Previously appeared in Road Trip With My Brother 2 (2006), from Agent With Style

I'd Leave For You
K Hanna Korossy

He was distracted. They were talking about something, laughing. He wasn't paying attention. Wasn't expecting anything to go wrong.

Sam stopped, looked around. The background itself was shady and blurred, no details he would recognize later except that it was outside. Nothing he knew besides himself and Dean, and a sense of all-too-familiar foreboding. He tensed in anticipation even as he glanced at his brother.

Need crawled over him like a swarm of ants, without warning or chance of escape. Sam's expression flickered from contented to focused in a fragment of a second.

Dean stepped in front of him, arms spread as if in supplication. Or sacrifice.

Need turned just as quickly to rage. Sam raised his gun.

It happened too fast. One second they were talking, the next all he could stare at, all he could see, was his brother lying on the ground, unmoving, eyes open and blank. The same expression of death as after Max had shot him.

No. Dean!

Sam shot up in bed, chest heaving, his brother's name a soundless yell on his lips. It was dark, it wasn't outside, no body in sight. Sam's gaze bounced around the room, finally landing on the bed next to him, where his brother lay in a sprawl of limbs and blankets, asleep. Alive.

Oh, God. Sam gulped, feeling sick, unable to pull his eyes away from Dean. He'd killed his brother. Sam had felt the hatred, pulled the trigger, seen the light go out of Dean's eyes. Who wasn't dead, but the nightmare remained visceral and vivid. Sam hunched over, breathing in short, sharp pants.

It was just a nightmare, Sam's worst nightmare. Probably a memory from the asylum. He'd done his best to murder his brother then, and the thought still nauseated Sam. Shooting Dean wasn't impossible because he'd already done it.

He drew a shaky hand down his face, wiping away perspiration and clinging horror. He desperately wanted to wake Dean, to talk to him and let it soak in that his brother was still alive, that Sam hadn't killed him. He slid one leg off the bed…and stopped. He'd freaked the guy out enough lately without telling him he'd just witnessed himself shooting Dean. Again. That already freaked out Sam enough for both of them.

He slid back into bed, feeling the dampness of his t-shirt along his back. Right, just a nightmare. Not like that was anything new in his world.

But as Sam slipped back into uneasy sleep, his stomach was still knotted with dread.

00000

Dean barely raised an eyebrow as Sam stumbled past him toward the bathroom, just kept reading the paper and chewing on what looked like congealed hash browns. Sam didn't even attempt conversation until he'd thrown some water on his face and taken a few sips of the coffee Dean had silently handed him when he'd emerged.

His brother was eyeing him over the top of the newspaper.

"What?"

A hitch of the shoulders. "Nothin'. You sleep okay last night?"

"Good morning to you, too."

Dean took the hint, for once. A bare whatever flicker of the face, and he folded the paper and slid it over to Sam. "There was another one last night."

Sam picked it up, ran an eye over the headline: Community Shaken by Sixth Murder in Two Weeks. He looked up at Dean. "Same circumstances?"

Dean nodded. "Guy disappears from a bar, turns up at the edge of town looking like raw hamburger. Nobody saw anything." An exasperated tilt of the head. "That's the part that gets me—these guys are always at bars, parties, places full of people, and nobody ever sees anything?"

"They're parties and bars, Dean—nobody's paying attention." Still, six unnoticed vanishings was strange, and the reason the two of them were there in Nebraska. Sam pushed away the breakfast sandwich Dean had set in front of him and kept reading. "The victim was twenty-three. That makes him, what, the second oldest so far?"

Dean was putting a truly frightening amount of ketchup on his own sandwich. "Yeah, all young men, eighteen to twenty-five. Whatever this is, it's picking its victims."

Sam took a breath. "Maybe it's something that feeds on vitality, choosing victims who are at their peak."

"Twenty-six isn't past the peak, dude," Dean huffed. At Sam's weary glare, he made a face. "Okay, fine, it could be something like that. Or it could be about sex, or being unfaithful, or freaky pheromones, or about ten other things."

Sam was rubbing his throbbing forehead, but tilted his head up enough to give his brother a half-smile. "Pheromones?"

An exasperated sigh. "I do have my GED, Sam." Dean narrowed his eyes at him. "You sure you're feeling okay?"

He pried his fingers loose from his temples and nodded. "I'm fine. So where do you want to start with the victims' families?"

A lingering look told him Dean wasn't completely satisfied, but he offered Sam a notebook, a list of names and notes scrawled in his brother's unmistakable script. "Third one down, Jimmy Azcarraga. His family lives in town and he disappeared from a party his parents were throwing." Dean gave him a significant look. "For him."

Sam's mouth flattened. "So the guest of honor vanishes and no one notices? That is kinda strange."

Dean canted his head in agreement.

Sam exhaled. "Okay, let's go."

"Finish your breakfast first." Dean was swallowing his last bite and wiping red off his fingers.

Sam's stomach lurched. He stood, coffee in hand. "I'm not hungry."

Dean shot him another glance, but he didn't ask, just began gathering their stuff.

He did have an awesome brother sometimes. Sam didn't know what he'd do without him, and never wanted to.

00000

He didn't have much more of an appetite for lunch, but Sam made the effort, biting into a tasteless hot dog. Usually when he made the mistake of letting Dean fix one for him, it came back dripping with chili, cheese, and just about every other condiment possible, once including a hidden layer of hot peppers that had Sam grabbing for his coke. This time it was just his preferred ketchup and mayo with onions. Dean was still cutting him slack for a bad night, as if the sideways glances all morning hadn't clued him in to his brother's attentiveness.

"Well, that was helpful," Dean said around a mouthful of food. A gulp of soda to wash it down, and he sighed. "Four families, four dead-ends."

"We still have two to go," Sam pointed out.

"Somehow I don't think either of them are gonna be the missing link. Let's face it, these guys just disappeared out of crowded rooms and nobody knows how."

"We know the why." The crime scene photos—illicitly gained, of course—were spread on the table before them, but no one else in the eatery was paying attention.

"Right, kill and mutilate. That's why I go to parties."

Sam's mouth twitched. "The bodies were all found in roughly the same area. We should check that out."

"I was thinking maybe tomorrow—hit the library this afternoon, see if we can find something about the area first." Dean was already halfway through his second hot dog and Sam was still nursing his one. He took another bite.

"Okay." He flipped through their notes again, frowning as he tried to pull stray pieces together. It usually came easier than this, but he was distracted, thoughts—memories—crowding in when he least wanted them to. Dean's empty eyes, the smoking gun in Sam's hand…

"Sam."

He shook himself free, looked up.

Dean had dropped subtlety and was going for all-out concern, face pinched and eyes searching. "What's going on? You've been acting weird ever since you got up."

"Nothing, I…" He didn't like lying to Dean. Not after everything. Sam took a breath. "I just had a rough night, that's all."

"As in, bad hamburger kind of rough night, or Alison Dubois kind of rough night?"

He resisted rolling his eyes. "As in, the walls were too thin and the bed was too lumpy kind of rough night." That wasn't lying exactly.

"Oh." A pragmatic shrug. "You want to move someplace else tonight? I think I saw a Motel 6 down the street."

Sam smiled, shook his head. It was moments like this when he realized how much he'd missed Dean. "That's okay, I'll survive. Let's just," he took a breath, "get this figured out and stopped, all right?"

"Okay. But if you're having trouble again tonight, start reading one of your law books. Those always put me right to sleep."

His smile grew, helpless to pretend exasperation. "Yeah, thanks, man."

"Anytime."

Sam went back to reading the notes, warm where he'd been cold a few minutes before.

Something caught his eye. He read a few lines, flipped back a page and read more. "Did you notice the descriptions the families gave?"

Dean pulled the straw from his mouth. "What about 'em?"

"'Good-looking,' 'handsome,' 'cute'—see a pattern?"

Dean's nose wrinkled. "Yeah, their parents all thought their kids were Brad Pitt—so what? Every parent thinks that. It's not like they're gonna say, 'yeah, he was a dog, but we liked him anyway.'"

Brad Pitt? Sam bit down on a smile and went back to business. "But they were right." He dug through the pictures. They didn't have antemortems on all of victims, but Sam lined up the four they had on the table facing Dean. "They were all good-looking."

Dean studied them dubiously. "If you say so. Is that supposed to mean something? Even a succubus don't necessarily go for the hot ones."

"Succubae don't kidnap people from parties, either. And women-in-white don't care what their victim looks like as long as they're unfaithful males. I'm just saying, maybe this thing, whatever it is, is picking its victims even more carefully than we thought."

Dean looked at the pictures a moment longer, and finally jerked a shoulder. "Well, it'll help narrow things down, anyway. We could be looking for a female supernatural."

"Or one seeking revenge, or even to become a certain kind of person."

"Yeah, narrows it down a lot," Dean groused, and stood to toss his cup. "Finish your hot dog and we'll hit the library."

He tended to put up with a little more bossiness from his brother when he gave Dean cause to worry about him, and Sam had to concede this was one of those days. He made a face but obeyed, polishing off the rest of his meal and tossing the wrapper. His brother stood waiting for him, and turned to walk out as Sam joined him, knowing he would follow.

Sam tried not to dwell on the times he hadn't been worthy of that trust.

00000

The library closed early on Friday. They looked up what they could, checked out what they couldn't, and had dinner over dusty tomes of regional history. Dean fell asleep curled around a particularly fat volume of local Indian tribal lore. Sam smiled at his brother and kept reading.

The area had been settled in the mid-1800's, mostly by German and Dutch immigrants looking to get a piece of the new frontier. A small town had built up as the hub for the surrounding ranches, although it had never gained much ground. Only recently had the area seen a resurgence of growth, but it was still more town than city. Serious crime was rare, experienced law enforcement was iffy. They should probably see if they could get autopsy reports, Sam made a note, because sometimes he and Dean saw what the "experts" didn't. It was a skill he wasn't particularly proud of.

Sam filled another page with regional history notes, not finding anything of particular interest or note, and finally set the book aside with a sigh. The bathroom was all his, but he brushed his teeth quickly, ignoring his reflection. He had no desire to see what was in his eyes.

Sam covered his brother with one of the blankets from his own bed, shed his top layers of clothing, and stretched out on the mattress. Young, attractive males. Maybe it was just a choosy succubus? He couldn't think of anything else that would go after such a narrow range of victims. Unless there was some connection between the six men, but Dean had looked into that and not found anything, and his brother was thorough in his research. No, it was something about both youth and appearance that had marked the men. Some sort of vengeance demon, perhaps, going after those who reminded her of the one who'd betrayed her. They'd faced things like that before.

Sam's eyes closed, mind still turning over possibilities.

They were outside, talking. Laughing, the way he'd only ever been able to with Dean. For all those normal friends he'd longed for, the relationships had stayed superficial, no one else seeing into the down-deep places in Sam Winchester as his brother did, not even Jess. The love for his brother was bedrock, but the friendship built on it was what kept Sam sane.

But not this day. Like a cloud passing over the sun, his smile vanished. A moment later when he raised his gun, Dean's did, too.

His brother was pleading, or maybe trying to talk him down, hands raised in surrender. Dean's body language was of concern, not fear.

Sam pulled the trigger.

Dean stumbled, fell, and didn't move.

And Sam, with barely a glance, walked right past him.

He woke without air, his heart thudding hard enough against his ribs to bruise. Dean. Dean was dead, killed by Sam's hand, his chest a swamp of glistening red, his eyes sightless and dull…

But he wasn't. He was sleeping right there next to Sam. He'd rolled into the blanket Sam had spread over him, face turned comfortably toward his little brother. Pale in the moonlight, and a little too still.

Sam stumbled out of bed, nearly falling as his watery ankles refused to hold his weight, and leaned across the distance between them. His fingers stopped an inch from his brother's mouth, feeling the soft exhalation of breath. Dean's skin radiated warmth, and his eyes moved behind closed eyelids. Definitely alive.

Sam sagged, sinking weakly onto the edge of his bed, and scrubbed his face with his hands.

Was this really just a nightmare, some sort of self-punishment his brain had dredged up for him out of old guilt and pain? He'd told Dean visions felt different from dreams, more real, and the sight of Dean's body was as real as it came. Sam could still smell the blood and taste the gunpowder. The horror was a lump of ice in the pit of his stomach.

But the fact was, he wasn't that sure. The nightmares leading up to Jess's death had felt like memories more than portents. The ones of Jenny in their old house had stood out only because of their starkness and powerful unease. Most of the Millers' had been waking visions, unequivocal. Sam's masochistic psyche did like to drag the old baggage out of the attic for an airing whenever possible, and of course his killing Dean would feel horrifying and raw. But there was no reason to think this was anything but unsettled issues.

No, Sam thought firmly. This was not their future. He wouldn't let it happen. Even if it was a vision, not all of his came true. They were merely warnings of what might yet happen and, okay, he'd been warned. He'd be careful, but there was no way on earth he would ever let himself be used to hurt Dean again. No way. Just…no.

He eased back down into bed again, turned toward Dean. Sam's "gift" had only kicked in about seven months before. He was pretty sure the nightmares he'd had as a kid had been of the ordinary kind, if one could call the things he saw as a kid, ordinary. But regardless of the cause, crawling into bed with Dean had always made them go away. Dean had already tried to help him this time, too, but the magic was gone.

Sam wished sometimes he was a kid again, when the world was simple, his dad was perfect, and Dean could do anything.

He fell asleep to the sight of his brother, and didn't dream again that night.

00000

"Another bad night? What did I tell you about getting caught up in those fascinating historical records?"

He almost smiled, but Sam knew the question was serious. He'd been waiting for it, in fact, ever since he'd seen the expression on Dean's face that morning when his brother first caught sight of him. Still, Dean let him be, through a breakfast Sam had only picked at, after the long and scalding shower he'd taken, during the muted conversation about the day's plans. Sam had started to hope they could avoid the whole topic, until Dean had spoken up from the driver's seat without even a glance of warning.

"Seriously, man, two nights of no sleep is not good. We can hit that place up the street tonight, see if the beds are any better, okay?"

Dean had always tried to fix things for him, even what they both knew was hopelessly broken. "Yeah, okay." Sam's voice was quiet in the car.

"Unless that's not really the problem," Dean added almost casually.

He took a breath. "I told you—"

"Lumpy mattress, cardboard walls—yeah, I heard. So, when are you gonna tell me the rest of it?"

"That's it, Dean, okay? There doesn't always have to be something else."

"With you? Yeah, actually, there does." He looked over at Sam. "C'mon, you're not gonna make me run down the whole list, are you?"

"No," he said bitterly. "I remember just fine. When I have bad dreams, people die."

Dean frowned. "Don't say that. How many times do I have to tell you, this isn't about you, Sam. You just…pick up stuff, like some sort of cosmic antennae. Doesn't make it your fault."

Sam huffed softly. "No, but what I do about it does."

"So you did have another one." Dean shifted, face going carefully neutral. He probably thought it kept Sam from seeing how sharp a knife Sam's silence had stuck in him. "What are you going to do about it, besides not telling me?"

"Dean," his voice softened, because this was all about not hurting his brother, "it's not about you, either. I don't even know if this is a vision or just a nightmare or what—I just need some time to sort things out, okay?"

Back to the sideways glances. "Last time I agreed to that, you almost bled out through your eyes, Sam."

"I won't let it get that far," Sam said instantly with a fierceness that clearly took Dean aback as much as it did himself.

"Sam—"

"Dean," he pleaded, "just trust me with this. Please."

The battle flickered briefly across Dean's face: worry versus trust. Both were powerful forces in his brother, but Sam knew which would win, because Sam had asked for it, and Dean never said no to him when it counted. His face finally settled into a look Sam knew well. Resolve. "Okay."

Just like that. Black-and-white was his brother. Either he trusted Sam or he didn't, and Dean always had, even in the days after Roosevelt Asylum. Sam had tested the bounds over the years of that all-or-nothing commitment, and had yet to find its limits. It was one of the many things he loved about his stubborn ass of a brother, puzzled over, envied, and counted on.

Hazel eyes pinned him before he thought he might have gotten away scot-free. "But after this hunt's over, we're gonna have a talk."

By the time the hunt was over, Sam hoped to God they wouldn't have to have a talk, but he met Dean's stare and nodded meekly. Dean's concession to trust Sam to anyone, even to Sam himself, was not a small one, and he appreciated its gravity.

They left the outskirts of town, past construction sites and cleared land, heading out into the nearby untamed forest. No matter where the six men had disappeared from, their bodies had all ended up in the same strip of vegetation, a mile-plus area of land along the edge of the trees. As they got closer, Sam pulled out the map and navigated.

The Impala slowed at a stretch of forest that looked the same as any other. Dean shot him a silent question, and Sam nodded. "This is it."

His brother turned off the motor without hesitation and climbed out of the car, taking a look around at the trees before heading for the trunk.

Sam also gave the area a hard look as he got out. The quiet felt calm instead of unnatural, flecked with bird and small animal sounds. The occasional breeze stirred leaves up in the treetops. The ominous feeling so many of their hunting sites held was completely absent here, and yet…

Outdoor, trees. Sam's stomach clenched in silent apprehension.

Dean was digging through the trunk, and held out a shotgun as Sam rounded the rear of the car. Sam looked at it, swallowed, and didn't reach out to take it.

That finally got his brother's attention. Dean pulled his head out of the trunk and frowned at him. "What's the matter with you?"

"I'll take the axe."

"Since when? We don't know what this is—close-contact fighting might be impossible, or a really bad idea, Sam. We go in prepared, like always." Once more the shotgun was thrust at him.

Sam shook his head numbly. "I don't want it, Dean."

Dean's eyes narrowed. "Has this got something to do with what we're not talking about?"

Sam looked away in silence.

A frustrated sigh. He really was pushing Dean hard and he knew it, but there was nothing else to do. "Handgun?"

It had been a shotgun he'd seen, but Sam shook his head again.

The muscle in Dean's jaw ticced. "BB gun? Slingshot?"

"I'll take the axe, and a knife," he said softly.

"And you're gonna stay right behind me all the way, too."

He knew a compromise when he heard one. "Okay."

"No, Sam, this is not in any way okay," Dean growled, pulling out the blades and shoving them at him. "We've got enough to worry about that we don't know without you keeping secrets, too."

"I would never put you in danger," Sam said earnestly.

Dean's face put up a good fight against softening at that tone, but it lost. "It's not me I'm worried about," he said without heat. Then, before Sam could respond, he slammed the trunk lid down, the shotgun solid in his grip. "You ready?"

"Yes," he lied.

"Great." Dean could almost always tell when he was lying. "Come on."

They set out into the trees. Sam shifted the weapons so he could hold the map.

The location of the bodies had been crime scenes, and thus documented with careful measurements and sketched landmarks. Sam had picked one out at random and squinted now at the police file as they walked, then at the trees around them, calculating distance and direction. Dean was, indeed, solidly in front of him, the first line of defense no matter how Sam was armed, but he shifted direction as Sam did, following his lead.

"Okay, the first body should have been about here. Looks like beside that tree." Sam pointed.

Dean was already in a crouch, reaching out to gently touch the forest floor. "Yeah, I got blood," he said.

Sam scanned the area, making out shreds of police tape wrapped in the bark of distant trees. Outdoor crime scenes were always huge. But supernaturals were usually a lot simpler than humans in their behavior, tending to skip the games of human predators. If this was the dump site, it was probably the kill site, too. The amount of blood Sam could see soaking the ground as he knelt beside Dean supported the theory.

"Looks like they dug up the area around the body," Dean pointed his chin at the turned earth, and Sam nodded. Also SOP in an outdoor crime scene. "I don't know how much we're gonna find here, Sam."

Still, their evidence was often cops' useless information. Without a word or even a glance, they both rose and scattered, eyes sweeping ground, trees, brush for any signs.

"Huh."

Dean's sound of interest brought Sam back to his side. He leaned in closer to see what his brother was looking at. Fresh tracks.

Dean tilted his head to look at him. "What do you think that is, deer?"

"Looks like," Sam murmured, leaned in even closer. "Or moose, maybe? Something with hooves." He rocked back on his heels and met his brother's eyes. "What kind of herbivore checks out a scene full of blood and remains?"

"I've got a better question for you." Dean brushed away some leaves obscuring the area around the tracks. "What kind of deer walks around on two feet?"

Sam studied the ground and realized he was right. There were other tracks, but they weren't spaced right to be a four-legged animal. He frowned. "I think we should check the local legends again."

"Probably wouldn't hurt to get the autopsy reports, either. Ten bucks there's signs the guys were stomped to death."

"No bet," Sam said quietly, and stood.

And felt eyes on him.

He looked up, staring hard at the surrounding trees, then whipping around to see behind him.

Dean followed his gaze with a growing frown of his own. "What?"

"I don't know…" Sam looked around one more time, but there was nothing, the prickle on the back of his neck also starting to ease. He shook his head. "I just felt like we were being watched."

Dean's eyes were better than his, and his brother was not one to take such a reaction lightly. But even as he tensely did his own search of the area, Sam could see Dean didn't feel the same tease. "You sure?" he finally asked.

"It's gone now. It was probably just an animal."

"Yeah, well, 'just animals' kill a lot of people in these woods every year, Sam. I'd rather face a ghost than a bear any day."

Sam couldn't help a smile. "You do realize how crazy that sounds."

"Hey." Dean twitched the shotgun over one shoulder, and with a last glance at the area around them, started walking back out. "Ghosts I get. Bears are just nasty."

"Bears are just hungry," Sam corrected, following his brother. "You with your bottomless stomach should get that."

"Yogi isn't just hungry—he plays with his food before he eats it. You ever see what a mess a bear kill is?"

"Like I said…"

Dean shot him a withering look.

Sam just thumbed his axe and grinned.

00000

They picked up a pizza on the way back to the motel, and Sam sat chewing on a slice as he hacked into the medical examiner's files to download the victims' reports. Who would have guessed computer science classes and having a mad computer genius for a roommate his first year at Stanford would have paid off so well? Although even then Sam had quietly used his skills to keep occasional tabs on his absent brother and father.

Dean was flipping through the same book he'd fallen asleep over the night before, this time with the intensity of a dog on the scent. It was an apt analogy. Dean had never liked research for research's sake like Sam did, but dangle the answer to a hunt in front of his nose, and there was no limit to the paper he would wade through to get to it. Sam thought he would have made a good lawyer, too, if ever he'd seen puzzles to be solved in other places besides just the supernatural.

"Okay," Sam said, as he slipped past the last firewall and found what he was looking for. "Victim number…four, Todd Werner. 'Manner of death, homicide. Mode of death, hypoxia.' Huh," Sam's mouth twisted in surprise. "He choked to death. 'Cause of death, crushed windpipe.'"

"Crushed." Dean raised a meaningful eyebrow.

"Yup. Eight broken ribs, snapped hyoid bone and jaw, cracked orbital socket—lot of broken bones. Also, torn ligaments and muscle damage, ruptured organs, lacerated jugular vein. The guy was basically trampled."

"Could they tell by what?"

Sam read on. "Not definitively, but…there was 'dirt and vegetable matter' in the wounds, as well as 'partial circular imprints.'"

"Hoof prints," Dean said flatly.

Sam gave a half-shrug. "Could also be a mallet of some kind, or the end of a baseball bat."

"Hoof prints," Dean reiterated, and tapped the book in front of him. "I got something, too. I thought I remembered reading something about a deer—there is a local legend, about a deer woman." He turned the book around and slid it across the bedspread so Sam could see the drawing. "Poncan tribal lore. She's half-woman, half-deer, but the top half's so beautiful, men never notice her legs need a serious shave. She'd come to celebrations, find the most handsome and muscle-bound brave, and lure him out into the woods. Then, after a night of amazing sex, she'd pull a black widow act and stomp him to death. I guess she's just updated her MO from campfire dances to condos and bars."

"Nice," Sam said dryly. The picture didn't do her justice, his eyes drawn away from her face to wince at the deer legs and hooves under the hem of her buckskin dress. He assumed she was more compelling in person.

Compelled, his mind whispered. Sam shrugged it away uneasily, straightened again to look at his computer. And a few moments later, flattened his lips.

"I guess that explains the rest of the autopsy findings."

"What?" Dean looked up.

"Signs of sexual activity at time of death. I'll spare you the details."

Dean's face screwed up. "Dude, gross." He tilted his head. "Although, not the worst way to go."

Sam shook his head in faint amusement and sighed, closing the report. "Okay, so if it is a deer woman, what sets her off? Why now?"

Dean shrugged. "Doesn't say. Sounds like she just does it for fun."

Sam chewed on that for a moment. "Hey, Dean…"

"Hmm?"

"Did you notice all the construction around the edge of town? It looks like they're clearing land for housing."

"Yeah, so? You think our girl's a conservationist?"

"It wouldn't be the first manifestation we've come across that's trying to protect its territory. Or the first Native American tribal remnant that's mad about the white man moving in."

"Well, they're not gonna stop construction, even if she keeps killing off the town's most eligible bachelors."

"No," Sam agreed. "We'll have to track her down."

"Or draw her out." Dean grinned, preening. "She does go for the hottest guy around."

"Yeah, not the lamest," Sam shot back easily.

"Hey!"

Sam wasn't in the mood. He dropped his head back against the cushioned chair and took a deep breath. "I don't know, Dean, playing bait on this one is iffy. Even if she came after one of us, she entrances her victims…"

Need.

Sam dug his fingers into his forehead, trying to ease away the waking throb of vicious pain.

He didn't hear Dean rise, just felt the eventual nudge of a hand. He turned his head a fraction of an inch to take in the two pills resting on a palm. It took effort to reach out to take them and prod them past his lips. A glass of water appeared before he could dry-swallow, and Sam tilted enough liquid into his mouth to wash the pills down.

The chair creaked next to him, Dean offering proximity as comfort. After a moment, a boot prodded his shoe, more gently than the usual bluster and shove of brotherly affection. "Why don't you lie down for a while?"

"Just give me a minute," Sam whispered.

"I'll give you all the time you want but that headache won't." A pause. "Sam?"

He understood the unspoken question. "It's not a vision."

His brother digested that. "Wanna swing by the Motel 6?"

They'd already stayed past check-out time in their current room, which meant paying for the night two places instead of one if they relocated. Spending money extraneously wasn't an offer Dean made lightly, especially when it didn't involve women, weapons, or his car, and Sam appreciated it enough to make the effort to smile. "No. Thanks. I'll be okay."

"Stretch out for a few minutes then. We don't have anyplace to be." There was a hand on his elbow.

He relented, and was embarrassed how much he needed Dean's support to get to his feet and stumble over to the bed. His brother didn't comment, just dragged the blanket off his own bed to drape over Sam. "Thanks," Sam mumbled.

The pain washed away any reply, and lingering consciousness.

00000

They were outside, laughing. Probably at something Dean had said, because Sam felt alive with joy.

For a moment.

The sudden distortion of his thoughts took his breath away. Need instead of self-control, hatred instead of love.

He raised his gun, saw the love and joy melt from Dean's face, too. Something inside him cried out.

But he still squeezed the trigger.

Sam woke with a sob lodged in his throat, his face wet with sweat and tears.

He automatically sought out Dean, and found his brother quickly in the neighboring bed, under a sheet fast asleep. Breathing. Alive.

No thanks to him.

Sam tried to slow his frantic respirations, and took in the rest of the room. Mid-afternoon sun had given way to darkness; apparently he'd slept through dinner and into night, and Dean had finally turned in, too. It was…2:07 in the morning now.

Sam was wide awake. Killing his brother did that to him.

He sat up, feeling the weight of the lingering dream—not just a dream—pressing him into the bed. Three nights of the same details, the headaches, the acid taste in his mouth. No matter how much he tried to ignore it, this wasn't just a nightmare, wasn't just Jess dying above his head. This was him killing Dean in the future, for real, for good. No waking up afterward to his sleeping brother a few feet away. The nightmare was still to come.

Another sob welled up, and he ruthlessly pushed it back down.

Okay, a vision—that was still changeable, right? He'd seen Dean's death before, and stopped it. This was just an early warning now so he could do so again.

But he hadn't been the one to kill Dean last time. How was he supposed to stop himself?

Sam wiped his face in the crook of his arm. Outdoors and compulsion—that could easily be this hunt. In which case all he had to do was avoid guns, being alone and secluded with his brother, anything familiar until this was over and the deer woman or whatever was dead. Dean would be safe and maybe wouldn't even have to know. It would be hard but not impossible.

God, he would give anything to believe that.

What if it wasn't this case? Outdoor scenes and psychic influences weren't exactly rare elements in their line of work. Was he supposed to avoid weapons and the outdoors forever?

The memory of Dean's empty eyes made him shudder, and Sam couldn't help steal another glance at the sleeper to steady himself.

There had been no one else in the vision, no other danger to Dean. If Sam was out of the picture, his brother would be safe. And he couldn't—wouldn't—risk Dean. No matter what that meant, no matter what the cost, that was the bottom line. He wouldn't put Dean in danger.

And right now, Sam's presence meant danger. Simple.

Maybe there never really had been a decision to make, after all.

Sam pressed back against the headboard, knees pulled up to his chest. From there he could sit and watch Dean sleep, and think. Try to find a loophole in his damnable logic, a way out from what he already knew he had to do.

He was still sitting there when the morning light trickled into the room, and Dean eventually rolled over and gave him a sleepy smile, and Sam's cracked heart broke completely.

00000

"Amazing. One good night's sleep and I hardly recognize you." Dean's greeting was deadpan as he sat on the edge of the bed scraping a hand through his sleep-roughed hair.

Sam snorted, his smile not quite making it. His body felt heavy but his mind couldn't seem to stop running in circles, and he clutched the edge of his mattress to keep from spinning off. "Yeah. Woke up at two and couldn't get back to sleep." Might as well tell the truth; it didn't really matter, anyway.

"You don't get some sleep soon, and we'll be the ones scaring the locals." Dean made a face, moved on. It was the Winchester way. "So, I was thinking, we might want to do a little more research on this deer woman, find out if we need something special to kill her before we go check out her stomping grounds again. If we don't find anything there, we can always hit the bars and any parties we can find tonight."

"Yeah, that makes sense," Sam said tiredly, and hesitated. "Dean…"

"I'm still listening, Sammy."

"There's nothing to talk about."

Dean's mouth tightened. "Oh, there's something to talk about, all right. You just like hanging on to those secrets of yours. I thought we were past that, Sam." He pulled on his shirt with sharp, frustrated motions, but at Sam's silence he slowed and gave him a more searching look. "You sure you're gonna be up for this? Maybe you're coming down with something."

"Maybe." He didn't feel like arguing with his brother, not now. "Dean, I'm really tired." It was a struggle to find the strength for words, let alone to meet Dean's eyes. Sam wasn't that good an actor. "You mind checking out the library yourself while I take a nap?"

"Slacking off on the job?" Dean's eyebrow went up, then settled with open concern as he sat down on the bed facing him. "Sam…maybe we should just walk away from this one. You know, go somewhere, take a break."

Sam blinked at him. He could count on one hand the times Dean had made that offer, and they were all cases where Sam had reached his limits and then some. And their dad had never offered to bail. "No," he said quietly. "More people are going to die if we leave this. She has to be stopped. I just…I need a couple more hours, okay?"

"Yeah, sure." Dean was watching him with a frown. "I'll come back after the library—we can pick up some lunch before we go hiking."

Sam sank wearily back into his bed. "Sounds good." He closed his eyes, not wanting to see Dean leave.

But he didn't, stopping beside Sam's bed. His shadow blocked the streaming morning sun, his hand an unexpected warmth on Sam's forehead. He dragged his eyes open again, stared at Dean blankly.

"No fever. You better not be hiding being sick or something from me, Sam, 'cause if I find out you're holding out on me…"

"I'm not sick. Go to the library, Dean." Attempted exasperation came out more like resignation.

Dean gave him a long look but he finally went. He pulled the shades down on the way, plucked the do-not-disturb sign off the inside knob to hang on the outer. Always looking out for him.

It was time to return the favor.

The door clicked shut, and Sam counted down five minutes before he climbed out of bed.

There wasn't much to pack. All their shared belongings—Dad's journal, weapons, food—stayed. The only things Sam took were his own axe and a knife, because he still knew what was out in the night. His things barely filled his duffel. Whenever he'd tried to collect more, things or people, life always swept it away and sent him back to square one. Sam Winchester could take a hint.

He stopped at the notepad by the TV, flipping past three pages of his brother's dense notes, band logos, and one game of tic-tac-toe in which Dean had managed to beat himself. The last page was blank, and Sam leaned over it, pen poised.

It took him another five minutes to write the two lines. I can't do this anymore. Don't come looking for me. The rest would never have fit on the small rectangle of white. Sam tore the sheet free and laid it on the table in plain sight.

The room was just like every other, not much there to take one last look at, but Sam's eyes lingered on what made it home: the two unmade beds, Dean's Metallica shirt tossed carelessly over one chair, his shaving kit on one chair, leftovers of the pizza they'd shared the night before.

Sam swallowed, turned, and walked out, locking the door behind him.

00000

He sat on the parked bus, staring vacantly out the window.

He'd tried this once before, taking off. He hadn't made it this far last time, not even getting on the bus before realizing he had to go back. Even so, he'd almost been too late to save Dean. What if…?

What if? What if he left and Dean died anyway? There was no guarantee his brother wouldn't succumb to the same influence Sam had in his dream, wouldn't engineer the same fate for himself without Sam there to play a part.

But…Dean was an excellent hunter. He would be more careful than ever, hunting alone, and would only have himself to look after. No distractions. No death. It was a cost Sam was willing to pay, because what if he stayed and got Dean killed? Tried to stop himself and failed? Forget how he himself would survive that; his brother would be dead. It was unimaginable. Unbearable. The world needed Dean Winchester a lot more than Sam did. And he needed Dean like he needed air.

Sam couldn't stay. Simple as that. Already he'd changed the future, and it was enough, he was sure of that. It had to be.

He curled up miserably in the seat, seeing nothing but the vision of his own personal little Hell. Oblivious to the figure standing in the aisle next to him until it spoke.

"What is it with you and buses?"

Sam paused in disbelief, caught for a moment between vision and reality. Then he jerked his head up to stare at Dean.

His brother's eyes watched him narrowly, almost coldly. "I guess you finally sorted things out, huh? So what is it this time, Sam—I was snoring too loud? Food was too lousy? Somehow, I don't think it was the beds. You're so mad at me you lied to me, wouldn't even tell me to my face?"

The couple across the aisle gave them a curious look.

Sam colored, shifted. "Dean—"

"If you don't get off this bus, I'm taking you off."

Sam's jaw set. Maybe he was doing this for Dean, but that didn't mean he couldn't resent his brother's attitude. "You sure you want to go there?" he asked evenly.

Dean's face changed subtly. Anger to concern to…pain. Just for a moment, like an accidentally shifted curtain, but Sam caught a glance. Finally, simple earnesty. "Sam…please. Get off and we'll talk. If you don't like what I have to say, I'll put your gear on the next bus myself."

Sam stared at him a moment, remembering Dean dead, and the twenty-two years before that. He stood and silently gathered his bag. As he edged past Dean, he murmured, "Next bus leaves in two hours."

Dean didn't answer, just followed him off.

He soon moved to lead the way, hand sliding into his pocket, and Sam realized his brother was headed for the parking lot and the Impala. He stopped.

Dean immediately did, too, turning back to him with a frown.

"Not the car," Sam said. He didn't know if it was the claustrophobic familiarity of it, or if he half expected Dean to just take off with him. But Dean didn't push, just waved toward the depot, letting Sam lead.

They found an out-of-the-way corner, and Sam sank wearily on the bench, while Dean commandeered a chair from somewhere and smacked it down in front of Sam. They were close enough that their knees nearly touched, but funny how that wasn't claustrophobic. Sam sat and stared at his hands, and waited for the storm.

But Dean's voice was carefully neutral when he spoke. "So, you want to tell me what this is about?"

Sam glanced up, seeing the crumpled square of white in Dean's hand. Crumpled and then smoothed. He shook his head silently.

"Right, because if you'd wanted me to know, you would have written more than just 'I'm sick of you, bye.'"

"That's not what I said," Sam protested sincerely.

"Yeah, well, it might as well have been. You asked me to trust you, Sam, and I did. You know how it felt coming back to find that note after that? To find you'd walked out on me, again? Do you even care?"

"Yes," he whispered, head dropping once more.

There was a pained silence. He almost looked up. Dean's voice, when he spoke again, had changed completely, quiet and worried. "Is it bad news, Sammy?" Then, slowly, "You weren't doing this for you, were you?"

Well, there would be no harm in admitting that, would there? It might make the parting less painful. Sam shook his head.

This time Dean sat in silence, waiting. Sam had an idea he'd wait there forever if that was what it took.

He finally sighed, twisted his head in surrender to one side. "I've been having this…vision."

"I figured."

He looked up startled, to see Dean's impassive gaze. He'd known Sam was lying all along? But Dean had apparently finished cajoling and explaining, and sat in silent expectation for Sam to do his part.

Right, his part. That was the whole problem, wasn't it? "It was about us."

A pause. "Go on." Not giving an inch. Except for the whole tracking Sam down to the depot and pulling him off a bus part.

Shame welled in Sam. He had asked for Dean's trust and then broken it. His brother deserved a lot better, at the very least an explanation. Maybe it would even hurt less than what Sam had already done to him. He took a deep breath. "We're outside somewhere—I can't really make out the details. But we're hunting something and…laughing." He watched it play out on the inside of his eyelids. "Then something changes, I don't know what, like a…a compulsion of some kind. And I…" He glanced up.

Dean was still expressionless, but his complete attention was on Sam. And there was strength to borrow in his eyes.

Sam did, cast his own gaze down again. "I raised the gun and shot you."

Dean chewed on that in silence. Sam didn't look up to see what his eyes showed this time. When he spoke, his voice revealed nothing. "Then what?"

"Then you died, okay? And I just…walked by you like you weren't even there."

"That's it?"

He made a bitter, unfunny sound. "Yeah, that's it."

"So…compulsion. You mean like possession? Or another Ellicott kind of thing?"

"Besides the shooting you part," Sam said wearily, "I don't know. I can't really…feel what's going on, I can only see it."

Dean finally shifted, the chair uttering a protesting creak. "Okay, so, if we know how it's going to happen—basically—we can avoid it, right? No guns for—" Another pause. "That's what yesterday was about," he suddenly realized.

Sam's eyes skimmed him again. "Yeah," he said quietly.

The snort of laughter surprised him. "So instead of telling me what's going on so maybe we can figure this thing out and be ready for it, you split."

"I didn't want to risk it, Dean," he said. Risk you, he didn't add.

"Yeah, right. 'Cause you disappearing on me feels so much better than you shooting me."

Sam did look up at that, finally. "At least you'd be alive."

"You sure about that, Sam? Or did you just not want to be the one pulling the trigger?"

Deserved but no less painful. Sam sat in smoldering, ashamed silence, and watched the fire die in his brother's face, replaced only by a weary sadness. This was the Dean who'd come to get him at Stanford, willing to do anything to have his brother back but bracing himself to say good-bye again at any moment. It had taken a while for that guardedness to fade and trust to regrow, but it was gone again now. And Sam started to understand that maybe his deliberately leaving had hurt more than anything he might have done out of his control.

"Tell me again what you saw, all the details."

He did, thinking for a second this was some form of punishment, for the both of them, until Dean began stopping him, asking questions. Who was standing where? What were they armed with? Day or night? Trying to solve the problem in front of them because what lay behind it seemed beyond both of them right now.

Sam finally finished, and could feel Dean thinking. Then, another carefully bland question. "You still want to leave?"

He wondered if Dean would put up any protest if he said yes. But Sam shook his head.

"Okay. Let's go then."

Sam stood without hesitation, fingers clenching around the grip of his bag. "Where?"

Dean gave him a steady look. "Where we were gonna go before you took off. Deer hunting."

00000

Sitting in the Impala, or maybe leaving the bus depot behind, seem to unbend Dean a little. After a few minutes, he stuck a tape in, and Sam actually sighed in relief at the sound of Motor Head. Dean had always been good at moving on, or at least acting as if he had. Sam had no illusions things were back to the way they'd been between them, but he was glad for the lightened tension.

He'd been cruel to walk out like he had. Knowing Dean's history of being abandoned, knowing it was one of the few things that really scared him. Saving his life at the expense of his heart wasn't something Sam had wanted to do, either, but he hadn't thought, had just acted in his selfish fear. As sorry for that as he was, though, as obvious as the mistake seemed now, he wasn't sure he could make it up to his brother. Betrayal took time to mend, and they were still working through the aftereffects of his having left for Stanford four years before. Sam had just burned the half-mended bridge behind him. He winced his eyes shut, fighting another growing headache.

"We've gotta cross town to get there. Why don't you get some sleep on the way?"

The voice was gruff and tight, but it was an honest-to-God attempt. Sam blinked at his brother in something akin to awe. "We're going out someplace where I might try to kill you—I'm not going to sleep."

"Why? Maybe I can stop you better if you have slower reflexes?" His mouth actually curled.

"Dean, man, that isn't funny."

Dean glanced over at him, exhaled. "Yeah, you're right, it's not funny. But it's not written in stone, either, right? I mean, not all your visions come true, Sam. Max didn't shoot me."

Sam winced, but nodded.

"Okay, then, so we're agreed. Your bailing doesn't fix anything and is possibly the worst plan ever. Might as well face it head-on."

It was his brother's philosophy of life: just jump right in. Whether it was a hunt, a missing brother, or possibly his own death. Get in, get it done, deal with the consequences later. Sam was the one who worried about the details, about the distance in Dean's eyes, the forced humor. The differences between them had never seemed as great.

There was one thing, though, he could do, for the little it would help. Because Sam really wouldn't be able to live with himself if something happened and he hadn't said it.

"Dean, I'm sorry."

Dean's hand twitched on the steering wheel. He didn't look at Sam, didn't answer for so long that Sam didn't think he would. Finally, though, even over the music, he heard the quiet words. "I know, Sammy."

It didn't make everything right, not by a long shot. But for the first time, it did give him a little bit of hope.

00000

They parked not far from where they had the day before, and Sam couldn't help think how much had changed since they'd last been there. Dean's movements were as easy as before, but he barely looked at Sam, and there were new shutters in his eyes when he did.

Sam followed him around to the trunk of the car and watched Dean open the hidden compartment and begin to pull out and check weapons. He cleared his throat.

"So, did your research turn up anything on how we can kill this thing?"

"Nope. Found a few more stories, but doesn't look like anyone ever tried to go after it. Probably thought it was some kind of a god or something, sacred." Dean cast a glance roughly his way. "But I figure, half-woman, half-deer? Probably all mortal."

"It could be a spirit. It's been around a long time."

"It hooks up with guys and gets its freak on all night, Sam—I'm thinking it's solid. Still," Dean straightened, smirking, holding up a rifle. "Holy water-treated rounds."

Sam managed a soft snort. "Nice."

"So." Dean's grin faded. "What's it going to be?" He held the gun balanced easily in one hand, a hunting knife in the other.

Sam glanced at him, startled, then at the weapons. Dean was offering him a gun, even after everything? Sam wasn't sure if that was trust or disbelief, except there was nothing casual in his brother's eyes.

He took the knife, slipping it into his jeans.

Dean sighed, and Sam couldn't tell if he was disappointed or relieved. "You sure today's the day?"

"No. But I don't want to take any chances."

A twitch of the eye. "Not inspiring a lot of confidence here, Sam."

"I'm sorry," just as earnestly. "I don't know."

"Didn't see a calendar or watch in your vision by any chance, huh?"

He didn't answer, just reached past Dean for a bottle of holy water and his axe.

"Sam, if it's not today—"

Sam jerked to a stop. "Then you start locking up the guns indefinitely, Dean. That, or let me leave."

Again that cold opaqueness. "I didn't make you stay," Dean said with a small shake of the head.

"You practically dragged me off that bus!"

"And I'll take you back right now and put you on the next one, Sam, just say the word."

The line between honesty and hurt had grown very thin, and Sam realized he'd stumbled over it yet again. He backed off a step, both physically and in tone. "I don't…want to go, all right? I never wanted to go. I just…don't want you getting hurt, either."

There, a flicker in the hazel eyes. Dean was the first to look down. "I'm not," he said tersely, and grabbing a gun to slip in his waistband, he slammed the trunk shut. His eyes slid over Sam's with unusual discomfort. "You ready?"

He ignored the stupid question but followed.

The site where the sixth body was found happened to be closest, and they headed there first. It looked much as the other did: bits of crime tape, some blood, a lot of trampled ground. They separated without a word or a glance, but stayed close in equally tacit agreement, scanning the ground for more.

"Sam."

The one word reeled him back to his brother's side, and Sam knelt beside him to examine the ground Dean's fingers skimmed. "Hoof prints."

"Two," Dean said with a significant glance.

They rose at the same time, Dean turning completely in place as he scanned the area, Sam sweeping the one-eighty in front of him. But nothing moved besides the slow sway of brush and the quicksilver dart of birds.

They moved on to the next site, a few hundred feet away.

More of the same, minus tracks this time. The springy layer of pine needles probably covered them, and while Dean moved a little further to trace the perimeter, Sam examined the area where the corpse had been. It was sheltered by a trio of trees, not obvious until you were nearly on it. A good place for privacy, either for sex or a kill, he noted dispassionately, and fingered the fresh dirt.

"Anything?" Dean's voice was quiet behind him.

Sam shook his head. "No."

There hadn't been any pattern to the disposal sites that they could find. They were laid out in more of a strip than a cluster, no center point to show a possible lair, no symbol laid out in corpses, not even a line drawn to warn others against trespassing. Besides scenic hook-up spots, the locations seemed to have nothing in common.

Dean gave up his search, and they headed for the third site, the one where they'd been the day before.

He glanced back as they walked to address Sam. "You know, you always cried at that part of the movie."

His face scrunched at that enigmatic revelation. "What? What movie?"

"Bambi. The part where the mom got killed. You don't even see it happen, but even when you were a baby, you always started crying, like you knew."

Sam found himself smiling. He never got used to how much Dean remembered about his childhood, how closely his brother had paid attention. "Disney was always rough on the moms."

"Tell me about it. After Cinderella, I kept hoping Dad wouldn't remarry."

Sam laughed.

Something prickled along the back of his neck. The laugh died in his throat, and he slowed, stopped. Dean stopped with him, giving him a wary, frowning look. "What?"

"You feel that? It's like yesterday, like someone's watching us again."

Dean's shotgun, pointed until now at the ground, rose. "Any idea where?" He gazed around them intently.

Sam shook his head. "I can't—"

And then he saw her, and forgot anything else he might have said.

Her dress was a soft brown, her hair a deep black, blending her into the trees around her. Curls flowed down and fanned out across her breasts, but it was her face that drew and held him captive. The lips were full, the nose small and adorable, and he didn't see any of that once he reached her eyes. Jess had had eyes like that, so soft and deep, it was like falling into the sun-warmed ocean.

He took a step toward her, wanting nothing more than to take that fall.

Something moved into his path, blocking his way. A face, its lips moving, but the sounds it made were distant, unimportant. An obstacle, and he shouldered it aside.

It returned just as quickly, grabbing him and blocking his view of her.

As if his air supply had been cut off, he suddenly couldn't breathe. Couldn't think beyond the panicked need to get to her, and he wrenched himself free furiously, slipping the knife out from where he'd wedged it in his jeans, ready to hack the barrier out of the way if needed.

"Sam!"

The urgency of the word would probably have escaped him if the face weren't inches from him now. And if he hadn't been reacting instinctively to that voice all his life. He blinked, distracted for a fraction of a second.

"Sam, fight her. She's making you do this."

Fight her? He craned to see past, and those black eyes filled his vision, his thoughts. His hand clenched the knife.

"Sammy, listen to me—you can do this. Use your mojo, see her for what she is. Push her out."

The words stretched almost to incomprehensibility, but they jarred something inside him. See her. He looked, drowning in her eyes.

Drowning in need, his legs moving forward without his volition.

Drowning in grief as he looked at Dean's body.

Drowning…

Light and burning pain washed through his mind, illuminating for a second those snaring black eyes. And in that second, he glimpsed the decay behind them, the raw hatred.

The moment snapped. Sam staggered back, dazed. Free.

A hand steadied him. "Sam?"

He gave her one last glance, saw the coldness of her gaze this time, the bizarre animal legs, and shuddered that he could have ever thought she looked like Jess. Sam looked up at his brother, breath still shaking from the near miss. Just as Dean turned to see what he'd been fighting.

Panic flashed through Sam again, more intense for being real this time. "No!" He grabbed at Dean to turn him away before he fell under the same spell.

Too late. Dean's face went slack, and he took a step toward her.

Sam's heart twisted, and he lunged between his brother and the thing that drew him. "Dean, no. Don't do this."

The hazel eyes, huge in their focus, didn't even flicker. Dean slipped around him.

Sam swallowed and shifted to block his way again, at the same time reaching for the rifle.

The gun swung away as his fingers brushed it, as if Dean had finally realized what Sam was going to do. And his brother's gaze slid over to him, just as captive but no longer unseeing.

The hatred that filled them made Sam's mouth go dry.

"Dean—"

These eyes didn't telegraph. The fist caught him unaware, snapping his head back and making Sam's ears ring. He staggered but held his ground, and stared hard at Dean again.

"I'm not letting her have you."

Dean snarled, and charged.

Sam cast one more glance at the thing watching them, its eyes almost glowing with malice, and judged her too far to hit with the knife with any certainty. A gun would have been different, and he wasn't missing the irony of why he was unarmed, but it no longer mattered. The knife was only a liability now, and Sam tossed it a safe distance away and focused on his brother.

He and Dean had never fought full-out before. In training, in friendly tussles, Dean had always held back, even when Sam hadn't, even when their dad had told them not to. There was a store of wild strength and drive in his brother Sam didn't completely understand, but it had never been unleashed against him. The skinwalker hadn't possessed it, and Dean didn't let it out for anything less than a threat to Sam.

Until now.

Sam was ready for the right cross and blocked it, but Dean was already following it up with a spin-kick. Sam barely deflected his boot, arm wrenching from its force, when Dean was back on him. While Sam protected his face, another fist found his abdomen, sending the air out of him in a whoosh.

"Dean." It was a gasp as he hung back for a second to catch his breath. "Don't do this…Fight her."

The rifle rose in Dean's hand, but it was aiming at him.

Sam growled and launched himself at his brother. One precise kick, and the weapon went flying while Dean stumbled. Unfortunately, the gun remained just as inaccessible, a dozen feet away now at the foot of a large tree. Sam barely spared it a glance before Dean's next attack had him concentrating on his more immediate concern.

"Dean…" It was getting harder to get the words out. "Please…"

Sam was a born hunter. He'd been trained well, he was in peak shape again after seven months back on the road with Dean, and fighting for his brother's life was the most powerful motivation he knew. But he was losing this battle surely and steadily.

Another smash of a fist against his face filled his right eye with blood, adding to the flow from his nose and down the back of his throat. The repeated jabs had greyed his vision and slowed his reflexes, allowing more of Dean's strikes to get past his defenses. Sam still landed a few of his own, but Dean didn't even seem to feel them, ruthless in his attack, while Sam tried to find a way to stop him without inflicting serious damage. He was increasingly falling back, however, too busy maintaining a crumbling defense to mount any kind of offense.

The gun. He had to get to the shotgun.

Sam feinted right and went left, groaning when a foot shot out to trip him, sending him hurtling against the unyielding tree trunk. He turned back to Dean, just in time to be grabbed by the arms and thrown once more up against the tree. The blow cracked his spine and slammed his head back, and the grey edges of his vision went black. Sam's knees gave, only Dean's solid grip holding him upright.

"Dean…" It was a whisper now. Plea. Absolution.

Dean stared at him and, for a second, Sam thought he saw a glimmer of the man he knew.

Without warning, Dean let him go and stepped away.

Sam fell, first to his knees, then to all fours, wrenched arm and scraped knuckles protesting, head on fire and back spasming in agony. He tried not to retch.

His brother turned from him. Headed back toward her.

Half-blind, Sam fumbled along the ground around him. It seemed to take forever before he felt cool metal beneath his hand. He grasped the gun, drew it to him with effort. Then he took a breath before he lifted it, nestled it into his shoulder for a sure shot. Dean was already halfway to her; Sam only had one chance.

He pulled the trigger, seeing her body jerk, and kept shooting until the gun cocked empty.

The smoke and the echo of sound took a few seconds to clear. Sam blinked anxiously across the space, trying to see where she—it—had been standing. He saw only hooves, splayed on the forest floor, one twitching a single time in death.

Dean had stopped and stood staring at the body. After a moment, he seemed to shake himself, and whirled back toward Sam.

He really would have liked to stick around for this next part, to make sure Dean wasn't going to go off on some revenge thing now, to make sure the hazel eyes were clear again. And to say he was sorry, because he really hadn't wanted things to turn out this way, either. But the sun was going dark and the forest around him was reeling, and Sam dropped the gun because it had grown way too heavy.

He followed it down, and was aware only of arms breaking his fall before everything else slipped away.

00000

Sam jolted awake, the final dregs of adrenalin still sparking through his system.

"Easy, Sam." Careful pressure on his shoulder quieted his hammering heart and stilled any further movement.

His body felt trashed, his head throbbed to the point of tears pricking his eyes…and his face was being laved with warm water and gentle strokes. It was something not-painful to focus on, anyway.

"Sam? You back?"

He traced the motion curving along his forehead, and the roughness of his brother's voice. "My head hurts, Dean," he whispered. He didn't dare move, or even open his eyes for fear of his brain battering through his skull.

"Yeah, I know. I'm sorry." The washing stopped. "Open up." Something touched his lips.

The pills were as chalky as the inside of his mouth, and he nearly gagged on them. The straw, and cool water, were welcome. He'd wonder later where Dean had gotten a straw from. Anything that let him not move his head right then was fine by Sam. "Where are we?" Even the murmur hurt.

"Back at the motel." There was something odd about his brother's voice Sam couldn't place, and he couldn't clear his head enough to try.

Another wave of pain tore a moan from him, and he squeezed his eyes tighter shut. "Too bright."

"I'll turn the light off in a minute, I just need to get you taken care of, okay? Hang on." A hand took his in a loose sort of handshake. He didn't know why until the icepack settled against the back of his head.

Sam strangled on a hiss and nearly jerked off the pillow, fingers clamping down on Dean's hand. The agony in his head doubled and redoubled, and he groaned.

"Relax, Sam." Dean cupped the back of his neck, fingers rubbing Sam's scalp just under the icepack. "Try not to move. It'll get better in a minute."

And it did, just about when he was ready to smash his head against the bed frame for relief. The slow slack of pain left him weak and gasping and, if not quite on the verge of unconsciousness again, not fully tracking, either.

The warm cloth returned to wipe the tears of pain away, then moved down to his hand, sliding lightly over each bruised knuckle. "Still with me, Sammy?" Dean asked from a distance.

He may have murmured a yes, but he wasn't sure.

Dean moved on to swipe gently at his other hand as Sam slipped back to sleep.

He woke again sluggishly, body sunk deep into the mattress and apparently having no intention of moving.

Sam blinked in the dim lighting of the room, trying to figure out the whys and wherefores of how badly his head hurt and his body ached and his stomach was tight with unease. And where the heck Dean was.

That last was answered as soon as he got his swollen head to move, at least. Not even far: raising his field of view from the carpet to the bed next to his revealed his brother lying on top, body angled toward Sam, just as he faced his brother. Dean was still fully clothed, a shadow of a beard accompanying the shadow of developing bruises and a black eye, and deeply asleep.

Sam stared at him a moment, wondering when the sight of Dean, even a scruffy Dean, had become so reassuring. Awake would have been better, but at least he was there, and it did give Sam a little time to sort out the confusion in his head.

Visions. Him killing Dean…and then Dean trying to kill him. He squeezed his eyes shut. Only that part had been real, as his battered body attested to. Sam was a little foggy on how it had all ended, but considering they were both sleeping back at the motel, he figured the answer was good.

There was still the small matter of Dean having been the one to beat the tar out of him…and Sam running out on him first. It would probably require some sort of talk to clear the air, which Dean would just love. But for Sam's part, this wasn't so bad. Besides the splitting headache.

His eyes drooped open again halfway, and he found Dean awake and watching him.

"You okay?" his brother asked quietly.

"Yeah," Sam said more or less honestly. "You?"

The barest skeleton of a smile. "I'll keep you posted." He lifted his head, yawning and rubbing his eyes against his arm. "You want some water or juice?"

"No." He might have yawned, too, if it wouldn't have been too much effort.

"Get some more sleep. Whatever you're thinking about can wait."

"You, too," he whispered, letting his dragging eyes pull him along into sleep. If Dean answered, he didn't hear him.

00000

The next time he woke, it was to a painfully bright room and an empty bed next to him. Squinting up, still trying to move his head as little as possible, revealed his brother tilted back in a chair nearby, feet up on the table as he read. At the sight of Sam's movement, the chair legs thumped to the ground and Dean stood, flicking off the overhead light as he came over to Sam's bed and sat tentatively on the edge.

"How're you feeling?"

Sam turned over with a groan, and decided he might just live, after all. "Like I ran into a tree."

"I seem to recall you had some help with that."

Sam smiled, rubbing gingerly at his head. "After Rockford, I think I owed you."

"That's not how it works, Sam."

He sighed, dropped his hand. "Yeah, I know." He tilted his head toward Dean. "Still, if my choices were getting beat up or shooting you? I'll survive a little headache, Dean."

His brother looked away, fidgeting for a moment before turning back to him with a grin. "You do realize what this means, right?"

Sam frowned, wary. "What?"

"Your visions like me."

There was no way he could not smile at a declaration like that. "They like you?"

"Hey, whose life do they keep saving, huh?"

Mine. "Well…I guess at least they're on our side, right? I mean, that means I couldn't have gotten them from the demon or something, right?"

Those knowing eyes swung his way again. "I never thought that."

Yeah, well, he had. That Dean didn't maybe said more about Sam not being a total freak than who or what his visions came from. Sam closed his eyes, breathed out.

There was a moment of silence, then Dean's voice rose in outrage. "'A little headache'? That's why you puked in my car?"

Sam's eyes shot open, his jaw going slack in horror. "I threw up in the car?"

Dean's face twisted wryly. "Next time you don't like my music, you can just say so, Sam."

"Ah, man, I'm sorry. Is it—?"

"A little worse for wear, like the rest of us, but after a couple of hours of scrubbing and bleach and deodorizer…" The corner of his mouth lifted. "At least it was on your side."

Sam contemplated. As long as his head didn't have to move, he could almost think clearly enough to see past the cheerful façade. "I wouldn't have thrown up if someone hadn't wanted to get laid so badly."

"Dude, did you see her body? Well, except for the legs, but nobody's perfect."

"Did you see her eyes?" Sam softly countered.

Dean looked away, hands crooked over his thighs and idle. Sam hummed with energy when he was nervous or upset, but Dean grew still. "Sam, I'm sorry. I let that thing get in my head, and…" He shook his head. "I should've known better."

He wished he wasn't lying down, looking up at Dean. Sam had to settle for sounding authoritative instead of looking it. "It got to me, too, remember?"

"Yeah, but you pushed it out."

"Not me—it was my…shining, or whatever. And you telling me to fight it."

Dean chewed the inside of his mouth. "I could hear you saying the same thing, but it was like…the words didn't make sense."

"Yeah," Sam said quietly. A beat. "It's dead, right?"

"Oh, yeah. Wasn't much left to her after you were finished, and her dying broke the spell or whatever it was."

Sam's hand had curled into a fist under the blanket. "Good," he said with unusual fierceness.

Dean's hand settled lightly on his shoulder. It was the first time since he'd cleaned Sam up that he'd gotten so close, as if testing to see if his touch would be rejected or, worse, agitate. Sam had never been afraid of him, though, not even in the forest, and had even less to forgive. He sighed, letting the tension go, letting it all go. Dean's grip slipped around the curve of bone and squeezed.

The easy silence stretched until Dean finally gave him a sideways glance. "So…do-over?"

Sam laughed, wincing when it jarred his head and made his back twinge. "All of it? None of it counts?"

"Well, Psycho Bambi stays dead, but the rest…I will if you will." Dean's eyes looked at him with deceptive casualness. "I didn't mean any of it, did you?"

"No," Sam murmured without hesitation.
The hazel eyes crinkled ever so slightly, the lingering aloofness in them melting. Sometimes you forgave because you wanted to. College education and all, there was a lot Sam could learn from his brother. Like that they were stronger together.

He turned on his side again, curling to leave room for his brother. "Dean?"

"Hmm?"

"The do-over…does that include throwing up in your car?"

"Don't push your luck, Sam."

The End