My heart bleeded, girl

Part Three

Kelly was working, but they lucked out and found her on break when they arrived at the diner. The other waitress on duty jerked her head towards a booth in the back where Kelly was sitting, nursing a cup of coffee. Sam headed over, while Dean hung back to get some coffee for himself and Sam.

“So, Kelly, do you mind if we sit, ask you a few questions?” Sam said as Kelly looked up at him from her coffee and the morning paper.

“Questions about what?” Kelly asked, as she waved her hand at the bench opposite her in invitation.

Sam sat down with a nod of thanks and said, “Tell me about your necklace.”

Kelly frowned at him. “Why? What about my necklace?”

Dean slid in beside him, the amulet around his neck swinging as he moved. Sam stared at it, remembering how he’d worn it around his own neck during the time Dean was gone. It had made him feel like a part of Dean was still with him, and he wondered how the motherhood hieroglyphic made the women who wore it feel.

It obviously wasn’t a guarantee that the wearer would be a good mother.

“What does it mean?”

“I just thought it was pretty….” She trailed off when Dean shifted impatiently in his seat.

“Two people are dead, Kelly, people who wore necklaces just like yours,” he said.

Kelly stared down at her hands. She nodded. “I know.” She paused, and then said, “Melissa bought it first. She said it made her a good mother, kept her children safe. We all – the five of us, I mean – we all met once a week at the playground in the park near the beach. Our kids would play and we’d sit and talk. Melissa said the necklace had power and told us we should all get one, too.” She shrugged. “So we did.”

Kelly looked at them across the table, fear finally showing on her face. “I’m scared. I don’t know what’s happening. I don’t know what any of it means. I don’t want to die, too.”

“Okay, first thing you do is maybe stop wearing the necklace?” Dean said, shaking his head. “I mean, what're you thinking?”

“Can I see it?” Sam asked, holding out his hand. Kelly reached behind her neck to unfasten the chain and handed it over.

It was warm to the touch, warmer than it should be just from Kelly’s skin. It seemed to almost vibrate with life, and Kelly looked somehow diminished without it.

“Did the woman at the store, Penelope, tell you anything about them?” Dean asked.

Kelly shrugged. “Just that they symbolized mothers, is all. The mother figure is very powerful, you know.”

“Yeah, we know,” Sam said. “Okay, so you and the other mothers talked while your kids played. I assume you talked about stuff like your marriages? Anybody having any trouble in that department?”

“Well, sometimes Melissa would say things…things about her husband. Melissa wanted to have more kids and he didn’t want to, but he spent a lot of time talking about what a perfect mother she was. She said it was getting a little weird.”

“And what about Mommy Dearest? If these necklaces are supposed to make you such good mothers, why is Sandy such a bitch to her kids?” Dean asked bluntly.

“I don’t know. We talked about it sometimes, when she wasn’t there.” Kelly looked troubled. “I know she can be – well, she’s not very patient.”

“Yeah,” Dean snorted. “That’s like saying a great white shark isn’t very friendly." Kelly smiled sadly and nodded. Sam shot Dean a look and Dean rolled his eyes.

“What about a girl with dark hair? Have you ever seen her, just, you know, hanging around?” Dean asked.

“A girl in a red t-shirt? Kelly asked. “Yeah, sometimes. She never says anything, she just looks at me with these sad eyes and then leaves. I don’t know who she is.”

"Okay, Kelly, can you think of anything else? I mean, does the necklace make you feel...different when you wear it?" Sam asked.

"Yeah." For the first time, Kelly looked scared. "It makes me feel like I'm not alone. Like there's someone watching me."



Most of the time, Sam didn’t think about his mother when he was awake. He’d gotten used to his dreams, so used to them that sometimes he forgot he had them.

He had questions about her, of course. Questions his father or his brother could answer, if Sam was careful to ask them in the right way, at the right time.

Sometimes he would start to tell Dean things that Mary told him in a dream, before he remembered that he wasn’t supposed to say anything about that. And he somehow knew that Dean might be jealous, maybe, that Sam could see their mother and talk to her and Dean couldn’t.

But it made him feel like he wasn’t alone. No matter how much Dad pushed, or how many times they moved or how often Dad left them alone while he worked, Sam never felt lonely.

The first time Dean went on a hunt with Dad, Sam was twelve, old enough to stay by himself for a couple of days. He had school to keep him busy, homework and soccer practice and his friends.

Dean was so excited. It was a werewolf and he talked about it nonstop.

They were gone for two nights. For those two nights while Sam was by himself, Mary was there with him. He wasn’t alone. But for some reason, he still felt alone and abandoned. It took him a while, but he finally figured out what was missing.

Dean. Dean wasn’t there. Without Dean by his side, Sammy could barely breathe.

Mary just smiled and said, “I know, Sammy.”



“Look at this.” Sam let himself into the motel, waving a newspaper clipping in his hand. “I think I found something.’”

Dean turned away from Sam’s laptop, turned around and looked up at Sam. Sam’s breath caught for a minute at how beautiful his brother was. They stared at each other, and then Dean blinked and looked away.

“Whatcha got there, Sammy?” he asked, his voice hoarse.

“Um,” Sam looked down at the paper in his hand. “Right. Belinda Callaway. Fourteen year old girl, died six weeks ago, probable suicide. Well, she hung herself, that’s pretty definite. She left a note saying she did it to get away from her mother. And look at her picture. It matches the description Monica Sullivan gave of the girl she said was following her. The others, too.”

A somber looking young girl with long dark hair and serious eyes stared at Sam from the newspaper clipping.

“Why would a fourteen year old girl want to get away from her mother?” Dean asked.

Sam shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe her mom wouldn’t let her go to the mall with her friends?” It was supposed to be a joke, but Sam's timing was off and it fell flat. A dead girl wasn’t really very funny.

“I’m sure you know all about the ways of fourteen year-old girls, Sammy,” Dean said, the gibe automatic and without his usual smirk. He didn't think it was funny, either.

“Haha,” Sam said, distractedly. “Move over.” He pushed Dean out of the way and sat down at his computer. Dean swiped at him half-heartedly. Sam typed Belinda Callaway into Google and hit search. There were half a dozen hits and he clicked on the first one.

It was a detailed report of her death, including the information that she had lived with her mother. Her parents had been divorced for years and her father’s whereabouts were unknown. There were reports from friends that the mother had been abusive.

Belinda had been cremated.

“Her mother’s name is Louise Callaway,” Sam said. “She still lives in Sarasota. We should go talk to her.”

The house where Louise Callaway lived was run down and dilapidated-looking. Peeling paint, dirty windows, overgrown grass, flowerbeds overgrown with weeds gave the whole place an air of neglect. There was a pile of old newspapers stacked outside the door.

“It looks pretty deserted, Sam,” Dean said.

Sam nodded. He tapped on the front door and it swung open under his hand. They moved slowly together into a dimly lit living room. The smell hit Sam as soon as they crossed the threshold.

“Aw, man,” Dean choked, his hand coming up to cover his mouth.

They found the body in the kitchen, crawling with flies. Sam heard Dean gagging behind him. Ignoring the stench, Sam looked closely at the woman on the floor. She was sprawled on her back, a carving knife protruding from her chest. Her eyes were wide open, a rictus of terror on her face.

Both her hands were grasping the handle of the large knife, the fingers white and curved.

Around her neck was the same pendant every other mother in town seemed to be wearing.

“Did she stab herself?” Dean asked, squatting down to get a closer look. He grimaced as a fat fly buzzed lazily around his ear, and quickly stood back up again.

Sam cocked his head, considering. He nodded. “I’d guess yes, judging by the angle of her hands on that knife. I’d say it’s been more than a few days, too.”

Dean nodded. “What the hell, Sam?” He poked around in a cascade of books scattered around the cluttered countertop. Picking up what looked like a journal, he flipped through the pages, stopping to read every once in a while.

Meanwhile, Sam lifted the amulet off Louise Callaway’s chest with a pencil, examining it. He tugged at the chain until he found the clasp and unfastened it, then held the amulet up to the light to study it more closely. It looked just like all the rest.

"You know, all these women have a different story about how and when they got these amulets," he said thoughtfully.

“Goddamnit,” Dean swore. “I don’t wanna read this.”

“What is it?” Sam asked. Dean looked at Sam with a sick, furious expression.

“Belinda’s diary. Let’s just say no one would have nominated Louise Callaway for Mother of the Year.” He shook his head. “People,” he said, loathing in his voice. He picked up another book from the pile.

“Look here, Sam.”

He held out a pink and white book with the words My Baby Book embossed across the cover. Sam straightened up and looked over Dean’s shoulder while he flipped through the book.

It was all about Belinda, her birthday, her weight at birth, when she’d smiled her first smile, lost her first tooth, taken her first steps. And there it was: baby’s first haircut. A ringlet of fine silky brown hair was stuck to the page with a strip of yellowing Scotch tape.

“This is it, Dean. This is why Belinda is still hanging around, even though she was cremated.”

Dean flipped open his phone and punched in 911. “I’d like to report a dead body at 583 Pelican Road.” He flipped his phone closed before the operator could ask him any questions and said, “Let’s get out of here.”

Sam tore the page with the hair taped to it out of the baby book, folded it carefully, and tucked it into his pocket.

“Bitch got what she deserved, you ask me,” Dean muttered, looking back at the body sprawled grotesquely on the kitchen floor.

"Maybe she started out trying to be a good mother," Sam said, looking at Dean over his shoulder as they hurried down the sidewalk to the car. "Maybe she just got tired."

"Fuck that, Sam. People get tired all the time. It doesn't mean you stop doing your damn job. It doesn't mean you can treat a kid bad, just because you're tired."

"No, I know," said Sam as he got into the car. The drive back to their motel was silent, each of them lost in their own thoughts.

Until Dean turned on the radio and Asia started singing Heat of the Moment and Sam had a full-blown panic attack for the first time since he was in the fifth grade and he forgot to do his history homework.

He couldn’t breathe. He absolutely couldn’t catch his breath to save his life. Dean swerved over to the edge of the road, Michigan license plates honking at him from all sides, threw the car into park, and shoved Sam’s head none-too-gently between his knees.

“Breathe, Sammy, come on.” He rubbed small circles on Sam’s back. It was very soothing. Eventually, Sam started breathing again.

“Dude,” he said, still too light-headed to sit up straight. “Do you remember that Civil War diorama you helped me make in the fifth grade?”

Dean snorted and kept rubbing. “You used all my toy soldiers, Sammy. Sure I remember. I held your Care Bear hostage until I got ‘em back.” His hand stopped moving. “Not that I still played with ‘em,” he added hastily. “Those suckers were collectors items.”

“Sure, Dean. And I never had a Care Bear, asshole,” Sam croaked.

“You’re such a freak.” Dean took his hand away. “You want to tell me what the hell that was all about?” Dean asked as Sam managed to get himself upright in the seat.

“Not really.” Dean glared at him menacingly and Sam folded. “Okay, that was the song I heard every single one of those Tuesday mornings when I woke up. Don’t you remember? You sang along with the radio every time.” Sam shivered. He loved Dean’s voice, but…

“Yeah, I guess I kinda do remember.” Dean flicked the radio off. “Sorry about that.”

When they got back to their room, Sam sat huddled at the small table in the corner, still trying to find his fucking center. Dean stretched out on the bed, staring at the ceiling and practically thrumming with tension.

“So, is Belinda a vengeful spirit or a death omen?” Sam asked. Dean sat up, looking startled.

“I don’t know, Sammy.” He frowned. “It doesn’t really make any difference why she’s here. We’ve got to waste her.” He flinched at his own words. “I mean, I feel sorry for the kid, but….” he trailed off, then met Sam’s eyes. “Sometimes people suck, Sammy.” He sounded so defeated. The exhaustion of this whole past year shone in his eyes.

Sam knew that people sucked. It’s not like he and Dean had ever had any illusions about the dark and evil things in the world. They'd never been allowed to have any. But Dean had faith in people, thought they were worth saving.

It made Sam angry when Dean was disappointed.

“Sammy?” Dean’s eyes were sad, his defenses brought low by someone who hadn’t done something as simple as treasure the life that was entrusted to her. Her job.

“Okay,” Sam said. “Yeah.”

Sam stood up and moved slowly to the bed, giving Dean plenty of time to change his mind. Dean watched him with a sorrowful hunger on his face. He kept his eyes on Sam and Sam felt heat go through him like wildfire.

Sam pulled his shirt off over his head as he walked, toed off his shoes, unzipped his jeans. They hit the floor by the time he reached the bed. Dean’s gaze was steady and his eyes were wide. Sam smiled and got a small answering smile from his brother.

Dean reached for Sam, got a hand in the waistband of his boxers and tugged him closer. Sam went down, sprawling out on top of Dean, and Dean grunted.

“Get off me, you weigh a ton.”

Sam didn’t get off him. He shoved his hand down the front of Dean’s jeans, and Dean sucked in a breath and said, “Dude, your freakish hands don’t fit down there!”

Sam pulled back and went for Dean’s belt buckle. “Get your pants off, then,” he said.

Dean didn’t waste any time complying and Sam grinned down at him, fingers wrapped around Dean’s dick, thumb making slow circles around the head.

“Sam, c’mon. Quit fucking around,” Dean hissed. He tried to glare up at Sam, but Sam started jacking him harder and faster and that effectively shot his effort all to hell. Dean’s eyes closed and he actually whimpered, which Sam gleefully stored up for later use.

Sam knew how to do comfort sex, how to distract Dean when necessary, and he made things as quick and dirty as Dean needed them to be.

After, Dean whispered, almost to himself, “I just want you to be okay, Sammy.”

Sam nodded. “I know.”



”I was a good mother, Sam. I knew I would be. I protected you boys.” Mary sounded almost smug, and then she frowned at Sam. Her white nightgown looked gray, almost grubby, and the slash of blood across the front of it was dried and crusted over, as if it had been there a long time.

Sam didn’t argue with her, he would never, but his mother continued fretfully. “Your father – he didn’t know anything about any of it. I had to do it all.” She gestured down at herself with disgust. “And look what happened.”

“Mom,” Sam started to say, but she cut him off.

“No, Sam. No.”



Sam startled awake when his cell phone rang. Expecting it to be Bobby, Sam looked at the caller ID anyway. He didn’t recognize the number, but saw that it was local.

The late afternoon sun slanted in through the window.

“Hello?” Dean stirred against him, snuffling into Sam's armpit.

“Hello, is this Agent Jagger?”

“Um, sure,” said Sam. “Who’s this?” He covered the phone and tried to elbow Dean awake. "Dude, that tickles."

“This is Sandy Olliver.”

“How can I help you, Mrs. Olliver?” Dean's eyes opened at that and he looked up at Sam, frowning.

“I think there’s someone in my house.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Something.”

Sam shook his head and sat up. Dean followed suit, his chin resting on Sam's shoulder. “Are you alone? Where are your children?” He pointed to Dean and then to his clothes. Quick, he mouthed. Dean stood and pulled his pants on, reaching for his shirt.

“They’re with my mother. It’s Tuesday, she always takes them on Tuesday.” Sam heard a loud bang and then a crash, as if furniture was being overturned. Sandy gave a little scream. “Oh, god, hurry. You have to help me!”

“Hang on,” Sam said, and he dropped he phone on the bed. He scrambled into his clothes, shoving his feet into his shoes and tugging his t-shirt on over his head, then picked the phone back up.

"Mrs. Olliver?”

“Oh, god, help me!”

“We’ll be right there,” Sam said.

They hurried out the door. Sam kept Sandy on the phone while they drove. Dean took the corners fast, and Sam found himself mentally inventorying the contents of the trunk for whatever they might need.

“Sandy, I need you to find a room that has a door with a lock,” Sam said. “Go inside, lock the door. This is going to sound really weird, but get some salt from your kitchen. Pour it across the bottom of the doorway. Maybe move something in front of the door, a chair, or a table, maybe. Can you do that?”

“Yeah, okay,” Sandy said breathlessly. “I can do that. But why salt?” Sam heard more noises, running footsteps, heard the sound of furniture sliding across a wooden floor.

“Just do it, okay?” Sam told her.

They pulled up to the house, and Sam was out of the car before Dean had it in park. They ran to the front door, left standing wide open in the late afternoon heat.

Shotguns in hand, they moved into the house together, shoulder-to-shoulder. Sam had a sudden rush of exhilaration at having Dean by his side on a hunt again. There had been too many lone hunts, silent and grim. He’d missed Dean’s presence at his back, warm and alive. It had been like trying to function with only one arm, or without sight or sound.

There was a sudden rush of cold wind and the front door slammed shut behind them. Sam turned quickly and saw the figure of a teenage girl, bruises on her face and tattered clothing on her back. Dead, angry eyes stared out of her face and long brown hair hung in lank strands around her face. She was dressed in jeans and a ratty-looking red t-shirt.

Dean raised his shotgun and aimed it at the figure, but Sam said, “No, Dean, wait!” He looked at the girl, heard Sandy yelling from the dim recesses of the back of the house. “What do you want?”

She kept staring, and tears rolled down her face. “I want my mother to love me,” she said in a dry, whispery voice. “Why won’t she love me?”

“Why are you here, in this house?” Sam asked, as he edged his way around, trying to get between the ghost and the back of the house where Sandy was hiding.

“I was looking for her, but she’s not here. She left me. I just want her to love me,” the girl whispered.

“What’s your name?” Dean grunted and shook his head, like he couldn’t believe Sam was asking an apparently matricidal ghost her name. Sam ignored him.

“Belinda,” the girl said, and her pale form flickered as she spoke.

“Belinda, your mother, did she -” Sam broke off, not sure how to say it.

“She hurt me,” Belinda said. “And then she left me. Why didn’t she love me?” Her face darkened and her eyes flashed.

“Sam,” Dean said warningly, but Sam was ready. He held up the necklace he had taken from Louise’s body and Belinda’s tears flowed faster.

"It didn't work," she sobbed. “It was supposed to make her love me.”

“Your mom can’t hurt you anymore, Belinda. You need to go now.” Beside him, Dean held up the ringlet of soft brown hair they’d taken out of Belinda’s baby book. In his other hand, he had his Zippo, and he lit the hair on fire and held it, watching it burn with the usual perverse fascination he had for all things fire related.

Belinda’s arms reached out to them beseechingly as flames engulfed her figure, and then she was gone, without even a trace of ashes on the floor to mark her passing.

The house was silent now. Sandy had stopped yelling. The oppressive heat of the day had silenced the birds, and even the ever-present insects were quiet. Sam made as if to go towards the back of the house, to release Sandy and tell her it was over, but Dean stopped him with a hand on his arm.

“Leave her ass. Let her know what it’s like to be afraid for a little while longer.” The expression on his face was unreadable, but Sam nodded.

“Okay. Let’s get out of here, then.”

That night, Sam asked again. This time Dean didn't fight him at all.

Sam knew Dean had been watching him since he got back. They got back. Whatthefuckever. Hell, Dean kept an eye on Sam all the time. Sam was used to it, had worn that attention like a second skin all his life. It was just more intense now, since they’d woken up to a new Wednesday, another second chance.

Dean was wary, like he was waiting for something. For the other shoe to drop, or for Sam to freak out.

He looked up at Sam, his eyes full of uncertainty, and Sam couldn’t have that.

He leaned down and kissed his brother, softly at first, then with increased hunger. He put everything he had into it, trying to show Dean all the things he felt. How vital Dean was to Sam’s continued existence, how much he mattered.

They lay together on the bed, Dean’s head cradled in Sam’s hand, as Sam kissed him. Sam lost track of time, didn’t know how long they lay there, just kissing. His lips felt heavy and swollen but still he didn’t stop. Dean’s lips were slick under his, full and warm and Sam wanted to just do this always, and fuck the rest of the world.

Dean shifted restlessly. Sam stretched out next to him, his hand moving slowly up and down Dean’s side, rubbing slow circles in the curve of his lower back, across the swell of his hips.

“Sam,” Dean murmured against his mouth, and Sam licked at him, sucked on his lower lip, tested its softness with his teeth. “C’mon, Sam,” Dean said, trying to pull back. Sam’s other hand tightened on the back of Dean’s neck, holding him in place. “Do something.”

Sam felt a surge of frustration. Sex just wasn’t enough to show Dean, tell him how much he meant to Sam. And words were completely inadequate, especially with someone like Dean, who either couldn’t hear them, or didn’t want to.

“I love you,” Sam whispered as he pressed a kiss against Dean’s temple.

“Sam,” Dean protested. He slung his leg across Sam’s thighs, hooking his foot in the back of Sam’s knees. He moved impatiently, rubbing his dick in the groove of Sam’s hip.

Sam was trying. He tried everyday to keep his shit together, and some days he succeeded better than others. He didn’t know why Dean wouldn’t just let Sam show him. He felt need simmer inside, deep down in his belly, but nothing was ever enough.

Sam shook with it and he clutched at Dean, wrapped his arms around him and buried his face in Dean’s neck and tried to keep breathing.

Suddenly, Dean relaxed and Sam sensed his surrender. He stopped trying to get Sam to fuck him and instead kissed him back with all the love and care Sam had known his whole life. Dean’s skin was warm on his, warm and alive and present. Sam couldn’t get enough of it.

When Sam was finally inside, he let Dean take control, let him straddle him and ride him and smile down at him with a rare softness that Sam stored up in his heart.

Dean shifted, tightening around Sam and looking at him seriously. He sighed. "I wish you'd just tell me, Sam." He braced his hands on Sam's chest, leaning down to plant a brief kiss on Sam’s lips.

"Tell you what?" Sam asked, honestly puzzled. He thrust his hips up into the tight heat of Dean's ass.

"What else happened to you. Besides the freaky-ass time loop, I mean." Dean stopped moving and Sam grabbed a little frantically at his hips.

He took a deep breath. "Nothing else happened, Dean. I'm just a little freaked still, that's all." He played his trump card. "You don't think watching you die one hundred and seven times was enough?" He immediately felt shamed by the look of guilt on his brother's face.

“It’s not like I want to leave you, Sammy. I didn’t know what else to do,” Dean said hoarsely, rocking back on Sam's thighs.

“Dean, I don’t want you to feel guilty. I want you to stop fighting me. I want you to let me save you.” Sam pulled in a deep breath, tightened his hold on Dean's hips and fucked up into him. Dean groaned, but didn't say anything else.

He didn’t look away, just stared into Sam’s eyes and nodded, and it was almost like a promise.

There was a certain peace that settled around Sam's heart as he kissed his brother before they fell asleep. He didn't trust it, but he'd take it for now.



After they’d gone back to Lawrence, when the poltergeist had been in their old house, Mary sometimes came to Sam in flames. He didn’t really like it, but she was beautiful that way, bright and alive and glowing. Her flesh didn’t burn, neither did her white nightgown, and her golden hair blew around her in the hot wind of the fire.

Sam didn’t like it because it reminded him of Jess, of how she’d looked on the ceiling, how she’d looked in his dreams in the weeks before she died.



When Sam woke up, the first thing he was conscious of was his brother’s arm curved protectively across his chest. Dean’s warm weight was behind him and his warm breath on the back of Sam’s neck sent a shiver down Sam’s spine.

Dean shifted behind him and his breathing changed. Well, stopped might be a better word for it. Sam quit breathing, too, not sure of Dean’s reaction to the night before.

Sam assumed that most of Dean’s morning-afters, if he ever got as far as actual mornings with his usual hookups, consisted of clothing hastily scrambled into and cheerful goodbyes. This would be different for him, then. There was nowhere to go if he left, and Sam knew he couldn’t say goodbye.

There was a soft chuckle behind him. “Breathe, Sammy,” Dean said.

“I will if you will,” Sam retorted. Dean laughed again. It was one of the best sounds Sam had ever heard.

Dean’s arm tightened, then his hand slipped lower on Sam’s belly, fingertips skating over his skin, and Sam felt his stomach muscles flutter.

“That tickles,” he protested, trying to wiggle away. Dean’s arm tightened further. He was strong, but not that strong. Sam moved his elbow under him for leverage and had their positions reversed before Dean could react.

“Fucker,” Dean said fondly. He looked back over his shoulder at Sam. “Well, you got me here. What are you gonna do about it?”

Sam had to close his eyes for a minute at the sight of his brother’s open smile. He hadn’t seen that in a while.

“Sammy?”

“Shh,” Sam said, and he ran his hand down Dean’s chest to rub lightly at his stomach. “Who’s ticklish now?” he teased when Dean squirmed.

“Shut up and fuck me,” Dean growled.

“Sounds like a plan,” Sam agreed. He moved his hand back to Dean’s ass, his fingers easily finding what he wanted.

Dean was still slippery with lube from the night before, and Sam slid a finger inside, slowly fucking in and out, just barely penetrating. Dean squirmed again, and this time his breath caught when he said, “Dammit, Sam.”

Sam pulled his finger out and Dean said, “I swear to god, Sam -”

“I said be quiet,” Sam returned, as he reached behind him for the lube on the nightstand.

He pushed back in with two fingers this time and Dean groaned. Sam smiled, and spent the next ten minutes keeping his brother on the edge, until Dean was incoherent with it. Sam didn’t often get the chance to reduce Dean to sounds instead of words, unless there was food involved, and he found he liked it a lot.

When he pulled his fingers out again, Dean pushed his ass back and, managing to find some very specific words, said, “You better be getting ready to fuck me, or you’re a dead man, Sam.”

“Patience isn’t really your strong suit, is it, Dean?” Sam slicked himself up and pushed inside, closing his eyes at the tightness around his dick.

He fucked Dean slowly, ignoring his demands to go faster. This was his brother, this infuriating man who was more important to Sam than life, his own or anyone else’s. This was important, and no one was taking this away from him. Certainly not Hell.

He came with his chin hooked over Dean’s shoulder, rubbing his cheek against Dean’s, arms tight around his chest, and while he would deny it if Dean mentioned it, he may have said mine as his eyes closed and he gave himself up to sensation. He felt Dean tighten around him, could tell Dean was working himself, his arm moving quickly to bring himself off.

This time Dean wasn’t silent, he came loudly and happily, making Sam smile at the sound of his voice.

“Not even the courtesy of a reach around, Sammy?” Dean murmured sleepily after, settling back against Sam’s chest.

“Shut up,” Sam said, as he decided breakfast could wait another hour or two.



"Don't tell him, Sam. He can't know."

"Can't know what, Mom? Why won't you ever answer me?" Sam asked plaintively.

"Shhh, Sam. It's all my fault." Mary sighed. "I loved John so much."

"I don't know what you mean, Mom. I don't know what you want me to do."

"Whatever you have to do, Sam. Whatever it takes." His mother looked fierce, her eyes shining with something he wasn't used to seeing there. It looked like vengeance.

"Okay, Mom. I will. I promise." Sam didn't know what he was promising, only that he couldn't withstand that look on his mother's face.

"I love you, Sam," Mary said, and she shimmered and was gone.



“So it was just a coincidence that Penelope was selling the same pendant that Belinda’s mother wore? Cuz I gotta tell you, Sammy, I’m not a big believer in coincidences.”

“I don’t think Penelope had anything to do with it, Dean. I think that’s your prejudice against witches talking.” Sam grinned at him.

“Yeah, well, witches are skeevy,” Dean muttered.

“So you keep saying, Dean. I don’t think Penelope is one, anyway.” He shrugged. “She just owns a gift shop.” Sam tucked the last of his dirty jeans into his duffle and zipped it up. He looked around the room one more time, making sure he hadn’t left anything behind. If he had, he sure as hell wasn’t coming back for it. He wasn’t ever setting foot in Florida again as long as he lived, not if he could avoid it. And that was a promise.

Besides, he had a PO box to maneuver Dean towards.

“So what do you say, Sammy. You wanna go to the Circus Museum before we leave here? Ringling Brothers, right here in Sarasota.” Dean leered at Sam, playful joy on his face. For a minute Sam wished he could stop time right here, right now, and have that expression be on his brother’s face forever.

And he remembered, because he could never forget, he remembered that Dean’s life was counting down in days, hours and minutes. Remembered that he, Sam, was the only one who could stop that countdown, and he was going to have to do that in spite of Dean.

The only thing to do was to go forward, towards whatever future there was, but Sam sure as hell wasn’t going to go quietly. There was no way Dean’s future was mapped out for him, no way it was preordained. Dean was always going on about choices, how there was always a choice to be made.

Well, Sam chose to fight to save his brother, and there was nothing and no one who could stop him.

Dean was holding the door open and his smile was even more beautiful in the sun. That was the one thing Sam would miss about Florida. The light. His brother was beautiful in the light.

“I bet there’s an ass-load of clowns at that museum, Sammy. What do you say we check it out?”

Sam rolled his eyes and shoved his brother out the door.




AN: Sam absolutely broke my heart in Season 4, and Mystery Spot seems to me to be the point when he started his slow descent into madness things started to go pear-shaped for him. I wanted to explore that moment.

Title stolen from courtesy of James Reiss. Opening line by Lennon and McCartney.

Thanks as always to Ashley, who came around, even though this wasn’t the story she wanted me to write. As the other half of my brain, it was necessary for her to be on board.

Thanks to topaz119 for listening to me whine about how hard it is to write, omg.

Thanks to annkiri for the most wonderful and helpful beta.

Thanks to marciaelena for the fabulous art and also for her beta. She found so many typos and mistakes, you wouldn’t believe. She has eagle eyes.

And of course, thanks to wendy, audrarose and thehighwaywoman for this most amazing challenge.