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“Sam!”
“Dean!”
At the sound of his brother’s voice, Sam pushes himself off the dusty floor of the abandoned ski lodge, trying to remember how he got there. He’s in an upstairs bedroom, he remembers vaguely, where he was investigating before he got jumped from behind. The room is dark and deserted, but lit strangely from outside, through the large, curtain-less windows.
Rubbing the back of his head and finding a painful bump there, Sam staggers toward the closest window.
Snow blankets the parking lot, falling heavy and soft outside the window. It’s the total whiteness outside that casts the eerie light inside the room, making it seem brighter than the middle of the night that it actually is, according to Sam’s watch.
They’ve been here for several hours.
“Sam?”
Dean staggers into the room, slamming the door open so that it bounces against the wall. His gun is drawn, and the wild look on his face tells Sam that he’s just as bewildered and scared as Sam, even while he tries to mask it with his usual macho bravado.
Dean’s handsome face crumples into something like relief when he sees Sam, whole and mostly uninjured, rubbing the back of his head.
“I got hit from behind,” Sam complains, hearing the little brother whine in his own voice.
Dean responds exactly the way Sam knew he would. The fear followed by relief melts from his face, leaving tough determination behind. Big brother is here to save the day, just like Sam knew he would be.
Sam’s faith in Dean fuels Dean’s courage. Looking after Sam keeps him sane, and Sam knows it. He’s known it for a while now. Sam, for his part, needs Dean’s fighting spirit to keep going, no matter the odds. Dean is Sam’s rock.
“Yeah, me, too,” Dean grumbles as he clicks the safety on his gun and tucks it away. He closes the distance between them, reaches up to check on the back of Sam’s head, and pats him on the shoulder.
“You’re okay,” Dean announces. “No blood.”
“Yeah, but I think I was out for three hours,” Sam says, gesturing at the window. “Take a look.”
Dean steps up beside him so that his shoulder is pressed into Sam’s chest, and Sam doesn’t step back because it feels so good to have Dean in his personal space. It always does. It’s comforting, especially after the hit they both just took from whatever it is that’s haunting this place.
“Aw, Baby,” Dean sighs, stomping his foot in frustration when he sees the car. All that’s visible is the roof and the tops of the windows. The car is completely buried in thick, heavy snow.
“Told you we should’ve put the chains on,” Sam says. “And brought snow shovels. The grave-digger shovels in the trunk won’t help us much with this stuff.”
Dean steps away from Sam so he can turn and glare up at him.
“Damn it, Sammy, we didn’t need the damn chains three hours ago, did we?”
Sam shrugs, then frowns as Dean turns back to the window to stare down at his snow-covered car, pushing his shoulder into Sam’s chest again.
This time, Sam’s grateful for Dean’s body heat. It’s freezing.
“I wish I knew what kind of ghost can knock a man out for so long,” Sam says thoughtfully.
“Who cares?” Dean steps away, rubbing his own arms and shivering. “We need to get warm. Digging Baby out of that snowbank should warm us up.”
“Are you kidding?” Sam complains. “And then what? It’s the middle of the night, Dean. Plus, there’s no road. Even if we could dig the car out, and even if we had chains, how are we gonna drive out of here?”
They check their cell phones, but neither has a signal.
Dean looks out the window again, at the roof of the car, and his face falls almost comically.
“Baby’s cold,” he notes mournfully.
Sam rolls his eyes. “So are we! Come on. Let’s see if we can get a fire going in that hearth downstairs.”
“Sam, we need to find that ghost,” Dean reminds him.
“If we don’t get ourselves warmed up, we’re gonna end up ghosts ourselves,” Sam says. “Besides. Even if we find the ghost, how are we gonna find the grave and burn its bones in this weather?”
Dean doesn’t have an answer to that, so he leads the way out of the room and down the stairs instead.
The lodge was built almost one hundred years ago out of logs hewn from the massive pine trees all around the area. The main floor has high ceilings with knotted-pine walls and giant crossbeams from which hang wrought-iron lanterns used to provide enough light for the entire room. Now, the lanterns are dark, the once-polished floor scuffed and littered with pieces of wrought iron and glass that have fallen and broken over the years.
Well, at least there’s enough iron to keep the ghosts at bay, Sam thinks as he uses his flashlight to make his way across the room to the hearth. Down here on the first floor, the windows are boarded up, keeping the room dark but also less dusty.
Dean picks up a chair.
“Okay, let’s start breaking up furniture,” he says.
Sam shines his flashlight on the pile of neatly cut and piled firewood stacked next to the hearth, probably left there by some of the visitors who had complained about the ghost.
Dean shrugs. “Or not.”
Sam finds a broom and sticks the handle up the chimney to open the flue, which sends a pile of loose leaves and twigs down onto the hearth.
“Would you look at that,” Dean says, shining his flashlight on the pile. “Kindling.”
“You think the ghost did that?” Sam asks, half joking.
Dean shrugs. “Who cares? Let’s get that fire going.”
With the dry twigs and leaves and a teepee Sam makes out of sticks and smaller pieces of wood, Sam uses his lighter to light the fire and get it burning briskly within a few minutes. Dean crowds up beside him, squatting against him as he puts his hands out to warm them.
“We should probably check the kitchen, see if there’s anything left to eat,” Dean says after a few moments of amicable silence as they watch the fire and soak up the warmth.
Sam would never admit it, but Dean’s body heat beats a cozy fire any day.
“Yeah, okay,” Sam agrees. “But this time, we go together.”
“And leave the fire?” Dean says dubiously.
“Once it gets going good, it’ll be fine for a while,” Sam promises.
After the fire accepts a couple of the bigger logs, it puts out enough heat to make the boys comfortable, even without huddling together. It also casts a warm glow over much of the room. Armed with flashlights, Dean leads the way into the kitchen, where they search empty cabinet after empty cabinet, coming up with only some old ceramic dishes, a pan, and a couple of moth-eaten pot holders. Sam finds a tin cup and spoon that haven’t rusted away, and Dean finds a tea kettle.
“We can fill it with snow,” he tells Sam with a wink. “Great for hot toddies.”
When they return to the main room with their findings, they both re-check their cell phones to discover that they still don’t have service. Then they reassess their situation as Dean boils snow in the kettle.
“So, we’re snowed in,” Dean says as he uses the pot holders to pour hot water into their communal tin cup before pulling out his flask.
Sam sighs. “We may have to dig the car out after all,” he says. “Or at least the trunk. We’ll need snacks and sleeping bags, at least.”
“If this storm doesn’t let up, we’ll need more than snacks and sleeping bags,” Dean says. “I still can’t believe that ranger station had no clue about this weather system.”
“Weather up here can be unpredictable,” Sam reminds him. “And very localized. It may not even be snowing down the mountain.”
“Well, that’s just creepy,” Dean says.
Sam shrugs. “It’s nature, actually. We’re eleven thousand feet above sea level here. Freaky stuff happens.”
“Since when did you become such a weather expert?”
Sam shrugs again. “Jessica loved hiking, so we used to climb mountains on the weekends. You had to be prepared for anything, even in the middle of the summer. The good thing is, these kinds of sudden storms usually pass within twenty-four hours. And the rangers know we’re up here, so they’ll probably send a snowplow when the snow stops.”
“Meanwhile, we’re stuck here,” Dean grumbles. “With a ghost.”
“Speaking of, I found some salt,” Sam says, lifting the canister of Morton’s he found in the kitchen.
“Great,” Dean says dryly. “We’ve got salt, iron, and two potential concussions between us. Now all we have to do is stay awake till the snow stops.”
They take turns collecting snow with the tea kettle and tin cup, heating it on the fire, sipping hot water and pretending it’s coffee as they review the case, which is the reason they’re here in the first place.
According to local legend, the lodge is haunted by the ghost of Mary Wethers, the woman who owned the place before it closed twenty years ago. She died in some kind of freak accident, which was hushed up by the local authorities and her own family. Although the authorities wouldn’t admit it, most of the locals believed that Mary started haunting the lodge shortly afterwards.
Two real estate agents, five contractors, and a survey team all swore they’d seen the ghost. Plus a group of elk hunters and some college students on a dare. The Winchesters had started their investigation by interviewing the witnesses they could find, who all told similar stories of a woman staring at them from a window as they tried to approach the lodge.
“Anyone who got inside got something thrown at them,” Sam says. “Seems we’re the first victims to get knocked out.”
“Lucky us,” Dean says.
“Dean, it’s been a couple of hours with no sign of the ghost,” Sam comments thoughtfully as he sips his hot water.
Dean slips whisky into his, which Sam refuses.
“You think something else knocked us out?” Dean asks, rubbing the knot on the back of his head.
“I just think it’s weird that we both got knocked out at almost exactly the same time,” Sam says, biting his lip.
Dean frowns. “You think there are two ghosts?”
“I don’t know. Maybe,” Sam says. “I just think it’s weird we haven’t seen it or heard from it since.”
“Well, I saw it when it attacked me,” Dean says, “and the air got extra-cold just before that, so I know it was definitely a ghost.”
“You saw it?”
Dean nods. “Yeah. In the mirror. Right there.”
He points across the room at what once must have been an entryway with built-in benches. The wall behind the benches is covered in mirror glass.
“Huh.” Sam frowns. “What did it look like?”
“Like a ghost, Sammy, what do you want me to tell you? She had dark hair, black eye sockets, and weird clothes.”
“Weird clothes?”
Dean grimaces. “Yeah. Long white dress, or maybe a nightgown. Typical ghosty clothes.”
“Huh.” Sam lifts his eyebrows. “All I saw was my breath.”
“Again, you think maybe there are two ghosts?”
Sam gives him an irritated look. “I don’t know. Maybe.”
“So who’s the other ghost?”
“No idea.” Sam rolls his shoulders. He’s been sitting too long.
“Maybe we should dig the car out after all,” he suggests tentatively. “We need to keep moving, and the exercise would be good for us.”
“It’s cold out there,” Dean says, shivering on principle.
“It’s only going to get colder if the fire goes out,” Sam argues. “The sleeping bags will come in handy. Plus, we’ll get hungry eventually, and there are snacks in the car.”
They both look at the fire. It’s keeping them warm for the time being, and the wood pile looks big enough to keep them warm for a while yet, but it won’t last forever.
Maybe not even twenty-four hours.
In the end, they trudge outside and dig the trunk of the car out enough so they can retrieve their duffels, sleeping bags, and snacks. Dean retrieves a bottle of whisky. It takes less than an hour, but they’re both wet and frozen by the time they get back inside. Stoking the fire so they can peel out of their wet clothes takes a few minutes, but by the time they change into dry clothes, they’re both ready to huddle together with one sleeping bag under them and the other around them both, for added body heat.
Dean begins to nod off almost immediately, his head landing solidly on Sam’s shoulder, and for a moment, Sam allows it because it feels so good.
Then he shakes Dean awake.
“Concussion, remember?”
“Naw, Sammy, forget about it,” Dean grouses. “We need to sleep. Time passes quicker that way.”
“We’re trapped in a haunted house with a ghost, Dean, maybe two ghosts,” Sam reminds him. “We can’t both sleep.”
“Fine. We’ll take turns. I’ll go first. Wake me up in two hours.”
And just like that, Dean’s out, snoring softly, head lying heavy on Sam’s shoulder.
Sam sighs but manages to stay awake, counting flames as he stares at the fire. He pulls a book from his duffel and reads until his eyes swim. He gets up twice to add logs, letting Dean down fairly easily, but as soon as he sits back down, Dean rolls over against him, as if he needs to be touching Sam to stay asleep.
Two hours pass, and Sam shakes his brother violently.
“Dean! Wake up! Dean!”
“What?” Dean blinks awake, none too quickly, and Sam rolls his eyes. So much for emergencies.
“It’s my turn to sleep, that’s what,” Sam grumbles, curling onto his side with his knees pulled up and his back to his brother.
Sam’s out so fast he doesn’t notice that Dean barely wakes up enough to add a log to the fire before curling up behind him, back to back, pulling the sleeping bag over them both before falling fast asleep.
//**//**//
Sam wakes up, but he knows he’s not really awake. He’s dreaming. He sits up, frowning down at his brother, sound asleep beside him.
The room has changed. It’s full of comfortable chairs, tables, and benches. Electric lanterns hang from the ceiling, designed to look like old-fashioned gas lights.
The fire’s out, and the hearth is cold, but the room is comfortably warm and centrally heated, probably with electricity, like the lights.
Voices draw his attention to the bar, which wasn’t there when he fell asleep. Two women stand arguing, and he can’t help overhearing them, although they don’t seem to be aware that he’s there.
“I can’t do this anymore, Mary,” one of them says. “It’s not working.”
“What’s not working?” Mary demands. “Our relationship? Because that’s always gonna be here, Evie. No matter what else we are to each other, we’ll always be sisters.”
Evie shakes her head. “You know Mom wouldn’t want this for us,” she says.
“Mom’s dead!” Mary snaps. “Doesn’t matter what she wants. It’s just us, little sister, and I’m not leaving you.”
Evie stares at her sister for a long moment, then shakes her head and turns away.
“I just can’t anymore. It’s not the way I want to live my life.”
Mary raises her arm, and Sam can see that she’s got a gun.
“Look out!” Sam shouts at Evie, but of course, the woman can’t hear him.
Mary pulls the trigger, the gun barrel explodes with bright sparks and a single loud bang, then Evie crumples to the ground. Mary doesn’t hesitate. She places the muzzle of the gun against her own temple and fires.
Sam wakes up with a shout.
Dean’s sitting up next to him, staring as the vision dissipates around them. His eyes are wide, mouth open, so Sam’s pretty sure of the answer to his question, but he asks anyway.
“Did you see that?”
Dean nods, still staring at the spot where the sisters stood.
Sam doesn’t want to think about Andy Gallagher killing his brother. He doesn’t want to think about Gordon Walker killing his sister. He doesn’t.
“I think I know where they’re buried,” he says instead.
He grabs his duffel, rifles around until he finds the blueprints of the lodge, folded and creased from being wedged into the bottom of the bag, under his favorite jeans.
Dean blinks and turns his attention to Sam, frowning as Sam unfolds the blueprint and lays it on the floor, shining his flashlight on it.
“The lodge was built over the ruins of an old church, right?”
Dean nods, which is the only movement he seems capable of after what he just witnessed. He’s probably trying not to think about the same things Sam’s trying not to think about. Either that, or he’s in shock. Maybe both.
When he kneels next to Sam, shoulders touching, Sam tries not to think about how good it feels.
“Okay,” Sam continues. “There should be a stairway down into the cellar, here.” He points at the center of the blueprint, where the central staircase is, the one they recently descended from the upper level of the lodge. “The old church crypt is under the cellar.”
“So you’re thinking they’re both buried down there,” Dean says, sounding like himself again, like the experienced hunter Sam depends on so much.
Sam nods. “That’s my guess.”
“Which raises the question,” Dean says. “Who buried them there? And why has no one ever mentioned a sister?”
Fear tingles up Sam’s spine, but he shrugs it off.
“I’m guessing the family wanted it covered up,” he says casually, as if this whole thing doesn’t make him think about him and Dean. “The two of them didn’t have the most conventional relationship. A murder-suicide was probably pretty scandalous back in their day.”
He doesn’t have to say it. Dean doesn’t make him say it. But Sam can’t help thinking about how the older sister killed the younger one before killing herself. He just can’t.
“Okay,” Dean says, pushing himself up, making Sam wish he was still pressed against him. “Let’s go torch these bitches.”
It’s weirdly simple. In the cellar, a storage cabinet stands in front of a hidden door that leads down into the old crypt, easily enough moved when both brothers put their backs into it. Sam keeps expecting the ghosts to stop them, but they never do. In fact, they don’t appear again. By the time the boys find the crypt, push off the lid of the sarcophagus, and torch the corpses lying clasped in each other’s arms inside, it’s almost morning.
The brothers stand side-by-side, watching the fire, making sure it doesn’t spread, until it dies down to feathery embers and ash. Dean pours more salt on it, just for good measure. They decide to put the lid back on, in case anyone ever comes down here again.
Then they climb the stone steps to the cellar, slide the storage cabinet back into place in front of the crypt door, and ascend onto the main floor of the lodge.
“How did you know we’d find them down there?” Dean asks as he heads to the hearth to feed the fire there.
Sam’s almost afraid to say. He shrugs.
“Family resemblance,” he says as he fills the tea kettle with melted snow into the hearth to heat. “Mary looks just like her niece, or whoever the ranger is. Obviously family.”
“Ranger Phillips?” Dean frowns. “Okay. But Ranger Phillips told us Mary was buried in the woods.”
Sam nods. “She lied, obviously.”
“Right.” Dean takes a sip of his whisky, then offers it to Sam.
This time, Sam takes a nip. It’s been one of those hunts that’s a little too close to home. It might be over, and based on the wan light coming in through cracks in the boarded-up windows, so is the storm.
But that vision, or whatever it was, just won’t leave Sam’s mind. He feels haunted by it. He suspects Dean does, too, although Dean wouldn’t connect it to all those other sibling relationships they’ve been dealing with lately. That’s just the way Dean is.
As they settle down on their sleeping bags in front of the fire, Sam can’t help voicing the thoughts in his head.
“The lodge isn’t just built on an old family homestead,” he says quietly. “It’s also holy ground, or formerly holy ground. It used to be a church, before it became the family crypt.”
“Okay,” Dean says, although Sam can tell he’s not really following.
“The ghosts weren’t evil spirits,” Sam confirms. “The sisters were buried here to try to contain a family curse.”
“What curse?” Dean stares at him, so clueless it almost makes Sam laugh.
“Well, I’m guessing Ranger Phillips knows what I’m talking about,” Sam mumbles grimly.
“Sam, what the hell are you talking about?” Dean says. “What family curse?”
Sam shakes his head. “I don’t know exactly, but it must have something to do with those sisters. Maybe it’s the violence. Maybe the siblings in the family were cursed to kill each other.” As Dean raises his eyebrows, Sam adds, “Or maybe it’s something else.”
“What? What else?”
Dean’s face does that thing that makes Sam crazy because there’s just no way he’s as clueless as he’s pretending to be. He knows. He must know. Sam’s been so sure that Dean knows what’s going on between them for at least the past year, or maybe since Dean came to pick Sam up at school, maybe longer, that he’d bet his life on it.
But words just don’t suffice. Dean won’t admit it, and Sam won’t explain it, so there’s only one way to communicate what’s really going on.
Sam grabs Dean’s face and kisses him.
At first, Dean kisses back. It’s obviously automatic with him, plus Sam suspects this is something Dean’s always wanted to do, same as Sam.
Dean’s lips are soft, warm, and welcoming. His hands clutch at Sam’s shoulders as if he wants to pull Sam closer, so Sam obliges with a moan, pushing their bodies together so that they can each feel how hard the other one is.
For another moment, Dean presses closer, sliding their bodies against each other as he deepens the kiss.
Then, as suddenly as it started, it’s over. Dean pushes away, rising to his feet and taking a step or two backwards so there’s a good foot between them. He’s panting, lips parted and glistening, staring wild-eyed and horrified.
“What the hell?” Dean sputters. “What the hell, Sam?”
Sam jumps to his feet, and a hot flash of anger rushes through him. No way Dean gets to pretend this wasn’t what he wanted. No way.
“You –” he starts, so angry he can barely speak. “You can’t pretend you don’t know, Dean.”
“Know what?” Dean says. “You think I knew you wanted to – What? To do that? Huh? Is that what you think?”
He gestures down Sam’s body, at the evidence of Sam’s arousal.
But he’s not the only one, damn it. Dean’s aroused, too. Sam can see it. He felt it.
“The siblings,” Sam says. “The family curse. It’s not the violence, Dean. Or maybe it is. Maybe we’ll end up killing each other just like Mary and Evie. Like Andy and his brother. Like Gordon and his sister.”
“What?” Dean’s face changes as understanding dawns. Sam’s finally hit a nerve. He’s finally gotten through to Dean. “No, Sammy, that’s not – We’re not like that.”
He takes a step closer, reaching up to touch Sam’s face, which is when Sam realizes he’s crying. Dean wipes a tear away with his thumb, then leaves his hand there, against Sam’s cheek. His lips part, like he’s about to say something, and Sam’s sure that whatever it is, it’s because Dean’s feeling guilty. He can see it.
“Hey,” Dean says. “Come here.”
Sam lets out a sigh, closing his eyes as Dean tips their foreheads together.
“Nobody’s killing anybody here, okay?” Dean says.
Sam nods, squeezing his eyes shut against the surge of emotion rising in his chest.
“And nobody’s turning into a monster,” Dean goes on.
Sam lets out a sob. He bites his lip.
“Dean, you don’t know that –” he blurts out, stepping back. “You can’t know that.”
“Hey, hey, hey.” Dean steps forward and takes Sam’s face in both hands so he can look him in the eye. “We’re in this together. You and me. Two freaks who happen to be brothers. You hear me?”
Sam nods.
“You are not alone in this, Sam. You’re not.”
Sam gazes at him, all blurry-eyed with stupid tears and maybe a little tipsy and feeling sorry for himself.
“Aw, Sammy.”
Then Dean’s kissing him again, like he can solve the world’s problems that way, like he can kiss all their troubles away.
Sam moans and kisses back desperately because if anybody can fix things, it’s Dean. It’s always Dean.
They sink down into the sleeping bags in front of the fire, and it’s almost cozy. Dean kisses his cheeks, then his lips again. He runs his hands through Sam’s hair, presses kisses along his hairline and his temple, under his ear. His neck.
They’re still making out when the sun peeps through the boarded-up windows and the snowplow rumbles past.
When a couple of smaller trucks pull into the parking lot and start making a lot of noise close to the front door, Sam and Dean pull away from each other, but Sam can feel Dean’s reluctance. Neither of them wants it to end, whatever “it” is.
Sam’s definitely not ready to label it.
By the time the door to the lodge opens and a couple of rangers enter, the Winchesters are stowing their supplies and putting out the fire.
“You boys all right in here?”
“Yes, ma’am, just fine,” Dean says.
Ranger Phillips gazes around the room, and Sam could swear her eyes linger on the basement stairs. She knows.
“No more ghosts?” she asks, half-joking, but Sam knows better.
“I don’t think you have anything to worry about in that department,” Dean confirms, shouldering his duffel. “But just so you know, Mary Wethers was not buried in the woods.”
Phillips looks shocked. Not surprised, though.
“What are you talking about?”
Sam glances at Dean before asking, “You said Mary was your aunt, right?”
“Right,” Phillips says. “She and my mom were sisters.”
“And you knew there was another sister, right?” Sam says. “Evie.”
Phillips shakes her head. “Evie took off for California about five years before Mary died,” she says. “We never heard from her again.”
“So you didn’t know she was buried with Mary in the family crypt?”
Phillips' expression gives it away. She knew that, too.
Before answering, she turns to her partner. “Jen, can you give us a minute?”
The other ranger nods, glancing from one Winchester to the other before leaving the lodge. Sam can hear the ranger’s truck door open, then the garbled static of a radio as Jen makes a report.
“My aunts had what you might call an unconventional relationship,” Phillips reveals, as if Sam and Dean didn’t already know. “When they died, the family kept it secret. There’s no public record of Evie’s death. Mom took care of the details, since she was the sheriff at the time. I never knew Evie very well, except by reputation as the black sheep of the family. The rebel.”
She nods at the door to the basement.
“But they were both Mom’s sisters,” Phillips goes on. “She wanted them buried together.”
She clenches her jaw, daring the Winchesters to judge.
“Why didn’t you just tell us?” Dean demands.
Phillips shrugs, but to her credit, she seems contrite.
“I didn’t think it was important,” she admits. “There was never any mention of Evie in all the ghost sightings.”
“Well, we saw her,” Sam says. “She was definitely here. Her ghost, that is.”
“Oh.” Phillips frowns.
“Yeah, she was pissed,” Dean growls. “Which is understandable, since her sister offed her.”
Phillips’ eyes widen. “How did you know – ?”
Sam puts his hands up. “It’s okay. We’re hunters, not cops. Your family secret is safe with us.”
Ranger Phillips flushes nervously. “Nobody was ever supposed to know,” she says.
“Well, you might want to seal up that crypt, in that case,” Dean says. “If you ever do sell this place, somebody might find out what’s down there.”
“We salted and burned the bodies,” Sam says. “But if anybody ever did an autopsy, they might find the bullet holes.”
Phillips stares. “You what?”
“Listen, lady, we got rid of your ghost problem, but there’s something scarier than ghosts down in that crypt,” Dean says.
Sam stares at him, wondering if he means the murder-suicide or the incest.
Ranger Phillips obviously assumes Dean means the covered-up crime scene. She nods, looks down.
“I understand,” she says quietly. “Thank you.”
The two rangers help the boys dig out their car, then stand side-by-side in the morning sunshine as they drive away through the empty parking lot and out onto the main road.
“Those two aren’t sisters, are they?” Dean grouses as he gives them a final glance through the rearview mirror.
Sam scoffs nervously. “No. Pretty sure the other one has a different last name.”
“Good.” Dean’s jaw clenches, and Sam stares at his profile.
“We’re not going to talk about this, are we?” he asks, deliberately not looking at Dean’s lips.
“What do you think, Sam?” Dean snaps.
Sam purses his lips, stares out the windshield at the gorgeous, bright, sunny day. Snow-covered trees, blue sky, mostly clear road. It’s almost too perfect.
“I think Mary and Evie had a message for us, Dean,” Sam admits stubbornly. “Not just anybody, but us, specifically.”
“Oh, because family curses are something we know about, too,” Dean sneers. “They knew we were kindred spirits.”
Sam huffs out a breath. “Yeah. Maybe.”
Dean slams his hand against the steering wheel.
“Damn it, Sammy, they were ghosts. Same as all the other ghosts we’ve offed. They were just doing what ghosts do, trying to be seen, trying to be relevant beyond their natural deaths. You know that.”
“They knew we were brothers,” Sam insists. “Siblings, same as them.”
“So what? You think they were warning us? Of what, exactly? Something about killing your kid sister or brother? ‘Cause that ain’t happening with us, you can bet your last damned dollar on that.”
Sam shakes his head. “I know you’re not going to kill me, Dean,” he assures his brother. “I know you’d never do that.”
“Then let’s just stop talking about it, okay? It’s over, Sam. Case closed. We’re nothing like those girls, no matter what their ghosts might’ve thought.”
He still sounds angrier than he should, and Sam can’t help feeling rejected. He can still taste Dean’s kiss on his lips, but in the bright light of day, Dean’s acting like it never happened.
But Sam’s too stubborn to let that stand.
“I don’t regret what happened back there,” Sam says. “Even if you do. I don’t.”
Dean opens his mouth, then closes it again. There’s no way he doesn’t get exactly what Sam’s referring to. No way.
“I’m not holding your hand in public,” Dean says, which surprises Sam so much he almost laughs. “You’re not a little kid anymore.”
Sam’s hackles go up, just as they always do when Dean refers to Sam as a child.
“No, I know,” he snaps. “Of course.”
Dean glances at him. “Just so we’re clear.”
Sam stares at his profile for a moment, puzzling out Dean’s response, then shakes his head.
“Yeah, we’re clear,” he mumbles.
Dean may never acknowledge what happened in that lodge last night, but he doesn’t regret it any more than Sam does.
For now, that’s enough.
**
fin