A/N: If you mistakenly received a repeat of Ch 6, labled Ch 7, my apologies! I was updating and posted a chapter from a different story, then had to repost the correct chapter. So you may have received an alert for a chapter you've already read.

Chapter Seven

Sam insisted. Sam said he would leave his ass behind if he didn't do what he was told. Dean tried to object, to explain that he was needed, but Sam explained in very explicit terms that the only thing needed was for him to sit in the car and wait. Sam would dig the grave, Sam would open the casket, Sam would soak the bones in gasoline and salt, and Sam would light the remains on fire.

"The only thing Dean will do is sit in the car and be the hell quiet. Because I swear that if you set one foot outside the car, I will shove it back inside, get in myself, drive you the hell back here to the motel, and tie you to the bed. Got that?"

"C'mon, Sam, I think—"

"No! You don't get to think, either. No thinking. No talking. No walking. Just sit in the car and do nothing. Or I will leave your ass here!"

Sammy was apparently channeling his inner John Winchester. "Okay," Dean agreed, being a good little soldier.

Sam stood just inside the motel room door, duffel hooked over one shoulder. "'Okay?'"

"I'll be good. I promise."

Sam's expression verged on bitchface, but mostly it appeared that he was replaying his brother's words in his head and judging them for sincerity.

"I'll be good, Sam. I promise."

"You could get hurt," Sam said, noticably quieter.

"I know that. I get it. But you can't expect me to sit here at the motel while you're off digging up a grave by yourself and burning the bones of a spirit who already threw me into a basement wall."

"You didn't tell me that!"

Dean put one hand in the air, palm-out. "So help me God, I will sit in the car and be quiet."

When darkness fell, Sam drove them out to the cemetery, where they carefully checked for security guards in the wake of their visit the night before to salt and burn Tom McManus. Stephanie Densmore had been buried on the other side of the cemetery, and they found no indications that anyone was monitoring the place for suspicious activities.

Sam pulled over to the grass verge. He poked the air with a finger. "You stay here. You stay put. You just sit here."

"Sitting here," Dean agreed.

Sam climbed out of the car, gathered up the duffel with supplies, marched himself off to Stephanie Densmore's grave approximately twenty yards away.

Sitting in the car was boring, but it did give Dean an eye-view of his brother's grave-digging technique. He thought if Sam adjusted his stance a little bit, perhaps placed the blade of the shovel a little differently, and put a little more back into it, he might find it a tad bit less physically taxing.

Dean considered that perhaps they ought to look into hot-wiring the backhoes used to dig the graves at larger cemeteries. It would certainly go faster and require less physical effort on their part of they let heavy machinery do the work. But it was quieter if they did the digging themselves; and otherwise, people might think the cemetery was haunted by a possessed backhoe.

Sam was about five feet down when Stephanie Densmore's spirit made an appearance. "You bitch," Dean said, then threw open the car door, sprinted twenty yards, grabbed Sam's salt gun and let go with one barrel.

Sam's head popped up from the hole as he straightened with a jerk. "Holy crap, Dean!"

"Dig faster!"

"You promised—"

"Dig, Sam!"

Sam dug. Dean shot Densmore with the second barrel. Then Sam crowbarred open the coffin, doused the remains liberally in salt and gasoline, climbed out of the grave and dropped a lighted match.

Stephanie Densmore, swooping at them from out of the darkness, dispersed into a permanent disappearance.

"Let's get the hell out of here," Dean said, and turned to jog back toward the car before his brother could latch onto any portion of his anatomy.

Sam caught up to him there, swinging the duffel into the back seat before climbing in behind the wheel. "Dean, you swore you'd be good."

Dean, already seated, yanked the passenger-side door closed. "I did sit in the car, and I was quiet, just like I said. I promised to be good and I was good. I blasted that bitch twice and let you finish the job. If that's not 'good,' I don't know what is." He shot his scowling baby brother a grin. "I'll always be good, Sammy. You just took what I said to mean I'd do what you told me to."

"You son of a bitch."

"But I'm a freakin' clever son of a bitch, Sammy." Dean nodded. "Okay, we're done here. Back to the barn. Drive on, Young Winchester. Drive on."

Post-morning shower, Dean walked out of the bathroom clad only in a towel because he'd neglected to bring fresh clothing in with him. He was digging through the duffel on his bed when Sam, turning from the TV, said sharply, "What the hell is that?"

Since he was staring fixedly at his brother's back, Dean figured he was somehow factored into the query. "What the hell is what?"

"Dean, what is this?" And then Sam stood behind him, hand on his naked back, touching his scapula.

"What are you doing?" Dean asked. "What are you looking at?—ow." He moved away from Sam, twisted his head to peer over his shoulder. He could not achieve the proper position to view his back even if he cranked his shoulder forward.

"Hold still. Let me see." Sam was behind him again, reaching out.

Dean shifted away once more. "Dude, lemme put some pants on first." He fished boxers out of his duffel, donned them, pulled on his jeans. He was still shirtless, but nonetheless felt like at least half of him was armored. "Okay. What are you talking about?"

Sam's fingers were on his left scapula. "You've got some kind of wound here. Can you feel it?"

"Now that you're poking at it, yeah. What kind of wound?"

"I don't know . . . " Sam's fingers were relatively gentle, but nonetheless intrusive. He pressed slightly, and Dean jumped, twitched his shoulder away from the touch. "What's this from?" Sam asked.

"I don't even know what it is. I didn't even know it existed. How am I supposed to know what it's from?"

"It's not new," Sam said. "This is days old. Look, I want you sit down in the chair. I need to clean this out."

Frowning, Dean returned to the bathroom, stood with his back to the mirror. It was still difficult to get a good look, but eventually he caught a glance of what Sam meant. The scuff he'd seen following their encounter with the black dog was no longer just a surface blemish, but was raised and dark. It wasn't large, perhaps the size of a silver dollar, but it was far more than it had been.

And now, of course, it hurt. Because he knew about it.

"Come on," Sam called. "I've still got all the stuff out from dressing my arm."

Dean went into the room, flipped the chair around, sat with his back available to his brother. He was annoyed. He knew, too, that Sam was going to give him hell over this.

Sam pulled the other chair close, sat down. "Didn't you know you had this?"

"No."

"Didn't you feel this?"

"No."

Sam fingered the wound. "You're flinching."

"Hell yes, I'm flinching. You're poking at me."

"I'm examining, not poking. How could you not know this was here?"

"When you've been attacked by a black dog, thrown down the stairs, suffered a concussion, gotten hurled into a wall, then jumped by a ghost at a gravesite, you're a little busy and may not happen to notice certain minor inconveniences."

"There's a lump here, Dean."

"Lump?"

"Hold still. I'm gonna wipe this down, take a closer look."

Dean rested forearms across the chairback. His jaw felt tight. He worked it from side to side, rolled his head as neck muscles twinged. "We got any more of those muscle relaxants?"

"I think we have two or three left. Why?" Then Sam began wiping down his scapula with wet square of gauze, and Dean forgot all about the muscle relaxant. "Okay, I think this is an abscess. I'm gonna open it up, drain it. You ready?"

He wasn't, but nodded. Because of course Dean Winchester was always ready. He glared across the room at the door with its information card attached on the inside, and gritted his teeth as Sam applied scalpel to shoulder blade.

"Yeah. Okay," Dean said, trying not to jerk his shoulder away.

"Hang on. There's something in here."

"Something in there? In my shoulder?"

"Okay, I'm gonna use the tweezers."

"Well, hurry the hell up."

"Just a minute . . . Jesus Christ! Holy crap!"

That was alarming. "Stop crapping and taking the Lord's name in vain and tell me what the Goddamned hell you're talking about." He started to twist, to look back, but it hurt too much and an incipient spasm threatened his torso. "What is it?"

Sam rose, crossed around in front of the chair. Something was clenched in the tips of his fingers. "Here. It's the prize from inside the Crackerjack box." And he dropped it into Dean's palm.

He inspected it. "Holy crap."

"Yeah."

"It's a tooth."

"It's a fang, Dean."

A canine, wickedly curved. The tip was incredibly sharp. The root was jagged. "I'll be a son of a bitch."

"Looks like I wasn't the only one who was the black dog's chew toy. But how could you not feel it? Did you even bother to look? Did you self-triage at all?"

"I looked. I did look."

"And you missed this?"

"Well . . . that appears to be the case."

"There's a reason we triage one another, Dean. This is an example."

"You were crashed out."

"You could have woken me up."

He hadn't wanted to. He'd wanted to let his beaten up baby brother sleep. But he had looked, as best he could, and he'd seen nothing but a scuff.

Sam grabbed things from the table. "So, here's the plan." He rattled the pill bottle. "Antibiotics. Lots of 'em." He popped off the cap, tapped out four oblong tablets into Dean's palm, removed the tooth so that wasn't swallowed by mistake. "Take those. Here's water. Now, I'm going to put antiseptic in that wound and bandage it. I think it'll be okay. But from here on out, I'm checking this every day. Got it?"

"Yes, Dr. McNasty."

Sam clamped one very large hand over the top of his brother's skull. "You're just damn lucky black dogs don't get supernatural rabies." Then he let go.

Scowling, Dean rubbed at his head. Then with effort he opened a strangely reluctant mouth, worked the tablets onto his tongue, washed them down with water as Sam tended the wound.

Damn. He'd had a fang in his shoulder.

Sam was muttering. Dean said, "What?"

"Dean Winchester School of Won't-Say-Shit-If-It-Kills-Me. One of these days, it might."

Dean smiled. "Not today."

Patched up, fully clothed, Dean wanted food. He said so to his brother. "Dude. Breakfast. Now." He opened the door, and the brilliant morning sunshine hit him like a nuclear blast. He staggered back into the room, tripped, went down hard.

"Dean, what . . . ?" Sam was next him, kneeling. He felt his brother's hand on his arm.

Every muscle in his body abruptly spasmed, stood up like taut cables, then tied themselves into indivisible knots. He couldn't even open his mouth to yell. All he could do, as his body arched impossibly off the floor, was emit one long, shuddering, breathy moan of unadulterated agony that came up hard from the depths of his cramping gut, was pushed out between clamped teeth.

"—wait—wait . . . Flexeril . . ." Sam left him, yanked open a duffel zipper, dug inside. "Just three—not enough . . . but better than nothing. "Okay, the sea is parting . . . we're going to a doctor." He knelt back at Dean's side, lifted his head, held two small pills against his lips. "Come on. Come on, Dean. Open your mouth."

He couldn't. He just couldn't.

Another shuddering moan found its way up his throat, but could not breech clamped teeth.

The door stood open, because Dean's booted feet prevented Sam from closing it. Even as Dean struggled against the floor, arched and shuddering, he heard a stranger's voice asking what was going on. Did they need help? Was it a seizure?

Sam said, "Go to the office. Ask the manager about a hospital, urgent care—anything! Dean—Dean, come on. Open your mouth. It's only three pills, but they'll help. They've got to."

Dean's lips peeled back. With tremendous effort, he parted his teeth slightly. Sam shoved the pills in, pressed the bottle against his lips and lifted his head.

He managed two swallows, then a spasm snapped his jaw closed again. He couldn't tell if he'd gotten the pills down.

He arched, arched again. Something deep in his back popped. He felt it go; felt the tweak, the snap.

The stranger was back. "Manager says the town's too small for a hospital, but there's a little clinic. Everyone goes an hour up the road for big stuff. He can call the paramedics from there."

"Hour's too long," Sam said. "We'll try the clinic. He tell you where?"

"Two blocks up, on the left. Next to the Dairy Queen."

Dean tried to speak. Tried to say his brother's name. All he could manage was the sibilant, the hiss of the "S."

One more spasm set legs to jerking, and then it faded. He was free of it all. Limbs collapsed against the carpet. Too soon for the relaxant to work, and too small a dosage, but something had taken mercy on him.

At last, at last he could open his mouth. "Sam . . . Sammy—Jesus—"

"Can you get up? Dean? If you can get up, I'll put you in the car."

"You need help?" the stranger asked, still hovering in the open doorway.

Dean looked at him. Young guy. College age. Sleeve tattoos from wrist to elbows. Piercings decorated his mouth and nose.

"Yeah," Sam said. He dug into Dean's pocket, pulled out the keys. "There's a black Impala just outside. Can you unlock the doors?"

"That sweet ride's yours?"

"His," Sam answered, and dimples twitched as he looked down upon his brother. "Don't worry—he's just opening the doors."

At that moment, so exhausted he could barely even breathe, Dean didn't care if the guy drove the Impala.

Well. Not true.

"Sammy . . ."

"Yeah?"

And Dean Winchester asked a question he had never allowed himself to ask in his entire life. "What's wrong with me?"

No dimples now, just worried Sam Winchester eyes. "I don't know, Dean. I just don't know."