Disclaimer: Usual disclaimers apply. Completely un-beta'd so all mistakes, errors and other WTF's are mine and mine alone.
A/N: I didn't do so well, I guess, at getting this next chapter out in the "few more days" I'd promised in my review replies. (If I missed anyone, I'm sorry) But as a consolation, I've given you an extra-large, ultra-ginormous, over-stuffed and super-sized chapter. I kept tweaking, editing and adding and the next thing I knew, the chapter was FIFTEEN pages long! Think of it as my Christmas/Hanukkah/Kwanzaa/Whatever-you-happen-to-celebrate gift. Happy Holidays! God bless us all, everyone!!
Atrox
Chapter 9: Wearing the Inside Out
Settle Inn
Lost River, Idaho
"Why don't you take a break, son?" Bobby stood directly behind Sam, his large hands kneading at the cords of tightened muscles along Sam's shoulders as the young man diligently typed yet another query into the search engine of the laptop, the fingers of his right hand painful and uncooperative as they danced awkwardly across the keyboard and his eyes squinted against the bright glare from the screen. "It's pretty obvious, even to a half-senile, old man like me that you're still nursin' that headache."
Sam sighed and closed his eyes, rubbing each one with the heel of his left hand in an effort to relieve the pain that seemed to have settled behind them. Research was normally something that came very easily to the youngest Winchester and he had always taken some degree of enjoyment from finding clues to whatever supernatural mystery he was working on. But the way the words were all seeming to flow together in a mish-mash of blurry images and twinkling lights had significantly complicated matters. Sam's frustration was only compounded by the utter fruitlessness of his current investigation. No matter how many sites he perused, he just wasn't finding any further information on the whereabouts of Benton Scruggs than he already had.
"Dean'll be back with supper soon..."
"Yeah, I know. And he'll be ticked if he sees that I'm doing research."
"You did promise him you'd take it easy."
"I am taking it easy," Sam asserted contentiously, but bookmarked the site he'd been investigating and started the computer on its shutdown process anyway. "It's not like I'm up, running around town, chasing down leads. And, anyway, I needed to work on my hand mobility, right? Well, as I see it, typing is just as good a therapy as weapons cleaning is."
"I'll give you the point that switchin' up the weapons cleaning therapy with the typing wasn't a half-bad idea...different motions, workin' on coordination skills...but," Bobby continued quickly, not allowing Sam the opening to argue about resuming his research, "Somehow I think you're brother had other ideas of what 'takin' it easy' means."
Bobby smoothed at the top of the bed's comforter before snagging some extra pillows from a nearby chair, jamming them up against the headboard and punching at them several times until he was satisfied they were in just the right position to support Sam's back.
Dean had employed his undeniable charisma to charm the items, free of additional charge, from the two clearly smitten housekeepers. They'd fallen under his spell almost immediately as he wove his tale about looking after his sick, injured little brother. But what had finally clinched the extra amenities was Sam's coincidental, but no less propitious, arrival at the room's door looking like a reanimated corpse and moving twice as slowly. What the long miles, aching muscles, vicious headache, maddening itch and upset stomach hadn't taken out of him, Sam's determination to make the short walk from the car on his own had finished off. He'd practically fallen into the room as he'd pushed past his brother as he worked his mojo on the shocked and suddenly sympathetic, chambermaids.
"Come on and get that scrawny ass of yours over here," Bobby cajoled as he patted at the pile of soft pillows again. "And don't go givin' me any guff, boy. That brother of yours will be kickin' both of our asses if I don't keep looking after that wound."
Sam pushed painfully from his seat at the computer and walked stiffly to the bed before stretching his arthritic joints along it's surprisingly soft surface. Contrary to their usual accommodations, this motel, while not lavish, was at least tastefully decorated and was proving to have comfortable beds. Sam sighed appreciatively as he settled his aching back against the mound of pillows, squirming a few times to scratch at yet another itch rippling up his spine and to burrow deeper into the soft support.
As Bobby gently began removing the bulky dressing encasing Sam's right hand and forearm, the younger hunter leaned his head back, closed his eyes and attempted to will away his headache. The pain had backed down a bit since they'd gotten off the road, but it had by no means gone away. It hadn't taken Sam long to realize that eye movements caused unpleasant spikes of pain and he'd quickly learned to avoid it as much as possible.
But lying there, centering on pushing the headache into submission, was only seeming to increase his discomfort so Sam consciously loosened all of his muscles and allowed his body to relax into the contours of the bed. He wasn't accustomed to having even a minimally cozy room and the comforts of the bed soon had his mind conjuring up fantasies of what delights the bathroom might hold. Maybe he could have a hot shower with generous water pressure or, even better, a long soaking of his tortured muscles in the tub; tendrils of steam curling and ebbing their way around his throbbing head until the pain disappeared into the delicate mist.
The serenity of his thoughts was shattered when a biting pain suddenly flared along Sam's forearm at the portion of the wound where Bobby was cleansing away the previous treatment's poultice. Sam sat up abruptly and cradled the still smarting limb to his chest.
"Aw, damn, Bobby, that hurt!"
"What did?"
"Whatever you were doing! It hurt like crap! Unngghh!" Sam had tried to quell the groan, but it had slipped through his clenched teeth anyway as he curled his upper body protectively over his arm. "God, that sucks!"
"Sorry 'bout that. Didn't mean to hurt you."
"I know, Bobby. It's just...." Sam rocked back and forth a few times before gingerly returning his arm to the bed and resting back against the pillows, breathing through the now-waning pain. "Man, that blows!"
"I'll go as easy as I can, kiddo," Bobby assured as he readied a handful of dampened Q-tips. "But I've got to clear away a little more of the old poultice so that I can see what's goin' on."
As Bobby worked, listening to Sam's muted groans and bitten off hisses of pain, it became obvious that one location seemed significantly more tender than the rest of the healing wound. Carefully concentrating his efforts on the most sensitive area, Bobby used the soft, cotton-tipped swabs to lightly scrape the remnants of the poultice away, revealing the tissues below.
Bobby blew out a sigh of relief as he surveyed the wound. "Well, that's lookin' better than I thought it might."
"Then why's it hurting so much?" Sam sat forward and eyed the wound contemptuously, searching for the source of his discomfort.
"Could just be that you're gettin' more sensation back and feelin' it more when I'm messin' with it, but it is a little red around these stitches here." Bobby used one of the Q-tips to indicate several of the large, surgical sutures that he was referring to. "Nothin' bad, but we should still keep watch of 'em."
"Yeah, ok. But you're not going to use the cinnamon and aloe, right?" The pleading look on Sam's face and large, soulful eyes made Bobby chuckle inwardly. Without even trying, the boy had a way of appearing as though he was so innocent that butter wouldn't dream of melting in his mouth. "I'm still itching from the last time we used it."
"No worries, kid." Bobby reached up with a calloused hand and lightly patted the youngest Winchester along his right cheek. "We'll still skip the aloe and cinnamon. You're makin' me itchy just watchin' you scratch."
ooo000ooo
Sam slipped lower under the water, a sigh of relief accompanying the relaxing warmth that enveloped his body and crept up the back of his neck. Despite having to fold himself into the small tub, an act that left his knees poking out of the water like two albino islands jutting sharply from a tranquil sea, the heat seemed to bring some sweet relief to his aching joints. He had to be certain to keep his right arm resting on the side of the tub to prevent Bobby's new dressing from getting wet, but the bath was proving to be nearly as wonderful as he'd imagined. He supposed it would have been perfect, had it not been for one small detail...his stomach.
Not long after Bobby had finished bandaging Sam's arm, the rich, tangy fragrances of soy and ginger had wafted through the small motel room as Dean returned, his arms laden with large bags of Chinese food. As they sat down to eat, conversation had swirled around Sam's research and the leads he'd found that had all but placed a flashing neon arrow on the outskirts of Crowheart, Wyoming, a small town bordered by the Wind River Indian Reservation, marking the town as being the spot that Benton Scruggs' had proclaimed as his hideaway of choice.
Unfortunately, conversation wasn't the only thing swirling and Sam had valiantly tried to consume enough of his stir-fried vegetables to keep Dean off his back. In the end, he'd resorted to creatively shoving the vegetables into strategically heaped piles designed to hide just how much of the food he was leaving behind before finally giving up and excusing himself, citing the inviting call of a hot bath as reason for abandoning the dinner table so quickly.
Sam had shuffled his way into the bathroom and begun drawing the bathwater when his stomach had finally reached full rebellion, launching a major offensive and propelling its contents into the nearby commode. The fury of the running water had covered the sounds of Sam's laborious retching, thankfully avoiding what would have been another inevitable confrontation with Dean, if not Bobby, as well, over the state of Sam's health and the wisdom of continuing on the quest for Colt's journal.
The stress of yet another round of vomiting hadn't done much for his tortured muscles, either, and he'd climbed into the tub aching even worse than he had all day. As he lay there soaking up the sultry comfort of the water and appreciating the unfurling of tightly twisted muscles, he mourned the loss of the utopian bath his mind had conjured just a short while earlier. Somehow, lingering nausea had never figured into his fantasy. He supposed it was far from Nirvana or Valhalla or Zion or any of the other versions of Heaven Sam grew up reading about, but he was willing to take whatever slice of pleasure that Life was willing to grant him and Sam closed his eyes, allowing the snug serenity of his tub-cocoon to embrace him with a feeling of quiet contentment.
ooo000ooo
Sam mopped at the droplets of water that dripped from his skin before wrapping the ample-sized towel around his hips and securely tucking the end in. His joints and muscles still ached but the nasty throbbing had been tamed by the warmth of his bath and he was looking forward to a good night's sleep in a comfortable bed, even if it did mean sharing with Dean.
Many times over the years, money constraints had necessitated that the brothers share a bed but they hadn't done so since Sam had hit puberty and his limbs had transformed into gangly lengths of knobby angles. But the Settle Inn was the only lodging for miles around and when the desk clerk had offered the tiny motel's last room, one with only two full-size beds instead of Dean's favored Queen-size, the Winchester brothers had buddied-up without a second thought and given their old friend, Bobby Singer, the other bed.
As Sam exited the steamy bathroom, he could see Dean had already staked a claim to his "half" of the bed. In other words, Dean was sprawled across two-thirds of the now-rumpled surface of the boys' bed, balancing a longneck of his favorite beer on his thigh while watching TV and not appearing in any hurry to alter his position in the least. A large, satisfied belch emanated from deep within Dean's stomach and rolled like thunder up his throat until it exploded into the room like a sonic boom, followed shortly by Dean's sheepish grin when Bobby shot him a look.
Sam snickered to himself in quiet amazement as he made a beeline for his duffel and the clean T-shirt and sweatpants he'd find inside. Despite all of the years he'd spent trailing in the wake of his older brother, Dean's sometimes rude and often potentially annoying antics usually ended up just giving him a humorously endearing quality.
"Oh, hey, Sam," Bobby called out after seeing Sam using his left hand to dig through a pile of haphazardly arranged carryalls until he'd found the one constructed out of brown canvas. "Your pack is the brown one now." Bobby reminded, pointing at a spot to Sam's left. "I put your kit over there so it would be easier for you to get at."
Sam looked perplexed as he followed the older hunter's gesture. Despite not recalling having two identical satchels, another brown canvas duffel bag lay just ten feet from him.
"Your Daddy's bag was the only one big enough for all of the herbs and medical supplies so we put your stuff in the smaller brown duffel. Don't think you'll want that maroon one you've got there in your hand," Bobby assured.
Maroon? Sam stared at the rucksack in his hand. What the hell?
A wicked grin spread across the older man's face. "Unless, of course, you're plannin' on washin' my dirty skivvies for me."
Dean burst out laughing and the look of mixed repulsion and confusion on Sam's face made him crack up even harder, his beer in real danger of sloshing onto the bed from the violent tremors of Dean's violently quaking body.
"Huh? Uh...no. I...uh...I think I'll pass." Sam's eyes flashed around the room. There was something different about the room. Something he couldn't quite put his finger on. He peered down at the duffel again. It looked brownish, just like the duffel to his left, and yet Bobby had said it was maroon. Something about it all just put him on edge and yet Dean and Bobby seemed perfectly at ease; no different from normal. They seemed completely unaware of anything being wrong.
Sam looked around the room again and it finally hit him. It wasn't the room that was different, it was the colors. They were "off"; fuzzy and muted, as though the steamy mist from the tub had literally attached itself to him, encasing him in his own personal cloud. It's like I'm like Pigpen from the Peanuts comic strip...only cleaner.
Sam dropped the canvas bag that was in his hand like it was red hot, an act that had Dean curled into paroxysms of laughter yet again. It was just too much to ask to contain himself when his brother looked so grossed out by the thought of touching Bobby's undergarments.
"Seems as though Sam thinks you're a bit too much of a 'moldy-oldie' for his tastes, Bobby," Dean snorted out between fits of giggling. "By the look on his face, handling your BVD's is gonna scar him for life!"
Bobby made a mock laugh in Dean's direction before gesturing in the direction of the television. "Ok, you two. You chuckleheads gonna pipe down so we can watch the movie, or what?"
Dean continued to take quiet amusement from the situation and Sam shuffled the few feet to what Bobby had indicted was the brown pack...the real brown pack. As he shifted through the contents in the bag, pulling out items and slipping them on, his mind tumbled at warp speed. He looked back at Bobby's maroon duffel as he carefully threaded his bandaged right arm into the sleeve of his tee and pulled it over his head. It's a maroon pack but it looks brown to me. Is it the headache? But my headaches have never affected my eyes, the colors, like this before. What the hell's going on?
Sam could feel himself getting freaked but the last thing he wanted to do was mention anything to Dean or Bobby. He'd finally gotten them off his back and he wasn't about to go doing or saying anything that might result in them starting up all over again. He knew they only did it because they worried about him, even if the Winchester way was to never admit it openly, but there had to be a rational explanation for everything that was going on. He was smart. He wouldn't have gotten into Stanford if he wasn't. He knew he could figure this out if he just took some time, sat down and calmly thought things through.
The youngest Winchester padded quietly across the room to the bed. "Scoot over, Dean. Half that bed is mine, too, you know."
Dean snickered again, his eyes sparkling with barely concealed mirth at seeing his brother's apparent embarrassment over the duffel mix-up, but wiggled lazily over to the right side of the bed, rumpling the bed linens even further in doing so. Sam smoothed the bed's bottom sheet on his side before pulling the top sheet as tight as he could over top. Next, he straightened the comforter the best that he could before neatly folding it, and the sheet, back and settling himself gingerly onto the bed. His muscles and joints weren't quite as tight as they had been, but he was still pretty sore and it took him a few minutes before he found a position that was as comfortable as possible, then finally dragged the covers up to his waist.
When he looked up, Dean was staring at him. "You done now, Big Bird? Making your nest, I mean."
"Sorry."
Sam allowed himself to sink deeper into the bed and tried to get interested in the movie. It was the 1969 film 'Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid'. Dean and Bobby had probably seen the thing a thousand times; so many times, in fact, that Bobby would take the part of Butch Cassidy and Dean would take the part of the Sundance Kid, each reciting, right along with Paul Newman and Robert Redford, the lines they'd long ago memorized. For Sam, it had grown annoying after the first three hundred times they'd done it. But now on performance...what? Six million, four-hundred eighty-seven thousand, two-hundred twenty-one, this was one performance that Sam wished would close...for good.
Sam watched the flickering images on the screen but found the distorted colors he was seeing to be quite bothersome. Then, too, there was that strange blurriness to everything – almost as though he was trying to peer through a greasy window. He scuffed a hand over his eyes, hoping to wipe away the visual disturbances, but it didn't change anything and thinking about it so much was stirring up his somewhat quieted headache.
"Think ya used enough dynamite there, Butch?," Dean and Robert Redford crowed simultaneously after a railroad car on the TV was blown to smithereens in a huge explosion.
"Uh...Dean," Sam called out hesitantly.
"What now?"
"Do you think you could turn the lamp off? There's a glare on the screen."
Dean leaned over, turning the switch to the bedside lamp without ever missing his cues for the next lines and Sam sighed quietly. Having the light off seemed to help a bit. It didn't cure things, but it did seem like he could see a little better in the dim light of the room.
"Thanks."
Sam pushed even lower in the bed and tried to enjoy the film despite Dean and Bobby's simultaneous performances. Hoping to improve his vision, he tried raising or lowering his head to adjust his view, but it was to no avail. The more he tried to compensate for the vision change, the more his head started pounding. Finally, he just decided to give up, figuring the long day had truly been too much and being overtired was playing strange tricks with him.
Sam closed his eyes and tried to relax; tried to wipe his head of all of the wild thoughts and weird theories that bounced around inside. Minutes later the sudden eruption of gunfire on the television caused a shower of sparks to burst behind Sam's closed lids like a Fourth of July fireworks display. He lay as still as he could, wondering if he'd really experienced what he thought he had or whether he'd been close to sleep and being startled back to wakefulness had caused the strange effect.
As Sam lay there, waiting, with his eyes closed, Dean and Bobby happily continued to spout lines back and forth from the movie. He shuffled into a slightly different position in an effort to ease his joints but he could already feel the unnatural tightness he'd had all day returning to the muscles in his back and legs.
Long minutes passed without any further disturbances and Sam had just started chastising himself for getting spastic over nothing when it happened again. This time, though, the gunfight was particularly loud...and long...and the fusillade of glowing flares streaking behind his closed eyes rivaled the largest and most spectacular Independence Day pyrotechnic finales Sam had ever witnessed. Sam squinched his eyes shut tightly and rubbed at them with the knuckles of his left hand.
Dean saw the movement in his peripheral vision and turned to look at his little brother. Sam's face was pulled into a grimace and he was pinching at the bridge of his nose, much like he had when he was getting headaches from his visions.
"That soak didn't do much for the headache, bro?"
"No...not really," Sam whispered. He wasn't lying, he just wasn't telling Dean everything. He did still have the headache and it was starting to jack up in intensity again. There really wasn't any need to worry Dean or Bobby with the other stuff until he could figure out just what was going on. "I...uh...I think...uh...I think I'm just going to turn in now, if that's ok with you guys."
"Yeah, sure, Sammy," Dean replied, his hand giving Sam's right shoulder a light, but sympathetic squeeze. He hated to see his baby brother in pain and he secretly was glad that Sam was hitting the sack early. The day's traveling had obviously been too much for the boy hours ago, even if Sam wouldn't admit it, and the extra sleep would do him good. "I'll turn the TV down some for you so you can get some rest."
"You sure you're ok, son?" Bobby's voice drifted over from the other bed, the hint of worry still crystal clear despite the distance.
More loud noises pulsed from the television set and another round of surging lights bit through the darkness in front of Sam's eyes. It unnerved him but he was sure he could deal with it. Maybe the bath had been too hot or it was caused by the headache or maybe he was fighting off some weird flu. Either way, Sam was certain he'd feel better in the morning. If he didn't, well, then he could talk with Bobby about it and get his take on what was going on.
"Yeah, I'm ok. I guess hitting the road again has me a lot more tired than I expected I would be."
Sam turned onto his left side so that he faced away from his brother's prying eyes and tried to settle himself into a comfortable position. He waited for his brother's gloating jibes about being right, that it was too soon for Sam to be on the road or even more questions about his health, but he heard none. Instead, he heard the volume of the movie lessen noticeably and Dean and Bobby's chatter fall silent.
ooo000ooo
The nagging headache, achy joints and odd, disconcerting flashes of light Sam had seen even when his eyes were closed had made getting to sleep difficult but as the movie ended and Dean clicked off the TV, the soft sounds of Sam's even breathing filled the air. Dean slipped carefully from the bed so as not to wake his brother and began checking the salt lines at the doors and windows while Bobby double checked the protection symbols.
Returning to his shared bed, the older Winchester slid lightly back under the covers and nestled himself into the plump pillow. He looked over at his slumbering brother, whose somewhat restless shifting had flopped him onto his back. Even in sleep the boy looked more than exhausted. Dean shook his head at his brother's appearance before whispering quietly into the darkened room.
"Didn't I tell you this road trip was too much for you right now, bitch?"
ooo000ooo
The following day, late afternoon
Crowheart, Wyoming
The drive to Crowheart had been breathtaking. The sky was a gorgeous cerulean hue; the bluffs shades of rust, chocolate and beige and the various species of trees and grasses were budding in a peacock-like display of emeralds, jades and limes. The day had dawned perfectly, splashes of light causing brilliant reflections of the scenic colors on mirror-smooth lakes and crystal clear streams and the sun had kissed the day with a gentle warmth as it had risen bright and cheerful. Sam Winchester, however, had not.
He'd awoken feeling exhausted and his body ached with an even greater fervor than it had the day before. His vision was still off and, oddly, it had seemed to grow worse after taking yet another hot shower in an effort to loosen his muscles and joints.
He could tell that the weather was fair and mild from the comments that Dean had made while driving. But, to Sam, everything had taken on a blurry and almost shaded quality, as though someone had placed the world around him on a dimmer switch and turned it part way down.
Although the inexplicable changes in his vision and the eye pain continued to spook him, Sam had decided not to mention anything about what was going on. If he couldn't explain it to himself, how could he possibly expect to be able to break it down so that Dean, or even Bobby, was going to understand it. All it would end up doing was making him look crazy. After all, you don't go from perfect vision one day, to needing glasses the next. He was certain it was all just a minor inconvenience brought on because he was still recovering his strength and he was pushing a little harder than he ought to.
He wasn't about to let it drive him crazy, but as the trio of hunters strode up the flower-lined walkway toward the front door of the Back in Thyme Bed & Breakfast, Sam couldn't help but wonder just how stunning the old Victorian home would be if his eyesight was back to normal.
The manor was an imposing structure, the centerpiece undoubtedly being the turret that rose three stories into the crystalline Wyoming sky. Although the residence was painted an unassuming white, the detailed gingerbread-style millwork and use of deep rose, bronze and sage accents gave the homestead an extravagant look. Large wrap-around porches with ornate ironwork railings hugged the building on either side of the central tower, giving the place a warm and friendly feel. A porch swing swung invitingly in the warm Spring breeze, situated in such a way that anyone lounging there would have a panoramic vista of the equally lavish and colorfully landscaped grounds.
"Would you get a load of this place," Dean groused, accompanied by a distressed eye-roll. "We're staying in a frickin' dollhouse! I swear to God, if Malibu Barbie answers the damned door, I'm outta here. Then again, with her dimensions maybe I ought to just..."
"Can't you talk about anything, Dean," Sam complained bitterly, "without turning it into something sexual? What about how much effort the owners put into restoring the place? Or how about the dedication and craftsmanship that went into all of the hand-carved woodworking?"
The three men climbed the few steps to the front door and Bobby reached out to heavily tap the wrought iron knocker on the solid wood doors.
"I mean, just look at that door," Sam went on. "You certainly don't see gorgeous oak doors with intricate scrollwork like that anymore."
"Didn't know you were such a fan of 'This Old House', Sammy," Dean shot back. "Next time I produce some fake ID's I'll be sure to put 'Bob Vila' on yours."
The muffled sounds of footsteps just beyond the heavy wooden doors quieted the bickering brothers as the trio tried their best to appear as relaxed and non-threatening as they could. Seconds later, both doors swung wide and a diminutive, fifty-something woman greeted them.
"Well, now, I'll bet you're the Winchesters. We've been expecting you. Please, come on in."
The somewhat tubby woman extended her hands and grasped each of the Winchester boys, Dean by the right hand and Sam by the left, before pulling them awkwardly into the vestibule of the mansion, with Bobby tripping in behind them. Under the massive crystal chandelier, dashes of salt-toned hair sparkled in the woman's predominantly pepper-colored coif as she extended her arms and gestured at the surroundings.
"My name is Debra Wilcox and I'd like to welcome you to Back in Thyme Bed and Breakfast. I sure hope you'll enjoy your stay with us."
Dean was looking at the home's décor as though it was going to make him physically ill. Antique furnishings, crafted with dark woods, filled the nearby rooms while tapestry drapes adorned with gilded tassels hung at the windows. Delicate hand-crocheted doilies were carefully placed on appropriate pieces and square swatches of maroon-colored moire fabric, canted at an angle for greater decorative effect, were draped over the arms of the vintage couch and chairs.
Sam peered around the restored home, marveling at the three-story spiral staircase in front of him. The architecture was spectacular and the homeowner's attention to period detail was something that he knew that Jess would have loved. "I'm certain we will. The place is beautiful. Must have a lot of history behind it...and the surrounding scenery, wow!"
"Oh, yes! It was a good thing you boys called ahead to book your rooms," the woman crooned. "We only have a handful of them available and this time of year we fill up fast because of our proximity to the Jackson Hole area. It would have been a shame if I'd had to turn such sweet-looking lads like you away...and looking so tired, too."
Dean shuddered slightly at Debra's exuberant and syrupy-sweet attitude, then actually cringed before forcing a smile when she reached out and gave his cheek an affectionate pinch. As she turned away to consult the guestbook she used to keep track of room assignments, Dean leaned close to his brother and whispered close to his ear.
"No one's that chirpy, at least not naturally. I'm telling you, someone trying that hard to seem sweet and cheerful is hiding something. I'd bet anything June Cleaver, here, has the Beav sliced and diced in some back room, somewhere."
"Dean...," Sam growled under his breath. Sam was beat and he was finding he had even less patience for Dean's antics than usual.
Done double-checking the traveler's room numbers, the innkeeper ushered the men towards the dramatic spiral staircase. "Now let's get you settled in, shall we?" As she led the trio up the curving stairway, a climb that Sam was beginning to think was beyond the capability of his aching limbs, she continued speaking, gesturing in Bobby's direction. "You'll be in the first room on the left at the top of the staircase. It has it's own, private bathroom. Boys, you'll be in adjoining rooms at the end of the hallway. I'm sorry, but I didn't have any more rooms with private baths, so you two'll have to share the one between your rooms. I hope that will be ok."
"The boys are accustomed to buddyin' up," Bobby assured their host, "so that'll be just fine, Mrs. Wilcox."
"Oh, dear me," Mrs. Wilcox exclaimed animatedly, "there's certainly no need for such formality here. Please, call me Debra."
"Ok, Debra," Bobby agreed. "And I'm Bobby. These are my nephews Dean and Sam."
They mounted the final step and Debra stopped at the first door. "Well, here we are...and the two of you are just a few doors down that way. You can come and go as you like and breakfast and lunch are quite informal, but we do ask our guests to dress for dinner. That's when my husband, Dennis, our in-house chef, pulls out all the stops and prepares a simply scrumptious gourmet meal. And you and I, Sam, can talk a bit more about the history of the house. You know, Samuel Colt, the famous gunmaker, was said to have stayed in this house."
"You don't say," Bobby stated, trying to put an 'I'm impressed' tone into his voice, all the while shooting Sam and Dean a sidewards glance that clearly said, 'Are you boys payin' attention to this?'.
"Oh, but that's a subject for dinner conversation, now isn't it Sam?," Debra cooed almost flirtingly. "Well, I'll get out of your way so that you three can get unpacked and changed. Dennis never fails to have dinner on the table by five-thirty, sharp. Afterward, I can give you a tour of the place and then you can spend your evening in the gaming room." She started ticking off items on her pudgy fingers. "We've got cards, chess, checkers, a billiards table, a big screen TV, an air hockey table and table soccer. Now, what is it that Dennis called it?" Debra put her index finger against her lip while she thought. "Oh, yes...foosball, that's what it was. He called it a foosball table. Those are the only things we've brought into the house that don't blend with the period décor. Well, that and the appliances in the kitchen. Got to have some modern conveniences, I suppose," she said with a giggle. "Well, toodle-oo, dears. Let me know if you need anything, otherwise I'll see you three handsome men at dinner."
With that, Mrs. Wilcox turned and retreated back down the stairs as the hunters looked on in stunned silence. Bobby couldn't understand how the woman could have talked for so long without taking even a single breath, Dean was aghast that Debra had seemingly grown irritatingly chirpier by the minute and Sam's mind battled over which thoughts to give precedence – the idea that there might be more clues about Samuel Colt right under their noses, or the thought of having to endure a rich gourmet meal on a stomach that hadn't held down even the blandest of foods in days.
ooo000ooo
Bobby disappeared into his room and the Winchester brothers quickly slipped into their own rooms. Dean tossed his pack down next to his bed, frowning at the frilly curtains and floral bedspread, before wandering into the shared bathroom where he found a large claw-footed tub along the one wall. The tub was nearly twice as deep as modern bathtubs and the head end was constructed so that it extended above the level of the foot, the gently sloping back making a perfect position for lounging.
Dean poked his head out the bathroom door that led into Sam's room. "Hey, Sammy! Come in here. You've got to see this old tub. It's gigantic!"
"I'm busy, Dean. I'll check it out later." To his older brother's surprise, Sam showed absolutely no enthusiasm for his discovery, even seemingly irritated by Dean's intrusion, and continued to unpack his meager belongings and place them neatly in the drawers of the bureau.
Dean stepped into Sam's room, one that was decorated with an equally feminine flare. He watched silently as his brother continued unpacking without looking up or even further acknowledging Dean's presence. Sam pushed a folded shirt into the top drawer with an angry shove and then thrust the drawer shut so hard that it slammed; the heavy, antique bureau jiggling just enough that the glass knick-knacks placed along its top clinked together with a delicate 'tinkle'.
"You're not still sore about the separate rooms are you? I mean, we still share a bathroom and you're welcome on my side anytime, Sammy. Really. All you have to do is walk right through here." Dean's eyes were wide and innocent as though speaking to a young child as he gestured back and forth with his arm from the bathroom doorframe in Sam's room, through the bathroom and toward his own room. "You don't even have to knock. Just come right in."
Sam tossed the folded jeans he was holding back down onto the bed with a huff. "In case you didn't know, I'm a big enough boy to sleep on my own, Dean. I just don't get why you would spend the extra cash for separate rooms when we could share a bed again. What are we going to do if we have to stay here longer than expected?! Scam a sweet old lady and her husband with a fake credit card?! 'Cause that's not corrupt and despicable."
Dean was flabbergasted by Sam's sudden verbal attack.
"Yeah, well, after last night, Hell is gonna freeze over before I share a bed with you again. You squirmed the whole god damned night. If I got a total of three hours sleep, I'd be surprised!"
"I couldn't help it, Dean! The itching was driving me crazy. Still is!" As if to illustrate his point, Sam reached around his back and scrubbed at his irritated skin. "And, anyway, sleeping in the same bed as some overgrown troglodyte like you isn't any picnic! I don't know how many times you smacked me in the arm the way you sprawl your 'gorilla limbs' across the whole, frickin' bed!" Sam shifted his wounded right arm a little bit in the sling. "No wonder it's hurt like a bitch all day!"
Sam instantly wished he could have retracted his words when he saw the look of devastation and self-recrimination on his older brother's face. He really wasn't even sure why he'd said what he did. He knew how Dean would react to that revelation, and yet, he'd blurted it out anyway. Dean had bumped his arm a few times during the night, causing flares of pain to ignite along the length of the arm, but he certainly hadn't done it intentionally and didn't deserve to be castigated for it.
"God, Dean, I'm sorry. I don't know what's wrong with me." Sam flopped down on the edge of his bed and roughly scrubbed a hand over his face and through his shaggy hair. Damn, if he wasn't feeling like crap; even more so than the day before. His head was pounding again, he ached all over, his skin itched so bad he wanted to crawl right out of it and now he felt like a first class jerk for hurting his brother's feelings over something as ridiculous as sleeping arrangements. "It's not like you meant to do it. Neither one of us is used to sharing a bed anymore. I shouldn't have said that. I'm sorry."
Dean padded quietly across the room and settled on the bed next to his baby brother. He bumped shoulders with Sam before reaching up and giving the back of Sam's neck a firm squeeze.
"Nah. I'm the one who should be saying 'I'm sorry'. I should have cut you a break. I know the itching's been driving you crazy so I should have guessed it was what had you so restless last night. You haven't used any more of the aloe, have you?"
"No." Sam sat, hunched forward with his elbow on his knee, and continued to massage at his throbbing head. "Bobby's been real good about making sure we don't use it."
"That's good." Dean turned slightly and, using both hands, began kneading at the muscles along the tops of Sam's shoulders, his thumbs occasionally working their way across his shoulder blades or down his spine. A low groan of appreciation rumbled from Sam's direction, followed by a long sigh.
"I just wish I knew why this itch isn't going away." A hint of desperation had edged into Sam's voice.
"It took Dad three or four days to feel better after his run-in with aloe...and he had whatever pills it was that doctor put him on to help him out. I'm sure it'll start getting better soon."
"Yeah, I guess."
Dean finished giving the back rub and lightly tousled Sam's hair before breaking the contact between the two siblings.
"Thanks, Dean."
"Hey, no problem." Dean leaned forward and matched his brother's position by leaning his elbows on his knees and then looked over at him. Sam turned his head and met Dean's eyes. Dean reached out and bumped Sam's knee lightly with his closed fist. "So...uh...you want me to go see if Debra can give us one room with a Queen?"
Sam laughed lightly and a lopsided smile crept over his face. "Nah. Doubt she's got anything else. Place is full. Anyway, there's no sense in both of us losing sleep because of this stupid itch."
Sam reached his hand up underneath his shirt and dragged his fingernails harshly over the prickling skin of his abdomen.
Dean nodded his head in a 'you've-got-a-point' manner and then chewed on his lower lip as the room fell into an awkward silence.
Suddenly, the bed began to shimmy slightly beneath them as Dean hung his head and laughed quietly to himself. It seemed his little brother would never cease to surprise him.
"What?" Sam was looking at him, his eyes wide and sparkling with an eager curiosity. In that moment, the world-weary man had seemed to transform before Dean's eyes into the inquisitive tot that had sat, mesmerized, at Dean's feet as he'd taught Sam to tie his own shoes.
"Overgrown troglodyte?"
Sam smiled sheepishly. "Yeah...um...sorry 'bout that."
"No, no." Dean smiled mischievously. "I've been known to have a few empty pizza boxes, chip bags and beer bottles strewn around my motel rooms, so the 'prehistoric cave dweller' designation fits pretty well."
Sam grinned widely. "Yeah, I suppose it does."
Dean flexed his arm muscles and sat up straight, puffing out his chest. "I'm like Ah-nold," Dean said, trying to affect Schwarzenegger's Austrian accent, "in 'Conan the Barbarian' or that dude in 'The Beastmaster'."
Sam choked out a contemptuous huff. "More like Fred Flintstone, if you ask me."
Dean's muscle-man pose deflated instantaneously and he peered incredulously at Sam, who was in real danger of slipping from the bed he was laughing so hard.
"Come on, Wilma," Dean growled bitterly as he rose from his spot on the bed. "We'd better get dressed and get downstairs or Bobby's gonna eat his share of Dennis' gourmet Brontosaurus Burgers and ours, too."
ooo000ooo
"God, I so can't get out of this monkey suit fast enough," Dean called out as he tugged viciously at the tie that was knotted around his neck.
Although being in a suit and tie had been decidedly uncomfortable for Dean, possibly even bordering on painful, he had to admit that the swanky menu, with its juicy cuts of tender lamb seasoned with thyme, creamy four-cheese potatoes au gratin and steamed fresh green beans drizzled with a lemon-butter sauce and sprinkled with a topping of chopped, toasted walnuts, had been very satisfying. It was one of the few times Sam could actually remember Dean eating real vegetables...and the first time he'd ever seen Dean going back for seconds.
Debra had explained that the green beans had come form the bed and breakfast's own gardens and the thyme from the greenhouse that housed their extensive collection of fresh herbs. She went on to say that thyme featured heavily in the cuisine of the country inn, even influencing it's name – Back in Thyme, a reference to the herb as well as the Victorian roots of the home.
Dean had enjoyed the meal, but it was the assortment of fresh fruit pies for dessert, though, that had finally convinced Dean that he could deal with the saccharin sweetness and over-the-top femininity of their accommodations, if only to sample more of Dennis Wilcox's delectable confections.
The doors on either side of the connecting bathroom hung open so that the boys could still talk while changing clothes in their separate rooms. And, as Dean stripped out of his hated suit, he continued to chatter excitedly to his younger brother.
"Man, did you see that foosball table they've got? Sweet! After I'm done flailing Bobby's ass, you'd better be prepared for the butt-whoopin' of your life, 'cause I'm challenging you to a game of foosball, too."
"Sounds fun, Dean." Sam took off his jacket and tossed it across the back of a nearby chair before clumsily unbuttoning his dress shirt and doing the same. He plopped down on the bed and sat there for a minute breathing a little heavy and rubbing his chest. God, even my chest hurts tonight.
Dean's voiced drifted over from the other room. "And don't think I'm going to take it easy on you just because you can play the wounded card. Oh, no way. You play with both hands...the movement will do that right one some good. But to even the playing field, I'll play one-handed...and still kick your ass with one hand tied behind my back."
Sam kicked off his shoes and watched as they landed haphazardly near the chair, one flipped upside-down next to the chair's leg, the other upright, but partially sticking out from beneath the seat. He tugged, one-by-one, at his dress socks until they popped free of his feet. The first dark sock rolled into a crumpled ball that landed in amongst his shoes, the other one pulling off inside-out and sling-shotting well beyond them, to rest in a heap at the base of the wall.
Just that small amount of exertion had tired the young Winchester out and he sat there resting as Dean prattled on in the next room.
"And when I'm done doing that, I'm gonna wipe the floor with you in a game of air hockey."
A chill run up Sam's spine and he shuddered lightly. Pushing up from the bed, he crossed the room to the air conditioning unit, only to find that it hadn't been turned on. He checked the window to make certain Mrs. Wilcox hadn't opened it slightly to let some fresh air in, but found that it was securely closed and locked. He stepped back over to the bed, unbuckling his pants and pushing them down before seating himself back on the side of the bed.
"Hey, maybe when you've had enough humiliation," Dean hollered out tauntingly, "Bobby'll play a game of chess with you."
Sam pushed his pants completely off and flung them, devil-may-care, into the seat of the chair. Man, he was tired. Everything ached and, to top it all off, his stomach was once again contemplating the merits of recycling yet another meal. Sam sighed heavily. He really wasn't feeling up to dealing with Dean's competitiveness and almost certainly being the butt of his jokes.
"That ought to be buckets of fun," Dean continued. "Two brainiacs hovering over a chessboard trying not to geek each other to death."
Dean pulled his T-shirt over his head and tucked it into his jeans before slipping into a button-down and rolling the sleeves to his elbows. He retrieved a rolled up pair of socks from his duffel and prepared to slither into them, first taking a healthy sniff at them to make certain if they were clean or not.
"You almost ready over there, bro? Clock's tickin' on your ass kickin'." Dean didn't hear a reply from the other room but giggled merrily at his poetic joke as he tugged on his boots and tied the laces. He grabbed his comb from the dresser and quickly dragged it through his spiky hair. After all, he had to look good for the ladies, even if the only ones he'd met at dinner were old enough to be his mother.
He threw the comb down on the top of his bureau and headed for Sam's room, his voice booming loudly as it resounded through the empty restroom connecting the two rooms.
"Shake a leg, Sammy! You don't want that sissy, Cameron, from Room 4" he asserted as he strode through the bathroom, his boots echoing heavily on the ceramic tile floor, "staking a claim to the foosball table before us..."
Dean rounded the doorframe of the powder room and stepped into his little brother's room. The sight before him pulled him up short. "...do...you?"
Sam lay on his side, curled into a loose fetal position and dressed in nothing but his boxers and T-shirt, just above the covers Debra had pulled down for them earlier. A messy shock of his chestnut hair spilled untidily across his face and the sounds of soft, even breathing filled the room.
Dean crept quietly over to the bed and gathered up the covers, drawing them lightly up and over his slumbering sibling before tucking them gently around his shoulders. "Guess you do need the sleep more than the foosball and air hockey, huh?," Dean whispered.
He crossed the room and turned off the overhead light with a soft 'click', then turned and slipped out the main door to Sam's room. With a final look back at his baby brother, Dean closed the door quietly behind him and headed down the hall towards the stairway. With a little luck, the place had some booze as good as its cuisine had been and he could spend the evening in front of the big screen TV doing his best to pickle his liver.
ooo000ooo
"Guess maybe it was a good thing Sammy didn't come down. He'd never let me live this down." Dean groused, a pout twisting his handsome features. "A sluggish old man like you beating me five games to two, I'm losing my touch."
Bobby beamed widely over the expensive beer provided by their hosts. "You keep it up, Junior, and I'll make it six to two. Better yet, why don't you put your money where your mouth is and see what this sluggish old man can do on the air hockey table."
"Bring it on, Singer. Bring it on."
The two men left the foosball behind and moved to the air hockey table. Each man unconsciously adopted a fighting stance over their respective goals, faces serious and intimidating, looking for all intents and purposes as though the outcome of the game were a life and death matter.
"I'll take pity on you," Bobby teased as he lightly tossed the puck in Dean's direction. "I'll spot ya two points and even let you have first possession of the puck. Take your best shot, boy, 'cause you're goin' down."
The game began with Dean's lightning-quick slapshot but it was easily returned by Bobby. As the men settled into a long volley, the conversation drifted back to Sam.
"So, you say he fell asleep while you were changin' clothes, huh?"
"He didn't sleep well last night," Dean revealed as he made his next shot, banking it off the side but failing to penetrate Bobby's goal. "The itch kept him up...and his arm," he added quickly.
Bobby's brow creased with concern. That was the second time the boy had admitted he was having more pain than he had been having. From the looks of things, the infection was all but cured. The last thing he needed right now was to have it getting bad again.
"His arm was bothering him?"
"Wouldn't have...if I hadn't accidentally cracked him on the sore side a couple times in my sleep. Why?"
"Oh, nuthin' really. Just watchin' after my patient, is all." Bobby made a hard lunge and the puck swept past Dean's defenses, depositing itself into the goal with a clattering of plastic.
Dean dug the plastic disc from within his goal and the game resumed, Dean more determined than ever to score.
"I'm just glad to see that he's finally held down some food – the Chinese last night, then breakfast and lunch today...and, hopefully, tonight's dinner," Dean went on. "Gave him a quick back rub earlier and was half afraid I'd break the kid in half."
"The arm looks good and he's holdin' down some honest-to-God nutritious food. We get that itch taken care of, he'll start feelin' better, and be back to the old Sam before you know it."
ooo000ooo
What Dean and Bobby were unaware of was that Sam was upstairs at that very moment, draped over the toilet, hurling his supper into the previously sparkling clean bowl...just as he had done with supper the previous night, as well as today's breakfast and lunch.
He'd been fortunate enough to be able to conveniently conceal the fact that he was still plagued by nausea and vomiting. Breakfast had come up in the filthy, bug-infested restroom of a tiny service station where Dean had gassed up the car. While lunch, it hadn't even waited for them to leave the roadside diner. He'd risen from the table and quickly excused himself to the men's room as soon as he felt the first rush of sourness fill his mouth. He'd had just enough time to rush through the bathroom door and slam into a stall before his lunch reappeared.
He'd hoped things would be different tonight, but it wasn't to be. The vomiting had begun so abruptly that Sam hadn't even taken the time to turn the lights on, navigating his way to the restroom by the pitifully weak illumination of a single nightlight.
Sam sat back from the foul contents of the toilet and trembled. As he rested there, he made a mental note to ask Mrs. Wilcox, in the morning, if she could set the thermostat in his room up a bit. It was just ridiculous, not to mention uncomfortable, having a room this cold. Frankly, he was feeling awful and the chill in the room wasn't making him feel any better.
He reached up and depressed the handle to flush away his dinner, then pushed shakily to his feet. He looked around the large bathroom and noted a small set of shelves tucked into the corner near the bathtub. On them, was stacked piles of extra towels, washcloths, a spare roll of toilet paper and, much to Sam's relief, two large, luxuriously thick blankets – one color-matched to the décor in Dean's room and one compatible with the colors in Sam's room.
It was obvious that one blanket was meant for each of the adjoining rooms, but Sam really didn't care at this point. He just couldn't stop shivering and the comforting warmth they offered was irresistible. Dean would understand. And, anyway, Dean was always so hot-bloodied that he rarely needed a blanket, nevermind an extra one.
Sam trudged arthritically back to his bed, the two blankets clutched tightly under his left arm. His whole body ached and his head pounded as he laboriously spread the additional blankets out over the top of his other bed linens. When he was done, he slipped painfully beneath the mountain of covers and burrowed deeply into their soothing depths. Within minutes, Sam had fallen deeply asleep.
ooo000ooo
"Ha! You are so going down, Bobby," Dean whooped gleefully as the puck shot like a missile past Bobby's attempt to stop it and landed soundly in the goal. "I'm up five points to three!"
"Your Daddy ever teach you about humility?," Bobby queried. "Oh, hell, what am I talkin' about? You're frickin' John Winchester's son."
"Oh, come on, Bobby," Dean crowed mockingly. "Why don't you just admit it. I'm the Back in Thyme air hockey champion and you know it."
"Last I recall, the game ain't over 'til someone earns seven points, so why don't you pipe down and get on with the game, Wayne Gretzky."
Dean dumped the puck out onto the table and, narrowing his eyes at his prey, smacked it with his mallet so that it would bank sharply from one of the side walls of the playing surface. Bobby followed the disc's movement, lined up his shot perfectly and catapulted the puck across the table in a blur of motion.
Dean intercepted the puck and sent it flying back across the table. Seconds later, Bobby had the puck heading straight for Dean's goal. The younger man changed tactics, hoping to throw off Bobby's game by just barely tapping the object so that it barely slid over the center line. The slower puck speed and odd target location, however, didn't faze the grizzled junkman and he leaned into his shot with all he had, streaking the flattened cylinder right past Dean's waiting defense and into the goal.
Within minutes, Bobby slammed home the three additional goals he needed to win the game. Dean stood at the other end of the table looking crushed. Bobby walked over and put a large, consoling hand on his shoulder.
"How 'bout we call a truce and crack open a couple more cold beers?"
"Thanks, Bobby, but I think I'm just gonna hit the sack. Maybe, in the morning, this demeaning experience will seem like nothing but a bad dream."
Bobby laughed heartily at Dean's joke. "Alright, you go on to bed. I'll be up in a bit. I think I'm gonna spend a little quiet time with some of that Johnnie Walker Blue they've got behind the bar. D'you know what that stuff goes for these days? Anyway, guess I'll see you and that stringbean brother of yours in the morning, then."
" 'Night, Bobby."
Dean left the rec room and walked down the short hallway before turning and heading quietly up the steps. The house was quiet, Debra, Dennis and most of the other guests having gradually retired to their respective quarters over the past hour. He silently slipped into his room but didn't turn on the light, fearing that the bright glow would shine through the open bathroom doors and disturb Sam.
Waking Sam when he needed the sleep so badly was something Dean didn't want to do, but he decided to risk a tip-toed trip through the shared bathroom to peek in on his younger brother. To ensure a stealthy approach across the potentially noisy ceramic tile, Dean removed his boots and padded through the small connecting room in his stocking feet.
He poked his head around the doorjamb and waited for his eyes to adjust to the dimly lit room. Dean chuckled quietly when he spied the large lump hidden underneath the covers. He hadn't seen Sam cocoon himself like that since he was six or seven years old and the sight of it brought a grin to his face.
Dean stood and watched for a minute, grateful that his brother didn't stir and was finally getting a restful night's sleep. He listened for another few seconds to Sam's deep and unwaveringly consistent breathing.
"G'night, Sammy. Glad you're feelin' better, baby brother," Dean whispered into the night, before turning and treading quietly back to his own bed.
To be continued...
A/N: The chapter title comes from a song of the same name on Pink Floyd's 1994 album, 'The Division Bell'. I figured, what better title could you find for a chapter where someone is puking his guts out constantly? LOL!