A/N: I'm so sorry guys, but I'm realizing that maybe the fact I'm taking so long to get this posted has caused some continuity errors. I haven't been re-reading everything prior to the current chapter to make sure it all stays cohesive which is really bothering me. The problem is, when I try to go back and re-read the whole thing, I feel like my earlier writing has so many flaws that I need to stop and re-do all of it (which would seriously be a bad idea if I ever want to finish this). However, I did try to hit the highlights before posting this one and I'm hoping the errors aren't so bad as to ruin the story for you.
Also, fair warning: this chapter is completely unbetaed. It's 100% me—mistakes, warts and all. I've read it enough that my poor brain just registers static at this point, so apologies in advance for poor writing, negligence and any weirdness that may crop up. Hopefully, nothing is too distracting or problematic for your enjoyment.
As always, thank you so much for reading and I look forward to reading your thoughts. *hugs*
Chapter 10: Warning Sign
"I've gotta tell you what a state I'm in
I've gotta tell you in my loudest tones
That I started looking for a warning sign…"
~Coldplay
Pancakes bubbled in the hot skillet as Lori and Chris debated blueberries versus chocolate chips—of which, they had neither, but that didn't seem to matter much to the discussion.
"Chocolate makes everything better."
"No, you're thinking of bacon. Bacon makes everything better."
"What happened to team blueberry?" Lori snickered and gave Chris a playful shove.
"Well, you see, blueberries are the bacon of the pastry world."
A knock on the door stopped Lori mid-laugh and they exchanged looks. Handing her spatula to Chris, she walked to the door and peeked outside. There stood Sam, head hanging, floppy hair hiding his face. Hands shoved deep in his pockets completed the look of a naughty child come to apologize. As soon as the door opened, his head came up and his cheeks colored.
"Would it help if I said I'm sorry," he began, "and I don't know what came over me?"
Lori crossed her arms.
"Really!" he rushed. I am sorry. My behavior—what I said—was totally uncalled for."
Her arms fell loosely by her sides. "Yeah, it was—"
"I…I don't—" he interrupted "—I mean, I'm pissed at Dean, I am. But I totally crossed the line. I'm not sure why I was so angry." Sam shook his head helplessly and looked at her with wide hazel eyes. A basset hound had nothing on this kid.
She smiled and stood aside. "Come on, this may be your only chance to see Chris cooking."
Sam ducked his head and crossed the threshold. He stopped short when he caught sight of Dean asleep on the couch immediately to his right.
Concern pulled his brows in, made him frown. "Is he okay? I-I didn't even ask earlier."
"I think so—relatively speaking."
Sam frowned, but he didn't look particularly surprised. "What do you mean?"
She sighed, wondering how much information she should give Sam—what Dean would be okay with him knowing and what he needed to know.
"After you left, he had a bad breathing attack. Turned blue and scared us to death." She shrugged. "But we gave him his inhaler and that seemed to take care of it. He'll be worn out the rest of the day, though. Attacks that severe really sap the body's energy levels."
She watched Dean for a second and, seeing no signs of distress, turned toward the kitchen. "Go ahead and help yourself to some coffee. Breakfast will be ready in a minute."
She exchanged glances with Chris when he handed the spatula back to her. Removing the pancakes from griddle to platter, she covertly watched the brothers. Sam stood next to the couch, gaze fixed on Dean for a long moment. A range of emotions played across his face and he couldn't seem to settle on any one thing. He grabbed the afghan from the back of the couch and spread it over his sleeping brother. The care he took pulling and smoothing it over Dean's shoulders tugged her heart into a swell of emotion. Face crinkled in concern, he joined them in the kitchen.
Chris offered Sam a piece of blackened bacon. "Olive branch?"
Sam smiled and took the greasy offering, stuffing the entire slice in his mouth. He spoke around the wad of meat. "Bacon brings people together."
The two men grinned at each other—at the old joke they shared.
"I'm really sorry about earlier," Sam apologized. "All this must be getting to me more than I thought."
"Totally understand—but I'm not sure I'm the one you owe an apology." Chris's eyebrows rose meaningfully as he bumped Sam's shoulder to soften his words.
Sam looked toward the couch, his face twisted between exasperated and troubled.
"He makes me so mad sometimes—stupid overprotective crap. He's always been this way, always reckless when it comes to himself."
Chris nodded in understanding, but said, "He's not completely wrong, though. Anyone can see you need closure—and someone has to stop this thing."
Sam met Chris's gaze. "Yeah, but does it have to be Dean? I get why he does it, but does he ever stop to think how I'll feel if something happens to him? You know, it's not fair. I'd do anything for him, including keeping him safe." Staring at his feet, Sam sniffed. "I don't wanna lose him."
Lori quietly set the table, not wanting to interrupt. Sam's anguish hung heavily around them, though, and she couldn't help staring toward the couch. Her heart ached for Sam. For both brothers. It seemed tragic that their love for each other had put them at cross-purposes. She couldn't imagine doing what they did—such a dangerous job and each one so scared for the other.
Chris squeezed Sam's neck. "Look, man, I don't pretend to know your relationship with your brother. I mean, I get there's baggage—that much is obvious—but what's between you and your brother is…it's not something I expected. It's hard to reconcile the way you guys are together with how you never spoke about him the whole time I've known you." Chris sighed. "I thought I had you guys—him—dialed in, but now I…I don't know. But I'm certain he's not purposely trying to hurt you."
"I know that. That's the problem. He's always tried to protect me from everything. And, you know, I'm not a kid anymore. He doesn't have to shoulder everything. I want him to lean on me like I've always leaned on him."
"Yeah, well, easier said than done. Little brothers will always be little brothers, Sam."
Sam looked at Chris, sympathy easing the tension between his brows. "Yeah, I know. Chris, you gotta know you weren't—"
"I don't want to talk about it, okay?" Chris turned away to finish piling bacon on a plate.
Sam watched him for a while then nodded. "Okay."
"You gonna move outta the way or stand there like a moose in the road?" Chris smirked. Stepping around Sam, he took the plate of bacon and set it in the middle of the table.
Lori turned the conversation to less charged topics. "If you guys grab the juice and milk from the refrigerator, we can eat. Oh, and grab those glasses sitting by the sink. I'll get Dean."
Sitting on the coffee table, she shook Dean's shoulder. "Wakey-wakey, eggs and bakey." When Dean didn't rouse, she jostled him a little more. "Dean, time to wake up. Hey, some of us are hungry."
This elicited a grimace and a groan of displeasure as he shifted fully onto his back.
"Mmm—time's it?" he grumbled. His eyelids fluttered, but stay closed.
"Time to wake up and eat. Let's go already!"
She smiled at the creases carved into the side of his face and the hair sticking up along the side of his head. Her fingers itched to smooth the wayward strands down. Instead, she removed the blanket Sam had so carefully placed over him and quickly folded it back over the couch.
He blinked his blood-shot eyes open, then slammed them closed with a grunt. Cautiously, he peered out slits of green and slowly levered himself up on an elbow. Lips thinning, Dean pressed fingers to his forehead, brows pulling together.
"Headache?" she asked.
"Yeah."
"I'll bet it's a doozy, too. Let me help you sit up and I'll go get something for it, okay? C'mon, old man, easy does it," she teased, bracing his shoulders. She knew his back had to be throbbing, so she tried to take as much of his weight as she could and secretly planned on giving him something more than over the counter meds. With her help, he pushed fully upright—his logger boots clunking to the ground as he leaned into the couch, resting his head against the back.
"No one should feel this bad if liquor's not involved," he grumbled.
She frowned. "No, they really shouldn't." Darting a glance at Sam, she leaned in and whispered, "You need to let someone check you over—someone besides me."
"I told you, I'm fine." Dean stared down his nose, not daring to lift his head. "Nothing that won't heal. Why are we whispering?"
Poised to whisper back, she switched to an easy smile when she noticed Sam coming their way. "Hey, Sam, look who decided to join us?"
Dean's head twisted so he could see, but Sam was already coming around the couch and into view. Right before her eyes, Dean camouflaged everything but the tension in his shoulders.
Shaking her head at him, she stood and said, "I'll get you something for your headache."
WCA
Sam ran a hand over his mouth nervously. "Hey, ready to eat? We've got pancakes, bacon—and coffee, a big pot of it."
Dean studied him carefully, his expression impassive and guarded. It hurt to have his brother look at him like that, but given what had happened earlier, Sam guessed he had it coming. Raking his eyes over Dean, he checked for signs of injury. Other than being white-washed pale with deepening smudges under his eyes, he seemed relatively intact. But he knew the blood had come from somewhere and the tightness around his brother's eyes indicated his pain level was pretty high.
"You okay?" Dean asked huskily.
And wasn't that just like Dean?
"I think I should be asking you that. Are you?" At Dean's raised brows, he clarified, "Okay, I mean?"
"Yeah, I'm good."
Sam could see the lie as plain as the freckles on his brother's face. Sam huffed disbelief and drew his bottom lip in, deciding not to call him on it. Like a lightning bolt, it hit Sam that he had no idea whatsoever how Dean felt and hadn't had in over twenty-four hours. Yes, they'd worked on making sure Dean's thing was under lid as much as possible, but there wasn't a hint of anything—nothing but the normal connection born of blood and long hours spent together.
He wanted to ask Dean about it, but Lori came breezing back in with an oblong, white pill and a half glass of water. Sam recognized it as an acetaminophen based narcotic—definitely overkill for a simple headache.
"Here we go," she said.
Dean scowled at the pill. "Don't you have Tylenol?"
When Lori directed a sour look at him, Dean popped the pill in his mouth without another word. Sam felt his eyebrows rise, not used to seeing his brother so easily bullied into things unless it was Dad doing the bullying.
When he was done, she took the glass from him, saying, "You guys go ahead, I'll be there in a sec."
Chris had taken a seat, digging in already. He looked up and mumbled around a mouthful, "What? I'm hungry and you're taking too long."
Sam smiled in amusement and stretched his arm out to Dean. "C'mon, I'll give you a hand."
Dean stared at the hand. His eyes flicked up to Sam's and he said, "Um, I can't-I don't—my chest's a little sore…" he trailed off.
"What happened to your chest?"
"Dude saved my life, that's what happened to his chest," Chris provided helpfully.
Sam turned back to his brother, his eyebrows crawling off his face.
Dean grimaced. "It's not a big deal… Stop it, Sam—dude, your face is gonna freeze like that."
Frustration churned inside him, but he let the emotions leak away on a long, measured exhale—he didn't want to fight. He could see his brother was a mess and that was enough. Besides, the more he showed anger, the more Dean would shut down and that wouldn't help anybody.
"All right, but we're talking about this later." Sam ignored Dean's eye roll as he bent to grab his brother's elbow.
The effort it took to get him up rattled Sam—he had to take almost all of Dean's weight to get him on his feet. Tremors shook through Dean and he swayed. Sam tightened his hold and hung on, fingers curled into his brother's flesh, bruising. Bright fear shivered through him.
"Y'alright?"
Dean nodded, but he didn't pull away like Sam expected. Instead, he allowed Sam to keep a steadying hand at his elbow all the way to the table. Did he even realize Sam was hovering? Uneasiness zipped along Sam's spine and his stomach churned in worried swoops. The worst part? He couldn't say a word—not here, not in front of everyone. One more thing he'd have to shelve for later. Getting through this meal was going to be torture.
Lori and Chris peppered casual breakfast conversation with surreptitious glances at them. Awkward didn't begin to cover how Sam felt being so closely observed. And if he felt awkward, Sam was downright sorry for his brother.
Scrutiny gravitated Dean's way more and more as the meal continued, zeroing in on his mostly untouched plate. Dean, for the most part, kept his eyes down, focused on poking holes into his pancakes with his fork. Now and then, he'd pick up a piece of bacon and take a bite. His silence, though, shouted louder than if he'd participated in the conversation happening around him.
"Dean, you need to eat," Lori pointed out when everyone else was nearly done. "That pain pill will sit better on your stomach if it's not empty."
"Sorry," he glanced up, "not very hungry."
Sam eyed the shake of his brother's hand as he reached for his coffee. Halfway to his mouth, Dean lost his grip, spilling hot liquid over the front of him and sending the mug crashing to pieces across the floor.
"Dammit," Dean hissed, jumping back from the table, hastily brushing at his clothes.
Lori shot up from her chair to grab some paper towels while Chris stared at all of them with cheeks puffed full of his last bite. Sam knelt and picked up the shards of broken stoneware, listening to Dean's shaky apologies.
"I'm sorry, it-it…it just slipped—dammit," he said, bitter and contrite. "I'm so sorry—"
"Hey, it's okay. I'm not worried about the mug." Lori handed Dean the paper towels. "I'm worried about you. Did it burn you anywhere?"
"N-no, I'm …" he trailed off as he stared down at himself.
"Are you sure?"
She reached for Dean's shirt, but he caught her wrist and stopped her.
"I'm fine."
"I'm fine," he repeated a few seconds later, after she'd already knelt to the floor next to Sam.
Sam looked up, concerned by the weird tone. "Dean?"
His breath was stolen by the chill that freeze-dried his heart. Dean stood rigid, hands clenched at his sides, paper toweling crumpled in one shaking fist. His pupils were blown wide-open—stricken vulnerability naked on his face. Sam didn't think the others noticed—Lori still sopping up coffee and Chris wrestling with the trashcan's stubborn lid. Sam squashed the urge to grab his brother and hide him away before they could.
"Dean?" Sam stood, hands clutching dripping paper and broken mug, brown coffee polka-dotting his boots. His brother's eyes anchored to his, a desperate mooring in a vast, vicious stormy ocean. Sam's heart thud-fluttered, the beat picking up and bumping hard against his chest. He fervently wished for the connection between them—he needed to know what made Dean look like that.
"What? What is it?"
His words seemed to break the spell. Dean half shook his head, squeezing his eyes shut and shuddering.
"I'm okay," he whispered.
"You want me to pour you some more?" Lori's voice intruded.
Their heads turned in sync to watch her throw a mass of wadded paper into the trash bin Chris was holding.
"No," Dean slowly answered. "I'm good."
She rummaged through an open drawer before turning back to them with a tea towel. Rooted, his brother remained unmoving until Lori came over and began brushing off his chest and thighs.
"I got it," he said quietly, taking the towel from her.
Confused by the weirdness permeating the air, Sam didn't realize he was drawing attention himself until Chris jabbed him with an elbow.
"You gonna just stand there dripping coffee all over your feet?"
Chris eyed him with concern, but his voice was casual and teasing. Sam glanced down at the saturated napkins and shards cupped in his hands.
"Um, right. Guess I should—"
He raised a self-effacing eyebrow at Chris, shrugging, and threw the trash into the bin. He washed his hands and turned back, automatically finding his brother. Dean held his damp, stained shirt away from his skin, face screwed up in disgust.
"I hate to eat and run, but, uh," he cast a look at Sam, "I think we're gonna head out. You ready?"
Sam nodded, eager to get them out of there, and quickly cleared his dirty dishes from the table. "Yeah, um, thank you for breakfast. Been a while since we had homemade pancakes."
"Not a problem," Lori said, taking dishes from Dean's hands. Bewilderment passed over her face when Dean failed to acknowledge her presence, instead, robotically walking to the middle of the room as soon as his hands were empty. She bent close to Sam and whispered, "Let me send the extras home with you in case he changes his mind about eating."
"Yeah, alright." Sam nodded. Appreciation for the concern she showed his brother skipped alongside the guilt from the less than kind things he'd thought—and said—about her.
She stretched plastic wrap around the food and paper plate, handing it off to Sam. "Is he okay?"
Dean's soft voice drew their attention.
"Um, I'm not sure…" Dean patted his pockets. "Uh…keys?"
Since when does Dean misplace his car keys? Sam felt like he'd stepped into an alternate universe where nothing made sense.
"They're in the bedroom," Chris called over his shoulder, shoving the trash can back into place. "Should be on the dresser."
Dean nodded, looking toward a room off to the side, his hands still patting at his pockets absently.
"I'll get them," Lori said when he made no effort to move.
Dean nodded again, still weirdly lost and vacant. It was so unlike his brother, Sam went to him and touched his arm, needing to ground himself in the contact. Dean flinched, but his expression cleared and he looked a little more present. Lori came back with his keys and amulet in her hand. And, wow, how had Sam missed that? Dean took both, but immediately handed the keys over.
"That everything?" Sam asked.
Dean glanced scornfully at the plate of food, but nodded as he drew his thumb along the side of his nose and moved slowly toward the door. He turned at the last minute to address the room.
"Thanks. For everything. And I meant what I said," he directed the last at Lori.
"Yeah, I know. Please, take care of yourself. I'd like a chance to collect on that favor someday."
"I'll do my best."
His smile would've been convincing if it had come anywhere near his eyes. Maybe if the corners hadn't been lopsided with uncertainty and the depths of his eyes melancholy. Sam tightened his grip around the car keys and watched his brother shiver as he headed out the door.
Turning to his friend settled once again at the kitchen table, he asked, "Chris, you need a ride?"
"Thanks, but no thanks. I'm gonna finish this." He lifted his coffee cup. "Lori can give me a ride."
"Yeah, don't worry about him. We're gonna head over to the hospital in a little bit. Sam," Lori called as he moved to follow out the door, "make sure he rests."
Sam shifted onto his heels, considering. He shook his head ruefully. "I get the feeling I've missed something big—but I also get the feeling I should thank you both for looking after my stubborn brother." Pointing at Chris, Sam continued, "We'll talk later."
Sam smiled at them both, pulling the door shut behind him.
The car ride to the motel was déjà vu of the trip home from the hospital. Once again, Dean withdrew, quiet and introspective, and Sam wasn't prying. Yet. Tension hung heavy around them and he knew he'd contributed to that when he'd blown his stack earlier. He'd overreacted, remembered being furious—wanting to hurt Dean furious. If Chris and Lori hadn't been there…
Because Dean sure hadn't fought back.
Sam frowned. Why hadn't he fought back…or at least defended himself? A niggle itched the back of Sam's brain, instincts on alert, but before he could fully scratch the thought into life, they had arrived at the motel.
Dean hauled himself out of the car as soon as it was parked. He moved stiffly, but with a better sense of purpose. Whatever had happened at breakfast, he seemed to be shaking it off in true Winchester fashion. When Sam didn't immediately follow, he turned and threw his hands out, giving Sam a 'what are you waiting for' look. Sending up a prayer for patience, Sam followed with the key.
Inside, Dean draped his coat over the back of the nearest chair and grasped his spoiled shirt by the hem, moving to pull it over his head. With a sharp grunt, he broke the upward movement, pulling his arms in close to his body.
"Need some help?" Sam asked.
Dean's fingers tightened around the material. "I got it."
Sam crossed his arms and rocked back on his heels, watching his determined brother struggle. Every attempt to raise his arms elicited pained 'mmphs' and aborted flinches. Finally, with a curse, Dean dropped his elbows and slumped down onto the nearest bed in defeat.
"Okay, let's start with, what the hell happened?" Sam moved to his brother's side, ready to help.
Dean looked up. "Huh?"
"You're arms, Dean. Why can't you lift them—?" Sam waved his palm. "Don't even try telling me you're fine. The way you're acting—the blood at the apartment. I know you're not fine."
Dean searched his face and Sam hoped he would find what he was looking for—hoped to be found trustworthy.
After a minute, he simply said, "Just. Don't freak out. Okay?"
"Why, what's—"
"Sam, promise me you will not freak out?"
"How can I promise when I don't even know what I'm promising?"
Dean tipped his head. "I'm just asking you not to make a bigger deal out of it than it is, okay? I'm….mostly fine."
Sam took a calming breath—at this rate, he was going to pass out from hyperventilation. Giving his brother a nod, he said, "Okay. I promise to try."
"Good enough, I guess," Dean muttered. He sighed. "Go slow and get my head out first."
Permission granted, Sam reached behind Dean and carefully worked the shirt up from the back, slipping it partly over his head. Bloody bandages cut several, long stripes across his brother's chest. The length and pattern would suggest some very long, very sharp claws. Whatever Sam had expected, it wasn't that.
"What the hell, man?! Is that where all the blood came from? Did Jessica do this?"
Dean's mumble got lost in the fabric covering his face. Sam rolled his eyes and finished easing the shirt over Dean's head, pulling it down his arms. Most of the blood soaking the bandages had dried rusty brown with only the centers a fresher scarlet. Sam tossed the shirt aside—had a flash of pushing Dean backwards with both hands.
His eyes flicked from the wounds to Dean's face. "Shit, man—I'm so, so sorry."
"Why," Dean asked, brow wrinkling. "You didn't do it."
"No," Sam shook his head, worry already coursing through him, "but I could've caused more damage when I shoved you—"
"It's fine. See?" Dean gestured at his chest. "Mostly dried."
"I should check—"
Dean grabbed his wrist, stopping him from touching the bandage.
"It's fine. I told you—no making mountains out of mole hills."
Sam changed directions and headed for his bag laying on the other side of the bed, intent on the ibuprofen inside. It would go a long way toward easing his guilt if he could help his brother's pain and the ibuprofen would be a beneficial boost to the narcotic. Halfway there, he glimpsed the array of colors adorning Dean's back. He stopped, pivoted for a closer look.
Catching the motion, Dean threw a questioning glance at him, then froze at Sam's expression. He must've realized what was making Sam's face pinch, because his jaw tightened and he growled, "That wasn't you, either."
And Sam hadn't even thought about that. Images of slamming Dean against the wall weakened his knees, forcing him to sink down on the bed. He hadn't been gentle in his anger and with this much damage? Queasy guilt shuddered through him as he studied the purple and blue canvasing his brother's back. He let his fingers skim over the tender marks. No wonder Dean couldn't get his arms over his head.
Sam swallowed the sickness in his gut. "How?"
"Would you believe in a dream?"
"What?" Sam asked, not sure he'd heard right. "You mean in another vision?"
"Nooo. It happened in a dream."
He shifted forward, searching Dean's profile turned toward him. "You can't be serious."
"Sorry, man, no punch line." At Sam's look, Dean held up his hands. "I know, man. I know how it sounds. But I was out cold when this happened—you can ask Chris and Lori. It was all a dream, only this dream handed out souvenirs."
Sam ignored the smirk he knew would be on his brother's face and gawked at the bruising, trying to grasp how any of this made sense.
"Okay, what about your chest? That a dream too?"
Dean touched the tips of his fingers to a bandage. "No. That, we gotta talk about."
It all warranted some serious discussion as far as Sam was concerned, but he waited for his brother to continue.
"Back at the apartment, something was there. Something besides Jessica. I don't know what, exactly, but it has wicked claws and it's one nasty son of a bitch." Dean let Sam absorb that before he went on. "And there's definitely been some sort of binding ritual done."
Getting up and snagging his coat, Dean dug around in the pocket, pulling something out. He brought the object back over and held it out for Sam before he settled back on the bed next to him. Sam slid his eyes from his brother's pained grimace to the locket in his hand. Jessica's. He'd recognize it anywhere.
Prying it open with his thumbnail, he saw the familiar picture of her mom inside. The photo was unharmed; however, the discolored, blackened outer metal spoke of repeated passing through flame. Sam added shock to the list of emotions on his open tab—wondered when the world would right itself again. He snapped the locket closed and squeezed it in his palm.
"Okay. What do you think is going on?"
Dean shrugged, hissing when it pulled. "Looks like someone with more than cursory knowledge summoned her. This couldn't have been some accidental séance gone wrong. I don't think the girls' slumber party had anything to do with any of this…but someone sure did. And that kind of spell, to not only bring a spirit back, but to hold it and bind it…well, who knows what kind of fugly capitalized on something that stupid." Dean turned toward him. "Thing is, why? Why would anyone want to bring her back and bind her?"
Sam thought about his friends. Pictured them in his mind, unable to reconcile a single person with such an act, but knowing they'd be Dean's first line of suspects. Given whoever did this had had the locket, he admitted Dean was probably right. Pushing the painful thought away, he clung to a possible bit of positive.
"This…creature? You think that's what's killing people?"
"Makes sense, right?" Dean waited until he looked up. "I don't think its Jessica, Sam."
Sam nodded, all parts of him grateful for that much. "So, where do we start?"
"Well," Dean said, "I'm changing pants so I'll stop smelling like a barista. You need to get your Al on and fire up Ziggy."
Sam rolled his eyes. "Knew that Quantum Leap marathon was a bad idea."
He cuffed a hand across the top of Dean's head as he passed by, felt his brother's return swat graze his hip. Carefully, he lay the necklace beside his laptop and pulled out a chair. As he powered up his computer, he listened absently to Dean digging through his bag for a pair of jeans followed by ugly grunting and uglier curses. Looking over at the commotion, Dean was tugging at the soggy jeans clinging to his thighs, trying his best to keep from stretching his back muscles.
"Need help with that too?" Sam asked sweetly.
Dean scowled. "I got it, thanks. Perve."
Sam smiled fondly at his brother. His brother whose skin paled sickly under the yellow lights. Dark smudges angled the sharp planes of his face, making him look decidedly thinner than even a day ago. A random thought struck him.
"What if that thing's claws were poisonous…or carried some sort of ectoplasmic taint?"
Dean stopped, letting his arms drop—one leg still in and one leg out. "Mountains, Sam."
"No, Dean, just—you don't look good, man."
"Well, gee, thanks. Still look better than you." He smiled.
"No, I mean it. You look like road-kill leftovers—even your shadows have shadows. I think you've lost weight, dude. Maybe there was something in that thing's claws."
Quickly shaking his head, Dean said, "Don't go borrowing trouble. I'm…tired. And cold. It's the same thing as before, just worse. It's like," Dean shrugged," I don't know, like the longer this thing goes on, the stronger the hold…like an infection or something building."
"Infection?" Sam repeated. "What exactly are we talking about here? What do you think this is building towards?"
Dean wouldn't meet Sam's gaze. He plucked at the jeans still clinging to his skin. He shook his head again, lifting one shoulder.
"Hey, no," Sam demanded, "tell me what you think this is doing to you."
After a pause, he spread his hands. "That's just it. I don't know."
"Okay, what are you not saying?"
Dean hesitated, reluctance plain in his hunched shoulders. But Sam wasn't letting him off the hook this time.
"Come on, man, you gotta help me out here."
And if it sounded like pleading, that's because that's exactly what it was. The one thing that usually guaranteed a response.
"Things are..." Dean squinted as he searched for the right words. "Things seem…less substantial. The dreams, they feel real. Here…? I'm losing time, not a lot, but now and then. Everything's…faded. It's hard to think sometimes—like my head's full—and I've never felt this worn out, like I'm losing strength. But, I'm… sleep doesn't seem like a good idea."
Fear zip-fired through Sam's chest. Already alarmed by what Dean was confessing, he knew whatever made his brother afraid to sleep would be worse. "What—" he cleared his throat, "what do you mean?"
Dean threw a quick glance of eyes grazing eyes.
"I'm afraid if I go to sleep," he whispered, "the dream is all there will be…I'm afraid I won't come back."
"What?" Sam said, voice low. He stared at the top of his brother's head, willing him to look up. "What are you talking about? That's not—that's not how this thing works. You're receiving supernatural signals, not-not being drawn across the veil."
When Dean did look at him, weariness clung to every part of him. His whole body sagged.
"I know. I'm just telling you what I feel. I don't know how it works…but last night, it's like physical me was pulled into the dream and parts of me stayed behind after I woke up. I just-I feel…"
He shrugged off whatever he'd been about to say, breaking eye contact again. "I think that's why the bruises on my back aren't fading—it's not like the burns, which are Jessica's memories. The bruises are real because part of me was really there and it really happened. When Jess—" Dean stopped. His eyes darted to Sam and then cut away.
A slip. He hadn't meant for that to slip. Sam stiffened.
"Your back," he guessed. "Jess did this to you?"
"She doesn't mean to hurt me." Dean leaned forward, elbows resting on knees. "She's trying to tell me something, and she's desperate—when I don't understand, she gets upset."
Nodding, Sam blinked and said, "How? What…"
"She slammed me against the ceiling."
Sam's eyes widened and his mouth dropped open. "The…the c-ceiling? You were on the ceiling…like, like…"
"Look, can we just drop this?" Dean cradled his head between his hands. "It doesn't matter. If we can figure out how to kill Nosferatu and break the binding spell, it should all stop."
Gritting his teeth, Sam stabbed a finger at Dean. "And your back, is that gonna go away? And your chest, will it just magically heal up?"
Dean fell silent, jaw muscles jumping as he sat up and tugged at the other leg of his jeans, finally freeing his knee.
"I didn't hear you, Dean," Sam said in a raised voice. As it often did, his fear came out as anger. "You might want to speak up."
Dean's eyes closed as he stilled. "What do you want from me, Sam? What?" he asked quietly. Green fire blazed when he looked over. "No, okay. No, but with time it will all heal. Why's this any different than all the other times I've been sliced and diced?"
"Because! Because," Sam said softer the second time. "It just is." When Dean pulled a face at the non-answer, Sam pressed on, dug deeper into what he was feeling. "Because of everything that's happened lately. Because I can't lose you. Because Jess hurt you."
Sam folded his lips in, scraping the bottom one against his teeth when he released their press. He looked away, avoiding the look of compassion softening Dean's face.
"Not this," Dean said, pointing at his chest, drawing Sam's attention back to him. "In fact, I think she was trying to save me. After Dark Man took his best shot, she pinned me against the wall and held it off. She did something that sent it away. She saved me."
A collage of Jessica's smiles slid through Sam's mind—her gentle sweetness right there in his mind's eye. He swallowed, tried to keep his emotions at bay, willed himself to regain control.
"You really think that?" he asked, needing it to be true.
"Yes," Dean said. "No, you know what? I know so. Okay?"
Nodding, Sam turned back to his laptop. He drew in deep, counted inhales until his equilibrium steadied. He listened as Dean finished changing his pants, listened to the soft thud the jeans made when he threw them in a corner. Listened to Dean sigh and scrub a hand through his hair and listened to the heavy silence in between when he sensed Dean boring holes in the side of his head.
"You okay?" his brother asked gently.
"Yeah," he answered reflexively. Letting his shoulders slump, he tried for honesty. "No. But I will be—when this is over."
He looked over at Dean, who held a clean shirt in his lap. Saw him shiver despite the room's warmth. Millions of goose bumps dimpled his brother's skin, raising the fine, golden hairs of his forearms.
"Gimme your shirt." He went to Dean, hand held out.
Dean surrendered the gray tee and together they worked his arms and head through the holes. Despite the sweat gathering along Dean's hairline, he insisted on being helped into a heavy, navy work shirt. Sam wondered how a person could have goose bumps and still sweat. Seemed like the two ought to be mutually exclusive. He imagined it must be an unsettling sensation, all things considered.
"Look, I've been meaning to ask you about something," Sam said.
"Okay, shoot."
"When we first got here… I could pick up things you were feeling even if there was no physical contact or anything, you know?"
"Yeaah." Dean drew the word out, obviously wondering where this was going.
"I haven't felt anything from you whether we touch or don't touch. Not for a while now. What do you think it means?"
"I think it means we finally caught a break." Dean's brows bounced as he cocked his head.
"Dean."
"No, I mean it. You don't need to be distracted by whatever crap is going on with me."
Of course that is what he'd think. Sam couldn't muster enough surprise to be frustrated.
"Aren't you worried? Especially considering what you just told me? I mean, maybe this is another sign that you're right? Maybe—"
"Sam! Enough, okay? This whole thing has had no rhyme or reason since it began." Dean pinched between his eyes. "We don't know what's what. It could be all the other stuff is just blocking us because the closer we are to Jess, to this thing, the more interference there is."
"But, even your headaches are better."
"Really? 'Cause the drum line pounding in my head begs to differ with you."
Sam stopped and looked, really looked at Dean. Sure enough, all the signs of a raging headache were there. He huffed. "You know, it's really messed up that I'm actually relieved to hear that. Makes the rest of what you said make a little more sense, I guess."
"Of course I make sense. I'm the master of sense making in this family." Dean smirked.
Sam arched one brow. "Riiight." He retrieved the ibuprofen and threw the bottle to his brother. Looking around for something Dean could drink, he spotted the forgotten food. "Hey. You should eat."
"Not hungry," Dean said, dry swallowing four caplets.
Sam grimaced. He'd never know how his brother could stand to do that.
"When's the last time you ate more than a few bites?" Sam asked, still feeling a knot in his own throat and wishing they had bottled water. He'd tried the chlorine bilge that passed as tap water in this place and, thanks, but no thanks.
"Uh," Dean scratched the back of his head. He half-shrugged. "Does it matter?"
"Of course it matters." He bit his tongue, holding back the unsavory names he wanted to toss as his brother right now.
"I'm going on a coffee run." Dean rose from the bed, scratching his cheek. "You want anything?"
Sam stood in front of the door and crossed his arms.
"Oh, c'mon, Sam!" Dean's shoulders fell. "It's just across the road. What could happen?"
"You sit and eat," he said. "I'll go get coffee and we can go back over what we need to research. Then, you should lay down for a while."
Face screwing up, Dean said, "Who are you? My mother? Sorry to tell ya, but I already had one and you ain't her."
Sam's face tightened and his chin jut upward. Dean could be the most aggravating person in the world.
"Don't push it. Whether you admit it or not, you are a mess and I'm still pissed you went back on your promise—lied to me."
Guilt crossed Dean's face and his posture sagged further. Sam knew he had this round in the bag.
"Look, Sam—"
"No. I don't want to hear it, Dean. You would hand me my ass if I pulled a stunt like that and you know it. So, just save it."
Sam let the hurt betrayal show on his face. More guilt flooded Dean's. He'd feel bad for manipulating his brother, but right now he was more interested in end results than sensibilities.
"Fine!" Dean threw up his hands and plopped into the chair opposite of Sam's. "Make it a large."
He pulled the food toward him, lips pursed in distaste, snagged a piece of bacon with his fingers and turned it over and back again. Normally, Dean could plow his weight through bacon, but this time his expression said he fully expected it to oink or something equally horrifying.
"See if they've got a plastic fork."
Satisfied, Sam nodded. "Be right back. Try to stay out of trouble for two seconds."
He patted his pocket to make sure he had his keys and wallet before stepping into the bright California sun. As he was pulling the door shut behind him, he saw Dean hunch forward, bending his head into his free palm. His fingers fisted tightly in his hair as the bacon trembled crazily in the other.
The door clicked shut on that image, searing it into every blink of Sam's eyes. He wanted to push it back open, check on his brother, but he knew, no matter what, if he pushed the door back open, Dean would only give him sleight of hand and pretend all was well.
Sam turned away from the door and swallowed against the mish-mash of emotion. He didn't want to leave Dean alone for even a second. A frisson of anxiety needled him toward the gas station with long strides that stretched his hamstrings into a burn. All the while, he kept telling himself Dean was going to be okay. If he repeated it enough, maybe he'd believe it.
WCA
As soon as the door closed, Dean threw the congealed bacon back on the plate with a plop. He wrapped his arms around his middle, leaning forward until his forehead rest on the table. Hollowed out, he sighed and let his head roll to the side. He was sick of the ice block camping out in his gut, sick of the heaviness pulling at him constantly. He'd forgotten what it felt like to truly feel well. Maybe he was a corpse that didn't yet know it was dead?
Everything was flat. The flavor of food, the temperature of coffee—even the colors around him seemed muted, slightly off. Dean didn't want to scare Sam, but he scaring himself. Truth was, he wasn't sure killing the shadow creature and unbinding Jessica would stop this. How could he be sure of anything when they had no precedence for this?
The only certainty he had was in how much he ached. His chest burned, his back throbbed and a whopper headache stabbed his brain relentlessly despite the medication saturating his system. Had he been alone, truly alone, he'd have curled up under a mass of blankets and let come what may.
He must've drifted off, because, in the next minute, the door opened again, letting Sam enter balancing two large coffees in a to-go container. Dean jerked into a sitting position, grinding his teeth on a moan when he remembered why that was a bad idea.
"Hey, if you're tired, go rest after you eat. I can start researching and we'll talk later."
"Naw, I'm good." He rubbed his gritty eyes hoping it would help the blurriness, but when he blinked, a hazy halo fuzzed everything.
"Here ya go," Sam said as he dropped a plastic fork onto the table in front of Dean. "Too bad this place doesn't have a microwave, huh? I could see if they'd let me use the microwave at the gas station?"
The false brightness lifting Sam's words drew Dean's focus to his little brother. Sam hovered beside him, the worry practically vibrating Dean's teeth. For a brief moment, he imagined Sam cutting up the pancake for him and maybe even force-feeding it to him, such was the manic twitch of Sam's fingers.
Dean picked up the fork and glared at the pancake. He didn't think heating it up would make it more appetizing, but with Sam standing there watching intently, he cut into the cake and stuffed a bite in his mouth, forcing his jaws to move.
"I'm good. See?" He smiled with his mouth full. It was enough to get Sam moving on to other things.
The food tasted of nothing, just wet, sticky mush coating his teeth and tongue. He had to concentrate on keeping repulsion from clogging his throat, gag building in his gut. Taking a gulp of his coffee, he was disappointed to find it wasn't much better. Though it looked black as tar, the taste was barely that of coffee water. It didn't have the texture of mush, though, which was something. Mechanically, he shoved food in and forced himself to chew and swallow. Sweat broke out all over his body from the effort.
Sam reappeared to take the other seat and stole the last piece of cold bacon from the plate. Thank God. Dean raised an eyebrow at his salad loving brother only to double-take when he realized Sam's hair was wet. His brother had apparently showered and dressed in fresh clothes all while he'd been grappling with the food.
"What?" Sam said, unaware of Dean's inner thoughts. "I enjoy bacon." Sam shrugged.
Dean simply pointed at the computer and drank another mouthful of coffee so he wouldn't have to speak.
Wiping greasy fingers on the side of his jeans, Sam pulled the machine closer. "So? Creature or spell?"
Dean laid his fork aside. Nausea slow-rolled through his stomach with an uncertain turn.
"Creature." He belched, one hand creeping up to rub at his stomach.
Shooting him a look of disgust, Sam opened his browser, letting his fingers hover over the keyboard. "So, what are we thinking?"
"Definitely the phantom variety. I'm thinking ancient and pissed."
"And you know that because?"
"Yesterday I found ectoplasm where that girl, Julia, died."
Sam's jaw clenched as he sighed out his nose. "So, you went to not one, but two scenes without me."
He reached up with both hands and scrubbed at his face, hoping to rub the irritation away. He was so not in the mood for another Sam inquisition—his nerves and his patience were stretched to their limit. Lips pressed together in a thin line, he glared at his brother.
"It was the freaking middle of the day. There was no reason it'd still be hanging around—especially that far out of the way. Even so, I doubt it would've been strong enough to hurt me there."
"It had no problem killing Julia there."
Oh, Dean hated that look. The one that said in blinking neon 'you are the biggest moron on the planet.' Maybe Dean hadn't graduated with a diploma, and maybe Sam had enough brains for two people—but that did not make Dean the stupid one.
"Yeah, Sam," Dean bared his teeth as his eyes narrowed, "an unsuspecting girl who was unprepared and caught off guard in the dark. She probably fed it all kinds of juicy emotion being alone like that. I'm hardly any of those things—I had full view of the whole area. Did I mention it was broad daylight? I'm not a drooling idiot despite what you think."
Surprise defined Sam's face and he held up his hands, palms out. "Whoa. I didn't mean—"
"No, you never do," Dean growled, "at least not to my face, but it's what you really think."
The words popped out before his brain could abort—something he rarely ever allowed. Now Sam regarded him with wide, slightly hurt eyes and no small amount of worry. The frustration and anger fled so quickly, he was left aching and empty.
"I'm sorry." Dean bowed his head, rubbed his forehead with a shaky hand. "I'm an ass. Really, man, I'm sorry."
If anything, his apology made things worse because now Sam had that constipated look he got when he wasn't sure what emotion he wanted to lead with—concern, anger? Flip a quarter, Dean thought with an internal sigh.
"So," Dean cleared his throat, swallowed to keep the food in place, and tried to steer things back on track, "we're looking for something with ectoplasm, cats' eyes—really tall, nasty claws and a nasty temper to match. And, wind. Wind tore the room apart despite the outside air being completely calm."
Sam fixed his gaze on the floor and pursed his lips. At first Dean thought maybe he was waiting. For what, Dean didn't know—the roof to fall on their heads, Dean to implode before his eyes—who could be sure when it came to Sam's enormous capacity for worry. But then he realized his brother was contemplating whether or not to speak to him at all. Anger, it was.
"Sammy, please," Dean whispered when all attempts to catch Sam's eyes failed, "you can be mad at me all you want, but please—let's figure this out."
Just about the time Dean shifted to leave the table, Sam nodded. Stiffness making his voice flat, he said, "Okay, that's a place to start." He started typing in the search window. "What about the spell?"
He still wouldn't meet Dean's eyes, but at least he was talking. Dean would take it with a smile on his face—as long as they kept moving forward.
"Now that, I don't know. We know fire is involved and it requires an object that was important to the person. Probably used to bind the spirit? I thought maybe…" Dean yawned, his jaw cracking loudly. "I thought we could put in a call to Bobby for that one."
"Yeah, okay," Sam said. He stopped what he was doing and looked up. "I got it covered, why don't you rest?"
The words came grudgingly, but they were said to Dean's face and with sincerity. Sam's face was still marred with a deep scowl, though, and that just wouldn't do. Dean graced him with a blinding, goofy grin. Sam valiantly tried to ignore him, but he held firm, smile in place until his checks burned and a good portion of it became genuine.
Seeing Sam relenting, he topped it off with a waggle of his eyebrows. "Who's your favorite brother?"
Finally, Sam's lips twitched and he shook his head, grin sliding across his face. He narrowed his eyes and cracked, "If you're not careful, it's gonna get stuck that way. Jerk."
As Sam's eyes searched his, Dean could practically feel him pick right back up where he left off stewing.
"Dude, you're sweaty and green. You're not coming down with something, are you?"
Dean slumped against his chair. "No. But if I spew, it's gonna be in your direction. I told you I wasn't hungry."
Sam's obligatory glare lacked any real heat. "Go. Lay. Down."
He glanced at the bed and wondered if he could get away with a few minutes. Sleep called like a siren and the meds had him wrapped in a fuzzy, woolen cocoon. He reasoned there was enough light in the room to keep him from dozing too soundly and his body could really use some rest. Plus, Sammy was here to watch over him. He trusted his brother to keep him safe.
"If I start to dream—at all—you wake me up. Got it?"
Sam nodded mindlessly, already immersed in some article on the internet.
"Sam," he said sharply. "I mean it. Don't let me dream."
At that, his brother looked up. He took in Dean's seriousness and said, "Sure, man. Don't worry. I got it."
Satisfied, Dean pushed his chair back and stood. A wave of dizziness swamped him and he grabbed for the table. He felt Sam catch his other wrist, steadying him. Closing his eyes, he concentrated on that touch, wishing it felt solid on his numb skin like it should. He released the table to press the back of his hand to his mouth, swallowing hard and breathing deep through his nose until all was settled again. Blinking his eyes open, he looked down at his brother. Sam's eyes were saucer wide, making him look so much the little kid Dean remembered—before all this, before the YED, before Stanford, before.
"Dean?"
"Stood up too fast." He smiled, easy and calm.
Dean gently took his arm back, giving Sam's shoulder a reassuring squeeze before he turned and walked unsteadily to his bed—shoulders twitching from being watched each step of the way. He crawled on top of the covers and settled with a hearty sigh, moaning his pleasure into the soft pillow he burrowed his face into and closed his eyes. He pushed all his fears into his worry box and slammed the door firmly shut. It felt luxurious to let go and sink into the bed. Screw consciousness, it was highly overrated anyway.
After a while, Sam's breaths behind him calmed too and were joined by light tapping on the keyboard—making a soothing soundtrack to relax into. His stomach called a shaky truce and he was able to fall into sleep a short while later.
After indeterminate, blessed nothingness, the dreams came. They started out mild enough, but soon evolved into him on the ceiling, burning as Jessica reached out to him. As before, he was too grief stricken and wrapped in guilt to decipher the message.
This place—and he was sure it was a place—overpowered his senses, overrode reason. The acrid fire, the metallic blood, the scorching skin—all vivid and distinct. Sam's inhuman, garbled screams rammed his battered heart and the smell of burning pork assaulted his nose—the lingering taste of ash pungent on his tongue. No bland numbness, no fuzzy head and blurring vision to save him here. Pain bubbled and peeled his skin, every nerve dancing in sharp agony.
This time, instead of slamming him repeatedly against the ceiling, Jessica laid a hand on his face, the icy cold of her drawing some of the heat away. A relieved groan escaped him, the flames receding down the length of his body at her cooling touch.
"Dean," she said, drawing her hand down his face, resting it on his lower jaw. "Please, let go."
His eyes opened and he blinked at her. "Let go? I-I don't know…I—
"Let go," she whispered inches from his face. "It's time. Stop."
Dean stared into her blue-blue eyes—compassion and something he didn't understand held him captive. Maybe she meant for him to let go of life. Maybe that's how Sam would find release, if he let go. But, he couldn't. There was something dangerous out there. He couldn't leave Sam to fight alone. He couldn't without making sure he was safe first. Maybe then, maybe then he could.
"I can't," he whispered, his voice breaking. "Sam…"
Jessica whipped around to look behind her. Dean couldn't see beyond the flames, didn't know what she was looking at, but he felt her touch slip away. The fire took over in her absence. He squeezed his eyes shut and sealed his lips against the scream clawing at his throat. His chest heaved with moans as he failed. A large hand rested on his chest, right over his heart—a heavy, steadying weight. An additional hand joined the first to grip his upper arm and, while this touch didn't take the pain instantly away, it dulled it into the background.
From a distance, he could hear his name.
"Dean! Please. Please wake up."
He tried to resist, he didn't want to see. Nausea grew in his gut until he gagged with it. A rippling sensation rolled over his body and he struggled to breathe through the gossamer shroud enveloping him.
"Dean, hey!"
Sam's voice pulled him against the barrier separating them. But he didn't know which Sam he would see if he opened his eyes. A biting burn deep in his neck forced his eyes open, air flooding into his lungs. His Sam, the real Sam, leaned over him, ashen and sweaty—looking sick. Which, yeah.
"Gonna be sick!" Dean choked out, shoving away blankets that hadn't been there before.
A small, grimy trashcan appeared under his face and he heaved violently. By the end of it, tears wet his face and his whole body trembled. Dean slumped against the headboard, muscles weak and rubbery. Sam brought him a glass of water to rinse his mouth out and then set the trash can aside. He winced at Sam's shaking hands running through his lanky hair.
Visibly gathering himself, Sam asked, "Is that what it was like? Last night?"
"Uh, yeah. More or less, I guess." Clearing his throat, he pushed himself further up the headboard to sit. "Wh-what happened?"
Sam's knee jut into his thigh when he turned into him. His little brother had always had the boniest, sharpest knees—it was a familiar comfort.
"Um…well," he faltered. "For the first hour…was it an hour? I don't know, maybe a little more…" he shook his head. Earnest, like Dean might not believe him, he said, "You just slept. N-nothing unusual."
He reached out and squeezed Sam's leg, hoping to calm him. Letting him know he wasn't alone.
"I was in the bathroom when I heard you making noise, talking maybe? I thought you'd be okay until I finished. But, uh—by the time I got out here, you were—god, Dean—you were keening through your teeth—your back was bowed off the bed. I tried to shake you awake, but I couldn't-I couldn't…and y-you were burning up… I-I don't know if it was fever or, or..."
Sam looked to Dean, one hand wiping across his mouth. He let it drop away and said, "I swear, your skin glowed from within and I smelled smoke. How's that—how can that be? What were you dreaming about?"
Dean closed his eyes. There were ten million other questions he'd rather answer. How could he say those words? Describe to his little brother the pain of watching the skin melt from his bones even as he, himself, burned on the ceiling? Like his girlfriend—like their…
He sure as hell couldn't tell his brother about the letting go part. Sam continued on, though. The kid couldn't stop, words tumbling out before he could settle on a single thought.
"I couldn't wake you up. You-you wouldn't wake up," Sam's voice faltered and he wiped at his nose. "You fell deeper into the dream and I couldn't pull you out. You had stopped moving and were barely breathing and I—"
Dean let go of Sam's knee to squeeze his forearm, stopping the manic speech.
"I'm awake now. You did good—I'm okay."
"I had to pinch your trapezoid muscle hard, Dean. It was the only thing that worked." Sam huffed a nervous chuckle. "You'll probably have a bruise. Talk to me, man. Tell me what's going on. Please?"
"Gimme a minute. I need..." He tried clearing the sand from his voice, but it stuck like cement. "Help me up."
He pushed himself from the headboard to sit on the side of the bed next to Sam. Once settled, he asked, "We got anything to drink?" His throat burned like he'd actually inhaled fire and smoke. He could taste it on his tongue.
"Just tap water," Sam said.
"Anything," Dean told him, "Whatever we got."
He returned with the glass of water and Dean drank it all down. Sam's nose crinkled in disgust before he flopped boneless into the nearest chair.
"I'm worried about you," he said after a drawn pause. "You're really scaring me."
Dean found himself answering honestly. "Me, too. But… it's gonna be okay. We always find a way. You just gotta believe in that."
Sam pursed his lips as if to say more, but ended up nodding. "Yeah. Yeah, I do."
Dean felt warm wetness tickling his upper lip and touched his fingers to it. Blood. Sam's distressed expression, when their eyes met, caused a current of anger at himself, at his weakness, to surge through him. Yanking a handful of cheap tissues from the box at his bedside, he tilted his head back and pinched his nose roughly. He was glad when it hurt.
"I'm okay," he told Sam. Dipping his chin at the laptop, he asked, "Did you find anything?"
Sam studied him for a moment, his questions still hanging in the air between them. Dean shut his eyes and hoped for space—everything was too fresh, there was too much. Please, Sammy, please. I just can't right now, please let it be. He counted on Sam understanding the unspoken message. Dean heard him sigh before tapping his touchpad.
"Looks like we're dealing with a Sumerian utukku—commonly known as an ekimmu. Can be twice as tall as a human with a humanoid body. Violent death and leaving the body unburied seems to be their origin. They tend to be vengeful toward the living and they can't find peace without a resting place—basically, a spirit driven insane by their own unrest and violent death."
Sam looked meaningfully at Dean as he read the next part. "They are sometimes referred to as "evil wind gusts" because of the wind associated with their presence. They're able to attach to people even if they have nothing to do with their death, can influence people—amp up their emotions, even cause criminal behavior. Besides feeding off flesh and blood, they feed off the energy of human emotions and can take someone's spiritual life force to replenish themselves."
"Peachy," Dean lifted his head and looked over, eyebrows raised. "Sounds like our guy."
"Yeah, pretty spot on. Maybe even explains why I got so mad this morning. I remember being so angry ever since I left the apartment last night—almost overwhelmed by it. Do you think the ekimmu has anything to do with what's going on with you?"
"I don't see how." Dean shook his head as he tossed the tissues. "Nothing you described explains how I'm feeling." Raising both brows, he said, "I'm thinking, though, its current host isn't able to sustain it and that's why it's randomly striking out at whoever is convenient." Dean waited for Sam to connect the dots himself.
Sam cocked his head. "What, you think…you think it's attached to Jess?"
"It would explain some things. If that's what her initial message to me was about, that she needed help?" Dean watched Sam closely, hoping each next word wouldn't be the one that broke the camel's back. "But now it's killing randomly because it can't feed on something with no life force… but they can't separate fully either, so it can't attach to anyone else and, when it weakens, it always gets pulled back to Jessica."
Sam shook his head. "But is that possible? Can a spirit attach to a spirit?"
"I don't know. Maybe not attachment. Maybe bound together because of the binding spell? Whatever the case, the ekimmu will keep lashing out at whoever gets in its way until its strong enough to break free and find some poor soul to ride."
Sam sat for a long while thinking. Dean could see the flashes of emotion crossing his brother's face and he hated how he'd had to put these thoughts about his girl in his head. He could imagine which direction Sam's thoughts had taken.
"You think she's suffering?" Sam finally asked. "You think it's hurting her?"
Dean wished he had a pat answer. "I don't know. I doubt it can hurt her like it can a living person. Whatever it's capable of, it's probably moved on from her when it realized she was a spirit too."
Sam nodded, seemed accepting of that. His lips thinned and his face became stony hard. "We have to get this thing. Whether it's hurting her or not, I want it dead."
"Yeah, I know." Dean held his gaze, lips pushing together. "I know you do." He said with as much confidence as he could muster, "And we will." Sam bobbed his head once and turned back to his laptop. "So," Dean asked, "you find out how we kill this thing?"
"Uh, well," Sam scrolled down the website. "Says here giving the body a proper burial usually does the trick. But, obviously that's not an option since we have no way of knowing who it once was or where the body would be. Some of the stuff I read suggested there was a ritual or maybe some kind of exorcism that sometimes worked, but I'll need to research it more to know for sure. And," Sam said, "we may need to do the unbinding spell first."
Dean heard the implication. If they didn't unbind Jessica from this thing, she might get dragged down into the exorcism with the ekimmu or, her being part of the deal, the exorcism might not work at all.
"Yeah, I agree." Dean rubbed his hands together. "So we'll have to find a way to trap it at least until that's done. Shouldn't be too hard, almost everything has something that works. Okay, so I guess we need to figure out the binding spell next."
"Yeah, I called Bobby while you were sleeping. He said he'll call back when he finds something."
Nodding his head, Dean wiggled his toes in the carpet. "You heard from Becky today?"
"Yeah…called her too. She said there was no change in Aaron." Sam turned away from the open page on the computer screen. "You think whatever is happening to Aaron can be reversed? Because I've been thinking—there's no physical reason he should be in a coma. It's like he's sleeping, like those kids in Wisconsin with the Shtriga. Maybe it was the ekimmu, not Jess."
Dean thought about that. It hadn't occurred to him before, but Sam had a good point. Leaning forward, Dean rested his aching head in his hands. "Well, you said it feeds on psychic energy, so basically it's the same deal. Maybe it couldn't kill him because Jessica wouldn't let it?"
"Right, because she was there at the hospital, too. So, if—when—we kill this thing, he should wake up, right?"
"Maybe. Definitely a possibility."
Sam nodded and stretched his long legs out in front of himself. "Think we should tell Becky and the others?"
"Uh, I don't know. I mean, what if we're wrong? What if…" he left the sentence hanging, unable to finish it. He didn't want to think about Sam's friend not waking up. He looked at Sam, knowing how much hurt losing Aaron would cause. How much these people meant to his brother. They'd been his family when Dean couldn't be. And if Dean had to leave…
"I've been thinking, too," Dean said. A lump rose in his throat. He wasn't sure he could force the words out now that he was faced with saying them out loud. "Maybe, when we're done here…maybe—if you wanted—you could stay."
"What?" Sam's faced wrinkled, the words not absorbing. "What are you talking about?"
Dean looked down, nodded. "Look, it's okay. If you want to stay, go back to school…I'm saying you could do that."
Sam scoffed, shaking his head. "Right. Where's this coming from? How hard did you hit your head, man?"
When Dean leveled his serious expression Sam's way and said nothing, Sam laughed a little hysterically. "No, Dean, I couldn't do that and you know why."
"Come on, Sam. Dad and I, we can keep looking for the demon—we can keep him off your back—"
"You don't even know where Dad is and I'm in this now. Jess was my girlfriend—I need to be a part of this. You're the one who keeps saying we're stronger together!"
"I know, but just think about it," Dean said, beseeching. "It's not too late for you. You've got good friends here, a family. They miss you and I think you miss them. Dad and I, we can keep you in the loop, but you can stay. Get on with your life."
"What the hell, Dean?! Do you want me to stay? Is that what you want? Because I—I thought we were in this together."
No, Dean thought. But it's not about what I want. It's about what you need. "It's just…Dad and I can do this without you and, uh, I think it'd be better if you stayed as far away from this demon as possible. It wants you for a reason—but if you're not available? One less thing to worry about."
Dean wanted to vomit even as he said the words. Nothing could be further from what he wanted, but Chris's words kept echoing in his ears. Even Jessica urged him to let go—maybe this is what she meant? Maybe she knew what the demon wanted? No matter the logic in it, though, wrongness dug deep in his gut. Watching the hurt confusion rippling across Sam's face, maybe his brother felt the same. The aching pressure in his chest ballooned until the physical pain made him want to double over. He forced himself to breathe through it and keep strong.
Sam swallowed and dropped his gaze. "I thought…I can't believe…" Pressing his lips out, he nodded. "If that's what you think. Maybe you're right. Maybe I should stay."
The words fell like dead weights in the air between them. For the strangest few seconds, Dean was blissfully numb—his brain couldn't register what his ears had heard. Once it sank in, though, his breath hitched in his chest and it was all he could do to keep his face straight. Some small part of him had hoped Sam would refuse.
Going it alone, leaving his brother unprotected—not knowing if Sam was safe day to day—could he really do this? Could he go back to days, weeks, months of silence, no human interaction beyond working the case—constantly wondering if his family was safe, if they ever thought about him too? Just one big blur of one hunt melting into the next until he lost track of the whens and wheres. 'Cause he knew, he absolutely did know Dad wouldn't be joining him, he'd be on his own again. He could hear his dad's commanding baritone, Too risky, Dean. I need you boys safe. Stick close to Sam. But Sam would never have to know, would he?
TBC…