A/N Massive thanks again to katriel1987, formerly known as katerina17, for being my beta, she's done an amazing job and turned this into something you might actually like to read. Any mistakes are my own.

AND ANOTHER A/N. Thank you all for your fantastic reviews so far and for making one old fan-girl very happy.

DISCLAIMER TYPE THINGY:- Eric Kripke owns Supernatural, Dean, Sam and Bobby. Please don't sue me.

Chapter 7

Dean moved cautiously toward the old man's still form. He didn't appear to be breathing.

"He's gone," said Dean flatly. "From the look of him, he probably would've been dead years ago if he hadn't been possessed."

Dean's eyes flicked quickly over the corpse on the floor, his nose wrinkling at the smell. The body already appeared to be decaying.

"You ok?" Dean asked his brother, noting Sam's disheveled appearance, his limp as he moved to stand opposite him.

"Yeah, think so," said Sam as he hobbled around, trying to breathe life into his dead leg.

Dean watched his brother closely, making sure he was really ok.

"What did it mean when it said you'd been helpful, Sam?" Asked Dean with a quizzical look on his face.

"Bobby told me that the demon was trapped here and I had to perform an unbinding incantation. If you'd waited outside like I asked you, you would have known," responded Sam angrily. Dean's question had pissed him off, considering how worried he'd been about him, and that he'd saved his ass in the kitchen. Sam drew in a deep breath as the memory of his brother being strangled filled his mind.

"Hey, what's crawled up and died?" Asked Dean blithely. "Dude, relax." He threw a half-grin at his brother, hoping to relieve the tension that seemed to be building.

Dean's efforts to get back into the room hadn't exactly helped his headache, which had turned from a dull pounding into a full Black Sabbath concert. And now that he seemed to be having difficulty standing still, he really didn't want to get into a full argument with Sam.

There it is again, that cocky tone in Dean's voice, thought Sam.

"No, Dean, I won't relax. When you came into this house on your own tonight, you put both of us in danger." Sam glared at his brother, his finger stabbing in Dean's direction. Sam had intended to say that he was pleased his brother was ok. Yeah, he was angry with Dean for scaring him, but glad that they'd managed to survive. Sam knew that if he'd been the one who had entered the building unprepared, Dean would have kicked his ass for a week.

"What do you mean? It wasn't like I had any choice..." Dean began defensively, unconsciously taking a few steps back from his brother.

"Of course you had a choice, but no, as usual you have to be the hero. What were you going to do, Dean, save everyone with your clever one-liners? You know, it wasn't that long ago that you called me a selfish bastard. Well, maybe you're right, and if I am, I learned from the master." Sam glowered at Dean, unable to stop his frustration from bubbling over.

Dean was stunned by the furiousness of Sam's words, but Sam wasn't finished.

"There's a man lying dead downstairs right now who should be going home to his family, not to the morgue." Sam's lips were pursed together so tightly that they were almost white, his right hand roughly indicating in the direction where Dunhill's body lay downstairs.

"Hey, now, wait a minute," said Dean, beginning to get angry. "It's not like I killed him!" Dean was about to point out that it had been his neck on the chopping block when Sam interrupted.

"No, but you didn't save him either." Sam's eyes flashed darkly. Sam knew that was unfair; they were a team and he'd just dumped the blame totally on Dean, but at that moment, he didn't care.

Dean's body jerked involuntarily as Sam's words struck a raw nerve. Who did Sam mean by that, Dunhill or Dad? Thought Dean uneasily. No, surely he couldn't have meant Dad.

"Sam, I..."

"Stow it, Dean. Whatever you've got to say, I'm not interested." Sam turned his back on Dean and headed toward the door to leave, his back stiff, his limp almost gone.

Dean's shoulders slumped; he felt old and defeated. He moved his hand to the wounds over his ribs; he knew they were still there, as they throbbed in time with his heartbeat. Dean pressed his palm lightly over the wound, felt a flash of pain shoot through his core that seemed to shake him out of his remorse.

"Sam...Sammy, I'm...you're right, I could have waited," said Dean apologetically. He knew that his bother was right; maybe Dunhill could have been saved if he hadn't been so impatient, if he hadn't been such a freakin' jerk. Dean knew his brother deserved a proper apology, but it wouldn't come out. Sam still had his back to Dean, but he had stopped.

"And I didn't walk into this house tonight," said Dean quickly. "I got thrown in and then bounced off the walls!" Dean took a deep breath as the room began to spin. Staring at his brother's back, he willed him to turn around.

Sam sighed; he knew his brother would try to talk him around, make him feel guilty for daring to question him. He was still angry. Turning around to face Dean down again, Sam noticed that his face was paler than before and he was swaying and clutching his ribs.

"Dean, are you ok?" asked Sam, instantly forgetting his earlier anger.

Dean's vision swam alarmingly and his knees threatened to buckle. He bent over, hands on his knees and head down, trying not to vomit. The pain in his neck temporarily acquiesced to his other injuries.

"Sam," said Dean, reaching a hand his brother's direction. Sam was instantly at Dean's side, helping him to stand upright.

"What's the matter with you?" asked Sam anxiously, still supporting his brother.

"Think it's a concussion. Got a bash on the back of the head earlier and was out for a couple of minutes," replied Dean almost breathlessly.

"Why didn't you say anything? Let me see." Sam reached up to touch the back of Dean's head.

"Don't...owww, man!" exclaimed Dean as Sam's fingers pressed into the tender lump on the back of his head.

"Sorry."

"Just help me onto the floor for a couple of minutes, Florence."

Supporting Dean with his arms, Sam helped him over to the wall and onto the floor. Looking down at his brother, Sam had to admit that Dean looked pretty ropey, actually far worse than he'd looked when Sam had first arrived. They'd both had their fair share of cuts, bruises and knocks to the head. Concussions were fairly serious, but Dean had confirmed he'd only been unconscious for a couple of minutes. Sam knew there was no way he was going to get Dean to go to the hospital, and hoped that Bobby or Ellen would be able to help if necessary

"Sam!" Said Dean, raising his eyes up to Sam. He looked worried. "The floor...it's really warm."

"Yeah?" Sam looked nonplussed.

"Feel it, Sam."

Sam bent down, putting his hand flat onto the floorboards. They weren't just warm; they were almost hot.

-x-

Sam strode to the door, placed the palm of his hand against it for a moment, and then tentatively pulled it open. Immediately a plume of acrid black smoke roiled into the room. Sam slammed the door shut and, without pausing to look at his brother, rushed to the window at the back of the room. Dean struggled to his feet, using the wall to steady himself, adrenaline temporarily over-riding the effects of the concussion and neck injury.

"Think you can manage a four-meter jump?" asked Sam, raising the butt of the shotgun to break the window.

"Jump?" Asked Dean disbelievingly. "That's more of a fall in my book. Hold on, there's a balcony at the front of the house, and I'm pretty sure there's some kind of trellis too. I'd rather take my chances climbing down that, if we can still get to the room."

"C'mon," said Sam, moving quickly to Dean's side. "Keep low."

Sam again placed his palm against the door, and, satisfied that at least the flames were not outside the door, pulled it open. Once again, the plume of smoke entered the room, and Sam's eyes stung from the fumes. The smoke was so thick that Sam could barely see more than a few steps in front of him. He couldn't see the flames, but he could hear their crackle and feel their heat. Shotgun again stowed in the crook of his arm, he turned on his light, but it hardly made an impression in the dense smoke.

Sam grabbed Dean with his free hand and supported him as best he could as they moved out into the hallway. Hardly breaking his stride, Sam instinctively grabbed the bag he had dropped outside the door earlier; he could no more forget that than he could forget to blink or breathe. With a smooth motion, he hoisted the bag onto his shoulder.

"C'mon, Dean," urged Sam when he felt Dean stumble as they headed toward the front of the house. Sam didn't dare move his shoulder away from the wall it was scraping against; if he lost his bearings, they could both end up falling down the stairs. There was a ridge and then a depression against his shoulder; it was a doorway. Sam was disoriented, and almost panicked before he remembered that this was the door at the side of the hallway, not the one he was aiming for. They were about halfway to the rooms at the front. Sam heard Dean coughing, each time drawing in a big lungful of harmful smoke. Before he could tell his brother to try not to cough, Sam too was coughing. Half-dragging his brother now, Sam almost walked into the wall at the end of the hallway.

"Stay here," Sam managed to say between hacking coughs, and pushed Dean into the corner. Sam fervently felt with his free hand for one of the three doorways he knew to be in front of him. Finally Sam's hand grasped a doorknob and he twisted it furiously. Damn it, Sam had forgotten that all the other doors up here were locked. Taking two steps back, Sam kicked the door open without hesitation. It flew back on its hinges, and would have slammed shut again if Sam hadn't put his foot into the doorway. Checking, Sam could hear Dean's labored breathing as he entered the room.

It was easier to breathe in the room, but it was rapidly filling with smoke as Sam hurried toward the window. Halfway across the floor, Sam stumbled on something underfoot. When he tried to compensate with his other foot, that too skittered across whatever was littering the floor. Finally, Sam made it over to the window without falling. There was no balcony. Sam pressed his face against the glass, his breath fogging the pane in front of him. He quickly wiped the glass clear and peered to his right; he could just make out the wrought iron of a balcony that must be attached the room farthest away.

Head down, Sam moved to exit the room as quickly as he could. This time, though, he peered through the gloom at whatever was littering the center of the room. Without breaking his stride, he could just make out a large pile of sticks. When he moved a little closer, his light showed the sticks to be bleached white bones...a lot of bleached white bones.

Sam moved back into the hallway, where the smoke was now so dense he couldn't see his hand in front of his face. He could see licks of orange flame shooting up the staircase behind him, cutting off the room at the back of the house. Sam dropped his light; it was practically useless now.

"Dean?" Sam's voice was barely a whisper. He didn't hear a response. Fighting the urge to panic, Sam moved the few steps back to the corner, hands in front of him. He soon felt the familiar texture of Dean's old leather jacket. On unsteady legs, Sam pulled Dean from the wall toward the farthest door. Again, he put his hand against the wall, ignored the middle door, headed to the last door, took two steps back and kicked.

Sam pulled Dean into the room. By now Dean was hardly able to stand unaided.

"C'mon Dean, help me, man," said Sam, finding his voice again, thanks to the small amount of fresh oxygen trapped in the room.

Dean heard Sam talking, but he couldn't make out what the words meant. He tried to place one foot in front of the other, but he seemed to be making a mess of it, staggering side to side like a drunk.

Sam could now make out the vague outline of the wrought iron banister outside the window.

They would soon be out.

They were almost to the window when, with a ghastly groan, the floor disappeared from beneath their feet. In a flurry of rotten wood and plaster, Sam and Dean plummeted through the floor into the room below.

-x-

Ceiling debris showered down on the living room, falling in chunks into the corners of the room. After a few seconds, all was silent. Dean, winded in the fall, drew in a lungful of hot but cleaner air and instantly began to cough. He tried to stand, but his body failed to respond.

"Sam, where are you?" Dean croaked, but it was almost inaudible with the roar of the fire immediately outside the door. Ignoring the pain in his shoulders, Dean reached his hands outward amongst the rubble on the floor, feeling for Sam. Under the plaster and slats, Dean felt material ... clothing.

"Sam," choked Dean, panic rising. With his remaining strength, Dean turned himself onto his side, facing whatever was under the rubble.

Scrabbling desperately with one hand, he pushed back the debris. Dean touched something warm, something that moved slightly as he pulled. His hand closed over skin, a wrist, his brother's wrist, and he tugged hard. Something gave way and Dean pulled Sam's hand into view.

"Sam, oh God, Sam please," Dean cried, shaking Sam's hand.

Dean pulled with all his strength, but he couldn't move his brother. He couldn't save Sam; he couldn't even save himself. Cold resignation washed over him, and calmly he thought, Just me, not Sam, he didn't deserve this, just me, just me.

The noise of the flames became muffled, and Dean felt his skin prickle as the blood rushed to his vital organs. Darkness grew across his vision, and he knew he was about to pass out.

"I'm sorry Sam," he muttered, and started to roll back, his hand still tightly gripping Sam's wrist.

Dean's last thought before he fell unconscious was to wonder who the hell had just grabbed hold of his jacket.