Part III c

[soncnica]

- CHAPTER 4 -

The sky looked as if someone lost control of a paint brush; sweeping lines of purple, orange, blue and red all mixing out on the Western horizon, where the sun was a bloody red globe, slowly setting. When Sam had finally wrapped the heavy blanket around his brother's body and fastened it with some rope, he draped Dean's limp body over his shoulder and carried him out of the cave's chamber, his strides long and fast.

The ceiling of the wide, tall corridor leading to the exit was littered with stalactites, their pointy tips covered with shining white minerals lighting the way towards freedom.

Twirly was back in his animal form, flying over his head, wanting to get out to the fresh air as much as he did and when they finally stepped through the cave's mouth, the sky greeted them.

"Night's gonna fall soon, Twirly."

hoot

"Yeah, go."

hoot

He hadn't had time to watch Twirly fly into the gnarly, dried up looking bunch of trees that were guarding the entrance because Impala's blow made him turn around and come face to black muzzle and questioning eyes.

"Impala."

He'd never met her, never been officially introduced, but he sensed her name and hoped that she wouldn't bite or kick him. He was good with horses, but she belonged to Dean, not to him, and he knew she'd only obey Dean's commands.

"Dean looks bad, but he's all right, I promise."

He smiled when she butted Dean's blanket covered ass with her muzzle and allowed him to stroke her forehead for a second or two. He knew that Dean must've found her and taken her in, must've made her trust him without truly taking the wild soul that he could still see in her shining black eyes.

She was wild, yes, but she was wildly protective of his brother too and he knew they'd get along just fine as soon as she'd sense that he wouldn't hurt Dean. Ever.

"Okay, okay, get ready now…" he whispered while trying to carefully slide Dean on the horse's broad back, "whoa steady, hold him."

She made a few steps forward and backwards, as if testing the weight and when she became satisfied that yeah, that sure was her Master lying like a sack of potatoes on her back, she stilled and looked back at him as if asking him 'now what?'

He had to stroke her left flank a few times, just because. "There you go girl," he said while adjusting Dean's legs until she calmed down and he could steer her in the right direction.

West it was and perhaps the sun would stay up long enough for them to get to Charlie's place before full dark.

She really was a beauty of a horse; Dean took good care of her and that care could be seen everywhere. She was strong, well fed, broad, with a long bushy tail and well groomed mane. Her step was light and she handled Dean's abused body with similar care as a mother did with her newborn.

He walked beside her left side, occasionally slapping her flank or nudging Dean's legs and in the still of the Land preparing for sleep he whispered: "He's gonna be okay, ya know?" which made her nod her head and nicker softly.

The trek to Charlie's home wasn't a long one, took an hour if it did, but navigating through the dried thorny bushes and low dried tree branches was a task Sam didn't really want to repeat anytime soon.

He'd seen every part of the Land, every hidden nook and cranny, every place where only shadows could live, he knew every rock and every stone, knew where the burrows were and where any and all houses were. He knew his homeland from the inside out, and it never ever ceased to sadden him to see what it had become under the attack of the Plague. He'd seen pictures on walls and on fragile parchments, pictures of how it had been before disaster struck, seen trees have leaves, seen grass be green and standing erect, seen the sky have white clouds … even if he'd never 'seen' all that with his own two eyes and touched it all with his own two hands, he still longed for it all. Missed it, wondered how it would feel like to touch a leave grown from a tree's branch; would it be soft, raspy, thin, thick, smooth? Because all around him were stooped branches, dried up and almost char black.

The disease not only killed its way through people, it killed its way through flora and fauna too. Killed it all; the spirit and the colors and the soul.

And meandering his way through the crumbling forest, he had to take care of himself, his brother and Impala; that were two beings more than usual and it was something he'd never done before. He always only took care of himself, watched where he put his own foot, watched when to bend his own back … but now he had to look out for two more and he found out that it was a task both hard and not unwelcomed.

He couldn't have either of them step on a wayward thorn and injure themselves, couldn't have them get pinned down by a falling branch, Dean'd be pissed if that'd happen.

He glanced at his brother; as it was, Dean was sleeping, bent over Impala's back, fingers intertwined with her thick, shiny mane.

The scrawny, thorny bushes soon made way for tree stumps; trees killed to be spared the agony of decades of suffering. Sam knew Dean had probably chopped down some himself, no matter how much the trees resisted.

He sighed and steered Impala more to the right. They were getting close to where Charlie lived - where she'd always lived - as her home wasn't in the village, but out on the outskirts by the huge dry oak tree that was still resisting the fungi that were starting to eat their way up its trunk.

The oak also guarded her Granny; a headstone to her grave for two years now. He'd heard of the elder woman's passing through the grapevine – the drunk talk too much, especially if the drunk in question was Doc Turner – and came to pay his respect to the woman he had taken a child and had nearly taken the granddaughter from, too. He'd stood in the shadows and watched as Charlie dug up the hole all by herself with a shovel barely strong enough to lift up a pile of dry soil. But she'd done it and had dragged her Granny's stiff body into the grave, covering it all up before she'd fallen down on her knees and wept.

He'd been silent, not daring to move, not daring to even breathe. He'd just watched her give in to her grief, knowing full well what kind of pain grieving was, had even known how it smelled; like beech wood smoke and leather.

He'd cried like that too, when he'd woken up without Dean there beside him for the first time. He knew the hurt of missing, the pain of losing something that nothing could ever replace.

After the tears had stopped running and her bowed back had straightened, he left her there alone. If she'd spotted him … he didn't know what would've happened, but he couldn't've allowed for that.

She had her own path to walk on and he his, but he'd kept an eye on her and was pleased to see where her life had taken her.

She grew up strong and defiant, she grew up nosy and took crap from no one or from anything. She grew up to be a healer, taking what her Granny had taught her and what the Faeries had taught her. She was different from Doc Turner, she took from the earth and the water. Took from the air and the creatures living among them. She took knowledge and she took ingredients for her medications.

Doc Turner was more blood work and tests, while Charlie was more blood offerings and prayer.

And right now, Doc Turner really wasn't the one Dean needed, wasn't who could even begin to start helping his brother. The rule was that if a person was found healthy, they went back to their families to be taken care of. Anyone could wash blood off of skin, anyone could bandage the scrapes from the stone, anyone could keep an eye on the bruises formed during the Questioning so there was no need for the healthy people to go to the infirmary. They'd just get sick there and what would be the point then.

As Dean had no one but him and while Sam could help, Charlie was better and would have Dean up and about in no time.

He believed that as he tucked Dean's limp, clammy arm back under the blanket and patted Impala's flank: "He'll be okay."

Bruises and scrapes would heal, but the Questioning probably left a lot of scars on Dean's mind, an itch inside of his body and that … they'd waddle through together if and when his brother would allow for that.

When Impala finally stepped out into the clearing, he saw that everything was just as he remembered; the oak tree – the fungi spreading even more in all the years he'd been gone – the patch of soil beneath the tree looking as if it had just been freshly dug and the cottage.

"Come …"

Impala trotted closer to the cottage, stopped and snorted.

"All good, girl, 's all good," he soothed the mare and stroked her forehead.

He saw right away that the thin wooden door had been replaced by a sturdier one, the windows were still small but a yellow light could be seen shining from them. Charlie was paying for electricity out of the money people gave her when she helped them with their problems.

"'kay, now I'm gonna get Dean off you."

He didn't tie Impala anywhere, just slipped Dean's heavy body off of her back and sent her grazing. She was probably hungry and thirsty, in need of getting some of her strength back; Dean was a heavy load to carry, he knew that from experience and even now when he had Dean's body draped over his shoulder again, his brother was as heavy as a rock. All muscle and unconsciousness.

She wouldn't be needed for some time and she knew that. She'd probably even go to the Herd and spend some time with the children there, letting herself be petted to death and get her mane braided – Dean would love that – and she'd come back when Dean would be strong enough to call for her.

Sam knew that a bond between the Hunter and his or her horse was strong, sewn together with blood, trust and time.

Adjusting Dean in his hands, hefting him a little higher on his shoulder, he tried not to think of the last time he had carried him like this to be healed. But this time, at least he knew that Dean would really, really be all right - be just fine in a couple of days under Charlie's watchful eyes and knowing hands.

He took a deep breath and knocked on the door with his boot, wincing at the booming sound. Charlie would probably chew him a new one for that, but he'd handle that if it meant that it would get Dean on the road to healing sooner.

An almost frail looking girl with long, red hair tied into a loose ponytail opened the door and Sam could see murder in her eyes. Her mouth was already slightly open to curse at him, but then her eyes landed on the blood covered blanket in his arms.

"Inquisitor," she gasped, her hand flying to her chest, her fingers tangling with the intricately designed cross that was still hanging from a black leather string around her neck. He remembered taking that necklace off of her when she'd been lying on the same stone Dean had just an hour or so ago. She'd cried and begged him not to take it, sobbing for that silver pendant of waving lines and all he could do was stroke her hair and whisper that she'd get it back when it would all be over.

He hadn't lied.

"I … I had nowhere else to go."

It was the truth. Everyone he'd ever known was dead, Charlie was the only one … and he knew she'd help him out, no matter the past. She was a Healer, bound to her word she gave to the Herd and the Land and if she wouldn't allow him inside her home, she would allow his brother.

And that was fine with him too as long as Dean was in good hands, he could step away and leave him alone.

"Does, uhh, does anyone know where you are?"

"Mr. Singer knows, probably, and Castiel knows, 'm sure, and so the Herd does too and, and, Twirly. But no one else. I swear."

"And Death?" Her voice dropped into a whisper, fear lacing it, "does he know? 'cause I don't want him in my home, Inquisitor."

"Dean won't die, Charlie. We ... we'll take care of him. Death won't come and even if he will, I'll talk to him."

She nodded, satisfied with the answer and then her eyes widened: "We?"

"Uh, you, me. He's my brother, Charlie."

He knew he was begging now, but begging wasn't beneath him, not even if he was Grand Master Inquisitor and everything was at his disposal. This was his brother they were talking about and he'd do anything for him.

"I know, Inquisitor."

"Sam, please, just Sam."

She hung her head down, making a stray strand of hair fall over her shoulder and nodded: "Sam."

"Just Sam, Charlie, all right?"

She left out a breath while moving away from the door and allowing him to enter: "Bring him in, we'll get him on the bed in Granny's room."

The kitchen was exactly as he remembered; the closet, the stove with water again boiling on top of it, the table with the chairs. But now it was a bouquet of flowers in a vase on top of it and not half burned candles.

It was a warm home, smelled of sharp herbs, some eucalyptus oil, mint too.

"I spilled a, uh, a vial of eucalyptus oil yesterday. Still hasn't aired out, but hey," she waved her hands around the room, "it cleaned my sinuses like crazy. Snot everywhere."

He smiled: "Uh, yeah…" and followed her down a very short hallway and through an open door. He saw the bed and walked towards it, bending over to place Dean's body on the short bed. His brother's feet hung off the mattress but it would have to do.

"So, the Questioning, I presume?"

He turned around and saw her stand between the doorframe, her hands nervously twisting and turning the fabric of her long dark red skirt. She seemed scared and nervous and a lot embarrassed. And angry, but the anger was nicely hidden under a lot of awkwardness.

He smiled and hoped that it came out as a gentle smile and not a grimace: "You presume right."

"Blood and shock? Anything else happened?"

"Blood and shock, yeah and I didn't notice anything different."

"Nothing at all?"

"Charlie …" he sighed and almost kicked himself when she averted her eyes from his, blushing to the tips of her ears, the color clashing with her fiery red hair.

"No, just asking. 's fine, uhh, yeah, so … so we should uh, see … see what we can see. Maybe clean him up a bit, I'll … you know, get water. I have some hot … you know, water on the stove."

And this was exactly why he never made contact with people he Questioned. The currents of embarrassment were like waves that he could actually capture in his hand and hold them in his fist. He couldn't even begin to imagine what all of this would be like when Dean would wake up. Sure they were brothers, but that meant so little when they hadn't seen each other in years.

"Charlie," his hand shot out and lightly gripped her delicate wrist, cringing at the look in her eyes. She didn't want to have him here, she didn't want to talk, didn't want to think of what had happened to her, didn't want him to bring up those memories. She was only tolerating him here because of his brother. Because of her word to the Land.

He let her go; the tremors beneath his touch made him wanna throw up. He'd done all that to her. He'd done all that to so many others.

"'s fine Sam. 'm fine. I'll get you that water and you can clean your brother up. Just clean the uh, blood and uh other … stuff … and yeah, just …"

"Yeah, all right. I'll do that."

"Be right back, just don't uncover him yet, I don't wanna see … see him."

"I can do that."

"G-great then."

After she left the room he wiped his hands down his face, trying to chase away the weariness he could feel trying to settle in his bones and wake himself up a bit. Cleaning up his brother would be an important task and he would do it the best he could.

He did unwrap Dean's chest though, sure that Charlie wouldn't be affected by that; it was just a chest, something she probably saw a lot of when healing and the small eyes on the amulet Castiel gave to his brother stared right at him.

"Huh …"

He picked up the black cord, bringing it closer to his eyes, needing to see it up close. It dangled from his fingers, swaying towards Dean as if wanting to go to his brother. Now.

"Where did you get that?"

The voice that seemingly just came out of nowhere startled him and he almost dropped the necklace as if he'd been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. He turned around and saw Charlie's eyes as huge as the moon and her slim fingers were gripping the basin of water with knuckles turned white.

"The youngest of the Herd gave it to Dean. Why?"

"N-nothing," she shook her head, "nothing. Uh, here's the water," she pushed the white, chipped basin to his chest so hard the water sloshed across the edges, wetting up his shirt, "the rags are in the … the uh there in the drawer. By the bed. Clean him good and wrap him up in a clean blanket. Lower drawer. And then … I don't know, just … clean him up."

Her stammering and the pure avoidance of him and his presence was making him sad. He never wanted any of this, he'd never wanted to be an Inquisitor, he'd never wanted to do that to people, hurt them. But it was what was in his blood, he was helping the Land, he was doing good, wasn't he?

"Sammy," the croak of his name made him spin around to face his brother, "hear ya thinkin' to here."

Well, damn then. He really thought that he'd be able to do this with his brother still unconscious or at least sleeping, but his brother had always been a stubborn ass.

"Hey," he turned around fully, still holding the basin that smelled of lavender soap and the cord of the amulet still hanging from his forefinger, the head gravitating even more towards Dean now. "So," he raised the basin, "washing time. Do you want help or are you …"

"Awkward…"

"T'yeah."

"I'll, uh, I'll just leave you two alone, I've got … potatoes and stuff, uh, boiling, should go, I'll just go, yeah, okay…"

She didn't walk away, she ran away as if someone lit a fire under her heels.

"So?"

"So?"

"Who's she?"

"Charlie, the Healer."

"Oh…"

"Yeah."

Awkward; the silence and not knowing where to look, what to say, what to do. Sam felt like an oaf standing there by the bed, holding the steaming basin and Dean's newly acquired jewelry and …

"Uh, Sam, you know what," he looked at Dean and hissed at how hoarse his brother's voice sounded, "why don't ya gimme that amulet there, huh?"

"Yeah, sure, of course."

"'s weird, ya know? I feel naked without it."

He snorted: "Dude, you are naked."

"Yeah, well … not my fault."

The words made him flinch, because yes, it wasn't Dean's fault he was airing his skin from top to bottom.

"Sam, don't … not your fault, 'kay?"

His brother could always read him;

want a story? No! Get comfy.

want juice? No! Here's a glass.

you tired? No! Go get a nap.

wanna play? No! Here's a ball.

wanna torture me? No! It's okay.

"Sure."

He placed the basin on a little nightstand that was looking as if it would tumble down on Dean's head any minute now and looked at the amulet. It felt heavy in his hand, as if it really did want to go to Dean, needed to go to Dean and finally, he'd be able to give it to his brother. Should've given it to him so many years ago, but better late than never, was what Mr. Singer always said.

"Here," when Dean didn't reach for it, he frowned, but then remembered that maybe Dean couldn't really move yet so he leaned forward, pushing and pulling the black cord around Dean's head and placed the head to lay straight on his brother's sweaty skin. He stroked the amulet with his finger, mesmerized that it was still just as it had been when Miss Daisy had given it to him. He didn't know if he should ever tell his brother about any of that, didn't know if that would make Dean sad or happy or pissed. With his brother anything would be possible.

"So, man, how're you feeling?"

Dean's hand joined his finger on the amulet and he tried to pull away, but Dean wasn't having that: "Sam? What?"

"What what?" he was pretty sure his voice came out as a squeak, but he was absolutely not prepared for Dean squeezing his finger so hard, he was scared it would get broken.

He looked up at Dean, noticing how his brother's skin looked clammy, feverish and still covered in so much blood. Dean was squinting, raising his eyebrow – as if in knowing. Dean knew, of course his big brother knew. Was he really, for real that transparent? Twirly always said that he wore his mind and his heart on his sleeve, but he always just scoffed at that and moved on. But maybe Twirly had been right.

"Ever since Castiel gave me the amulet, you've been … I don't know … acting weird."

"Acting weird?"

He was stalling, trying to make Dean annoyed enough so that he'd drop this, forget all about this and move on. But no, Dean was like a dog with a bone, chewing on it until there was nothing left.

"Sammy, c'mon …"

Dean was pleading and he couldn't have that. If they really wanted to be brothers again, have a life with each other in it, then perhaps having secrets wasn't a good start.

"When I was at Miss Daisy," he cleared his throat, "she … she gave me that amulet, said to give it to someone I loved more than anything, to someone I believed in. And … and I wanted to give it to you that night. But then … well …"

"Sammy…"

"'s fine, now it's yours and you have it even if it took years. I guess Mr. Singer found it on me and gave it to the Herd or something," he waved his hand, "'s not important."

"Okay, well … if you'd have given it to me back then I would've said thank you, Sammy. And that I love it."

He could only nod to that and hope that his eyes weren't betraying him and becoming teary. He'd hear no end to the mocking he was sure, but he finally had his brother back and Dean wasn't sad or angry or even too happy about what he'd told him. He just accepted it with a spark in his eyes and a grin on his face.

"And," Dean finally released the finger he had been smushing against the amulet's horns, "to answer your question, I feel okay."

"Okay, that's good. 'cause after what you'd been through you should've been … uh, not well for at least a couple more days."

A couple more years, really, but he couldn't say that to Dean although they both knew it anyway.

"Well, what can I say, I feel good. I still have half of my body's blood on me, probably like half a pint of piss, but inside … I feel okay. Really shaky, like I'm cold. Shudders and stuff, probably wouldn't be able to stand up right now, but..."

That was … unexpected, because what Dean should be doing right now was sleep. Then puking his guts out, then sleeping, then not eating for a few days, then having nightmares and other terrors, but definitely not being awake and talking.

"Huh…"

"Huh…"

They both looked down at the amulet that lay perfectly still, silent and innocent between Dean's blood-covered pecs, an inch away from the tattoo and then looked back at each other.

"Well, damn."

"Yeah."

What the hell had Castiel done? What was that thing really? What did Miss Daisy knew?

"When you were out, did you … feel anything? See anything?"

"You mean the little horned head appearing in my dreams and healing me?"

"Somethin' like that."

"No, nothin'."

"Huh."

"The Herd, Sam … they are something, huh?"

"That they are."

The water in the basin was hot enough to turn the whole room wet with steam, and the white smoke rising from the flower painted porcelain drew Sam's attention.

"Uh," he scratched the back of his neck, "Charlie said that the rags are in the drawer, if you wanna use 'em."

"Yeah, definitely."

He knew Dean felt sticky with sweat, blood and other fluids, itchy where he really didn't want to itch and some nice hot water would do wonders on him and his muscles.

"Sam, hey can I get a glass of water? Wanna wash my mouth, drink some."

"Yeah, yeah sure … I'll be back, you know what? Just yell for me, I don't wanna … while you wash. Are you gonna be okay? Sure you don't need any help?"

"I'll be okay, 'm getting feeling back in my hands."

He smiled when Dean raised his hands and wiggled his fingers, a grin showing Dean's white teeth.

"'kay, great."

He turned around towards the open door, slumped his shoulders and prepared himself to walk into that kitchen, face Charlie and ask her if he could get a glass of water.

It felt as if someone had asked him to cross the border and never come back.

He found her sitting at the table, her back to him and he leaned against the doorframe, allowing his eyes to roam around the kitchen. It was just as it had been when he'd come and Collected Charlie. All the memories of all of his Collects were in his mind, sometimes locked, sometimes he unlocked them and tried to convince himself that what he did was what he had to do.

He cleared his throat and walked into the room, rounding the table to the free chair opposite Charlie. There were flowers scattered all over the table, the sound of scissors loud now that he could see she was cutting the flowers from narrow, wiry stems.

"Thymes, 's good in tea, better with roasted chicken."

He nodded and bit his lip, not knowing what to say to that.

"Can I …"

"I never hated you Sam."

… get a glass of water. Well.

"Okay."

"I was scared," she huffed and snipped off another small white-purple head from the stem, "terrified. I've … you know, heard stories of the Questioning," she huffed as her lips formed a smile, "no one really knew the truth, huh? They all told different things, different … I don't know, memories of it. Well, the ones who," she gathered the cut flowers in a pile with her palm, "weren't sick."

He moved his sword to his side as he slowly lowered himself on the chair opposite her and placed his hands on the scratched table: "Charlie…"

The aroma of the flowers made him take a deep breath, the scent sharp, but mild and it calmed him down to the point of feeling really mellow. He knew Charlie wasn't the Witch, so she wasn't casting a spell on him, but even a Healer knew a thing or two about potions and magical plants.

Was Charlie so angry at him that she'd subtly kill him? Then kill Dean?

"Charlie, I'm …"

He didn't get to finish, because she steamrolled right over him and he knew right then and there that she needed to get out whatever it was that she needed to tell him. He could take it, whatever it was that she'd say to him, scream at him, call him names and cuss at him, he could take it.

It was the least he could do.

"Had nightmares for months," she laughed as if it was the funniest thing, "always dreamed of," she peeked at him through her hair, "you. Heard y-your words, felt y-your hand on my," she looked at her delicate forearm, skin so pale it was almost milky white, "woke up wet with sweat screaming your name. Granny told me, time and time again that you said it would be like that, but …" she lowered her voice into a whisper he barely heard over the sound of something boiling on the stove and the crackle of fire wood heating up the place, "I really wanted to just find you and say t-thank you."

Thank you? What had she needed to be thankful for? He took her from her home, he went with her into her preparing memory where he watched her play with a doll with her long dead mom, tied her up naked on that cold block of stone and tortured her, made her scream and cry and shout and bleed. Made her be humiliated, mortified. He still remembered how she'd tried to squirm away, he remembered how everyone tried to get away from him. He'd crushed her spirit and broken her body … why would she be thanking him for that?

"I … I … I don't …?" he whispered back and felt like an idiot. Like an elephant in a china store, breaking all the finest of porcelain.

"It, when the smoke, when it," she blushed and looked down at the thymes' flowers that were all in a pile now and scattered them all over the table with one sweep of her hand, "entered me, you whispered to me that you were right there, that you believed that I was h-hhhealthy, that I was all right, t-t-that the smoke wouldn't find anything, that you were watching over me, that you'd watch over me, even if," she tore some small oval leaves off the herb's stems and twisted it between her fingers, making the entire room explode with fresh exquisite aroma, "I was sick. That you wouldn't leave me."

He always told that to everyone; slight variations of it, depending on who he had on the stone, but he always meant it. Always. He was there with them in the cave's chamber, and he'd be there with them even if they'd been found sick and taken to the infirmary. He'd be there with them until they'd draw in their last breath. No one deserved to be alone no matter how they caught the disease – be it their own fault or the fault of others – no one deserved to suffer alone.

"Gave me hope, you know? I didn't want to be alone. G-granny was all I … I had, but she wouldn't've been allowed to visit me there and I didn't want," a tear slipped down her nose onto the aromatic flowers, "to die alone."

"Charlie…"

"And you said you wouldn't let me die alone, if..."

"Hey, Charlie..." he leaned forward a bit, trying to grab for her hand, but she rose from her chair so suddenly he bounced back, nearly toppling off.

"But, hey, 's okay now," she walked toward the stove to stir something that smelled mouthwatering, "I wasn't ill, so … and Granny took care of me, took real good care of me, until ... she died. I … I saw you when I buried her, why … you could've come closer."

"I didn't know." He whispered. If he'd known, he'd come closer that day. He definitely would.

"I should've called you out."

He nodded down to the table, his own eyes watering a little. If Charlie was like this, how were the ones that survived his Questioning feeling? How were they surviving? Would they treat him like this too? Or would they hate his guts and try to kill him?

"You're doing a good thing, Sam, saving lives, hunting this … this killer," she spat out the word like some spit tobacco, "and Dean, he's a Hunter and he's doing the same thing, just with creatures going mad with this disease. It's all okay, you know? Balances itself out."

He got up from the chair and walked toward her, stopping her hand from stirring the potato pieces into mashed ones, 'cause that wasn't how the dish was supposed to be and turned her around to press her against his chest.

"Oh, uh, okay so you're a hugger, nice … nice to know." She patted his chest with her palms as one does a dog before saying 'good doggie'.

"It's okay you know?"

"Yup, tooooootally okay, 'm okay, you're okay, your brother's okay. We're all okay, so … now … I have to make us all some dinner, so …"

"'s fine."

"Mhm, fine. You know what else is fine? The soup 'm gonna make, really fine. Smooth as velvet, has dumplings too."

"You're okay …"

"Pffft, I'm awesome. So, the soup?"

He swayed them left and right a bit, being careful so that her lower back didn't touch the hot stove and smoothed his palm down her long silky soft hair just as he'd done when he had taken her necklace away for the Questioning: "You were really brave then, Charlie. Didn't cry at all."

"Pfffft, what you talkin' 'bout? I wept like a baby."

"No, you didn't. Not where it didn't count."

"Hah, yeah … no, I just …"

"… you did what everyone else does."

"I was sixteen Sam, terrified of my own damn shadow."

"And now you're strong, smart, helping people and probably kicking the shadow's ass, huh?"

"'cause of you. Believe me, 'm here," she tapped his chest with her palm, "'cause of you."

"No, you're not. This is all on you."

"No, no," she shook her head against his sternum, first drops of tears already wetting his shirt, joining in with the water he'd spilled all over himself earlier, "… no, 's cause y-you said you wouldn't leave me alone. No matter what, you said you'd be there and I held on to that when the smoke … and your voice in my head … and, and now … now I'm there for people. 'm there for them 'cause no one deserves to be alone."

"Yeah," he kissed the top of her head when she curled up into him, "you are. You're doing good here, helping the Land's people get better, be better."

She nodded and sobbed: "You too."

"Yeah, me too."

She nodded again and released a sob that made her whole body shudder in his arms. He didn't have the strength to tell her that what he did as help was torture, while she did everything with a smile on her face and kind words.

He watched the potatoes boil while she cried.

"Son of a bitch!"

She pushed at his chest at the sound of Dean's voice and stumbled backwards, but he caught her before she'd fall on the stove and burn herself.

"Made your shirt all wet, damn it, 'm so sorry. Just … crap, sorry."

"Hey, 's okay, I spilled water all over it earlier, so … 's no big deal. Are you okay?"

"I'm better than your brother, I think."

"Yeah, he … even when we were kids, he … ah," he shook his head, not really finding the right words to describe to someone how Dean had been as a kid. No one would understand it anyway, "I'll go see what he wants. And I should take him a glass of water, or he'll bitch."

"Sure, yes, yeah, of course, his mouth … and blood. Yeah water is in that pitcher and glasses are on that shelf. And I'll make us some dinner."

"That would be great, Charlie."

She turned back to the stove to get the potatoes off and onto the counter: "Half an hour, sounds good?"

"Sounds perfect."

"So," he chuckled and crossed his arms across his wet chest, "can't even get under a blanket by yourself, then?"

"Shut up," the words were a growl, "I wanted to get up, and go take a leak see if I piss blood too, but … my legs, just … let me all on my own."

"That's … okay," he clasped his hands together, "let's get you back to bed and covered with a blanket before I go and get you some clothes. Then you'll go uh take a leak. Charlie's making dinner and she'd probably like to have a dressed man at her table."

"Why?"

Even as a child, Dean had whined about certain things, made their Dad go crazy and Sam giggle. Some things never changed.

"Because who'd want to watch your dick while eating potato and dumpling soup?"

"Hey, I know plenty of women…"

"Oh Gods…" he rolled his eyes at the ceiling and kept them there as he helped lift his brother from the floor and onto bed. He had enough of watching his brother's family jewels … he had enough of watching his brother's scars. At least Dean managed to clean himself of all the blood and the sweat.

"Cover yourself up."

Placing a fresh blanket over Dean's body he had to smile at his brother's: "Prude."

"Hey, I've seen you naked and once is enough for me. I seriously don't want a repeat of that."

Dean sighed. "Fine. So now what?"

"Like I said, I'll go get you some clothes, we'll go to the toilet then dinner and sleep" he rolled his eyes at Dean's rolled eyes, "dude, you need it, I need it, Charlie needs it. Twirly will come soon, bring you your weapons and he'll need sleep too."

"Well aren't we a party people," watching his brother pout was more amusing than it had any right to be, "so young and all asleep by eight."

"Don't pout, you're not five. Sleep is good for the body, the brain. Getting some strength back to your legs."

"Yeah, yeah, whatever."

He'd missed his brother so damn much the magnitude of just how much hit him right then and there. He'd missed this grouchy, funny, crazy, cocky, loving thing that was his brother so damn much he never even knew how much before he got him back. He knew how much, yes, but he never knew how much.

"Dean …"

"Oh no, no touchy-feely things, no. Not while 'm going commando here, all right? So go get me some clothes, somewhere. And underwear. Something that doesn't itch."

He chuckled: "Any other requests?"

"Ale?"

Sam snorted: "Water, 's all you're getting for a while. Need to get yourself hydrated."

"Coffee?"

"No, sleep. Dinner and sleep. In that order."

"Pushy pants."

Yeah he'd missed his brother like a cut off limb.

"So dad's dead, ya know?"

If it was news to him, he'd probably choke on the half of the dumpling he was chewing on. But it wasn't news to him, so he swallowed calmly, looked at another dumpling he'd dissect in a second and whispered: "I know, Dean."

"Drank himself to death."

He knew that too, Mr. Singer had told him. He hadn't gone and watch Dean burn their Dad into ashes, he couldn't.

"I know."

"'kay."

"Yeah."

He attacked the elusive dumpling and cut it in half with his spoon. Their Dad was dead and he'd left his brother to build the pyre all by himself, drag Dad's body onto it all by himself and then light the wood all by himself. He couldn't … he hadn't been allowed to go.

Charlie didn't say anything, just scooped more soup onto her spoon and munched on a potato.

"Sleep, Dean, 'kay? No walkin' around here, no pokin' at stuff, nothin', just sleep."

"Yes, fine, Gods. If I'd known you were such a mother hen I'd never …"

He stopped himself before he could finish that, but the words were there, even if unspoken. Sam had heard them, processed them in a span of one heartbeat and watching his brother's face fall and eyes go blank sent a shiver down Dean's spine as if someone stepped on his grave.

"I'll stop. 'm sorry, please, just don't …"

Sam's words shocked him to the core; not even the smoke managed to do as much damage as Sam's words had just now. It was meant as a joke, but he guessed they weren't at that stage yet; he'd have to learn to thread carefully. He reached for his brother's shoulder – lying in the same bed, it really wasn't that far – and gripped it hard, digging his fingers into Sam's shoulder blade.

"Sam, Sammy, no, hey, I'll never leave you again, never no matter what, you hearin' me? You're stuck with me, I didn't mean to … you're all I have, man. All that's left of our family, okay? I don't wanna … I can't let you go."

He watched as Sam's eyes glistened mighty suspiciously in the silver moonlight, but if anything should spill, he wouldn't mock him for it. Everything was still so brand new, they were still re-discovering each other, yeah he could read the kid like a book in some ways, but in other ways, Sam was a mystery waiting to be solved. And he would learn how to walk on eggshells in the meantime, be careful with his words and actions, because he never ever wanted to make Sam apologize to him for anything. Never wanted to see tears in Sam's eyes that he put there and he never wanted to make Sam feel like he'd ever leave him.

He watched as Sam bit his lower lip and nodded: "Me too." before releasing his brother's shoulder with a light slap.

"Okay, so now shoo, me needs my beauty sleep."

"You totally need one, trust me."

"Shut up and go to sleep. Just don't snore or I'll throw you off the bed."

He could almost hear Sam's eye roll at that and it made him smile. The kid had changed so much, yet he hadn't changed at all and every little quirk of his brother's, every smile and every bitch face, every mother-henning thing he did just made him realize how damn much he'd missed the kid. Just how damn much he loved his brother.

The feeling hit him so suddenly, like a lightning that it made him squeeze his eyes shut and reach his hand across the small space between him and Sam and slap Sam's broad back.

He just needed to feel Sam be alive and right there; needed to feel the warmth and the movement of Sam's body and even the slap at his hand and the "Dude, what the hell?" he got made him grin from ear to ear.

"A fly, sorry."

"Did you get it?"

Yeah he got it all right; had his brother back. They missed eighteen years of being together, but they were together now. That was all that mattered.

"Yeah, got it."

"Didn't hear anything."

"'s 'cause all the hair's in the way."

"Shut up."

"Stuck with me, told ya."

"Oh Gods…"

They were sleeping in Charlie's room, the bed big enough for three people and she'd taken her Granny's room when she saw that Dean's feet were hanging off the mattress and Sam had looked like a lost puppy not knowing what, where or how.

hoot

"And you, don't snore either."

hoot

"Twirly's gonna go hunt for food when we fall asleep. He'll be back by morning, won't you buddy?"

hoot

The moon wasn't full, would be a week longer for that to happen, but it was bright outside, the silver light illuminating the room through a small window. Sam turned towards it, knowing that Twirly would open it and close it when he'd leave.

He had his brother at his back, his brother who was alive and healthy and his old self, just as he'd been as a child. Maybe life had hardened him in some aspects, jaded him, but when he loosened up, when he relaxed, he became that quirky kid who read him stories at this time of night and stroked his hair when dreams became too much.

"Night Sammy."

"Yeah, night."

It had been eighteen years since they've spoken those words to each other and Sam didn't care when a tear slipped down his temple and into the pillow.

The sounds of wolves howling somewhere far away followed him into sleep; until Dean started snoring.

It was going to be a long night.

"So aren't you missed in the Inquisition Hall or something? What if you'll need to Collect someone?"

They were having breakfast of honey and black bread that Charlie had gotten who knew where from, but the honey was sweet and the bread wasn't moldy and that was all that mattered. It didn't feel awkward at all, sitting behind the table, listening to water boiling on the stove and firewood crackle when pockets of resin finally popped under the heat. The sun had gotten up hours ago, and was now streaming in through the little windows, lines of brightness over the amber colored honey.

"I'd be summoned. Twirly would let me know. And I am allowed to leave the Hall, ya know?"

"Oh, okay … I just always thought that they keep you all locked up in there," Dean shrugged and poured more honey onto his slice of bread, "until you're needed."

"Yeah, some prefer to stay in, I … never did. I like walking around, watching people live. Talking to the Land, just …" Sam took a sip of milk fresh from the cow, it was still warm and rich with taste making him smack his lips, "hear what it has to say. How the … the Plague is spreading."

"Yeah you were always a nosy kid, glad that didn't change."

Sam huffed: "Wasn't nosy, just … curious."

"Same thing."

"'s not, just … drink your milk."

"Drink yours."

"'m drinking."

"Oh brother …"

She sighed and tried not to smile as she watched them wipe milk mustaches from their lips. They looked like little kids, still with crust in the corner of their eyes because they'd rushed to the table as soon as they smelled breakfast, forgoing the washing up. Not something that would become of the Inquisitor and the Hunter because they looked pretty gross with pillow creases on their cheeks, messy hair – Sam more so than Dean – and white lines of dried drool at the corners of their mouth.

She could see they were brothers in everything they did; the way they ate, the way they spoke – even when they didn't speak at all – the way they breathed. The way they'd look at each other with disbelief in their eyes, as if they couldn't really fathom that the other was really, actually, for real there.

She didn't know how it was, being separated like that, knowing the other was out there somewhere but not allowed to see, not allowed to visit, not allowed to look. She knew how loss felt, but all of her losses were final while theirs wasn't.

She took them in, fed them, made Dean tea every three hours until he swore he could feel it leaking out of his ears and gave him ointments for the abrasions the leather bonds had made on his wrists. There was nothing more she could do but give Dean food, rest and time. Time healed wounds, she knew that, some better than others, but eventually blood stopped flowing and left behind a scar.

She knew that better than anyone; as the Healer she'd seen things, mended wounds many didn't even dare to look at.

And having the Inquisitor's brother in her home made her realize that no one was safe in this Land. Made her really nervous too, as the Hunter was rumored to be ferocious, merciless, a killer who bathed in the blood of his kills before going to bed. Observing Dean though, she wanted to smack those rumors back into the mouths of those spreading it. Dean was funny, gentle, cocky at times but most of all, he didn't look like he wanted to kill anything, not even her cow when she hadn't wanted to give milk in the first two tries.

She shrugged and took a sip of tea before she cleared her throat and said: "So lazy," her eyes found the Hunter's over the brim of her tea cup, "when're you gonna get out of my bed?"

"As soon as my legs won't feel like somethin' chopped 'em off."

"Aha, and … uh," she pointed her finger at him and moved it up and down, "the rest of you? How's that feeling?"

She watched him slowly put the now empty glass of milk on the table and shrug: "Feels okay. The amulet that Castiel gave to me, I don't know, I," he scratched the back of his neck, as if shy to speak the next words: "think it healed me."

It was a possibility, yes. She knew of 'items' that could heal, that could take away pain both physical and mental, could even alter reality, make the person wearing it seem as if they were high on drugs. She had her own cross hanging from her neck, but that was more a comfort item, given to her by her mom when she'd gone with her Inquisitor and never returned, but still … it made her feel better having it. When Sam had taken it away in the Questioning, she'd felt as if she'd lost a piece of her soul but the piece had soon been replaced by her Inquisitor's words and then when he'd given her the cross back, everything in her had clicked into place again.

There were objects powerful enough to even heal the Questioning, but as she'd heard it, they'd all been lost some time ago.

Or, apparently, not.

"Yeah, perhaps. I don't interfere with the Herd's business, I'm not a part of … 'm not of status kinda, so I have no clue what they're thinking and stuff, but yeah … perhaps it did heal you, or is healing you."

"Yeeeeeah …"

She flinched at the drawled out word, because she could see it in his eyes that he was gearing up for something, thoughts swirling in every line on his face and she took another sip of her now cool tea, preparing for whatever would come out of the Hunter's mouth.

"… so Charlie, uhh, y-you were one of Sam's … ya know …"

His eyes didn't meet hers and she was grateful for it; she'd probably run out of the room if he'd look at her right then. She didn't want to have this conversation, not after the talk she'd had with Sam last night. That had drained her and left her awake the entire night, tossing and turning and sweating through three shirts. At one point she even got up from the bed, had her feet already on the floor all ready to go to Sam and curl herself around him, but she sucked it up, crawled back under her covers and stared out the window. She was pretty sure it was the hoot from an owl that made her close her eyes and when she'd opened them, the owl was sitting on the windowsill looking at her with huge blinking eyes. It had hooted once more, and she remembered those feathers under her fingertips.

She shook her head. The Hunter was sitting across from her, staring at his plate that had drops of honey on it, playing with them with the tip of the spoon. He was just as unnerved about all of this as she was and that made her answer: "Yeah, I was."

"Dean…"

She looked at Sam, had completely forgotten that he was actually still in the kitchen, sitting right next to his brother, a piece of bread with honey running down the crust now forgotten on his plate. His eyes were on Dean, probably pleading with him to stop whatever he was planning, to stop with the questions and to just stop.

But if she knew anything to be real about Dean, it was that he was a stubborn man and when he looked at the amulet that lay on his chest, she placed the teacup on the table and waited him out. She could follow his pace.

"How … did it hurt? After," he plucked a crumb off the bread and twisted it between his fingers, flattening it with his thumb to his palm, "I mean?"

"Dean, c'mon stop it."

"Sam …"

And there it was; speaking with a look, no words needed and she could see Sam's shoulders slump and his head fall down, hiding his eyes from the world. From her. From Dean.

It made her question – just for a moment – how the Herd had, how the fates had picked Sam of all people, Sam with this huge conscience and sensitive soul, to be the Inquisitor. Who had made a mistake there? But the moment was just that, a moment, because after being with Sam in that chamber, after being with him here in her home, she knew why.

"Sam, it's okay, I don't mind. Anymore," she chuckled and looked at Dean, trying to catch his eyes, but he didn't allow for that, "it didn't hurt as hurt, it was more like … an itch inside that no matter what I did, I couldn't scratch. It was driving me crazy, literally crazy, there were hours when all I did was scratch at my skin till I bled. Then the nightmares and," she cleared her throat, "stuff, but it was all still better than being sick. Than dying, even if sometimes it felt like I was dying."

"Charlie …"

"No, it's okay, Sam. Like I said, I don't hate you, or … or blame you. I don't. Never have, really. You didn't hurt me, you didn't … it's okay. Really."

She reached across the space and slid her hand into his, trying to show him that she wasn't scared of touching him, wasn't afraid that he'd suddenly take her away again.

He gripped her fingers tight for a second before releasing her hand with a tiny smile. It was all she wanted, more than she hoped for. He didn't deserve to feel guilty about what he was doing. He didn't.

"So anyone wants more milk? And you're getting more tea, no complaints Hunter."

"Yes ma'am."

She laughed and got up from her chair, walking towards the cupboard to find herbs to cook into the water.

"Hey Charlie," Dean's soft, serious voice stopped her hand just before hitting the tin can, "for what it's worth, I never asked for the amulet, I'd gladly take everything and roll with it."

She gripped the tin can of dried chamomiles and whispered loud enough for the Hunter to hear: "I know you would."

"'kay, here let me help you with this."

She nearly jumped out of her skin when a hand appeared by her side and tried to take the chamomiles away.

"It's okay Dean, you go get cleaned up, 'cause let me tell you, that dried up drool at the corner of your mouth mixed with milk is really disgusting. And then some more rest, 'kay? I'll bring you your tea to the room."

"Yes ma'am."

She rolled her eyes. "Oh gods…" and started pouring the boiling water into a bigger mug, smiling when she heard Sam say: "Stow the charm there buddy," laughing outright when Dean puffed out his chest with a "Hey, I have to keep it flowing, otherwise it'll dry up and then what?"

"Oh gods …"

How those two were rumored to be the most feared men in the Land she really didn't know. People could be very odd sometimes.

PART III b _:_  PART III d