** See Part 1 for full story notes and disclaimer information.

PART 2 NOTES: Thank you all for the interest in this story. I hope you enjoy Part 2 as well. Huge hugs go to Lynette, the fab beta. You always make my stories better. As always, any and all feedback is appreciated.

Part Two

THEN …

Setting the kit on the bed, he knelt at Dean's side to get a better angle at what was sure to be one hell of a burn. Dean gripped the back of his t-shirt and yanked it over his head, only the tiniest of indrawn breaths revealing it cost him anything. Before the cloth settled on the bed, Sam's full attention was focused on Dean's chest, specifically the area directly over his heart, that wrongness settling itself back into his gut. "What the hell is that?"

NOW …

BLUE SPRINGS, MISSOURI

Thursday, 2:03 am

Sam's voice held a tremor Dean had only heard a few times before, each of them unfortunately revolving around Dean and a hunt gone wrong. He looked down, a strange hesitancy filling him. He didn't want to see what had hauled that tone out of his brother, but knew he didn't have a choice.

Just off-center to the left side of his chest directly over his heart was a mark, one that hadn't been there the last time he'd seen his bare skin. It was a circle about two and half inches in circumference with three wavy lines running horizontally through its center and one straight line cutting it vertically leaning slightly to the left. The mark was raised, red, angry looking and should have been nowhere in the vicinity of Dean's body. A sudden thought jerked his head up to meet Sam's widened eyes.

"The son of a bitch branded me." If he hadn't been staring right at his brother he would have missed the smallest twitch of his lips entirely. "It's not funny, dude."

The twitch returned, a little stronger this time. "You've got to admit, Dean, it's a little funny."

"Okay, maybe a little, but the son of a bitch branded me!" The brief moment of levity vanished, leaving them staring at each other. Dean waved one hand toward the mark. "Have you ever seen this before?"

"No. And before you ask, I didn't know a ghost could do that." Sam leaned closer, his face tightening in concentration. "It's a clean mark, no secondary tissue damage. What's it feel like?"

Tissue damage, he repeated silently to himself, eyebrows raising at the clinical description. "It's my chest, Sam, not a science experiment. And it hurts like hell."

Sam shrugged an apology before reaching for one of the tubes of ointment in the aid kit. "What about your throat? How's that?"

"It's fine." He paused, gently pressing on the skin around the brand. Little flares of heat shot out from the spot. He got the point and quit prodding. "And why is that? My chest was covered. It should be my throat that got messed up."

"I don't know." Sam held the tube out for him to take, smart enough to know Dean would smack him if he tried applying it himself. "But I have a bad feeling about this."

Taking the ointment with a little more force than necessary, his mouth opened to tell Sam to quit worrying. The words never made it past a thought. A crunching flash of pain exploded around the brand, doubling him over.

"Dean."

He heard Sam call his name, but couldn't answer. Hell, he couldn't even breathe with the agony pressing in on him. He folded down over his legs, arms wrapping protectively around his ribs. You have to breathe, Dean, the little voice inside that sounded suspiciously like his father spoke between the thump of his pulse in his ear. You can't live if you don't breathe. He sucked in a lungful of air, chest arguing with every inch.

And then it was gone.

Gasping now that he could, he took a moment to enjoy the simple joy of respiration before sitting upright. "Well, that was fun."

"What happened?"

"Damned if I know. It felt like an oven was sitting on my chest." He caught Sam's gaze, held it long enough to take in the worry etched on his face then pushed to his feet. "I'm going to get cleaned up. I have grave dirt in places I don't want to think about."

"Dean, we need to take care of that burn-"

"I know," he cut his brother off mid-word. "And it'll work a hell of a lot better if I'm clean when we do it." Sam just looked at him, still kneeling at the foot of the bed. Relenting a little, Dean forced his face into a semblance of his trademark carefree image. "I don't want to have to mess with it twice."

Standing, Sam tossed the tube of ointment in the direction of the first aid kit, leaving it open on the bed. "I'm calling Bobby. See if he's got a clue."

"Fine. Tell him I said hi." He made it to the door before Sam's voice stopped him.

"I'm calling Ash, too."

Dean spun, hand gripping the door jamb when the world kept spinning after he stopped. "No, you're not. We don't need him."

"He's a resource just like anyone else."

"He's a resource with links to a lot of ears." Sam's expression darkened and Dean knew there was a very logical argument about to be thrown into his face. His hand trembled where it rested on the jamb and he felt a twinge from the mark. "I don't want the Roadhouse Trio involved. Let's just see what Bobby can find out, okay?" Whether his brother could see the shaking in his arm or decided to give in to the plea laced beneath his words, Dean didn't even want to know. He was just happy his brother stopped.

Sam nodded, shoulders relaxing slightly. "Go get cleaned up. You look like hell."

"Pot," he muttered, escaping into the bathroom. Sam's heart was in the right place, Dean knew, but he didn't get it. He never could grasp the fact that Dean handled pain differently than his brother, always had. Maybe it was being the older brother, maybe it was something Dad had instilled in him, maybe it was simply part of his make up. Where Sam felt free to let it out, to let others help, Dean shoved it down, forced it away. He didn't know any other way to be. If he was honest with himself, he didn't think he wanted it any other way.

The water was warm on his chilled skin, washing dirt and sweat down his body to swirl in a muddy whirlpool around the drain. Sucking in a breath when the water flowed over his shoulder, down his chest and stabbed into the mark, he braced his hands against the off-white tiles. He hurt, an all over ache that burned through every muscle. It could have been from his unexpected meeting with immovable marble or a delayed reaction to the mark. Either way, it sucked big time.

"Finally..."

Dean whirled at the voice, water splashing wildly as he whipped the white plastic curtain aside, but there was no one on the other side. His pulse ran loud in his ears, drowning out the fall of water as it bounced off his body and onto the linoleum. He pushed a breath out, watching for a telltale puff of condensed air. None. Nor did his body feel anything except the normal coolness of an air conditioned bathroom. He tugged the shower curtain back into place, grabbed the small bar of soap and ran it roughly over a wash cloth.

He was hearing things now. Fantastic. What else was going to go wrong tonight?

"Finally..."

He ignored the hallucination and finished his shower with deliberate movements. After swiping most of the water off, he wrapped the towel around his hips, suddenly drained. Another swipe with his hand cleared a section of mirror, revealing eyes shadowed with deep purple. Hell, he actually looked worse than he felt. That didn't happen very often.

"Finally..." the phantom voice whispered a third time, "...free."

Hazel eyes stared back at him from the mirror, irises bleeding darker, brown taking over the familiar color. "What the hell?" By the time the words left his throat, his irises had returned to their normal shade. And seeing things as well, apparently. "Get a grip, Dean. We don't have time for this crap." With one last hard look in the mirror, he opened the door and walked out in a cloud of leftover warmth.

"Bobby's going to call back," Sam said, looking up from his computer. "He said it might take a while and to get some rest."

"Sounds like a good idea to me." He grabbed the first clean clothes his hand touched in his bag and started tugging them on. "I feel I like could sleep for a week."

Closing the laptop's lid, Sam stretched, his lanky body seemingly even longer than normal. "I didn't find anything on the symbol. I'm thinking it has to be pretty obscure." Dean shrugged, gingerly pulling his shirt over the brand. "Okay. I'm going to clean up then. My phone's on the table if he calls."

"I got it covered." Thankfully his brother didn't say a word about how wasted he appeared. Or the fact he hadn't put any ointment on the mark. As soon as the door shut behind his brother he sank onto the bed. God, he hurt. The ache in his muscles refused to abate. He'd hoped the shower would ease at least some of it.

The ringing of Sam's phone jerked his head up from its slump. Apparently Bobby's definition of 'a while' and Dean's was more than a little different. "What have you got?" Bobby's reply sent a shiver of apprehension running down his spine. He must have said something appropriate because the other man hung up, leaving Dean with his brother's cell hanging loosely in his hand.

The sudden quiet when the shower cut off galvanized him into action and by the time Sam emerged Dean had the few belongings he'd unpacked stowed in his bag. "Get your stuff. We're leaving."

It was a testament to how screwed up their lives were that Sam didn't question the abrupt command, just shoved his legs into a pair of jeans. "I take it Bobby called."

Dean merely grunted in reply, slinging his duffel over his shoulder. He tossed the phone onto Sam's bed next to his bag and moved toward the door. "I'll be in the car."

"Wait, Dean. What did Bobby say?"

The cool night air wafted through his hair as he stood in the open doorway. He met Sam's gaze, face carefully blank.

"Get here now."

SINGER'S SALVAGE, SOUTH DAKOTA

Thursday, 9:28 am

Dean bit back a wince when the Impala hit yet another rain filled divot in the hard-packed dirt driveway. Thankfully, Bobby's house was less than a mile away. His chest ached, his head was screaming and the mark burned as if good old Pappy Bender was holding that fire poker on him again. He knew he'd freaked Sam out when he'd handed over the keys without even a token protest. Head strong and confident as he was, he wasn't about to get Sam killed simply because he was too proud to admit he was in no shape to drive. He'd already rebuilt her once this year. He wasn't all that anxious to do it all over again.

He squinted against the reflection of the early morning sun off the clouds, head pounding with every blink. Gloomy drizzle battled the light for supremacy as the tires splashed through small puddles. They'd driven through the night, stopping only once to fill the tank at a twenty-four hour fill up joint. He knew Sam had to be just as tired as he was, but his brother had yet to even let out a yawn. Sam had told him a few times to get some rest and he was feeling crappy enough to actually give in, only his aching body and the random stabbing pains from the brand woke him every time he'd started to drift off. The usually comforting creak of the windshield wipers was only adding to his misery.

"We're almost there, Dean."

If he hadn't known how badly Sam was freaked, that one sentence would have told him. Sam wasn't in the habit of speaking assurances just to hear himself talk, especially since they both knew exactly where they were. "Kind of figured that," he said, struggling to make his tone as normal as possible. He knew it had fallen short when Sam shot him another worried look. "Relax. Bobby wouldn't have called us up here unless he had information."

His brother's mouth tightened at the comment. "Somehow that's not as reassuring as it usually is."

The mark on Dean's chest chose that moment to flare up again, sending a flash of white heat down his left arm.

"Dean?"

"I'm fine. Just get us there." He concentrated on breathing, trying to make each exhale take a bit of the pain away. It didn't work. By the time the Impala was parked in front of the house Dean was ready to kiss Bobby if he could just make it stop hurting.

"You boys can't make it a week without pissing off some spirit or another, can you?"

Despite the cantankerous words, Dean could hear the concern laced beneath. He smiled, shutting his door before Sam made it around the hood to his side. "What can I say? It's a talent."

Bobby laughed, shaking his head as he looked down at them from the porch. "Get your butts in here out of the rain. I've got a lot for you to dig through." He didn't wait for them, just turned and strode back into the house leaving the door wide open.

"See, Sam? I told you." Ignoring the snort his brother let loose, Dean climbed the steps quickly. Two steps into the house, he stopped, the mark on his chest flaring to life in a crunch of pain, his head spinning dizzily. "Sam?" he called out, one hand reaching out blindly. "Sammy, something's wrong."

Before his brother could reply, Bobby moved behind him, a thick line of salt following in his wake. "I'm sorry, Dean, but this is going to hurt."

He turned, eyes following the man's path. He'd stepped into an almost completed circle of salt that Bobby was laying the final inches of even as he watched.

"Bobby, what the hell?" Sam shouted, grabbing Dean's out flung arm, ready to do what his brother had no idea.

Dean felt the instant the circle closed, an audible snap-hiss in his ears, Sam's grip on his arm just a background perception. A feeling of wrongness swept over him as spots danced over his vision. "Sam, get out of the circle."

"What? No way."

"Now!" The command ended in a shriek and he ripped Sam's hands away, shoving with every bit of strength he had left. He saw his brother's stunned expression, blinked once and then went under.

cont.