Chapter 4

Sam's hand is warm and damp on Dean's face. "Wake up," Sam says, as he pats Dean's cheek just a little harder than necessary. "Don't you dare be brain damaged, Dean, I swear to god."

Dean moans, slaps at Sam's wrist. "Get off me," he rasps, and opens his eyes. Sam's face is streaked with drying tears, and his eyes are red and swollen. "You look like shit."

Sam's fingers move over Dean's throat, stinging the scratches and the rope burn. His palm comes to rest, hot and clammy, against Dean's chest. "You too," he says, voice thick, like he's speaking through his nose. "God, Dean. I thought I was going to watch you die. Again."

Dean groans when he moves, as new, tender bruises flare into heat. "Hey, Sammy." His blurry vision clears to reveal the worry on Sam's face, the concerned twist of his mouth.

With his eyes on Sam's lips, flashes of their warmth, their softness, bombard Dean's mind until it's almost impossible to think of anything else. "Oh my god." He presses the tips of his fingers against his own lips. There's too much to process, the stark memory of knowing he was going to die, and all that happened before that. He looks up, and registering the confusion in Sam's eyes, he quickly wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. "Did you... Did you kiss me?"

Sam flushes pink. "Hayden kissed Alex. You know what this means?"

"That we can never talk about this, ever?"

"No, Dean. We got it wrong. We burnt the wrong bones. It was never Annabel. Alex Graeme killed his brother, then himself. And he's been doing the same thing to the other kids that died here."

Dean's lips feel full and warm and slightly bruised, and that shouldn't be the most significant feeling right now, considering the ring of pain around his throat. He licks them, but it doesn't help. "Right. Yeah, we messed up." He pushes himself to his feet and turns to look around the attic. The rope lies in a coil on the floor. "They were brothers," he says.

Sam clears his throat. "Devon and Skye, Bridget and Jake. They all fit with Annabel. But Hayden and Alex were brothers. And they were together. Like, together, together. That's why they died. That's why Alex is still killing. He must see something of him and his brother in the other people he killed. In us."

Bile rises up in Dean's throat. "Sam. We're not—"

"Didn't you listen to anything Alex said?"

"Blood was a recurring theme."

"Secrets, Dean. He kept going on about a secret. We've got a pretty big secret, and he must be able to pick up on that."

Dean screws his face up in confusion. "Hunting? We're not ashamed of being hunters."

"No, but we hide it. We're so used to lying about who we are that it's natural, it's a part of us. To a ghost who might blame the secret they kept for what happened to him and his brother, it probably shines like a beacon."

Dean snorts. "For what 'happened'? He happened. He did the nasty with his brother, went nuts, and offed him. That's pretty messed up, even for someone who would do his own brother."

"He's lost. Maybe he's trying to make up for his sins, looking for some kind of redemption. He sees other people keeping secrets, picks up on it like we pick up EMF, and he sees it as his place to stop it."

Dean whines. "This was supposed to be an easy job. And now there's ghost possession and incest and we both almost died and— Holy shit, Sammy. You kissed me. With tongue."

"I thought we weren't going to talk about that?"

Dean looks away, because there might be something in his eyes he doesn't want Sam to see. "We're not. Lets get out of here, before it happens again. Jesus."

---

When they get back to the motel, Sam pushes Dean down to sit on the edge of his bed. "Get your shirt off," Sam says, as he heads for the bathroom.

Dean does as he's told. He's all but silent, distracted by his own thoughts. That kiss, Sam's mouth on his, and while feeling Alex's emotions. He can't pin down any one as dominant. There was joy, and desire, and fear, and shame, and then an overwhelming need to end it.

But Alex let him go. He was intent on killing Dean, then he just let him go, and Dean can't think too much about why. Facing his own feelings about what the brothers want with them isn't something he's ready for. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

Dean lifts his chin, lets Sam clean the scratches on his throat, the rope burn that is one big, painful graze circling his neck. Sam's hand on his shoulder, holding him steady, is a hot, tingling pressure. The fingers and thumb pressing into the flesh make Dean's heart beat harder, faster, and he struggles to catch his breath.

He keeps his eyes carefully downcast. There's blood on the front of Sam's shirt. "He cut you again?"

"I'm fine," Sam whispers. He tosses the washcloth in his hand toward the bathroom, then pulls away.

Dean follows. "Show me, Sammy." He grabs at Sam's shoulder, turns him around and goes for his buttons.

Sam knocks Dean's hands away. He sighs, rolls his eyes up to the ceiling, then unbuttons his shirt. He pulls the fabric away, and there are no new wounds, but there's a bruise blossoming across his collarbone that wasn't there before.

The cuts from yesterday are oozing blood, but crusting over. The bruises surrounding them are dark and painful looking. Still, a wave of relief washes over Dean, because it could have been so much worse.

"Jesus, Sammy," Dean breathes. "We never should have gone back in that house. The knife and the rope are still in there. When are you going to explain to me why you wouldn't let me burn it down?"

Sam buttons his shirt closed. "I dunno. Something doesn't add up. There's got to be something else going on. Couldn't you feel it? How they felt about each other?"

Dean squirms and backs off. "Yeah, Sam. I felt it."

"You can't help who you love," Sam says. "Whether that's another guy or your own brother. I don't doubt that they had it hard. You don't go into that kind of relationship because it's the easy way. If they'd lived, for as long as they were together like that, it would have been painful. They could have left town together and still lived in constant fear that someone would find out. The only reason you subject yourself to something like that is because you can't not."

There's a long moment of silence. Neither of them speak or even move, and the air is thick and heavy.

Then, with a lump in his throat, Dean speaks. "I kind of get what he did. Killing himself, I mean." He struggles to get the words out, every single one like wading through thick mud. "He killed his brother, Sammy. How he felt about Hayden, what he felt when he was gone? If I couldn't make a deal or find an angel to bring you back? I might go crazy, too." He drops his eyes away from Sam's intense, searching gaze. "I'd rather eat a bullet than go on without you."

"Dean—"

"Shut up, Sammy. I'm trying to be honest here. I get it, is all. He's nuts, sure, but I understand why he did it. Don't die again and it won't be a problem."

---

Dean goes on a beer run as Sam is firing up the laptop, comes back with a six-pack and a few bags of chips. He hands a bottle to Sam and stretches out on his bed with his own. "What've you got?"

Sam runs a hand through his hair and leans back in his chair. "We've been looking at it all wrong. We pinned it on the wrong ghost, so we overlooked stuff." He turns the computer around so Dean can see the screen. "Alex Graeme, our vengeful spirit."

There's a yearbook photo of a teenage boy on the screen, maybe sixteen or seventeen years old. He looks like a normal kid. "Jesus," Dean says. "What the hell happened?"

Sam lifts an eyebrow. "He killed his brother. We just gotta figure out why."

"Guilt?" Dean offers. "Shame? Fear? All of the above? This town ain't exactly progressive, and Alex made it sound like someone discovered their secret. Maybe they planned it. Decided to quit, rather than face the consequences."

Sam pulls a face and shakes his head. "There are easier ways, you know. I can't believe Hayden would have let it look like Alex killed him, if it really was some kind of suicide pact. If they were together on it, they'd both have hanged themselves."

"Unless they were trying to hide the fact that they planned it. Make it look like sibling rivalry gone insane." Dean finishes his beer, frowns down the neck of the bottle. "Save Mom and Dad the scandal?"

Sam pulls the laptop back toward himself, and taps a few keys. "The parents still live here in town," he says. "Jim and Hope Graeme." He looks up over the top of the screen. "We should go see them."

---

Sam and Dean stand on the porch of the house belonging to Jim and Hope Graeme. It's small, but tidy, just like the woman who opens the door. Her brown hair is streaked with gray and her eyes are timid. "Yes?" she says as she wipes damp hands on a faded apron. "Can I help you?"

Sam gives her a tight smile as he flashes his fake badge. "We'd like to talk to you and your husband about your sons."

Her eyes go wide, and all the color drains out of her face.

A man's voice comes from down the hall. "Who is it, Hope?"

Hope Graeme twists her hands in her apron. Her voice is shaking when she calls out. "It's the FBI, Jim. They want to talk about the boys."

A grunt echoes from inside the house. Hope tries to smile, but her face is tight and stressed. She steps aside and waves them into the hall, then closes the door behind them.

The sound of the TV hits them before they enter the room. There's a man in an armchair watching a football game, a beer bottle sweating on the table at his elbow. His eyes are cold and hard as he watches Sam and Dean walk in. "You're late," he says. "My boys died ten years ago."

"We're investigating the recent deaths at the Rook house,” Sam says. “That involves going back through the previous incidents, starting with Hayden and Alex. Is there anything you can remember that might help us, perhaps something you didn't tell the police?"

Jim Graeme presses a button on the TV remote, and the screen goes black. "Incidents? One of my kids murders his brother and kills himself, and that's an incident?" He grabs his beer, drains it, hands the empty bottle off to his wife without sparing her a glance. "Alex was a smart kid, had it too easy. Hayden gave him a hard time for it and Alex got fed up and snapped. Must have figured he'd never get away with it, he was smart enough to know that much. He quit."

Hope bites her lip, twists her hands around the empty bottle. Her expression is tight and strained. She shakes her head, a tiny movement from side to side, and Dean only notices because he's staring right at her. "Is there anything you'd like to add, ma'am? Even if it seems like nothing."

Hope opens her mouth, but before she can speak, Jim interrupts her. "Get me another beer, will you, Hope?"

She snaps her jaw shut and scurries from the room like a frightened mouse.

Jim watches her go, then turns back to Sam and Dean. "Seems like they started a trend, huh? My boys? All those kids over all those years, copying them like that? You guys are the experts, what do you think that means?"

"That's what we're trying to figure out, sir," Sam says. "So we can stop it from happening again."

"If Bill Rook would stop being such a goddamn woman about that house it could stop right now."

Hope comes back into the room, puts the beer down on the table, and settles herself on the arm of the couch. There's a benign smile on her face, but she looks stiff and uncomfortable. It's as if she's at attention, and waiting for Jim's next instruction.

Sam's focus shifts away from Hope and back to Jim. "Had your sons ever been in the house before?"

"All the kids did. People think it's haunted. The place is rotting, but it's full of rats, not ghosts." He grins, and there's a mean glint in his eyes. "Back then they'd dare each other to spend the night. Hayden, we couldn't control that kid, he had no respect for authority. Drinking, drugs, trouble with the cops. He went there with those friends of his. Alex, though? All he cared about was school." Jim shakes his head. "Hayden tricked him into going there that day, I'd bet you anything. Probably planned to do something to him, and Alex had to defend himself."

Dean's eyes flick over to Hope. There's a conflicted look on her face, like she wants to speak but can't. Like she's too afraid.

"All right," Dean says, and steps toward the door. "Thank you for your help."

Sam looks at him, a crease of confusion between his brows. Dean lifts his eyebrows and jerks his head at the door. "Yes," Sam says. "Thank you. If we need anything else we'll be in touch."

"I'll see you out," Hope says as the TV turns back on.

Dean turns when he steps out onto the porch. He pitches his voice low. "Hope? Is there something you want to say? Something you need to tell us?"

Her eyes widen, and her lower lip quivers. She shakes her head. "I can't," she whispers, and quickly looks behind her.

"Okay," Dean says, and slides her a card. "If you remember, give us a call."

The door shuts behind them. "What the hell was that, Dean?" Sam says, as they step off the porch. "He was talking."

"He was lying," Dean says. "Everything that came out of his mouth was bull. Mom's the one we need to talk to." His eyes slide along the side of Jim's truck, 'Graeme Construction' painted on the door. The deck is stacked high with lumber. It's tied down with thick rope, and it's remarkably like the one that was wrapped around his neck the night before. "It's getting her alone that'll be the problem, and I really didn't want to be stuck in this town past the weekend." He nods at the rope. "That look the same to you?"

Sam's eyes flick to Dean's throat, but the marks are hidden by his collar. "Maybe. It's still a bit of a blur."