Chapter 3
They arrived in Blue Earth, Minnesota shortly before midnight.
Dean sat tense and alert in the passenger seat of the Impala, his gaze fixed forward as the familiar scenery of the town slipped silently past in the inky darkness. Any relief he might have felt at finally reaching their destination was buried beneath exhaustion and pain.
He felt awful, his body slowly betraying him to weakness with every passing hour. He had tried to get some rest while Sam drove, knowing he would need all the strength he could muster, but it had been an effort in futility. As crappy as he felt, he was too tense, too wired, his body on constant alert for the next pain attack.
Twice more it had struck during the long drive, each time without warning. Pain so intense that it ripped him away from all form of conscious thought, leaving him hunched over in the front seat of the Impala, groaning in agony. Each time, as the pain would slowly start to fade away, he would look up to find the Impala parked on the side of the road and Sam kneeling at his side, his expression one of helpless anguish.
He had no sense of time while in the throes of the pain attacks, but instinct told him that each new one lasted slightly longer than the last, and when they were finally over he was left feeling drained and weaker than ever.
Seeing his misery, Sam would silently reach for the pain medicine, and Dean would take the proffered pills silently, not having the heart to tell his brother that they weren't doing the least bit of good. His fever was getting worse as well, and Dean knew that if things continued at the present rate, he would be of little to no use to his brother.
At least he'll have Bobby to back him up, Dean thought tiredly. The older hunter would be meeting up with them sometime in the morning. By that point in time, he and Sam should hopefully have already found the dagger.
If it's here, a small voice in the back of his mind taunted him, and Dean brutally pushed it away. Now was not the time for doubt and second-guessing.
"We're here," Sam stated softly, pulling Dean back to the present.
He bit his lip as the familiar stone building of the church came into view, its bank of stain-glass windows overlooking the parking lot and reflecting the Impala's lights as Sam pulled in and parked the car toward the back of the lot. He couldn't see Pastor Jim's house from here, located behind the church and down a short dirt road, but his mind's eye could still clearly picture it. The faded white clapboard siding, the front porch with its hanging swing, the cheerful glow of the kitchen lights as they spilled out into the yard, and Pastor Jim standing in the front door, a small smile on his face as he waited to welcome them.
Dean had to swallow hard against the sudden tightness in his chest. He had been eight when his father had first brought him here, and already distrustful of anybody that was not family. Especially when that person was a stranger that his father dumped him with after only a quick introduction and a hurried goodbye. Surprisingly, it hadn't taken long for Pastor Jim to win him over. There was something calming about the man, a gentleness of spirit that had filled Dean with a sense of peace that was otherwise lacking in his life. Pastor Jim cared for them without being overbearing, supporting them while still allowing them their freedom. He had understood Dean in a way few others ever had, and his kind acceptance of the boy struggling to become a man way too early had comforted Dean more than he had ever been able to admit. Jim's place had quickly become their safe harbor, a quiet port in the constant storm that was their lives. It was the place John would take them when it all became too much…the stress, the injuries, the grief. If there was anywhere on earth that Dean would have willingly called home, it would have been here.
"But all that is gone now," Dean thought sadly. Jim hadn't deserved what had happened to him.
To make matters worse, Dean had never really been given the opportunity to properly grieve for his old friend. When they had found out about Jim's death, the yellow eyed demon had been poised to strike again, and Dean had brutally forced away all emotion in order to focus on the upcoming battle. Then his father had been taken and possessed, setting off a chain reaction of events that had ultimately culminated in John's death. After that…well, Dean hadn't been able to think of much of anything besides the agonizing loss of his father and his own role in it all.
But now they were back at this place, and it was unsurprising that it was bringing forth a well of memories. Building a fort in Jim's back yard when he was eight; Teaching Sam to play poker on the small round table in the kitchen, a mound of M & M's in the middle serving as the chips; Sitting on Jim's front porch cleaning weapons while the old preacher read aloud from one of his many books. All these memories and more spilled through Dean's mind, bringing with it a heavy sense of nostalgia and loss.
He glanced over at Sam and knew his brother was caught up in similar thoughts, his gaze fixed on the old church through the front windshield, his expression sadly wistful. In the light reflected back from the stain-glass windows, Sam's eyes were shining suspcisuously bright.
"Let's go," Dean ordered, his voice coming out slightly gruffer than he had intended. Turning away from his brother he reached for the handle of the door, swinging it open and levering himself up and out of the car.
Immediately a wave of dizziness hit him, forcing him to reach out and grab the frame of the door in order to help steady himself in a world that was suddenly spinning. His stomach twisted nauseatingly, and he was glad it was empty except for the few crackers Sam had insisted he eat earlier. He could hear his heartbeat in the throb of his head, and he quickly closed his eyes and fought against the urge to pass out.
"Dean?" Sam's concerned voice sounded from right next to him, and he felt his brother's hand come to rest on his upper arm, helping to steady him. How Sam had managed to get out of the car and around to him so fast was beyond Dean.
It took a few moments before he felt safe to open his eyes again without the risk of falling over…or worse, puking on his brother. As soon as he was reasonably sure the world wasn't going to tip sideways on him again, he shrugged his shoulders slightly, cueing Sam that he could stand without his brother's aid. Sam let go of his arm, but his face was still tense with worry.
"I'm alright," Dean stated sincerely. "Just been sitting in the car for too long…got up too fast."
Sam nodded, but none of the worry left his face. "You haven't eaten much today, Dean. You need to get some more food in you."
Dean shrugged. "Later," was all he said. He didn't think he needed to mention to Sam that the fact he hadn't eaten much was the only reason his brother still had clean shoes at the moment.
Sam frowned, his mouth opening to undoubtedly press the issue, but Dean didn't give him a chance, brushing by his brother and heading toward the trunk. "You want to search the church or the house first?" he called back over his shoulder.
Sam's sigh was loud and obviously meant to convey his displeasure, but he let it go. "The church," he answered simply, stepping up beside Dean and using the key to open the trunk.
Dean nodded in approval. That had been his first choice as well. There were hidden rooms beneath the church that Jim and their father had used to store weapons, books, and other supernatural paraphernalia. Unlike Bobby, Jim had kept very little evidence of his secret life as a hunter inside his home, and for obvious reasons. As a well-known and respected member of the community, he'd had an almost constant stream of visitors coming by seeking either advice or some other service, and he had willingly opened his door to all of them.
"Even a couple of homeless strays dumped on his doorstep three days before Christmas," Dean thought sadly, the memories threatening to overwhelm him once again.
He found himself hoping they found the dagger inside the church, because he wasn't looking forward to visiting the house. The church held enough memories as it was, but if they had to go into the house, he wasn't sure he would be able to stand it. He was too tired, the mental barriers he kept tight over his emotions worn thin by exhaustion and pain.
Opening the secret compartment where they kept their weapons, Dean quickly ran his hands along the side of the enclosure until he found the small tear in the fabric that marked the location of the hidden key. Poking his fingers down into the tiny space, he breathed a sigh of relief when he felt the cool metal against his fingers. Grasping it, he pulled it free, glancing at it quickly before handing it over to his brother. Sam took it silently, frowning slightly as he examined it closely under the dim glow of the trunk's light.
"This doesn't look that old," Sam murmured, turning the key from side to side, "but it's definitely designed in an older style. It wouldn't fit your typical lock. There's some kind of motif etched on the end, but I can't quite make it out. It looks like a man…and some kind of animal…" Sam trailed off, leaning in closer and squinting at the key intently.
"We can figure it out inside," Dean urged, grabbing for a couple of flashlights before slamming the trunk closed. He glanced around, but the night was silent, the street empty of cars and the nearby houses dark and still.
Sam nodded, slipping the key into his pocket as they made their way quickly toward the church. Less than five minutes later they were inside the building, slipping past silent pews as they crept toward the front of the sanctuary. A large wooden door was located just past the pulpit next to the choir loft, and Dean confidently led the way through the entrance, flipping his flashlight on to illuminate the narrow stairs leading down into the basement.
A moment later they stepped into a large chamber, and Dean ran his flashlight in a quick sweep around the room. The room was roughly circular, with three giant stone statues nestled in alcoves spaced evenly in an arc around the perimeter. Wooden doors interspersed between the statues held plaques identifying various offices, including one that still bore the title "Pastor Jim Murphy."
Dean ignored those doors and headed straight for the statue directly across from the stairs, a stone effigy depicting the Virgin Mary with a naked babe cradled in one arm, a look of adoration gracing her stone features as she gazed down at the child. Reaching back into the alcove behind the statue, Dean ran practiced fingers over the stones there until he found what he was looking for. Releasing the hidden lever, he stepped back beside Sam and watched as the stone statue silently rolled forward and to one side, revealing a third wooden door hidden in the back of the alcove.
Exchanging a quick glance with his brother, Dean stepped forward and pushed open the door, revealing yet another set of stairs leading further down into inky darkness. The hidden rooms beneath the church had been put there by Jim's father, the original designer and architect of the old church. Jim had told them the rooms had been designed for use as some sort of emergency bunker, and their existence had never been recorded on the building's blueprints.
Dean moved onto the stairs, wrinkling his nose slightly at the smell of stale air and something metallic drifting up from below. He used his flashlight to illuminate the stairs in front of him, noting the layer of dust that covered each step and the cobwebs that clung to the walls. No one had been down here for quite some time, a fact that both reassured and somehow disturbed him at the same time.
The stairs descended for about fifteen feet before spilling out into a second, smaller chamber. Dean used his flashlight to locate the switch on the wall, then flipped the lights on, blinking rapidly as his eyes adjusted to the sudden brightness. Turning off his flashlight, he tucked it into his jacket pocket before stepping further into the room, Sam a step behind him.
The walls of this room were lined with various shelves and racks, each of them loaded with an assortment of knives, guns, and other armaments. Dean ran an appreciative gaze across the array of weapons, then suddenly froze as his eyes skimmed across a large dark stain marring the stones of the wall and floor on the far side of the room. Suddenly the source of the metallic smell clicked home for Dean and he had to swallow hard as the nausea from before returned with a vengeance.
A small gasp next to him told Dean that Sam had spotted the stain as well. He tore his gaze away from the dried pool of blood to look over at his brother. Sam's face was drained of color, and Dean could see his throat working convulsively as he stared toward the gruesome scene. This time it was Dean who reached out to place a supporting hand on his brother's shoulder, squeezing gently.
"This is where Caleb found him?" Sam whispered, his voice choked with emotion.
Dean sighed. "Looks like," he replied solemnly.
As if the evidence of Jim's violent death wasn't bad enough, Dean found his thoughts turning toward Caleb. He hadn't been as close to the man as John had been, but he had still worked several cases with the hunter and had liked and respected him. The knowledge that Caleb had died because of them was a bitter pill to swallow.
Taking a deep breath, Dean walled away all emotion and set his mind to the task at hand. "Come on, Sammy, let's start looking," He urged softly, turning his brother away from the scene with a gentle pressure on his shoulder. "We'll search out here first and then try the office."
Sam swallowed hard, and when he looked at Dean, his eyes were haunted. But a moment later his features hardened with determination, and he squared his shoulders, his attention turning to the shelves of weapons.
That a boy, Sammy
Dean purposefully took the side of the room with the blood stains, leaving Sam to search the other side. He didn't really expect to find the dagger here, out in the open with the other hunting supplies, but since they were here they might as well make a thorough search of it.
It took a little over half an hour to thoroughly search through the weapons, and when that turned up nothing, they both stepped as one toward the only other door in the small chamber.
This door led into a second, smaller room, set up as an office. A sturdy wooden desk sat near the center of the room, and the shelves lining the walls contained mostly books. Two large chests were tucked against the back wall, and a hutch with a glass front contained an assortment of items, including several small boxes, some ornate silver cups, a skull of some unidentified creature, black candles, and other random objects. The floor of the room was made up of hundreds of stone blocks, the names of saints and other holy symbols etched into many of them.
It's gotta be here, Dean thought to himself, his gaze sweeping around the cluttered room. He knew his father had spent countless hours holed up in this office researching hunts and writing in his journal. If John had been a child, Dean would have labeled this place his 'secret hideout.' If there was anywhere John would have felt safe hiding a dangerous relic, this would be it.
"You take the desk and hutch, and I'll check the trunks?" Sam suggested.
Dean nodded, already moving over toward the desk.
The next hour was spent in relative silence, the only sound in the small room their breathing and the rustle of objects being shifted and moved. Dean finished with the desk and moved over to the larger hutch, stumbling slightly as his vision momentarily blurred. He caught himself quickly, glancing over to see if Sam had noticed, but his brother was completely preoccupied with the contents of the trunks.
Dean wearily turned back to his task. They were coming up on nearly forty hours without sleep…unless you counted the time spent unconscious in the warehouse…and Dean was nearing the end of his rope. Any other time and forty hours would have been nothing…a minor inconvenience. But with the effects of the poison making him feel lousy, and the constant tension from waiting for another pain attack, he was having a bit more trouble.
He was also beginning to worry that he might have made a mistake bringing them here. He had felt so certain that this is where his father would have hidden the dagger, but he was nearly finished searching the hutch, Sam was down to the bottom of the second trunk, and they were quickly running out of places to look. There was still the house, but Dean had the strong suspicion that if they didn't find the dagger here, they wouldn't find it in the house either. And if they didn't find the dagger…
"I might have something," Sam suddenly called, pulling Dean from his dark thoughts. He turned to find his brother lifting a small wooden box from the bottom of the second trunk. "It takes a key," Sam stated, casting a quick glance at Dean, the hope in his face unmistakable.
Dean moved over to stand beside Sam where he knelt next to the trunks, rooting in his pocket for the key. Pulling it out, he pressed it into the small lock on the box. The key slid in, but only part way and Dean could tell immediately that it was too big for the box.
Sam swore harshly, slamming the box down on the stone floor, frustration and anger spilling off him in nearly visible waves. Dean arched one eyebrow, surprised at the display of temper. Sam was normally the cool headed one, but apparently exhaustion and worry were beginning to take their toll on him as well.
"It's a pretty simple lock, Sammy. Why don't you just pick it," Dean suggested softly.
Sam glared up at him. "What's the point," he said bitterly. "If the key doesn't fit, the dagger's not going to be in there."
Dean shrugged. "Let's search it anyway. 'No stone unturned' and all that…"
Sam sighed, his shoulders slumping slightly, but he pulled his lock pick set out of his pocket and began working on the box. Less than fifteen seconds later the lock snapped open, and Sam leaned over, lifting the lid. Dean couldn't see the contents past his brother, but he did see Sam suddenly stiffen, heard his small gasp of surprise.
"What is it?" he asked, kneeling swiftly and then closing his eyes to fight off another wave of dizziness. He made a quick mental note to stop making sudden moves. When he opened his eyes again, he found Sam staring at a small photograph held in one hand. Dean glanced at the photo and felt a flash of suprise. It was a picture of Sam and Jess.
The photo had been taken on a sunny day. Sam and his girlfriend were at the park, sitting on a blanket with the remains of a picnic spread out around them. Jessica was laughing, her head thrown back slightly, Sam leaning in close to her, the smile on his face bright and happy. It was a really good picture, made better somehow by the fact that neither of the subjects realized they were being photographed.
Dean glanced at Sam's face. His brother looked thunderstruck, his eyes glued to the photo as though he were unable to look away. Dean reached around and grabbed the box, pulling it forward so he could look at the rest of the contents.
The box held more photos, mostly of Sam and Dean when they were children. There were also several of Sam's report cards, as well as his high school diploma. Beneath the diploma was Sam's acceptance letter to Stanford, wrinkled and slightly torn. There were also things of Dean's in there. A paper target full of holes, a model airplane that had once been a favorite toy, and his old Swiss Army Knife.
"It's a memory box," Sam whispered, and Dean shot him a quick look. Sam had lowered the photo and was staring at the box, a look of awestruck wonderment on his face.
Dean had to admit he was feeling a little stunned himself. He had always thought his father didn't have a sentimental bone in his body, and yet this small box, loaded with memories, was telling a different story. He lifted the model airplane, fingering the cool metal of its wings before gently lowering it back down into the box.
"You want to keep that?" he asked, nodding toward the picture still clutched in Sam's hand.
Sam looked down at the photo, his expression unreadable. Slowly he reached out and placed the picture back in the box. "No," he stated softly. "I'll leave it where it belongs."
Dean nodded, closing the lid on the box and relocking it before replacing it in the trunk.
"Dean, the dagger's not here," Sam said, his tired eyes locking with Dean's, his tone taking on a defeated edge. "What happens if we can't find it?"
"We just have to keep looking, Sam," Dean replied, his own weariness evident in his voice. He started pushing himself upright. "We'll check the house, and then…"
Just as before, the pain hit without warning. One moment he was trying to encourage his brother not to give up, and the next he felt as if something was ripping into his body, intent on bringing his insides to the outside. The pain was unbearable, coursing through his body like a live current, momentarily blinding him and causing every muscle to clench. He felt himself falling forward, felt arms reach out to grab him, heard Sam calling his name, and then there was nothing but overwhelming agony, slowly sucking him down into a darkness he could not escape.
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This attack was worse than the others. Much worse.
Sam fought against his panic as he gripped Dean's convulsing body against his chest, muttering inane words of comfort that he was sure his brother couldn't even hear.
"It's okay, Dean," he babbled. "It's going to be okay. Just hold on, alright. Hold on. It will be over soon, I promise. Just hold on, Dean."
Dean cried out, his body arching against Sam's arms. Sam tightened his grip on his brother as Dean began thrashing, his booted feet scraping against the cold stone floor, his head rocking wildly against Sam's shoulder.
"It's okay," Sam repeated, voice catching as he felt the warmth of tears tracking down his cheeks. "It's okay."
Dean continued to struggle in his arms, every cry sending daggers through Sam's heart. He could feel his brother's racing heartbeat beneath his hand, the ragged gasp of every sawing breath, the clench of muscles so taut they were in danger of snapping.
He closed his eyes and prayed it would end soon.
After what seemed like ages, Dean's struggling eventually lessoned, his cries dying down to panting groans. He was still trembling violently, his eyes clenched tightly closed, but Sam knew the worst of the attack was over. He let out a shaky sigh of relief, but didn't loosen his grip on his brother. He could feel the warmth radiating from Dean's body and knew his fever had spiked up a few notches.
How much more of this can he take, he thought bleakly, pulling Dean's shuddering body even closer against him. This one had been bad…very bad, and it had lasted longer than the others. Sam remembered his brother's prediction that things were only going to get worse, and he had to choke down the wave of despair that threatened to overwhelm him.
The minutes ticked by, unnoticed and unheeded as Sam sat against the wall, his brother's back pulled against his chest, Dean's head resting on his shoulder. Eventually Dean shifted against him, pressing weakly against Sam's arms, and Sam immediately let him go. Dean clumsily pushed himself away, flopping back against the wall next to Sam.
"You okay?" Sam asked softly, watching as Dean let his head fall back against the stone wall behind him, eyes closed, face bathed in sweat and far too pale.
Dean swallowed, then gave a brief nod, his eyes still closed. Sam bit his lip and looked away, knowing Dean needed space right now to pull himself back together.
His gaze fell on a stone block at his feet that had been kicked loose from its place on the floor. He pushed himself away from the wall and slid over to the block, frowning down at the name scrawled across the stone in fancy lettering.
"Saint Hubertus," he muttered softly, trying to place the name, something niggling at the back of his mind.
"What was that?" Dean asked, and Sam glanced up to see his brother watching him from against the wall, eyes hooded with exhaustion and lingering pain.
"It's the name on the stone," Sam replied, glancing back down at the block. "Saint Hubertus. I don't know why, but it sounds familiar."
Dean let out a tired snort. "Well it should, geek boy. Saint Hubertus is the patron saint of hunters."
Sam's eyes widened as sudden recognition struck. An image suddenly filled his mind…a picture Pastor Jim had once shown him of Saint Hubertus, the saint standing in an open field holding a spear in one hand and a cross in the other, the shadowy form of a giant buck standing directly behind him.
In his mind, he could hear his father's sarcastic voice, "Patron Saint of Hunters, eh? Something tells me he probably doesn't cover our kind of hunting."
Then Pastor Jim's patient reply, "Oh, I wouldn't be too sure about that."
"That's it," Sam gasped, realization slamming home. He thrust his hand down into his coat pocket and pulled out the old key, leaning close to examine the image etched into its head. It was hard to make out, much of the image worn away by time, but he could still see the buck's antlers and the halo that surrounded Saint Hubertus' head.
He tore his gaze away from the key to stare down at the stone. It can't be…. Barely daring to hope, he reached out and gently pried the loose block the rest of the way free, lifting it and setting it carefully to one side. Leaning forward, he peered down into the hole left behind, gasping slightly at what he found. His eyes flew back up to meet Dean's curious gaze.
"It's a safe," he whispered.
Dean's eyes widened, and then he pushed himself forward, groaning slightly as he slid into place next to Sam. He peered down into the hole, then looked back up at Sam, the excitement on his face taking away some of the sick look. "Can you get it out?"
Sam nodded, already reaching down into the hole. There wasn't a lot of clearance, and the knuckles of his fingers scraped painfully against the rough stone, but he ignored the sharp sting and worked his fingers around the metal sides of the safe. Once he had a firm grip, he lifted the box carefully out, taking off a couple more chunks of skin from his fingers as he cleared the hole.
Please, please let this be it, Sam thought desperately as he reached for the key and pressed it into the lock on the top of the safe. It slid in smoothly, and when Sam twisted, the lock sprang open with an audible click. Sam met Dean's eyes over the top of the safe, excitement and apprehension warring equally within his stomach.
He reached down and pulled open the lid.
The dagger lay nestled safely inside on a strip of red cloth, the ruby on the hilt twinkling up at them in greeting.
Sam released a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding, the sound echoed from Dean beside him. Their gaze locked once more, and Sam knew the relief on Dean's face was mirrored on his own.
He looked back down at the dagger, reaching into the safe to grasp its jeweled hilt. As soon as his fingers touched the weapon, he gasped and drew his hand back quickly, eyes wide with surprise.
"What is it?" Dean asked, frowning at Sam in concern.
"It's cold," Sam replied, startled.
Dean rolled his eyes. "Well, it has been buried in a metal safe in the ground..."
Sam shook his head. "No, Dean. It's really cold. Like it's been sitting in ice or something."
Dean frowned at him, then reached into the box to feel the hilt for himself. His eyes widened slightly, and he let out a soft, "huh," before retracting his hand from the safe.
Sam reached back in and quickly wrapped the dagger in the red strip of cloth, then carefully withdrew it from the safe. He could still feel the unnatural cold of the thing even through a couple layers of cloth. He shuddered.
"Just be careful not to cut yourself," Dean warned, and it was Sam's turn to roll his eyes.
He placed the dagger on the floor next to him, then reached into his pocket for his phone, pulling it out along with the slip of paper with the Connley's number on it.
Dean arched an eyebrow at him. "Not wasting any time, are we?"
Sam shook his head. "It's time to end this," he stated forcefully, punching the number into his phone and hitting the dial button. He didn't particularly care if it was the early hours of the morning. The Connley's comfort wasn't exactly something he was concerned about at the moment.
The phone rang five times before the other line was picked up. Sam didn't bother with any greeting. "We have your damn dagger. Where do you want to meet?"
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The sun was just beginning to lighten the eastern sky when Bobby pulled into the parking lot of the Flying Goose motel, located twenty minutes south of Blue Earth. He spotted the Impala almost immediately, and pulled up beside it, grateful the parking lot was mostly empty. He swung out of his truck, heading straight for room six. He was just raising his fist to knock when the door swung open and Sam greeted him with a small smile.
"Hey Bobby," he whispered, then raised a quick finger to his lips.
Bobby stepped into the room, glancing past Sam to the bed where Dean lay sprawled out on his back, fully clothed but for his boots, his head buried under a mound of pillows.
Bobby felt a fond smile touch his lips, but it quickly faded when he turned back toward Sam. The younger man looked completely beat, dark bruises under his eyes and a slump to his shoulders that gave away his utter exhaustion. Bobby arched an eyebrow.
"You look like hell, boy," he growled, the force of his words undermined slightly by the fact that he had to whisper. "Did you get any sleep?"
Sam shrugged. "A couple of hours," he replied dismissively. "I've been trying to come up with a plan for when we meet up with the Connley's."
Bobby nodded, following Sam over to the small table in the far corner of the room where Sam had set up his laptop. "So how's Sleeping Beauty doing?" he asked, gesturing with his chin toward Dean's bed.
Sam's shoulders seemed to slump even more, and when he followed Bobby's gaze, his expression turned miserable. "It's been several hours since the last attack," he murmured, his hands clenching by his side. "If it follows pattern, the next one can't be too far away. They seem to be getting worse, Bobby, and he's been running a steady fever since yesterday morning. I've been giving him Tylenol, but I honestly don't think it's helping."
"Well, at least he's getting some sleep," Bobby offered. "That should help a bit."
Sam nodded, running a hand down his face as though trying to sweep the weariness away. "The Connley's want to meet in Omaha around six tonight. I tried to get them to move the meeting up, but they claimed that was the earliest they could get there. It's only about a four hour drive from here, but they won't give us the address of the meeting place until right before the meeting."
"They don't want us getting there first and scouting out the place," Bobby reasoned.
Sam grunted his agreement. "It's given us a chance to stop and rest, but in the meantime, Dean will keep getting worse…keep suffering." Sam's voice was strained, the look he cast toward the bed one of weary helplessness.
Bobby reached out and gripped the younger man's shoulder, drawing Sam's attention back to him. "Why don't you tell me about this plan?" he suggested.
Sam let out a long sigh. "It's not much. Kinda hard to plan anything without knowing where the meeting is going down. All I know is that getting the antidote is our first priority, but we can't let them escape with that dagger either."
"That's where I come in," Bobby stated firmly. "They'll be expecting you two. I can be your ace in the hole."
Sam nodded. "Yeah, that was what I was thinking. Dean and I can go in and make the trade, and you can wait outside to cut off their escape, keep them from bailing until we can back you up."
"It's a pretty basic plan," Bobby replied thoughtfully, then shrugged. "But I guess if there is one thing us hunters excel at, it's improvising."
"Keep it simple…wing it when you have to," Sam quoted with a small smile, using one of John's oft repeated sayings. His smile faded a moment later as his gaze flickered toward the bed. "There's something else we need to consider, Bobby. Dean might not be in any shape to help us with this fight. He's been pulling it together pretty good between the attacks, but he's wearing down fast. Who knows what shape he's going to be in by tonight."
Bobby had already considered this possibility. "All the more reason for us to make sure we're as rested up and sharp as possible," he stated, pinning the younger hunter with his sternest gaze. "We have several hours before we need to head out. Why don't you follow your brother's lead and catch a little more shut-eye. You look half dead on your feet, Sam."
Sam looked to be considering this when a sudden cry from across the room had both men jumping in startled surprise. Bobby whipped around toward the bed holding Dean, his eyes widening when he saw the young man thrashing around, his face contorted in pain, his hands wildly ripping at his chest and abdomen as though he was trying to pull something off of him.
The suddenness of the attack left Bobby momentarily stunned, until he was nearly bowled over by Sam as he charged past him, flinging himself down on the bed beside his brother and reaching for Dean's flailing arms. Bobby winced as another cry rang through the room, the sound filled with such agony that the older hunter felt his stomach clench.
"Bobby, help me," Sam cried out, still trying to grab hold of Dean's arms before he could do damage to himself.
Bobby hurried around to the other side of the bed, leaning over and capturing Dean's right arm and dragging it away from his chest, pressing it down into the mattress at the young man's side. Dean fought his hold with surprising strength, his cries rising in pitch. His eyes were open, but Bobby knew the lad wasn't seeing them, his gaze fixed on the ceiling, pupils blown wide.
"Easy, Dean. Easy." Sam chanted, and Bobby could tell the young man was trying to keep his voice calm and soothing, but the edge of panic was still there.
With his arms pinned at his sides, Dean began to thrash more wildly, bucking and struggling so violently that it took both hunters to hold him down on the bed. Dean's cries took on a strangled quality as the muscles in his neck bulged, his head pressing back into the pillows even as the rest of his body arched up off the bed.
Bobby was shocked at what he was witnessing. He had seen Dean hurt on more occasions than he cared to remember, but never had he witnessed anything like this. The raw anguish pouring from the young hunter was distressing to say the least. He had seen Dean handle any variety of injuries from broken bones to bloody gashes with a quiet stoicism, silently hiding his pain behind a wall of pure iron will. None of that was in evidence now, and Bobby was only too aware of the level of agony Dean had to be in.
"It will be over soon, Dean," Sam called out desperately. "Soon, I promise."
Bobby found himself praying the younger man was right. There was only a certain amount of pain a person could take before their body shut down, and Bobby knew that by all rights Dean should have been unconscious by now. The only explanation he could think of was that somehow the poison was keeping him from blacking out, and Bobby silently vowed that the sick sons of bitches who had done this to his boy would pay dearly for it.
After nearly ten minutes, Dean's cries turned into chocked sobs, and Bobby wasn't sure whether to feel relieved or not. His muscles were aching from holding Dean down, and he knew the younger man would have bruises on his arms and wrists when all was said and done.
"It's okay...it's okay," Sam chanted softly, the same mantra he had been repeating non-stop for the last ten minutes.
With a final shudder, Dean's body suddenly relaxed beneath their hold, the muscles that had been so tense a moment before becoming completely lax. The change was so abrupt that for a moment Bobby thought Dean must have finally passed out. He glanced toward the young man's face, surprised to find Dean's eyes were still open.
"Dean?" Sam called worriedly, releasing his brother's arm and leaning over him, one hand rising to cup the side of his brother's face in a tender gesture Dean would never have allowed if he'd been fully aware.
Bobby watched as Dean's gaze slowly tracked to his brother's face, his eyes still glassy with pain but showing an awareness that hadn't been there a moment before.
"Sammy?" Dean croaked, his voice coming out rough and ragged. "Please…please make it stop."
Bobby watched as Sam's face crumpled in the face of Dean's softly whispered plea. "I will, Dean. I promise. We're going to get you the antidote and then all this will be over. You just have to hold on. Just a little longer, Dean."
Dean stared at Sam's face intently for a moment and then gave a slight nod. "Don't feel so good…" he murmured, his eyes clenching closed for the first time since the whole ordeal had started. "Think I'm gonna be sick."
Sam reached behind him and grabbed for the trashcan as Bobby helped roll Dean to his side. Sam had barely gotten the can in place before Dean lifted his head and began to retch weakly. Bobby slipped onto the bed, lifting Dean's shoulders up and supporting the younger man as Dean continued to gag, bringing up the meager contents of his stomach. Sam held the trashcan with one hand, his other gripping Dean lightly on his shoulder.
When it was finally over, Bobby gently lowered Dean back to the bed while Sam removed the trashcan, heading into the bathroom. Dean peered up at Bobby groggily, apparently becoming aware of his presence for the first time.
"Bobby," he grunted softly, nodding his head in greeting before dropping his eyes self-consciously. "Glad you could make it. I take it you arrived in time for the show?"
Bobby let out a small huff. "Yep. Front row seat," he replied casually, reaching out and squeezing Dean's shoulder lightly. Then, to help ease some of the tension he added, "Why is it that every time I see you, you're in some sort of trouble?"
Dean looked up, giving him a ghost of a grin. "You know me…trouble's my middle name," he replied cheekily. Then he rolled his eyes toward the bathroom where Sam had disappeared and his gaze turned instantly serious. "You have to watch his back, Bobby." He whispered, voice low but intense.
Bobby grunted. "Kinda what I'm here for," he answered.
Watching out for Sam and Dean had taken high priority for him ever since John had been killed, and Bobby would have it no other way. Not that they needed him all that much. They were both so independent…or at least, dependent only on each other. When they did call for help, it usually signified something big.
Like Dean dying.
Sam suddenly re-appeared back beside the bed, a glass of water in one hand and a wet washcloth in the other. Dean began to struggle to sit up, and Bobby reached out to help him, piling pillows behind his back to help support him. Once Dean was upright, Sam wordlessly draped the wet washcloth across the back of his brother's neck. Dean shuddered slightly as the cool cloth came in contact with his hot skin, but he didn't complain. That is, until Sam tried to raise the glass to his lips.
"Dude, I can hold it myself," Dean grumbled, reaching out and grabbing the glass from Sam's hand.
Sam sighed, but didn't say anything, not even when Dean spilled some of the water across the bed-spread because his hands were shaking so badly. Dean took a long swallow from the glass, then lowered it slowly, eyeing Sam appraisingly.
"You look like crap, Sammy," he stated crisply, the harsh words covering the underlying tone of worry.
"Me?" Sam huffed incredulously. "You should see yourself, Dean. I'd bring you a mirror, but you'd probably cry."
Dean sighed, leaning back against the pillow and dragging a hand down his face. "Yeah," he grunted softly. "It's been a rough couple of days."
Sam let out a strangled laugh that sounded almost like a sob. "Yeah," he echoed quietly. "Yeah, it has." Their gazes locked, unspoken communication passing between them.
Bobby quietly moved away from the bed and over to the table, giving the boys at least the illusion of privacy. He sat down and fiddled with Sam's laptop, but his attention was still fully fixed on the scene taking place across the room.
With a weary sigh, Sam sat down on the edge of the bed next to his brother, his back against the headboard, his shoulder brushing against Dean's. "I don't know what to do, Dean." He admitted with a whisper, his head bowed and shoulders slumped. "I feel so useless. I just…I just wish there was something I could do to help you."
Bobby saw Dean's eyebrows arch in surprise. "You are doing something to help me, Sam." The older man contradicted, nudging his brother with his shoulder. "You found the dagger. Now we can make the trade for the antidote and all this will be over."
Sam nodded, head still bowed. "Yeah, but in the meantime…," he trailed off, lifting his head long enough to give Dean a look laden with misery.
Dean bit his lip and looked away, obviously unable to face the fear and helplessness in his little brother's gaze. "You could always get me some more Tylenol," he suggested with false cheerfulness, his fingers idly fiddling with a hole in his jeans.
Sam snorted. "Are they even doing any good?" he asked dryly, leveling his brother with a challenging stare, daring him to tell the truth.
Dean hesitated, peeking at Sam from the corner of one eye. "No, not really," he finally replied honestly, his eyes dropping down to his lap.
"That's what I thought," Sam replied with a sigh, defeat heavy in his tone. "I can't even do that much to help you."
Dean's head snapped up, and he turned slightly, leveling Sam with his firmest gaze. "Look Sam, I'll be okay. Seriously. We found the dagger and all this will be over soon. You'll get the antidote…I know you will. But it will be a lot harder if you go into this half dead with exhaustion. You want to help me?...then get some sleep."
Sam shook his head slightly. "I don't know if I could sleep even if I tried," he replied quietly.
"Well try," Dean ordered, then added more softly, "…for me?"
Sam bowed his head, obviously thinking, but eventually he looked back up and met Dean's gaze. "Alright," he murmured. "I'll try. Just…just don't go anywhere."
Dean rolled his eyes. "Well, I was thinking of going out for a jog, but since you insist…"
Sam elbowed his brother in the shoulder. "Shut up, Jerk," he grumbled, but there was the hint of a smile on his face.
"Bitch." Dean gave the customary reply.
SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS
It took less than five minutes before Sam was out, curled on his side facing Dean's bed, the worry and despair on his face slowly melting away in sleep.
Dean watched him sleep for a few moments, before struggling to maneuver himself out of bed. Bobby looked up from across the room, a small frown on his face, but Dean ignored him. No way was he sitting around in bed twiddling his thumbs while he waited for the next pain attack. He needed to be up…to be moving.
He walked across the room to his duffel bag, rooting around until he found some fresh clothes.
"I'm hitting the shower," he informed Bobby, fighting to keep his movements smooth and natural as he crossed the room, despite the shaking in his legs.
"Let me know if you need any help," Bobby huffed, and Dean paused, staring at the older hunter with arched eyebrows. Bobby scowled, and if Dean didn't know better, he would have sworn the other man blushed. "I ain't offering to give you a sponge bath," Bobby quickly clarified, "but if you need something…"
Dean laughed, genuine mirth temporarily loosening the tight knot of fear in his chest. "Whatever you say, old man." He quickly ducked into the bathroom and closed the door before Bobby could find something to throw at him.
The shower felt good, the hot water beating down on tired and sore muscles. Dean was a bit confused by the burgeoning bruises on his wrists and upper arms, but upon closer inspection, after making out the distinct imprint of fingers, he decided he'd rather not know.
He stayed in the shower until his legs began quavering and he was forced to sit down on the side of the tub for a few minutes to regain his strength. After slowly drying and dressing, he moved over to the sink to shave, grimacing at his reflection in the mirror and remembering his brother's earlier words to him. He really did look a wreck, his complexion pale and pasty, eyes heavy lidded and dull.
"Love the new look, Dean," he muttered at his reflection. "You'll be picking up girls in the bars in no time. They'll all be dying to take you home, tuck you in bed, feed you chicken soup, and mother you to death."
His reflection grinned back at him as an inner voice answered, Nah, that's what Sammy's for.
When he exited the bathroom it was to the strong aroma of coffee filling the room. Bobby had fired up the small pot located on the edge of the table and was currently pouring himself a cup of the black brew. Normally Dean would have helped himself to his own cup…or maybe two or three, but nausea had made itself his constant companion of late, and even the thought of coffee caused his stomach to clench painfully.
Instead, he walked over to the nightstand where he had left the glass of water Sam had brought him earlier, picking that up instead. He glanced down at his brother's sleeping form, and suddenly had to fight off the strong urge to reach down and smooth the long bangs back from Sam's forehead just as he had done when Sam was a child.
"I think he'll sleep for a while," Bobby stated quietly from across the room. "He was pretty beat."
Dean looked up and nodded, moving away from the bed to join Bobby at the table, slipping wearily down into the second chair. "The last couple of days have been pretty rough on him."
Bobby grunted. "Only on him, huh?"
Dean gave the older hunter a sardonic grin. "Yeah, it's been a real party. But all things considered, I guess I'm pretty lucky."
"Lucky?" Bobby echoed incredulously. "Not exactly the term I would use to describe all this."
Dean shrugged. "I don't know, Bobby. The pain attacks are…intense." That's an understatement. "But they only hit about every four hours and they don't last all that long…"
"Long enough," Bobby muttered softly, giving Dean a pointed look.
"Yeah," Dean coughed, shifting self-consciously in his chair, his hand absently rising to rub at the marks on his arm, hidden beneath his long sleeve shirt. He didn't really want to think about what Bobby had witnessed. "All I'm saying is, things could be a lot worse. I could be lying on the bed twitching and foaming at the mouth about now. At least this way I'm still functioning, still able to be of use."
Bobby grunted. "Silver lining, huh?" he asked.
Dean shrugged. "Something like that." He quickly changed the subject. "So tell me, what kind of plan did you and Sammy come up with while I was asleep?"
Bobby took a deep swallow of his coffee before answering. "You and Sam go in to make the trade, I position myself outside to cut off the Connley's retreat. Basically, we catch the bad guys in the middle…take 'em down."
Dean raised one eyebrow. "So we're keeping it simple and improvising if necessary," he summed it up.
"Yup," Bobby confirmed, smiling slightly as he took another sip of his coffee.
"Hey, that's fine with me," Dean replied. "I like my plans simple. It's Sammy that likes to get complicated."
Bobby snorted. "I think your brother's simply focused on getting that antidote…he's not thinking much beyond that at the moment."
Dean nodded. "Yeah, well, speaking of which…what are we planning on doing with the Connley's after we capture them and take away their little toy? Since we can't kill them or anything…" He added sardonically.
"Your brother's right about that, Dean," Bobby replied quietly. "Trust me, it would be only too easy to kill these bastards, but to do it we would have to cross a line that, once crossed, cannot be uncrossed."
"That's nice sentiment, Bobby," Dean argued, but it doesn't solve the problem. "I told Sam before and I'll say it again…there is no way I'm just letting these guys walk away."
Bobby shook his head. "We won't have to," he reassured. "I've been thinking about this, and I think I know how we can handle the Connley's…make sure they don't hurt anyone ever again."
"Yeah?" Dean replied, inviting Bobby to explain.
"I have a contact down in Mexico…a man whose family I once saved from a Black Dog. He runs a prison in a small town just over the border. If we can get the Connley's to him, he can make sure they stay locked up for the rest of their lives."
Dean pursed his lips and frowned. "And three white men in a Mexican prison aren't going to raise any flags?" he asked doubtfully.
Bobby shrugged. "Sure they will, but that's what's so great about Mexico. You put the right forged documents in the right hands, along with a little bribe, and everything is suddenly taken care of. It might not be ideal, but as long as it gets the job done…"
Dean nodded, willing to concede that Bobby's plan might just work. It was certainly better than anything he could come up with.
"So, we just hang out here for another couple of hours…let Sam get some sleep, then head down to Omaha for the exchange," he summed up, glancing over at the clock and noting that it was nearing 8:30. He did some quick mental math.
"That's the plan," Bobby agreed, his face softening as he sensed the direction of Dean's thoughts. "You said the attacks hit you every four hours?"
Dean gave a short nod of his head, feeling his stomach slowly begin to churn.
"Right," Bobby muttered, and Dean could see that the older man was doing his own quick math calculations.
Two more attacks. That's what he would have to endure before the meeting with the Connley's. He tried to tell himself that it would be no problem…that two more attacks was nothing. It's just pain, he thought dismissively. Pain you know. Pain you can deal with.
But deep down, he knew it was a lie. This pain was unlike any he had ever experienced before. It attacked without warning, fierce and overwhelming, robbing him of all conscious thought. And the truth was, thought had always been Dean's greatest line of defense when hurting.
Hide it so that Sammy won't worry. Hide it so that Dad will know I'm strong enough.
With this pain, there was no hiding it…no thought at all except to somehow survive it. And though it only lasted minutes, for Dean, trapped in the agony, it seemed more like hours. It had been bad at the beginning, but each consecutive attack seemed to get worse, and Dean honestly wasn't sure how much more he could take without going mad.
The waiting was almost as bad as the pain…knowing it was coming for him and knowing there was absolutely nothing he could do about it, nothing he could do to prepare for it. It was pure torture, and the truth was, Dean was terrified.
Bobby did his best to help distract him. They talked about the plan, discussing different possible scenarios and what their reactions would be. Dean showed Bobby the dagger, pulling it from Sam's coat pocket and letting the other hunter feel for himself the unnatural cold that blanketed the blade. They talked about old hunts and new hunters, about weapons and exorcisms, monsters and demons. They even discussed the possibility of Bobby getting a new dog to replace Rumsfeld.
Through it all, Sam slept, his exhaustion so deep that he didn't so much as twitch, even when Dean laughed out loud upon learning that Bobby had tried to get a new dog, but had been forced to get rid of it when the mutt had developed the annoying habit of peeing on his boots every time he stepped out of the house.
Time slipped by, all too quickly in Dean's estimation, and when the clock neared 11:00, he found himself unable to sit still any longer, rising from the table to pace the room. His hands were sweating, his throat dry, heart pounding in an ever increasing tempo inside his chest.
Get a hold of yourself, Winchester, he berated himself scornfully, disgusted with his weakness. He was glad Sam was sleeping so he wouldn't have to witness how pathetic his brother had become. He found himself wishing he had a six pack, or better yet, some strong whisky so he could drink himself numb. Unfortunately, he didn't think his stomach could handle liquor at the moment.
Bobby had fallen silent, watching quietly from the table as Dean paced. Finally, he broke the silence.
"You told Sam the pain pills didn't help?" he said slowly, his tone making it more of a question than a statement, his expression thoughtful.
Dean paused and turned to look at him, nodding his head once in confirmation.
"Well, what if we try giving you something stronger?" Bobby suggested quietly, "something that might at least take the edge off?"
Dean cocked an eyebrow. "Like what? I don't think I can handle whisky right now, Bobby, if that's what you're thinking. You've already seen me toss my cookies once today, I don't think you want a repeat performance."
Bobby shook his head. "Not whisky," he replied simply, "morphine."
Dean felt his eyes widen in surprise. "Morphine?" he repeated dumbly.
Bobby nodded. "I have some in my medical kit in the truck."
Dean stared at the older hunter, his mind whirring. Normally he avoided morphine at all costs, not really liking how the drug made him feel…all itchy and loopy. Still, he couldn't deny the flare of interest that flashed through him at the suggestion. The morphine would help relax him, keep him calm, and when the next attack came, it might just help with the pain as well.
"Yeah, okay," he agreed slowly. "That might just help, Bobby."
Bobby shrugged, rising from the table and heading toward the door. "The way I see it…it can't hurt," he replied.
Dean watched him go, suddenly anxious for the drug, needing it in a way he rarely allowed himself to need anything. He bit his lip and glanced toward his sleeping brother, wondering briefly what Sam would have to say about it. He wasn't physically injured…he had no broken bones or gaping lacerations…but that didn't mean the pain wasn't still very real, and he couldn't imagine Sam would deny him any chance to find some relief.
Bobby came back in the room and carried his medical bag over to the table. Dean followed, watching as Bobby removed a sealed package in the shape of a thick syringe from the top of the bag.
"This stuff will be out of my system before tonight, right?" he asked, voicing his only remaining concern. He was determined to be awake and alert for the meeting with the Connley's. Nothing was going to stop him from being there to back up his brother.
"Should be," Bobby assured him. "This is an auto-injector with a set dosage. It's not that high. A few hours in Wonderland, and you should be fine."
Dean nodded, his decision made. "Hit me," he ordered, holding his arm out and pushing the sleeve of his shirt up past his elbow.
Bobby unwrapped the auto-injector, then grabbed Dean's wrist, holding his arm steady as he placed the syringe over the soft flesh in the crook of his arm.
"What are you doing?" Sam's voice suddenly rang out, and Bobby paused with his finger over the button.
Dean shot a glance behind him to find Sam sitting up in the bed, watching them with wide eyes.
"It's morphine, Sam," Dean explained softly. "We think it might help."
Sam's eyes widened slightly, and Dean saw his brother's gaze skip to the clock on the bedside table, before flying back to Dean in realization. A brief frown of concern crossed his face, but was almost instantly replaced with a look of eagerness. "You really think it will help?" he asked, swinging his legs over the side of the bed, the hope in his voice almost painful in its intensity.
"Only one way to find out," Dean replied, turning back to Bobby and nodding at the older hunter to proceed. Bobby pressed the injector button, and Dean felt the brief sting as the needle slid into his skin, followed by a slight burning sensation as the medicine was injected.
Sam rose from the bed and came over to stand next to him, and Dean gave his brother a small smile. "If I start trying to sing karaoke, just knock me out, will ya?" he instructed wryly.
Sam grinned. "Ahh, but you do Celine Dion so well, Dean."
Dean shuddered in horror. "Maybe this wasn't such a good idea…"
But a few minutes later Dean was sure it had been a good idea…a very good idea. Muscles that had been tense for what seemed like ages finally began to loosen, and the ball of fear that had taken up residence in his stomach slowly began to fade. A sleepy lethargy settled over him, and he didn't fight it when Sam guided him back over to the bed and helped him lie down.
"Relax, Dean," Sam urged, pulling the blanket off his own bed and draping it across Dean's lap.
The blanket was still warm from Sam's body heat, and Dean snuggled down beneath it contentedly, grinning dopily up at his brother. "You'd make a good mother, Sam, you know that?" he mumbled, settling back against the pillows with a comfortable sigh.
Sam rolled his eyes, his expression a mixture of tolerant amusement. "Just try to rest," he ordered dryly, before turning away.
Dean watched from the bed as Bobby and Sam moved around the room, collecting their few belongings and packing them away in preparation for their departure. He felt more relaxed than he had in a very long time, and was suddenly overcome by a wave of affection for their grizzled old hunter friend.
"Bobby, your amazing," he called from the bed, frowning slightly as the words came out sounding slightly slurred. Then he shrugged it away.
Bobby cast him a glance, shaking his head ruefully.
"Seriously," Dean pushed, though the word came out sounding more like "sersly." He decided he needed to prove his affection with a hug, and began struggling to sit up. Sam hurried over, pushing him back down to the bed with ease.
"Stay put, Dean," he ordered sternly, though he was grinning from ear to ear. "You can hug Bobby later."
"The hell he can," Bobby growled from across the room.
Dean sank back into the soft bed, wanting to ask his brother why his eyeballs felt so heavy, but losing track of the thought before he could get the words out. He closed his eyes, deciding a nap would be a good idea.
This time when the pain hit, Dean felt as though his body had been doused in oil and lit on fire. He threw his head back and tried to scream, but the only sound that came out was a gurgling cry as his vocal chords ignited in flame. He tried to flail away, to escape the heat and searing pain, but his body refused to move. No, no, NO! His mind cried in denial, his eyes flying open as he sought some sort of escape.
A fire demon stood before him, grinning cruelly as it reached out to caress him with a flaming hand. Dean did scream this time, the demon's touch doubling the agonizing torrents of agony already encompassing him. The fire demon laughed, the sound sending spikes of fear through his tortured body. He swore he could feel his skin melting, dripping off his bones like wax from a hot candle.
The demon reached out a second time, and Dean screamed again, arching away from the searing touch, choking and coughing on the smoke rising from his ruined body. He twisted and writhed, but could find no escape, no relief. The demon's laughter filled his ears, smoke and flame surrounded him, and Dean could do nothing but scream.
Scream, and beg for death.
TBC
Hope you enjoyed. Let me know your thoughts…