Chapter 7 – Bodies to Move
"Animum vult decepi, ergo decepiatur. Vis, vis, vis." Sam's fingers had begun to tingle where they rested against Dean's forehead, but he had a horrible feeling that had more to do with his pressing too hard than any kind of psychic connection he might be developing with his insensate brother. He pulled his hand away, shook it until the wrist snapped and popped, then repositioned his fingers to try again. "Animum vult decepi, ergo – "
Bzzzttt. Bzzzttt.
Sam fumbled for his cellphone. A sneaking suspicion that ring tones and astral projection didn't go well together had caused him to set his Arc Slider on vibrate when he and Dean had begun preparing for their out-of-body experience. Digging it out of his jeans pocket, Sam checked the caller ID. A tremendous sense of relief suffused him when he saw who was calling. He slid the phone open and jammed it against his ear. "Ruby! Where are you? It's been hours."
"Sam, it's been less than ninety minutes. You need to calm down." Ruby's voice came over the line, clear, calm and just the tiniest bit exasperated. Sam was startled by an overwhelming urge to smack her.
"What's taking so long?" he demanded.
"I ran into a little trouble leaving Pasadena." She sighed. "Look, Sam, it's not like I have a magic transporter. You know I can't just teleport without someone actually summoning me."
"I could summon you," Sam assured her hastily. Jumping up from the bed, he hurried over to his bag. Propping the phone awkwardly between his shoulder and his ear, Sam started rummaging. "I have everything I need. I could summon you now."
"Slow down, Sam," Ruby urged. "Are you sure it's that – "
Sam jerked upright and dropped the phone as a groan sounded behind him. Spinning around, he saw Dean draw in a long, gasping breath. Coughs immediately wracked his frame, and Dean turned onto his side, knees drawn up to his chest, curling in on himself. His body spasmed and jolted with every cough. He's breathing! He's awake and he's breathing!
"Sam? Sam!" The voice was tinny and far away. With a start, Sam realized that Ruby was still on the line. Snatching up the phone, he said, "I'll call you back," and then disconnected without further explanation.
"Dean?" Sam said, practically levitating the few feet to his brother's side. "Dean, are you okay? What happened? Why'd it take you so long to get back? Where have you been for the last – " Sam stopped in mid-stream as Dean waved a frantic hand at him. "What, Dean?"
Face half buried in the crappy hotel comforter, Dean rasped out a hoarse, but emphatic, "Shut up, Sam."
Grinding his teeth in annoyance, Sam shut up while Dean continued to cough and twitch on the bed. They didn't have time for this. They needed to get out of here. They needed to cover their tracks. They needed – Sam needed answers, damn it. Finally, Dean's breathing evened out and he rolled onto his back, and looked up at Sam with red eyes.
"Crap," he croaked. Sam could not have agreed more. "Pamela?"
Sam swallowed, his gaze gliding across the narrow space between the beds to rest on the covered form lying on the other bed.
"She's dead," Dean said. It wasn't a question, but Sam nodded anyway. "Demon?" This time it was a question, and Sam looked back at his brother with wide eyes.
"How did you know that?" he asked, his eyes narrowing as Dean turned his head away and stared at the opposite wall for a moment. Then Dean shrugged, and Sam knew that something had happened when they were apart, something that Dean had no intention of sharing with him. Anger burned low in Sam's stomach. Dean always had to be so damn secretive, always had to suffer in silence like some kind of martyr. He was sick of it.
"Get up," he snapped as he rose to his feet. "We need to get our stuff and get out of here before someone works up enough courage to come find out what all the commotion was about."
Dean nodded without saying anything and Sam walked across the room and snatched up their duffel bags. On reflection, he grabbed Pamela's purse and tucked it inside his bag as well. Then, without another word to Dean, Sam lugged the load down to the car and dumped it in the trunk. He was halfway back upstairs when it occurred to him that they were going to need the trunk for something else. With a curse at his own idiocy, Sam hightailed it back to the Impala and shifted the duffels to the backseat. When he got back upstairs, he found that the motel room door hadn't swung shut behind him and Dean hadn't bothered to close it. It was the kind of rookie mistake that Dean would never have made a year ago, the kind of mistake that he never would have made before… before Hell.
Sam scanned the hallway for observers as he backed into their room through the open door. Not a soul stirring, thank goodness. Kicking the door shut behind him, Sam shot the deadbolt home and then turned to survey the room. The bathroom door was closed, so, presumably, Dean was taking care of business. The candles and the rest of Pamela's disposable ritual crap were still scattered about, but that could be left behind. Somehow, Sam didn't see himself being real comfortable using Pamela's candles for some future rite or blackout anyway. Grief over her death warred with fear and confusion over her final words to him. What right did she have to claim that he didn't have good intentions? She barely knew him. Had barely known him, he corrected himself. And now she was gone like so many others. Too many others. Anger drained away as Sam's eyes drifted once more to the blanket-covered form on his bed. She'd called him Grumpy. Funny how much he'd liked that. Swallowing against the lump in his throat, Sam walked over and gently uncovered the body. It had been almost two hours now since she'd passed, but with her plastic eyes and her sunglasses all the most immediate signs of decay were invisible. There was a faint but distinctive odor, one Sam seldom encountered since the bodies that he and Dean dealt with were usually several years dead. The last indignity, his father had once called it. Bad enough for a man to die, but to be left to lie in his own mess afterwards was unforgivable. Dad had been right about some things. They wouldn't leave her.
Careful to get as little blood on himself as possible, Sam wrapped Pamela's body in the bedspread on which she had died. Then, stripping more blankets off Dean's bed, he cocooned the body in an additional two layers. It would help make the bundle less identifiable and keep down the slowly ripening smell. They could roll the whole thing into a trap later, at least until they decided what to do with it – with her. Still, no matter what they ultimately did with the body, they absolutely couldn't afford to be noticed hauling a corpse around. It would be just a little difficult to explain.
Dean had yet to emerge from the bathroom when Sam was finished, so he walked over and rapped on the door with his knuckles. "Dean? Dean, come on. We need to get Pamela to the car and get out of here." There was no answer. "Dean?" Sam turned the knob and the door opened right up, but then they'd always had a policy about leaving bathroom doors unlocked. Neither of them was young enough to find embarrassment a terminal issue, and they didn't need to be breaking down doors every time one of them collapsed or passed out during the aftermath of a hunt. Like now for instance. His older brother had not blacked out this time, but he didn't look very damn good, either. Dean was sitting on the closed toilet-seat lid with his head clutched in his hands. His whole body was shaking and a sweat had broken out on his pale skin. "Dean!" Sam exclaimed, kneeling down beside him. "Dude, what's wrong?"
Dean started to shake his head but stopped with a groan. His eyes were squeezed tightly shut, and Sam had to strain to hear him when he muttered one three-syllable word. "Concussion."
"Crap," Sam breathed. Dean had been thrown headfirst into a tombstone by Alastair just the night before, but it shouldn't still be bothering him this much. It hadn't caused more than headache the previous day so far as Sam knew. At the moment, though, Dean was looking alarmingly gray and didn't seem to be real keen on opening his eyes. "Crap," Sam repeated under his breath. It wasn't like Dean could have been injured again. They'd been like ghosts, completely non-corporeal. How could you hurt someone who wasn't even wearing their body? Pamela had complained that the plan was heavy-duty insane, but Sam had gotten the impression that it had more to do with the fact that they wouldn't be able to accomplish much as astral projections than with any real concern for their safety. In any case, that's what he'd tried to convince himself. But there was no doubting that Dean looked worse now than he had that morning when he'd accused Sam of lying to him about the encounter with Alastair that Sam had had after Dean had been knocked out in the graveyard. Dean's distrust stung. Ironically, the fact that Sam was lying to him didn't seem to make the lack of trust hurt any less, especially when Dean had complained that he was being treated like an idiot. Sam didn't think his big brother was an idiot. He'd never though Dean was an idiot. At least, not really.
Now, here he was, playing big brother to his ill and wounded sibling. Dean was so much better at this. "Dean, come on. We need to get you to the car." Sam placed his hands under his brother's armpits and lifted. Dean moaned and swatted half-heartedly at him, but Sam was relentless. "I know you're hurting. I swear I'll do something about that as soon as I can, but in the meantime we have to get out of here."
"Give me a minute," Dean mumbled.
Pursing his lips, Sam moved to Dean's side and slipped an arm around his waist. "Sorry, Dude. No more minutes to give you. We have to go. Now." With Dean muttering and griping the whole way, Sam herded his brother though the motel room, out the door, down the hall, down the exterior stairs to the parking lot and into the car. Dean sank into the Impala's front passenger seat with a moan. His eyes were still clamped shut. Guilt nagging at him for every negative thought that he'd ever entertained about his brother, Sam popped open the glove compartment and pulled out Dean's sunglasses. Placing them over Dean's eyes, he said, "Wait here. I'll be right back." Then he closed the passenger door and took off for their motel room at a dead run.
One more body to move.
