Part III b

[soncnica]

- CHAPTER 3 -

"Are you scared of dying, Dean?"

"No ... I ... I'm terrified of it."

He remembered those words every time he squeezed in comfort the hand of anyone dying on one of the cots in Doc Turner's infirmary. He remembered how Dean's eyes shone in the dim sunlight when his big brother admitted that he was scared of dying. They'd just been kids then, too young to have to even think about it. But the disease left them no choice; seeing the Land be void of light and colors left them no choice but to think about it every single day. Their childhood - as much of it as they had together - had never been carefree, always just work and lessons and fear of catching the Plague and dying.

Of course when they both finally got to the right age to take their statuses and had finally met Death himself, dying didn't seem so scary anymore. Started to seem more like an adventure to Dean; uncharted waters in treacherous seas from where no person ever returned and like a brand new mystery to solve to Sam. Death was as silent as a grave when asked about it all, of course, but his mere presence soothed any thoughts of fear.

But to tell – explain really – all that to other people was a different matter. People were scared, petrified of the way the Plague would strip them of their independence, take them away from their loved ones and throw them in agony so great even the horrified dying would be mercy. Sam understood that fear, had had many conversations about it with the Herd and Death himself, but he could never quite transfer all of that knowledge to the rest of the people. Perhaps because they weren't supposed to know of it, perhaps the mysteries of the how and why and when were only unveiled to him because he was one of the few who could actually comprehend it all. Not to say that the people of the Land were simple and lacking in smarts, but they were crippled by fear and fear, as Sam had found out a long time ago, could do funny things to one's mind. He had to draw his sword many a times to stop a fight between two neighbors, each accusing the other of being ill. Had to stop a lot of fist fights and gun fights when one or the other party thought they'd caught someone diseased. His sword, even though he wasn't the Hunter, carried a lot of blood, had cut a lot of flesh and clinked with a lot of other swords. He could only imagine how bloody his brother's sword must be, how many bullets his Colt had fired.

He shook those thoughts away, because his brother was the Land's Hunter, he had been born to kill. Maybe one day he'd ask just how many creatures had gone mad of the disease and Dean had to put out of their misery. Just how many ... perhaps as many as Sam had? More? Less?

But he was sure of one thing, this day would not be the day when he'd find out that Dean was ill and going to die. Dean was fine but watching his big brother's prone body, in a place where there'd been so many bodies, in a place where people of the Land found out if they'd die or not brought back the memories of that cloudy day when Dean had told him that he was terrified of dying.

Sam wouldn't let Dean die. Hadn't before, wouldn't now and as the candles flickered all around him, throwing long, black shadows all over the rocky walls and Dean's still pale body, he gritted his teeth and curled the fingers of his right hand into a fist.

Dean would be fine, because Dean was the Hunter, Dean was the Land's final line of protection from all the critters gone wild, from all the creatures gone rabid, from all the animals who weren't able to control their feral side anymore.

The Plague couldn't take him. Sam wouldn't let it; he'd rip Dean from its dirty, greedy, vicious hands just as he had years before.

"Twirly, get his right side, I'll get his left."

The binds were leather; from the Land's finest cows. He'd made the leather all by himself, made these straps and installed them on the stone himself. They were made not to damage the soft skin of one's wrists, they made no real damage no matter how much the person tugged at them.

He looked down at Dean's face; sweat was already forming on his forehead, his left eyelid was twitching, but his entire face was still bathed in serenity.

He strapped down his brother's left arm and ran his hand lightly up Dean's forearm, squeezed his bicep and braced his hands either side of Dean's head.

"You're gonna be just fine, man, you hear me?"

The words came out as a whisper, he never even intended them to pass his lips but they did and they were there and there was no taking them back. He'd just have to do everything in his power to make sure he wouldn't fail them.

To say he wasn't afraid would be stupid; he was scared, because this was his brother and he never ever thought that he'd ever have Dean in here, in this chamber, lying on this cold stone. He never wanted to even begin to think that Dean would ever be here like this; he sighed.

"Inquisitor?"

He shook his head, couldn't start anything, not before Dean'd wake up and Twirly knew that so why the Feary called for him, he had no idea. He just wanted to have a few more seconds, before Dean'd open his eyes, to himself. To get his fill of his brother's peaceful look. Dean looked like the child Sam remembered. Freckles on the nose and cheeks, pale skin that the sun barely gazed upon, strength and protectiveness in every line on his skin. Cockiness and mischief and walls erected between his soul and the outside world so that no vile words or actions could penetrate.

"Inquisitor?"

"Yeah?"

"But, but, but, but he's the Hunter!"

The voice was tiny and shrill, pulling on his heavy eyelids like pliers. It tried to be a whisper but wherever he was, wherever the voice was it was amplifying the words, making them ten times as loud as they were meant to be; stabbing at his ears and brain and all he wanted was the voice to shut up.

"I know, Twirly."

His brother's soft words made him shudder and breathe out; Sam was still there, hadn't left, nothing had happened. As long as that stayed like that, it was fine. Everything would be fine.

"But, but, but, but he's your brother!"

The voice that was now almost spluttering the words was coming from somewhere on his right and his brother's voice from somewhere above him.

He wanted them both to shut up and let him sleep for just a little longer; there were no plans for today, nowhere to go, just sleep and maybe some food and then sleep some more. And maybe talk with Sam a bit, find out about what all his brother'd been up to since … that day. Share some war stories, share some ale, share some stories about gals that had taken their hearts and stepped on them later. Share tales of scars and tales of drunken nights. Get to know each other again, perhaps share some stories of their parents after they'd get stupidly drunk, of course.

"I know, Twirly."

Sam sounded sad, weary and he couldn't have that because this was supposed to be a good day, ale and wine and going down memory lane – lanes, because well, he and Sam didn't have just one lane, did they? They'd lived years separated from each other, years' worth of things happening to them that they hadn't shared, that they hadn't experienced together.

They were brothers by blood and flesh but not life. They've been taken, separated by who they were, what they were, what they were meant to be … they were …

… well then, they would just have to start from the beginning then.

"But, but, but, but Sam …"

"Twirly!"

His brother's shout was what made his scratchy eyes finally flutter open and he groaned when he could see that the light he expected to sear his eyes was nice and dim and no longer the bright whiteness that had nearly burned out his eyeballs when that door had opened.

"S'm?" he croaked, tensing when he felt that he couldn't move to scratch an itch on his nose, couldn't move to slap at his brother's face that was hovering right above him.

"Sam?"

"Dean, hey just don't panic. Don't move, don't try to resist, 'kay? You're tied to the stone but everything's okay."

"Sam?"

"You're really going to Question your own brother, Sam?"

"Twirly, either shut up or change back and fly away!"

He slowly turned his head to see to whom that annoying voice belonged - like freakin' wind chimes stuck in a gale - when he spotted a Faery flying four inches above the soft inside of his right forearm. A forearm that was strapped down to stone with a wide, brown leather band across his wrist, pinning him down.

"Twirly, 'm sorry, just … please."

Sam's voice brought his eyes back to his brother, who offered him a tiny, almost awkward smile and fiddled with something out of his sight.

"'m sorry Grand Master Inquisitor, I was out of line. It's hard for me when … all these emotions, you understand? They overwhelm in this form."

"I know Twirly, I understand, it's all right. No harm done, buddy."

"Sam?"

He was confused. Utterly and completely confused. And he wasn't getting any attention what with all the bickering going on between his brother and a Faery of all things and what was happening? Where was he? What the freaking freak was going on? They were in a men's room a second ago and … and … and now here … where was here?

What … was … happening?

"No, Dean, c'mon no, don't panic. This'll be over soon, all right?"

The words were a rush out of his brother's mouth, doing absolutely nothing to calm him down. Just the opposite; they made his heart start to beat double time and his chest squeeze out all the air in his lungs. He was ready to attack, ready to break loose of the restrains and go for the throat.

Whose, he didn't know, but he wanted his Colt and he wanted his sword and he wanted them to draw blood. He could already smell it in the air; copper and fear and his fingers twitched trying to grab hold of a handle, trying to squeeze a trigger. But he couldn't do anything, his fingers grabbing at thin air. He was trapped like a fly on a spider's web.

This was going to hurt.

"Sam, fuck … wha'?"

His eyes caught movement right in front of him and he strained his neck to see … the small Faery slowly flying across his heaving and bare chest, giving him a look of pity and oh, that was just wrong. It took only one blink of his tired eyes and the Faery was already by his left arm that was in the same position as his right; tied.

His legs, when he tried to move them, weren't budging at all. Tied down too, then.

Well awesome then.

He watched as the Faery gritted his tiny, sharp white teeth and plopped down on the stone close to his fingers, crossing his tiny arms across his glittering chest.

"Sammy?"

The Hunter in him wanted his trusty weapons, wanted to stand up and fight with all the power, all the strength he had. He'd even 'borrow' the Inquisitor's sword and start defending himself with it. The Hunter in him was an animal and he bared his teeth in a growl, never loosing eye contact with his brother. Being restrained like this … the animal didn't like it.

"Dean, I know, all right? I know how it is, but you have to control yourself. You know this has to happen. You know that."

"Dean, brother, Hunter …," he looked to his left, snarled at Twirly who was looking at him with eyes glowing brightly as the sun whenever it shone through the clouds, "lay it to rest. Just for now. It is just … just Sam."

The words almost made him howl at how stupid they were, just how dumb did that Faery think Dean was, but a hand on his forehead shut his mouth up with a snap.

"Dean?"

He looked away from the Fae, up to where his baby brother was leaning over him, hair in the kid's eyes and his storm-blue cloak falling forward, hiding them both from everything.

It was just him and his brother, as it was supposed to have been for all these years. All he'd ever wanted was his baby brother to come back to him, to be with him. All he'd ever wanted was to be the first to make Sam drunk, the first to teach Sam how to ride a horse in a gallop, the first to take Sam to the Herd, the first to teach Sam how to handle the Colt, the first to teach Sam about life and women and … the Plague. He'd longed for this for so long, just to have his baby brother close to him again, by his side, have people say 'those brothers Winchesters, one a Hunter and the other one the Inquisitor' and bow down before them in respect. He wanted all of that so badly.

"Dean, hey…"

Sam had been all alone for so many years, he'd been taught to be the Inquisitor, had Collected and Questioned so many people, seen so much, too much for a soul like Sam's to handle – he'd always been a sensitive kid – and yet, here, right now, his baby brother was looking at him as if nothing of that had touched him. Nothing had jaded him as much as it had jaded Dean.

But Sam was lying; Dean could see it in a crinkle by Sam's right eye. They'd been apart for years, yes sure, but they were still connected on some level they couldn't even begin to understand and Dean saw. That crinkle right there, told just how much everything, everything was sitting so heavy upon his little brother's shoulders, pushing him down, nailing him to the ground. Sure, Sam had been born to do all this, but being born to do something and wanting to do it were two very different things and once this was over, he and Sam were gonna have a little talk.

"Sammy…"

But the Questioning wouldn't stop him from letting his brother know that he knew just fine what all was going on inside of Sam's head. He knew and he understood and if there was one job, one role that Dean would not fail as a brother, it was to make sure to ease Sam's mind about all of this, to make sure that Sam knew it was okay. That everything would be okay.

Sam's nod and a twitch of his lip was enough to make him close his eyes, breathe out and stuff the Hunter deep, deep down, getting the animal that Ruby had so efficiently brought out of him to sleep.

He was just Dean now. Just a brother. Nothing else. Dean to Sam, nothing more.

"Nothin' to be scared of, all right, Dean."

The words sounded rehearsed and abused; as if they were spoken in this room so many times, even the walls didn't echo them back anymore. They made him shudder, especially when the look in Sam's eyes looked more creepy than sincere, which Dean supposed it was meant to be.

Maybe he should wake up the Hunter in him again, because now, now that he was just Dean he was scared. Scared just as he'd been when they both had been kids, lying on that forest clearing and Sam had asked him if he was afraid of dying. He'd said no, scoffed and wanted to make so, so, so much fun of his little brother for asking him such a dumb question, but when he looked into Sam's eyes – he couldn't lie. He couldn't tell a fib to those big, brown eyes and that goofy looking face, couldn't stop himself from saying that he was terrified. He was terrified of dying, because that would mean he'd lose Sam, he'd never see Sam again, he'd go to a new, different, scary place, a dark unknown place and Sam wouldn't be there. Sam wouldn't be there ever again asking him to hold his hand or read him bedtime stories or ask stupid questions and demand to know answers even if there were no answers. He was petrified of going away without Sam.

And then Sam had been taken and it'd been as if Dean had died.

And now, here … he was scared of all of this; the Faery with its blazing yellow and baby blue sparkly fluttery wings and two antennas sprouting from the top of its head, moving left and right as if completely oblivious of one another.

Scared of the dark corners, the light on him that was seemingly coming from damn nowhere, scared of his arms and legs tied up with a strength that could pulverize bones if he'd move too much. He was scared of his body being unmovable, his weapons unreachable, his brother's eyes shining in streaks of silver and green, the cold slab of stone underneath his back and oh butt, oh he was naked, oh Gods…

"Sam, am I naked?" he whispered, dreading the answer but knowing it anyway and when Sam nodded: "Yeah, but it's okay, 's just you, me and Twirly and you have nothing all of us haven't seen before, right?" he closed his eyes and banged his head against the stone, dislodging his brother's hand from his forehead.

"Yeeeeeah," he drawled out as if Sam was slow on the uptake, "but why am I naked?"

"You do know how the Questioning works, right?"

Now his brother was just making fun of him.

"Yeah, you ask me questions and I answer and … Sam?"

"Dean, no, I don't ask questions, who told you that?"

"Uh … people?"

"I don't ask questions, it does."

"Who," he scrounged up his nose, "Twirly?"

The Faery gasped in shock: "Sacrilege! Sam tell it, I don't know where that came from, tell it people are fools, Sam!"

"Twirly, calm yourself. It knows how the minds of people work, it knows."

"Sam…"

He didn't know what to say to move this conversation along, but he damn well needed some explanation here. He was naked, exposed to the room, exposed to his little brother and his crazy Fae of an owl and he needed to end this before his heart would flutter out of his chest and his dick crawled all the way into his body to hide from all of this craziness. Twirly's eyes were glowing bright blue now and the dusting of orange freckles on his chubby cheeks were shimmering like the roads in summer and Sam … Sam's eyes wore vertical stripes of silver and green, silver and green and it scared the shit out of him. What had been done to his baby brother? No human eyes could be like that.

"Sammy …"

Sam looked down at Dean who was staring up with eyes open so wide they were like gates to a whole other dimension. Big drops of sweat were rolling down his temples, some joining the tiny drops on his upper lip, others disappearing into Dean's hair.

It was nicely warm in the chamber; the rocks of the cave's walls made sure that the temperature was always steady – not too hot, not too cold – and that the moisture was always the same too – not bearing down on one's lungs, but just heavy enough to be present – so it was probably fear that was making Dean sweat.

Fear of the pain? Fear of what if he had the Plague? Fear of Sam?

No, Dean would never be scared of him.

He quickly glanced along his brother's spread out body, his eyes capturing white lines of raised skin, cuts that hadn't been sewn right, scars; round ones, as if from a bullet, but bigger, scarred tissue big as a bottom of a wine glass. They were everywhere on his brother; his thighs, his stomach, his chest, his pecs, his arms, there was even one of them on the delicate skin of his penis and his left testicle. He had to look away then; it was invading his brother's privacy and seeing what Dean would probably never allow him to see and all of it was making him start to seethe from anger.

Boils.

They were scars from the boils. Dean … he'd carried all that … for so long … he got healthy, got rid of the Plague, but the bitch sure left a damn farewell gift. He had failed his brother, hadn't he? He hadn't found Dean fast enough, no one had known, no one … if they'd just known … but if they had known, then Dean would've been brought to doc Turner and not to Ruby and … then Dean might've died.

There were so many questions to all of this, so many what if's and how's that it was making Sam's head spin. He'd thought about all of this a lot of times, had asked around, had asked the Herd and Death, but they all had vague answers or no answers at all. He had so many theories, but nothing to do with it all.

Seeing all the scars … seeing what Dean had to see every damn day, live with those reminders of quite possibly the worst pain he'd ever been in … it was starting to tear Sam apart. He had seen those boils pop himself, had wiped the pus and the blood off of Dean's flushed and hot skin himself, had even cut away the dead skin from where the boils had ruptured and left a hole the size of a crater on Dean's skin, but … this … he just … couldn't …

"Sammy?"

He looked back down at Dean, looked at how his brother was carrying all that proof that he'd been sick; the remorse he felt of not finding Dean sooner was almost overwhelming: "'m sorry, 'm so sorry, Dean, 'm so, so, so damn sorry, Dean."

He should've known that Dean would try to deflect, reroute the concern and the apology into something else, but the smirk on Dean's face that told him he was in trouble, still caught him by surprise: "Took a peek, huh?"

"The scars," he took a breath and hung his head between his shoulders, the tips of his hair almost touching Dean's forehead, "Dean …"

"Sam, hey look at me."

He raised his head up and settled his weight on his hands that were either side of Dean's head again. Dean's eyes were rolled almost to the back of his brother's head, straining to be able to see him so he leaned further over Dean, making his brother's head settle in a more natural angle.

"Ehh, 's okay. Chicks dig scars, like you wouldn't believe. Had this one girl," a grin, "who licked them all, the shit she could do with her tongue, ufff man…"

Because his brother was in so many ways still the same kid he'd known, he allowed Dean to take all the fight out of him but he still had to breathe: "Stop, Dean, please … 's not … not a joke," because he was also the same kid Dean had known.

"No, Sam, 's not. But I have 'em, I made peace with that and I rather have 'em than be dead."

It was the truth, he could hear it in Dean's voice.

"Yeah, yeah okay."

"So you gonna tell me what's gonna happen, 'cause this … this wasn't in the brochure, man."

The words were spoken with a chuckle and Sam knew it had nothing to do with the sentence being funny or not.

They had to move this along; the candles being held on iron sconces on the walls were starting to flicker, dying out on them; the smoke was already in the air and it filled his nostrils, telling him to hurry, swallow down his fear and get this done. The flames were dancing in their death throes, speaking to him of how this wasn't his first time doing this, that he knew how to do this, how to do this best of the best, how to do this and allow everyone to keep their dignity, how everyone who had gotten up from the stone in the past had always looked at him with gratitude and not hate. The white flames were whispering to him to just be Sam, the Grand Master Inquisitor who treated everyone as if they were saints and not sinners.

But this was still his brother, this was the Hunter, this was Dean. This was Dean, it wasn't just some random guy, some person he had to go and Collect and do this to. No, this was his brother and the blood in him was singing, making him want to protect Dean from all of this. He wanted to set Dean free and get out of here. Out of this place that reeked of screams and pain and blood; so much blood. So much suffering, but for the right cause. For a good cause.

Saving the Land came first. Getting rid of all the ill people came first.

Trying to give light a sliver of a chance to strike the Plague dead, came first.

He knew Dean understood that now, he knew Dean wouldn't want it any other way and his brother already 'told' him that it was all right.

And Dean would get through this, survive this because he was healthy and then … they'd go do what they'd been raised to do, but do it together. Side by side.

He planted his feet, fixed his sword and cloak so that they wouldn't be in the way, squared his shoulders, took a deep breath and asked: "See this?"

He waited for Dean to rotate his head to the right and then showed his brother the tattoo on the back of his hand. A tattoo that the Oldest of them had carved and burned into his skin. Only took half a second, but it left him sick for days afterwards. Doc Turner looked after him, Mr. Singer sat by his bedside but all he wanted was his big brother to tell him that everything would be all right. He'd called for Dean, doc Turner told him that years later when the man had been drunk on ale, told him how he cried and begged for his brother to come and take him away from the burning pain. But Dean hadn't come. Not then and not years later. Not until he had found him, sick with the Plague.

Doc Turner had told him that if the screaming would have gone on for one more day, they really would've gone and fetched his brother.

That piece of information made Sam lose his mind and nothing and no one had been safe from his anger. The Inquisitor Hall still carried the damage he'd done in his rage.

But then Mr. Singer had send him to the Herd and they taught him how to control his anger, how to make good with it not bad. But it wasn't until the youngest of them whispered to him one morning before breakfast that Dean and he were more intertwined that anyone could ever even imagine that he reined in his anger.

"Nice tat, have one myself."

Dean's words brought him back and just seeing his big brother right there, right in front of him, laying on the cold stone chased away those memories. Dean was here now and that was all that mattered.

"Yeah, I saw."

He'd noticed the black ink on Dean's left side, near the heart. A pentagram. Protection. In tune with the witchcraft of the Land.

He slowly reached towards it, tracing the black lines with his finger, noticing how goosebumps rose on his brother's chest with the touch and he withdrew his hand as if burned.

"Ruby?"

He already knew the answer, but he wanted Dean to stop looking at him like that.

"Yeah, Ruby."

His tattoo wasn't of that. His was of a coiled tail wrapped around a small body. Only two big eyes the color of silver were visible, peeking from behind the tail, looking straight ahead from Sam's skin observing the Land wherever Sam went.

"She's dead."

"I … I know, Dean."

"Had a daughter."

"I know … "

"Yours?"

"What? No! No."

"My bad."

Dean's face was a mixture of sadness and surprise and Sam didn't know how to handle that. He'd brought Dean to Ruby so that she could help him, try her remedies that actually worked on Dean, and then he left his brother with her and she … taught him so much, Sam knew. But for Dean to think that he was Annabella's father, was just … crazy and when time would be right, he would ask what ever gave Dean that idea. Hadn't Ruby ever talked about Annabella's father?

One flame died, sending one corner of the chamber into complete darkness.

"Inquisitor, Sam, it's time."

He had forgotten that Twirly was still in the room, which really was a testimony on just how much all of this was affecting him, because Twirly was always in the chamber when he was doing this. The kids, especially, loved the Faery, of course when children were on the stone, Twirly kept to his owl form, the presence of a cute, feathery animal always brought smiles on their tear-streaked faces.

But Dean wasn't a child, didn't need to pet the owl before things would start to go from fluffy feathers and big round eyes to screaming and bleeding and then either death in suffering or life with scars that would run deeper than just the skin.

Dean was tough. Dean didn't need cuddling. He needed a brother who was competent in what would be done, a brother whose hands didn't shake, a brother who was confident through every step of the way. A brother who would get him through this with the same care and efficiency as he did everyone else.

And Sam was the best.

"Ready?"

"Born ready."

He smiled, Dean really hadn't changed much and finding all of these things that were the same and things that were different would take a lot of time, but it would be a time spent in fun, Sam was sure.

"'kay, 'm gonna put my hand," he raised his right hand and showed it to Dean, "right here," he placed it lightly just below where Dean's elbow would've bent if his arm hadn't been tied down straight, "and see the tail of the tattoo?"

At Dean's nod he wrapped his fingers around his brother's forearm and squeezed them, making Dean wince slightly. The candles that were placed on the wall behind his back were flickering, illuminating his brother's arm in warm brownish light.

"The tail's gonna unwrap just as it's doing right now, see … and turn into really black smoke, just like that and then it's gonna go up your arm and down your ribs, just like that, down your right thigh, and between your toes, then up your calf, up the inside of your thigh …"

The black, smoky tail was doing exactly what his brother was saying with a voice so soft it was barely a whisper.

It was mesmerizing; it was magic in the making. He had only ever seen Ruby do magic, cast spells and levitate objects and stuff, but this was magic coming out of his baby brother's hand, out of the tattoo and it was both creepy and unreal.

He wanted to ask Sam how it felt, if he could feel anything at all. He wanted to look up at Sam, but the smoke coiling around his bicep and then traveling down his ribcage was drawing his attention. He could feel Sam's palm rest in the very sensitive skin at the bend of his elbow, could feel Sam's long fingers squeezing all his blood supply back up his arm, leaving his fingers to start tingling. He could feel his brother's touch and that was okay, meant Sam wasn't leaving him. He could hear his brother breathing somewhere close to his left ear and that was okay too, meant Sam was right there with him.

He'd never admit to Sam just how much he was sinking into the safety of feeling him there. He'd probably never hear the end of it.

So he focused his attention back on the tar black smoke that was swirling like a living thing down his right flank, dipping into the hollows of his ribs, over his hipbone, down the outer side of his right thigh, calf, down to his heel and up the sole of his foot.

He moved his foot, trying to tap at it, but it felt like air; a soft, cool breeze that didn't even tickle and he was very ticklish.

It felt almost like a caress.

He followed it with his eyes as much as he could, but it was hard to raise his head up enough to see, but he did see when the smoke appeared between his big toe and long toe, sneaked up the arch of his foot, slithered across the space to his left knee, going up the inside of his thigh and before he could even think about what it would do next it disappeared right into his asshole.

He flinched before his whole body cramped up and arched right off the stone as much as the bonds keeping him tied allowed.

He heard himself screamed like a wounded animal backed into a corner, knowing it would get torn apart by teeth feverish for blood.

There was water in his eyes, a whole lake dumped behind his eyelids and he couldn't see anything but a shimmering blur of dim light.

The invasion of smoke in his insides was burning like getting stabbed with a hot iron cattle prod into skin so sensitive it had never been meant to be touched.

He couldn't stop screaming even when he had no more air inside of him to keep him going, but he couldn't stop. He couldn't stop even when he could hear Sam shouting his name through it all. He was being slaughtered, ripped apart from the inside out, places filled up he had never ever even known existed.

He knew he screamed for his brother; he could feel the 'S' squeeze between his teeth and then the 'A' being so drawn out he started choking on how it was ripping his throat and he never even came to the 'M', just started with the 'S' again.

When his muscles relaxed in exhaustion and allowed his body to finally fall back down to the hard stone, the smoke shot out of the slit of his limp dick, and brought with it a burst of red piss that ran down the inside of his right thigh, soaking his lower body in seconds.

But he couldn't think about that, because before he could even gasp for a new breath of air, the tendril of smoke pierced into his navel, bulging out his belly, making it look as if a tiny creature was inside trying to box its way out with tiny fists.

"'m right here, right here, right here … gonna be over soon, I promise. Ain't gonna leave you, not gonna leave you, no matter what. 'm not gonna, trust me, trust me, Dean, Dean, DEAN!"

That was Sam; those were Sam's words, that was Sam's voice, somewhere where the pain hadn't reached yet, somewhere in his mind where the Hunter slept, there was Sam, curling all around him, smelling of Sam, just Sam. Brother, brother, just brother, baby brother, dimples in smiling cheeks … not leaving him. Never again leaving him.

When the smoke reached the center of his chest, it started to burn. Burn as if being set on fire from the inside out, the fiery agony making him start choking on the screams, no longer able to form his brother's name and that scared him more than not being able to breathe. He needed to cry out for Sam, he needed to know his brother was still there, but he couldn't. All he could do was struggle to breathe as the smoke squeezed his lungs like a vice. He was sobbing for air now, could feel wetness on his face, his neck … he was wheezing to chase away the dark spots that were already starting to appear before his wide open eyes. He could see nothing, he was sightless wishing he could see his brother, just hearing Sam in his mind wasn't enough. He wanted to see Sam. Wanted … wanted this to be over, Sam said it would be over soon, said it in his mind, said he'd never leave him.

He wanted to shout but all that came out of his mouth was bubbles of spit and blood mixed with weak coughs.

Sammy ...

He held on to the name when the smoke kept on with its torture, finally releasing his air-starved lungs, but then it attacked the bones of his ribs playing them like that pianist in that brothel did the black piano. From top to bottom, left to right, up and down the smoke flew its burning fingers until he thought all of his ribs would crack out of his skin.

Sammy …

The name was comfort, always had been ever since the day the body the name belonged to was taken. The name was something he'd mumbled in nights cold and dark as the Plague's core. The name had been something that had kept him sane across the border. Through time the name had stopped being just a name and began being something more solid; something he'd been actually able to touch. Wrap his fingers around and tell it things; dark, twisted things that lived in his soul, tell it his troubles and his secrets. Some kids had teddy bears, he had his brother's name.

And when the smoke started on his too fast beating heart, started fisting it as if trying to wring all the blood out of it and leave it a mushy pile of tissue, he cried out the name.

There were flashes of kaleidoscopic images shooting in front of his eyes whenever the smoke squeezed his heart;

Sam's first caught fish, a trout that had mad eyes and they threw it back into the water,

the first sip of whiskey he ever took that burned all the way down until he puked it all the way back up,

the first time his dad punched him, blackened his eye and split his lip,

the first time he said 'Sam' and Sam wasn't there to answer,

the first time he heard the sound of his Colt spit out a bullet,

the first time Impala threw him off her back,

the first time he was with a woman and when he took off his clothes, she screamed and stumbled away from him as if she'd been drunk,

the first time he pierced a heart with his sword and watched blood trickle from chapped lips,

the first time he cut off the head of a gnome gone berserk from the Plague,

the first time that he sat in the rocking chair below the window, holding Sam's warm, squirming body in his lap, laughing at how the diaper on Sam's butt made his baby brother look twice as big as he was,

the first time he heard Sam say 'Dean',

the first time he tried to roast a chicken and Ruby almost roasted him instead,

the first time he'd told Annabella that everything would be okay and lied,

the first time he saw Sam through pain sizzled eyes and felt his brother's hands be so different from any others,

the first time he'd stabbed someone who hadn't been ill,

the first time he saw his brother again after eighteen years …

… he wanted to see, wanted to at least blink and spill all the tears his eyes were drowning in and see Sam, now, here. Tell his brother to 'fuuuuuuck this!', but the smoke released his heart then, leaving it a throbbing, abused and burned out muscle that was barely able to pump blood.

It went into his throat then, sneaking up his gullet and exploding out of his mouth with a river of thick, bloody spit following it. But the smoke didn't stop then; it went straight into his nose without even giving him a chance to catch his breath. He was straining against the bonds, trying to rip the strong leather apart, but it wouldn't budge. Wouldn't allow him any escape.

All of his muscles were bunched tight, coiled up and ready to snap.

He was trying to gasp in air to fill his starving lungs when he felt the smoke inside of his brain, like an irritating itch that he knew he'd never be able to scratch. Ever.

"Right here Dean, right here, gonna be over soon, just a second more, I promise, I promise, not gonna leave you no matter what, I promise, no matter what, it's gonna be okay."

He sobbed and arched his back right off the stone, screaming again when the smoke scratched at memories in his mind he never wanted anyone to poke at; because they were his and his alone – Sam gone, Sam gone, Sam gone, Dad dead, Sam gone, Sammy, Sam, brother. This was different though, different from when the smoke was trying to make his heart explode. This was just a brush of smoky tendrils across his most secret thoughts, his most guarded thoughts and memories and he cried out, feeling himself seize on the stone, pushing his body up into the air and down onto the stone.

Because those were his thoughts, his mourning, his pain that kept his nights restless, his and his alone.

"All yours Hunter, yours to tell, never tell …"

The voice was a thousand voices melted into one deep voice and it made him gasp and gasp and gasp, air tasting of coins into his lungs. His head lolled to the right just as the smoke spilled out of his ear to rush back onto Sam's hand to settle at its place.

The tail was protecting the tiny body again, calm, soft silver eyes staring right at his, glowing like silver fire before the light got snuffed out when Sam unglued his fingers from his sweaty skin.

His eyes cleared enough so that he could finally see Sam's concerned face, lips moving, talking, speaking to him probably, but all he could do was finally shout his brother's name and allow the dark to take him.

He knew darkness well, and strange as it might sound, darkness was soothing when it was the one inside his own head and not the one laying its sticky fingers all across the Land.

"It was b-b-black, Twirly, it was black, itwasblack, Twirly."

He couldn't believe it, he couldn't … it had been black. He wanted to fall to his knees, right on the ground and weep, but he just looked at Twirly and smiled: "It was black, Twirly…"

"I saw Sam, I saw."

Twirly's big grin sucked him right in and he sagged in relief, smiling a goofy smile he thought he'd never smile again. He placed his left palm on Dean's forehead, wiping away the sweat and the tears that seemed to find their way all over Dean's face. He wiped his hand on his cloak and put his hand back on Dean's forehead, swiping his thumb across his brother's eyebrows, smoothing the frown there.

"He's not sick, he's not. He's okay, he's okay …"

His heart was beating wildly in his chest, quite possibly even faster than Dean's was … his brother was healthy. He … there was no Plague in him, none. He was okay, he was okay. The smoke said Dean was okay, the smoke said he was healthy and the smoke was never wrong.

And now that his tattoo was settled and vibrating under his skin again, he could feel it; how strong Dean was, how much pain his brother carried, how much Dean had sacrificed to be who he was, how hard his road had been. He could feel it all, it was like a drum song in his veins, giving him a headache. He knew the feeling would be over in a second or two, but the memories of it would remain until the day he'd die.

"He is Sam, he really is."

Sam looked from Twirly's grin-split face back to Dean whose eyelids were closed, but his eyes were moving rapidly beneath the thin skin. Unconscious, dreaming, resting. His chest was heaving; wheezing breaths coming from his parted, blood slicked lips. His brother was bleeding through every place the smoke entered; there was a sluggish line of blood and piss running out of the slit to smear on his thigh, blood welling up in his navel, dripping out of his nose and ears. His mouth had a line of it running down towards his hair, his chin was bloody as well, but it was all fixable. Some water and a cloth and Dean would be all clean again in no time.

"Untie him."

He worked on the bonds, hissing when he could see their impressions on the inside of Dean's wrist; but that would all heal, would leave no more marks on his brother's already marked body. The same deep impressions were around Dean's ankles, but that would all heal too. He ran his hands over the welts, massaging them a bit, getting the blood flowing and adding aloe vera to his mental list of what all Dean would need after they'd leave from here.

"All done, Sam."

"Great, great," he walked back up to Dean's head, "Dean? Hey, hey can you hear me? Hey, wake up…"

It was a possibility especially because Dean was healthy that his brother could hear him and the groan he received told him that yeah, Dean was there with them. Still shaking from the shock, but there. Alive. And healthy.

"Twirly, get a blanket, and, and I'll take him to Charlie. There's nowhere else, just … yeah, Charlie."

Just when Twirly's short, thin fingers were fighting with the thick, wool-blanket, loud thunder shook the chamber; some candles flickered to their death, some tiny rocks slid down the walls, Twirly squeaked and gasped and Dean groaned and cried out at the sudden movement that rocked his stinging wounds.

"He is awake?"

The words were spoken with a growl, but there was no malice behind it, the voice too soft for anything but concern.

"Youngest."

Sam hadn't expected this. It wasn't often that one of the Herd visited the Questioning, actually it had never happened before, not to Sam's knowledge or perhaps it had and no one had told him that yet. But the visit hadn't shocked him, just made him weary of what the youngest of the Herd wanted.

"He responded to me asking if he can hear me, he should wake up soon."

The youngest was floating, hovering above Dean's twitching legs, its huge head cocked to the side, examining. Calculating. Thinking and re-thinking. The blue of his eyes was so bright that it lit up the chamber from ground to ceiling, casting a bluish hue on everything making all the blood and sweat on Dean glow like the sky on old paintings.

"Hello Dean."

Sam looked from the youngest to his brother and could see Dean's eyes opened in a tiny slit, just enough for the green to shine through. There were fat tears spilling from their corners, sliding down to his brother's wet hair to mix with the blood already there. A river of pink spit ran from the left corner of Dean's parted mouth and he swiped the palm of his hand over it, not even thinking that Dean might not like that. But it was done and Dean said nothing, just smacked his lips together and coughed out a "He-ey."

"Are you well?"

The snort at that made Dean cough wetly and more bloody saliva spilled out of his mouth. He watched as his brother tried to raise his weak head up, tried to move his hands to help himself, but his muscles were too exhausted to support the movements yet.

"Dean, hey," he placed his hands under Dean's heavy head, his fingers slipping in the wet, short hair, "don't move," and gently and slowly raised it up, ignoring Dean's groan, "can you spit out?"

"Ugghhhh…"

"Come on, man, spit it out, come on."

He and Twirly had seen a lot of things happen in this room, his brother spitting blood would be on the very low scale of things. But he'd never tell that to Dean. There were some things that would and should stay in this chamber; between him and Twirly and the person on the stone.

"Spit, c'mon."

He cursed under his breath, raising Dean up a bit more and climbing up on the stone slab. He had to curse some more when his sword got caught on the stone's serrated edge, but Twirly – the good Fae that he was – pushed the sword up a bit, allowing him to slide on his calves, placing his brother's head on his thighs.

The stone was hard, cold and unforgiving on his knees and shins but finally getting his brother's upper body a little bit more elevated, was worth it when he could hear Dean breathe a little easier.

"'kay you good now, we're good now, yeah? Okay…"

Whatever Sam was doing behind his back was sending pings of white hot pain up and down his spine, but as soon as his brother's hands disappeared and something else appeared underneath his head and shoulders, raising him up, he sighed. He still couldn't really spit, feeling too shaky and tender in all the very wrong places so he just opened his mouth wider and allowed for everything that was in there to just freely run out and cascade down to his chest. He was a mess, but he'd rather be a mess than be sick. All of this would be washed off, but the Plague – you couldn't wash that off just like that.

"'s it, c'mon, we'll wash it later, just get it all out."

It made Sam grimace seeing everything flow out of Dean's mouth like a waterfall, but his brother was alive, healthy and back in his life. Things would be … different now.

But would they be? Really? He was still the Inquisitor and Dean was still the Hunter and they wouldn't be able to just throw away their statuses, go to the drinking house and drink themselves under the table. They'd still have their obligations, their sworn obligations to the Land.

Dean would be gone for days sometimes, he knew that, the Hunter's job was hunting, scouting, searching, while he … he'd be called in at any hour of the day, any day and he'd have to leave and come back and try so damn hard to hide what being an Inquisitor was doing to him.

Dean's head was shaking in his lap and as he looked down at the top of his brother's head – hair slicked with blood and sweat and tears – maybe they both carried similar battle scars, maybe he wouldn't have to hide anything from Dean, because Dean … he already knew.

"Just spit it all out, Dean…" he whispered, not sure if his brother heard him.

"I will take that as a no."

"Ttt-t'ke," more warm bloody spit spilled from his lips, running down between his pecs, "it as yah want."

"I will take it as a no."

He rolled his eyes and tried to move, tried to curl up into himself and grab hold of his stomach. He was going to puke, everything in his belly rebelling being where it was. He felt empty and violated, felt as if every fragment of his being had been poked and prodded at, shifted and then aligned back. But the smoke that had invaded him, the smoke that had come from his brother's tattoo had left fingerprints on him, inside of him, in his damn mind. It touched him places ... places that he couldn't even begin to consider how to touch and they were his, his own, but the smoke ... he could still feel its ticklish breath on the inside of his ribs, over the tissue of his heart, in his veins ... he'd never be able to rub the feeling away, never scrub it away.

"Sammy?"

He tried to at least flail his hand, tried to grab hold of something, anything but the cold, wet stone he was lying on. But his muscles weren't obeying him, probably wouldn't for a while. He was stuck here, lying like a sacrifice spread before one of the Herd and his brother.

"Yeah, 'm right here…"

A nod made him gurgle and he pushed a glob of spit out of his mouth with a tongue feeling as thick and heavy as a tree trunk.

"I have come here to give you something, Hunter."

Sam's head snapped up at that, curious of what the youngest of the Herd could possibly have for Dean and his eyes widened when he saw what it was.

A black cord.

A horned face.

An amulet.

The same one Miss Daisy had given him that day. She'd placed it into his small, blister-covered palm and whispered to him that it was a protective charm meant to be given to someone special, someone he believed in, someone he loved more than life itself. He'd put it in his pocket but then Mr. Singer had taken him and he never managed to give the necklace to the only person that ever mattered. And now here it was. Right there, dangling from the lower jaw of the youngest, the cord trapped between sharp teeth, swaying back and forth, finally getting to where it was meant to go all those years ago.

"Don'thhh do j'elry." he coughed and hissed as a trickle of blood spilled out of his asshole.

This was worse than … actually he didn't really know …

"It is not jewelry," the youngest spat out the word as if it offended him and made his mouth sour, "it is what belongs to you. It was designed for you, when the Land had still been," the look in his bright blue eyes got sad, "… vibrant."

"W-what'ver you sss-say."

"I will leave it here. Take good care of it."

The necklace was dropped from the jaw, making Dean grunt when the small horned head hit him right in the middle of his sternum.

"Ffff-ffuck … oww, oww…"

The youngest cocked his head again: "Are you cold? Twirly where is the blanket?"

"Coming youngest."

The blanket was white wool, soft and almost too hot after a few seconds of it lying on top of him, but at least he was covered now. Even though the blood and other various bodily fluids stained the pristine white of it right away, it was still the softest and the most stunning wool blanket he had ever had the luck of having on him.

"I shall leave you for now, but not for long."

"Jjj-just go Casss-sstiel."

The words were followed by an eye roll and a coughing fit that finally send him back to oblivion. Darkness wasn't as dark as it once had been, there was a shape like a beaconing signal somewhere in the distance, waving to him to calm down and rest.

So he rested.

The way Dean's head became even heavier on his thighs, came as a surprise, but after the coughing fit his brother just went through it was to be expected.

He watched as Castiel nodded and disappeared with a flutter of wings.

"Charlie now, Sam?"

He looked at Twirly who was patiently sitting on top of Dean's blanket-covered legs, the Faery's whole body sparkling green.

"Yeah, Twirly … Charlie. Get his horse ready to ride."

"Already done."

"Good."

PART III a _:_  PART III c