AN: Thank you to everyone who has read and/or reviewed these chapters, especially LilyBolt, Dreamsnake, and writingtrainingwheels. I really appreciate the feedback. Also I apologize that my section break markers seemed to have disappeared. I'll try to fix that in the other chapters. In this story I dip my toe for the first time into a casefic. Hopefully it turned out... I have 3 more birthdays after this one and it only seems to get bumpier for the brother from here.
January 24, 1999
"Now Dean, I want you and Sam to take care of this tonight. That ghost is escalating and it's only a matter of time before someone gets killed." Dean listened to his father's instructions with a barely stifled groan. He had wanted to have a burger with Sammy, then visit the local bar, use his fake ID to it's fullest extent and maybe get lucky with that hot redheaded waitress he had seen there last week. But, it looked like celebrating his birthday was just going to have to wait. As if he could read his son's mind, Dean heard his father sigh heavily. "I know it's your birthday son, but there's a job to do and I won't be back for another few days."
"I understand Dad," Dean reassured his father. Sure it would have been fun to blow off some steam tonight, but saving people was way more important. "I've got this," Dean confirmed.
"No Dean, both of you - this is a two man job. I don't want you going alone. Tell Sam he's to be your backup. The two of can handle this together," Dad ordered. Now it was Dean's turn to sigh. He knew Sammy was going to be pissed. He had some sort of big exam tomorrow and the last thing his little brother was gonna want to do was spend the night lurking in a decrepit house hunting a spirit. "Dean, I'm serious. You take Sam with you. I don't care what book he's knee deep into, this is more important. Do I make myself clear?" His father's tone brooked no debate.
"Yes sir." Dean replied promptly, already mentally working out how best to convince Sam.
"I'm counting on you son," his father said before ending the call.
Dean hung up the receiver and stood for a few minutes, girding himself for the fight that he could almost smell was coming. Sam was not going to be happy to have his study plans cancelled. With a calming breath, Dean turned to look at his little brother. Only a few months away from 16 and Sam had finally began to grow. The damn kid had shot up like crazy over the last few months and now was only a few inches shorter than Dean himself. Sam was hunched over the little table in the kitchenette of the motel room. His too long hair was obscuring his face, but Dean could tell from the tension in the slim shoulders that Sam had overheard his part of the conversation and had a good inkling about what his father had commanded.
Sliding into the kitchen chair opposite Sam, Dean picked up the warming beer he had been drinking when their father had called. He sat sipping it in silence, watching Sam as the younger Winchester ran his finger down the page of a textbook while scrawling a few words into the notebook in front of him. Dean saw his brother clench his jaw, then suddenly Sam put his pen into the book and slammed it shut. "What did Dad want Dean?," Sam gritted out, bitchface already firmly in place.
"Uh, he wants us to take care of a ghost at the old Carty place over on Sycamore. Apparently the youngest son just died a couple of weeks ago and the house and contents are being put up for auction. Dad figures all the activity woke up the spirit of old Abigail Carty the matriarch of the family and people are getting hurt. So far, a gardener "accidentally" fell on his shears four days ago and yesterday a guy from the auction house almost got his skull bashed in by a flying chair." Dean figured if he spilled it all out at once, Sam might be interested enough in the facts of the case and forget to argue.
Sam scowled harder. "Dean," he whined, "I've got my chemistry make-up exam tomorrow. You know, the one my teacher generously arranged for me to re-take because I missed the first one. Because we were hunting that poltergeist," Sam snarked, then sighed and dragged his fingers through his shaggy hair. "I can't miss this test and I need to study for it." Sam stared at Dean with those damn puppy eyes.
Guilt slammed into Dean like a bullet. Sam had missed that exam because Dean screwed up. He was supposed to be covering Sam, but the poltergeist had got past him and tossed Sam into a wall, hard enough to knock the kid out and give him a bad concussion. Dad had been pissed. That had been just after Christmas and it had only been a couple of weeks since Sam's head had stopped hurting enough for him to read.
Dean didn't care about school for himself, having dropped out a few months before turning 19. Sam didn't need him to look out for him at school by that point and Dad required his help hunting on a more full time basis. So Dean got his GED and called an end to his academic career. But just because he wasn't a scholar himself didn't mean he wasn't proud of Sam's great grades. He knew how important school was to his brother. Firmly stuck between defying his father's orders or upsetting his baby brother, Dean struggled to find a solution.
"Well, how about you come to the library with me and help me do research for a little bit? You can bring your books with you and get some studying done while I sort out the details of the Carty family." Dean could see Sam waver. The lure of the library was always a strong draw, and by bringing Sam, Dean would have more time to work on finding a way to keep both his brother and his father happy. "C'mon Sam, I'll even spring for lunch first then you can spend all afternoon getting your geek on," Dean wheedled. Sam laughed and Dean breathed a sigh of relief knowing that he'd won this battle.
ooooooo
Sam sat at the large wooden table across from Dean, his school books were spread, but he was focused on the research for the hunt, just as Dean had hoped. Sam had pulled up a website on the history of the town. Apparently the Carty family was one of the founding families of this little burg, and had lived in the big manor house on Sycamore Street since the early 1800's. The most recent and last residents had been Abigail Carty and her sons. The eldest son, Desmond Carty had died overseas way back in WWII, and Abigail herself had passed nine years ago at the advanced age of 86. She had died from a bloody fall down the stairs. Until his recent heart attack and death, her youngest son Bower Carty had lived in the house with her his whole life.
"Get this Dean," Sam said as he waved a handful of print-outs. "It says that Abigail was totally devoted to her sons. I bet that she stayed for him, and him living in the house kept her spirit on an even keel. Until he died, which is when she started getting agitated. It says in this clipping, that she was cremated, so there must still be some remains in the house." Dean rolled his eyes but smothered a smile. Sam was such a geek. It was nice to see his baby brother happy instead of sulky and grumpy, but only Sam could get enthusiastic about ancient history. Still, from what Dean had read himself it sounded like Sam's theory was on the money.
"Sure Sammy, sounds about right. So how about we load up and head over to the house and gank this old bitch's ghostly ass?" Dean let the front legs of the chair he had been balancing in, slam to the wooden floor, drawing a sharp look from the librarian. Sam tucked the sheaf of paper into the crease of his chemistry textbook and slowly gathered his school work into his bag. Dean had to admit, it been a pleasant afternoon spent hanging out with his kid brother, but he was starting to feel that slow build of anticipation he got every time they prepped for a hunt. Slinging his worn leather jacket over his shoulders, Dean made his way to the exit, meeting the disapproving look of the librarian with his most lascivious grin and a wink.
As he drew near to the black sleekness of the Impala, Dean felt a swell of pride. Dad had given her to him a couple of years ago. Knowing that she was now all his never failed to bring a genuine smile to his face, no matter how often he saw his Baby's gleaming lines. But his happiness was short lived since he could sense Sam slinking along behind him. After a lifetime of reading Sam's moods, Dean didn't have to look at his brother to know that the kid was getting pouty. Obviously Sam had something he had to say. Suppressing a weary sigh, Dean stopped short and turned towards the shaggy haired teen.
"What Sam?," he said, bracing himself for the emo onslaught.
"Look Dean, it's your birthday. You should be able to do what you want, instead of following Dad's orders," Sammy grumbled.
Dean let the sigh pass through his lips loudly. "Geez Sam, I don't mind. The bar will still be there tomorrow. Besides," he said rubbing his hands together gleefully "What better way to celebrate than salting and burning an evil son of a bitch with my baby brother."
Sam stopped with his hand on the passenger door, facing Dean over the roof of the car. "I told you Dean, I'm not going. I have to study."
Closing the driver's door that he had begun to pull open, Dean hung his head in frustration before giving his brother a cut-me-a-break look. "Come on Sam! It's a two man job, Dad said.." Sam cut him off throwing his hands in the air dramatically.
"No! I don't care what Dad said. Maybe you have no problem giving up your plans to jump and salute whenever he orders you to, but I'm sick and tired of it." Sam's face was beginning to flush red with anger and he had raised his voice, tossing his hair back from his eyes.
Dean was getting pissed now. "Stop making this into something it isn't," he shouted. Closing his eyes for a second, he made an effort to lower his voice despite the deserted parking lot. "Look, Dad's not doing this to spoil my day Sam, people are in danger and there's a job to do." Why couldn't Sam get it? Hunting things, saving people was important, their job made a difference. And, Dean was good at it. Hell, he even enjoyed it. But he was sick and tired of feeling like he had to apologize for taking pride in his life's work. "Now get in the damn car," Dean shouted again, his temper rising.
"No Dean. If you want to go spend your birthday in a moldy old house with a twisted spirit, be my guest, but I'm not going to waste my time." Sam's eyes were flashing and his most stubborn bitchface was firmly in place. Dean was furious. Jesus Christ why did the kid have to argue about every fucking thing! Dean was done.
"Fine! If your fucking homework is more important than backing me up, then I wouldn't want to waste your precious time Princess. You can fucking walk back to the motel - I've got work to do!" Dean wrenched the driver's door open and jumped into the car. Cranking the engine, he peeled out of the parking lot, leaving Sam standing there with books in his arms and a stunned expression on his face.
Dean wasn't more than 5 minutes down the road before he felt bad. He shouldn't have left Sam there like that. Sure it was only about a fifteen minute walk back to the motel, but he didn't like the idea of his brother being alone. Then Dean shook his head, being firm with himself. The kid will be fine. Although the early twilight of the short January days meant that it was dark out, it was barely even 7:00 pm. Sam would be back at the motel room in no time. Besides, Sam would be 16 in a few months, he wasn't exactly a helpless kid anymore, he could handle himself. Dean gritted his teeth in indecision. Should he circle back and check up on Sam, or drive over to Sycamore and start caseing the house? He scrubbed a hand down his face. He was so tired of Sam's attitude. Screw it, Sam would be fine and the ghost won't gank itself.
ooooooo
Sam hoisted his bag higher on his shoulder as he watched the Impala disappear around the corner. It took him a minute to realize that Dean had really left him there! At first Sam didn't know whether to be shocked or angry, but angry easily won out. In fact it seems to be his default setting lately although normally his anger and frustration wasn't normally pointed in Dean's direction. Stuffing the books he held into his bag, Sam turned on his heel and headed in the direction of the motel. "Fine," he thought, "I don't need a babysitter, just to get back to the room." His raging temper and his long legs made short work of the walk and soon he was opening the door to their room. He flung his bag full of books and papers onto the little formica table. Still fuming, he pulled out his Chemistry book, determined to get back to his studying.
A few hours later and Sam's rumbling stomach roused him from the molecules, reactions and elements. He checked his watch and wondered how Dean was doing. Now that he had calmed down, Sam felt bad about how he had acted. It was Dean's birthday after all, maybe he shouldn't have been so bitchy. He felt a stronger twinge of guilt. If Dad felt that the ghost was a two person job, maybe Dean really did need the help. Chewing on his bottom lip in indecision, Sam considered his options. He could stay and wait for Dean - his big brother really could handle himself. Or, he could try and get over to the old Carty house, but it was across the small town and he didn't have any means of transportation other than his own two feet. By the time he made it over there, Dean would likely have the hunt done and be off to the bar.
With no way to reach Dean, Sam figured he'd better stay here. His stomach rumbled again and he went to the fridge to fix himself a sandwich. Taking his PB&J back to the table with a glass of water, he pushed his chemistry notes out of the way. As he chewed Sam idly looked over the pages he had printed about the Carty family. One of the documents he had only skimmed at the library was a newspaper article about Abigail Carty's life that was published when she'd died in 1990. As he ate he read through the article. It was the usual sort of thing, who her parents were, how she had grown up, etc. Suddenly Sam choked on his bite of sandwich. He grabbed his water, but something more than food felt stuck in his throat. He re-read the paragraph he'd just finished.
"Despite rumours of Desmond's bad behaviour and violent temper, Abigail was unusually close with her oldest son. When he was killed in August of 1944, Abigail was distraught and went into deep mourning. The family arranged to have Desmond's remains returned home and interred locally in the Carty family plot next to his father at Pinegrove cemetery. For the rest of her life Mrs. Carty wore black and her most prized possession was an ornate brooch containing a lock of Desmond's hair."
"Shit!," thought Sam. A troubled soul, killed violently with physical remains that could still be in the house. Dean might not be dealing with just the ghost of a little old lady, he might have the decades old vengeful spirit of a soldier on his hands too. Pushing back from the table, Sam dumped his books from his school bag and pulled a shotgun loaded with rock salt from the spare weapons under Dad's bed. He tossed in a flashlight, some lighter fluid and a canister of salt. Then he grabbed his jacket and keys and headed out the door. Maybe he was wrong, but he'd better at least let Dean know to be on the lookout for two ghosts, not one.
Sam set off at a fast jog back towards the main street. He could run the whole way across town if he had to, but he was looking for an easy car to steal. Generally a Winchester would never steal a car in a town that they were going to be staying in for a while, but Sam was desperate. A bad feeling was gnawing at the edges of his thoughts. It was probably ridiculous, caused just by reading that stupid article, but Sam couldn't shake the feeling that Dean was in trouble. Pausing to look around, he spotted a bicycle leaning up against the garage of a house. Silently, Sam crept up the driveway and liberated the 10 speed, careful to avoid being seen. He pedaled purposefully towards the Carty house.
ooooooo
Dean checked his watch. The young hunter crumpled up the wrapper of his sandwich and tucked it into his now empty coffee cup. He'd done a quick circuit of the exterior of the house, then grabbed some food and come back to sit in the car waiting patiently for the neighbourhood to quiet down. Now, it was just after 9:00 pm, but it was overcast and the waning crescent moon meant that was a very dark night. Figuring he'd need a lot of time to find what was tying old Abigail to the house, Dean decided to get moving. Like a key sliding into place, Dean felt himself lock into the laser focus hunter he had been trained to be. Grabbing his bag of weapons and supplies from the trunk of the car, he drifted through the darkness towards his objective.
The Carty place was a stately home surrounded by a fancy wrought iron fence and shadowed by a number of mature trees. Not big enough to be called a mansion, it still was a big house, tucked back from the street and the neighbouring houses at the end of Sycamore. A single porch light was burning, perhaps as a haphazard attempt at preventing theft, but the rest of the house and grounds were pitch black, just a looming shadow a shade darker than the night itself.
Dean made his way quietly towards the back porch. This part of the house was the farthest from the other homes on the street, and a perfect point of entry. With an efficiency that came from hours and hours of practice under Dad's critical eye, Dean was able to pick the lock blind, only turning on his flashlight once he was inside the stately building. His soundless steps took him down the hall and away from the windows. Since he had no idea exactly what was tying the ghost to the house, he had a lot of searching ahead of him. Briefly Dean wished that Sam was with him, but he pushed that thought away and pulled the door to the basement open. Lots of things get hidden in a basement, so with heightened stealth, Dean made his way down.
Almost an hour later and Dean was dusty, sweaty and frustrated. He had scoured every inch of the tidy stone basement and found nothing unexpected. Old lady Carty's ghost hadn't shown either. Now, he had just about finished sweeping the main floor, being careful to keep his light shielded, and hadn't found anything either. Most of the furniture had been draped in sheets and the majority of the smaller household items had been removed for auction. There was a large portrait of the Abigail and her sons above the fireplace, but there wasn't anything hinky about it that Dean could see. His EMF didn't so much as blip when he waved it over the painting. Making his way to the foyer and the grand curving staircase that led to the top floor, he remembered Sam telling him that the old lady had fallen down these stairs to her death. Stooping to shine his flashlight more clearly on the hardwood floor, Dean noticed a change in the sheen of the floorboards. It was obvious that there had been a rug of some kind removed from the bottom of the staircase. Perhaps blood had soaked into it from Abigail's body - and if it was still in the house, it could be the remains he was looking for.
Dean had just started up the stairs when a gust of icy wind blasted him. The translucent image of an older woman hovered at the top of the steps. Raising his shotgun, Dean prepared to blast her away. But Mrs. Carty's ghost paid him zero attention, she simply stepped through the railing and drifted lazily to the ground floor below. Gliding down the hall, the incorporeal form turned the corner and out of sight. Dean huffed out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding and continued up the stairs.
There were a number of doors leading off from the upstairs landing, but only one of them was closed, so Dean brought up the shotgun again and gingerly turned the knob. The door creaked open, revealing a large bedroom that seemed frozen in time. There was a double bed with a metal frame and a dusty coverlet, a large fireplace with a couple of wing backed chairs and a wall of shelves with a variety of sporting memorabilia from the early 1940's on display. Sitting propped up against the far wall was a small rolled up rug. "Yahtzee," thought Dean as he moved farther into the room.
He dropped his weapons bag and put his shotgun on one of the chairs within easy reach. The rug looked to be too big to stuff into the fireplace, and Dean didn't want to set the whole house on fire by setting it aflame right on the hardwood floor. Dragging over the rug, he carefully unrolled it. A modest bloodstain marked one corner of the rug. The young hunter pulled a knife out of his bag and carefully began cutting off the stained corner. With his green eyes focused on the task of sawing through the tough carpet fibers, Dean didn't see the ghostly figure coalescing behind him until the bedroom door slammed with a loud bang. Whipping around with reflexes honed by years of training, Dean had his gun in hand ready to blast the ghost. The figure wasn't Abigail Carty as he expected, but rather that of a handsome young man of about 20 or so dressed in a military uniform. Dean recognized Desmond Carty from the painting downstairs. Desmond's spirit flickered and re-formed, this time the luminescent body was missing a leg which was dripping ghostly blood past the protruding bone. The spirit's hands were clutching what Dean thought was a rope, but realized were actually Desmond's own entrails. The ghost soldier opened it's mouth, but Dean felt rather than heard the angry shout of "Mother" as the temperature in the room plummeted by a good 15 degrees.
The ghost of Abigail drifted through the closed door at her son's call and Dean found himself closed in with two very angry looking ghosts. "Shit!," he thought before a gesture from Desmond sent Dean crashing across the room into the wall of shelves.
Sam jumped off the stolen bike and leaned it against a fence in the gloom by the Impala. The youngest Winchester was slightly disappointed. The fact that his brother's car was here meant that Dean was still likely searching the house, which meant he could still be in danger. Sam would almost have been happier to find the black car gone, the job done and Dean happily enjoying what was left of his birthday at the local bar. Hell, he would even have preferred if Dean were back at the motel frantically worrying and cursing because his little brother wasn't in their room. But no such luck, Dean was still in the house.
Keeping to the shadows, Sam made his way to the back door. It was unlocked, presumably by Dean and the teenager cautiously crept into the dark and quiet house. He desperately wanted to call out for Dean, but he wasn't stupid. There was no point in letting the ghosts know that he had arrived. He took a cursory look at the clean and organized basement, but Dean wasn't down there. There was also no sign of his brother on the main floor. No salt or expended shotgun shells might mean that all Sam's worry was for nothing, or it might mean something really bad. Bracing himself, he went to the bottom of the staircase leading up to the top floor. Sam froze as he heard a heavy thud and the sound of things falling and breaking. Clutching his salt filled shotgun more tightly, Sam ran up stairs as quickly but as quietly as he could.
Cold air poured out from underneath the closed door on Sam's left. Goosebumps raised on his arms. He could almost taste the faint ozone like smell that ghosts, particularly old ones left and knew that at least Desmond's spirit was in that room. Listening carefully he tried to figure out what was happening. Normally Dean or Dad took point and told him what to do. But Sam wasn't about to abandon Dean. Abruptly, he was startled when something heavy thumped against the other side of the wall he was leaning against. A familiar groan of pain sounded faintly from within the room. Dean! Knowing that his brother was in pain, Sam's heart leapt into his throat. Pushing the door open with his left hand while the right one brought the shotgun to hip height, ready to fire.
Beside him on the floor was a lump of denim and canvas that Sam recognized as Dean. His heart stopped and he longed to check his brother for injuries, but remembering his training, his eyes first swept the room for the threat. The bedroom looked like a tornado had blown through it. The chairs were overturned, the shelving was broken with a jumble of crushed and damaged item on the floor. Even the bed covers were twisted and torn. The ghost of Mrs. Carty manifested across the room, wringing her spectral hands with sad eyes, but she didn't seem to be interested in the brothers. Sam risked bending down and placing his fingers on Dean's pulse point. A sigh of relief shuddered through him as he felt a strong pulse.
"Dean?, can you hear me?," Sam shook his older brother's shoulder gently, trying to keep the ghost in his sight while checking Dean for injuries. Blood was pouring down one side of Dean's face, but Sam couldn't really see the source. A green eye cracked open and with some effort focused on Sam's face.
"S'mmy? Watch out...two of 'em..," was all Dean could manage before he seemed to drop back into unconsciousness. With his eyes and the gun on Mrs. Carty's ghost, Sam wrapped his left fist in Dean's jacket and began to pull him backwards out the door. Without warning, a heavy wooden desk slid across the wall, essentially blocking the room's only exit other than the second story windows on either side of the bed. Desmond appeared, guts in hand, hatred and fury radiating like cold waves from where he hovered. Pulling the trigger, Sam temporarily blasted the angry spirit back to oblivion. He didn't know how much time he had, but Sam knew his only chance was to find the brooch and destroy it. Hopefully he could learn from Dean what was tying Desmond's mother to the house and then get them both to the safety of the Impala.
Sam propped Dean up carefully against the wall and then began looking for the brooch. He could tell that this room used to be Desmond's and he doubted that the piece of jewelry was in the ghostly soldier's bedroom. Spotting Dean's shotgun, Sam ran, grabbed it and brought it back to his brother who was now groggily shaking his head. Dean was almost as pale as the ghosts except for where Sam could see bruises starting to form. He was pale from the blood loss, and his left arm was held tightly to his body. Sam crouched down to make eye contact with Dean.
"Hey, Dean? Are you with me?," he hissed urgently. "I need to find the brooch, can you shoot?" Sam pressed the gun into the older man's hands. Dean seemed to understand him because he gave a miniscule nod and took the gun, steadying it across one bended knee.
"Go!," Dean panted and Sam didn't wait any longer. Rather than try and push the big wooden dresser out of the way, the hazel eyed teen simple climbed over it, dragging his bag of supplies with him. The other doors leading from the landing were open, and Sam poked his head around each of them until he found the one he was looking for. The furnishings were outdated, but this room had obviously belonged to the elder Mrs. Carty. The room had been cleared of all the small items, so Sam assumed that the brooch hadn't been with Abigail's other jewelry which was likely being assessed for auction. If it was still here, it wasn't in an obvious place.
A shotgun blast echoed from down the hall, and Sam prayed that Dean was able to protect himself from being tossed around the room some more. On his hands and knees, Sam checked the floor for loose boards, then looked underneath and behind all the furniture. Maybe he was wrong and the brooch was somewhere else in the house. Standing at the end of the bed, Sam tried not to panic. He needed to find it! He debated searching the other rooms, when his eyes skimmed across the fireplace and he saw it. In the fancy carved wooden mantle, there was a complex pattern of vines, leaves and flowers, but subtly included in one particularly ornate area of carving were the letters D.A.C. Desmond Arthur Carty. Sam pushed his fingers into and around the initials until he felt a small notch. Pulling out his pocketknife, he was able to pry on the wood until he heard a tiny pop and a small door clicked open. There in the little alcove was a silver brooch.
Another blast of the gun came from down the hall. Sam wasn't sure if Dean had more shells in his pockets, but knew that he had to destroy the brooch and the lock of hair embedded in it before he could do anything to save his brother. His hands trembled as he placed the fancy pin onto the stone hearth. Pulling the salt and lighter fluid from his bag he liberally doused the jewelry with both. Finally he scrambled to get the pack of matches from the bag.
A fresh blast of cold made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end, and Sam knew he was out of time. Frantically he lit the whole pack of matches and threw them onto the salty object. He saw the lighter fluid catch and begin to burn just before he felt himself fly across the room to hit the wall. The air was knocked out of his chest, but Sam kept his eyes on the spirit of Desmond who was coming towards where he lay on the floor. His shotgun was on the bed where he had placed it, and Sam realized that even if he could catch his breath and move, he wouldn't reach it before the angry ghost flung him again. As phantom hands reached out again, suddenly Desmond stopped. A shudder ran through the former soldier as he burst into flames, a wailing cry of "Mother!" echoing through the room before the ghost was gone.
Panting Sam rolled onto his back, trying to catch his breath before sitting up, his back was sore where he had impacted the wall, but he was OK. The house was strangely quiet, the hissing and spitting from the little fire on the hearth, the only sound. Groaning Sam pushed himself up, gathered his gun and bag and made his way back towards his brother. There was still Mrs. Carty to deal with.
Sam prepared to climb over the dresser again when it was shunted to the side as if it weighed nothing. He stepped into the room to see the ghost of Abigail Carty hovering in the center of the ravaged room, her hand still outstretched towards the heavy chest of drawers. A soft golden glow began to fill the room and the teenaged hunter found his breath catching in his throat from the intense beauty of the light. Abigail's body began to glow too as if she were absorbing the light waves. Sam shielded his eyes as the light went from luminous to blazing. With a solemn nod at the brothers, the ghost flared one more and then disappeared leaving the room dark and Sams eyes watering from the after images on his retinas.
oooooooooo
Dean lowered his gun, blinking as the old lady's ghost dissolved into the dazzling glow. He turned his head with a barely suppressed groan to look at Sam standing just inside the doorway. The kid was supposed to be safe back at the room. Sam seemed a little stunned by the sudden end to the danger, but at least, other than that he looked fine. Dean heaved a sigh of relief and started to push up to his feet, one hand on the wall while the other clutched his ribs. No doubt they had at least been cracked when the damn ghost of Desmond had thrown him into the shelves. Or the wall, or the stone fireplace, or the metal bed frame. Still, they needed to get going in case the sound of gunfire had alerted any of the neighbours. The older brother hissed with pain and instantly Sam was by his side.
"You Ok Dean?," Sam asked sliding underneath Dean's shoulder.
"Peachy," Dean snarked, his voice a lot less steady than he would like. "How about you? Did Desmond get ya Sammy?"
"Nah, I'm fine Dean. I took care of him." Dean detected a small sliver of pride in Sam's tone.
Dean let Sam guide them towards the stairs, pausing only to grab the two bags of weapons. The staircase seemed a lot longer going down than it had going up, and it seemed to take forever to get back to the main floor. Gritting his teeth, Dean tried to take on more of his own weight as the brothers made their way to where Baby sat waiting in the darkness. Once they got to the darkly gleaming car, Dean shoved off his smaller sibling and made for the driver's door.
"C'mon Dean, you're in no condition to drive," Sam whined, his look of concern evident even in the dim moonlight. Sam reached for the keys, but Dean kept a tight hold on them. Dean was stubborn and although he was grateful for his kid brother's help, he'd be damned if he'd let the 15 year old drive him home like a fricken' invalid.
"Uh,uh, I'll be fine kiddo," Dean said while wiping blood from his face and eye with his bandana. He knew that he probably had a concussion, but he'd driven with worse and it wasn't very far to the motel. He pulled the door open and gingerly lowered himself into the comfort of the Impala's leather seat. Sam huffed, but went around to the other side and got in. Dean put the keys in the ignition, but didn't turn them, just taking a moment to pull himself together and draw comfort from his car. His head and his ribs hurt, and he was sore all over, but he'd be fine in a few days.
A soft voice floated from the other side of the car. "I'm sorry Dean. I should have gone with you like Dad wanted, and I should have noticed that Desmond's ghost was still in the picture. I'm sorry I let you down." Sam's voice was practically dripping with guilt and Dean knew that if he looked over, he'd see his brother's kicked-puppy eyes. But Dean could never resist his brother and he knew that he was ultimately to blame, both for storming off and for now reviewing the research carefully himself. Dean risked a look at Sam and saw that his brother was close to tears.
"Hey now, none of that," he said gently, reaching out to put his hand on Sam's neck. "Hey, listen to me, Sammy. If you hadn't come when you did…" he trailed off, not wanting to admit how out of hand this hunt had gotten. "Well, I'm glad you did OK? Look, I'm sorry about earlier too, I shouldn't have driven off like that." Seeing Sam cry pulled at Dean's heart in a way nothing else could, so he gave Sammy's neck a squeeze and smiled at the kid. "OK," Dean asked? Sam gave a short nod and a small dimpled smile of his own.
"Yeah….Happy Birthday Dean."
Dean ruffled Sam's hair before turning back to start the car. "Let's get you home."