Chapter Text
At first he shrugged it off as the result of too much sun. He and Sam had spent the mid-August day in the middle of Aaron Daughtry’s ranch digging a pit to trap the black dogs that had been ripping his horses—not to mention a couple field hands and a tourist—apart. Texas wasn’t a temperate area at the best of times, and with the sun beating down relentlessly, Dean figured that it had been over a hundred degrees out there. If looking at his brother was any indication of the state of things, then Dean would be lucky if he could stand to put his shirt back on once the nerve endings in his back and chest woke up.
“Hey, Lobster Boy!” Sam looked up, wincing, and Dean tossed him the bottle of Aloe extract he’d begged off of Aaron. “Oil up.”
Sam scrunched up his nose in distaste. “I hate the way this stuff feels,” he complained.
“Yeah, well, you shoulda thought of that before you signed us up for this little Texan barbeque.” Dean shifted his shoulders, trying to ignore the creeping burn there—oh yeah, this was gonna hurt—and turned his head a little to hide his grin of amusement at Sam’s annoyance. Kid never could stand anything slimy. Which, of course, was why he had sometimes found his sheets full of Vaseline whenever Dean felt things were getting a little too boring. Turned out Sam shrieked like a girl if he climbed into a bed full of the stuff.
“You’re going to need to use it too, you know. Shit, that’s cold!”
Dean looked back at his brother, who had squeezed a piddling amount of the lotion onto his hands and was gingerly dabbing it on his chest, and rolled his eyes. “It’s gonna take you all night to finish if you do it like that. Here.” He snatched back the aloe and dumped about a quarter of the bottle into his hand. “Turn around and I’ll get your back,” he ordered.
Sam complied begrudgingly. “You better be careful, jerk. Don’t just—Fuck!”
Dean clamped one aloe-coated hand down on his brother’s shoulder to keep him from bolting. “Come on, Samantha, take it like a man.”
Sam glanced at him over one fire-red shoulder. “It’s your turn next, you know,” he warned.
Dean shrugged noncommittally, concentrating on fully coating his brother’s back. It took a almost half the bottle to finish—Sam was a ginormous bastard—and when he was done he shoved the aloe back at his brother and said, “Finish up, Gigantor. I’m going to get some more from Aaron.”
Sam took the bottle with a sigh. “This is gonna feel like crap when I put my shirt back on,” he said mournfully.
Dean rolled his shoulders. Damn burn was starting to itch. “Yeah, well, you can’t go hunting in your tightie whities. It’d be like putting a sign on your chest saying ‘free lunch here’.”
“Bite me,” Sam snapped, dabbing at his chest.
“S’what I’m saying.” Dean ducked out of the cabin before his brother could respond and then stood on the porch for a moment, looking out across the dusty, sun-flooded yard. He debated going back in to grab a shirt—he was burnt enough already—and then decided against it. He didn’t really want anything against his skin just now, and it was only about sixty feet over to the main lodge. He sprinted across, thanking God and every other entity he could think of that no one else was staying there right now. He knew he looked like an idiot. A red-skinned, soon-to-be-peeling idiot.
The shadows inside the main lodge were blessedly cool on his skin and he paused just inside the door, eyes shut, basking in the absence of light. He allowed himself a moment to relax, letting all his defenses down, and felt open and free for the first time in months. There were no women on the ranch, which was fantastic—the irony of him thinking that wasn’t lost on him—but he wasn’t sure about one of the ranch hands that was still around, which meant that he still had to watch himself. Not as much, but even that little bit was a strain after a while. Here, though, it was dark and private. He was alone. He could let go, just for a few minutes. Now, if only that damned itching across his shoulder blades would go away, everything would be perfect.
“Well, hell, I didn’t know today was my birthday.”
Dean jumped at the brush of a hand against his chest, accidentally slamming his back against the wooden wall—ow, fuck that hurt!—and swearing under his breath. Stupid fucking hell shit incubus venom. Next time I see one of those fuckers, I’m gonna take my time sending it back to hell. He yanked his control back, feeling it settle over him like iron shackles, and opened his eyes to look at the woman—no, girl—standing in front of him. Her expression was vague, eyes distant, and Dean allowed himself another moment to collect his defenses before stepping forward again.
“Hey,” he said. “You okay?”
She blinked at him, then shook her head. A honey blonde ponytail flickered into view over her shoulder. “Huh? Oh, I’m sorry, I must’ve been daydreaming a bit.” She smiled at him, and the expression turned her face, which bore an unfortunate resemblance to the ranch’s equine occupants, into something striking. Dean let his polite smile widen a bit. If there were going to be women around, then he might as well enjoy himself.
“S’okay. I’m Dean.” He stuck out his hand.
She shook it heartily. “I figured you were,” she said. “Well, Dean or Sam. Dad told me to be on the lookout for a couple of fellas masquerading as boiled tomatoes.”
He winced. “That bad, huh?”
“Be worse when it starts peeling. I’m Reggie, Aaron’s daughter. Had a weekend off from school, so I figured I’d stop back and say hey.”
“Oh right,” Dean said, remembering. “You’re at college, right? San Antonio U? Your dad said you were pre-law. You should talk to my brother; you’d get along great.”
“I’ll do that. Look, not to be rude, but is there something I can get for you? I’m supposed to be helping Dad with dinner.”
“Yeah, actually. Aaron already gave us a bottle of aloe, but Sam’s freakishly huge, and—”
“You were wondering if we had any more. Sure do. You’d be surprised how many guests we get who forget to bring sunscreen.” Her eyes danced across his chest and then she grinned impishly, turning away to head further into the lodge. “Or maybe you wouldn’t.”
“We used sunscreen,” Dean protested, following her.
“I’ll bet you did. At nine in the morning, right? It sweats off, you know.”
“Sure I do. I just forgot to reapply. We were busy.” Finding out that the one black dog you were hunting was actually the five black dogs you were hunting did that every time.
“Busy helping dad catch those coyotes?” She headed behind the reception counter and ducked down.
“That’s right.” Or, well, that was what Aaron thought, anyway. Dean leaned over the counter and Reggie almost took his head off when she popped back up.
“Here.” She slid a new bottle across the countertop at him.
“Thanks, darlin'.” Dean tipped her a bright grin as he turned to go and was gratified to see her flush. Depending on how well this aloe stuff worked, maybe he’d see if she wanted to take a walk after dinner. They’d have about four hours before the black dogs showed up, which should be plenty of time. Plus, it would get him out of the room while Sam bitched about how uncomfortable he was with a layer of aloe between his skin and his shirt.
“Nice tat.”
He stopped, turning back to face her. “Hunh?”
Reggie tilted her head in a nod at him. “Your tattoo. I like it. It’s sexy.” Her smile deepened into something heavy with promise, but right then Dean didn’t much care. His own grin felt painfully stiff.
“Oh, thanks. Sorry, it’s new. I forgot I had it.” Smooth, Winchester. “Oh, uh, Reggie?”
“Yeah?”
“You think Aaron’s got a shirt I can borrow? I don’t want to go back out in the sun like this.”
“We’ve got a few here. Lost and found. Must have something that’ll fit you.” She disappeared behind the counter again and Dean resisted the urge to twist around and try to get a look at his back, which was itching fit to drive him insane. Mostly because he thought that he knew what was going on. He’d been waiting for the other shoe to drop for months, and now here it was. He just hoped it wouldn’t kill him.
Dean took the shirt Reggie offered and hurried out as politely as he could, pulling the blue and white plaid button up on as he went. It stung like a son of a bitch against his sunburn, but he ignored the pain the same way he was trying to ignore the mind-numbing itch across his shoulders. Outside, he took a few minutes to compose himself before crossing the yard and returning to the cabin he and Sam were sharing.
Sam had finished his chest by the time Dean walked in and was just starting on his face, looking disgusted at having to paint himself with aloe but more relaxed on the whole as it took effect. Dean strolled past him with a mutter about needing to take a piss and shut the bathroom door firmly between them before Sam could respond. He paused, looking down at the handle, and then pushed in the button lock. Give him a little warning if Sam decided to barge in. Then he ripped off the borrowed shirt and spun, putting his back towards the mirror that hung over the sink.
Wings. There were huge, fucking wings tattooed across his shoulder blades.
Dean knew that he was being a bastard at dinner, but he couldn’t really bring himself to care. If Sam got suspicious, he could always pass it off as a side effect of being sunburned to within an inch of his life, but really, he was too distracted to feel the heat that Reggie claimed was radiating off of his skin. He could, however, feel his shoulder blades in excruciating detail. The itching had given way to a stinging pain that edged along the lines of the tattoo, as though some needleman was constantly retouching it. Dean didn’t know which was worse: the annoying pain or the fact that he couldn’t tell Sam about it.
Oh, Dean had thought about telling him all right. He’d sat in the bathroom thinking about that very thing until Sam yelled through the door that if he didn’t stop jerking off soon they’d be late for dinner. Ass. But in the end, Dean had realized that having a conversation about it would be pretty much useless. Mostly because he figured it would go something like this:
Hey, man, you remember that time I got bit by a coupla incubi and you had to drag my sorry ass to some witch Bobby dug up for us? Remember how she wasn’t really human and she put her fucking claws in me somehow? You remember that note she left us? The one where she said you gave me to her? No? Oh, well, just kidding then.
Dean thought he might have at least tried to tell Sam if it hadn’t been for the fact that all the clues he’d dropped in the months since they’d left Rachel’s—and if that was her real name then Dean was a Franciscan monk—house had produced absolutely no response from his brother. He’d practically waved the angelica and asphodel tablets in front of Sam’s face, had used every opportunity he could to talk about incubi—which had resulted in some pretty insulting questions from Sam about Dean’s sexual orientation—and made up ribald stories about hookers named Max. Nada, zip, and pretty much zilch.
Dean didn’t want to find out what would happen if he sat Sam down and related the story for him. He didn’t know if it would be worse if Sam forgot what he was talking about five minutes after he finished saying it or if Sam remembered. Because he’d blame himself for what happened, Dean knew he would, and that was bullshit. Sam had a lot of things to answer for, but being manipulated by a powerful God-knows-what into putting Dean through some kind of messed up ritual? Not one of them.
So he bit back on the panic rushing around in his stomach and smiled too widely at Aaron and Reggie and ignored his brother and tried to decide what the fuck to do. Call Bobby, maybe. But he’d done that months ago to ask about Rachel, and it seemed that Bobby knew next to nothing about the woman. ‘Good reputation, for a sideliner. She gets the job done, even if she does deal with both sides. Dropped off the grid recently, though. Bargained when she should have run, is what I think.’ No help there.
Missouri? Dean so did not want to tangle with her again. She hadn’t said anything—not to him—but that woman saw too much, too deep. Dean wasn’t letting her get within ten miles of him again, if he could help it.
“Dean!” Sam's voice. And it sounded like he’d been trying to get Dean’s attention for a while now. Shit.
“What?”
“Pass the greens, would you, man?” Sam squinted at him suspiciously as Dean handed the bowl across the table but didn’t say anything, which either meant he was going to let it go—yeah, right—or he was waiting to corner him until there were fewer outsiders around. Damn it, Dean couldn’t deal with this right now. He had to figure out why the hell that bitch had run him through a ritual whose only purpose seemed to be to put a girly tattoo on his back.
Come.
He straightened, ignoring the sudden rush of pain as all his muscles tensed. He glanced quickly around the table, but everyone was still talking easily, like they hadn’t just heard some disembodied voice shouting in their ear. Because, of course, they hadn’t.
Come.
Dean’s stomach dropped. He was so screwed.
Come.
Dean turned over in his bed, wanting to punch the mattress or the headboard or something but forcing himself to move quietly so he wouldn't wake Sam. He’d pleaded off of dessert, claiming to feel a little sick to his stomach, and pretended to be sleeping when Sam came back. Dean had sensed his brother standing over him, watching him, but he’d played dead and Sam had gotten bored and gone away. Then it had been time to hunt and they’d both been busy with the black dogs—six, not five, and wasn’t that extra one a bitch to put down—and they’d both been too tired to talk when they finally got back to the cabin. So Dean had managed to put the Talk off for the night: maybe for good if he could distract Sam long enough.
Come.
Except that now that damned voice was driving him nuts. Hours had passed and it was all he could hear, beating against his skin with every pulse of his heart. He opened his mouth to breathe and swallowed the fucking word. If he closed his eyes and tried to shut it out, it brushed against him in a caress, insistent and needy and just pushing, constantly pushing.
Come.
Dean's fingers grasped chill metal and he started, backing up. He didn’t remember getting out of bed. Didn’t remember crossing to the door. Oh, shit.
He must have said it out loud because Sam sat up in his bed and said, “Dean?”
Dean cleared his throat. “S’okay, Sam. Thought I heard something, but it was just a coyote.”
Sam grunted and dropped back down, rolled over. Started snoring a few seconds later.
Come.
Dean padded into the bathroom and shut the door, then leaned against it. The lines of the tattoo still felt as though they were slicing into his skin and he winced, rotating his shoulders as though he could shrug the thing off. He was screwed, he was so screwed, because it was starting to look like he was going even if he didn’t want to.
Come.
Come.
Come.
Come.
He pushed himself off the door and stumbled to the shower stall, where he dropped to his knees and twisted the knob. Cold water shuddered down on his back and his body spasmed painfully. Dean was overheated from the sunburn, and the water was so cold on his skin that he thought for a few minutes that he was going to go into shock.
Come.
“Screw you, bitch,” he muttered, voice low and mindful of Sam asleep in the next room. “You don’t get me. You don’t.”
Come.
“I’ll just be gone for a few days.”
Sam was frowning as though he didn’t believe it and Dean sighed, tossing his bag into the backseat of the Impala and shutting the door.
“Seriously, dude," he grumbled. "What are we, joined at the hip?”
Sam shook his head. “It’s not that and you know it, Dean. What if this isn’t a poltergeist? What if it’s something bigger?”
Come.
Shut up, bitch.
“Look, Bobby said it was a poltergeist. You doubt the man?”
Sam shifted his weight a little. “No, but—”
“And someone’s gotta stay here for a few days, make sure we got the whole pack, right?”
“Right, but, Dean—”
“Well, looks like we sorted that one out, Sammy.” Dean headed around the Impala to the driver’s side and opened the door.
Sam trotted after him persistently. “Can’t this poltergeist thing wait?”
“If it could, you think I’d be going?” Dean slid inside, went to shut the door and found Sam holding it open. “Let go of the door, Sam.”
“Dean, I’ve got a bad feeling about this…”
“That your shining acting up?” Because if it was, he wasn’t going. Bitch could whisper to him all she wanted.
Come.
Damn it.
Sam shook his head slowly. “No, I don’t think so. Just a hunch.”
“Yeah?" Dean snorted. "Well, I think I’ll go with Bobby over whatever bee flew in your bonnet this morning.”
“Please, man, just wait a few days, then we can go take care of it together.”
And Dean was going to allow that right about never. Because he’d found another reason not to tell Sam what was going on since they’d gotten up that morning—Dean couldn’t really call it waking up because that would imply that he’d gone to sleep. He wasn’t going to tell Sam about this stupid tattoo and voice thing because he wasn’t letting that unnatural bitch anywhere near his brother.
Come.
“This isn’t a discussion, Sam. Just do your damn job. I’ll be back in a few days.” He yanked on the door, hard, knowing that Sam would move his hand before it got crushed. Sam did, dancing back a few steps and glaring. Dean waved his hand in a jaunty farewell and pulled out, motor purring. He wasn’t sure where he was going, exactly, but he figured that the voice or whatever would tell him.
Come.
“Shut the hell up; I’m coming already!”
But a moment later there it was again, calling him, pulling him.
Come.
“Goddamn it!”
“You have got to be shitting me.”
The Impala was idling at the side of the road where Dean had pulled her when he saw the sign. He didn’t know how many hours he’d been driving—a lot, though, from the way his hands and the small of his back ached. The time had gone past in a blur of the needling across his shoulder blade and the continual, mind-numbing whisper pounding into him.
Come.
He’d come, following some kind of homing signal that he didn’t understand and couldn’t consciously perceive, but he sure as hell wasn’t going any farther.
“Son of a bitch,” he said now, slamming one fist down onto the steering wheel angrily.
Come.
“Pick another place, bitch. Anywhere else. Pick Detroit.”
Come.
Dean pressed his eyes shut and drew a shuddering breath, then forced himself to put the car in gear and pulled back onto the road.
He didn’t feel any different when he passed the sign, but that might have been because he was already too overloaded on fear and anger for anything else to register.
Welcome to Lawrence.