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When the candles for the ritual blew out, the flashlights flickered off, too, and even the fire in the stove went cold. The cabin was dark as a tomb.
Dean cried out, sharp and sudden. Sam jolted toward the sound and found a fistful of Dean's jacket. Dean came with it, heavy and off-balance, and the table that Sam expected to catch himself on was not where he expected it to be. The right side of his body hit the edge of that table on its way to hitting the concrete floor. Dean's body mostly hit Sam.
One of those three impacts knocked the breath out of Sam. The pain he couldn't voice roared in his ears. He felt more than heard Dean's groan against his chest; something warmer and wetter than Dean's breath was soaking into Sam's shirt.
In a panic induced by breathlessness and the imagined smell of blood, Sam scrambled to get out from under Dean. He knocked into one of the wooden benches and bumped against the table; a candle rolled off the edge and bounced heavily off his shoulder, disappearing into the senseless dark. Boots scraped, Dean made sounds of protest, Sam coughed and choked on the breath he was finally able to take. All the noise was stupidly, desperately loud in the tiny, lightless cabin; and stupidly, desperately small in the wild forest under a wide and moonless sky. Sam finally oriented Dean face-up on the floor, pitched himself over him like a shield, and tried to hold his stupid, desperate breath for three seconds and listen, only to find himself deafened by the static blend of his own heartbeat and Dean's unidentified pain.
Sam dug his phone out of his pocket and steeled himself to activate the flashlight. The cabin—Dean's shirt was soaked in red—was empty. Dean was—the cabin was undisturbed—bleeding badly, curled around his right arm.
"Jesus. Okay." Sam moved to Dean's right side and put his phone facedown on the floor, blood-tacky fingers leaving prints behind. Dean grunted as Sam took his arm. The sleeve was soaked from the elbow down but didn't look damaged. Sam unbuttoned the cuff and pulled it up carefully, past Dean's elbow, and angled the forearm toward the shitty light. The entirety of Dean's exposed skin glistened red; streams coursed to and dribbled off his elbow. The copious blood made it hard to see exactly what was carved, and how deeply, into the Mark of Cain.
Sam swore in shock and then again in confusion. Dean lifted his head to look. Sam dropped the dripping sleeve back down and reached for Dean's left hand to place it against the wound and curl his fingers tightly around his arm. Dean's head thudded hard into the unforgiving floor.
"Sorry. Just a second." Sam grabbed their duffle and dragged it toward Dean, toward the light, wiped his sticky hands on his jeans before pulling out the first aid kit. Some more quick digging unearthed an unopened bottle of water. Sam pried Dean's hand away—the hand grabbed on to Sam's sleeve instead—and flushed the wound. When he was pouring the water, he could see it: a sigil cut into Dean's flesh, slicing through the raised pink of the Mark. It didn't look deep enough to be bleeding as much as it was. Sam tried to memorize it before it flooded crimson again. He poured the rest of the water over his hands and regretted it when they stayed just as stained.
Cold prickled the back of Sam's neck as he grabbed gauze and more gauze. He looked around and saw nothing; empty cabin, night black as pitch beyond the windows. It was probably paranoia that made him feel like he was being watched by something lurking outside, but he still said "Fuck you" loud enough to be heard through the Veil.
* * *
Dean said that Sam needed to turn in his Merit Badge. As a quip, the familiar stupidity was reassuring; the lack of follow-up, cause for concern. Dean was looking lost in a way that suggested shock, or a concussion, or something unidentifiable. It brought back bad memories in hospitals. Even under the emergency blanket, Dean was shivering hard enough that Sam's jacket kept sliding off his elevated right arm. Every time Sam had to replace the jacket, he took a break to tuck his hands under his armpits and warm his fingers back to usefulness.
Sam was struggling to build a new fire. In the absence of a better plan, he'd unsheathed a knife to carve splinters off one of the logs from the small woodpile next to the stove. It was a more labor-intensive route than gathering sticks from outside, but Sam was reluctant to leave Dean alone.
Also, the cabin door wouldn't open.
He'd been carving makeshift kindling for what felt like an hour and suffered two numb-fingered knife cuts before he registered the potential of the candle illuminating his work. He dropped the knife to put his face in his hands and almost nodded off before he could build the fire.
The bunks were on the opposite side of the cabin from the stove, so the best compromise between keeping Dean comfortable and keeping him warm was to just leave him where he was for the time being. Or maybe it wasn't. In any case, Sam found himself, exhausted, lying next to Dean on the bloodstained floor, his right side pressed against Dean's left, trying to share body heat until one or both of them stopped shivering. If anything were to happen with Dean—sudden movement, or sudden stillness—the bruises forming along Sam's ribcage would know.
* * *
What woke Sam wasn't Dean but a sound from the front door, a sort of clicky creak that he immediately understood as the relinquishing of a threat rather than the start of a new one. Dean was waking up, too, with a surprisingly lucid groan of pain.
Sam got up stiffly and went to test the door; it opened without resistance. The forest outside was only just turning gray and there were still a few flames in the fire. It hadn't been long, then. Sam added a couple more logs.
Dean was pushing himself up to sit, grimacing.
"How you feeling?" Sam asked.
"Like I just took a nap on a fucking rock-hard… rock," said Dean. He sagged uncomfortably against the edge of the bench behind him.
"You lost a lot of blood."
Dean's clothing and the floor around him were an extravagant display of bloodstains. The sight was surprisingly grim, and Sam's reaction must have shown on his face. Dean looked down at himself and the floor. "Son of a bitch," he exhaled. "What the hell?" He started picking at his bandages.
"I don't know. But hold tight a sec. I'm gonna get some clean water."
Dean let his arms drop and closed his eyes.
There was a small pot in one of the cupboards, and Sam took it and made the short trip down to the river. The growing light made everything crisp and fresh. The air was cold and the water was colder. Sam scrubbed at his hands until the blood and grime was swept away. He splashed his face and took a few deep breaths, and a few more. Then he filled the pot to the brim and tried to carry it back to the cabin without spilling. He wasn't as steady as he wanted to be.
When he opened the door, Dean was inspecting the wound on his arm, his jacket and the bloody dressings discarded on the floor.
"Jesus, Dean, don't bleed out while we're waiting for the water to boil."
"Sam, look at this."
Sam looked. Spreading out from the symbol were blue-black veins, vivid at the wound site and fading out at the tendrilled ends as if still in the process of growing. Dean's skin was pale in contrast and felt clammy under Sam's fingers. The carved symbol was a rich, dark red; the Mark, beneath it, looked sapped of color. Sam stared. He glanced toward the duffle, the first aid kit.
"Yeah," said Dean. "I don't think that'll—"
"Yeah," Sam agreed, reluctantly.
Neither of them recognized the sigil; neither commented outright on its very targeted placement. Dean suggested that, since it had made it past their wards, it couldn't be deadly. Sam clarified: the wards were supposed to block witchcraft that was directly or immediately deadly. "I'd say we have copious evidence that non-death curses can come with potentially life-threatening side effects." He eyed the blood-stained floor pointedly.
Their best bet, said Sam, was another attempt at the midnight ritual. Sam had some theories. With a few ingredients pilfered from a couple of the less-necessary hex bags, and a strip of Dean's bloody gauze for good measure, Sam was convinced he could successfully incorporate the symbol on Dean's arm into their original plan as a tether to strengthen the ritual and its binding properties. (He had more confidence in his understanding of the theory than the details of the execution. Come midnight, they might be screwed anew; until then, he was too busy to plan to cross that bridge.) Dean did not offer comment.
"Dean? You good?"
"Mmm," said Dean. "Don't know yet. I mean. It hurts." He gestured sloppily at his arm and dropped his head to stare at the wound. Prodded at it with two fingers. Pressed a nail into the skin at the edge of the Mark.
Sam winced. "Well, hey, maybe leave it alone for now. We just need to hold on 'til tonight."
"Yeah." Dean stared absently at the little pink indent he'd made.
They drank warm water like terrible flavorless tea out of the cabin's camping mugs. Sam refilled the empty water bottles. Dean sat on a bunk and they dipped into the pot to clean and re-dress the wound. Dean held his entire arm carefully, and squeezed his eyes shut even when Sam was simply wiping the blood off his skin.
For all of its effusiveness a few hours ago, the wound had mostly stopped bleeding. Sam grabbed a scrap piece of paper from Dad's journal so he could copy down the symbol exactly.
"You sure we should even be trying?" said Dean.
His tone was both perilously pointed and disarmingly offhand. Sam looked at Dean's face before he could be afraid of what he'd find there. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"Sam, I think this thing is fighting the Mark."
He said it like it explained the foregone conclusion of an argument they hadn't yet had. It was remarkably patronizing, for a guy clearly in a shitload of pain.
"Okay," said Sam slowly. He didn't disbelieve Dean's statement; he was just baffled by his inferences. "And? So what, Dean? What do you think happens if we just let this thing run its course?"
"I'm just saying," said Dean, dangerously serious and far too casual about it. "Maybe this thing keeps the Mark in check. Maybe it could be a good thing."
"A good thing, Dean? No one has walked out of here alive."
"Plenty of people have walked out of here alive."
"None of the guys she's targeted have walked out of here alive."
The autopsy reports had been grisly; the surviving partners were traumatized into never hiking again. Sam and Dean had prepped for this hunt with hex bags and wards that provided protections both wide and specific. No way in hell had they expected to be hit with anything. If anything got past their wards, it was something unfamiliar in substance or power; and to mess with something like that, they needed a damn good reason, because, more than likely, that thing would kill you on the spot.
Dean just shrugged and said, "Could be worth the risk."
Sam paused to look Dean square in the face. He still had greenish bruises on his cheekbones from the day he looked down the barrel of an ex-Marine's gun and declared, I'm past saving.
"That's not a risk I'm willing to take," said Sam shortly.
"Sam—"
"Don't try to fucking die on me again, Dean. My back hurts too much to carry you back to the car."
* * *
There were a couple of cans of Dinty Moore in the cupboard, and a can opener that, despite the rust, worked better than a knife. The breakfast stew was poured from pot to mugs and from mugs into their mouths. (Sam had checked the drawers; no silverware to be found.) He might have saved some food for later in the day, but Dean was already unenthusiastic about eating, and Sam couldn't imagine that improving. Dean lay down after that, and soon fell asleep for what Sam hoped was a real rest.
Sam researched within his limited resources, analyzed, planned and plotted. When his brain got caught on a problem, he let himself tackle a physical one. There was a mop on the outside of the cabin; after a few chilly trips to the river, he'd cleaned up the bloodstains from the floor. There was also a handsaw: he cut up a few fallen logs to replenish the supply of firewood. Every time he came back to the cabin, he'd make some adjustments to his notes. He was pretty confident he'd have a good hand to play come midnight.
When Dean woke up, he yelled for Sam. Sam was ready with painkillers and a mug of water.
Dean looked like he could really use not only the painkillers but maybe some antipsychotics, too. He ignored the mug and medication Sam offered and stared intensely at a spot three feet beyond Sam's eyes. "I think she wants to kill me," he said.
Sam shook his head. "What?"
"I mean, I fit the bill, right? Even if the bunker isn't domestic enough, swinging a hammer more than makes up for it in the violence category."
Sam's mouth went dry.
"It doesn't always show up on their records, you know? Because it's not like it always gets reported. Makes sense we'd skip over that detail."
"...What the hell, Dean. What the fuck?"
The whites of Dean's eyes were crowded with visible veins. The veins weren't red, but black. Sam pulled back Dean's blanket. Black veins spidered up his neck, disappearing into his hairline.
"Is she fucking with you? Or are you just regular fucked?" Sam felt his forehead.
Dean laughed suddenly, loud enough that Sam felt it resonating in his temple. Sam pulled his hand back as if from an electric shock.
"I'm so fucked," Dean said. "Can't even die when I deserve it."
"Stop," said Sam. Dean laughed again; Sam wanted to shake him. He slid an arm underneath Dean's shoulders and hauled him roughly upright. "Shut up and take your pills."
Dean downed the pills and the whole mug of water, which seemed to wash away any front disguising how much pain he was in. Some of the heat left Sam's face. He tried to avoid putting pressure on Dean's right shoulder as he laid him back down. The black veins had reached his jawline now. He grabbed at Sam's jacket with his good hand.
"Don't worry," said Sam. "I've got this."
Dean fixed him with a glassy-eyed stare. "You can't save me from myself, Sam."
Sam breathed through a swell of nausea. Dean said it softly, like a comfort, as though the very idea hadn't been Sam's biggest nightmare and haunting for the past ten years.
"Strap yourself in, Dean," said Sam, and headed out to the porch to set up the ritual before he lost the daylight.
* * *
She arriveed at midnight. The lights went out again, as expected. Even the candles he'd placed so carefully, to compensate for the one sacrificed to the stove.
He didn't need the light to see her. She almost glowed, like bioluminescence, her hair and clothes like pieces of the forest, flowing in what might have been an autumn breeze. Other than that, for a witch powerful enough to execute curses from beyond the Veil, she looked ordinary. The look of indignation on her face was distinctly human. Sam could tell she didn't like him and he hoped that would make it easier to dislike her in return.
"What are you doing to my brother?" he asked without preamble or patience. Dean, left in the cabin with the protection of the wards, was currently in agony.
The ghost-witch lifted her chin. "He's a threat to the very nature of this world," she answered. "An unspeakable threat. I'm trying to eliminate that threat."
"Is that what you do? Eliminate 'threats'?"
"I do," she said. "I'm a protector. It is my duty."
"You're killing him," Sam said, angry. She talked too slowly. From inside the cabin, Dean cried out in pain.
"It must be done," said the ghost-witch simply.
"Listen to me," he said. He wasn't going to waste time arguing; he'd give her one chance. "You can't kill him. He'll just come back, and he'll come back worse. He'll come back an even bigger threat."
"I must try. If I do not succeed with him, at least I will succeed with you, now."
"See, that was your mistake," said Sam. "You should have killed me first."
He struck the match and held it over the bowl in front of him.
She looked at him for a long, quiet beat. "You can't save him," she said.
Sam felt the flame licking his fingertips.
"Watch me," he said, and dropped the match.
She disappeared in a blink. No ceremony, no screaming, no fire, just an absence where she once was. That pissed Sam off, somehow. He'd wanted it to mean more.
The spell ingredients burned quickly to ash. The forest again became a black oblivion, featureless but for the constant, claustrophobic sound of the river. The only direction for Sam to take was toward the faint red glow of the cabin windows.