Maelstrom

Chapter Four

He doesn't remember being at an amusement park recently…or, you know, really ever, because it's not like that's an activity riddled with forced family fun that they ever had the time for, but it's gotta be the only explanation for the way he's suddenly being jostled and thrown around. Not that Dean would really know; he's always steered clear of anything that was built with the sole purpose of rocketing him skyward at the mercy of a frayed seatbelt. With planes, it's not so much about the heights as it is the sheer helplessness. That, and the fact he can't have any weapons on him. Not even a damned pocketknife, and what the fuck's with that? He might as well be naked. He knows exactly where the damned line is between prepared and paranoid, regardless of what Sam has to say.

With roller coasters, it's very much about the fucking heights, and very much about the fact there ain't a damn thing prohibiting you from gazing down at the crowds and asphalt below and imagining the size of the splat you'd make. Or so he can only assume. He'd never be caught dead on one of the things, but there's suddenly a thick weight like a lap belt around his middle and he's being tugged upright while gravity fights to keep him down, his heavy head shoved in all manner of directions.

Dean thinks he might make a displeased sound of some kind; his lips definitely move and the intention is there, but even whatever commotion is happening around him isn't enough to have him working his eyes open. No, thank you. Things on this side of his eyelids are unstable enough, and he's a bit concerned to see what the world on the other side is doing. Probably upside-down and halfway to Hell, from the feel of it. And, yeah, he can pretty much relate to that.

"Just…stop talking, please, Dean, stop talking."

He is making sounds, then. Good to know. And that voice sounds a lot like Sam, all high-pitched and patronizing and needlessly urgent, and that means the ginormous mitts that are pawing at his chest and face and – ow, head, off the HEAD you handsy sonuvabitch – must also belong to the big galoot.

Not roller coasters, then, Dean decides in a window of pain-provoked clarity, just a manhandling little brother who forgot a long time ago that he was supposed to be little.

"Yeah, well, you forgot a lot of things, too," Sam says, warbly and now with too much bass, like he's messing with the motherfucking stereo settings in Dean's baby again, and he should know better that.

Dean wants to tell his brother to keep his mitts off of things that don't yet belong to him because he's not fucking dead yet and Sam's being a disrespectful little shit, and he might actually be saying the words, might actually get part of the way through saying it, or maybe all the way. Suddenly his jaw is snapping shut around a wordless groan as the asshole hauls him up against that more appealing downward tug of gravity, and sticks his back against a hard, cold surface.

Seemingly satisfied by the nauseating angle he's gotten Dean tilted into, Sam's hands stop moving, poking, prodding. They go blessedly still, one resting stovetop-hot and stone-heavy on his chest and another gripping the back of his neck almost painfully.

"Hey." Definitely Sam, no question about it now, and barking at him. Clearly expecting a response of some kind.

"Hmmm," Dean hums thickly in an obligatory reply, and the buzzy sound reverberates from his cold lips through his skull like an unstoppable pinball. It'd be great for a high score but it's hell on his head, and he winces, tries to turn away from the assault of it. No such luck, because Sam's got him pretty well pinned in place at the moment, and doesn't seem too keen on letting him get loose.

"How you doin'?" Sammy asks, high-pitched again, like he's talking to a pretty girl.

Dean thinks on that a moment, taking stock of a dozen points of pain, the dull thump of fresh bruising and the sharp agony of a possibly – fuck possibly, DEFINITELY – cracked rib, before letting loose a heartfelt and eloquent, "Ow."

Sam maybe laughs, but not from humor and that fits because Dean can't think of much happening right now that's funny, and the large hand on the back of his neck grips tighter, an affectionate, and maybe frightened, squeeze.

Not maybe…definitely frightened. Dean knows it now, knows Sammy is scared and it's because of him and none of that makes much sense.

"That the best you've got?" Sam asks, thick and slow and through his throat, like the words have to claw their way out of him.

"Thought you didn't want me to talk." Dean's own words come out mushy, all run together and underwater-sounding.

Sam seems to get it well enough, though, and the weight on Dean's chest eases up a bit. "You wanna sit up a little bit more?"

"You askin' cuz you're gonna listen to what I say or you just askin'?" The inquiry takes enough of his breath that after he's forced the words out Dean feels light and heavy at the same time, wavering on the threshold of brittle consciousness. He might as well buy a timeshare on this line, the number of times he's visited.

"Pretty much just asking," Sam admits, already moving, already shifting on the balls of his feet, prepping for an emergency fraternal relocation. "You caught me."

That's as much of a warning as he's given, and Dean groans as he's "helped" into something of a seated position. He plants his hands on the cold, gritty surface below and maneuvers himself as quickly as his abused body allows to put that flat surface completely at his back. Sam doesn't let him go entirely, just moves his hands to tug on different limbs until he's apparently satisfied with the position of his new poseable Dean doll.

Dean really couldn't say what sort of position that is, and he really can't be bothered to care all that much. He can feel the existence of his arms and legs, but that's about all he's got as far as awareness for the time being, other than that lingering knowledge that something is scaring his brother. And he's still pretty sure it's him.

Sam's massive hands go about poking all sorts of things that don't seem to like being poked, mostly his head, because Sam likes to go for the kill, for the exact thing you want him to leave the fuck alone. He tips Dean's head forward, and the damn thing feels like it weight a hundred pounds. He's kinda surprised it doesn't fall right off his shoulders and into his lap. Then a flash of pain like a lightning strike rockets through his skull, and he can't do much to clamp down on this second dissatisfied hum that escapes through his lips.

"Sorry," Sam says, though he sounds anything but.

"You 'bout done?" Dean asks breathily, the heat of his words warming his chest through layers of fabric, seeing as he's nearly bent in half.

"Almost, man." Sam hisses as he prods the source of the lightning bolt. "Got a nasty knot back here."

"Tell me about it." On second thought, don't tell me about it.

The empty space behind his eyelids suddenly goes from the relative comfort of pitch black to more of a red-tinted backdrop, and Dean groans, steeling himself for what's next. Because Sam is also all about procedure, and what should be done.

"You know the drill. Need you to open your eyes, dude."

Dean shakes his head, or at least gives it the old college try, and he's suddenly clenching his jaw against a very unwelcome rise of nausea.

"Yeah," Sam says seriously. "Don't puke on me, please."

Dean's not positive that he's the one in charge of these sorts of things. When he opens his mouth to let Sam know that, he's pretty sure the guy figures it out for himself, based on the speed at which he seems to lean out of the way.

"Dude," Sam says after he's placed himself out of the line of fire, but still plenty disgusted. "If I had a dollar for every time you almost puked on me…"

Dean wants to tell Sam that he's the puke-y one. That he had washed so much regurgitated milk and Cheetos out of his shirts when they were little, long before he even had a clue what in the hell he was doing, and maybe that's why he doesn't like doing laundry now. Maybe that's why he'll turn a t-shirt inside-out if he's in a pinch, and Sam doesn't need to act like he's killed someone's pet Golder Retriever every time he does it.

But the last thing he wants is for Sam to feel like any kind of burden, and Dean swallows a few times, forcing the sick feeling back down where it belongs. He can tell Sam's still got the damn flashlight out, and he throws out a hand to force that away, too, leaving his balance at his brother's mercy. Dean doesn't really give two shits what his pupils are doing at the moment, and he's sure he's not gonna like the answer, anyway. "Go 'way, Sammy."

"You want me wait for Bobby to do it?"

That's a threat if ever there was one, because Bobby's got the subtlety of a freight train and the gentleness of…well, a freight train. Dean shakes his head, and Sam almost pays the price by copping it right into his lap this time. Or so Dean can only hope.

"Come on, man."

Dean sighs, and gives Sammy what he wants, because he doesn't know how to do anything else. He pries one eye open just in time for the poor thing to be assaulted by a goddamn laser beam. He groans and goes to shut the eye again but FUCK if Sam isn't quick as all get out, if he doesn't get a hand in there to keep the fucker opened wide.

"Son of a bitch," Dean whispers.

"Yeah, I know. Sorry, dude."

Sam doesn't sound too sorry, and he doesn't feel too sorry, and…and that was a really weird thought. Dean shakes his head, tries to dislodge it much like water in his ears.

"What's goin' on, man?"

"M'just thinkin' weird."

"Yeah? You're thinking weird?" In what can be nothing more than an act of mercy, Sam tucks the light away and gives Dean's shoulder a gentle shake. "Probably to be expected. Probably gonna be thinking weird for a little bit, big brother. One of these days, I'm gonna get you a helmet, I swear to God."

Dean doesn't think he says anything, but he must have, because Sam is not-laughing again, and saying, "No. It's gonna be pink and glittery. Son of a bitch."

All of a sudden, it's somehow clear to Dean that Sam might not so much be shaking his shoulder as he is shaking while holding Dean's shoulder.

Sam's not really in a mood to be fucked around with, and he hasn't been for quite some time now. For about eight months, if anyone is looking to get specific about it. He doesn't need this, and Dean doesn't need this, but that doesn't seem to keep it from finding them. It being senseless pain and the accompanying panic, and trouble with a capital "T" lurking around every corner, always looking to throw a wrench into what could have otherwise been a good day. Or at least a day in which he didn't have to think about losing his big brother.

Yeah, Sam thinks bitterly. Let's just keep hunting, Dean. Jackass. He's being nice, because there's really no need to confine these thoughts to his mind. It's not like his idiot brother is really with it, anyway. And he's the one who'd answered Bobby's call. Voicemail, Sam. I don't give a shit if Dad himself calls from the grave, you let it go to voicemail next time.

Muscles in his calves cramping, Sam holds his breath against the smell wafting up from the small pile of sick next to his shoes and adjusts his brother into a new position atop the landing of the split staircase in the lobby. Where he'd run up a few moments before to see Dean sprawled and looking broken and lifeless across the cement steps. Turned out he was thankfully neither, except maybe a rib that's gonna give him hell anytime he's in the motion of sitting or standing, but he's still a bit sluggish in coming completely around.

In fact, Dean is little more than a nonsensical ragdoll in Sam's hands. His muttering is random, barely comprehensible, laced with pain, and he's got a hell of a bump in back – a pair of them now – and blood in his hair to match this time. Sam can't believe he thought for a second that they were headed anywhere other than right here, because Winchester luck is simply a decided, nearly comical lack thereof, and they always seem to end up right here.

A thunder of heavy bootfalls approaches on Sam's periphery, echoing and pounding up the dozen or so steps to reach this landing, and he can't help the relief he feels in Bobby's presence. The man's a comfort without trying to be, and Sam finds his shoulders slumping as he willingly passes over some – but certainly not all – of the burden of his brother.

Bobby nods and eases Dean's shoulders to rest against his own chest as he crouches opposite Sam. He clucks his tongue and pulls a clean handkerchief from a pocket. Sam is quick to grab the cloth and press it gingerly to the cut he'd found in the back of Dean's head. Dean, who'd put forth his best shot but has all but given up on the idea of consciousness for the time being, is now propped equally between them with his head lolling like a helium balloon on a windy day.

Everything that needs to be discussed has already gone by without having to be said. The two of them have gotten pretty damn good at communicating about Dean when he's in the room with them, because he hates to be the cause of any sort of fuss, and would gladly sit mutely in a dark corner bleeding to death if it meant the two of them wouldn't be talking about him.

"He'll be okay," Sam says, but waits for Bobby's nod of confirmation before allowing himself to really believe it.

Bobby swallows, throat visibly working, because neither of them is ready for this, and an accident seems like an incredibly cruel way to lose the jerk. "Might wanna start invitin' me, you want me to be here in time for the party."

"I wasn't even in time for the party, Bobby." Sam shakes his head, keeping a firm fistful of the fabric of Dean's jacket. "I don't have any idea what happened." But it sounds wrong as he's saying it, because the two of them have a pact not to withhold anything from one another.

Bobby gently tugs the EMF detector free from Dean's jacket pocket. He hefts it in his hand, studying the dark, quiet device. "Ghost," he says, not so much a suggestion as it is a statement of fact. His eyes narrow and sweep the space. "I mean, your brother's no graceful swan, but he does okay with stairs."

He's aiming to get Sam to smile, to take on some of the heavier weight he's carrying now, but Sam can't stop thinking back on what he's just said. I don't have any idea what happened.

Because, well, that's not quite true, is it, Sam?

The thought causes him to recoil, in apparent obvious fashion, as Bobby quirks a curious eyebrow. The man doesn't miss a thing. "Sam, what is it?"

His eyes meet Bobby's over Dean's bowed head. Sometimes it's quite annoying, how perceptive the older man can be. He frowns and adjusts his brother until he's leaning more fully against the short wall, keeping pressure on the head wound with Bobby's folded kerchief. He doubts anything will quite feel comfortable for the guy for the next day or so, but at least he's in a position now where it looks like it should.

"Sam," Bobby prods, and it's kind of unfair that there's a bit of cockiness riding shotgun to his concern, like he knows Sam is going to spill for him.

He hates to be predictable, but there's something damn strange going on here, and Bobby's known to know a little bit of everything strange. "I knew something was wrong," Sam admits.

An eyebrow lifts as Bobby sits back a bit on his heels. "What do you mean?"

"I mean…" Sam's fingers tighten around a fold of coarse, cold fabric, dragging his brother closer. "We split up, and I still knew something was wrong. I don't…how would I know that, Bobby?"

Bobby sighs, and his eyes drop to Dean's pinched face. "Well, your brother's done something damn…stupid, but big for you, Sam. And we're kinda comin' down the homestretch here. Might not be outta the question for you to start – "

"It's not that, Bobby," Sam is quick to correct. He's pretty sure he would know if this, whatever it is, was because of the deal. "It wasn't that. It was…I dunno." He thinks back on earlier in the evening, how he'd felt that fear that he could swear was Dean's. "It's like I could tell what he was feeling."

"And what was that?" Bobby asks evenly, clinically. Collecting information with narrowed, skeptical eyes.

Sam takes a breath, because they're already operating outside of normal circumstances, and the man's going to be pissed Sam didn't say something as soon as he thought there was something off. "It was…he was afraid, before – "

"Before?" Bobby snaps, as expected, like this is something he should have shared with the class long before now.

Sam winces and nods, feeling like he's about to be sent to timeout, because Bobby may have a point here. They have an agreement here, that anything having to do with Dean or his wellbeing is something that is to be public knowledge. No secrets, not anymore, not when the guy's on the redeye. His grip on Dean's arm tightens, and there's no response from his brother; no indication he's hearing the conversation happening over his slack face.

"It started a few hours ago, around the time we got here. It was like I could, I dunno, sense that he was afraid. And then it happened again just before…" Sam sucks in a breath as a chill drops through him. The temperature outside leaking in through holes and gaps and cracks, he tells himself. Nothing more. "Or, I guess right before whatever happened here. He was nervous, and then he was in pain, and then…" Sam looks away, find a greasy stain on the toe of Dean's left boot to stare at. And then there was nothing. He relives the panic he'd felt himself, when that admittedly invasive but somewhat comforting presence in his mind he's come to identify as his brother was suddenly gone.

"Okay," Bobby says quietly. He gives Sam a long, scrutinizing look, and his face falls into something a bit gentler as he takes in the state of the two of them. "Okay. Let's get the both of you somewhere a little warmer, huh? Make sure your idiot brother's brains ain't gonna fall out."

Sam shoots a glance to the cracked window over their heads, and hears the wind picking up again outside. "Yeah."

Yeah, they're pretty much screwed here, and maybe splitting up in the haunted resort wasn't the brightest idea any of them have ever had.

Bobby makes like he intends to take the majority of Dean's weight but Sam's not so willing to give him up, and gently jostles his brother until he manages to rouse a dissatisfied grunt from the man. Dean's eyes roll under his lids, but he doesn't open them fully. "Hey, man. We're gonna tackle the rest of the stairs now. One at a time, if that's okay with you."

He thinks Dean might rustle up the energy to call him a bitch. His lips don't actually move, but Sam hears the word in his head, all the same.

It's a short night and sleep eludes Sam, who's up with the sun; all are more or less par for the course. Rays of sunlight struggle through dense cloud cover above and grimy window below, and what manages to cut through does so in meager beams of dusty cool gray against dirty, damp concrete. These sparse pockets of daylight make the gutted hotel lobby feel marginally less creepy than it did the night before, but just as bleak and desolate. And cold. It's damn cold, and silent, and there's no question that the three of them are alone here. Discounting at least one violent spirit, that is, who'd seen fit to make its presence known the night before but has been quiet since.

Their sleeping arrangements had been a bit more sardine-like than normal, but these aren't normal circumstances. Sam supposes that Bobby's plan made sense at the time of their arrival, to hole up in the abandoned hotel for the duration of this hunt, using the snowstorm and the privacy it would afford to prevent any further loss of innocent life, but that plan didn't account for this Winchester-specific brand of luck or the fact that supernatural entities have a tendency to treat his brother as a human volleyball.

The trunk of Bobby's car proved to be a bit like Mary Poppins' carpet bag, producing a portable propane heater and an eyebrow-raising number of vacuum-sealed meals. He and Sam had positioned the three sleeping bags in a triangular cluster in the center of the room, and laid a salt ring around the entire setup as a precaution. It took a while to properly relocate Dean, but there wasn't really a gentle or careful enough way to get him from the cemented landing of the main staircase to the spot, especially when the son of a bitch wasn't being even a little bit helpful.

Bobby had fussed and cleaned the wound in Dean's hair the best he could with what they have, and Sam had worried his lip over the relative silence in his head, coming to the conclusion that it's more than mere coincidence things are quiet in his head only when his brother is unconscious, but he hasn't again breached the subject with the older hunter. He knows how crazy it sounds. They took turns waking Dean throughout the remaining nighttime hours until he'd finally been aware enough to growl at them to leave him the hell alone and whack the back of a weak hand across Bobby's whiskered, wide-eyed face.

Sam had chuckled lightly, without letting Bobby in on the fact he'd known the hit was coming. And that's pretty much the thought that kept Sam from finding sleep during those few hours he was allowed to search for it. Dean's brief dabble with awareness had corresponded with a reemergence of the cacophonous roar in Sam's mind, what he can now properly identify as dueling emotions. His own, coinciding in full physical reactions, and some fainter, accompanying sense of his brother's that comes more as knowledge than any kind of experience. As said brother had drifted off again, the roar subsided, and Sam was left once more alone in his head.

Sam can similarly tell now that Dean's well and truly awake before Dean seems to know it for himself. Wincing in sympathy, he drops lightly next to where his brother is sprawled, where he slept sporadically but in remarkable stillness. Landing in a seated position atop his poufy navy sleeping bag, he watches Dean's eye roll under his lids a moment, then lowers the mug of coffee he has ready in hand, allowing the smell of the admittedly weak brew to rouse his brother more fully. Dean's nose predictably twitches as the steam from the hot liquid passes over his pale face.

"Morning, sunshine," Sam greets with put-upon cheeriness.

Dean groans and takes a moment to work his right arm free, extracting it from the warmer depths of his bag. He brings the heel of his hand up to his forehead without any apparent thought of pulling himself farther upright, or of even opening his eyes just yet. "Is it?"

Sam nods, frowning around the dull throb picking up in his head. He wonders vaguely if Dean's picked up on what's going on with them yet, then answers the question for himself. He swallows, averting his eyes to peer into the dark mug, as though that's going to dull the jackhammer in his temple. "That it is. How you feeling?" he asks, without really needing to.

"Million bucks." Dean's voice is rough, sloppy with sleep and probably some degree of concussion, but nothing worse than anything he's played through before.

Sam's head bobs. "Sure. You wanna play How Many Fingers?"

"How'd I do last time?"

"Well enough."

"Then let's skip it." Dean shifts his hand against his forehead, thumb and index finger digging into his temple. "Do I smell coffee?"

"Right here."

"S'it real?"

"It's really coffee, yes, if that's your question."

Dean finally cracks open an eye, lip curling at the steaming mug Sam has in hand. "Instant?"

Sam rolls his eyes, but can't help but crack a relieved smile. If Dean's feeling well enough to bitch about the quality of the coffee, he's feeling well enough. And that's something Sam had needed to see for himself. "No, Dean. Bobby and I dug our way out of the building and braved the treacherous road conditions to find a coffee shop, just for you."

Dean blinks at him. "Small words, Sammy."

"You want this or not?"

Dean growls in response and takes his sweet time in bringing himself up on one elbow, moving slow and deliberate and in a way that manages to pale him further. Head, rib, or some combination intensifying his grimace. But he's got both eyes open now, and accepts the mug, bringing it to his lips as his glassy eyes roam the large, empty lobby. "Where's Bobby?"

"Digging some more supplies out of the trunk."

"Digging?" Dean asks with raised eyebrows. He swallows and makes a face, sneering down at the weak, bitter coffee.

Sam nods seriously. "About three feet of snow's dropped since we got here, man. More on the way tonight, too. We're officially snowed in." He tears his eyes away from his brother's drawn face, squints into the bright windowpane to the right of the large stone mantle. When he looks back, a matching rectangle of red mars his field of vision, overlapping the rest of the room. "So no more stunt guy falls, okay?"

Dean's eyes twitch as his hand goes to the gash at the back of his head. He hisses a bit as he feels out the tender, scabbed-over spot.

Sam winces once more in sympathy. In empathy. "Yeah, you, uh, left some hair on one of the steps back there," he says, jerking his head in the direction of the staircase. "Also, everything you ate yesterday, I think."

"Ow," Dean says, finally dragging himself completely into a seated position, looking decidedly pained and holding the mug aloft so he doesn't end up with a lapful of hot coffee. He's actively avoiding direct eye contact with any of the unobstructed windows. Also, with Sam.

Sam snorts. "Yeah, that's about all you said last night. All I could make sense of, anyway." He draws his own legs up stiffly, draping his hands over his knees as he studies his brother, squints the watery smear of blood Dean's left behind on the balled-up jacket that had served as his pillow. "How about now? You remember what happened?"

"Ghost," Dean supplies, looking a little green and seemingly content with the one word answers for the time being. He kneads a knot in his neck, but Sam knows that's not going to do much for the headache.

"Figured as much." Sam gestures vaguely to the wide salt ring around the cluster of sleeping bags. "Doesn't seem like Bobby was able to turn up anything in the way of eye witness accounts, so sorry, man, but you're pretty much all we've got to work from right now. You get much of a look at it? Man, woman?"

"Saw it, but, no." Dean shakes his head gingerly and sets the mug aside after only one sip, having apparently decided the coffee wasn't quite as good an idea as he'd thought it would be. Sam could have told him as much, but knows better than to stand between the man and his caffeine. Dean drops his head into his hands, rubbing vigorously at his temples.

Sam slaps his thighs lightly, figuring they've stalled long enough. It's time for the harder question, the one that's going to require more than one word to answer properly. And for maybe the first time ever, he's positive that he's going to know whether or not Dean's lying, a brand new talent that would have been handy at any one of a dozen points over the last two and a half years. "All right. So then how about you tell me how I knew you were in trouble before I saw you? Got any theories about that?"

"Huh?" The sound is muffled through Dean's hands as he goes about buying some time, himself.

Sam knows better. He knows. "Don't play dumb with me, Dean. I know you know what I'm talking about."

Dean swallows and brings his head up, rubbing at his chin. "S'not just me then."

Sam shakes his head and sighs. "Not just you."

"Bobby?"

"Doesn't seem like it."

Dean's head bobs, and he returns his hand to the wound in back with a wince. The guy's just not capable of sitting still, and never seems to know what to do with his hands. Sam had never before been able to properly recognize his constant fidgeting for the show of nervousness it is. "Probably not this ghost, then."

"Probably not, no."

"You tell 'im?"

Sam lifts a shoulder. "Sort of."

"What's he say?"

"He thinks it might be because of the crossroads deal." YOUR crossroads deal, Sam means to say, but doesn't. It hurts enough to say the words at all, no need to drive that nail in any deeper.

"What?" Dean gapes, looking genuinely confused by this theory.

Sam doesn't get a chance to answer as the main door creaks and scrapes open. Bobby shuffles inside, red-faced and huffing and stomping heavy snow from his boots as he hauls a pair of overstuffed bags through the narrow opening.

That'll wake you up in the morning, Bobby muses bitterly as another icy gust of wind stabs his cheeks. The snow has petered out for the time being, but it's still cold as balls out. He hurries to drag supplies from the trunk, stuffing first aid odds and ends and anything he's got that's looks the least like salt or iron into the spare bags. He's buried to his knees as he hunches over the ass-end of the car, and every movement he makes is sluggish from the increasing numbness spreading through his limbs, bogged down by the weight of the snow surrounding and clinging to him. It's taken on a mind of its own, frozen into chunks in the creases of his jeans and packed in the treads of his boot soles.

Blinded by the morning sun reflecting off of a seemingly never-ending blanket of brilliant white stretching in all directions, Bobby throws a tight glance at the glittering white hump nearby, the one that is the buried Impala. Sam had mentioned a few more blankets and spare sweatshirts that should be somewhere in the backseat or trunk compartment, but hadn't wanted to move an inch from his brother's side just yet, leaving all the manual labor to the duty of the elder he's supposed to be respecting. That boy…

After a night of short, light dozes, it had taken quite a bit off the reserves for Bobby to dig himself this far, and he's not sure he's got enough juice left to paw a door of that beast of a Chevy free as well. This was supposed to be a quick job and a foot of powder – tops – and he hadn't anticipated needing to put together a triage station in the middle of a goddamn blizzard. But these boys are accident-prone at best, cursed at worst, and either way it seems as though he's always washing Winchester blood from his hands.

Of course, he doesn't think Dean's accident was exactly that, seeing as how they're here for a rowdy though yet-to-be-identified ghost who'd taken two lives that they know about. Could easily be more. The kid had bled a little, enough to spook his brother but not nearly enough to be of serious concern. He'd cleaned up okay, and he'll have a headache and might go tripping over his own feet a few times, but he's stubborn and tough and they'll make do with what they can for the time being.

With a weary, resigned sigh, Bobby loops his arms through the straps of the large duffel and forces the trunk closed. "Don't call it roughin' it for nothin,' boys," he huffs out, breath clouding in front of his face, and turns back to the façade of the hotel, rising ominously out of the untouched snow, all shabby-looking with sharp, bricked angles and climbing, dried-out ivy. He propels his numb legs forward through the narrow path he'd carved on his way out of the building, the additional weight of his bags pressing his boots deeper into the snowdrifts.

It takes some effort to work the heavy door open, but it finally drags outward with a creak and a swish, the cracked wood along the bottom scraping against the icy sheet of snow he'd flattened on his way out. Bobby stomps inside, tamping the snow from his boots and shaking it from his clothing as he drags the door closed behind him. "Not fit for man'r beast out there," he grumbles, raising his eyes to the dim gray lobby, to those two idiot boys huddled conspiratorially around the propane heater in the center of the room.

Their heads whip over as Bobby stomps inside, pale, wide-eyed faces looking so much like when they were young boys and he'd catch them with their grubby little hands inches away from one of the weapons John had expressly ordered they not touch.

"Am I interrupting something?" Bobby inquires gruffly, dragging thick woolen gloves from his still-numb fingers.

They shake their head in tandem, and Dean goes immediately whiter – if such a thing is possible – and drops his into one hand, the other pressing his side with a sharp intake of breath. Bobby turns his gaze to Sam, locking onto those wide, worried eyes. "Then can an old man get a hand here?"

Sam leaps so quickly to his feet he gets those giraffe legs tangled in the fabric of his sleeping bag and pitches forward, catching himself on his palms against the damp concrete floor before he cracks his head open just like his brother.

That's all the Bobby needs; the both of them swaying drunkenly as they hunt this damn thing. Mighta been better, he didn't call 'em at all. Not the first time he's had that thought, and not likely to be the last.

Sam shoves himself back to his feet with about as much dignity as one could be expected to have in such circumstances, and crosses the lobby quickly to collect the bags. "Whatcha got in here, Bobby?" he asks, somewhat shakily as he struggles to hoist the straining straps. "Bricks?"

"Yeah, cuz I thought I might need to replace the ones in your brother's thick skull," Bobby snipes, but with a good-natured eye roll. He lowers himself slowly and stiffly to the bag Sam had just vacated, holding his red hands out in front of the heater to thaw. He uses the cover of the motion to assess Dean, who's at least thankfully conscious this morning.

He looks like crap warmed in a microwave but he's always thinking of anyone but himself, and he immediately produces a mug from next to his leg, holds out to Bobby without even really looking at him.

Bobby accepts the offer gratefully and takes a sip. The coffee tastes like watery motor oil and is cooling quickly but it holds enough heat to warm him from mouth to belly, and the cup feels like a wonderful ball of fire in his cold hands. He doesn't even need to drink it, just wants to hold it for a minute. "How you feelin,' kid?"

"Fine," Dean says quickly, true to form. He looks like he's got a killer headache, and even more like he's going to hate every bit of being vertical here when Sam inevitably decides enough's enough and hauls him to his feet. Because it's not gonna matter much how shitty his brother looks; Sam does things on his terms, and damn, if that boy doesn't like everyone to be walking the same line.

Bobby cocks his head, can't help but feel a flush of affection for the piss-poor liar. "So then you remember hittin' me in the face?" he asks, using the cover of the mug to let a smile slip out.

Dean wets his bottom lip, can't seem to decide on what the right answer is. Whether he should admit to some chunk of memory missing or cop to knowingly whacking Bobby across the jaw. "No?"

Bobby nods with a low chuckle. "Yeah, you just keep tellin' that story."

Sam's pacing behind his brother, and there's a worrisome look there to match the one dropping across his brother's features. Bobby's eyes drift back and forth between them, making several circuits while he allows his body to warm up a bit.

By the time his fingers have stopped their icy tingling, he's contented himself with the fact that they aren't worried about him so much as they are something he's not yet been made aware of. And here, Bobby'd thought he'd already done all the digging he needed to. He settles his gaze on Sam, because the two of them are supposed to have an understanding as far as sharing information is concerned, and that boy cracks like the spine of a brand new hardback when the topic of conversation is his big brother.

Bobby takes another long, noisy sip of coffee, drawing the attention of both boys. "What is it?"

"Hmm?" Sam hums, somewhat dingily.

Even Dean rolls his eyes. "Thought you said you told him." He keeps one hand on his head, and damn, but that boy sounds just about done. Has for quite a while now, come to think of it.

"Told me what?"

To be continued...