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Chapter VII: This I Sat Engaged in Guessing

My dear Robert,

I met Andrew at Mrs. Tafferty's luncheon yesterday. I was most distressed to hear about Marguerite. Her illness has been a source of worry to us all, but I had hoped that the specialist would help.

I understand, of course, why you chose not to follow his advice. The idea of sweet Marguerite in one of those dreadful asylums is unthinkable. She is harmless, poor innocent. I only wish I could help in some way. Virginia is as grieved as I am. You know how fond she has always been of dear Marguerite.

I hope to see you on Saturday. Until then I remain,

Your affectionate friend,

Edgar

Sam sat up, gently pushing away Dean's restraining hands. His brain was no longer trying to pound out of his skull.

"Is there a date?"

"January 5, 1835." Dean glanced at Sam. "Right time?"

"It could be. Lou said this place collapsed in the 1830s. But – oh, this doesn't make any sense. So this woman, Marguerite… She obviously had some sort of problem."

"She was crazy, according to this."

"She might not have been. A lot of things were diagnosed as insanity back then. It could have a mental health issue, or it could have been something like epilepsy." Sam shivered.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"Sam."

"It's just… Don't freak out, OK? But… but one of the times Lucifer was… You know, trying to be you, he said –"

"He wanted to put you in a loony bin." Dean's voice was flat with the realization.

Sam flinched. "Something like that."

Dean shook his head. Sure, sometimes he was tempted to put Sam on a leash, just to keep him out of trouble, but the idea of his sweet, innocent baby brother, who still blushed when women hit on him, being held by doctors who'd poke him and prod him and restrain him and ask him questions…

He squeezed Sam's knee. "Never."

"I would have understood," Sam said softly.

Dean couldn't help the flare of anger. He knew he wasn't perfect, and he knew better than anyone that he'd made mistakes, but it still hurt to think his brother doubted him. "Nice to know that's the kind of jerk you think I am, Sammy."

"Dean." Sam shook his head. "That's not what I meant. I… just… I didn't want to be a burden, and –"

"Finish that sentence and I'll break your jaw."

Sam sighed. "I'm sorry. Can we not?"

Can we not fight? Dean finished Sam's plea in his head. He hesitated before nodding and tousling Sam's hair. Sam would normally have objected, but this time he just ducked his head to let Dean do it.

The anger was replaced by warmth.

"You up to reading the rest?" Dean asked. "I can take over going over the voodoo girl's markings. Not much to that anyway, and I'll ask you if there's anything in –" His tongue trembled on Enochian, but he couldn't joke about anything involving Sam in the Cage, so he finished with, "Mandarin."

"Jerk," Sam said lightly, taking the letters. "Yeah, I've got this. You deal with the photographs."

"Food first."

"You've had lunch!" Sam protested.

"Yeah, but you haven't. Don't think I haven't been watching you. Come on, brat. No research until you eat your cheeseburger."

"How do you think we're going to get cheeseburgers here?"

"Road's dried out enough for us to get back to that diner. And if we're lucky, the Internet's going to be working by the time we're back. Come on, Samantha. That geekiness needs sustenance."

Dean could tell Sam still wasn't completely well. He tried to hide it, but Dean hadn't been a big brother as long as he had without the ability to read the signs.

His hair flopping into his eyes made him look enough of a kid that the waitresses cooed over him before flirting with Dean. And if Dean fussed over Sam a little more than usual, that was just to impress those waitresses, who were now falling over each other to give him their phone numbers. (And also maybe because once they realized what Dean wanted, they went all-out to try to tempt Sam to eat and he was too polite to ignore them the way he would Dean.)

Eventually Sam ate enough to satisfy Dean. Nodding his thanks to the trio of Wendy, Andrea and Megan, who'd been the most helpful, he hustled Sam out.

The drive back was relaxed. Dean didn't drive too fast, because the road was still a little slippery. Sam dozed in the passenger seat, occasionally waking just long enough to complain about Dean's choice of music before falling asleep again. It would have been annoying if it hadn't been Sammy.

When he parked in front of the hotel, Dean leaned over to smack Sam's arm. "Wake up, princess. We're here."

Sam stirred, blinking blearily at Dean before turning to look at the hotel entrance.

His eyes went wide.

"Of course… I've been so stupid."

He was out of the car and hurtling inside before Dean could stop him. Dean rolled his eyes, locked the Impala, and followed at a more normal pace. His big-brother radar wasn't pinging, so Sam wasn't in trouble. Probably just excited at the thought of having an emotional reunion with his laptop.

He had a look around just in case, to see if he could spot whatever had Sam all worked up.

There was nothing. Just some potted plants lining the driveway, a moving van parked halfway down the dirt track leading to the back entrance, and an expanse of fresh-laid lawn. The breeze was picking up, and the wooden sign over the main door creaked and swung as Dean made his way into the lobby.

Sam was already upstairs when Dean pressed the button for the elevator.

He waited for it to come down. This wasn't like last time. There was no blind panic, no need to take the stairs because some idiot was holding the elevator up on the fifth floor –

Dean stopped short, staring at the yellow numbers as they lit up over the elevator doors.

They were the only occupants of the fifth floor. Yesterday he'd pressed the button and the elevator hadn't shown up and he'd taken the stairs. It was true he'd been impatient – he'd known in his gut that Sammy needed him – but he hadn't been that impatient, and Sam had been in bed, fast asleep.

Who had been holding up the elevator?

Someone who didn't want him to get to Sam, obviously, but –

The elevator pinged. The doors slid open.

Dean stepped through and pushed the button for the fifth floor.

Someone – something? – had deliberately held the elevator on the fifth floor, trying to keep him from getting to Sam – or maybe trying to slow him down. Who? Marguerite? It was possible, maybe she could manipulate electricity in some way. Some ghosts could… But Marguerite seemed to want to help Sam, not keep him away from his big brother. Lou? Why would Lou try to hurt Sam? That made no sense.

The elevator pinged for the fifth floor.

The doors opened.

Dr. Underhill was on the other side.

"You," Dean growled as he stepped out of the elevator, hands itching to grab Underhill and fling him out one of the windows. "What the hell are you doing here? Have you been bothering Sam?"

"Say instead that your brother has been bothering me," Underhill said calmly, stepping around Dean and into the elevator just before it closed.

Dean considered following him, but he had the sudden urge to check on Sam.

When he found his brother slumped in a chair cradling his head, he was glad he'd taken that call.

"How bad?" he asked, squeezing Sam's shoulder.

"Not… Not that bad, really." Sam lifted his head. "Really, Dean. I – I'm just tired." He cast a longing glance at his bed. "Really tired."

Dean's senses went straight to high alert. "Don't sleep." He couldn't believe he was saying that. That right there was a sign of how much life hated them. Under any other circumstances Dean would be greeting that statement with a cheer and practically pushing Sam into his bed, but right on the heels of Dr. Underhill's appearance and Marguerite telling Sam he'd die if he slept? "Don't you dare sleep. I'll make you coffee."

It took him a moment to figure out the cappuccino machine. He could have used the vending machine down the hall, but he had no intention of leaving the room.

"Here," he said at last, when he'd miraculously managed to produce a decent cappuccino covered in a layer of brown and white froth. "All girly, just the way you like it. Drink."

"Dean." Sam took the coffee and took a sip. "It's great. Thanks."

"Don't thank me, just stay awake."

"Dean, I'm sure she was –"

"You finish that sentence with wrong and I'm going to kick your ass. But not hard enough for you to pass out. Are you insane, Sam? We're not taking risks."

Sam sighed. "OK. I guess I'd better stay in this horrible uncomfortable chair then."

"Sounds like a good idea," Dean said smirking.

Sam glared at him, but his eyes softened when Dean pulled up a chair of his own instead of lounging on the sofa or his bed like he would normally have done. Dean shook his head. He might rag on Sam sometimes, that was his big-brother right, but to curl up all comfortable with his pillows while Sam had to fight sleep in a chair about six sizes too small for him? Dean wasn't that cruel.

"C'mon, kiddo." He handed Sam the little oilskin packet of letters. "Sooner you get through these, sooner we can waste the spirits and get some sleep."

"Oh." Sam ran a hand through his hair. "Oh. Yeah. I think… I think I might know what this is. But I suppose I should go through the letters to be sure. And they might tell us who we're after because it's… It has to be him. I don't think it's Madeline."

"Madeline?"

"Marguerite," Sam said with a sigh. "Sorry. I'm sleepy. I meant Marguerite."

"Sammy, what's going on?"

Sam waved vaguely at the coffee table. There was nothing on it, but there was a shelf underneath and when Dean ducked to get a look, he saw a collection of books.

He took them out, frowning. They were horror stories and novels, all by different writers. He supposed it fit the theme. Get people good and spooked before sending them to the haunted house.

Then he realized what Sam had meant to tell him.

Of course. He might not be a book-loving weirdo like Sam was, but he was a hunter. He knew this. Of course he knew this.

He looked up to see Sam watching him. Sam was smiling, like he knew Dean had made the connection and they didn't need words anymore. But Dean did need words, because he'd made the connection but Sam looked like he'd figured out the whole story, including where the body was buried and how many hunters it would take to dig it up.

Before Dean could say so, Sam yawned, and all thoughts of the case went out of his head.

"Time's it?" Sam mumbled.

"About eight. It's been a freaking long day." He nudged Sam's knee. "Come on, Samantha. You can do this. You just need to last through the night. You'll be fine in the morning."

"How do you know that?"

Dean didn't know that, what he knew was that Sam had damn well better be fine in the morning or Dean was going to kill Lou, Garth and all their friends. But he could hardly tell Sam that.

"Because your headache and fever were both gone when you woke up this morning. And insomnia is your natural state, so as soon as you stop being sick, you'll also stop being sleepy."

Sam didn't look convinced. "I guess."

"Come on," Dean repeated, hauling Sam up and dragging him to the couch. "Come here. You need a break."

"I haven't even started yet."

Dean dropped Sam on the couch, sat next to him, and took the package out of his hands. He removed the first letter – the one they'd read already – and handed Sam the second one. "Read that." Sam nodded. "Out loud. That way I'll know you're awake."

Sam made a face, but he obeyed. He sounded so tired that Dean didn't object when Sam leaned into his side. He slipped an arm around his brother, only so that he could poke him in the ribs if he started to fall asleep.

The next few letters didn't give them much, other than the knowledge that the Unwins – the family that had lived here – had been seriously creepy. Respectable enough on the surface, but insanity ran in the family. Geoffrey Unwin, it turned out, was Robert's father. His younger brother had had fits of madness, and he'd lived most of his life locked in the attic for his own safety (although it seemed that Edgar and Robert both agreed that Marguerite didn't need to be locked up). Sam shuddered at that, and Dean wanted to stroke his back but knew that would only make him sleepier. He settled for tightening his grip a little.

"I would never have done that to you, Sammy."

Sam opened his mouth, but before he could say anything, someone knocked. Dean sighed, making sure Sam was up to supporting himself before he pulled away and went to see who it was. It had better not be –

Freaking Underhill.

"What?" Dean growled.

"How is Sam?" He strode past Dean into the room, to the couch where Sam was now curled up against the arm and watching them with half-open eyes. He didn't flinch when Underhill put a hand on his head, though his eyes narrowed. "Sam. You're feverish."

"Don't be ridiculous," Dean snapped.

Sam had been right up in his space for the past half-hour. He would have known if the kid had a fever.

All the same, he hurried to Sam and palmed his cheek, just to be certain –

He hissed. Sam was burning up. He hadn't been a minute ago, Dean knew that. And now he was spiking a dangerous fever, shutting his eyes and turning his face into Dean's hand the way he only did when he was feeling really, really miserable.

"What did you do to him?" Dean asked furiously.

Underhill smiled. It had too many teeth. "I did nothing to him. Your brother is of a weak disposition, Mr. Smith. Medicine can only go so far. Science cannot help a man who lacks the strength to fight for his own life." Dean clenched his free hand into a fist, ready to throw a punch. "There is nothing you can do for him."

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