Title: Intervention

Summary: There are days when Bobby really wishes he'd never answered his phone.

Spoilers: Up to and including Bedtime Stories

Warnings: Some language, some violence, and present tense.

Thanks go to Sendintheclowns for all the help and encouragement.

A/n: I debated whether this was actually three separate chapters, but they're designed to be read all in one go so I decided that would be the best way to post them. I stand by this as a one-shot, even if I have already started a second chapter. My attention span is fickle so I make no guarantees about when it will be readable, but since it's a one-shot that shouldn't really matter.

Intervention

It's a rhythmic tapping that wakes him, deep and even, and it rattles inside his head like that's where the source of the noise is. Like there's something buried deep inside there and it's burrowing its way out, past brain matter and nerve endings and tap tap tapping on his skull for release.

He shifts slightly, trying to relieve the pressure. Trying to give whatever demon has taken up residence in his skull some form of release. But moving is not a good idea. Moving just makes the throbbing louder and more violent, and now there's a low creaking groaning noise assaulting him too, like a hacksaw to his ears, and it's only when it pauses as he takes a breath that he realises the noise is him.

Dean opens his eyes and he knows where he is. He's back at the cabin, but he's not sure if that's where he should be. Not sure where the last place he remembers being is, what the last thing he remembers is, and he's in too much pain to figure it out now. But he's back in the cabin and he's warm in bed, and that means someone's taking care of him. That someone else can worry about those questions for now while he sleeps. While he tries to find some place where he can escape his own brain.

He opens his eyes some time later and the light is more soothing, the pressure in his head less raw. There's a presence in the room behind him, hovering but non-threatening, and while he thinks it's maybe what woke him he also knows that he's been brought indoors and tended to, his bruised knuckles have been bandaged, and he's safe.

"S'mmmm." He swallows down a wave of nausea and tries again, but it doesn't make any more sense. The figure's made its way around the bed now and is fading in and out of his vision, and his question is partially answered.

"He's just next door."

Not Sam. Bobby.

"Wha'…?"

"Take it easy. You've had quite a knock to the head."

No kidding. He can tell Bobby's using his indoor voice, but it still grates his skull.

"W're's S'mmm"

"He's in the next room," Bobby repeats himself uneasily, and Dean knew that, he'd just been told that, but 'Why is Sam next door, why is he not here, is he hurt, is he okay, and is there anything out there I need to hunt down and kill' seemed too long a sentence to manage right now, and he thought Bobby would have known him well enough to read between the lines.

"I've got things under control. You can rest for a while."

Dean's not quite sure if he's any more reassured, because that wasn't really an answer to any of his questions, and okay, he had never actually asked them out loud, but Dean's just woken up in a great deal of pain with no clue how he got here and no Sam in sight, so he figures Bobby should perhaps have known he needed a little more.

"You're safe now," Bobby pauses at the door to reassure him, as though that was what Dean had been waiting to hear, and he sounds so weary it gets Dean moving. Not that he can get far before the world starts dancing around him and strong arms are pushing him back into the pillows, and there's blood under Bobby's finger nails and his eyes are raw, like he hasn't slept in days, where as Dean feels like that's all he's done.

"Bobby… wha..?"

"Get some sleep. I'll tell you everything when you're up to it but there's nothing that needs to be done now except for you to get your head back in working order again, so…"

"How did I..?"

"I'm not going to waste either of our time by telling you this now, because you're not going to remember it an…"

"What? Sam..?"

"He's resting. Next door. Just like you should be doing. You remember me waking you up and us having this conversation the last two times I was in here?" Dean screws his face up in frustration, "I thought not. So what makes you think this time it's gonna stick? Just get your strength back. I'll hold the fort 'til then."

Dean's still not happy with the situation but he trusts Bobby with his life, thinks he probably just has been, literally, even if there is the slight haze of unease around the other man that tells Dean there's much more to the story than he's admitting. But Bobby's right about one thing – he is exhausted – and he honestly doesn't think he can do much about it at the moment other than sleep. So he'll just have to lean on Bobby for a little while longer.

His mind is much clearer the next time he wakes, and the pain in his head is down to more manageable levels, just the residual headache that flares every time his fingers probe the gash on the side of his head.

Bobby's nowhere in sight this time and, more importantly, there is still no Sam. He can sit up without feeling the need to throw up, so decides it's about time he tried to figure out just what was going on next door. But he's been stripped down to his boxers so he pauses to make time for clothes first, hoping that Sam was responsible for that part of the treatment.

There are bruises on his abdomen and his knuckles are raw. He's obviously been in a fight, but bedsides the blow to the head, a cut on his arm and some wicked bruises on his shoulder, he seems to have escaped fairly lightly.

Somehow that doesn't convince him he won.

Clothes acquired, Dean moves quietly to the bedroom door. He doesn't think Bobby will come straight out and stop him, but he isn't about to advertise his presence either. Not until he's reassured himself Sam is indeed safe and sound and sleeping in the next room. Because he needs to know what level to pitch his voice at when he starts demanding answers.

Exiting the bedroom into the main room of the cabin comes as a shock. Dean's not exactly house proud, but he usually tries to avoid property damage, if only because it makes keeping a low profile that much easier. But it seems like whatever happened that he can't remember involved breaking that general rule.

The room is a mess. Paintings hang crooked on the wall. The disgusting china lamp with its sickly floral shade is missing, as is the end table it sat on. All that's left is a shard of china peeking out from under the leather couch – torn – and one discarded ornate table leg with a bloody finger print waving up at him. He only finds that much because he accidentally stands on it and nearly sends himself sprawling.

The last time he remembers being here the main feature of the room was a large double glass door leading out onto the veranda. It's no-longer there, and that the space it occupied has been boarded up with plywood implies it's been missing for a while.

"What the..?"

Feeling more uneasy than ever, Dean cuts his examination of the damage short, and heads straight for the door at the other side of the room, grateful at least that it's still on its hinges.

He can sense Bobby sitting on a chair at the edge of the room to his left, and even as he feels grateful that the other man would have been in here, watching, it doesn't feel right. The mood of the room is all wrong. Bobby doesn't feel like someone who's been sat worrying or safeguarding. He is simply watching, and it makes Dean suddenly cold.

Ignoring any attempts at explanation Dean strides straight over to the figure in the bed, and as he lays eyes on his brother Dean could swear the temperature in the room drops.

Sam looks like that room. Trashed.

His face is mottled with bruises and a line of surgical tacks snake across his left cheek. There's a set of hand prints at his throat that cause Dean's jaw to clench.

There's a bandage taped across Sam's left shoulder and it's dotted with blood. The sheets that cover him are splashed with it too, and the coating on the mattress beneath him makes Dean's stomach churn, and he has to swallow down bile.

"What the hell happened?" Dean doesn't know why, but he has the sudden urge to hurt Bobby, like this is somehow his fault, but he's too sickened to move.

"What do you remember?" There's more caution and curiosity than compassion, and that's as wrong as anything else in this room. Because Sam looks like a corpse. He's pale under his bruising and Dean wonders if he can't see the spiral carving of that ornate table leg imbedded into the bruises on his brother's right side, disappearing under the bedclothes. The Bobby he knows would be furious. Would have told him who had done this and how he had killed them, with just the right degree of righteous anger. This Bobby is weary and resigned.

"God Sammy." He's probably not going to get a clearer explanation from his brother but that's where his focus wants to be right now. He doesn't know who did this, but he hopes to god his bloody knuckles do.

He can see the steady rise and fall of Sam's breathing but he wants to feel it for himself. He wants to check his pulse to prove his brother is still with him. But most of all Dean doesn't want to touch Sam, because he doesn't think there is a part of him that won't hurt at the lightest contact. So instead he ghosts his hands above his brother's face, takes in the damage, tracing down his wounded shoulder, his scraped arms, to...

"What the hell!"

Sam's hands are cuffed. His arms are stretched out on top of the covers at his side, but his hands are covering his stomach and they're cuffed. Dean's amazed it took him this long to notice, but it's one more shock in a long list of shocks, and his mind simply couldn't take them all in simultaneously. So the cuffs he's only noticing now, and the ropes fixing those to the bedpost show up just afterwards.

The cuffs he will touch, because those he wants to hurt.

"Get them off him. Now." Dean's voice is deadly. He doesn't need to raise it to express his fury, and he won't raise it while Sam is sleeping. Bobby may have tackled his fair share of pure evil, but he has the sense to know none of them were more dangerous than a Winchester protecting its own. Dean lays Sam's hand back on his chest with a gentleness completely at odds with the way he strides across the room and slams the other man into the wall.

"I said I want them off him. Now."

There's a flicker of uncertainty in Bobby's eyes, as close to fear as the seasoned hunter gets, and surprisingly it's that that convinces Dean the other man really is his Bobby. Because he knows well enough that Dean means business.

"That's not Sam."

There's no pleading or desperation, just simple fact, and Dean's not sure if that makes it less or more crazy.

"I think I know my own brother."

"Yeah. Me too. But you've got a head wound that proves otherwise."

"What? Are you saying..?" he fingers the gash subconsciously, as though he could prod it into confirming or denying this story. Now that he's close too again Dean can see the deep level of sleeplessness in Bobby's eyes, their shadows, and it causes him to rethink the instinct that Bobby was not in this room because he cared.

Dean desperately doesn't want to believe him, but he can't deny that they've both been well treated and made comfortable. Even 'Sam' has had his many injuries tended too, and Bobby's still giving off that vibe of 'safe'.

"You called me. Three days ago. Do you really not remember any of that?"

There might be some distant bells ringing, but Dean just shakes his head.

"Check your phone if you don't believe me. You called… About Sam. About how he'd been acting. You had some… concerns.

"Conc…"

"About what you told me in Elizabethville. About what the demon said. You were starting to worry. Said you wanted a second pair of eyes. A second opinion."

"And you gave it me?"

"I'm giving it you now. That isn't Sam. At least it wasn't when… The cuffs are just a precaution, because yes, that's Sam's body, but I don't know who's gonna be in charge when he wakes up."

"You think he's possessed?" This was too much and he was starting to feel dizzy again. At some point during the conversation Dean had made his way back over to his brother's bedside. It didn't matter what Bobby told him, the instinct to be close to his brother would not fade. "I thought those charms you gave us were supposed to…"

"They are. But that's not what I mean. I don't want to believe it. Hell, I spent a year beating down every hunter that ever suggested it, but you can't deny that you've thought it yourself. You asked me: What if he came back wrong?"

"What. So you're telling me…" Dean trails off rubbing his hands across his face. His head is throbbing again but the main source of the pain is in his chest now. "You're telling me what?"

"I don't know Dean. I don't know what happened. But I know what I saw. The last time I spoke to Sam he was fine. A little concerned about this job, but he was fine. Said you were driving him crazy barbequing everything you could get your hands on, but then you're always driving him crazy about one thing or another. Only I'm pretty sure he doesn't usually take a shovel to your head when it gets too much… although the thought's probably crossed his mind more than once."

"A shovel. That's what..?" He fingers the wound absently. He's clinging to Bobby's words but his eyes are on Sam. Won't leave his face. It's hard to make out his brother under the bruising but he can still see Sam there, and despite everything he looks peaceful in sleep. He looks young and hurt, and there is no way Dean can not respond to that. He just isn't built that way.

"Yeah."

"But if he…" this wasn't making sense. Dean clears his throat. "If he did this to me, then who… who attacked Sam?"

Bobby's silent for a long time and Dean's burning knuckles itch. Dawning comprehension is slowly leaking oxygen from the room, and it's becoming increasingly difficult to breathe.

"If we were the only two here and Sam attacked me, then how did he get so…?"

"I don't know."

Dean knows the look he is throwing the other man is both incredulous and despairing, but that's what he is right now. He has no memory of these events himself, and his brain is still too muggy to dredge them up, is having too hard a time coping with what his does know to try and work through anything else. Bobby has to know. Has to be able to explain this, so Dean can fix it.

"I only came in towards the end. Sam was already pretty beaten up by then. But the spirit you were after was a violent son of a bitch so we don't know how much of this damage was actually… you know… you…" Bobby trails off and Dean gives a slightly hysterical laugh. Like that was a comfort. That Dean could have caused any of it went against his entire belief system, but that he could have caused any of it after Sam was already hurt…

"The damage all looks fresh," he admits quietly through the cotton wool lining his mouth, and at the puzzled unease in Bobby's eyes he knows the other man has already figured out as much, and isn't quite sure what to do with the knowledge either. He clenches his fists absently, feeling the healing skin pull beneath its dressing, relishing the pain. The punishment.

"It was self defence." Bobby's tone is firm and convinced. "He didn't give you much choice."

"There's always a choice." Sam had given him a similar choice once before, and then he'd been strong enough to walk away. Then he'd had more faith in Sam.

"I'm so sorry little bro," he whispers, not caring that Bobby can hear. This man has seen him grieve for Sam and he'll never see him any lower. Without thinking he raises his hands over his brother's form, taking in once more the damage they inflicted; hovering them close to his brother's throat and knowing they match exactly the circle of discolouration he can see there.

"My guess is you were trying to restrain him. Choke him out so you could keep him contained, but I don't think he took to the idea too well."

Dean snorts at the understatement and doesn't know whether to be proud for his brother; it obviously took a lot of effort to sedate him.

"You don't remember the look in his eyes, Dean," Bobby breaks through his reverie quietly. "He was so… He meant it. What I saw… it wasn't Sam. And he meant it. He would have killed you. You kept him at bay until I got here. That's all you could do."

"No." He's shaking his head so fast the world is spinning, but it's already tumbled off its axis so he's not really registering the change. "No. There has to be something that… I mean, why would he just…? Things were fine." His hands are in his hair again. "The last I remember everything was fine. We were looking into this hunt, and…" Dean sits up straighter in his chair. "The hunt." And there's more conviction in those words than there has been in the world since he walked in here. "It has to be. Sam would never just… I mean, not now. With no prompting. But what if…"

"I thought about that," Bobby admits, but he's not looking hopeful, not like Dean who's clinging to this for all he's worth. Clinging to the fact that Sam might not have consciously just turned and tried to brain him with his own shovel. Not just had to be physically subdued. Not just convinced Dean so thoroughly that there was something deeply wrong here that he'd raised a hand to his own brother. Because he doesn't want to believe it, but he knows that if the alternative was letting Sam walk out of that door and into the world where he might never find him again, Dean would have fought to keep him.

"It brought out aggression," Dean presses "Stirred up homicidal tendencies. If it got its clutches into Sam…"

"That still doesn't detract from the main issue here," Bobby says guardedly. "We still don't know what's going to wake up. I've looked at some of Sam's notes…" he looks guilty; almost like he's ashamed at having pried. "He seemed to think that it wasn't actually a spirit, but was something more like an energy force. It wasn't a regular possession. If it was controlling him somehow, and it's still in there… Dean – we don't know what it is, and I have no idea how we would get it out of him."

"But some of the other victims..."

"None of the other victims survived."

"But… Neil Hampton. He…"

"Killed himself. Apparently. Two nights ago. You didn't pick up on that? There's a coroner's report on the desk over there. Why would he keep that from you?" Bobby looks puzzled, but that's the least of Dean's concerns right now.

"So we just… we just keep him contained until we can get it out of him. There's got to be an exorcism or a cleansing somewhere that'll… I mean… unless it's just influencing him. Bringing out tendencies that are already there… Then…"

They might not be able to exorcise him, because there might not be anything in there to get out. It could have just got in, flicked some switches in Sam's head, and left them to deal with the consequences.

"We can plan all you want, but until he actually wakes up we don't know what we're dealing with. And even then we can't really trust anything he tells us. I performed a couple of standard cleansing rituals, just in case, but… none of the other victims survived Dean. Their bodies, or their minds, just couldn't handle the long term effects."

"Then we don't let it get long term." Failing was simply not an option on this. Sam had to be okay, he simply had to be. Dean couldn't sell his soul for his brother only to have to put a bullet in him anyway. And whether or not Dean could do it was no-longer going to be an issue. If Sam really had just tried to kill him, then Bobby would not be letting him leave this room. Dean can tell by his demeanour how little Bobby is enjoying this situation, but he's also resolved. And all they can do is wait. It's all on Sam now.

"How long?" Dean clears his throat, trying desperately to find the moisture to form words. "Did you give him anything? When should he be waking up?"

"I didn't sedate him. I didn't have to." Bobby's looking shifty again now.

"He's been out for what…? Hours?"

"Blood loss was pretty… I thought he was okay until I moved him, and then he just… It took a while to control it, and I couldn't risk talking him to a hospital."

Dean looks at the bloodstains that have soaked into the covers and mattress and towels propped up to support Sam, at the rust coloured tinge that still lines Bobby's fingernails, and he knows the other man is being sparing with the details. Sam's still ghostly pale and Bobby looks wrecked, and that alone tells him how close it had been. And he was the one who'd done that, whether it was necessary or not. Sam had nearly bled out. If this had to be done at all it was not supposed to be done slowly. Sam was not supposed to suffer.

"What happened here?" He fingers the bandage at Sam's shoulder gently. "What... I stab him or something?" he asks bitterly.

"It's a gunshot wound. He was moving at the time…. It did more damage than I though."

"I shot him!" Dean's going to be sick. He'd shot his brother, and it wasn't exactly as though that had helped things turn out well for him in the end, either.

Bobby takes a deep breath, and Dean can feel the haze of detachment he'd been speaking through waver. That flicker of fear is back in the other man's eyes, and they're surprisingly moist.

"It wasn't you that shot him."

-0-

There's still no answer from Dean's cell, just an annoyingly perky offer for him to leave a message, one that's completely at odds with everything he's feeling right now. He could try Sam, but Bobby figures he's probably creeped the kid out enough for one week. His last call might not exactly have been smooth, but Bobby had been asked to talk to him, so talk to him he had.

And he has to admit, he hadn't seen what all the fuss was about.

But there was a fuss. Dean calling him was as close to as fuss as it was possible to get.

That man lived for his family. He was going to die for his family, so for him to admit to another person, just once, that Sam might not be the same brother he'd sold his soul for… That just didn't happen; not unless something had seriously got him rattled.

Bobby can still remember that quiet confession. It's etched into him - the pain and the fear. The sense of failure. It's haunted him a lot more than he cares to admit. Because he saw Sam in that grave yard too, and he can't deny that it chilled him.

But he also saw Sam fall. Felt the heat leach out of his once warm body. And the pain of that took him aback.

Because it's still Sam.

It's still the child that could sit on his front porch and reduce his fiercest Rottweiler to mush, small arms hanging around a muscled neck thicker than his own body. The gangly youth whose quiet interest in whatever Bobby was researching always broke through his gruff exterior, despite his own reluctance. No matter what else has happened, Bobby has to believe that.

So he will follow Dean's lead on this. Because if he doesn't want to let his mind go there, Bobby's surprised wild horses could drag Dean's anywhere near it.

For Dean to have said something twice… It makes Bobby uncomfortable just thinking about it. He'd figured it had been a one off. A brief instant of catching Dean without his walls in place; one never to be repeated and never to be alluded to again, yet taking up physical space in the room between them. Another smattering of festering guilt they can share every time Sam's booming laugh shakes his house, or he displays that now all too fleeting innocence.

Bobby tries the phone again, scowls, and tosses the useless contraption into the empty passenger seat with a curse. He doesn't know why he's this worked up.

Well… he does, he just doesn't want to acknowledge it. Doesn't want to believe it to be true. Because Dean had sounded so earnest on the phone. So lost. He could sense no change in Sam, but he wasn't the one that lived with the kid day in day out. Wasn't the one that had watched him through every stage of his life, sacrificed so much of himself just to keep the younger man standing. So he will bow down to Dean's superior knowledge of all things Sam.

A second opinion. He can do that. He isn't exactly sure what excuse he's going to come out with for this intrusion. I was just in the area, driving by… That sounds almost as lame as his last attempt, but if Dean would just answer his blasted phone like he'd said he would, this intervention might not even be necessary.

He's driven a hundred miles out of his way, he's grumpy and he's tired, but he can't say having Dean call him and tell him it was a wasted trip wouldn't be a dream come true right now. Anything to let him off this hook.

But Dean isn't calling. He isn't calling and he isn't responding, and that's sending out alarm signals Bobby doesn't even want to contemplate. Dean would not leave Bobby hanging on this issue unless he had to. He would not leave anyone with questioning thoughts about Sam for longer than was strictly necessary.

He rolls his shoulders and narrows his eyes, trying to focus on the road and not his own unease. Being a part of a network is nice - it's good to have people you trust watching your back - but if you have no attachments, you also have no stomach churning sense of disquiet when they aren't responding quite as you might expect them too. He can try and lie to himself all he wants, but the truth is clear by the sheer fact he's in this car at all. He's gone and gotten himself attached. He might have been able to see off their father, but they just came and sauntered on back in.

And like stray kittens, he fed them once and he's just not been able to get rid of them since.

He'd though Dean was like him; no attachments and no personal cries for help outside the family unit. Hell, nor inside the family unit if it could be helped, so he can't say he doesn't feel a little bit honoured the stubbornly independent man turned to him at all. Even if he does kinda wish he hadn't gotten involved.

They're probably working. They're probably fine. They're probably interviewing distraught family members, breaking and entering, or holed up in a library somewhere.

Dean's probably got his phone turned off because he's working.

But Dean wouldn't drop hints he wants Bobby to stop by and check his little brother's not going homicidal, and then not be awaiting his call. He can cover it up in jokes, hide behind his own bullshit attitude, but the fact he actually asked – whether he seriously expected Bobby to drop everything and follow up on it or not… That he could choke the words out at all speaks volumes, and Bobby can't in good conscience ignore his fears.

Whether Dean's expecting it or not, that kind of confession needs to be dealt with sooner rather than later. Intervention is always preferable before they've all reached the point of no return.

There's no sign of the Impala in town. A nice, coincidental bumping into them on the street meeting would have been too much to hope for.

He drives round a couple of times, building up the courage for what's coming next, but he's starting to attract some curious glances and he can't put it off any longer.

He's honestly not sure what he's more nervous about – that his presence might be needed here, or that it's not. If Sam ever found out they'd discussed this behind his back - his brother and one of the only hunters out there that wasn't sending out minions to kill him on a regular basis… It would destroy him.

They all have questions, and Bobby knows Sam has his doubts, but Dean's faith in him… Bobby sometimes thinks that's the only thing keeping the younger man going.

They've been in contact more than Dean thinks since Cold Oak, both of them scouring for a way to get Dean out of his deal. Sam might be becoming increasingly desperate, a little more reckless in the things he's willing to try, but Bobby would expect nothing less. His idiot of a big brother just went and sold his soul for him.

Dean's made it clear Sam's searching is not to be encouraged. Sam's probably just not as sneaky as he thinks he is. Kid never did like going behind his brother's back. He's probably giving off guilt vibes that could shake K2 to its foundations, so it's little wonder Dean's picking up there's something not quite right. And what the hell is Bobby supposed to tell him? He gets where they're both coming from, and no way is he playing piggy in the middle. Standing between the wills of two Winchester's is not the safest place on earth to be.

That's probably it.

Bobby tries to let his shoulders relax, but his fingers are still tapping on the steering wheel in agitation.

That's all it will be. Sam will have been looking for a way to save his brother, and Dean will be misreading his cagy attitude. This will all have been dragged out of proportion, and Bobby will have just driven 100 miles out of his way to intervene in a domestic the likes of which no-one has ever seen before. The smart thing to do would be to turn the car around and high-tail it out of here before he gets caught by the shockwave.

But he still remembers the way Sam emptied a whole clip into Jake's form; and while he'd told Bobby the crossroads demon wasn't the one who held the contract on Dean's soul, he'd neglected to mention the bitch was dead. And he can't say that one hadn't come as a bit of a surprise. So while he can hope all he wants that there's no immediate life or death reason for his pilgrimage, he can't leave until he knows the truth.

Whether he wants to know it or not.

Because as hard as this situation is for him to face, he doesn't come close to matching the level of pain those boys cause each other.

He doesn't pretend it will make a difference, but he will be there for both of them if they need it. Whether it's to block out the sound of hell hounds, or the manifestation of a too cruel fate, he will offer what he can.

If this is to play out the way Dean fears it is, then Bobby will be there for the elder Winchester it he's needed. And he will be there for Sam too. Because if Dean's fears are founded, then Bobby knows without a doubt what the Sam who once used up his daddy's whole supply of angelica to set up protective charms around old Mrs Denby's kennels, would want.

The turn off to the cabin where the Winchester's are staying is right where Dean said it would be, and Bobby feels the car slow without consciously planning to do it. There's a part of him that's still hoping he can observe them from the shadows, but they're too good for that. They'll probably drill him full of buck shot before he can begin to take comfort in their unified efforts to take him down.

Sam isn't stupid. It's likely he's already picked up on the fact something's wrong, and god forgive them, he will probably understand their actions even as he dies inside. But Bobby's here now, the cabin is in sight, and they should have already heard his approach. There is no going back. Hopefully Dean has spent the day thinking up a cover story on the off chance he showed, because it might be what he does, but Bobby's all conned out right now.

Bobby parks behind the Impala, at the front of the house. They're here then; he's not really seeing a reason for Dean not to be taking his calls. He knows they can get reception here – how else would Dean have been able to make that accursed call in the first place?

He takes a deep breath to steel himself, and gets out of the car.

He's gone two steps when he's met by the sound of shattering glass - spectacular in the silence of the evening - and the heavy, sickening thump of bodies smacking against wood.

He's ducked close to the ground and is whipping his gun out in front of him before he can really process the sound. It came from the other side of the property so he starts to skirt in that direction. He's keeping low, eyes scouring the building ahead, ears straining for any further indication of what he's just walked in on. He reaches the shelter of the structure, loses himself in its shadows, and makes his way around to the source of the disturbance. He doesn't know if it's just the brothers here, so he scoots under the windows to keep out of view of anything that might be lurking inside. Because it's just like a Winchester to take their work home with them.

All hope he might have had that he would find nothing wrong here has gone out of the window. And by the sound of it, literally. But they aren't in the area to take in the scenery, so he can't really judge as of yet what's actually going on.

"You don't have to do this Sam. It's for the best. You have to trust me."

Oh god.

He's approaching the corner of the building now and he can feel their presence at the other side, but his heart is clenching and he's not sure if he can get his legs to go the distance.

"I don't have to do anything you say. Not any more."

He turns the corner in time to see Sam knock Dean to the floor.

Dean's struggling to rise as his brother picks up a shovel. Bobby can see the fear in Dean's eyes from here, and it's world shattering. It convinces him more clearly than anything else could just what he's walked in on.

"Sam. This isn't the way. You don't have to do this. Just stop it."

There's a light in Sam's eyes that Bobby's never seen before. One he's never believed he'd live to see, despite the rumours, despite Dean's quiet confession. This isn't even the face that stared up at him while they performed the exorcism all those months ago. Because then the demon was playing.

This, now, is not a game.

"Oh… I'm gonna make it end."

Bobby sees the shovel start to swing. He knows its trajectory and force, and feels it in his gut. This can only have one outcome. And he won't stand here and watch it.

He made a promise that he would be there, that he would see this through. But for now he just prays he will be forgiven for doing just that.

He only has seconds to think; to way up his options.

Feeling more defeated than he's ever felt before, Bobby raises his gun once more, and he fires.

Sam's body is rocked by the impact, and the shovel still connects with Dean's head with some force. The sound of the blow is sickening, and it seems to freeze Sam and Bobby both. In fact, Bobby can only get his legs moving again when he's seen both Winchesters hit the ground.

Neither one is stirring.

He has to fight the instinct to tend to Dean first, to check out that head wound, but it was only a shoulder shot and Sam's eyes had been so determined that Bobby can't count on it to keep him down. Sam could be playing possum for all he knows, and Bobby's more than willing to let him; because while he's lying still with his eyes closed he's not trying to brain anyone, and Bobby can only think of that as a plus.

Sprawled at his feet as though sleeping, he looks just like the Sam that Bobby remembers. If he can erase the sight of that rage and that hate for even a minute, then he might just find the strength to breathe.

He checks Dean's pulse quickly as he passes, needing to reassure himself that his actions hadn't been in vain, and he's relieved to feel the steady throb beneath his fingers. He's fairly certain the ability to heal all of Dean's current ills will not be within his capabilities, but at least he has something to work on.

The shovel has fallen at Sam's side, and warily he reaches out and snags it away, tossing it far beyond their reach. There's some rope stacked with the pile of tools it came from, and while it's not the ideal solution, nothing about this whole situation has been ideal, so he'll just have to make the best of it. He binds Sam's arms and legs swiftly, gut clenching at the cold stillness beneath his hands, but he needs to make sure Sam can't bolt while Bobby's attention is on Dean.

Or that he can't try and finish the job.

Sam doesn't stir under his touch, and he tries to be grateful for that. Maybe Sam really is out of it for now. Bobby certainly hopes so, because he has no clue at all what to do when the kid wakes. That's Dean's territory. He knows it was the only thing he could have done in the given time, but Bobby's really not looking forward to the moment he tells Dean he shot his brother.

No matter what is really happening here, Bobby can make no major decisions without Dean. All he can do is try and keep Sam restrained until his brother wakes, and hopefully then there will be someone to explain to him what the hell is going on.

Sam's vitals are stable. Bobby hastily shrugs out of his shirt, tying it around Sam's shoulder as a make shift bandage, and Sam doesn't flinch at the pressure. That's what convinces Bobby the unconsciousness is genuine.

The wound will need treatment but the flow of blood is slow; now he's applied some pressure the real patch up job can wait. It's Dean that's just had his head cracked by a psycho. Sam's not going anywhere, Bobby's seen to that, so for now he'll just have to wait his turn.

"Come on… up you come."

He doesn't know why he's talking, it's not like Dean can hear him. The gash is bloody but surprisingly shallow. It's going to need stitches but at least it's just the skin that's torn and not the skull. Bobby would have had a harder time piecing that back together.

Dean's still breathing, and his pulse is as steady as the last time it was checked. Bobby had been so sure that blow would be fatal. He would never have believed some good could come from shooting Sam, but if the force of the impact rocked the younger man enough to throw off his trajectory, to wound rather than kill, then Bobby will not regret it. As long as Dean has breath to chew him out for it, he will not regret it.

He hoists Dean upright, and with one hand supporting the injured man around the waist, the other gripping the limp arm draped across his own shoulders, Bobby leads them uncertainly back towards the cabin. The light is failing and he wants to get Dean comfortable so he can assess him. Dean stirs slightly at the movement and Bobby wants to get him inside; doesn't want Dean to regain consciousness to see his younger brother prone and bound on the earth.

He lets out a low whistle as he crosses the threshold and takes in the damage done to the room, but Dean lets out a dull groan that gets him moving again. The property damage can wait; he needs to get Dean settled and seen to. Until he's fully aware what happened here he can't risk a hospital, but unfortunately he's seen his fair share of head wounds over the years, and he knows how to deal with them.

He's more careful in his ministrations than he thought he was capable of. He's patched up Dean before, but the younger hunter had been awake and snarking at the time, and that hadn't encouraged Bobby to be gentle. This time Dean's more out of it than not, and while he knows he'll need to wake the injured man periodically through the night, Bobby's more than willing to let him remain that way for now. He still has no idea what he's going to tell Dean when he finally wakes. Maybe when he's got Sam off the ground and assessed his physical condition, he'll have a better idea where to start.

Not that he can con himself into believing it's Sam's physical condition that either of them need to be worried about at the moment.

"I'll take care of it. You just rest here for now."

He's attempted to patch up Sam before too, but his mind doesn't like to go there. He has to have hope; hope that there is a way out of this. And it's that hope that gets him rising, pushing back through the damaged room and out into the falling dusk.

He's looking at Sam closely for the first time, and he's surprised by the damage he finds there. The bruises seem even more pronounced than they did only short minutes before, and they extend from his face down to his throat, his chest, his ribs. No wonder when his body hit the deck he hadn't been quick to get back up again.

Bobby's heart clenches contemplating what Sam must have said and done to make Dean do that. But Dean must have seen the murderous intent in his brother's eyes just as clearly as Bobby had, and that look had left no room for compromise. He just hopes they're not too late; that there's something of Sam still locked away beneath all that rage. Still something of that little boy left, waiting and willing to be set free.

To know that for sure, he has to get Sam inside. He has to patch up Sam's wounds and pray his mercy won't be their undoing. Hope it won't make things harder for Dean than this day has already been.

He lifts Sam, and the world really falls apart.

The wound that had previously been oozing small trickles of blood suddenly starts to pour in earnest. By the time Bobby has lifted the unresponsive form into a fireman's carry, the younger man is covered in it. Bobby can feel it flowing down his own back as he staggers up the three steps and into the house.

He deposits Sam hastily on the bed, eyes darting in panic to assess the damage. He presses down on the wound with all his strength but the blood's still coming, and his hands are slick as he tries to remove the bandage to see just what he's done. Fingers grope for the med kit on the nightstand, searching, straining, staining everything they encounter a sickly red.

He's trying to remain detached, trying to do what needs to be done, but he's had Sam's blood on his hands before. He's helped carry him and set him down on a bed and watched his colour bleach away, seen and felt the devastation left in his wake, and the cost was too high. It can not be paid again. He needs to be able to salvage something from this nightmare.

Sam's bleeding too fast and his hands are too damn slow, and he doesn't know when Dean will wake.

He just prays that by the time he does there will still be something left to save.

-0-

"It was a demon and it was coming at you. What the hell did you expect me to do?"

"I don't know. Maybe not shoot it in the head. I could have taken him."

"So when it's me in trouble you're allowed to pull the trigger but what… I'm supposed to politely ask him to stop hitting you and step into the circle please to be exorcised? Or, you know, take a load off while I finish drawing the damn thing first."

Sam can't believe they're having this conversation again. Isn't really sure what started it up this time, but he could do without the reminder of the ever increasing death toll. He gets that Dean's freaked, he does, but Dean wasn't the one that pulled the trigger. It's hard to repress when Dean can't stop going on about it.

"We screwed up Dean; you think I don't get that?" He breaks off at Dean's incredulous snort at his choice of words. "You know what, forget it. I'm not doing this again."

He's striding away before he's really aware of it. Storming off in the middle of an argument never won him a lot of points growing up and he can't believe he's reduced to it now, can't believe he's just slammed his bedroom door, but the air in that main room was just suddenly so hard to breathe. He's trying to keep it together through the demons and the deal and the fact that – oh yeah, he died. Does Dean want him to fall apart? How exactly would that make their lives easier?

A few more deep breaths and colour has started to return to the world. His hands are still shaking as he picks up the file from his desk, and he tightens his grip in an effort to still them. Hopefully by the time he's sat back on his bed to read he can pretend he's tucked away in here doing the research by choice; like reading it on the veranda in the sun with a beer wouldn't be preferable.

But it needs to be done, and if losing himself in the misfortune of others for a while allows him to forget his own, if only for a moment, then it's worth it. For that and the lives they will save.

Before long the laptop's open too, and the slow dial up connection is only exacerbating his temper. Why do they ever think staying in secluded cabins is going to be relaxing? But obviously he's more engrossed than he thinks he is, because by the time he looks up from the pages of notes he's been accumulating, not only is he pretty sure he's close to figuring out what they're dealing with here, but evening has drawn in.

Sam cringes. He might have been productive, but to all intents and purposes he's just sulked in his room for the last five hours.

He runs a hand through his hair wearily, rolling his shoulders to ease out the kinks of hunching a six foot four frame around a small laptop computer. He's suddenly tired and wants to sleep, but his soul is more tired than his body and that needs fixing first. At this point an evening with his brother and a beer and no raised voices is probably the only thing that's going to do it.

Well... The only thing that could be achievable within the next couple of hours, and he stands up abruptly, papers spilling to the floor, to avoid his mind following up on that train of thought.

The living room is empty; Dean must be outside enjoying the last of the sun. He snags a couple of beers on the way and steps out of the glass doors and onto their mini veranda.

The fresh air is soothing. He can feel it blowing the cobwebs away and he can feel himself starting to relax. He has to admit, this is one of the nicer places they've stayed lately, and he only feels a little guilty that the owners don't realise they're here. They'll leave it as they found it, with only as few condiments missing. But unless they measured the level of their salt supply before they left, Mr and Mrs Winter Hunting Retreat will never notice they're here.

Sam's not the only one who's been busy, but it looks as though Dean has spent the entire five hours preparing meat. Sam's not sure if he's ever seen so much in one place before, and he spent last Thursday night tracking a ­­­revenant through a slaughterhouse.

Dean accepts the beer he's handed with a nod and a smile, the closest they will come to acknowledging their previous disagreement, and Sam's not sure if Dean's accepting it as Sam's apology of offering it as his own.

It doesn't matter any more.

He can sense Dean watching him, throwing not so casual glances every now and then from over the barbeque he's lighting, but he doesn't care. He just rests his elbows on the wooden railing surrounding their veranda, swigs his beer, and watches his brother work. Or watches the horizon. The sun setting behind the trees. Dean's happy with his task and the silence is comfortable, and Sam doesn't know when he last felt as at peace.

"Sam, pass me that skewer will ya?"

Sam smiles and takes the fact he will have to leave the porch to reach it as a sign Dean wants this meal to be a team effort. You never can tell. He's got disconcertedly into barbequing things since they got here, and Sam's efforts have been disparaged.

"Where on earth did you get all this?" Sam asks, indicating to the picnic table loaded with meat products of various shapes and sizes. "You didn't kill and hack up a deer while I was in there did you?"

Dean makes a show of being affronted but his hearts not really in it. It's been so long since they've eaten anything they prepared themselves, anything that didn't come from a truck stop diner, that he's probably too pleased with himself to care. That doesn't mean Sam has to let him off lightly though. Being annoying is what little brothers are for, and Dean should perhaps have thought about that before bringing him back from the dead.

"You leave any food for the rest of the villagers? You know, I think there's some road kill on the lane a couple of miles back that you haven't cooked. You want me to…hey!" he's dodging a ketchup bottle, but before he can decide the merits of this degenerating into a full on food fight – a form of warfare Sam rarely wins – his phone's ringing, giving him the opening to bow out with dignity.

"Bobby, hey." Dean's brow is furrowed and he's looking pensive, and Sam knows it probably matches his own expression. They're not due to meet up with the other hunter for another couple of weeks, and while they try to keep in touch Sam can't pretend they don't usually only call when they need something. When something's happened.

"Tell him I say we'll call back later. You don't have to talk to him now." Dean is practically pleading, even if his attention is fixed on the grill like it's the only thing in the world.

"It might be important, I won't be long." He's not sure what he's trying to reassure Dean of, but he can tell it doesn't matter how quick he makes this call; the moments over. He's not sure how it ended so quickly, what caused Dean to withdraw, but he's almost wishing for the opportunity to spend the next three days washing Tabasco sauce out of his hair, if it would stop Dean from looking so small.

"What's up? Anything heading our way we should know about?"

"Not really, just checking in. Wondered if I could pick your brains about a symbol I keep coming across. I know I've seen it before, just wondered if it rang any bells with you. I've emailed you a copy if you could take a look. No rush, it's just background reading. Whenever you've got a free minute."

"Yeah, okay." Sam's pacing as he listens. He can sense Dean watching him and he catches his brother's eye and frowns to express his confusion. Bobby's like a reference book for all things occult. It's usually them that ask him to look into this type of thing.

"That it? Everything else okay?"

"Can't complain. How's things your end?"

He seems to genuinely want to know, so Sam tells him, filling him in on the exploits of their latest hunt and Dean's new found culinary expertise, and before long the weirdness is gone and he's laughing at Bobby's insistence he stock up on stomach settlers in advance.

"Dude, you girls gonna chat all night?" Dean calls, and Sam's relieved to see he's only feigning grumpy now. At least Sam thinks he is.

"Dunno what that was about," Sam admits, catching the bread bun being thrown at him. "Maybe he's getting lonely without us. Seemed to genuinely just want someone to talk to. Do you think he's okay?"

"I'm sure he's fine Sam," Dean smiles at him.

"You think we should head over his way when we get done here? Just in case?"

"If you want." Dean looks suddenly contemplative again. Sam's about to push him to see if he's genuinely worried about their friend, when Dean suddenly comes to life again.

"Okay, we got pork sausages, lamb sausages, burgers, stakes, chicken wings, drumsticks, and… I'm not sure what that was." Dean pokes an especially charred looking item to the side with his tongues.

"Now wouldn't be a good time to tell you I'm thinking of becoming a vegetarian, would it? Sam offers innocently, and his whole weight is rocked by the force with which Dean slams a burger into the open bun in his hands.

It's dropping cool but Sam's reluctant to head in. He's not sure if he can actually stand, let alone make it up the three steps into the cabin. He's tried to complain but as Dean pointed out, it wasn't as if he actually force fed Sam those last three drumsticks. It's not too long before he can't hide the shivers though, and then he's herded, cattle like, in for the night.

The following day passes in a blur of interviews and leg work. He fills Dean in on yesterday's research over breakfast, before they head out to talk to more of the victims' family and friends, trying to get a better idea of their prey's MO. Then they pace the streets trying to find it; not that Sam's 100 per cent sure what they'll do with it when they do.

"What are we even looking for?" Dean sighs at last, sinking into a booth in a local coffee shop. "People acting unusually aggressive towards their fellow man?"

"I guess."

He shifts uncomfortably in his seat, absently pinching the bridge of his nose. He can feel a headache coming on, he's that tired, but he can live with it. Maybe that's part of the problem. "Eight deaths so far in such a small town… and we don't even know where to look."

It was true that you could feel the tension and unease coming off the townspeople, thanks to so much unexplained violence in such a short space of time. It made their lives harder because people were now naturally suspicious of strangers. Even now Sam could feel their eyes on him, and all they were doing was ordering coffee.

"Pretty much everyone here is highly strung. Everyone's on an emotional overload, so how can we tell what's just a normal reaction?" Dean griped. "We're just playing catch up here. We should be going after the source, not waiting around until we get our next victim. We can't just wait until we walk in on a murder to determine who this thing's in."

He's right. Sam knows he's right, he doesn't want to just sit around and wait either, but they don't have a lot more to go on. They know how it works, influencing its host's emotions and sending them on a killing spree, but they don't know what it is. Sam's starting to think it isn't a spirit at all. They certainly haven't been able to trace it back to an original source, something they can salt and burn, and there have been no clear patterns in how it chooses its victims.

They need to do more research, expand their thinking, but with Hampton dead this thing's already cruising for its next host.

"Okay, how about you head back, try and dig a little deeper? I'll stay here; keep an eye on the good town's folk."

It's late before the rumble of the Impala heralds Dean's arrival. Sam's highly caffeinated and his headache never really went away, and he only notices his own level of unease when the sound of his brother's return erases it.

"Well that was a complete waste of a day," Dean grumbles in place of a greeting. "Please tell me you found something. We should maybe head out again in a couple of hours, but there's only so long you can spend milling around the streets looking inconspicuous before people start to notice. Especially if you look this good."

"You're not really built for under cover are you?" Sam sympathises sadly.

"Depends on your definition of undercover."

Sam rolls his eyes and stands. Well he can't say he didn't walk into that one, but at least Dean seems good natured. He's too tired for another unexplained fight, and there's an anxiety plaguing him in the back of his mind that's begging for his attention.

"Hey, so I looked at that symbol Bobby sent us, and can I just say – random much?"

"What do you mean?"

"I don't know. There's just something off about this whole thing." He's moved into the kitchen now and is hunting for clean mugs. More coffee is probably not the best idea but the action of making it is soothing, and distracts him from other thoughts.

"You think too much little brother."

"Well yeah," he replies absently, "It's what I do."

"I gotta say, it's kind of annoying."

"Well, we can't all rely on our looks alone." He opens the fridge, bends over to find some milk, and the lights in the kitchen start to flicker, but by the time he's straightened up they've sorted themselves out.

"Huh."

He turns and practically collides with his brother, who's followed him to the fridge door. Dean's resting with one arm leaning against the counter to his side, his body positioned firmly in front of the appliance, practically trapping Sam inside it.

"Dude, personal space much." He closes the fridge door and manoeuvres himself through the gap between it and Dean, frowning when his brother fails to move to let him by.

"Maybe he's checking up on ya."

"Hmmmm?"

"Keeping tabs. A watchful eye. Well, he's not calling me randomly to chat about my feeling."

"What are you talking about?"

"Nothing. Just thinking out loud. I thought you wanted to talk about this. You don't seem able to let it drop."

"Yeah, but…"

"Ahhh, I see. You wanna talk about it but you wanna ignore the truth. Find an explanation that sits fine and dandy in Sam land."

"Why would you..?" Slamming the milk onto the counter he spins on the spot to confront his brother. He's so tired of riddles and attitude and arguments he doesn't see coming. The wave of anger is almost blinding, but Dean's just stood watching the light with an absent expression, and the lights are flickering. When he finally lowers his gaze to meet Sam's, the expression on Dean's face is unrecognisable.

"You know, for someone who spends so much time thinking, you can be really stupid at times."

He proves his words with a punch Sam doesn't see coming. It rocks him on his heels and he collides into the counter behind him, jarring his hip against the solid wood.

"Dean! What the..?"

But he doesn't really have to ask. Dean grabbing his shirt at the back of his neck and slamming his face into the counter is answer enough, and Sam's seeing stars, but without even pausing in his momentum, Dean swings Sam around and past him, throwing him out into the living room.

Sam still hasn't found his feet and he's airborne. He collides into the small end table with the shattering of china, and the entire structure gives under his weight. Shards of lamp are digging into his skin and his side is splintered, and for a moment his brain is still trying to catch up with his body. He's lying stupefied, pushing away the pain and coming to himself just in time to see Dean striding out of the kitchen towards him.

He's made it to his knees when the kick comes his way and his hands are out to meet it, deflecting its force away from his torso and forcing Dean to step back to regain his balance. It's given Sam the time he needed to scramble to his feet, but if anything Dean looks even more enraged than he did before. Disgusted that Sam might have touched him. Might have denied him the sound of bones crushing beneath his booted heel.

He's still trying to piece it together, exactly when this got so wrong, but there's no time. Whatever's compelling Dean's actions, it doesn't seem to need to breathe like he does, and it's already charging again. He can't get out of its way, hemmed in by a sofa and his own inhibition, and is slammed against the wall with a force that could dent it. There are spots in front of his eyes and he tries to blink them away, tries to find some purchase to stop himself from falling once more to this creature's feet.

"Dean, stop it." He manages to break the hold on his shirt front, pushing his brother away, struggling for balance now his weight is no-longer being supported.

"Stop it. I know this isn't you. I don't want to hurt you."

And he doesn't. He doesn't want to fight back, because it might not be Dean in control but it's still his body and god, he's done this before. He's been there himself, and he's honestly not sure if it's any better from this side of the line. The last time he fought his brother he wasn't the one holding the reigns, but he is this time. He still knows what it sounds like, still dreams of it; his knuckles connecting with Dean's skull. He can still feel the betrayal.

And he can't live it again. Not like this.

"No? But I really wanna see you try." That cocky grin is familiar but wrong all at once, and Sam takes a step away from the wall to meet it, shoulders set, jaw determined. He doesn't want to hurt his brother, but he knows this thing isn't going to give him much of a choice.

They've reached a stalemate of kinds. Sam's found his centre of balance and has been given time to breathe, and there's something sickeningly familiar about this stance from the thousands of training sessions they've had over the years. He knows his brother's technique and his moves as well as the thing in Dean's head. Knows when to duck and when to block. They're more evenly matched than they were before Sam left for collage, but only one is willing to play fair. Sam will defend but is still reluctant to attack, and he knows it will cost him in time. He's already tiring and he knows the first miss hit, the first time he falters, and he will go down hard.

It's clear he's lasted longer than 'Dean' thought he would. It's losing patience and its blows are becoming increasingly vicious. It wants Sam to just roll over and die. Sam's forced to up his own game just to stay in the fight. He strikes out and kicks his brother's side again, but he's not trying to floor him just yet, it's more about maintaining enough distance between them so he can think. So he can try and break through, assess just how much of his brother is still in there.

"Oh now that's just weak." It deflects his next move easily, and with a delight that leaves Sam cold. "No wonder he's always having to save your ass. You know, it's fighting like that that's going to get you killed," It grins wickedly, stalking around Sam like the predator he is. "But then yeah…I guess you do know…"

Taking advantage of his jolt of anguish it gets a couple of good blows to Sam's face. There's blood in his eyes, and he knows he's alone in this fight. Sam knows what Dean feels like when he's holding back, and this isn't it.

He's struggling to right himself and his vision is compromised, and Sam knows he has to act right now. He has to get Dean down and out somehow, if that's even possible. He doesn't know if knocking out the body will keep it down or if the thing inside will carry on regardless, but he's the only one here and he can't leave it in Dean. He can't leave Dean free to walk into town and continue this things random killing spree. It's not responding to his pleas for time, and his grunts of pain only seem to egg it on further.

"Oh come on. Just give it up already. Stop trying to pretend you don't know how this is going to end. Did you ever think this might be what's easier for Dean? Let him live out his days without having to worry about your sorry ass."

Dean's keeping to Sam's left now, and as his eye is already starting to swell it's hard to keep him in sight. He has to remain in constant motion to follow its steady stalking path, and the circling is making him dizzy. He's becoming conscious that he's slowly being herded back into the centre of the room where there are more objects to block his path. He's breathing heavily now, he's growing nauseas, and he has to spit out blood before it chokes him. He knows Dean must at least be winded, he's got a couple of good shots in himself, but Dean's form doesn't even look fazed.

"It's what you want, isn't it? It can all end here. Don't tell me you haven't thought about it. This can be your excuse not to fight. Not to fail. Does it count as failure if you're already dead..?"

He's backed into the ruins of the table and he staggers, scrambling backwards swiftly but clumsily to the clear ground beyond, keeping the debris between them like he can pretend they're a shield. A larger barricade than the small smattering of wood Dean merely kicks aside.

There's an out of place melodic rhythm keeping pace with Dean's advance, and for some reason they both look down to see one of the ornate spiral carved legs of the spindly table rolling merrily at Dean's side. The sight of the coils expanding and contracting as they roll is almost hypnotic, but Sam tears his gaze away only to see that Dean has not. There's a ferial grin on Dean's face now that Sam can't deny he's seen before, but never that twisted, and never when the contemplated violence is to be aimed at him.

With his eyes and smile fixed on Sam, Dean slowly bends, hands searching for the wooden pole. Sam does attack then. He takes the initiative for the first time because the hand-to-hand had been exhausting enough, and he's not idly standing by and watching Dean acquire a weapon. They've got enough of them stashed around the cabin as it is, Sam's surprised it hasn't already taken its pick. But there's something primal about that carved length of wood, completely at odds with its decorative purpose. Something primal about the glint in Dean's eyes, and it screams of the violence to come.

Sam strikes out and kicks Dean in his raised chin, snapping his head back, but Dean's hand never stops searching and he swings the table leg around like a bat, swiping the one leg Sam's still got planted on the ground, at the back of his knee, hard.

Sam twists to regain his balance and manages to grab onto the arm of the sofa to stop himself from completely hitting the floor. His legs aren't supporting him and Dean's already standing again, is raising the club once more for a swift blow to his side and another to his arms - the only things keeping him upright.

Sam gets a foot planted on his brother's chest as Dean advances though. Ignoring the pain from his already swelling knee Sam extends his long leg hard, shoving Dean away and into the counter dividing the kitchen and living area. The one Sam's face met so cruelly only minutes earlier.

But Dean's hands never relinquish their grip on his baton.

Dean's snarl is inhuman. Sam knows from experience striking the counter's overhang at hip level can be painful, and it seems like he might actually have managed to hurt it.

It really isn't taking to the idea too kindly.

Sam's back on his feet again but it's charging with all Dean's bulk and speed, and he barely has time to merely brace himself before Dean's swinging again.

The blows are fast and brutal. Side, elbow, chest, neck. They're so close now they're just a tangle of limbs and it's hard to manoeuvre a blow with any force, but even as he's gasping and crying out in pain there's a smile on Dean's face and a laugh on Dean's lips that's more painful than any punch.

But Dean's momentum is still propelling him and they're going down hard. Sam tried to roll so Dean's shoulder takes the impact from the ground, but his brother's features don't even acknowledge the pain; he just takes advantage of what Sam's started and continues rolling them until Sam's back is planted firmly against the rug, and there's an elbow in his stomach and a shard of china in the flesh of his back, and this time his layers of clothing aren't protecting him at all.

And then Dean's hands are on his throat and all the other aches and pains fade into oblivion.

He can't breathe.

"Why don't you see? This is what's best for Dean. It will stop the worrying. He's going to die anyway; at least this way he can take you out too. Then he doesn't have to worry about what he's leaving behind. The thing he set loose in the world"

Dean's eyes are boring into his own, clouded with hate, and Sam would know better than to appeal to them even if he had the breath to form words. He can't deny they're still Dean's eyes, even if they have been twisted, and they are the last things he's ever going to see. He'd known what this thing was trying to do but it's only as he's lying here, clawing feebly at his brother's hands on his throat, trying to buck Dean's weight, that it actually hits him. He's going to die here. Dean will kill him.

And he doesn't have to worry about how Dean will live with himself after the fact.

Sam's mind flashes back to the coroner's report on Neil Hampton he'd managed to get hold off that morning. The preliminary findings rule suicide, and that just confirms it. Hannah Barker and Gene Buckmeister's deaths have been ruled as inconclusive, but Hampton had pretty definitively shot himself in the head.

His vision is fading. The pulse in his temple is reaching bursting point and the pressure in his chest is almost paralysing, but the conviction and determination are back in force.

If he dies, Dean's dead too. Because he's the only one that's going to at least try and stop this from all playing out the way is has three times before.

He doesn't want to hurt Dean, but he wants Dean to hurt himself even less.

The desperation gives him strength, and a little more clarity. His right arm leaves its post pushing at Dean's grinning form and reaches out to his side, fingers splayed and searching, finally coming to rest on a broken fragment of the tasteless chintz lamp that Dean had loved so much.

The encroaching blackness doesn't give him much time to think about it. He just raises his watery limb, and with his last remaining ounce of strength slashes the broken edge deeply along Dean's straining arm.

The pressure on his throat has lessened and he can bring in air, and he's coughing and struggling. Blood is rushing through his ears and his vision is dancing, the colours are all wrong, but he's pushing against the weight pressing down on him. Pushing and rolling and striking out at any part of it that comes near him.

He can barely stand and he has no idea how he's made it back onto his feet, he just knows that he has to end this. Dean's eyes are glowering at him in surprise and he knows it hadn't expected him to fight back, not really. Knows the fact he's still alive surprises it as much as it does him, and Sam thinks maybe that's the only advantage he has, right there. So without even pausing to think about it, without checking their position or looking out for potential threats, he just throws himself at his brother's form before his mind can catch up. Before it can decide unconsciousness would in fact be the more appealing option.

His tackle hits Dean head on and they're both sailing shoulder first into the giant glass windows, flimsy wooden frames giving under their weight. They hit the veranda, rolling hard. Dean breaks free but Sam's momentum carries him onwards, thumping down the three steps onto the grass below.

There's a few seconds of near silence; just the tinkling of glass and the groaning shift of limbs. Sam's on his back and he tests out first one leg then the other, flexing knees and joints to determine if anything's broken. Trying to decide if he can move without inciting the rising nausea.

He's struggling to sit up, gasping for air, and out of the corner of his eye he can see Dean's form doing the same thing above him. It doesn't look nearly as bothered by the fall as Sam. It will recover itself sooner, and it has the advantage of higher ground.

"You have to stop this Sam. It's for the best. You have to trust me."

Sam shakes his head and limps away a few paces. He can barely stand and he can't handle Dean's taunts.

He needs to lure Dean down from his pedestal.

"I don't have to do anything you say. Not any more."

He's surprised by how cold his voice is. It tears its way out of his bruised throat, bring out an involuntary sob, but he can see there is power in his words. Power in his refusal to play his role in this thing's game. Sam knows none of the other victims had his training, his ability to fight back. To make the game last this long.

Sam ponders for the first time whether the entity wonders if he could actually beat it. It doesn't seem to like the idea that just maybe he could. Sam has to cling to that for all he's worth; has to concentrate on something other than the way the world is spirally around his uneven steps.

It drives its hosts to death, but Sam doesn't think it's actually in them when they die. There are some vague accounts spinning in the back of his mind, absent theories that state one of the ways to kill these malicious entities is to kill it with its host. Take them both down. Obviously that's not something he's prepared to do, but it doesn't know that. If it can access Dean's thoughts and their recent arguments are anything to go by, it probably thinks he would.

And it would jump.

It would leave Dean's body to die, and a moment before impact, it would jump. The energy needed to expel it would probably be enough to cause it to go to ground again, if only for a short time. They'd be back where they started from this morning, but that's preferable by far to being here. He just has to make it believe he's really going to see it through to the end. If there's a second's doubt in his eyes, if it sees his hesitation, then they both die.

Dean's down the steps now and is striding towards him. Sam sees a scattering of tools leaning against the cabin's wall, and a plan is forming through the fog.

Before Dean can make the first move Sam does it for him. He feigns to the right, and perhaps because it's such a stupid ruse Dean believes him. It doesn't recognise the balance of Sam's weight before it's shifted its own. Dean's still lurching to Sam's left to avoid the anticipated blow as Sam shifts back, then sends a swinging kick out with his right leg. He catches Dean hard on the shoulder, using his brother's own momentum to send him crashing to the floor, leaving the way clear for Sam to step by him.

He throws Dean a look of sheer fury as he passes, and he doesn't have to fake it to make it true. He's beyond angry. He's fuming that they could have got themselves here, that all their healing therapies can be so easily undone. He's incensed at the thing inside his brother for driving them to this; for voicing truths that were better left unspoken.

Because he knows what it feels like to be violated like that; to have no control over what your body is forced to do. He knows first hand the emptiness and the horror, the knowledge you can never be whole or clean again. And he would wish that on no-one, least of all on Dean…

Dean and the guilt that he will wake to...

Sam can only pray that his brother is not consciously aware of the actions playing out around him, but he's past believing that fate could be that kind.

"Sam. This isn't the way. You don't have to do this. Just stop it..."

That there's a hint of desperation in Dean's voice only makes his determination stronger, even as it sickens him. There's a shovel in his hands and his fingers clench convulsively to find the best grip. Dean's already starting to rise and he has to do this now. Has to swing at his brother's head and convince him that he means it.

He's acting out every one of his nightmares, living them; seeing the look on his brother's face that tells him Dean believes he could actually do this; swing at a fatal trajectory without his face muscles twitching his disgust. It's is too close to home and he wants to vomit, but he knows he can throw the move. He knows it's going to connect, it has to. He knows it's going to hurt like a bitch. But he can pull back at the last second, and despite his posture, his full weight isn't behind it.

"Oh… I'm gonna make it stop," he promises.

Sam tries not to see the pleading look in Dean's eyes, and he swings.

There's a moment of blinding pain and the shovel slips. The impact reverberates through the wooden handle and up his arms, and the sickening thud of his brother's head as it meets the metal makes his legs weak. Dean's crumpling before his eyes, and Sam wasn't supposed to do that. It was supposed to connect, but not with enough force to snap Dean's face away from him and send him thumping into the dust.

The shovel falls from his numb grasp and he tries to move, tries to call out his brother's name, stop the trickle of blood he can already see flowing. Blood that he spilt, again, the colour of it branding his eyes. But he's powerless to move. Powerless against the wave of guilt and fatigue that hits him, that ripples through him until he can feel every scrape and every blow.

Dean tilts sideways and away from him until all Sam can see is sky, and he's not even aware he's falling until he hits the ground.

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