Couldn't…

He closed his eyes. It was just to feign sleep, but when he opened them, the room was dimmer. Someone was humming.

Sam turned his head before he thought, and hissed at the too-tight feel again. The humming stopped, and Dean hovered into view. "Hey. You with me?"

"Uh. Yeah." He tried to lick his lips, but it was like sand on sandpaper. "Men?"

"Yeah, sorry about that." Dean disappeared for a moment, and the sound of liquid pouring was so distracting, Sam barely heard the rest. "I just went to get some coffee, and the cops showed up with their questions. Heard you played possum on them—nice." Dean reappeared with a glass and a straw, and as soon as it nudged his mouth, Sam was gulping. "Easy. It's gonna take some time to top you off again."

Vague memories stirred, but he kept drinking until the cup was dry.

Dean pulled it away. "I'll give you some more in a minute. You remember what happened?" He was giving Sam that look that tried not to be overtly worried, but didn't fool Sam even when he was half out of it.

Sam closed his eyes, trying to think. Cave. Heat. Something ominous in the shadows.

He reopened his eyes, and the room was dark except for a light from somewhere on the right. Exhaustion and confusion dragged at him despite all his apparent sleep, and he was somehow hot and cold at the same time. His fingers twitched and rubbed against something that twitched back, then pulled away. A moment later, Dean was hovering over him again, hair flattened on one side.

"Dude? You awake?"

"Wa'r?" His tongue felt swollen in his mouth.

Dean frowned but went and got another cup of water and a straw, and it was the best thing ever going down. "Sammy? How're you doin'?"

He shivered. "Cold." There was an ache just above his hip that would not go away, his head throbbed felt like it would explode if he moved it too much, a fire burned inside his chest, and his skin was taut as a drum. He didn't dare move. But what he felt most was, "Cold."

"Yeah, you're runnin' a few degrees hot. That's what happens when you wander around in the desert, dude. They're gonna give you another ice bath, that'll help."

Another? And why would an ice bath help with chills? Sam blinked…

And found himself wet and freezing, every shudder that tore through his body making him groan.

"Easy, easy." The grip on his hand hurt, but he needed it, and gripped back. "They're gonna cool your skin down, then you're gonna feel better."

"Dean," he whispered, and closed his eyes.

Sunlight, hazy and morning-bright, was the first thing he saw when he opened them again. White walls, and charts on the wall showing degrees of pain and emergency procedures. Hospital. Sam sighed and turned his head, remembering vaguely that even though it tugged painfully, it was so much better than previous times.

There was a built-in bench along the wall, and his six-one brother was curled into the five feet of space, asleep. His jacket was balled under his head and his left arm was flung behind him, like he'd dropped off mid-motion. Sam, mouth twitching upward, didn't doubt it.

The memories came back pieces at a time, connecting, organizing, making sense. The whiteboard on the far wall said it was July second, which would make it…six days since they'd hit town. Sam wondered how much of that was hospital, how much was cave, and how much desert.

His skin still felt stiff and tender, but lifting his arm, Sam could see it was coated in something that glistened between the loose layer of gauze. The tissue he could see was still brick red under the gel, though, peeling in some spots, blistered in others. His wrists were bandaged, which made sense even if he didn't remember that detail, and a bandage covered half of his left hand. Oh, yeah. Other than that…his head hurt, and of course his side. His legs were hidden under a light sheet, but he bet they looked just like his arms, and his feet… Sam winced. No walking for a few more days.

And he felt like he could drink a gallon of water, even though there was an IV on his right dripping liquids into him as fast as it could.

The water was just out of reach, though, the rolling tray closer to Dean. Sam sighed, debated letting his brother sleep, then decided Dean would want to know that he was awake anyway, and capable of complete sentences. And so thirsty.

"Hey."

He sounded like he was a hundred and two, thin and creaky, but Dean was always tuned to him. His brother's eyes snapped open, and he blinked a few times before yawning widely and sitting up.

Sam briefly felt bad about waking him when he looked so tired, but didn't regret it when Dean saw him watching and broke out in a grin, clearly relieved.

"Hey! You really awake this time, or you gonna zone out on me again?"

"No promises," Sam mumbled, and coughed.

Dean immediately got up and poured him some water. Sam tried not to drink like, well, a man in a desert, but it was so good. "Easy," Dean pulled back after a minute. "Don't wanna make you sick again."

Okay, so maybe there were things he didn't remember, but maybe it was better that way. Sam sighed, sinking back into his pillow and licking lips that finally didn't feel like they were sandblasted.

"Here." Dean pressed something smooth into his hand, and Sam peered down to see it was a small tube of ointment. "Put some of that on your lips—it helps."

How did Dean know…? Oh. Sam tried not to think about the other things his brother would've had to do while Sam was unconscious. He shakily applied the balm to his lips, and probably half of his lower face, too, but whatever, then dropped the tube back in Dean's hand.

"Better?"

"Mmm." He took a deep breath, feeling every part of his body complain about the stretching. "Did you get—?"

There was a knock at the door. Sam expected a cheerful nurse, or maybe breakfast. The two men in suits who entered were familiar, though, and made his stomach twist with unease.

"Mr. Ellison?" The taller, younger one, a clean-shaven brunet with unflinching eyes, stared at Sam. "How are you feeling?"

"Crappy," Dean supplied, and Sam could hear it all in his voice: wariness, distaste, worry, protectiveness. Dean had talked to these men already, and probably would've liked to have been in another state by now, but for Sam. "How would you feel after being fried extra crispy?"

The cop, because it had to be a cop, ignored Dean to focus on Sam. "Mr. Ellison, I'm Detective Renfrew and this is Detective Chavez." Chavez was older, a little pudgier and thin-haired, but his face showed more sympathy. "We have a few questions if you're feeling up to it."

Sam could feel his brother's tension ramping up and quickly stepped in. "It's okay." He was talking more to Dean than the detectives. "I'm okay. I can answer some questions."

Dean gave him a doubtful look.

Sam nodded. He remembered enough, and could figure out the rest.

Dean wasn't happy about it.

Sam shrugged with his eyebrows; this was their life. But still looking at Dean, he added, "But I want my brother here."

That mollified Dean considerably. The look he threw the detectives was all but smug.

Renfrew didn't look thrilled, but as far as Sam knew, he was still being considered a victim, so the detectives couldn't really complain. Unless they'd found a body—and Dean wasn't that sloppy—they couldn't even really force Sam to talk to them. But he didn't mind. It would make their remaining days there easier, make it less likely the cops would connect them to their various public crimes. And it would let Sam control the story.

"Could you start at the beginning?" Renfrew asked with forced politeness.

Sam slowly breathed in, then out. "We came to town because we heard about the disappearances. My brother and I are…writing a book about weird disappearances, like… this girl whose two roommates thought they were werewolves and killed each other, but she just vanished. Or…"

"…CEO Dick Roman," Dean spoke up. "His people are still looking for him."

Sam hoped the detectives didn't hear the self-satisfaction in Dean's tone. He licked his peeling lips and gave the cops an earnest look. "So when we heard about the four people who'd cashed in all their savings and then dropped off the map, we were interested…"

They were restless, stymied on Amara but needing to do something. Dean was still depressed about how things had gone with his childhood wrestling hero, Gunnar Lawless, and worried sick about Castiel hosting Lucifer. Sam wasn't actually looking for a case per se, even as a distraction, but the story in Arizona was strange enough to stand out. He and Dean didn't even deliberate, just packed up and went.

"We got to town…" Sam tried to remember, but days of the week blurred even when they were on top of their game. He sent his brother a helpless look.

"Wednesday." Dean was talking to him, gently. "It's Tuesday now, Sammy."

Tuesday. Right, six days. And he was pretty sure they hadn't been in town that long when things went south. Sam swallowed, turning back to the detectives. "Wednesday. We, uh, we figured we'd talk with the families of the-the people who disappeared. But they didn't really know anything."

"You think she's telling the truth?" Dean asked as they loped down the apartment stairs.

"About not knowing what happened? Yeah." Sam opened and held the front door for his brother. "About not noticing anything weird beforehand? No way."

"Yeah, that makes three. Wanna bet it was something they couldn't put their finger on? The kid or husband or wife just felt hinky?"

"No bet." Sam paused by the Impala, meeting Dean's eyes over the roof. "So what do you think, some kind of influence? Demon or witch curse or something?"

"Or their loved one was really a pod person," Dean said with raised eyebrow. "Shifter or ghoul."

Sam glanced down the quiet street, resting his hands on the car's roof for a second before yanking them off the hot metal. He returned the tug of Dean's mouth with a sour look. "So we widen the circle." Any of those possibilities probably meant someone in their lives was not quite what he or she seemed.

"Awesome," Dean sighed, no doubt already bracing for the research ahead of them. He was frowning as they opened the car doors and climbed in.

"Dean and I split up to talk to others who knew them, because there were a lot of people on the list. We only found two overlaps: the high school three of them went to, and an investment company a different three used, so we started there. Dean took the school, and I took the finance people."

"How did you find that information?" Detective Renfrew cut in.

"Uh, tips from the family, public records, went through some trashcans. Usual stuff, all legal."

"Dude, seriously, you'd think an investment company would have better firewalls than this!"

"Did you notice anything unusual about James Kepler?" Chavez finally spoke.

"No," Sam said truthfully. "He seemed totally normal when we talked. It's a small firm—he was the one who dealt with most of the private clients, but he didn't raise any red flags. He was seeing me out the door when he…attacked me."

"Nothing prompted the attack?"

Sam slipped on the silver ring as a formality, not because he actually expected any result. The hiss and sizzle from the handshake was a total surprise. He and Kepler stared at each other for a second…and then the shapeshifter lunged.

"Not that I know of."

"Okay." Chavez was writing furiously, but Renfrew kept his eyes on Sam. "What's the next thing you remember?"

Sam had to reach for it. "The cave." And then it came back in sickening clarity.

The smell probably permeated his unconsciousness first, because he dreamed of death and melting flesh and stifling tombs. He wasn't even sure he was awake at first, the light dim, the heat relentless, and his muscles cramped. Then he tried to move and felt the weight on his wrists, heard the rattle of the chains.

He was in a cave, the ground sandy beneath him, warm rock against his bare back. He was stripped down to his shorts and chained to the wall. And he wasn't the only one.

The row of bodies, in different stages of decay and mummification, stretched back into the darkness.

Dean's grip on his shoulder pulled him back. Sam swallowed, rubbing a hand over his mouth, and realized he was shaking.

"I think we need a break."

Renfrew frowned. "We just have a few more—"

"No." Dean was on his feet, a wall between Sam and the detectives. "He's exhausted—he's not even talkin' straight. Come back tomorrow."

The man looked like he was going to argue—moron—but his partner pulled at his jacket. One last hard look at Sam, and Renfrew followed Chavez out of the room.

"'M okay," Sam said quietly as the door shut behind them.

Dean turned to him, face still grim but eyes softening. "You're slurrin' your words, and I know that look—you were back in that cave. For a minute, you were back there."

He didn't try to deny it. Sam sank into the pillow. And dropped off again.

He dreamed about it: the smell, the bodies. The one nearest him had to have died within a day or two, still mostly intact. The expression on its face was terrible…and then its eyes opened and it started begging, pleading with Sam to save him. Reaching for him—

"Hey, hey, easy. Sammy? You with me?"

He blinked rapidly, dark cave dissolving into bright hospital room. "Yeah." Sam rubbed his eyes, feeling tight skin rub and burn. "Yeah."

Dean's hand pressed so gently against his chest, he could barely feel it, which was probably a good thing. It patted him lightly and pulled back. "You were dreaming."

"I know." His breathing was slowing down, aches starting to make themselves known again. Sam pressed against his side. "Is it…"

Dean glanced down, and his eyes darkened. "The knife scraped your ribs. Good thing the son of a bitch didn't have better aim. You wanna—"

There was a knock at the door.

Dean exhaled. "Great. Tweedledee and Tweedledum. You want me to get rid of them?"

"No." Sam cleared his throat. "I'm okay. Let's get this over with."

Dean's look said he knew Sam wasn't okay, but he didn't push it. He called, "Come in," and gave the entering man a steely look. "Officer Chavez. Your partner couldn't make it?"

"Detective," Chavez corrected mildly. "He's on another case right now. I was hoping Mr. Ellison could finish giving his statement?"

There was cool condescension in the man's tone, which was a surprise. Wasn't Sam the victim here? Or had the detectives figured out their aliases, or recognized them? But no, the Winchesters wouldn't be sitting there if they had. The guy was probably just peeved that Dean kept putting them off, and the thought nearly made Sam smile. Surely the police had dealt with protective parents before?

Chavez was consulting his notes. "You were saying the next thing you remembered was a cave?"

Sam took a long breath. "Yeah. I mean, I know he knifed me, and things got fuzzy after that—I guess I blacked out? But when I woke up, I was chained up in the cave."

"Did you see anyone else there?"

Sam swallowed, and felt the press of Dean's arm against his. "Bodies. At least a half-dozen. All in chains."

"Can you describe them?"

He shot Dean a surprised glance—hadn't the police found the cave? He thought for some reason Dean had—but his brother gave nothing away. Sam refocused on the detective. "Uh, most of them were…decayed. Unrecognizable. But I could tell they weren't dressed. Oh, and they had water bottles." He'd forgotten that detail until now. He'd had one, too, for what little good that had done against days in desert heat.

"Water bottles?" The detective's eyebrow rose.

"Yeah." Sam shrugged, winced when the movement pulled burnt skin. "Maybe he was planning to come back for them?"

He'd put it together the moment he saw the bottles. The reaction to silver, the missing clothes, the hidden location, and the water: a shapeshifter wanted to take the place of its victims for a few days. The water wouldn't last, but it kept them alive just long enough for the creature to clean out the person's bank accounts. After that, it didn't care if its victims died; it would be a long time before anyone found the cave where it had hidden them, anyway.

"How did you get free?" The detective was watching him closely.

Sam didn't dare look at his brother this time. "It was weird—I don't think he attached the chain tight enough. Maybe he was in a hurry because he hadn't planned on me? Or he didn't think it mattered because we were out in the desert anyway? I don't know. But I was able to squeeze my hand out of it." He held up his bandaged hand. "Took off a few layers of skin, but…"

…but with the aid of years of John Winchester's training and hours of practice getting out of any kind of restraints, Sam had a thumb he could dislocate at will and a ridiculously high pain threshold.

"Okay." It didn't sound like Chavez completely believed him, but whatever. Sam's damaged thumb and wrists—burns from hot metal chains or abrasions from his struggles, he didn't even know—were proof enough. But Sam had nothing to justify. "And then?"

"Then…I tried to get back."

There'd been some tire marks outside the cave, and Sam had followed them until they hit rock and disappeared. He'd had a heading by then, and it was getting dark, so he'd kept going.

He wasn't sure at what point his thinking had become unreliable. He knew he'd slept some during the day, in the meager shade of rocks, but he'd also wandered in the sun. The water bottle hadn't lasted long. There'd been determination and worry and anger…but somewhere along the way, the sun baked it out of him and there was only heat and thirst and brightness and pain.

And then…Dean.

"Mr. Ellison, how did you find your brother?"

It took Sam a moment to realize the question had been directed at Dean, and that Dean was answering in the flat, practiced tone he usually took with authorities. Sam listened, not knowing this part of the story.

"Kepler texted me on Sam's phone, said he'd found something and to meet him at a housing development. I got suspicious and came in cautious. Kepler tried to jump me, but I managed to knock him out."
"Why didn't you call the police then?" Chavez asked pointedly.

"I tried—crap reception. I took Sam's phone from Kepler and left to call you guys. Did you find him?"

"We found…a body. Badly burned. You don't know anything about that?"

Dean's eyes were comically wide. "Burned? No way, dude was breathing when I left. I wanted you guys to find out from him where Sam was."

Burned. Huh. Sam would've bet there was an odd salt residue on the body, too, when they did the autopsy. And that if enough of the body survived, there'd be a bullet wound somewhere, too. The silver bullet, of course, would be long gone.

Chavez seemed to accept Dean's explanation. "So how did you find…Sam?"

"There was sand on Kepler's boots, in his car. Didn't take much to figure he'd probably been out in the desert. I was waiting to hear from you guys, but I couldn't just sit on my hands, so I thought I'd go look for Sam until you called."

"And you just happened to come across him." Chavez's voice was flat, the question not really a question.

"Yeah, well, after more than forty hours of looking, yeah."

Sam blinked. Forty hours?

"And you never saw the cave?"

"Nope."

That one he knew was a lie.

Chavez sighed and shut his notebook. "All right. We haven't found this…cave yet, but we'll continue to look. At any rate, the case seems closed: Kepler is dead and it's clear his victims are, too. We still don't know how he influenced them to hand over all their assets, but we may never find out. Right now the prevailing theory is blackmail. But of course, he didn't engage in that with you." His eyes pierced Sam.

Sam just rolled his head no against the pillow.

The detective sighed; clearly he was experienced enough to know he wasn't getting all the facts. But Sam was obviously the victim, it sounded like there was plenty of proof against Kepler, and Sam knew that was all police had sometimes.

Dean, from next to Sam, asked sweetly, "Is there anything else, Detective?"

Chavez tapped his notebook against his hand and shook his head. "No, I think that's everything we're gonna get. Unless there's something you'd like to add?"

Sam was sure his brother looked as innocent as he did.

"All right. Well, I hope you're feeling better soon, Mr. Ellison. And if you could let us know when you're leaving town, we'd appreciate it."

"Of course," Sam said solicitously.

Chavez headed for the door, and just as Sam was about to take a relieved breath, he stopped and turned back to them. "Oh, one more question."

Sam was sickly reminded of Columbo. Here was where it all fell apart.

"Neither of you owns a gun, do you?"

One of the things Dean loved about the bunker: he had a weapons room now. Between Bobby's, Rufus', the Campbells', the bunker's, and their dad's armories, it was pretty impressive, too. It didn't stop Dean from sometimes trolling the local gun shows for more, though.

"No, sir," they chorused together.

"Right. Thank you." Chavez walked out.

Dean huffed. "Think he believed us?"

"No," Sam said.

"Yeah, well. Unless he wants to arrest you for surviving, or me for stopping the murdering son of a bitch, I think we're clear."

Sam turned to regard his brother. "'Dude was breathing when you left,' huh?"

Dean's face darkened.

He knew as soon as he got the text. Not that it was phrased wrong—the shifter would've known too much from Sam for that. But Sam had been worried about him those last few days, Dean knew that, and his emo brother's text was too terse.

He'd came loaded with silver and a machete. One look at the thing's eyes when Dean turned the floodlight on it, and he knew which one to use. The silver bullet to the leg took the shifter down, screaming.

"Where's Sam!" he yelled into his imposter-brother's face. "What'd you do with him?" Shifters kept their prey alive so they could draw on their memories, and that was the only thing stopping him from shoving the silver blade through its ribs.

The shifter stared at him with hatred. "You'll never know," it snarled. And then tried to stab Dean in the gut.

He slashed back in defense, but the shifter's lunge caused the silver blade to sizzle across its throat. Dean grimaced at its death throes, but not because of the gore. He'd just lost his slim chance of learning where Sam was.

Dean watched helplessly until it was dead, then growled and shoved to his feet to go get the salt and lighter fluid.

He reclaimed Sam's shoes, favorite jacket, and wallet and phone before he torched the body, however. And thank God for the paranoia of Frank Devereaux: Dean knew how to find where a phone had been. An hour later, he braced himself to walk into a stinking cave. Minutes after that, leaving flames behind him, he came out and bellowed his brother's name into the desert night.

The ground was too hard for reliable tracking. Tire prints would've given Sam a direction to start, but beyond that? And there was fresh blood in the cave; Dean didn't even know what shape his brother was in. Grimly, he started to search.

More than a day later, he thought he was seeing a mirage. The stumbling, burnt figure in the distance didn't react to his shouts, didn't even immediately respond when Dean stood in front of it. It had taken forever for the shaggy head to rise, dead-seared eyes finally finding his. Swaying there a moment, then collapsing into his arms.

And Dean had enough hydration in him for a tear or two as he'd poured water over the scorched, panting body and waited for help to arrive.

"You remember any of that?"

Sam searched his memory. "Kinda? I mean, yeah, the heat and…yeah, it was bad. But at the end? Just…knowing I'd found what I was looking for, mostly. Someplace safe."

Dean's eyes were dull with sorrow. "Sorry it wasn't sooner."

"I'm glad it wasn't later," Sam said earnestly. "You came, man. That's what matters."

"Yeah…" Dean cleared his throat. "Chavez didn't say it, but they found a bottle of sedatives in Kepler's office. Looks like he knocked out his clients in his office, probably tied them up in the closet or something until he could get them out of there, then took their place, cleaned them out of money before they died. Bastard probably walked out of the office in his clients' skin after their meetings so they couldn't trace the disappearances back to him."

"But he's salted and burned?"

"Oh yeah. The cave, too. Figure, who knew what evidence was in there, right?"

"Yeah…" Sam sighed, rubbing at his eyes. "Dude…I wanna go home."

Dean gave him a wary look. "You sure you ready for that? Clothes? Sun? Folded up in the back seat for hours?"

"I'll wear the gown. It's loose. And you're gonna put towels over the back windows anyway." Dean had done that more than once before when Sam had been convalescing in the back. "And steal me some of that ointment."

Dean gave him a sheepish look and dug into his jacket pocket to pull out two full tubes.

Sam grinned. "Just put some towels down on the seat, too, so it doesn't get gunk on it."

Dean scratched the back of his neck. "Yeah, kinda did that already, too."

Sam looked at his brother, wondering how long it had taken for Dean to decide the shifter's text wasn't from him. Probably only seconds. Shapeshifters could peek into their victims' minds, yet none of them seemed to get just how well the brothers knew each other.

Which reminded him. "Oh, uh. Did you find the bag in the trunk?"

Dean eyed him. "The one you rolled in, like, a mile of duct tape? I saw it."

Sam gave him a sheepish look. "I didn't want you to open it. It's something for you." With his father's death at the wrestling ring, the kid had lost all interest in Gunnar's glove, the one that had made Dean's eyes light up. Sam had traded it for a stuffed bear that, preteen or not, the kid had hugged tightly while he waited for his mom to arrive.

Dean brightened even at the idea of a gift. "Oh, yeah?" He grinned a moment, then bobbed his head. "I, uh, might have something for you, too." He shrugged one-shouldered. "Turns out you can still find Rio posters on ebay."

Sam startled into a laugh. "No way!" And he had a permanent room now to put it up in. Er, if he were so inclined to.

"Should be waiting when we get back home," Dean said proudly.

Sam chuckled, shaking his head but unsurprised that they'd been on the same wavelength, again. It was the reason he was alive, again. But he didn't say any of that, didn't need to, just reached out a hand. "Help me up?"

"Okay, just go slow." Dean did a lot of the lifting while Sam tried to sit up with a minimum of pain.

His feet were bandaged and they still couldn't hold his weight without agony, so Sam sank into the magically appearing wheelchair with relief. And hunched forward to touch as little of the surface as possible. "This sucks," he puffed.

"Hey, look on the bright side," Dean said as he draped a blanket modestly over Sam's lap. His tone was teasing but his hand slid up into Sam's hair, one of the few spots that didn't hurt, until he could breathe without gasping again. "You're gonna have an awesome tan in a few days."

Sam groaned out a curse, and shut his eyes as they started moving.

"So," Dean continued lightly, "you gonna let the detectives know we're leaving town?"

Sam reopened his eyes, to catch sight of the white board they were rolling past. Wednesday. One week since their arrival. Dean had found him Saturday morning. And his brother had been there ever since.

Sam smiled, leaning gingerly back to look up into his brother's smiling but tired face. "What they don't know won't hurt 'em."

They rolled out the door together.

The End