Part III a

[soncnica]

- CHAPTER 1 -

When someone stepped over the border, their name got written on a slip of paper. The person could be anyone; native of this Land – those were more or less the Border Guards coming back home – or someone native of all the lands surrounding this one. Those were often-times people seeking sex, booze or magic. Or were just plain evil, wanting to spread the Plague.

That had been lesson number one that Sam had learned when Mr. Singer started his schooling. It was an easy lesson to remember, and he wrote it down in his notebook with blue inked linear letters.

If that person or creature hadn't survived one whole day in the Land - hours counted by a sand hour hovering above that slip of paper - then the paper turned to ashes and ashes to a finer dust that'd get thrown into the lilly-pond outside in the garden.

That had been lesson number two. Easy to remember too, but he'd still written it down in case he'd ever forget.

Lesson number three had been trickier and had him poking his tongue out the side of his mouth when he noted it down. Mr. Singer had smiled at that, but continued on. If that person or creature survived and/or made contact with the people living here, he or she or it and the contacted person needed to be Collected. Questioned and then depending on the findings released or brought to the infirmary where they'd most likely breathe out their last breath.

Lesson number three had been (without saying) hard for Sam to learn. He'd been only ten then, ten and his soul still innocent and pure fighting back whenever Mr. Singer tried to make the lesson stick.

It'd been a struggle, one that Sam was pretty sure was still happening, even now that he was older and more experienced, but it was never easy to go and take people away from their homes to be brought in the Questioning chamber. Never easy. Some people were hysterical to the point of stabbing themselves in the heart just so that they wouldn't have to go with him. He took those to be burned in the burning holes.

But there were some he managed to calm down enough to at least make them sit down and have him explain everything.

Denial was the first response. Of course it was. Deny, deny, deny, say I didn't see that person, I didn't touch that person, I don't know that person, I was never there, I don't know that place.

Sam knew, as well as they did, that it was all pointless, 'cause the slips of paper never lied. It was impossible, because the border never made mistakes when it told them who had passed.

After denial came acceptance and their hand in his.

But with Dean … seeing his big brother again … what had Dean been doing on the other side? What made him cross into the other land and then cross the line back?

His big brother.

He was going to see his big brother again. After so many years, he was going to see him again.

hoot

He replaced his black tunic for a white one, because the fact that he was going to have to Question his brother made him sweat through the black one in a span of one hour.

"Shut up, I sweat, so what?"

He spoke into the open closet he was standing in front of, trying to search for the cleanest cloak he still had. He'd need to see the seamstress and the washing machines. Joy. Those machines always ate all his nickels and then laughed at him.

He sighed; but clothes needed to be washed, he couldn't walk around smelling of sweat and rust.

hoot

"Yeah, yeah, whatever."

He didn't want to look Twirly in his big, black eyes. They were too knowing and it itched him wrong. He didn't want Twirly to know what seeing his brother made him feel. He wanted to keep that to himself. At least for a while.

He wasn't feeling nervous, wasn't scared, because the ashes of Dean's name swimming in his blood made him feel strong, made him feel even more capable than usual. The fact that his blood was the same as Dean's was just a bonus, made his head spin and adrenaline spike up when his feet touched ground.

hoot

The pine needles and leaves making up the ground right outside the cottage where he'd spent seven years of his life, made the impact softer and he didn't need to bend his knees as much as if he'd land on rocks. Or in a middle of a river. Or that pond near Mrs. Carsees bakery. Those poor ducks were still traumatized no matter how many times he apologized.

hoot

"'s Dean, you know?"

hoot

He took a deep breath, comforted by the weight of Twirly on his shoulder and the owl's claws penetrating his skin through two layers of clothes, and stepped forward those three long strides that separated him and his big brother. He could do this. He could protect Dean, he could make all of this easier.

This was his brother and he didn't want to harm him, but he also knew that if he'd treat Dean like he treated kids when it was their Questioning, Dean'd probably kill him with his bare hands. Possibly with his pinky.

And he wouldn't even defend himself, because there were worse ways of dying than by his brother's hand.

He gripped the door handle, a wickedly curved hazelnut branch and pushed in.

The air was stale, but not as stale as it would've been if the cottage had been locked up for years. Dean must've aired it out.

He'd come here a few years ago but the stopped. He just couldn't anymore; didn't want to open the door and not find Dean or his dad inside, waiting for him with lunch on the stove and smiles on their faces. That would be the last straw that would break him completely. He avoided this place, avoided it for the safety of his own sanity.

But everything was as he remembered; the fireplace was there, big gray stones. The table with the chairs, the window and the rocking chair.

And Dean.

"Hey Sammy."

His eyes widened and his mouth went dry, because there he was. Dean.

"Dean…" he gasped and Twirly's hoot was a gasp too.

"So," he watched as Dean rocked forward and backwards once on the old rocking chair, amazed that termites hadn't yet eaten the thing and then got up, his long cloak swirling with the movement, revealing his long sword and the Colt tucked in a thigh holster, "you've grown, little brother."

Dean had grown too, filled out his shoulders, his arms muscled, the fingers holding the handle of his sword still nimble and probably able to really kill a person with just the pinky.

There was a silver ring on Dean's finger, but it wasn't of marriage. It had belonged to their mother and it was one of protection.

Dean looked weary; lines around his mouth and eyes not ones of laughter but sleepless nights and things he'd seen and wished he hadn't. Things he'd done and wished he hadn't. Sam understood, he knew how that was, he might not be Sam Winchester, the Hunter, but he was Sam Winchester, Grand Master Inquisitor and he'd seen and done things too.

Sometimes with his sword, but most of the time with his hands and his words and his mind.

He might not have blood running down his arms, but he had it spilling across his mind.

They stood, toe to toe, neither one of them knowing what the hell to do.

hoot

"There's an owl on your shoulder, dude."

"Uh, uh, yeah yes his name's Twirly."

"And he's your …"

"Friend."

He couldn't say the brother I never was allowed to have, but he wanted to. And by the look in Dean's eyes, his big brother knew.

"You always did love animals, Sammy. Remember Sloppy?"

"T'yeah, I did, still do. What … what happened to him? Did he, uh …"

He couldn't even say it. His eyes were already starting to water and he just couldn't say it.

"No, I let him go after you," he rubbed the back of his neck, "... he was sad, he was really sad, started to lose his fur, shed all over the place, I just ... couldn't ... so I took him to the Faeries, told 'em to look after him. Dunno what happened to him then."

Sam bit his lip and nodded. Sloppy was ... more than just his friend, he was someone who listened to his every whispered word and never judged him when he'd been scared or when he cried.

hoot

He looked at Twirly, the huge, huge shiny eyes staring deep into his soul and lightly stroked his head: '''s okay Twirly, 'm okay.'

hoot

"You gonna gimme your hand, or should I take it?"

The question snapped Sam out of thinking about Sloppy, about the black rabbit that oozed comfort twenty-four seven.

"What?"

"Should I just take your hand or are you gonna give it to me?"

He was stumped; he just never really met anyone who didn't go hysterical over him appearing and it was … refreshing. But then of course, his brother wouldn't do that.

The Hunter's never did. They were too strong of a mind and too proud to cry and rage and try to run away. They just shot themselves or stabbed themselves with their daggers. They swore to protect the Land and to be accused of getting in contact with anyone carrying the Plague – that was worse than death itself.

He reached out his hand and was surprised that it wasn't shaking. He thought that it should've shaken. Because there was his big brother, there was Dean, who took care of him in this small cottage; played with him, read to him, fed him, talked to him, rocked him to sleep in that rocking chair.

Dean.

"Take it." he whispered and watched Dean's hand travel towards him. It was like time had stopped for a second and then started to run slow as molasses.

"Sam, before I do that …"

And there it was. Dean was going to run, was going to kill him, was not going to go down without a fight.

He watched his brother pinch his lips together and whisper, "… you'll be there, right?" and Sam never thought that Dean was … could be … scared.

"Yeah Dean," I'll be there to take you apart and sew you back together. I'll be there to go into your mind and seek the truth. I'll be there to watch you be held down and speared for the truth. I'll be there watching you cry and hear you scream and I'll be there to clean the blood, sweat and piss off of you. I'll be there waiting to see if you're pure or rotten, "I'll be there."

"Okay, okay."

hoot

His hand touching Sam's was like getting electrocuted. He was sure he smelt something burning and it was probably his heart and brain. The world swirled before his eyes, currents of whiteness folding him into Sam's body and he released a long breath.

Nothing had ever felt as good as feeling his little brother stand next to him. Finally. After all these years, he finally had Sam back. He didn't care what Sam would do to him, he knew that the Questioning was necessary, as he did cross the border and been in contact with a lot of the other land's natives, but he just didn't care. All he cared about was that Sam would be there and not leave him.

He didn't want to be left alone again. Didn't want to lose Sam again.

He woke up lying on a bed. Soft, enormous bed, the mattress dipping down and raising up in just the right places to support his aching body. It wasn't a sudden wakening, it wasn't quick fall on your ass kinda wake up and it certainly wasn't a wakening where he'd gasp and find himself drenched in sweat – like it had been for the last five years.

It was just him opening his eyes as slowly as he possibly could and seeing a ceiling above him … a ceiling made of polished gray-black-white marble with a stunning painting drawn on it. Or carved into it, maybe even made from different colored marble, like a mosaic but he couldn't really tell. He'd seen paintings like that before, especially in houses of prayer, and he'd seen images called 'graffiti' on the sides of drinking houses he often visited on the other side of the border but this painting, this picture … if waking up didn't make him gasp the picture certainly did.

The colors and the way the artist made the lines and the patterns – it made the picture alive, made it as if it was moving and breathing and reaching down right for him.

He blinked and looked away, looked to the side towards a floor to ceiling window and squinted his eyes against the hot sun. He couldn't stand to watch a man holding a long, sharp-tipped spear in one hand and a long sword, drenched in blood in the other, look straight at him. It was the center piece of the painting – the Hunter. The spear and the sword gave it away – he didn't use a spear anymore, had his Colt, but some of the older Hunters did, so he knew.

The other pieces, the minor ones were of dragons standing behind the Hunter, bowing their big heads and folding up their massive golden wings showing him the respect he deserved. Beside him stood another man, dressed in a long, dark blue cloak with clouds in the most violent of storms depicted on the fabric. He held a clean, green sparkling long swords in one hand while the other rested on a dragon's snout.

He couldn't look at the picture; it looked too alive, held energy that he could see in how the colors were vibrant, dynamic, intense. They looked as if they were dancing, swirling. The clouds on the man's cloak were shifting as if a wind was blowing right at them. Everything seemed as if it was constantly mixing and matching to present the very best of it all. Seemed as if the picture wanted to impress him.

The sun was safer to look at than the picture. Safer than thinking about what the picture meant.

Because a Hunter and an Inquisitor with the Herd bowing to them?

The artist must've been drunk out of his mind or under very, very illegal substances to have made that picture.

He was one hundred percent sure that the Herd bowed to no man, no woman and no child. To no one human and to no creature.

They respected everybody, of course, but to bow before a man? Dean was sure they'd rather be torn apart by beasts from down South than bow their heads and tuck their wings to their bodies.

"You awake?"

hoot

The words and the hoot came from his right, from his dead line of sight and he clenched the silky fabric he was lying on into his fist.

It was Sam's voice and it was so different than it had been. Not only had Sam grown up and filled out, his voice had become one of a man, not stayed one of a child and Dean … whished so badly that he could've been there and listen to it change over the years. Laugh at the squeaks and high pitched words when Sam'd hit that age.

He blinked and turned his head towards his brother. The owl was sitting on his left shoulder now, its hawk-like beak looking as if it could tear him apart if he made one sudden move. The flat face covered with black, white, brown feathers looked serious and the big eyes with a rusty orange around the pupil were observing him. Measuring him up and he could respect that. Sam needed to be protected, needed a friend like that who'd do anything to prevent Sam from getting hurt. The owl was one of a kind, that was for sure; it's brown-black feathers were in vertical strips running down its front and the ear tufts on his round head were, well, funny. He'd laugh if he wouldn't think that the owl would attack him for it.

It lifted its right leg and the claws on the thing … he flinched and could've sworn the owl smirked at him.

"Seriously Twirly? He's my brother."

hoot

"Don't give me that, just … go prepare everything, please?"

hoot

Sam rolled his eyes at that and huffed. The owl took flight, its wing span probably more than forty inches if Dean's eye was to be trusted. It was some sight that was for sure.

The owl flew out the open door, but his eyes were on his brother again.

So damn tall, taller than him. When … what had he been fed to have grown so tall? How'd he been training for all those muscles to be there on his arms? What had he been doing that his shoulders were that wide and …

"I see you're still refusing to cut your hair."

Sam's lips quirked up in a smile: "Not anytime soon, jerk."

"Still a bitch I see."

A shimmer in Sam's eyes told him that he should stop this, that they should stop this, before things would escalate and end with tears and hugs and maybe even a fight with their daggers. Or fists. He was sure Sam knew all the moves either way.

"Dean…"

Fuck Sam and … fuck time as it didn't take away how his little brother could strip him bare, with just one well delivered wording of his name.

He turned his head away, not wanting to make this harder on Sam, making his brother look him in the eye when he'd answer the next question.

"Just tell me when." He whispered up to the painting, his imagination taking the best of him, because he could've sworn he saw a dragon look him straight in his eyes and the gold in them sparkle silver.

"An hour."

One blink and the dragon's eyes were gold and looking as if they were directed to the ground and not at him.

"'kay."

One hour wasn't enough for him to mentally prepare himself for the Questioning, but maybe he didn't need to. He knew what was going to happen, he knew that he had absolutely nothing to hide and all his thoughts and his answers would be the truth and … yes, he was okay. It was okay. And for the other things; he couldn't control those. He'd been very careful when he'd lain down with women, he'd been very careful not to drink or eat anything he himself didn't prepare. But still … now that he had his little brother back, he was all right with dying. Wouldn't be the first time he was on Death's doorstep. And he kinda missed the old man and his fried pickle obsession.

"Dean…"

The only thing that he didn't quite like was that Sam would be doing the Questioning, that Sam would be the one there and looking at him and into him and see and hear and feel his every thought. That … that he wasn't prepared for.

He looked back at Sam, who stood there by the side of the bed, his status cloak looking both heavy and light on his shoulders and the crest of the Order of Inquisitors glittering silver and gold on his left breast, right over the heart.

"'s okay, Sammy."

"I'll make it quick. I know … I know you're not sick."

"Don't be so quick there."

"No, I know. But … I won't … if … I won't judge you."

"I know you won't."

"I've been doing this for years Dean, I …"

"Sam, I know, 's okay. You're my brother, it's okay."

He watched Sam bite his lower lip and nod: "It'll be quick, I promise."

He looked from Sam back to the painting above him, a painting that was stretching throughout the entire ceiling of the huge chamber and this time … this time it wasn't his imagination playing with him, because this time, he did see the Inquisitor place his hand on the Hunter's shoulder and squeeze while one of the dragons wrapped its long, spiked tail around the Hunter's legs. Possessive. Cherished.

"Sam?"

There was no answer and he looked at where he'd seen Sam last, but there was no Sam there.

"Sam?!"

There was panic rising in him now, from his belly up his chest, puncturing his heart, up his throat piercing his eyes and up into his head. Sam had left him. Again.

No, no, no!

No. Sam would be back. They had an … appointment … Sam would be back. Probably just went to prepare himself or whatever the Inquisitors did before a Questioning. Especially Inquisitors of Sam's status.

What he didn't know was that Sam went to order the pixies to be extra good at scrubbing blood off of the stone table in his own Questioning chamber.

He lay back down on the bed with a sigh, stuffing down the panic and calming down his heartbeat.

His eyes widened when he saw the Inquisitor's long sword, dripping with red blood now, all the green gone, come right at him, the blade pushing out of the picture and going right for his throat. He had quick reflexes, his legs like springs, but the sword was faster, the swing in full momentum and when the blade swung across the flesh of his throat he didn't see anything else but silver light flashing before his eyes.

- CHAPTER 2 -

He remembered this place. Why was he here? He shouldn't be here. He couldn't be here.

How was he here?

He turned around – stalls with white doors, words and pictures scribbled on them with drunken fingers - and around – urinals with rust and corrosion at their edges - and around, until his eyes landed on a big mirror that spanned the whole wall right above three big sinks with silver pipes dripping brown water.

If this was where he ended up after dying, then he had some choice words to say to Death, if the coward would ever show, because this was just stupid. A men's room in a bar? Seriously?

But then again, knowing the man he was surprised Death wasn't already here, smelling of deep fried pickles and grinning at him.

Huh.

There was the door, he could just walk out of here, pretend that meeting Sam had just been a drunken dream, just one of the plenty nightmares that had seared his brain the last couple of days. He could – just open the door, walk out, get himself another beer at the bar, pick up a chick and try to forget about everything while he'd fuck her.

But he didn't do that, 'cause Sam had to be real, right? Twirly, the owl? It all had to be real, because there was no way his imagination scrounged all that up; he'd seen some weird stuff in his life, but Sam with an owl on his shoulder? That was just too weird even for him.

He sighed and walked on the wet, slippery green-tiled floor towards the counter that held the sinks, all lined up just like the houses in his village. He braced his hands on either side of the middle sink, grimacing when his fingers tapped on a puddle of what he hoped was soapy water but one couldn't ever tell in these bars.

Leaning closer to the mirror until he could see the bags under his eyes and freckles on his nose he muttered: "This is just stupid."

The hot breath fogged up the mirror, distorting the image of his face into something grotesque, something hidden behind the white fog. When the bony finger of Death didn't reach out from the stain, then he knew that this wasn't his afterlife. Wasn't even the real men's room in that bar, because there was no laughter, no glasses and bottles clinking to be heard behind the room's walls.

This was something else. This was something he wasn't ready for, something he didn't know how to fight. He'd been under the powder that made him hallucinate all kind of things, been poisoned once so badly he thought that he was floating on gray clouds. But this was a room, with solid walls and solid sinks beneath his hands. This was something much more real than a gray cloud.

The mirror was broken in the corners, had some rust running in a squiggly line from the top left corner to the bottom right corner, dividing the reflection of his face right in the middle of his forehead – and it offered him no answers to just where the hell he even was.

He bowed his head between his shoulder blades, eyes landing on grime and soap streaks inside the sink. It was as dirty as he remembered. Smelled as he remembered too.

"Where are we, Dean?"

The voice was Sam's and it didn't make him flinch or reach for one of this weapons. Didn't make him scared or raise his head up and turn around.

It was just Sam, just his little brother and it was all right, even if Sam would pierce his heart with a dagger or cut off his head with that long sword of his.

"It's a," he chuckled down at the sink, grimacing at the smell coming out of the hair stuffed drain, "men's room."

"Yeah, I can see that."

He chuckled louder, because Sam even at seven and younger had been such a smart mouth and he guessed that not even studying to be the Grand Master Inquisitor had changed that. Or at least mellowed it.

"It's a men's room in a drinkin' house behind the western border. 's called a bar, ya know? The drinks're the same, just the names're different."

He listened as Sam's heavy, brown-leather boots made splashing noises, stepping in spilled water and probably piss – drunken men have horrible aim - as he walked closer.

There was a silent want in him, a need to have Sam closer; to have his brother stand behind his back, to have him there so that he wouldn't need to think about what the fuck was going on. This was obviously Sam's domain and his brother would know just what to do. He kept his head bowed, putting himself – his fate and his future - into Sam's hands.

This wasn't a Hunter's game field, it was the Inquisitor's.

"Why here, Dean?"

Sam with his one and a million questions. Always so damn curious, always so damn inquisitive and it was no wonder that Sam had been chosen to follow their mother's path and not Dean. The Herd chose wisely, because Dean was sure he wouldn't be able to stand learning so much, following so many rules, be so patient with people. He was a man of war, of fighting and wielding a sword. He was a man who liked to get dirty, guts up to his elbows dirty. Talking to people, being social with them wasn't something he liked doing, didn't have the patience nor the right words. There were days when he hadn't spoken a word, just survived on grunts and movements of his head. But Sam – Sam'd always been one to chat with people, read, learn, patiently wait everything out, and then try to peacefully steer things in the right direction. Sam waited, while Dean acted. Sam talked when Dean grunted, Sam learned when Dean just went by the ear. They were black and white, but together they were all kinds of shades of gray and better. A team.

And he understood that – the youngest of the Herd had once whispered to him 'Dean, do not despair. Sam had been brought up differently than you, but together, you're both the same.' Then the oldest of them shooed him away and he went, but the words rang in his head for quite some time.

"I don't know why."

It was the truth, he had absolutely no idea why here, he had absolutely no idea what was even happening.

"Dean, it has to mean something otherwise this wouldn't be your preparing memory."

He raised his head up then, but didn't turn around, because his eyes found Sam's in the mirror just fine. His brother was standing right there, behind him, almost close enough for his back to hit Sam's chest and he wanted that. Wanted to feel if Sam was alive and there, for real there or if Sam was just an illusion as all of this clearly just had to be. Illusion; one wrong move from him and it would all fall into dust, dissolve into smoke.

"My what?"

"It's a … zone … where people go to prepare themselves for the Questioning. I follow them there, get a glimpse of what to expect, calm them down, talk to them. Every person has a different thing that makes them comfortable. Kids have a room with their favorite toy in it and we play with it a bit, adults usually end up in the bedrooms of their homes, or the living rooms, some go back to when they were kids or teens. It's really different for everyone."

"What was the craziest place you ended up?"

Sam's smile told of a memory, but his words were a short: "Can't tell you."

"Why not?"

"I can't disrupt this place. As soon as I'd tell you, you'd think about it and we'd end up there and that wouldn't make you calm, 'cause it wouldn't be your place."

"Yeah, 'kay."

"Maybe I'll tell you after all of this."

"Maybe."

"So, why here?"

"I really have no idea."

Oh, now he knew why here, he knew perfectly well why here, but it wasn't something he was ready to share with his brother. Maybe someday, maybe at some point he'd be able to look Sam in the eye and tell him that this dirty, smelly shit room of some no name bar near the western border – a bar where he picked up hookers 'cause they had more protection than ordinary girls, where he drank liquor to rival his dad's drunken days, where he started and finished a lot of brawls - was where he'd killed a man because he'd caught him with a book in his hand.

He'd stood just like this, with his back to the door and his front to the mirror, when he pulled a wrinkled, torn up, dirty 'Adventures of Fox the Faery and the dawn of the trees' from his pocket and decided that it really was time to go back home.

There were words exchanged, of course, because the guy was drunk with greasy hair falling into his eyes and Dean just snapped. No one would ever mock him, tease him, badmouth his brother who was the goddamned Grand Master Inquisitor and Dean just …

… pushed the tip of his dagger into the guy's heart, unblinking and uncaring, pushed it deeper, hot blood spilling down his fingers and hand. When the beating heart lost the battle against the silver blade, he smiled. No one would talk like that about his little brother, no one. And it was at that point, that very second when the man fell to the puddled, tiled floor that Dean knew the lengths he'd go to, to keep his brother safe and alive and respected. That was the first and the last time he'd killed someone not because it was his job to do so, but because he wanted to. No one would call his little brother names and wish upon him the Plague. No one. And no one would ever take away that book from him; he still hadn't known how the trees escaped from the river and when he'd have Sam back, they'd find out.

"You wanna keep it hidden? The reason for this place?"

Maybe if they were alone somewhere, not here, Sam would maybe try to push more, try to get Dean to spill, but they weren't there and this was Sam doing what he was born to do. Sam was doing his job and he wasn't supposed to push.

Dean liked that. A lot.

"Yeah, yeah I … just … yeah."

"Fine, 's fine, I can do that."

Maybe someday he'd tell Sam. Maybe someday when he'd get used to those eyes looking at him, and not feel as if they were looking straight into the deepest pools of his soul, he'd tell him. Maybe there would be no judgment from Sam, no pity. No anger. Maybe.

The men's room was illuminated grass-green; dying fluorescent lights attached to the high, moldy ceiling were white, but the walls and the tiles were all variations of green and the light reflected that, dousing the room in an oppressive sort of air. One of the bulbs was on its way to going out; flickering and buzzing in and out of light, while one bulb had a moth repeatedly smacking at it, getting burned and still going at it. The flickering was making Dean's eyes water and the sound of the moth sizzling its tiny body on the hot bulb was just making him feel sick. It was the same noise as the boils all over his body had made as they popped and spilled out pus. Like sizzling, but not. Like the sound water made just as it was about to boil, but not.

Like dying, but not.

"So, you ready, Dean?"

He wished Sam wouldn't treat him like all those other people, because he wasn't all those other people. He was his big brother, they had the same blood flowing through the veins, but then again, maybe Sam had been taught to do so and was so ingrained in him he couldn't stop. Just like the ashes of papers that had carried the names of the people he'd brought in for the Questioning.

"No, 'm really not."

It was easy to admit that, when he didn't have to look Sam directly in his eyes, when all he had to do was lean a bit down and let the streak of rust cross Sam's eyes in the reflection. Hiding. He was hiding, but couldn't tell if he was hiding from Sam, or if he was hiding Sam from him. He was terrified, because what if he was sick? What if he had the Plague? He didn't want to go through that again. He'd been tough going into this thing, but now – now that it was actually happening, he wished he could go back and swallow a bullet.

"'kay, Dean."

But what if he was healthy? He'd been careful, so very careful but the disease was deception and trickery. Sneaking in when one least expected.

"Fuck."

He let his neck go limp, making his head fall back down between his shoulders. Fuck. He closed his eyes, not wanting to see the dirt of the sink anymore. The smell was enough, but he couldn't do anything about that.

"'s gonna be okay."

"Don't … don't lie to me, Sam." He whispered and heard Sam sigh a sigh of a man on a mission to help, to fix things but not quite knowing if his help would be welcomed, appreciated or even wanted.

It was a sigh Dean was used to. In his line of work, he sighed that same sigh so many times; hell maybe he was even the one Sam had learned it from when they'd been younger.

The smell coming from the sink's drain was making him want to vomit right into it; it all stank just as foul and vile as the pus that had been leaking out of the boils when the Plague almost took him years ago.

"Can I touch you?"

The words were accompanied with a heavy hand on his nape, even before he could answer the question. The answer would be yes in any and all ways, because Dean was craving touch. Starving for it so much that when Sam's big palm took rest on his sweaty nape, it made him shudder. Skin on skin, brother on brother, and it was as if every fiber of his being just lit up like fireworks and the sparks started rushing towards that small point of impact. Needing, wanting, desiring to feel his brother there after so, so, so many years.

So many years being denied this; to being close like this, hearing each other speak, feeling each other's warm skin, hearing each other breathe. So many years of just memories of how it had been, just muscle memory of Sam curling up next to him whenever storm raged outside. Memories of hos his hands gripped Sam's tight when they went to the village.

But it was all real now.

The last time Dean had touched his brother was a few hours – six hours, three minutes and eighteen seconds – before Sam had disappeared out of his life. He had touched Sam's bony shoulder to steer him into the right direction from their cottage to Mrs. Daisy's cottage where Sam would take the cows to the remaining pastures.

That had been the last time he touched his brother. He never counted the time Sam had touched him when he carried him to Ruby, the Witch to be healed and he wasn't counting the time he gripped Sam's hand to be taken … here.

Those were two very different situations; in one he was in enough pain to not really be aware that it really was Sam and in the other too happy to see Sam to actually appreciate anything more than just Sam, Sam's here.

But this, here, now … Sam's hand resting on the back of his neck, Sam's fingers pressing into the side of his neck, his long cloak smelling of roses and smoke of burned-out candles - chasing away the stench of pus - almost bracketing him as his brother leaned forward. This was as different as different got.

Sam's warm breath ruffled the spiky hair at the top of his head: "Dean? You havin' flashbacks?" and it was as if the tiny pressure of the breaths pushed his head down in a nod.

"Okay. Okay."

He wasn't surprised that Sam knew what was going on in his mind, knew that he was thinking about the Plague settling inside of him when he'd been younger. Even if they'd been apart for years, Sam probably knew a lot of things about him, about what he'd been doing. There was a reason Sam was an Inquisitor of the highest status. He had knowledge of things, things beyond what simple people could even start to try and comprehend. Sam was a Scholar, a man of all kinds of knowledge.

The sound of pipes squealing in protest against being turned and the sound of water rushing onto the ceramic surface made him blink, but he couldn't say a damn word. Words had no existence in a place that wasn't his to control, wasn't his to fight in so he could only watch as Sam wet one of the brown paper towels with cool water and placed it on his forehead.

The push at his nape made his head fall forward and oh, it felt good. The towel was soaked with cold water, but it was heating up fast with the warmth of his and Sam's skin.

"'s all right."

He leaned harder onto the towel, trying to soak up as much of the coolness as he could, but Sam took it away and wet another one.

"Lean on it."

His brother squeezed his nape and pushed the wet towel up over the spikes of his hair and then it was gone again to be replaced very soon with another one. And another one. Maybe this place had skewed reality, because he never felt Sam's hand leave his body. But now there was a dripping towel on his forehead and another one at his nape and Sam was pushing him down, down until he had to grip the edge of the counter tighter to stop himself from falling into the rusty, wet, stained sink.

His breathing picked up speed; he wasn't used to this. He hadn't had his brother or anyone really around in times of need. Whenever he needed someone, he was alone. He had always been alone. The Herd took his little brother away from him and turned him into the most known, most respected, most feared and loved man in the Land and now that Sam was here, Dean had no idea what to do. How to act. How to take comfort.

He was a Hunter. He wielded a sword, a gun, a knife, a dagger, a bow. He knew how and where to hit to kill or just to maim or to hurt enough to get answers. He knew how to be ruthless, but he'd never been taught what to do with kindness. Ruby had taught him how to be kind, but what should he do when someone else was kind to him? When his brother was kind to him?

Or was all of this just Sam being the Inquisitor? Was all of this what he'd been taught to do? To be? Like Dean had been taught to be the sword and the gun, Sam had been taught to be a comforting, soothing, fearless presence?

Or was Sam like this because it was his own brother he was dealing with?

"Sam…"

"Calm down."

The towels were thrown to the already messy floor and replaced with two more; nape and forehead again and Dean felt trapped. Sam was a solid, warm presence at his bowed back, Sam's hands strong holding his head and Dean wished he had some kind of a weapon on his persona. But not in this place, because this place was his preparing memory.

And that just sounded wrong. And stupid.

"Calm down, brother."

Dean's whole body vibrated and shuddered at that word.

Brother.

He had his brother back. After so long, after so many things have happened between then and now - Dad dying, the Plague having him in its clutches, staying with Ruby to learn, him crossing the border and coming back home - he had his brother back now.

And he wouldn't let him go again.

The water was cold running down the sides of his neck, down his nose and cheeks and he stuck out his tongue to lick it off his lips. It tasted of nothing, tasted of water and air.

"How're you doing?"

"'m fine, 's helping."

"Water always does, Dean."

He tried to nod, but Sam's hold was unyielding so he breathed out: "Yeah…"

He watched as Sam threw the towels onto the floor where they laid in a heap of wet paper like sand castles. He wondered who'd clean that up. He wondered why he even cared, because he sure as hell hadn't cared that he left that man in a heap of limp, bloody limbs right at the center of this room.

"Dean…" Sam pushed his head up with the hand on his forehead, making them look each other in the eyes in the mirror in front of them.

Dean was in his hunting clothes; boots, dark blue jeans that almost matched Sam's cloak in color, gray T-shirt under a black button down. No need for a jacket here, no need for weapons here, no need for a horse.

Just them.

The green light of the room reflected on their skin, making them look as if they were sick and about to puke their guts out. Strange place, this bar toilet room, Sam thought. With its broken and flickering lights, dirty floors with puddles of who knew what and the smell. The smell had to be the worst of it all.

What kinda life had Dean led up until now?

"Dean…"

His brother's eyes were still the same green as they'd been when they'd been kids, his skin still freckled, his legs still bowed slightly and his hair still dirty blond and still in spikes. But his body had filled up, became muscled, became strong, competent, became a Hunter's body. A Warrior's body.

But all that didn't erase the fact that Dean came from across the border. All that didn't erase the possibility that Dean carried either disease or knowledge of things important to their Land.

"C'mon Dean, 's time."

"Sam…"

He was scared, no denying that. Fear, sometimes, could be the thing that could save his life. More than any weapon ever could, and he gave into the fear whenever the Hunt became more than he knew he could handle. Fear and smarts, were what made Hunters who they were. A status lower than the Inquisitors and a status higher than Witches.

"Dean, it's time, you're all right. You're doin' fine, c'mon."

He might be scared, but he wasn't a coward. He'd go with Sam, go with his little brother and go through the Questioning and then he'd make a life for himself here in this Land and be closer to his brother.

That was all he wanted, all he ever wanted.

He nodded and pushed himself away from the sink, took a deep breath and turned around. He cleared his throat when he saw how easily Sam moved away from the straight path leading to the door.

"Go on, Dean, 'm right behind you."

He took a big step over the wet towels – over the man he'd killed - and another step before he felt Sam start to follow him. There would be no escaping this.

Not with Sam behind his back like that and the door right in front of his nose.

"Dean, go on, push the handle down and open the door."

His hand shook when he raised it up to wrap his trembling fingers around the handle. A light above where they stood flickered and sizzled a moth into its death.

He couldn't do it. Couldn't do it. What if he was sick? What if he had carried the Plague back into his Land? What if …

"I know, believe me I know, but if you are sick, I … I won't … I'll try to save you. Again, I will. I swear. There has to be a cure, Dean, you survived once before, you did and I don't know how, Ruby didn't know how, we just … we gave you herbs and Ruby was saying somethin' 'bout blood and life and I don't know, but you were one of the survivors. One of so few, Dean."

"You're immune Sam! By some goddamned amazing miracle the Plague avoids you like ...," he chuckled, "like you're the Plague," he huffed, "... and I survived when so many, so many die, man."

"I know, don't ask me why the Plague doesn't wanna touch me, but Dean, you're not sick again, so just believe in that, all right?"

"I'd die to keep you safe, Sammy. Keep you doin' what you do for as long as ... "

" ... you don't have to, Dean, 'cause I'm safe. I am. Safer than you out there."

"I know."

"'s gonna be okay. Really … it is."

He trusted his brother more than he could ever trust himself. No matter the years separating them, no matter the time they hadn't spend together, he trusted Sam ... his heart had never steered him wrong before.

He looked down at his hand on the door handle when he felt fingers twist and wove their way between his.

"I gotcha, all right. I won't leave you."

They pressed down on the handle together and as the door slowly opened, the tattoo on the back of Sam's hand started to glow green and bronze and red.

When the door opened, too bright and too white light enveloped them both and Dean's legs buckled when Sam nudged the back of his left knee with his knee.

He took a step forward and screamed.

PART II _:_  PART III b