Chapter 3

"It's not pretty," the doctor says as she leads them into the morgue. "Hope you haven't had your breakfast yet."

Dean shoots Sam a look and smirks. "Thanks, Doc, but I think we'll cope."

She shrugs, and pulls back a sheet covering the body on the first of two tables. "Devon James, sixteen years old. Multiple incised wounds to the chest and stomach. Weapon was a short retractable blade, no finesse, a hell of a lot of rage. Broken ribs, punctured lung. He drowned in his own blood."

Dean looks at the mess of ruined flesh and he has to swallow back bile. That might have been Sam if he hadn't been there.

The doctor must notice, because she quickly pulls the sheet back up to cover the dead boy. "It's horrific, I know. Are you okay?"

Dean clears his throat. "Yeah. I'm good." His eyes flick to the other table. "What about that one?"

The doctor studies him for a while, then looks at Sam like she's waiting for his permission to continue. When he nods, she slowly draws the sheet down to expose the second boy's throat. "Skye Miller. Also sixteen. You can see where the rope got him." She hovers a hand over his throat. "These scratches, he did that to himself." She pulls the right arm out from beneath the sheet, presses her thumb to the palm of the hand and splays the fingers out."The skin under his fingernails was his own. That's not uncommon, even in suicides. You try to save yourself, but by that time it's generally too late."

"Shouldn't there be bruising?" Sam steps closer and leans in to look at the dead boy's hand. "If he broke Devon's ribs, the impact alone—"

The doctor nods. "There should be. I can't explain that." She pulls the sheet back up. "I knew these kids. I know their parents. I knew the last two kids and their parents. What the hell is going on here?"

"That's what we're trying to find out. The last two kids..." Sam looks down at his notebook, a few lines scrawled down as he read the paper in the diner. "Bridget Sibley and Jake Hyde? What can you tell us about them?"

The doctor shrugs. "Exactly the same as these two. Same injuries, same everything."

"It was a Romeo and Juliet thing, wasn't it?" Dean asks.

The doctor nods as she moves to a cabinet and pulls out a file. Sam takes it from her and starts to flick through it. "Yeah. Definitely a wrong side of the tracks kind of deal. Bridget's father was on the council at the time, pillar of the town and all that. Jake's family, not so much. Sibley threatened to shoot Jake if he so much as looked at his precious daughter. The kids apparently stopped seeing each other, and the whole thing blew over. Then, months later...just like this."

"Did the cops ever look at Sibley for Jake's murder?"

"Briefly. The theory was that Dad discovered them together and killed Jake in a fit of anger, then Bridget killed herself in grief. But it didn't make any sense. There was no evidence that Sibley had ever been to that house. Everything pointed to Bridget doing it. It could only have been her. No one else was there."

"Jake had broken ribs, too," Sam says. "You think Bridget did that?"

The doctor shrugs. "We had to put it down to adrenaline."

"Was he beating on her?" Dean asks. "Were there bruises, anything?"

"Nothing. They'd recently had sex, but there was no indication that it was anything but consensual. It doesn't make sense, right? I've been obsessing over this case for three years, and then it happens again."

Dean stands over a counter along one wall, the file on Devon and Skye open in front of him. He keeps his eyes on the pages and his voice carefully even. "These two, they were a couple as well?"

The doctor goes silent, and the air in the room thickens.

"The police don't want to know, do they?" Sam says.

She shakes her head. "It's in there." She reaches over, slides a couple of pages away and taps the edge of one of the remaining sheets of paper. "The sheriff is refusing to put it in his official report."

Dean slides the page out and scans the text. "Recent sexual activity. No prior injuries or signs of abuse. So no one knew?"

"God, no. The sheriff asked me to keep it quiet. Up until now, the sheriff and I were the only ones who knew Devon and Skye were sleeping together. Their parents had no idea they even knew each other, and their classmates swear up and down they never spoke."

"Were the other four kids screwing, too?" Dean frowns, because that didn't come out right. "You know, separately."

The doctor pulls another two files. Dean takes one and passes Sam the other.

"Hogan Kelley and Ben Soren," Sam reads. "Healed breaks, prior bruising, old injuries."

"They were on the football team. Nothing surprising there. No one questioned Ben's ability to break a few ribs, either. What didn't make it into the official police report was the drug use."

Dean lifts his eyes from his own file. "Drugs? So they weren't screwing?"

Sam's eyes move down the page. "Performance-enhancing drug use. Huh. Did they test the rest of the team?"

"It was before my time, but I scoured the records. Nothing. The sheriff won't talk to me about it. I think that got hushed up real quick."

Dean lifts his eyebrows. "For a small town, this place sure can keep its secrets."

"Right?" She drops her voice. "You know, I wondered if this wasn't some kind of conspiracy. Someone covering up stuff that might make this place out to be a little less perfect?"

"I like you." Dean sobers when he looks back down at the file in his hands and absorbs the information. "The first two were brothers. Hayden and Alex Graeme. What were they hiding?"

"That one lines up perfectly with the official report. It's like the guy before me sat down with the sheriff and they wrote them at the same time or something."

---

"What happened back at the morgue, Dean?"

Dean tucks his suit into the trunk of the Impala, then drops to tie his bootlaces. "Our Romeo and Juliet theory went flying out the window?"

"You saw that kid's body, and it got to you. We've seen way worse things. Why that kid?"

Dean scowls. There's something blocking his throat that he can't swallow down, and his voice is thick when he speaks. "That could have been you. Torn up, choking on your own blood. It hurt to think about."

Sam gives him a tight-lipped smile. "I know." He shrugs on a shirt and buttons it up over the bandages. "But I'm okay, Dean. You were there."

Dean tries to clear his throat, but the obstruction won't move. "She tried to bring you back here. So, yeah, I was a little freaked out. Still am." He takes a deep breath, lets it out slow. "I'm putting the knife back, Sam. I think you should stay in the car."

Sam's eyes go wide, and he grabs Dean by the arm. "No."

"I'm not gonna watch you get cut up again."

"What if you get cut, Dean? What if she gets you, and I'm not there to stop her?"

"I'm not going inside. I'm tossing that knife in the door, then I'm gonna burn the place to the ground."

Sam lifts his eyes to the filthy attic window. It's impossible to see what's up there. "What if the rope isn't here? We could burn it down and not stop her. Part of her could survive. She could keep killing."

"We go in there, Sam, it'll happen all over again."

Sam reaches into the trunk, pulls out two shotguns, hands one off to Dean. "We've got to risk it. We know what's coming this time. We can do this."

Dean blinks hard, coughs. Then he clears his throat, blinks again to dry his eyes. He looks down at the gun in his hand, opens the break-action to check the shells. He inhales, lets it out slow, closes the break with a loud, satisfying click. "Fine," he says. "Let's do this."

They climb the rotting steps onto the porch and enter the house. Dean walks ahead, shielding Sam with his body as they make their way upstairs. They head up to the attic, and Dean nudges the door open with the barrel of his gun.

Swinging gently from a beam hangs a thick rope, tied into a noose. There's a stool off to one side, tipped over in the dust. "Okay," Dean says. "It's here." He pulls the knife from his pocket, still in its fabric covering. Salt rattles inside as he places it on the floor and backs away. "Now can we get the hell out?"

The temperature drops, and Dean shivers. His finger tightens on the trigger as his breath becomes visible. A breeze comes from nowhere, and the door slams shut with a bang that rattles the window.

Sam reaches for the door, but the knob just rattles in his hand. "We're locked in," he hisses, then puts his foot on the frame and shoves his weight into pulling the door open, but it doesn't budge.

The wind gets stronger and the noose starts to swing. Something rattles across the floor and draws Dean's attention.

The knife lies exposed, the fabric blown back, the salt scattered. "Oh, shit."

Sam gasps as something shimmers in the air, then flows right into him. He looks down at the gun in his hand, and carefully places it on the floor.

"Sam?"

Sam stares at Dean, shakes his head slowly, and then his eyes flick away.

"Annabel?" Dean raises his gun, points it at Sam. "Get the hell out of my brother."

Sam shakes his head again. "You've got it wrong, Dean. Annabel was never here."

Dean's heart beats like it's trying to climb up out of his chest. "I can't lose him," he chokes, finger tightening on the trigger. "I can't lose my brother."

The expression on Sam's face softens in a way that Sam's never would. "You won't. He's safe with me." He steps away from the door. "It's me," he says, but he's not speaking to Dean anymore. His eyes dart around the room as if he's looking for something that isn't there. "Alex, it's me."

Dean's mind works fast, filtering all the information they have on the case so far. Alex was one of the first two kids to die in the house, one of the brothers. "Hayden?" he asks, hedging his bets that the ghost possessing Sam is Hayden Graeme, the older boy. "Your brother killed you. He's been killing you over and over again, and now he's going to kill my brother."

Sam gives him a look of confusion and disbelief, and it's not an expression Dean's ever seen there before. "No," he says. "You don't understand."

It couldn't happen without the knife, but they just brought the damn thing back into the house. Dean turns, already reaching for it, but it's gone. The fabric wrapping lies empty on the floor.

The air shifts, and Alex appears in front of him, perfectly still, not quite solid. He's all pale skin and dark wounds, the bruises around his throat and the self-inflicted scratches standing out in contrast. He's bloody to the elbow, hands slick and shiny red, and he grips the knife tight in one fist.

He turns and rushes at Sam.

Dean screams.

Sam hits the floor hard, and it's yesterday all over again. It was a mistake to come here. If the ghost took Sam for the brother he killed then, with Hayden inside him he's in more danger. Dean swings the gun around, finger tightening on the trigger.

"Stop," Sam cries, hands held out in front of him, palms forward as if he can physically hold the ghost back. "Stop, Alex. It's me."

The knife comes down, and Sam's body jerks. His head falls back onto the floor, and his back arches off the boards as he growls and thrashes.

"Come on, Sammy, kick him out." Dean pulls the trigger, but Alex's head jerks around when he speaks, and he winks away, fritzing like an old TV. The shot misses, and Dean swears, swings the gun as his eyes search the attic.

Sam grunts, one foot bangs against the floor, then he goes still. Dean glances at him from the corner of one eye. "That you, Sam?"

"Sorry, no." Sam sits up, rises to his feet. "Alex," he says, staring at something Dean can't see. "It's me. I need you to see me."

"You're going to get him killed." Dean trains the gun on Sam. "Let go of my brother, or I swear to god—"

Sam's eyes flick to Dean. "You won't hurt him."

Dean sneers. "It's salt. He'll be fine. You on the other hand, are getting evicted."

The corner of Sam's lips twitch up. "He's already hurt. You won't risk it." He turns away, stares at something only he can see. "Alex, please. For once I need you to see me."

A shiver goes up Dean's spine, and something sizzles in the air. Alex appears, transparent, flashing in and out of visibility. "Dead," he spits. "He's dead. Won't touch you again. Keep your dirty little secret. Blood on the floor, blood on my hands, blood on his hands. Hayden's dead, he's gone, he'll never touch you again."

"Yeah," Sam says. "I'm dead. But I'm here, inside this man." He glances at Dean. "That's his brother. I needed you to see me, Alex, to know I'm here. I've always been with you, you just couldn't see."

The air shifts, and Alex zigzags across the room toward Sam, comes to a stop only inches away. The knife, still in his palm, rests on his thigh. He tips his head to the side, looks up into Sam's face. "Cut into ribbons. Blood on his lips." He lets out a sob, then throws his head back and screams.

The sound rips right into Dean's spine, and he shudders. "He's batshit, man, give it up." He trains the gun on Alex. "I get it, I do. He's your brother, but he killed you, and he's killed six innocent people, and now he's just nuts."

Sam's head jerks around, eyes focusing on Dean. "He thought he was alone. I can help him, I'm the only one who can."

"By reminding him of what he did to you? You're making it worse."

Sam shakes his head, drags his eyes back to Alex. "Put the knife down, Alex."

Alex shakes his head, very slow. "You're dead. So much blood. Gone forever."

"You're confused. I understand. You couldn't watch that and be okay, but I'm here, see? Please put the knife down."

Alex lifts the knife, stares at it, then uses it to point to Dean and Sam in turn. "Secrets are bad. Don't keep secrets. Someone finds out and bad things happen."

"They're not like us," Sam says.

Alex turns back to Sam, a manic grin on his face. "You're not looking hard enough."

Sam frowns, glances at Dean, then shakes his head. "I don't want you to kill them. You won't be able to see me if you kill them."

Alex stops fritzing. He looks down at the knife, then he slowly opens his hand. It falls to the floor.

Sam breathes a sigh of relief. A small piece of Dean relaxes, and he loosens his finger on the trigger. Alex seems to sense it, and turns his head to stare down the barrel of the gun.

Then he rushes Dean, too fast for the shot as it sprays rock salt all over the wall.

Alex hits Dean like a wrecking ball, punching all the breath out of him, knocking the gun out of his hand. He stumbles back, dizzy, skin pulsing like it's not big enough, like it's tightening around him. His head throbs as if his brain is swelling and maybe he's dying, maybe it's an aneurysm and any second now he'll start bleeding out his ears.

When it settles, when his skin feels close to normal, when his head stops hurting, there's a soft buzz inside him, like tiny electric shocks and a hum in his ears. He tries to turn, to scan the room, to see where Alex went, but he can't move. "What the—" No sound comes out of his mouth. His lips won't budge.

When he does move, whatever signals are going from his brain to his limbs as he walks across the room aren't coming from him.

"You shouldn't have done that," Sam says. There's a look of worry on his face, a tightening around his eyes.

"You did it," comes out of Dean's mouth, in Dean's voice, but the inflection is all wrong.

The last time these brothers had a pulse, Alex killed Hayden bloody, then hung himself. Watching Sam get cut to pieces would be bad enough. If he does it himself, Dean's going to want to die, which he probably will, if Alex and Hayden are doomed to repeat themselves.

"He's afraid," Alex says, tipping Dean's head to the side, as though he's listening for something. A scene plays through Dean's mind, a memory, but not his own. As Alex's thoughts bleed through, Dean sees a young man on the floor, torso a mess of blood and torn flesh, eyes wide open and staring at nothing. Alex's hands are on him, red to the elbow, and he screams and screams and screams.

Dean twitches, electric shocks bursting under his skin, then his body settles. His head drops down, rolls from side to side. "I can't stay here," Alex moans. "This body is too heavy."

"It takes practice," Sam says, and he puts his hand beneath Dean's chin, pulls his head up and looks down into Dean's eyes. "I love you." Then he leans forward, and his lips touch Dean's. 

Shock makes Dean shrink back inside himself, a spectator in his own body as Alex wraps his arms around Sam's neck and presses close. The kiss starts soft and sweet, but soon turns to heat, to wet, open mouthed kisses, desperate like it's the last kiss either of them will ever have. Soft whines come from deep in Dean's chest, sounds he's sure he's never made before, didn't know his vocal chords were capable of.

Sam pushes him away. "Let him go," he says. "They don't deserve to hurt like we do."

Alex tips Dean's head to the side, and Dean finds himself looking up into Sam's eyes. "No," Alex says. "No, they don't. I can make it stop." He looks up at the noose hanging from the beam above.

"Alex, no." Hayden reaches out to stop him, but Alex's eyes snap around and Hayden goes flying back against the wall.

Dean's lungs tighten in his chest as Alex rights the stool and drags it beneath. He climbs up, grabs the rope, pulls it down around Dean's neck, then kicks the stool away.

In the split second before he falls, Alex leaves Dean's body. Dean tries to scream for Sam, but the rope jerks tight around his throat, cutting off his air and his words. He grabs for the beam, but his fingers slip, and all he can do is rasp and gurgle and kick.

"Alex, please." Hayden grabs Dean around the knees and heaves him up. The rope slackens off, but the noose around Dean's neck gets tighter, cuts off his air, strangles him. Pressure increases in his face. His skin feels too tight, like it's going to split apart. His lungs burn, starved of oxygen, and he starts to panic.

Slumped over Sam's shoulder, he claws at his own throat, at the rope, but it won't budge. His nails leave behind stinging lines over straining tendons, the place where his skin will peel back when it splits to expose the muscle.

The walls start to blur, the room starts to tilt, and he makes a choking sound as his eyelids grow heavy.

"No, Alex," Hayden begs. "We need them. You can see me. I can touch you again."

Long moments pass, and Dean's done for, his vision swimming toward darkness. Then the pressure eases, and the rope loosens, unravels. Dean starts to fall, collapses to the floor wrapped up in Sam's arms. He sucks in air, loud, rough gasps that rattle his lungs. The rope falls on top of him in heavy coils.

Dean passes out.