Disclaimer: Wish they were, aren't. I would however give Dean a very very good home. Sam too. Kripke is King.
A/N: My profound thanks to my lovely and talented beta, Merisha, for encouragement and advice. All remaining errors, and all original errors of course, are mine.
OOOOOOOOOO
Sam relaxed only when the sound of the last set of running footsteps faded. He'd faced down a gang, single handedly, well single gun in handedly maybe. He'd have to tell Dean, but shit, Dean was still on the phone. He backed up, forcing Dean away from the phone without taking his eyes off the area around them. He wasn't stupid enough to think he was the only one with a gun.
Dean didn't collapse this time, instead, he shook his head and blinked a few times. He seemed somewhat alert and as delighted to see Sam as if they'd just met unexpectedly at a street corner. He said, a propos of nothing, "Did you know the Impala uses a 37.5 effective length V belt?" Dean's grin was wide and infectious.
"Why, no Dean, I didn't. Why did you think of that?" He took Dean's left bicep in his hand and began walking them back unhurriedly to the restaurant and the car.
"I was trying to remember. You wouldn't believe the length differences alone just for the '67s. Then take the clutch flywheel – there must be five makes that fit a '67. It was a good thing I had Bobby's junkyard to go through. And Bobby of course, good thing I had him to go through too. Um, that didn't come out right." He drew his brows together momentarily before saying happily, "I meant he had to order a lot of the parts." Sam continued moving them forward, vigilantly scanning for movement. Dean blinked slowly and stumbled. "What'cho do with the Impala, Sammy?"
Sam let out a sigh of relief when the diner came into view, the Impala visible in the parking lot. Sam got Dean's attention and pointed toward the car. "I left it right where we could find it." He wasn't sure if Dean's forced cheerfulness was going to last any longer than his energy, which he could feel ebbing as Dean stumbled again, almost going down on his knees. Sam helped Dean lay down in the back seat, threw their old golf blanket over him, and ran around to get in behind the wheel.
Just as he put the car in reverse, the waitress from before dashed out of the restaurant, waving a bag excitedly. He rolled down the window and she thrust the bag into his hands. "Please don't leave without your order! I was so worried about you." Peering into the back seat, she frowned, and said "Is he alright?"
"Just tired from too much sightseeing." Sam thanked her and drove them back to the motel.
Dean started and kept up a running dialog from the back seat, just audible. "Air cleaner assembly chrome top neck flange. Base plate, ah, 14 OD something with a 5-1/8" flange, chrome finish. Yeah, like that matters under the hood." Humming a bit to himself, Dean muttered, "Intake manifold height 5.9 inches. Um, port size 1.87 by 1.8. Pretty sure, maybe 1.7 or…. The power band though is 3,000 to 7,500 RPM, single four, um, manifold single plane… square bore carb mounting flange. Flanges are hot, Sam. The Impala has a lot of things with flanges. The Holley's a single deep open plenum one, power band um hundred to 85 which I thought was better but Bobby said go for the Weiand… and Weiand has all those flanges." Sam had no idea when Dean had had the time to memorize a parts catalog. Maybe it was one of those things he did while Sam was at Stanford and never talked about. He ran out of steam a few minutes before Sam pulled into the motel lot and parked in front of their room, but when he opened the back door to get Dean out, he saw that his lips were still moving.
Dean roused enough to walk into the room but wouldn't eat, not even the pie, which almost convinced Sam it was the apocalypse. It didn't stop him from eating both Dean's piece and his, but the burger went in the trash. Dean was conscious but spacey and when Sam asked him about the phone call, Dean's look was all confusion. He didn't want to sleep, didn't want painkillers, but did want to switch channels on the TV so often that Sam threatened to crush the remote. He carefully didn't mention cleaning weapons. Dean seemed nervous and distracted, wiping his hands, constantly standing and starting toward the door only to return somewhat shakily to the bed. Sam stood with him the first five times, ready to stop him, but decided to sit out the rest unless or until Dean actually opened the door.
He knew Dean was trying to fight this thing but Sam was convinced if he didn't get some relief soon, his body was going to give out. Sam walked over to check him again, startling Dean so badly he stopped reciting lyrics mid word. Sam was pretty sure it was Creedence. Dean's hair was spiked up and his shirt drenched with sweat, the TV was proof enough he couldn't concentrate, and his coordination and reaction times were shot. Check, check and check, damn it. His fever spiked back up as the evening progressed, and between that and his exhaustion he finally stopped his stop and starts around the room, but he turned him as pale as the bed sheets.
He convinced Dean to take a few more Tylenol, slippimng two Vicodin into the water. It was counterintuitive, but Vicodin's opiates would actually reduce the effect of the suggestion. The trouble was a normal dose didn't last long enough to allow either of them any uninterrupted sleep. Dean lay down on Sam's bed still quietly rambling, and at one point tried to get up to do laundry. Sam easily prevented him from going out to buy detergent. Once he got Dean up off the bed by the door and settled on the protected bed, the Vicodin took him down pretty quickly.
Sam reassembled his Devil's Tower in front of the door, and took a shower before getting into his own bed, bringing the laptop with him. He jerked awake sometime later when Dean fell near the foot of his bed. He swung himself out of bed, and once he had Dean standing, helped him to the bathroom and tried not to pace as he waited outside the door. When Dean came out, Sam took his elbow to guide him back, only to be brushed off. Dean made it, only swaying a little, but sat down heavily on the bed when he reached it. "Did you hear something?"
Dean turned his head toward Sam but his eyes didn't track properly. "No. It feels like it's just waiting. I don't want to answer it, but when it happens, I can't … stop, I just have to go." He let Sam help him lay down and pulled the covers up again.
Sam said, "It's OK Dean, I blocked the door. You aren't going anywhere without me."
Dean nodded and closed his eyes. He appeared to fall asleep almost immediately, but Sam waited a few minutes to make sure he was truly down again before going back to sleep himself.
OOOOO
Dean was out of the bed and moving so fast he ran right into the construction in front of the door before he could stop. He tried to remember why the door was blocked, but he didn't have time, he had to answer the phone, and the music was pulling and pulling him toward the door, and it wouldn't let up and the phone was ringing … in one motion, he heaved the table away from the door just as jolts of pain cut through his head and shoulder. He bent over, holding his ears. He thought he heard someone scream but the music was too loud to be sure.
Then Sammy was there and he was not letting him out the door. Sam was saying something but it was drowned out and he didn't care because damn it, he had to get to the phone and what the hell was Sam doing? Without knowing how, he found himself on a bed and watched as Sam disappeared out the door. Fuck, Sam was going to answer the phone. Heart racing, he lurched forward, got himself up to a run, and launched himself at Sam pushing him roughly away from the phone. No matter what, he couldn't let him answer it. He got the receiver to his ear, straightening to attention, and shouted, "Dad, no! Not to Sam!"
Sam was back, taking the receiver from him and putting it to his ear. Dean yelled, panicked, and scrambled frantically to knock the receiver away but Sam held Dean at the length of his orangutan arm and Dean couldn't reach it. Sam listened for a minute before holding the receiver over his head and shouting "Dean, it's EVP. There's EVP on the line, it's a god damn spirit. Dean, listen to me. It's not Dad!!"
The music stopped. Dean found Sam's gun in his hand and he couldn't remember how it got there but he sure as hell knew exactly what to do with it. He looked up but Sam only had eyes for the gun, finally looking at Dean in what could only be shock. Dean aimed it but Sam was in the way, so he shouted, "Move, damn it", and that worked, and he squeezed 8 rounds into the phone. He dropped his arm, and dropped the gun, and closed his eyes. He felt Sam pull and tug him back to the room which was OK because the fucking phone had stopped ringing. The pain in his shoulder was making his eyes water. Sam shut the door behind them just as their few neighbor's doors started to open.
OOOOO
Sam was gulping in air as he closed the door behind them. He pushed Dean toward the bed, but before either of them could sit down, the room phone rang. Sam answered it, sure it was the motel manager, but all he heard was the white noise of EVP. He slammed down the phone, just as Dean's cell started to ring, then his own, then the room phone again. Dean was barely standing – he made no move to answer any of them. Sam turned both cells off and shoved them in the dresser drawer before unplugging the room phone from the wall. As he turned to Dean, he heard the laptop chime incoming mail over and over just as Dean fell to his knees, hands over his ears, shouting "Stop! No, I won't! Please stop! No, I won't! I can't!"
He got Dean on his feet and walked him into the bathroom, dragging one of the room chairs with them. Dean wasn't shouting anymore, but he didn't stop repeating his mantra of "Please" and "Stop" and "I won't, I can't". Sam checked him for weapons, but there wasn't that much even Dean could hide in a t-shirt and boxers. He pulled Dean's head around to face him and shook him gently, calling his name, until Dean opened his eyes long enough to track on Sam's face.
"I have to leave the room for a few minutes and I need to know you're safe. You need you to stay in here for me." As he closed the door between them he watched the mounting panic in Dean's eyes. He repeated his own mantra, saying "I'm sorry, Dean, I'm so sorry, but I need you to stay in the bathroom. Can you do that for me? I have to do this," as he wedged the chair back up under the door knob. He said it again, whispering, as he heard Dean throw himself against the door. He said it once more, louder so Dean could hear him only to be met with a desperate cry of pain and betrayal.
"Don't leave me in here, God, Sam, please. I can't keep the music out. Please Sammy, please! Don't leave me in here alone!"
It took everything in him to turn his back on his brother. He pulled on his jeans, picked up the EMF meter, and stepped outside, closing the door on his brother still begging for release. As he looked left toward the pay phone, damn it if didn't start to ring. Which was impossible. He reached the phone and lifted what was left of the receiver and disconnected the call. He let the receiver drop and almost jumped when it hit the ground. He hadn't noticed that one of Dean's shots had severed the metal cord.
The phone started to ring again 10 seconds later. He backed away, EMF meter squealing. He was going to set that piece of shit phone on fire. As he moved toward the room, he heard the phone in the room he was passing start to ring, then the next and the next in empty rooms. Payphones in every direction were next to start, next door, the gas station, all over. He felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up when the motel office phone began to ring, then phones all through the motel. Then as suddenly as it started, it stopped. The EMF meter produced a final squirt of noise in the silence.
Sam was abruptly terrified. He burst back into the room, dragged the chair away from the bathroom door, shouting, "I'm back, Dean, it's me, I'm opening the door!" He ripped the door open and found Dean on the floor, holding the blade from his broken razor in his right hand and methodically running it in perfectly spaced cuts up his left forearm. Blood dripped onto the floor. His eyes skipped to the shredded shower curtain, to the towel rods ripped from the wall, to the hand holding the razor, awash in blood.
Dean smiled tightly, eyes too wide open, pupils blown, and said, eerily calm, "I really didn't want to be left in here, Sam."
