Chapter Three
The stiff breeze whipped Sam's hair into his face when he climbed out of the car. He had needed a haircut for a while; he'd just put it off as being unimportant. He'd have to make sure he could see the spell's text. Losing his place could be detrimental to their experiment. He looked over at Dean, who was dragging their weapons out of the trunk. He'd spent last night cleaning the guns while Sam had made all his notes for the ritual and ground the herbs together with a mortar and pestle. All the ingredients were combined and stored in baggies numbered in order of placement in the silver bowl. Sam hefted the bundle of firewood onto his left shoulder and followed Dean up the valley, both bearing knives in their free hands.
The river glinted like silver in the moonlight, its flow sluggish, rippling in the wind. Dean had to get his bearings, turning around in a circle until he spotted the rebar sticking out of the ground. Stalking over to it, he slung the duffle to the ground. Digging out the shotgun, Dean checked the extra rock salt rounds that were already in his coat pocket. He stood on the hillside slightly above Sam as the younger man pulled out all his supplies, knelt, and laid them on the ground around him. He seemed distracted and had to keep pausing and restarting his mental inventory.
When the fire was going, Sam looked at Dean. "Once I start this thing, I can't stop. Keep an eye out for the utburd, but don't let it paralyze you. I don't know when it will figure out what I'm trying to do and get angry and come after us."
"Don't worry. I know what I'm doing. I'll be watching out for you mostly, Sam."
He watched his brother fiddle with the bags. "Dammit, you're not focusing here. What's wrong with you? Sam?" Looking at the crown of his brother's unresponsive head, he sighed. "You watch out too. Keep that knife in your hand."
"Dude, I'm going to need both hands to do this. How the hell can I hold a flashlight, add the ingredients, say the spell, and hang onto a knife?" Sam was frustrated with his brother. Once again, Dean was trying to protect Sam by smothering him and making him feel like a teen again.
"I don't know, Geek Boy; you figure it out. Here, I'll hold the flashlight so you can see. Put the knife between your teeth and—"
"And how am I supposed to read aloud?"
"Huh. Well, keep the knife really close, okay?"
"Sure. Besides, with you doing pitbull duty, I'm safe."
Dean wasn't sure if he liked the comparison, but it was accurate. His shoulders hunched under his coat, and he felt his short hair was ruffling in the increasing breeze. "Let's get this done; it's getting colder by the minute."
Sam picked up the first packet and poured it into the bowl. He threw a handful of elder chips on the fire and began to read the Latin text. At various points, he would pause and add the contents of another baggie to the bowl.
Sam's voice, rising and falling in a well-practiced cadence, rose from the ground before him. Dean kept his eyes on the surrounding hillside looking for any sign of that ghost. A patch of mist arose from the riverbank. It could just be fog, but Dean doubted it. "I think I see it," he whispered so as not to disturb his brother. Sam nodded but did not falter with the spell. He knew Dean would take care of that thing, keeping it off his back until he was done, and they could spot the tiny grave.
The fog began to coalesce into a large blob. Dean raised the knife with a smirk. "Can't come near us," he taunted it. Big mistake.
The utburd could not touch one who was carrying an iron knife, but this one had been alive over a hundred years. In that time, it had grown in strength. It could manipulate some of the area around it. A hail of pebbles flew at Dean. "What the…! Dude. This thing can throw stuff!"
Sam ducked his head; he was almost done. One more bag of herbs and they'd know. Done, he thought.
Off to the left, towards the river, a light was beginning to glisten. He pointed towards it, hoping Dean could see his gesture. He had to keep re-reading the text; if he stopped, the spell would be over, and they would lose sight of the grave. It was now up to Dean.
More tiny rocks pelted him as he ran towards the grave. The assault grew stronger as he drove the shovel into the soil. The ground was frozen and digging was difficult. He leaned his weight onto the shovel's blade and was finally rewarded with a snapping sound. He dropped down and scooped away soil revealing that the blade had shattered the infant's skull.
The utburd renewed its assault on him. He covered his head, but bloody streaks already marred his face, and he knew he'd find bruises tomorrow. The utburd shrieked and dove at him, driving him away from its grave. "Sam! I found it, but it won't leave me alone! Burn it!"
Dean staggered away up the hillside followed by the utburd. Realizing he had left the shotgun lying on the ground, he reached into his jacket and grabbed one of the shells. He popped it open and held the handful of rock salt, waiting for the right moment to throw it.
Sam watched as Dean was driven away. He didn't seem in any major danger since he carried his knife, but, still, that had to be painful. Sam scooped up the container of salt and bottle of lighter fluid. Upon reaching the grave, he scraped at the frozen ground until the tiny skeleton was exposed. A wave of grief washed over him. Here was a child who had not been given a chance at life. Dead, it was angry and full of revenge. Sam had been given a chance, and death shadowed him, killing those he loved. It wasn't fair.
"Sam! Stop looking at it and burn it!"
Sam shifted, shook salt onto the bones and then lighter fluid. The utburd seemed to realize something was happening to its bones and swung around to see Sam.
"Oh, no." Dean didn't see a knife in Sam's hand. "Sam! Knife?!"
Sam glanced back towards the fire and saw his blade glinting on the ground. The utburd was between him and his knife. He locked eyes with Dean, apologetic and regretful, before his mind went into gear again. Running water. He shot up off the ground, spun, headed towards the river. His long legs carried him over the river's bank into the icy liquid below. Safe for now.
Dean hadn't seen the utburd reach Sam nor did he hear any sounds. "Sam? Sammy? You okay?"
He had taken a few steps towards the river bank when the utburd swirled up and flew at him. Instinct made him turn and run. Rocks rained down on his head as he stumbled up the slope. He tripped several times but was always able to draw himself upright and stay on his feet. He was circling past where Sam had cast the spell when he tripped and went down. Blinding pain engulfed him and sparks filled his sight. He maintained his grip on his knife, however, but his flashlight fell out of reach.
Sam rose from the river dripping and shivering. It had to be below freezing and, with the wind whipping around, all the warmth was rapidly being sucked out of his body. He looked up over the riverbank's edge and saw Dean dodging around. It would have been funny if it weren't so serious.
Sam levered himself over the edge and scrambled towards the grave. He had dropped the lighter when he had run, so now he grabbed it up, flicked it on, and threw it on the corpse. The flames that rose were welcomed by his body.
He looked up triumphantly to yell at Dean just as Dean tripped and fell down and lay still, the utburd hovering over him. It shuddered and spun in midair as it realized what Sam had done. It dove towards its grave, but the flames had consumed too much of its skeleton, and it dissipated into nothingness before it reached the younger Winchester.
"Whoo! Dean, get up! We did it!"
Sam headed towards the dying fire to gather the bowl and other things when he realized Dean hadn't answered. "Dean?" Sam turned, ran over, and grasped his shoulders. One hand encountered something warm and sticky. Dean's body didn't roll over, so Sam tried to lift his brother as he realized what had happened. Dean had tripped and fallen onto the rebar marker they had planted.
"Dean! Come on, wake up!" Sam found his pulse, rapid but strong. Dean's eyes flickered open. "Don't move, Dean, you're hurt."
"Son of a bitch. Like I needed you to tell me that."
Sam shook his head in frustration as he propped his brother's torso against his own legs. He picked up the flashlight to see how bad the wound was. Opening Dean's jacket, Sam saw that the bar had gone into the left shoulder right below the collarbone. Checking his brother's back, he found no blood, so it hadn't gone all the way through.
"Can you stand?"
"Yeah, help me up."
Sam pulled his brother upright and held on until he was sure Dean was steady. When he shrugged off help, Sam backed away.
Dean followed at a slower pace behind Sam, who gathered all the tools and repacked them into the duffle. His clothes soaked, he knew they both had to get back to the motel fast. They staggered down the hill towards the Impala as snow started to fall.
Dean sank onto the bed farthest from the door. The drive back had been longer than the drive there. What had started out as snow flurries had increased to a steady snowfall. Sam had had to drive slowly just to see the road dimly illuminated by the car's headlights. Easing his jacket off with a wince, Dean reached up with his right hand to probe the wound. Sam smacked the hand away. "Just let me get the first aid kit and I'll look at it."
Dean wanted to fall back onto the bed but needed to wait until Sam was finished. Once down, he didn't want to have to move until morning. Sam came out of the bathroom, empty-handed.
"Dude. Where's the kit?"
The look of confusion on Sam's face sent a jolt of adrenaline through Dean.
"No, Dean. I'll get it. Sorry, I was thinking about …." Sam's voice trailed off as he re-entered the bathroom.
Dean could hear Sam rummaging through the kit and things falling to the floor. Half-muffled curses drifted out of the bathroom. Dean attempted to get up to see what was wrong, but Sam finally came out, bandages and peroxide held aloft in either hand victoriously. He stumbled as he approached the bed, and Dean snorted. Trust his brother to trip over a pattern in the carpet.
Sam turned on the light between the beds so he could see to work. It gave Dean the opportunity to check on his brother. Something was not right. Sam reached out to peel back the edge of Dean's shirt.
Dean jumped when he felt Sam's glacial touch. Jerking back, his vision blacked out from the too-quick movement. "Sam! What the hell? You're freezing!" Noticing his brother's dripping hair for the first time, Dean remembered Sam jumping over the riverbank to escape the utburd. Running water. The river. He reached out and grasped Sam's shaking and frigid hands.
Sam tried to still his hands, but they betrayed him by refusing to listen. "Let me look at your wound. When was the last time you had a tetanus shot?" At least that's what Dean figured he had said.
Sam was slurring his speech, probably succumbing to hypothermia. He needed to be warmed immediately. "I am not letting you touch me with hands that cold, Dude. We need to get you warmed up before you can fix me." Dean played mercilessly on Sam's need to help his brother.
Levering himself off the bed, Dean shuffled towards the bathroom, calling out instructions behind him. "Get some warm, dry clothes and come here." Hearing nothing behind him, he called again, "Sam? You still with me?"
Dean grabbed a towel and handed it to his brother as he headed towards the coffee pot on the sideboard. Drinking something warm could help.
"Yeah, I think so." Sam sighed, sounding suddenly too tired to move. Dean knew that Sam knew that Dean would strip him by force, and that implied threat was the only thing motivating him to head into the bathroom.
"Get dried off, get dressed, and get yourself out here to help me. Can you do that for me?" Dean wasn't sure just how bad Sam was, so he raised the thermostat anyway. He knew he'd have to try to make sure pneumonia wouldn't develop later, but right now he needed to judge the severity of the hypothermia. "Sammy?"
"I'm moving…. Just give me a minute. Alone. I don't need your help getting dressed."
"Sure thing, but if you're not out in five minutes, I'm coming in."
Sam made it out in four.
Dean had peeled off his shirt and laid out the supplies Sam would probably need. He'd sponged most of the dried blood off his chest to see how ragged the wound was. Dean handed Sam coffee.
Sam grasped the coffee mug to warm his hands before swallowing a generous amount. "Move your hands."
Dean winced as Sam began to prod to see how deep the damage was. "Looks like the bar went in right under the clavicle. I think your shoulder blade stopped it from going out the back. Can you move your arm at all?"
Dean rotated his left arm slowly; it burned like fire, but he could move it. "It doesn't seem to be broken, just really painful." Dean felt a bit of relief at that. If it was broken, they'd have to go to the hospital, and he vaguely remembered that St. Joseph's was in Killdeer, 40 miles away.
Sam poured peroxide onto a gauze pad and tried to clean the wound. Dean's right hand grasped the bedcovers, white-fisted. When Sam looked satisfied with the result, he pulled the suture kit towards him.
Dean looked askance at Sam, whose hands were still shaking. He knew Sam was going to crash hard, but he needed the hole in his shoulder closed up. He just hoped Sam's fine motor skills would last long enough. "Sam? How ya doing?"
Sam looked up at Dean through the bangs that had fallen forward making him look much younger. "I'm okay. Ready?"
At Dean's nod of acquiescence, Sam pierced the hole's edges and began drawing the flesh back together. He didn't want to rush, but he could feel his mind distancing himself from his body and knew he needed to hurry.
There. Dean's wound was closed and not a moment too soon. Sam's hands became heavy with fatigue and fell to his lap. He began to shiver and shake. Trying to stand, he stumbled backwards.
Dean lurched upright to catch Sam, easing him down onto his bed. He could feel his brother's body trembling. "All right, playtime's over. Get under the covers." Grasping Sam's right arm to ease him down, Dean discovered that his brother's fiberglass cast seemed to have weathered the involuntary immersion better than Sam himself had.
He jerked back the bed linens and forced a protesting Sam under them. By this time, Sam was rambling and practically incoherent. Dean had no idea what Sam was trying to tell him. Sam's breathing had become shallow, and his pulse was slow.
Dean didn't want to leave, but, from the looks of things, they were going to need some supplies, and there was the storm to think about. Placing a hand on his brother's shoulder,
Dean asked, "Will you be okay for a bit? I need to get us a few things."
At Sam's slow nod, Dean eased on his leather jacket. Thank God he had worn the other one to the gravesite. He checked his wallet for cash and opened the door. A world of whirling snow greeted his gaze. He was grateful that the market was only a couple hundred yards away. There was no way he could control the Impala on slippery roads with his shoulder hurting the way it was. Putting his head down against the wind, Dean shuffled through the new snow towards the beckoning lights.