Chapter 8

Sam puts down the phone. "Ms. Bryant says she's fine with us coming up after dinner," he says.

"Good." Dean stares at the lettuce leaves and the tiny, halved tomatoes inside the clear plastic take out container on Sam's side of the table.

He pushes, with that coiling piece of warmth inside him, and a half tomato tumbles from the top to the edge.

"What the hell are you doing?" Sam says, his feet heavy on the floor as he towers over the table.

Dean's head jerks up. "Nothing."

"Well, stop doing it to my dinner." Sam sinks down into the chair and pops the lid off the salad. He stabs the fallen tomato with a plastic fork, and holds it up between them. "You know poltergeists, Dean? They're not even people anymore."

Dean swallows. "Yeah, I know that, Sam."

"Then why—"

"Because I'm cold. I'm always cold, because I'm stuck inside this dead thing. And when I do it, there's something warm in there, Sammy." He beats his chest with his fist. "And it feels good."

"That's not the good kind of heat, Dean," Sam says. He drops his fork, leans forward in his chair, and the legs scrape loudly on the linoleum floor. He reaches out, holds Dean's cheek in his palm, and it's warm too, and Dean can tell the difference. "I can keep you warm."

Dean twitches, almost flinches away, but he wants to lean into it. He can feel how right it is, but it's a mistake. "That's not the good kind of warm either, Sammy," he croaks.

Sam drops his hand, drops his eyes away. "I don't care."

"Then we are both so far off the reservation that there is no saving us anymore."

"I'm okay with that," Sam says, still staring at the floor. "I just want you to know."

"Then what the hell are we doing? The Holy Grail, Sam?" He pushes out from the table and stands up. "You know what? You're right. It's a myth. There's nothing that can put me back together, and that's okay. So you—" He stops, chokes on the lump in his throat. "You just— You get that magic undone, Sammy, and you let me go."

"What?" Sam's chair hits the floor as he lurches to his feet. "That's not— You know that's not what I meant." He rounds the edge of the table, reaches Dean in one long stride.

Dean backs away, shaking his head. "You've lost your mind if you think what you're suggesting is okay."

Sam keeps coming. He backs Dean against the wall, uses his hip to pin Dean there. He cups Dean's cheek again, and leans so close Dean could get drunk on the way Sam smells. "You're the only person I care about in the world, Dean."

"Because everyone else is dead, and I'm the only one you could bring back."

Sam shakes his head. "You're the only one I can't live without." There are tears on his cheeks again, and he's so close now that each soft, shallow breath tickles the corner of Dean's mouth. He drops his head again, the tiniest fraction of an inch.

Dean turns away. There's a longing, a need, twisting in his belly, but he's got to try to resist. The way Sam's lips graze his cheek, a feather's brush, it burns worse than the way his skin blistered today when he tore down the fence.

"Dean," Sam says, all kinds of pain and anguish in his voice. "Dean, please."

Dean chokes when he tries to get words out. He lifts his eyes, and Sam's begging him, not just with his words, but with the pain written on his face as well. And Dean gives. He gives in. Gives up. And he turns back to Sam, and he lifts his chin. "Jesus, Sammy," he whispers, his throat closing up on the words, so they're a harsh rasp.

Then he's burning all over again. Flames lick at his skin, burst up his spine. Sam makes a noise, a strangled moan that's muffled as he drags his lips, desperate, over Dean's mouth.

"Sam," Dean moans, sound rumbling up from deep in his chest. "Oh, god, Sammy." He twists his hand into the front of Sam's shirt, and he arches his neck, and he leans in and just lets go.

---

There's a funny grey shadow behind the mirror. It spreads like damp from the top right corner, consumes the edge, puddles at the bottom. Paint flakes away from the wooden cabinet surround, litters the porcelain sink with off-white dust. There's probably lead in it. Dean drags his finger through the fine powder, then rinses it under the tap.

The house is falling down around the old woman downstairs.

Dean looks up as he washes his hands. He doesn't look at himself in the mirror anymore, not if he can help it, but he's got to see if anything's changed. He can't look past his lips, like they're the most significant part of his body right now. He can still feel it, searing heat, he can taste it, forbidden desperation. He presses the pad of his middle finger, still wet, to his lower lip. He spreads the water across the fullest part.

It creates the illusion of life, just for a moment. Then it dries, and his lips are the color of bleached bone again. There's something wrong with Sam. There's got to be.

---

The only child of an only child, Dora Bryant inherited the house Terence Bryant retired to when he left the Men of Letters.

"He had the dementia," she says, a thumbnail painted pearly pink grinding over and over, against a stained chip on the edge of her teacup. "But I remember him telling me about his work. My father didn't want him to." She looks up. Her eyes are watery, but sparkle with life. "He didn't go into the same business, you see. It was expected, and so they argued a lot. But my grandfather would get me alone, and he would tell me stories of magic and monsters."

"And you believed him," Sam says.

"Of course I believed him," Dora says. "I was a child. I thought it was wonderful. I dreamed of the day I would be old enough to do the same things he talked about. But by the time I was, my grandfather was gone, and my father wouldn't hear of it."

"We didn't know," Sam says. "But we're legacies, like you. We found some of your grandfather's journals in the archives. They're incomplete. We were hoping we could take a look at some of his papers you told me about."

Dora smiles. She turns her eyes on Dean, gives him a look that is all pity, as though she knows he doesn't just have the flu. Maybe she does. "I won't be here forever, boys. His things should be together, where they're complete, and safe. Where someone can make use of them. If they stay here, when I'm gone, someone will come and throw them away." She puts her teacup down on the table. "But you'll have to see yourself up to the attic. I haven't been able to manage the stairs in years." She smiles again. "Anything that was his, you're welcome to."

---

There's a bare bulb swinging from the ceiling, the wire threaded through a chain, thick with dust. Everything is covered with it, and they leave tracks behind them when they enter.

Ancient crates made of wood line the walls. The markings on them are faded and indistinct. There are broken lamps, wrapped rectangles that might contain priceless artworks. There's a coat rack, old furs in cracking vinyl covers hanging askew.

"Where's this trunk?" Dean says. Now that they're alone again, Dean's chest feels empty and wrong. His heart should be pounding in there, there should be sweat on his brow. The hyper-awareness is incongruous with the lack of physical reaction.

Sam shines his flashlight into each corner. "Here," he says, as it stills. He scrambles forward, ducking to avoid hitting his head on the angled ceiling, and he falls to his knees. He wipes the thick blanket of dust off the top, then blows on it, to scatter the remainder. "This is it," he says.

Dean steps closer. He shines his flashlight on the top of the box. The Aquarian Star is stamped on top, like two arrow heads, one inverted. Beneath that is Terence's name. "Open it up."

Sam looks up at Dean. His lips move, as though he's about to speak, but no sound comes out.

"Just do it, Sam," Dean says.

Sam nods. He turns back, examines the lock, and then breaks the rusted catch with the butt of his flashlight. He lifts the lid.

Dean shines his flashlight inside. It's filled to the top with paper and books and files. Dean lunges forward, lifts a pile out. "I suppose it'd be too much to hope that it might be in here."

"Yeah," Sam says. "Probably." He slides his hand down the back edge, down the sides, the front. "It's all paper." He turns, pushes himself to his feet, ducks until he's in the center of the room where the ceiling is highest. "But he took this stuff from the Men of Letters when he left. There's got to be a reason for that."

"So we take it back. Go through everything." Dean flips the lid back on, turns to scan the room. "Those crates," he says. "Maybe he swiped more than his notes."

Sam runs his finger along the edge of one. "John Bryant," he reads. "No. They belonged to Dora's dad. There's nothing we need there."

Dean nods, then he bends to grasp the handle on one end of the trunk. "Come on, then. Work to do, Sammy."

---

There's so much, it's going to take them days to go through it all, to read every word, and it's the early hours of the morning before Sam drains the last of the coffee from his cup and pushes away from the pile of paper in front of him.

Dean barely glances up, quick, deliberately casual, then back down again at the journal in front of him.

"Time to hit the hay, Dean," Sam says.

Dean glances up, forces a smile. "You go ahead. I don't need to sleep."

Sam moves behind him. He puts his hands on Dean's shoulders, gets his thumbs into Dean's shoulder blades and rubs. "You should rest, at least."

He could lean back, he could melt into the feeling of Sam's hands on him, he could surrender, but so much conflicts with it. "Sam," Dean says. "I don't think—"

"I know." Sam's hands slide down, palms press, one over the other, over Dean's heart. "I thought I was watching you die again today," he says. "One way or another, I thought it was over. You went vengeful spirit, Dean, and then he shot you, and I thought I wasn't going to get you back from that."

"I'm not going anywhere," Dean says. He looks up, tips his head back to rest on Sam's hard stomach. "I'm still here." When he lifts his hand, there's so much that tells him to put it back down, two urges warring with one another. But he puts his hand over Sam's, over the hole in his heart where the bullet went clean through and drew no blood because there's no blood left. And he squeezes. "But I'm freaking out, Sammy. Me, I'm dead, I'm a ghost. There ain't nothing natural about me anymore. But you." He grips Sam's hand tighter and twists, presses his cheek against Sam's belly and closes his eyes. "I'm scared. It's not right. It's not normal. It's not natural. You shouldn't want any of this." He drops his head, drops his voice to a whisper. "I'm your brother. And I'm a fucking corpse. I don't understand."

"I don't see that part," Sam says, then he drops to his knees. Dean refuses to open his eyes, even though he can feel Sam's breath on his face. Sam's hand on his cheek holds him there so he can't turn away. "You're my brother. You'll always be my brother, Dean," Sam says. "And it's messed up, but I don't care. You're a real person, the same person who's been the only one to look out for me since I was six months old. All I see is my big brother, the one I always trusted to look out for me." He tips Dean's face up, traces his lower lip with his thumb. Then he brushes his lips over Dean's mouth, quick, barely touching. "Dean, I—"

"Don't, Sammy."

"I need you, Dean," Sam finishes.

Dean opens his eyes. His blood should be pumping quick and fast through his veins, his heart should be pounding. It's not. Pinpricks of cold flash over his skin, though, and if that's all the nerves he's going to get, he'll take it. "Sam."

"Come to bed. Let me keep you warm."

Dean shakes his head. His lips quiver as he fights with himself.

"Yeah." Sam nods his head, as if that can negate Dean's reluctance. He rises to his feet, grabs Dean's hand to pull him up. "Come on."

Long moments pass in which Dean just stares up into Sam's eyes, in which his heart and his mind fight against each other.

Then he caves, and he tells himself it's because his fingers are numb and his joints are stiff from the cold, and he lets Sam pull him to his feet.

Under the blankets, Sam pressed against his back like a gigantic space heater, Sam's lips on his shoulder, Sam's hands, sliding over his bare chest, Dean shakes.