Finding Home (17/21)

[nightspear]

Title: Finding Home (Main Post and Chapter List)

Rating: PG-13/R for language, mostly

Disclaimer: Nothing you recognize is mine. I gain nothing of materialistic value from this.

Pairings: Gen.

Notes: A few revelations, friends. Hope you enjoy!

Chapter 16

XXXXXXXXXX

“Now we act like every second counts.”

(“Salvation”)

XXXXXXXXXX

The drive to Iowa wasn’t unusually long, considering the lifestyle they led, but it seemed like forever to Sam. It wasn't the same way he'd used to hate the long drives that were the mindless hours when he couldn’t pretend he was just like the other kids. Now, knowing what awaited them in Salvation, the hours were more than just mindless; they were unbearable. Flashes of the young mother appeared at intervals before his eyes—he wasn’t sure if they were premonitions or just a subconscious urge to hurry, hurry, hurry. Dean was restless, too, he could tell. He’d pulled out the collection of mullet rock cassette tapes (“Really, dude?” Sam had asked. “Cassette tapes?”) from Dad’s truck and was pushing them into the tape deck, only to eject and replace them half a song later. He stopped when he caught Sam watching him but continued to fidget.

This could be it. Armed with the Colt, foresight, and the pooled strengths that each of the three Winchesters brought to the hunt...it could all be over in a few days.

And when it was over...

What then? Back to college? Back to hunting?

His musing was cut off by a ringing phone. He jumped, then scrambled to pull his cell from his pocket. He stared for a moment, until Dean started to shoot him curious looks, then flipped it open.

“Jessica, hi,” he said. “It's been a while—”

“Sam! Oh God, Sam...” Her voice was shaking, panicked, and he sat up straighter, heart thumping.

“Jess, what is it? What’s wrong? Where are you?” Dean turned his head sharply.

“It’s trying to get in,” she said, crying now. “It’s Becky...she’s possessed...”

“Possessed? A demon?” he repeated. “She...are you sure?”

“I saw her through the window, and her eyes...they were completely black, Sam, it’s a demon and it’s trying to get in...”

“Jessica, where are you?” he asked, fingers tightening around the phone. “Are all your entrances sealed?”

“I...I’m staying with Becky in this house her parents own in St. Louis,” she sobbed. “And I put salt everywhere as soon as we got here, so it hasn’t been able to get in yet, but it’s not going away, what do I—” A thumping sound came through the phone, followed by her scream.

“Jess? Jessica! Are you okay? God--Jess, answer me!”

A few moments later, her voice came through again. “It’s trying to break down the door,” she said, her voice shaking. Sam had to lean forward with a hand on the dash to draw a breath. “She’s saying something, but I can’t hear through the door...” A rattling sound and another gasp. “Oh god...I’m scared, Sam...”

“Don’t panic—the salt will make it harder for her to break anything that crosses the threshold, and even if she does she can’t get past the line and into the house...”

“But she’s not going away!”

He swallowed. “She has to be exorcised...”

If Jess tried an exorcism now, it would just run away and come back again. She’d have to trap it somehow, without putting herself in danger...

God, think think think think think think think...

Dean’s voice interrupted them, saying sharply, “Does she know about Devil’s Traps?” Sam looked up then and realized they’d stopped and were on the shoulder of the road.

“Devil’s Tr...” His eyes widened. “Jessica, did you read the books I sent you? The one on Devil’s Traps?”

“Um...yes. Yes, I did.” A muffled whimper and another crashing sound.

“Go get the book and find a picture of the Trap. Grab something you can use to draw on the floor—charcoal, paint, marker, anything.”

“Okay. Okay.”

For a few minutes, Sam heard only fast breathing and the sounds of Jessica shuffling through something.

A tapping noise made him raise his head to see his father standing at the window, looking annoyed. Not prepared to deal with him now, he turned away. The tapping became a sharp knock, until Dean cursed and stepped out, moving to pull John away and explain. Jesus. Thank you, Dean.

“I’ve got the book and a Sharpie,” Jessica said finally into the phone.

“Will it write on the floor?” Sam asked. “Without rubbing off?”

A soft squeaking sound, then, “Yeah.”

“Okay, Jessica, this is very important. I need you to draw the Trap on the floor, just inside the door, and it has to be exactly the way it looks in the book. Can you do that?”

“On the fl...you want me to let it in?” her voice was rising in terror.

“Jess, listen to me! You have to exorcise the demon or it’ll just keep coming back, and you can’t finish an exorcism without pinning it down. And,” he said, hoping it would help convince her, “that’s Becky’s body it’s in. You’ll be saving her, too.”

He heard two hitching breaths through the phone, and then she said, “All right. Okay. Right inside the door?”

“Yes. You have to draw it, then break the salt line, so it steps into the Trap when it comes in. Hurry, Jess, but try to make it big and right up against the edge of the salt border so it’ll be harder to miss stepping in it.”

Over the next few minutes, he listened as Jessica moved around, drawing, broken by an occasional sound that reminded him of Dean kicking down a door. He flinched each time, wondering whether the door still held, if it had broken and a piece of debris had disturbed the salt, if, if, if. Once, he heard a clatter and a distant “Shit” and he told her, “Jess, you can put the phone down until you’re done; it’ll be easier to draw—”

“N-no, I don’t want...Sam...”

“Okay, okay. Fine. You’re fine. You’re doing fine, Jess. Keep—keep going.”

From the driver’s side, Dean appeared, their father behind him. “Dean told me,” John said tersely. “You sure this works?”

Sam wanted to scream at him to shut up because his girlfriend—his friend was being attacked by a demon, but Dean said quietly, “Me and Sam have done it before. It’ll work, I’m sure of it.” Sam looked at him, grateful on more levels than he could comprehend at the moment and trying not to remember that he’d been knocked out that one time they’d tried it. But this time would be different; they hadn’t been ready then, and they’d rushed and made mistakes...this time would be different. It had to be.

“I think that’s it,” Jessica said over the phone. “Sam, is that it? There’s a scorpion thing in the middle, and I don’t know if...”

“I can’t see it,” he reminded her, wishing he could be there with her. “Compare it with the book—it doesn’t have to be pretty, just all the elements have to be the same. Make absolutely sure.”

Ten seconds of scuffling noises, then eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen...

“I think it’s done.”

He took a deep breath, picturing the book in his mind from the times he’d pored over a copy of it at Bobby’s house. “Okay, now turn the page. Is there an exorcism written out there? Look for the words ‘Exorcizo te’.”

“Uh...I don’t...I don’t see it...”

Pushing down panic, he said, “Try the next page.”

“...No, it’s...Wait, here’s...but it says ‘exorcizamus...’.”

Berating himself for forgetting, he told her, “That’s it, that’s the one. It’s just the verb conjugation; you need to make it singular because it’s just you.” He’d never minded before how specific rituals were, but he’d be cursing it now if he didn’t have to stay calm enough to think. It’s just you, Jess. I should be there with you. I’m so sorry.

“Is that the only time I have to change it?”

Racking his brains, he closed his eyes, calling up the exorcism in his mind’s eye, and said, “No, you should write this in—ready? The first word—”

“Got that one.”

“Good girl. Go down to the next block, where it says ‘adjuramus’ and change it to ‘adjuro.’ Got it? Now down again—make ‘nobis’ ‘me.’” He twitched as a muffled crashing sound came again and forced himself to concentrate on the ritual. “Uh...next section has a few. ‘Libera nos’ to ‘libera me,’ and ‘rogamus’ to—”

“To ‘rogo,’” she said. “I remember.”

He wanted absurdly to laugh, remembering their tutoring sessions, too. “I...that’s good, Jess. There are a lot of ‘nos’ in that part, so make sure you get them all.”

“...Okay. Is that it?”

He swallowed. “That’s it. After you break the line there’ll be nothing stopping her from breaking through the door. Get back, as far as you can, before she gets in. And then do the exorcism, don’t stop, and don’t listen to anything she says. Did you get all that?”

“I don’t know if I’m reading it right. That other book I read said that the pronunciations are all different.”

Sam wasn’t sure if it mattered whether or not she used the ecclesiastical pronunciations, but he wasn't going to take the risk. “It’s not all different, Jessica, just a few sounds.” He thought for a frantic moment, then said, “I’ll say it with you, all right? Read it out of the book, and I’ll be here, saying it right along with you. If you mess up, don’t panic; just stop and go back and do that part again. Can you do that?”

There was a long silence on the other end. A pounding on the door made her gasp, and she answered, “Yeah, I can do that. I...God, I’m gonna let her...let it in.”

“Jess...”

“No, I’m okay. It’s okay. Here goes.”

“Wait!” he blurted, then stopped. “I just...Jess. Jessica. Be careful.”

“I know,” she said, in answer. “And...me too, Sam.”

He heard her soft mantra of oh god oh god oh god under her breath, and then silence. He squeezed his eyes shut and clenched his grip tightly on the car seat under him.

Sam jumped when he heard two more slamming sounds, and then a splintering crash.

“J...Jess?” he asked when he didn’t hear anything. “You there?”

“Yeah,” she said, trembling but her voice stronger. “It worked, Sam, she’s in the Trap.”

The furious shriek that came over the line was familiar, too—Rebecca Warren’s voice.

“Are you ready?” he asked, preparing himself as if he were exorcising a demon himself.

“Ready. ‘Exorcizo te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas...”

Sam lost himself in the familiar rhythm of the exorcism, pacing himself to match her, stopping twice when she stumbled. The demon was howling something at Jessica while she read, but Sam couldn’t tell what it was over the sound of their reading.

At last, together, they finished, “Benedictus Deus. Gloria patri!”

Jessica gasped and Sam held his breath and closed his eyes against the sound of little Becky’s voice screaming. Finally, there was a soft thump, and Jessica said, “Oh my god. That smoke...was that the demon?”

He exhaled in relief. “Yeah. That was it. Is Becky...?”

“She’s moving. I don’t think she’s hurt,” Jess said, her voice steadier now, and Sam’s chest ached with something like pride. “Jesus. What do I tell her?”

He hesitated. “Tell her the truth. She knows a little about...what my family does.”

“Sam, she was talking about—”

“Don’t let it get to you, Jess, whatever she said.”

“No, no, not like that. Sam, she was looking for you, specifically. And she said she wanted the other Winchesters, too.”

Sam’s breath caught in his throat. “She said...?”

“Becky’s waking up; I have to get her taken care of. Sam, be careful, okay?”

“I will,” he said numbly. “You too. Call me when you know if everything’s all right?”

“Promise. Thank you...so much. I don’t know what I would have done if...” She stopped, but he heard her still breathing over the line. Then, “You’re a good friend, Sam. You and your brother take care of yourselves. Stay in touch.”

The line went dead, and Sam slowly lowered it from his ear.

She was fine. She was fine. She was—

“Sam?”

He looked up to meet Dean’s eyes...and the last ten minutes crashed over him. Dragging in a deep breath, he bent forward until his head was almost between his knees, the phone dropping from his numb fingers.

“Hey, hey.” He heard footsteps, and then the passenger side door was opening and he could smell the leather of his brother’s jacket. A hand found his back, gentle but guiding him downward to approximate shock position. “It’s done, Sam. She’s okay.” Dean hesitated. “She...she’s okay, right?”

The question registered, and he unfolded himself and forced himself to say, “Yeah. She...the exorcism worked. And Becky's fine too.”

"Becky...?" Dean cut off the question and nodded, his face expressionless but his eyes clearly showing relief. “Glad to hear that,” he said. “She’s a strong girl.”

Sam shifted subtly so that he was leaning, just slightly, against his brother’s solid form. “Yeah,” he whispered. “She’s amazing.”

John spoke up, then. “Sammy...I didn’t realize you had a girlfriend.”

Surprised and a little defensive, he looked up and found his father’s expression hooded and unreadable. “I did,” he answered, emphasizing the past tense, not wanting to discuss it. “She’s fine,” he repeated, for his own benefit as well as for his father’s.

John nodded, something flickering in his eyes, then said, “If you're... We need to keep moving, boys.”

Dean looked up abruptly, but Sam was nodding in agreement, a fresh surge of anger rising—a fresh need for revenge. “Yeah, we should. Wait, wait...there’s something else. The demon—”

“The one that attacked your...your friend?”

“Yeah. Jess said it was looking for—” me—“us. Looking for the Winchesters.”

Dean drew in a sharp breath. “Sonuvabitch,” John spat. “It’s going after people we know.”

Sam thought back to his small circle of friends at Stanford, wondering if he'd hear about someone's mysterious death in a few days. Even if he could warn them without sounding insane, it was holiday season, and there was no way he’d be able to find everyone he knew. He’d have to hope they would be safe.

“Most people we know, they’ll have protections up,” Dean said. “This sounded like just a regular demon. Minor leagues. We can call to warn them—”

John cut him off. “No. We can’t.”

Sam gaped at him. “Dad!”

“If you call Bobby Singer, or Caleb Reeve, do you think they’ll agree to sit at home and barricade themselves in behind Devil’s Traps? The ones who might be a target can defend themselves against lower demons. They’d just be exposing themselves if they leave, which they will if we call them. There’ll be no more blood spilt on account of this demon, you hear me? No, this is just a distraction for us."

Scrubbing a hand through his hair, Sam said, “Then we have to go, now. Get to the demon first.”

John nodded grimly. “This ends now. I’m ending it. I don’t care what it takes.” He turned away and walked purposefully back to his truck.

Sam turned to stare out the side window as the Impala pulled back into traffic, Dean more restless than ever and giving him nervous, searching glances when he thought Sam wasn’t paying attention. They were ending it. It would all be over.

He didn’t know what would happen after. But he knew now that college, Stanford, Jessica and Steve and Mike and the Warrens...there was no going back to them. Not anymore.

All the visions about people he’d never met...why hadn’t he seen this coming to Jess? To Becky? And who else had he missed—would he miss?

He closed his eyes and tried to relax, knowing Dean would be wondering but not particularly caring. A few miles later, he felt a warm rush of excitement fill his stomach even as his head twinged in protest, and he took a deep breath, watching, listening. When he didn’t think he could listen to a woman’s tortured screams for her baby any longer, he turned and said, “Rosie. The baby’s name is Rosie.”

XXXXXXXXXX

Sam went looking for streets and houses near railroad tracks while Dean and John dug through birth records. By chance or—well, he wasn’t going to speculate on what else it could be--he found a row of houses that looked similar to the one he’d seen in the vision. It wasn’t good enough to pin down, though, since so many of the houses were of the same model.

He made it back to the motel room shortly before the older two men, both of whom were carrying sheets covered with names and patient information. John hadn’t wanted to take any chances, and they’d written down the names of every infant close to six months, named Rosie or not.

“I think I know which street,” Sam announced. “It’s close to the hospital Dean went to,” he added, and Dean shoved his sheets toward him.

“I can’t understand how you could have wanted to subject yourself to four years of libraries and research,” Dean muttered. The topic was still a little raw—had never really gotten less so even after a year on the road—but he smiled nonetheless at the familiar griping.

“Here,” he said, grabbing a pen and circling the name he was looking for. “Rose Holt,” he read. “The address fits.”

“Mother?” John asked, and Sam dragged his finger across the page, following Dean’s writing. “Monica Harrison Holt.”

“Look her up,” John told him. “See if you can dig up pictures.”

He booted up the laptop, prepared to try to hack into medical or police records, but that proved unnecessary. A simple internet search yielded an article about some local event, with several people in the neighborhood captured in photos. From one, Monica Holt’s face smiled back at him. “That’s her,” he said.

Dean and John crowded behind him for a look. “You’re certain?”

“Yes,” he said without a doubt. “That’s the woman I saw.”

Dean reached back for the sheet of records. “The baby will be six months tomorrow,” he said. “Dad, is it the night before or after the birthday?”

“Not tonight,” John said. “It’ll strike tomorrow night.” He stepped back. “We’ve got a little time yet. Sam, go to their house and try to confirm everything matches your vision. We can’t afford to make any mistakes this time. It knows we’re close, and we might not get another chance.”

“Yes, sir,” Sam said, and Dean asked, “How do we get them out of there?”

“We don’t,” John told them, making both brothers stop in surprise, but Dean was already nodding.

“They’d never believe us.”

“And we can pin the demon down now; we know where it’s going to be.”

Sam stared. “We’re using them as bait? Monica’s going to die—we should at least get the parents out of there—”

“What parents do you think would leave their baby alone on the word of three men they don’t know?” John asked rhetorically. “We have no choice.”

“We’ll be watching,” Dean added. “We can be in there as soon as we see a sign of the demon.”

Sam was still uncomfortable at the idea of the dark-haired woman—Monica—at risk. And the baby—what hell would she go through if they failed?

They wouldn’t fail. Not this time. And if this was their chance to kill the demon...they had to take it.

“Okay,” he agreed. “I’ll go check out the house.”

He was partially out the door when John called, “Dean, where’re you going?”

Dean sounded surprised when he answered, “To...check out the house?”

John opened his mouth as if to call him back, but then, with an odd expression, closed it again. “All right. You two go, then. Be back before nightfall so we can go over our plans.”

XXXXXXXXXX

The returned to find their father pacing the floor. “It’s definitely her,” Sam said cautiously, not knowing what his father was thinking.

John stopped to face them and said, “Joshua called.”

Fear spiked as Sam asked, “Is he all right?” Then again, he’d been the one to call, so... “Is someone else...?”

“No,” John said, “He’s okay, but a demon got into his place earlier, possessing a customer. Looking for the Winchesters.” He breathed out hard through his nose. “He only noticed because he tried to read its mind and saw a demon there. He exorcised it, but...”

Sam exchanged a glance with Dean, who said, “We’ll get it, Dad. Tomorrow night. We’ll finish it.”

John nodded. “Damn right we will.”

XXXXXXXXXX

“You’ve been practicing, Sammy,” the yellow-eyed man said that night. “It feels good, doesn’t it, to feel that power filling you?”

“Yes,” Sam said simply.

He’d found over the past months that he could hold himself back from speaking in these odd vision-like dreams, but he’d seldom found a need to. The man rarely asked anything he didn’t want to answer. Thoughts were fuzzier here, but it was okay—everything was simpler, and there was less to think about.

“You were still weak the first time I saw you. But you’ve gotten strong. I knew you would. You were always my favorite.”

He wrinkled his forehead. “Favorite?”

The man smiled paternally at him. “You and one other—that one’s strong, too, and smart. Resourceful. But not like you. You, Sammy, are my favorite out of all my children.”

“Your children? But I’m not your son.”

The man only smiled at him.

“...Am I?”

“It’s not always that simple, Sammy.” Sam frowned, trying to figure out what that meant, but the man admonished, “Don’t think. Feel. You’re getting stronger, kid. You know there are parts of your mind deeper than anything most people could ever dream of accessing. Feel. You know me, don’t you?”

Again, that odd, inexplicable familiarity washed over him, and he found himself nodding. “I do. Why don’t I ever remember you when I wake up?”

The man spread his arms. “Here—with me—in the deepest, most powerful corner of your mind...in a way, you’re more awake than you’ve ever been. You really don’t remember me at all?”

When he considered, Sam admitted, “Not you. But what you say...I remember that. Not the words, exactly, but I remember what you tell me.”

“So you should; it’s important, what you learn in here. And when you see me, you’ll know who I am.”

“But when?”

The man smiled regretfully. “There’s something I have to do first. But soon. Your time will come soon. You’re almost ready now. I’m so proud of you.”

“There’s something I have to do, too,” Sam confided trustfully. “Something I’ve been waiting my whole life to do.”

“You’re going after the demon,” he said. “I know.”

“You know about the demon?”

“Of course.” The man studied him intently. “What would you be willing to do to destroy it?”

“Anything,” Sam answered without hesitation. “I’d do anything.”

“What would make you change your mind?”

Caught by the unexpected question, he shook his head. “Nothing. We’ve waited too long for this.”

“You hate the demon. You want it to hurt.”

“Yes. More than anything.” A distant part of him protested feebly against the hot waves of rising rage, but it was washed away quickly. “It hurt us first.”

“You and your brother and your dad?”

“Yes.”

“What if something wanted to hurt them again?”

“I...what?”

“Your brother loves you. Your dad...well. Maybe your dad, too, but it doesn’t matter if he does or not, because you love them, don’t you?”

“Yes...I mean, of course my dad...I would do anything for them...”

“So tell me again: is there really nothing you want more than killing the demon?”

He stared, not knowing how to answer. There was something wrong with this, but his mind was too muddled to realize what it was.

“Think hard about it, Sammy. I’ll be watching over you.”

“Why me? Why do you care about me so much?”

The yellow-eyed man smiled. “There’s a war coming. I need you prepared. You’re one of mine,” he repeated. “And I’ll show you why." He snapped his fingers.

The dream dissolved. Sam looked around in confusion for the yellow-eyed man. "Where are you? Where am I?" he asked, but there was no answer.

And then all thought of the man fled his mind as he realized where he was: child’s nursery. A shadowed figure stood over the crib, and he crept closer, trying to see...

He stumbled back in horror as blood dripped into the crib, onto the baby...No, no, no...

He awoke as a voice screamed, “Rosie!”

xxxxx

Dean woke as soon as Sam bolted upright from the vision, but he was too busy trying to untangle himself from the bedsheet to care. He couldn’t even tell this time whether his hands were shaking from the usual adrenaline rush of visions or from revulsion.

“Sam...?”

He dimly registered his father waking as well in the other bed as he finally freed himself and staggered into the bathroom, kicking at the door but not bothering with it when it stopped partially open.

...blood dripping into...

He crashed to his knees before the toilet and began retching.

When he was finished and sank back, trembling and gasping, a familiar hand tentatively found his back. He leaned into the comfort for a second...and then he pulled away sharply with a cry, almost crawling away until he was backed into the corner.

“Sam,” Dean was saying, his hair mussed and eyes wide, hands held out calmingly. “Sam, it’s just me. Just me. Did you have a vision?” John stood in the dark behind, looking disturbed. Sam stared at them for a second and his stomach roiled as he thought back on the image of baby Rosie, crying, licking away the blood on her lip...

“Don’t touch me,” he managed, starting to feel light-headed. “Don’t!”

“I’m just hitting the flush, Sam. See?” Sam’s eyes darted toward the sound of the flushing toilet. “Sam. You’re hyperventilating. Slow down, man. What happened, Sam?”

He was pretty sure Dean didn’t usually say his name every other sentence, and he recognized it as a calming tactic they used on people on the verge of a panic attack. He drew in a deep, ragged breath and closed his eyes, hearing Dean’s uncharacteristically gentle, “That’s it, Sammy. Breathe.” When his head had cleared, he looked back into Dean’s face, the expression soothing but the eyes unable to hide their alarm. “You okay there?” he asked, his voice gruffer but still bordering on uncertainty.

Sam nodded. “I...uh, had a vision.” Dean’s head turned to exchanged a look with their father. Dean had always shared a secret language of looks and gestures with the man, just like he did with Sam—just as Sam never had with their dad. He shook his head, wondering why he was doubting his father again, now of all times. Focus, dammit. “Not about something new. About the same woman—Monica and her baby.”

“So...what was different this time? You saw more?”

“I saw the demon standing over the crib...”

“You saw it? The person it was possessing, you mean? You know who it’ll be?”

Frowning, he shook his head. “No, not like that. Only its outline, in the shadows, from the back. And then it...it slit its wrist...” Sam lifted his own, as if to demonstrate, feeling disconnected from his own body. “I think...I think it was feeding her its blood.” He looked up apprehensively. “Does that mean...it did the same thing to me?”

In a way, he should have known it his whole life, or something like it—the way holy water affected him, almost burning but not quite. He just hadn’t realized it before because oh God it would have meant he was part demon and holy shit this wasn’t happening...

Nausea rose again at the thought, and he scrambled miserably to the porcelain bowl just in time.

God, their faces. They’ll never look at me again.

Or maybe they will. They've got the Colt now.

But then Dean’s hand was on his back again, and another arm came around his shoulders to support him as the heaves shook him.

When he finished, there was no way he could move to escape his brother’s touch, so, after a brief hesitation, he leaned fully against the strong body. “I have demon blood in me,” he whispered, feeling heat behind his eyes but almost sleepy in his brother’s arms.

“You don’t know that, Sammy.”

“Why else would he go to the all the children? Everything's done the same way each time. The kids’ age, the fire, everything... It's not an attack, Dean. It’s a ritual. A blood ritual. You can’t tell me it doesn’t make sense.”

There was a long silence. “Maybe. It doesn’t matter.”

Sam wanted to laugh. He should be arguing. Of course it mattered—how could it not?

Instead, he slumped further against Dean’s form and nodded.

He didn’t look at Dean as he was helped to his feet and led back to bed. He felt the bed dip as Dean sat on the edge but didn’t look around, not wanting his brother to see his face just then.

Sam met his father’s eyes, though, as the other man left his place by the bathroom door and crossed to his bed. It was only for a second, and then John looked away. Sam’s eyes burned, and he shut them, letting the warmth slip between the closed lids.

A hand smoothed his hair away from his face, and he fell into a fitful sleep with his brother’s warm hand resting on his shoulder, sinking into bloodstained dreams.

 

Chapter 18