Disclaimer: I don't own anything. Hence the recent slump.
Author's Note: Thanks to all of you who haven't given up on this story yet.
Garth flinched as his cellphone rang again. He was tempted to not answer it; after all, Dean had already given him the expected phone call about Sam's rant in the bathroom. When his phone began ringing again, he sighed and answered, "No worries, Dean. I can—"
"Do I sound like Dean to you," Bobby snapped into the phone. "Are you at the museum yet?"
"About to pull into the parking lot now," Garth replied, briefly wondering if he would ever get to complete a hunt without at least half a dozen phone calls coming in before he even got to the site.
"I just spoke with Jax Miles, the carnival manager," Bobby explained. "She's the one who called me about the job down there in the first place. I was hoping she might have some ideas about what Conan's spirit might have attached itself to."
"She have any good guesses," Garth asked as he pulled his station wagon to the backside of the museum, parking in the back of the employee parking lot.
"To many," Bobby said unhappily. "He worked his way through the carnival, doing a lot of different jobs over the years. He started out helping to taking care of the animals and setting up the carnival. He did that for a few years before he ended up running a few games, ring tossing and knife throwing, stuff like that."
"Any way we can narrow down the list to something he was really into," Garth asked as he watched a car pull away from the museum. He glanced around the parking lot; wondering where the security guard might have parked his car.
"Jax has got her people looking through years' worth of old photos and advertisements, she's got your number, she'll call you if they find anything that might help," Bobby explained. "I made a few calls to some of Jax's old employees. One of them claims Conan spent more than two decade as a clown, claims he was good at it, said some nights he wouldn't even take his clown makeup off after the shows. All I can say is watch your back and use your EMF reader until Jax's people come through—if they do."
Garth looked up at the large museum and replied, "Yeah, sure. It's a clown museum. Can't be that bad, right?"
"Garth, tell me you don't have some clown fear like Sam does," Bobby said with a groan.
"No! Clowns are nothing. It's the big shoes," Garth mumbled into the phone. "Creepy, man!"
Bobby let out a loud chuckle before he could stop himself. "Their shoes," he asked. "Garth, I'm going to pretend you didn't say that to me. And don't go breaking into the museum. Jax's cousin works as the security guard there; he knows why you're coming in. He should be at the back door, just knock and he'll let you in. I promised Jax he'd be fine, so you better either watch his back or tell him to get out until you're done."
"Thanks, Bobby," Garth said as he climbed out of the car and hefted his duffel bag over his shoulder. "I'll call you when it's over."
"You've only got a little while to find whatever Conan is hanging onto and finish him off, before Sam's heart explodes," Bobby reminded him. "I'd like to say no pressure, but if you don't get this done in time, Dean's gonna kill you."
Garth grimaced and said, "Thanks for that Bobby."
Garth stuffed his phone back into his pocket as he stepped up to the service entrance door. He glanced around guiltily as he knocked on the door. A minute later, a remarkable short teenager opened the door, his expression leery as he glanced up at Garth.
"You him," the teenager asked, his expression distrustful.
"Unless you're expecting more than one hunter tonight, I'm your guy," Garth said as he stepped into the large storage room. "I'm Garth."
"Danny," the teenager responded as he flipped on the overhead light.
Garth let out a groan of frustration as the rooms contents were illuminated, stacks of boxes and crates that nearly reached the ceiling. "Please tell me these aren't all from Conan's estate," he said with a glanced at Danny.
"Most of them are, but not all of them," Danny explained as he pointed to a stamp on the sides of the boxes. "These are all from Conan."
"Great, sounds peachy," Garth said as he dropped his duffel bag to the floor. "Look man, I get your dream isn't to be a hunter, but I could really use some back up for this. You wanna help?"
Danny nodded eagerly. "Sure thing," he replied. "What do I do?"
"First things first, we're gonna pull all of these boxes down and open them up," Garth said as he pulled two EMF readers from his bag. "Then we get to use these babies to hone in on whatever our ghost is hanging onto. Should be easy enough."
Across town, Sam was starting to lose it. He tried once more to pull his arms free from the handcuffs, but the metal held fast. Sam looked up suddenly as a loud noise from the other room startled him. He knew that the ring master was training elephants in the hotel room, but where was Dean? Had he been taken by the clowns? Maybe he was working concessions in the parking lot. It would just be like Dean to leave Sam alone so he could find a pie booth.
"Dean, are you out there," Sam whispered, trying to lift his throbbing head from the floor.
Sam watched as Dean stepped into the doorway of the bathroom and gasped fearfully as Dean slowly slid the clip into his favorite .45 while a playfully malicious grin slowly worked its way across his face.
"Dean, what are you doing," Sam asked, his hands beginning to shake from fear. Sam looked frantically around the room, looking for anything he could use to get free and away from Dean.
"Oh Sammy, I'm just doing my job," Dean said with a chuckle.
"What job," Sam asked, his voice beginning to shake.
"You know what job Sammy," Dean said as he tapped the gun against his thigh. "The one, big important job I have to do. You're weak, Sam. I can't let more people die because I'm too busy chasing after you all the time. You're holding me back."
"Dean, please," Sam began to beg, his breath hitching in his chest as his heartbeats began to drown out every other sound in the room. "Don't! I'll do better! I'll be a better hunter!"
"No, Sammy, you won't," Dean said as he took aim at Sam, his hands steady, no emotion to be seen. "You'll be dead. And I'll finally be happy then."
Back at the museum, Garth and Danny were knee deep in photographs, journals, memorabilia, and carnival themed knick knacks. Garth let out another deep sigh of frustration as he tossed aside the fifth saw dust stuffed toy giraffe.
"I can't believe this crap," Garth said, his usually pleasant façade beginning to crumble under the awareness that Sam Winchester was dying in some crappy motel room bathroom, handcuffed to a sink because Garth couldn't found a single thing that even made the EMF reader blink.
"What's the deal? We've opened like every box in here," Danny said as he kicked a large rubber ball out of his way. "Are the batteries in this thing dead or something?"
"No, the EMF readers are fine," Garth mumbled as he surveyed the room. "We're missing something. We have to be. Okay, let's look at all this crap from the perspective of a….clown, I guess. If you were a clown, what would be missing from this pile?"
Danny and Garth gazed around the gigantic mess they had made. Garth looked down at the pile of old black and white photographs on the floor and froze. Conan's face smiled up at him from a photograph.
"Costumes," Garth said quietly. "His costumes! We haven't unpacked a single box of costumes. There have to be more boxes somewhere! Come on!"
Garth followed Danny out of the storeroom and raced through the hallways. Danny slid to a stop, Garth smacking right into him causing them to both fall to the floor.
"Sorry man," Garth said as he tried to untangle himself from Danny. "You okay?"
"Yeah, look," Danny said as he pointed to a large exhibit in the middle of the room. "They must have set this up before I got here today. Next week's unveiling is of vintage costumes."
"They must have opened Conan's costume boxes already," Garth said as he pulled his EMF reader from his pocket. "Come on, if we don't find whatever we need, like right now, we're going to have to just burn this whole place to the ground."
Danny's eyes widened as he pulled his borrowed EMF reader from his pocket. "I'd like to keep my job, thanks," Danny said.
"Well, if we don't save Sam, we're both gonna be dead anyways," Garth said. "Dean won't care how much you like this job, when he's busy burying us alive."
Danny and Garth took off in different directions, each moving methodically through the exhibit.
Back at the hotel, Sam was hyperventilating, his breaths short and quick; his heart beating like it was tunneling out of his chest.
"Don't do it, Dean," Sam whispered, a tear sliding across his face as he stared up at his older brother. "Please. I can do better."
Dean rolled his eyes and kneeled down, his knee pressing against into Sam's pounding rib cage, making it even harder for Sam to get a decent breath.
"You wanna know why I haven't killed you yet," Dean asked Sam as he took aim at the leering clown standing the doorway.
Sam jumped against his restraints as the sound of gunfire echoed off the tiles walls, his wrists starting to bruise and bleed from his desperate attempts to free himself. When then gunfire died down he slowly cracked an eye open and peeked up at Dean.
"Don't hide from me, Sammy," Dean cooed as he looked at his gun. "I've always been the one there for you, so it makes sense I'd be the one to kill you."
Sam cried out and tried to throw Dean off of his chest as Dean pressed the end of the hot barrel into Sam's cheek, leaving behind a red, blistering mark.
"There, mark of the coward," Dean said proudly, as he smiled cruelly down at Sam. "Now when they find your body, they'll know you were a failure. A weak, pathetic little brother that couldn't pull his own weight."
Sam forced his eyes closed, his tears running freely down his face, not able to look at Dean anymore. Sam listened as Dean slid the clip out before he said, "Look at that. One left, just enough to finish my job and finally get a good night's sleep. You know how hard it is to spend your whole life having to be on call to every whim of your pitiful brother?"
A shiver ran through Sam as he felt the still warm metal slide across his chest, coming to rest over his heart.
"Should I put it here," Dean asked cruelly. "Let the bullet tear through your heart. Goodness knows you've never used it. Think about all the people you couldn't save cause you were to weak, all the people I couldn't save because I was too busy carrying my worthless baby brother around. God, you're pathetic. No wonder Dad said you're a waste of his time."
Sam whimpered slightly, his eyes screwed shut as he turned his face away from Dean.
Dean chuckled menacingly and slid the barrel of the gun to rest against Sam's temple.
"Maybe it should go here," he said with an enlightened tone. "After all, no matter how smart you are, you couldn't find a way out of being a failure. No book's gonna teach you that, am I right, Sammy boy?"
Sam felt another hot tear slide down his cheek, a sob rising from his chest. "Please Dean," he mumbled.
Sam felt the barrel of the gun begin to move again, settling again over his thundering heart. Sam tried to swallow the lump in his throat, but it turned into a cough that racked his body. As his chest rose and fell from the floor as he tried to find air, he could feel the heaviness of the .45 pressing down onto his chest.
"Don't worry, Sammy," Dean said with a grin. "You won't feel it for long and when it's all over, you'll go to wherever it is failures go, probably hell. Yeah, kid brother, you're hell bound. And I'm going to be the one who puts you there."
Sam tasted blood in his mouth as he once more pulled against the handcuffs that held him to the sink. He froze when he heard the cocking of the gun, the once familiar sound that had let him know Dean had his back was now making Sam tremble as a cold sweat broke out across his skin.
"Goodbye brother," Dean said as he lined up the barrel with Sam's evermore pounding heart and with a smile, pulled the trigger.
Meanwhile, in the bedroom, a mere five feet away, Dean was mid conversation with Bobby, when he heard a sound that made his heart skip a few beats. Without a word to Bobby, Dean dropped his phone and dove for the bathroom door. He stood for a moment and stared, to shocked to move.
He watched as Sam's body arched off the floor, his face red and taut with pain, his teeth bared as a loud yell tore from his mouth; the sound replaced by short, pained gasps for air. Dean instantly dropped down next to his brother and awkwardly tried to turn Sam's face towards him, his shoulder protesting at the movement.
"Look at me, Sammy! Look at me," Dean cried out. "Whatever is happening, it's not real!"
His words had no effect on Sam as another pain filled scream made its way from his throat, this time his head beginning to thrash from one side to another. Dean yanked the sling from his shoulder and hissed as a burning sensation raced down his arm; he carefully placed his hands on either side of Sam's head and tried to lessen his thrashing.
"Sam! Stop it," Dean cried out. "You're okay, man! You're going to be okay! Look at me!"
Sam's eyes opened for a split second before he caught sight of Dean and began to hyperventilate, his breathing beginning to wheeze in his throat as another cough caught in his chest. Sam started to choke, his chest burning painfully. He stared up at Dean, terror etched deeply into his face, his face turning a brilliant shade of purple as his mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water, trying desperately to breathe.
"Dammit," Dean spat as he frantically pulled the handcuff key from his pocket. "Hold on Sam, I've got you."
Dean dropped the key twice before managing to free Sam from the sink, immediately rolling him on his side, ignoring the searing pain in his own arm. "Just breathe," he said as he placed a towel under Sam's head. With a moment's hesitancy he ran back to the other room to get his phone.
"Dean! Dean," Bobby was yelling through the phone. "What the hell is going on over there?"
Dean once again dropped to his knees, pulling Sam into his arms before answering Bobby, his phone perched precariously on the sink.
"It's Sam, he's having some sort of fit on the floor," Dean called out as he turned Sam's face towards him. Dean watched as Sam's mouth opened and closed, a faint whisper slipping through his lips. Dean leaned down and said, "What did you say, Sammy? Tell me what's wrong!"
Sam's breathe tickled Dean's ear as he whispered, "I'm sorry I wasn't good enough."
Dean reeled back in surprise and exclaimed, "Sam, whatever you think is happening, it's not real. And you have always been good enough! More than good enough—you're my brother!"
Sam stared up at Dean, his eyes glassy as he slowly dropped one of his hands on his chest, the handcuffs hanging loose as he tapped himself on the chest. "Then why would you shoot me," Sam whispered painfully as his heart raced on his chest, drumming against his ribcage. "Hurts."
Dean laid a hand on Sam's chest and cringed at the rapid pulse.
Dean grabbed his phone and said, "Jeez, Bobby! I can practically see his heart beating through his chest. Sam is running out of time; what the hell is Garth doing? I'm going to murder that kid!"
"I'll call him! You want an ambulance," Bobby yelled through the phone.
"Just tell Garth to find Conan, before I find him," Dean yelled as he heard Bobby drop the call.
Across town, Garth and Danny were merely a few yards from brushing elbows, each slowly walking towards each other, each staring desperately at the EMF reader in their hand. Garth glanced up at the large display, the costumes bright colors making him anything but cheerful. He flinched when his phone suddenly starting ringing in his back pocket.
"Yeah," was all he said as he shoved the phone next to his ear, his eyes still desperately watching for the EMF's lights to blink.
"What the hell are you doing over there? Sam's down to the wire," Bobby exclaimed through the phone.
"We're still looking, Bobby," Garth said anxiously. "And we've almost run out of places to look too. We're just not getting a damn thing!"
"Balls! Nothing from Jax and her people," Bobby asked impatiently.
"Not a peep, we've been—"
Garth froze as the EMF lit up like a Christmas tree. "Bobby, we got something," Garth said as he shoved his phone back into his pocket.
Garth grabbed the velvet rope that separated him from the display and tossed it aside, stepping up onto the platform and staring at the EMF reader as he slowly waved it back and forth.
The lights flickered once before every bulb flared up and stayed brightly lit as a noise came from ahead, a noise that was eerily familiar. Like a horn, maybe….A definite honk.
Garth looked up and stared; the mannequin before him was sporting a vintage clown costume, a bright red rubber nose on its face. Garth stepped up to the mannequin and reached for the nose, but just as he felt the rubber beneath his fingers, the mannequin's head turned towards him.
From a few steps away, Danny watched as Garth suddenly sailed past him, landing in a heap a few feet away.
"Danny, you might wanna make a run for it," Garth called out as he stood from the floor. "We promised Jax we'd keep you from getting hurt."
"Come on, Garth, you're obviously going to need help," Danny said as the animated mannequin lumbered into view. "It's a freaking, walking mannequin. Look at it!"
"Alright, trick is we have to salt and burn that costume," Garth said as he sidled up to Danny, sliding a lighter into his hand.
They watched as the very life-like mannequin slowly moved towards them, another honk eliciting from its red, rubber nose.
"Dude, it's honking its nose at us," Garth whispered loudly. "That's just wrong, man."
"Okay, how you want to take it down," Danny asked as he took a step back.
"We don't have much time; I say we rush it," Garth said as he took off running.
Danny watched as Garth tackled the mannequin, it falling to pieces as it hit the floor. Garth grabbed the rubber nose as it rolled past, "Gotcha!"
"Toss me my bag," Garth yelled as he hastily piled up all the pieces of the mannequin and costume. "I need the salt!"
Danny grabbed Garth's duffel bag and tossed him the salt before digging into the bag and coming up with lighter fluid. Garth's cellphone began ringing again, causing his heart to sink; wondering if they had been too late.
As Garth tossed a lighter onto the pile, Danny stepped beside him and said, "Man, we need some celebratory marshmallows for this!"
Garth turned and looked at Danny, his face caught in a look of disbelief. "Let me tell you a little story about how marshmallows caused this whole damn thing," Garth said with a scoff. "Trust me, I'm never eating them again. Ever."
Remembering the ringing phone, Garth grabbed his phone and dialed Dean.
Back at the hotel, Dean continued to ignore the incessantly ringing phone, his shoulder on fire as he continued to compress Sam's chest in repetition, his head whirling in wildly unhelpful thoughts as his lips breathlessly counted out the compressions, stopping only to force a lung full of air into Sam's slack mouth.
"Come on, Sammy," Dean begged, panting from the exertion. "Just—breathe for me—any second now— Garth's gonna— come through."
Dean closed his eyes and focused on the compressions, wondering if he had the correct number of compressions per breath.
'God they change the numbers constantly' he thought wildly to himself. 'What if this is wrong?'
Dean's arm was trembling, the muscles in his recently dislocated shoulder wilding protesting at the strenuous work. As Dean felt the muscles locking up in protest, Sam suddenly arched off the floor as his starved lungs pulled in air. He looked up at Dean, his eyes still glassy as he continued to cough, lying limply on the tiled bathroom floor.
Dean slouched against the bathroom wall and slid down until he was sitting on floor, utterly exhausted. He grabbed his phone from the counter as it started ringing again.
"Garth," Dean said coarsely, his throat raw from his ragged breathing and panic.
"We got him," Garth said when he heard Dean on the other end of the line. "How's Sam?"
Dean sounded breathless as he panted, "He was gone for about two minutes."
Garth froze in his tracks, a weight settling on his chest as he asked, "And now?"
"He's back to breathing on his own, heart going too," Dean said with a short panicked laugh, the adrenaline rush wearing off fast. "Get your ass back here, bring some booze. I need a drink."
An hour later, Sam had been moved to the motel bed; having slept through his wrists being cleaned and wrapped, the bruising and scrapes from the handcuffs making Dean and Garth cringe as they worked to clean them. Sam still sleeping off his exhaustion and concussion when Garth and Dean decided to move outside; sitting shoulder to shoulder on the curb outside the room, a bottle of whiskey between them.
"Thanks for your help man," Dean said as he took another swig from the bottle. "I honestly don't know what I would have done without your help on this."
"No problem, Dean. Always ready to help," Garth said with a chuckle. "Just next time, you can go look for the carnie ghost while I babysit Sam."
Dean nodded silently as he thought back to performing CPR on his brother, it hadn't been the first time, probably wouldn't be the last time; didn't matter though, each time leaving Dean wondering how much longer their luck could hold out for. He realized Garth was watching him closely, waiting for him to respond. Dean cleared his throat and asked, ""So what was Conan hanging onto?"
Dean fiddled with the sling strap, which Garth had forced him back into the second he had returned with the booze.
"Well, we torched the entire mannequin and costume, but I'm pretty damn sure it was the rubber nose," Garth said as he imitated honking his nose. "That mannequin was freaky as hell, man. It's the last clown hunt I want to participate in for a while. I think wax museums are off my list too."
Dean laughed and smiled. "I hear ya," he replied. "I'm going to owe Sam for this for a long, long time. I can almost bet he'll be wanting to drive, and picking the music, and choosing the jobs for a while. Course, that'll be after Bobby gets done kicking my ass to the moon and back."
Garth toyed with the bottle before setting it back down, not bothering to drink any. "Any chance you're going to keep your shoulder in that sling for a few weeks," Garth asked innocently.
"Heck no," Dean said, his face looking mortified. "I can't pick up chics with a sling."
"You won't be able to pick up a pen if you don't wear it though," Garth warned. "Bobby and Jim have a bet going over it, already expecting you to end up needing surgery at some point, since you're being such an ass about it. Bobby gives you six months. Jim gives you four."
Dean shook his head in disbelief. "Can't get a simple injury without everyone turning into some kind of mother hen," he said. "I don't need the sling!"
"Yeah, well I believe you, mostly—that's why I bet a year," Garth said with smirk. "You hold off until I win, we'll split 60/40."
Dean snorted and shook his head, scratching the side of his face again.
"Dude, what is that," Garth asked as he peered at Dean's cheek.
"What," Dean asked, pausing under the weight of Garth's stare.
"Looks a lot like poison ivy," Garth replied with a smirk.
"I do not have poison ivy," Dean grumbled, pausing as he caught himself scratching at it again. "Oh man, the tree in the cemetery. There was a vine wrapped around it."
"Yeah, and then you practically bear hugged it," Garth said sympathetically. "Nice going."
"Hey, it's not like I'm the first person to get poison ivy," Dean said, defending himself. "I'm not a leper."
"A sling and poison ivy face," Garth said with a slow smile. "Looks like Dean Winchester is out of the game for a while, guess I'd better go make my move on the ladies while I can."
"Yeah, good luck man," Dean called out as Garth swung his keys and headed for his car. "You get a one day head start, tops."
"We'll see," Garth called out as he cranked his station wagon and threw it in reverse.
Dean watched as Garth disappeared around corner, not letting himself consider the mountain of 'what ifs' surrounding the last few days. All he had to do was keep Sam breathing. That was his job.
Sam woke hours later, the early hours of the morning making the room dim. He hissed in pain as he tried to move his hands, surprised to find gauze wrapped around his wrist and hands. Sam slowly rolled over on his bed, pausing when he saw Dean fast asleep in the armchair across the room, his face illuminated by the laptop screen, bottle of Jack an arm's length away. He tried to shake the words that were still ringing in his head from earlier, the look of hatred on Dean's face, the sound of the .45 discharging from point blank range.
He watched Dean's chest rise and fall, his face tense as he slept, his closed eyes moving restlessly under their lids. Sam sank back into his pillows and sighed deeply, trying to sort out what had been real and what had been a fear induced hallucination. He was rubbing his chest before he realized it, the memory of the bullet tearing into his flesh burning in his mind, the phantom pain still close to the surface. He closed his eyes, replaying Dean's words in his mind; hallucination or not, they had hit him hard. Sam knew that Dean had been shaken by his own hallucinations after he had suffered from ghost sickness, although he had never wanted to discuss them; but Sam wasn't an idiot, howler monkeys couldn't have shaken his brother that badly.
Sam watched as Dean suddenly bolted upright in his chair, instantly awake, his eyes frantically searching the room for Sam; he visibly relaxed when he spotted Sam still in his bed.
"You okay, man," Dean asked as he straightened up his chair, kicking himself for falling asleep in the first place. "How's your head?"
"I'm fine," Sam mumbled as he tried to feel for the throbbing lump above his temple.
"Sure you are, you slept four hours and now you think you're fine," Dean said as he moved towards Sam. Dean's heart sank as Sam flinched, his hands coming up defensively; Dean sighed and slowed his movements until he was sitting on the foot of the bed.
"You know what you saw was just a hallucination, right," Dean asked. "I'm not going to hurt you."
"I know that—"
"Then what's with the jumpy 'I'm going to punch you' stance," Dean said, motioning to Sam's hands, still up.
Sam forced his hands down and tried to swallow the lump in his throat. "You hated me," Sam said. "You shot me, and you smiled when you did it—"
"Sam, I wouldn't—"
"I know! –but you were so real, so angry," Sam tried to explain. "I've failed you, and dad, and—"
"Sam, you're not a failure," Dean argued harshly. "I know how those hallucinations work. Trust me, I know how much they can mess with your head….I remember. You just have to remind yourself they're not real."
"They are though," Sam replied softly, willing his eyes to stop watering. "Don't you understand that? These hallucinations take what we fear most and make us live them out. These hallucinations just bring up what we're hiding from; they're not being made from nothing."
"Go back to sleep, Sammy," Dean mumbled as he moved to his own bed, not wanting to go down that road with Sam. "You're probably still concussed."
Sam listened as Dean climbed into his own bed, the sound of his breathing a subtle lullaby that slowly calmed Sam's worries and lingering fears.
"Dean," Sam whispered.
"Yeah, Sam," Dean asked across the room.
"We're leaving this hideous motel tomorrow, right," Sam asked as he stared across the room, the light from the window illuminating the clown painting hung over the television.
Dean chuckled and said, "Sure thing, Sammy."
Please review! I appreciate it!
Okay, I know, I know. I blew the whistle on this chapter being released a wee bit early…Sorry! But in all honestly, the delay did result in some of the most awesome parts of this.
Also, guess where I am tonight! Sleepover at Winjennster's for birthday party! Whoooooo! Yeah, I would drive eight hours to meet my buddy and tell her 'happy birthday' in person, especially with all the super-secret planning it took to pull it off! Better than pie! OMG the cake was awesome…go tell her happy birthday and check out her awesome fanfics!