A/N: Thank you Ruth for the awesome beta.

This was first posted on livejournal, in case you should find it familiar.

Note: All sixteen chapters have already been written, edited and betad. I'm not just done uploading yet :-)

Long Way Down, Long Way Home
Chapter Fourteen
by Steffi

It was dark and a long time after nightfall when Sam reached Jameson's Motel, and he almost steered his Volvo into a tree in shock when he saw that the Impala was already parked in front of the haunted building.

"No," Sam whispered, the knuckles of his hand had turned white. He leaped out of the car as soon as he put the hand brake on. He slammed the door close and was at the Impala's side within two long strides. He put his hands at each side of his face against the window pane so he could see better, but as expected there was no one in the car. He then rushed to the weapon trunk, but as he'd also expected Dean had locked the trunk. Sam jiggled the lid, but it wouldn't open. Damn.

"Shit!" Sam cursed, and the next moment he heard a scream from the inside of the building that echoed in the parking lot and made Sam's blood freeze in his veins. "Dean!" he yelled, knowing his brother couldn't hear him. The next second he was sprinting across the parking lot, and two seconds later he found himself standing in the corridor he'd seen in his vision.

The overwhelming smell of mildew and dust hit him, and for a short moment he held his nose before he remembered Dean and why he was here. Looking around for a moment for orientation, he spotted the corner and the corridor Dean had taken in his vision. Sam ran, heedless of any danger to himself, because he knew the spirit wasn't here but downstairs, choking Dean. He saw the door leading to the basement was open and stumbled the stairs down in a hurry, and even though he knew what was waiting for him nothing in the world could have prepared him for the sight he encountered.

Dean knew he was going to die. He knew it the moment the spirit pushed him down the stairs. He knew that this time there would be no way out. He defended himself half-heartedly when the spirit dragged him across the floor and kicked him in the face. The will to survive flared up somewhere deep inside of him, but there was nothing he could do. His arms were too weak, his legs useless, and the world was spinning.

So he would die, like this. He smiled at the thought when the spirit placed the noose around his neck, and added another word, finally.

It was okay.

The noose tightened, and all air to his lungs was cut off. He was pulled up until he was hanging in the air like a marionette. Somehow his hands had found their way up towards the rope around his neck, pulling at it to loosen the noose. What the hell was he doing here? His body struggled and convulsed, trying to free itself. And he was gasping for air to live when all he wanted was to die.

What was left of the air in his lungs dissolved and his heart was racing as if it wanted to burst out of his chest. It was demanding for oxygen Dean couldn't provide it with. The rough rope was chafing Dean's neck and throat. His breath was no more than a death rattle, his body quivered until everything grew quiet and calm, until his vision blurred and he lost consciousness.

Dean was hanging lifelessly from the rope, his chin resting on his chest. His face had turned ashen. He looked like a puppet, like someone else, but not like Dean. And next to him stood the spirit, sneering at Dean just like in Sam's vision.

Sam's heart beat doubled, and his fear mingled with pure hatred. No one laughed at his brother, no one. Nobody but himself and even then, not like that.

He jumped from the last stair and ran over to Dean, picking up the shotgun from the ground as he passed it, aimed, and shot. The the rock salt hit the spirit with full force and it vanished with a scream. The moment the spirit let go of the rope Dean crashed to the ground, or would have if Sam hadn't been there in time to catch him. He leaped forward and his arms closed around Dean's body as they both fell, Sam dampening Dean's fall. Sam's first thought was that Dean pretty light – too light. Sam could feel his brother's shoulder blades and ribs sticking out under Dean's shirt.

Somebody had come, Dean could hear a shot from far away through the darkness. That was funny – he was dead, wasn't he? Could you still hear when you were dead? He was falling and mentally preparing himself for hitting the ground, but he never did. Instead arms curled around him and there was no pain as he landed. He was carefully lowered to the ground, someone called his name. He thought he heard Sam's voice, so maybe he was dead after all, and this was what dying felt like. He forced his eyes open a crack, but his vision was so blurred he couldn't see anything. He wanted to respond but no sounds made it out of his mouth, and in the end he fell back to merciful unconsciousness.

Sam freed himself from the embrace and carefully lowered Dean onto the ground. Instinctively he reached for the shotgun he'd lost when he'd fallen with Dean in his arms. He crawled over to his brother who was lying on the side now, dirt in his face and not even stirring. With trembling fingers Sam pulled the noose over Dean's head and threw it away. Dean winced when Sam moved the rope and deep, bloody grazes surfaced.

"Dean," Sam whispered, shaking Dean's shoulders a little. Dean opened his eyes slowly, but his gaze was unfocused. His lips formed a silent word, three letters, "Sam", before his lids fluttered and he passed out again.

"Dean, we have to get out of here," Sam said. He put his arm under Dean's right arm and picked his brother up in a fireman's lift. With the shotgun in his left hand Sam began to carefully climb the steps, realising with an uneasy feeling he had not been mistaken – Dean had definitely lost weight. A lot of weight.

Sam looked up and saw the spirit standing in the door frame. He was yelling down at them but Sam didn't listen and just shot rock salt at the spirit again. His opponent disappeared, and Sam quickened his pace as much as he could. He couldn't run as fast as he'd liked with Dean hanging over his shoulder. Once more the spirit blocked Sam's way, and Sam wasted the last ammo on the spirit, and then they were finally outside. Sam stopped when they were definitely out of the spirit's reach and took a deep breath. He walked over to the Impala, lowered Dean and leaned him against the side of the car. In Dean's jacket pocket Sam found the keys for the Chevy, he opened the doors and carefully maneuvered Dean into the passenger seat. Dean was still silent and unresponsive, but he frowned a little when Sam addressed him and Sam decided to take that as a good sign.

After he'd packed his stuff from the Volvo into the Impala, Sam climbed into the driver's seat and tried to think logically. Should he take Dean to a hospital? Dean didn't appear to have any limbs broken, and as far as Sam could tell he wasn't bleeding either. Still – what if he was injured internally? But then, if he took Dean to hospital in his current state Sam wasn't sure Dean wouldn't start to ramble about ghosts and spirits in front of the doctors. And for the first time in his life Sam was scared that Dean might end up in a mental facility. The marks on his neck were clear, and the doctors would probably rate him suicidal. And then there was the tiny problem that Dean still thought Sam was dead.

No, Sam shook his head, he'd take his chances and not take Dean to hospital but to the motel instead. Maybe things looked worse than they actually were. Sam started the engine and switched the radio on. Metallica was playing, Jimmy was angry again, maybe stuff like that would help Dean.

The first motel they encountered became their refuge for the days to come. Sam had to put up a real act this time to hide his panic, and when the owner handed him the keys Sam managed to say with an apologetic smile that his brother was a little drunk and he had better get him to bed now. The man nodded and Sam smiled again even though he didn't feel at all like smiling.

After he'd brought Dean to the room and laid him down on the bed he went to fetch their stuff. When he returned he locked the door, just to be sure. Dean scared the heck out of him, and he wanted to make sure his brother wouldn't get up in the middle of the night and leave. Though Sam highly doubted that Dean was able to when he had another look at him.

In the darkness of the basement and the night, Dean hadn't looked that bad. But now with the lights switched on his condition became clear to Sam, and he was so unprepared he forgot how to breathe and had to sit down.

It wasn't the deep red line that ran around Dean's throat. Or the dirt in his face or the torn clothes. Sam had seen it before, it didn't scare him any more. What did scare him were the other things. The fact that Dean hadn't only lost weight but also looked severely malnourished. His shirt and jeans dangled around his legs and arms which had grown horribly thin. His chin was sharp, his face had become gaunt and his eyes were sunken and deeply shadowed. He had a paleness that was caused by more than the noose around his neck and that had definitely been there before. It was tiny things, like Dean wearing unwashed clothes. Like Dean's hair being a little too long and uncut. He looked bedraggled. He had become bedraggled. This wasn't his Dean, the notion rushed through Sam's mind and he backed off a little, just enough to immediately feel guilty for it. After all, he had done this to Dean.

Dean began to shiver, and it was only now Sam noticed the cold sweat on his brother's forehead. Dean grimaced as if he was in pain which was probably true. Sam put the back of his hand on Dean's forehead and flinched when it touched Dean's skin. His brother was burning up with fever.

"Christ," Sam muttered. He remembered how ill Dean had looked in his vision, how he'd run his hand over his eyes a couple of times. It dawned on Sam that Dean hadn't only looked ill. Fucking idiot – you must never hunt when you're ill, didn't Dean remember anything Dad had taught them?

Dad. Sam would call him. Later.

Sam knelt next to the bed, and began to pull Dean's shirt over his head. Sam gasped with shock when the bruises and injuries that Dean had collected over the past months became apparent. A lot of them hadn't healed completely yet. None of them had been taken care of properly. Sam closed his eyes when his fingers began to tremble, and then he forced himself to ignore these things for the moment and focus on bringing down the fever.

"I know I'll never hear the end of this..." Sam muttered absent-mindedly. He managed to slip a fresh shirt over Dean's head and took off the dirty pair of jeans Dean was wearing, then he tucked Dean in carefully. From the bathroom Sam fetched some towels that he'd soaked in water and wrapped around Dean's calves under the blanket. Another wet cloth Sam placed on Dean's forehead. Dean mumbled something unintelligible when the cool cloth touched his skin, but he didn't wake up.

"Dean, what the hell have you done to yourself?" Sam asked, gently stroking Dean's right arm. He knew very well what Dean had done but he couldn't believe it. Not Dean, not his brother.

Fever was nothing more than a defense mechanism. It meant that the body was sick. It probably also meant Dean had just collapsed from complete and utter exhaustion. Judging by his appearance Sam wondered how he could have kept going for so long.

Every thirty minutes Sam changed the wet towels and cloths. Sometimes Dean's body shook violently, and seizures tortured him, the bed rattled and Dean's teeth clattered and it scared the living daylights out of Sam. Dean's limbs didn't seem to be under his control any longer, and so Sam just wrapped his arms around Dean's chest, whispering things into his brother's ear to calm him down. He told him stories about their Dad, about Mom – stories that Dean had once told Sam. Their mother baking cookies and the smell spreading through the house. Dad quietly humming Johnny Cash songs to lull Dean to sleep.

It worked and Dean relaxed, but when Sam tried to give his brother a pill against the fever Dean pressed his lips together and wouldn't allow it.

When dawn broke, Dean's condition finally improved a little. The fever was still high, but the seizures stopped and Dean's breaths grew a little deeper and more steady. He actually seemed to have fallen asleep, which was good, Sam hoped. He would have liked to sleep a little, too, but that was out of the question. Dean might need him, besides, there was still something to do he had been putting off for hours.

His stomach dropped a bit as he dialed his Dad's number. It amazed him he still knew the number by heart. He expected to hear Dad's mailbox and had already prepared a message to leave on it when the phone was picked up after it had rung twice.

"Dean?" he heard his father's voice. It sounded small and fragile. And desperate, very desperate.

"No...me. Sam."

At the other end of the line it grew very still. Sam held his breath.

"Sammy?" his Dad finally asked.

"Yes."

Another pause, and it was Sam who finally spoke:

"I know Dean told you I'm dead. Hell, he thinks I'm dead. But I'm not. And I know it sounds like a really, really bad excuse or cliché but the past months I've had amnesia and I only remembered everything a couple of days ago and then I tried to find Dean and..."

"And did you?" His Dad sounded tense, anxious even. He didn't even ask Sam why the hell he should believe he really was Sam and not just a demon impersonating his dead son.

"Yes Dad. I did."

"And...is he...?" The words trailed off. Sam could tell his father was scared.

"He's... he's alive," Sam finally said. "But he's far from being okay. You should come, Dad. He needs you."

TBC