BLOOD ON THE TRACKS

- Chapter Nine -


"It's not working," Ted said, his voice painfully soft, his eyes too bright in the muted torchlight. He moistened parched lips and quietly added, "Your plan to bring Melanie back. It's not working."

Dean's skin bristled and his fingers tightened on the pages of Latin rituals. He clamped his jaw and chose not to answer. Instead he raised his head and stared into the frigid darkness, the meager beams from the two torches he and Ted had set up doing little to beat away the caliginous dark of the subway tunnel. Now nearing midnight, the cold held a desolate iciness that drove through the layers of clothing, past the paltry front of courage and hope, and sliced Dean's insides apart.

Ted was right. Dean's hurriedly devised plan was not working. Until now he had ignored the clawing reality, denied the truth of it, kept busy with every step of the inane plan he had come up with to save his brother's life. Sam's unconscious state had made things so much harder and absurdly so much easier. The stolen hospital issue wheelchair, Ted's help and a focus on one step at a time had enabled Dean to steer his thoughts away from the truth of his brother's condition. The whole deliriously frantic operation had passed in a rush of action, panic and hurried commands that Ted had unflinchingly obeyed: stop the train in the tunnel, disembark, make it look like a terrorist drill, get Sam off, bullshit to the few passengers whom had witnessed the debacle and then rely on the passengers' wide eyed stupor to evade detection and to keep the trains running. It had worked. Too easy, stunningly so, and it had given Dean false confidence, made him think that his whole plan could work. Now, five trains down, no sign of Melanie and only one train service to go, that confidence lay as a pathetic half memory.

He risked a glance toward his brother. Sam had not yet regained consciousness and that held a darkly veiled blessing all its own – Dean had not had to subdue his injured sibling while enduring the nerve shattering rush of the trains screaming within two feet of their faces. Instead, Sam lay drugged and compliant – mercifully unaware as he breathed with a grated colicky sound that the nasal canula only barely muted. Dean shuddered and looked away.

"I can burn more wormwood," Ted offered, his tone elevated with helpful need.

"None left."

"Does this mean you can't bring her back at all?"

"Summon her spirit. I'm not bringing her back. She's dead."

Silence fell between them, save for the ragged sounds of his little brother's tortured breaths and the sharper smack of the soles of his shoes against the concrete as he paced. He hugged his arms around himself as a headache started a low pulse through his skull.

"She must still be here," Ted offered after several long moments had passed. "Otherwise the train drivers would see us. Isn't that how you said it works? She's hiding us from them, which means she is still here."

Dean blew out a tense breath, squared his shoulders and flicked through the Latin rituals. There had to be something he had missed.

"I wish she had just talked to me. I'm not a mind reader. If I had known, I would have done something to help her."

"I'm trying to concentrate here," Dean snapped as his gaze snatched past Ted and locked on Sam. His chest tightened and his jaw clenched as he took in his little brother's deterioration. A thin stream of blood wove from the younger man's nostrils, from beneath the nasal canula where the high pressure air tore through sensitive tissue. Still, the destructive flow failed to provide Sam with enough oxygen to prevent cyanosis.

"She would never have deliberately hurt him," Ted said quietly. "Not like this. If she knew what she had done, she'd be devastated."

The paper scrunched in Dean's hands as he clenched his fists and took a step forward. Air sucked in between tightly clamped teeth as Dean prepared to let loose – to enlighten Ted on the truth about what his dead daughter had become.

"Dean, he's waking up."

The anger fled. Vaporized in a white haze of panic and relief that moved him to his brother, collapsed his legs from beneath him and jarred a pained grunt as his knees collided sharply with the concrete. Dean cupped his brother's face, lifted Sam's head and tried to see into his eyes. "Sam. Hey, Sammy, talk to me."

The younger man trembled beneath his touch and made soft whining noises that Dean interpreted as falsely formed breaths. His face had a pale moistness and his skin felt a touch too warm. His open eyes shed tears without imparting recognition and Dean had a sudden sickening realization that pain had woken Sam – had roused him to a semi-conscious state then denied him anything more. Dean lightly tapped at his face, shook him, called to him, encouraged as Sam slowly came around. Ted, however, seemed less pleased.

"Dean, stop."

Dean grunted as Ted tugged at the sleeve of his jacket. "Get off."

"He can't talk to you, the pain is too bad. You have to sedate him."

"Like hell. Sam, c'mon little brother, snap out of it. I need you. Sammy, dammit, I need you!"

"Dean, he can't answer you."

"Back the hell off," Dean growled. He pushed Sam against the wall, supported him with one hand against his shoulder and hooked a finger under his chin to bring his head up. Sam's eyes rolled, glazed and wet, and his already compromised breathing took on a hacking infrequency that terrified Dean.

"Dean, he's panicking and making it worse. You have to calm him down!"

"Quit yelling at me!"

"He's suffocating!"

Dean momentarily closed his eyes, his throat closed so tightly he thought he could choke. He roughly pulled Sam into his embrace, rubbed his back, whispered lied assurances while Sam weakly struggled against him. Ted mercifully fell quiet as Dean started a gentle rocking, soothing the twenty-three year old as though he were a tiny baby. The horrific reality of the situation curdled Dean's blood. With only one train to go, no sign of Melanie and Sam's condition rapidly going downhill, Dean was all out of options. He needed his brother, he needed that sharp geek boy mind because his own was shutting down.

"Dean."

A whisper and Dean stilled, gently pushed his brother back and tucked a finger under his chin to lift his head. "Hey," he said throatily, "you with me?"

Sam shuddered, his face pale and waxy in the muted light, his eyes glazed with pain that shaded the intelligence and clarity that Dean so heavily relied upon. Until now, he had not realized just how much.

"Told… you."

"Told me what?"

Sam's eyes tracked slowly, his breathing too harsh, too wrong. "Wouldn't work." Blood slipped into his mouth, hung heavy on his upper lip, smeared his teeth. Sam seemed not to notice.

"I could use some optimism here, Sammy," Dean grated out. "Some help maybe."

Another shudder wracked Sam's body, made him sluggishly draw his limbs in. He cradled the heavily bandaged arm and pushed his head back against the tunnel wall. His eyes remained open, the gaze fixed upwards, languidly blinking. The action dislodged budded tears. "Told… you," he said as he shifted and Dean found his brother's shimmering gaze locked on him. "I can't… help."

Beneath those words and deep in his brother's tear filled eyes lay an apology, an unspoken communication filled with regret, loss and – worst of all – acceptance. Sam was giving up. Giving in. Laying down like a dying dog, going down without a fight. Dean could hardly believe it, and he made no effort to veil the anger that swept through him.

"You know this whole defeatist bullshit you've got going doesn't cut it. You see this as a way out, well I'll be damned if I'll let you take it. You hear me. We're in this together, till the end, and this shit hole of a tunnel is not the end."

Sam looked hurt. Wounded dying puppy sort of hurt, the kind of wet doe eyed expression that Sam seemed unable to ever entirely mask. It cut Dean, sliced him harder than any blade ever could, but he held the gaze because he needed Sam angry, he needed him fighting, he needed more than Sam could ever give.

"You fight, Sam. You owe me that." Dean shoved up and stood, prowled to the weapon's bag and retrieved the medications. He returned to Sam, ignored his brother's wet eyed look and roughly grabbed his hand.

"I'm dying," Sam said and his voice shook, his hand trembled. "Dean, please."

"Winchester's don't beg."

"Christ, Dean. I can't… breathe. She… she dematerialized me."

"No shit. Thanks for the update. Thought you'd stick around for the happy ever after widescreen conclusion instead of going Old Yeller on me." Dean grunted as Sam wrenched his hand away, tucked it against his chest. "What? You want to quit, I'll knock you out and figure it out myself."

"I don't… want to… die. I'm not… giving in."

"Yup, whatever." He reached for his brother's hand again, his jaw tightening as Sam nestled it under the bandaged paw. Out of reach – out of bounds.

"Dean, don't. You're hurting him." Ted reached out, clearly intending to touch Sam, to offer human contact, comfort. Dean snatched his hand and shoved him aside.

"Do not touch him. I'm handling this."

"You're hurting him. What you're saying is cruel."

"No," Dean said as he turned full force onto Ted. "This, all of this is your fault. Every last freakin' second of it. All because you fucked up, couldn't handle your screwy daughter and now Sam is paying for it. Now he's dy…." He panted as the unfinished accusation burned his lips, dried his mouth, tore acid up his throat.

Ted stared, watery red eyes lapping up every hateful word, sucking it in like a proverbial sponge. "I know," he said. "But this, what you are doing to Sam right now, is no better than what I did to Melanie."

Dean flinched, his anger escalating. "Oh, so now you're Dr. Phil," he snarled, the hatred in his voice forcing Ted to move back. "Stay away from my brother and stay the hell away from me."

Sam watched the interchange with wide wounded eyes, his lips parted as he drew in incomplete panted gasps. Dean knew if he shone the torch on Sam's face, he would see the tinge of blue, evidence of cyanosis. He fisted his hands, dug fingernails into his palms, tasted blood as he bit down on his bottom lip. Sam's gaze slowly tracked to his and the vulnerability and pain pushed Dean over the edge.

"You want me to just let you die?" Dean asked, his tone dark, threatening, his anger unrivalled. "Is that it? Is that what you want?"

"No."

"Then what, Sam? Tell me what you want me to do? I'm trying to fix this. But it's not working." He grabbed a handful of papers, shoved them in Sam's face and made him flinch back. "Latin. Every freakin' summoning ritual I could find: classical and ecclesiastical pronunciation. I smoked Wormwood, got Ted to march up and down, got him to recite Latin. Thought that might work. It didn't. Nothing is working, Sam. So you tell me, what am I supposed to do now? I fucking need you! I can't do this alone! I never could. Do you get that?"

Sam stared with glazed eyes, shivering now. The spark of intelligence that Dean had tried to nurture to a bright flame was being quashed by pain and the tugging hand of death. Sam writhed weakly, his uninjured hand fisted into the hospital issue top, clenched and unclenched and Dean knew then that he had made an awful unforgivable mistake. He had misjudged his proud, strong brother, mocked his pain and accused him of giving in. And worse, Sam was dying and all Dean could do in these last hours with his sibling was bawl him out.

Dean's vision shimmered. His anger evaporated – sucked out and left him aching and raw. No better than the bald headed professor who had taken Sam off oxygen. The professor had his motives for allowing Sam to suffer, Dean had his own. One and the same, the outcome for his physically helpless brother… indescribable pain. Dean tasted bile in the back of his throat as he fished for the sedation. Full dose, he thought blindly. It'd buy the most time – give him a chance to get Sam out of the tunnel and… then what Dean did not know. But he would find a way. Contacts, searches, he would find a way.

Dean no longer dared look at his brother's face, look into those expressive eyes and see the pain there. He checked the medication, double checked, made absolutely sure he knew what he was doing. No way in hell he would make a mistake now. He reached for Sam's hand, the one with the IV port, the one tucked behind the bulky bandage that hid the fingers Dean had more or less cut off his brother's body.

Sam had never asked how Dean knew how to correctly administer the sedation, how to give him just enough so that he floated, didn't lose consciousness. Sam's nurse had explained why, had shown Dean how. He smiled just the right number of times with just the perfect lip curl and flash of teeth and Lauren the bubbly brunette had never suspected a thing. Stealing the drugs had been a little harder, and the oxygen tank had been a bitch, but Ted had helped. Created a diversion that had bought Dean time. Now all of that had led to this. He could not even contemplate what this was.

He lightly touched Sam's bandaged hand, the contact burned his psyche, seared through his mind and branded him with the recognition of all he had done wrong. He reached further, wrapped gentle fingers around his brother's uninjured wrist, felt the too fast pulse against his fingertips. Drew the limb away from his brother's chest and refused to look at his face.

"This will put you to sleep – take away the pain," he murmured the words, let the unspoken apology hang. Should say sorry, but it seemed to close to goodbye and he would never say that to Sam. Not now. Not ever. Not like this.

Then Sam resisted. Drew the limb back in a jerked, barely coordinated motion and Dean had no choice but to raise his head in question.

"Tell me… again," Sam rasped.

"Tell you what?" He searched Sam's face, knew his brother had limited resources left to function, the pain unimaginable – carved into the lines on his face, the blue cast to his lips, the beads of sweat that reflected as tiny crystal orbs until they beaded and fell, and the tears. "Sam, what?" His own voice croaked, hoarse and broken.

Sam's mouth tightened and he grew even paler and Dean thought he might be sick.

"You need to sleep," Dean said as he reached to reclaim the arm, the IV port that would give him access to his brother's vein, an ability to inject the sedative that would knock Sam out. So much about it all was so fucking wrong.

Again Sam tucked the arm away, the action seeming to cost him and Dean had the awful feeling that his angered attack on his sibling had pushed Sam to believe he deserved to suffer. The thought physically sickened him, and he reached out again, with a little more force.

"Dean."

Dean stilled, frozen more by the pain in his little brother's voice than the fact Sam had said his name. He held his breath, syringe in one hand, Sam's too cool skin against his fingertips. Then he saw it, what he had missed before, almost hidden behind the pain and the fear – frustration. Sam wanted to help, but couldn't – at least not in a way that either of them was used to.

Dean licked his lips and barely dared to hope. "You want me to go over everything I've tried?"

He wasn't sure, but he thought he saw Sam nod. It was so hard to know for sure, the kid looked absolutely wrecked, but Dean really had no other option so he worked through all he had tried. Named every ritual, showed Sam the text, flipped through Melanie's journal so Sam could see every page, did it in such a hurry because there wasn't time to do anything else. Then he waited.

And waited.

And Ted hovered and clucked his tongue and whispered that Dean was cruel, Dean was heartless and Dean was hurting his little brother. And slowly Dean fell apart, the only thing that stopped him from shattering was the grasp he kept on his brother's wrist. Each time he tried to draw Sam's hand to him, to line up the syringe with the IV port, Sam would weakly tug away. That's how they communicated, because it seemed Sam saved his words for when he figured it out. Except Dean doubted that he could.

"The next train is in five minutes," Ted said. "What do you need me to do?"

Dean glanced at him, shook his head and drew his attention back to Sam.

"Any ideas rolling around in that freaky head of yours?" Dean asked hopefully. He ducked his head, rubbed Sam's arm and tried to ignore how badly his brother trembled. He let a beat pass then added, "You did good, Sammy. Real good."

Again he drew Sam's arm toward him, but this time he did not allow Sam to draw back. Wasn't hard to line up the syringe, slip it into the IV port.

"No!"

Dean looked up, breathing hard. "Sam, what?"

Sam's eyes rolled, tears leaked down his face as he wheezed with sounds that no human should ever make. His chin trembled, his lips twitched and his eyes widened as he sought to figure it all out.

"It's okay," Dean soothed. "The answer isn't here."

Sam's eyes widened further as his gaze ping-ponged the weakly lit subway, locking on nothing as he scanned.

"Four minutes," Ted said.

"Shit. Okay, Sam. I'm taking you down. You don't need to be awake for this."

He started to depress the plunger, unprepared when Sam tore his arm away. "Klingon," he grunted as he pressed himself against the wall. He stayed there only a moment then slid down.

When Sam's shoulder hit the floor of the subway walkway, he did not move again. With a sick heart, Dean realized Sam had lost consciousness. No need to sedate him, his abused and failing body would keep him in a place where he would feel no pain.

Dean hurled the syringe onto the track. All for nothing. All Sam's pain, all the anger between them, the suffering, for nothing. He felt weak, drained, the air suffocating and cold as hope bled through his fingers.

Ted helped him to arrange Sam's body into the recovery position, and Dean did not berate him when the older man touched Sam's face, his own features creased in sympathetic pain. "He's so young," Ted said.

Dean looked away. Stood and hugged his arms around himself. Hesitated then stooped to collect the pages of Latin.

"What did he say?" Ted asked. He had not yet moved from Sam's side and now had his daughter's diary unopened in one hand.

"Nothing."

"But I thought—"

"He was pain dazed, Ted." He glanced at his brother, but his gaze could not hold and he shifted his attention to the dark tunnel. Within minutes another train would pass. "We'll try the Latin again. Once more. Then we'll leave."

"I'm sure he said something."

Dean clenched his hands and shook his head.

"It might mean something. What did he say?"

"Ted—"

"Please."

"Kingen, Clenon, something. I don't know."

"Klingon?"

Dean shrugged, distracted. "Yeah, something like that."

Ted bowed his head, flipped through the diary, his hands shaking. Dean ignored him and gathered up the equipment and rituals for one last attempt. It would fail, he felt it as a gnawing in his bones.

"Heghlu'meH QaQ jajvam," Ted looked up, but to Dean it seemed the older man looked right through him. "Klingon," he said after a moment. His focus shifted, came to present and he smiled. "I know how to reach her. How to make her come."

Dean simply shook his head, his eyebrows raised in confusion, his arms loose at his sides. He felt so heavy, as though the air had thickened, pressed down on him. He dropped to the concrete walkway, pressed in beside Sam, checked his pulse, his breathing, adjusted the nasal canula. Any excuse to touch his brother, to feel him, to know that despite the bitter certainty of the future, that right now Sam still lived.

Ted offered Melanie's journal to Dean. "We'll summon her with Klingon, not Latin."

Dean stared at the mixture of nonsensical letters strung into what might be words. He shivered and threaded shaking fingers through his little brother's hair. Hadn't done that since they were children and Sam would crawl into his lap and fall asleep in his arms. The bestest big brother, Sam's hero. Some hero now.

"She'll come," Ted said as tapped at the page. "This will bring her." He sounded childishly optimistic, like a kid at Christmas who left cookies and milk for the fat man who rode the flying reindeer. Ted looked down at Dean and smiled with rotted teeth and parched lips that pulled back into an encouragingly perverted smile. "I know she will come."

Dean was not so sure.