Part 20

Outside Lander, Wyoming, 1996

The twitch—the subtle stupid unnoticeable twitch—of Dean's hand was like igniting a flame.

It was nothing like the pain that came from the lack of contact, but for a long moment afterward, his fingers burned. And it was that after sensation that made it real, made him believe he'd done it—made an emotion build in his chest that quickened his pulse. The pumping of his own blood abruptly loud in his ears, intense, rushing—relieved.

"Dean?" John's voice rumbled over him, the stroke of his hand across Dean's head halting.

Did Dad see it?

One of John's hands slid under him, gripping the back of his neck, the other heavy on his chest—comfort in the weight of it like always, but an extra push there as well. "Dean, come on, son," his voice coaxed, sounding more worried than hopeful—more worried than reassured.

The burn in Dean's fingertips was receding, residual tingles riding up his arm, adding to the tightness welling in his chest and the rushing of his pulse. He focused on his fingers, ready to try again.

"Damn it!"

Dean's thoughts reeled sharply back, not having expected the snafu tone or his father's curse. Didn't expect the abrupt way he was levered upright against his father's chest, head tilted back at an angle that made it feel abnormally heavy. His focus seemed to narrow, the rushing in his ears intensifying.

He could feel John's heart thudding into his backbone and was abruptly more cognizant of that than anything else.

"Dad?" Sammy's troubled voice rang somewhere to his right.

"Come on, Dean, don't do this! Breathe!"

What?

He was, wasn't he? How could he not be breathing?

"Come on, Dean," his father continued, folding command into desperation. He moved again and Dean was dropped flat to the mattress. A second later his head was tilted back, rough fingers under his jaw forcing it up at an uncomfortably extreme angle.

Dean was now feeling the strain for air, a feeling that had been hidden under whatever euphoria had captivated him after successfully moving his hand. He was cognizant now of the lack of motion in his own lungs, his need for oxygen, and… of what his father was about to do.

He pulled desperately at his scattered thoughts, refocused—not on his hand but his lungs, his throat, whatever muscles allowed him to draw air.

"Dean?"

It burned, all the way in and all the way out—a strident breath, halting and uncomfortable, followed by another and then another. But Dean was doing it, was in control of it, and wasn't sure if he should be happy to be doing it on his own or concerned that he had to do it so consciously. In. Out. In. Out.

"That's it, Dean. That's it, son."

Lander, Wyoming, 2006

Charlie had three different accounts of the Nora/Elsa Prisal legend. Four, if you counted the version he most enjoyed telling. But Sam couldn't count that one because he knew it came almost entirely from his friend's imagination.

The first version said the Prisals were sisters. The second had them as cousins. In version number three, they were the same person and Elsa was just a middle name.

The premise in all three versions stayed more or less the same.

Having come to the mountains outside Lander just before the dawning of the sixties, Nora (or Elsa) or both—immigrants from somewhere—settled into a cabin in the north fork of the canyon with a boyfriend or husband of one of the girls. Which led to the predictable story of an affair resulting in murder, and a pact by the sisters (or cousins) to stay together, being broken.

In the versions where Elsa and Nora were, in fact, two different people, the affair was surmisedly between the husband/boyfriend and the sister he wasn't supposed to be sleeping with. Discovery and jealous confrontation followed and one of the three ended up dead—buried by the other two in parts unknown. The slain's restless spirit manifested itself almost immediately, making its way back to the cabin to exact revenge on the other two.

Charlie gave that version an alternate ending, telling Sam he once heard a version from an old storyteller in town that had the man burying both sisters alive and then committing suicide.

In the version where the two were one, poor Nora Elsa Prisal—left alone and neglected in the cabin day upon day—took to having affairs with various men in town. To remedy the habit, the husband/boyfriend tried to chain her up in the cabin, accidentally killed her, and was slaughtered by her ghost a week later.

Sam was more inclined to believe the variant that had the three dying all together in some way because it meshed well with the casserole scenario they'd been investigating—two or three spirits tied together in an emotionally intense life and an even more emotionally intense or violent death would stay tied together as ghosts, having never resolved what had occurred between them.

Additionally, Sam knew from ten years ago that one of them had been buried under the cabin's floorboards. Whether she'd been put there alive or already dead still wasn't clear.

"What about the south fork?" Sam asked Charlie—too intensely, because Charlie was starting to look suspicious, like he no longer believed telling Sam these stories was simply meant to distract him from his worry over Dean, as Sam had claimed.

Charlie's eyebrows lowered. "What about the south fork?"

Sam backed off a little, tried to maintain casual. "Those… disappearing hikers? What are people saying? You said ghosts were haunting the canyon. Where do people think the ghosts came from?"

"They're just legends, Sam." Charlie squinted at him. "Why are you asking all this?"

"I know they're just legends. I'm just…" A dozen excuses ran through Sam's head as to why he could be asking Charlie these questions, but, damn, he just needed to know, and he still wasn't any better at lying or wanting to lie to Charlie than he'd been a day ago. "Just tell me."

Charlie sighed, shaking his head as if to say whatever dude, you're worrying me but started talking anyway. "Not much. No stories I heard as a kid or anything. The girl at the Dairy Land window told me that an old man lost his daughter in the fog, died while searching, and now his spirit is trapped in the canyon to carry on his search for eternity, yadda yadda. Other people said he lost his wife, and some even say it was his dog."

"Just some random old guy? Or do they have a name for him?"

"No name I've heard," answered Charlie. "Like I said, the stories aren't real old. There hasn't been time for people to make up and add details. People invent stories when weird stuff happens."

"And nothing ever happened in that fork of the canyon before this year?"

Charlie shrugged, stretching, standing—reaching for his cup of coffee. "People get lost, but not usually in that canyon. Early spring this year—makes things a little tricky. Fog, mudslides… stuff like that. People have probably been experiencing some variation of what happened to us the other night, but they get irrational about it… start to imagine ghosts and stuff. The weather will change, summer will come, make everything normal, and the legend will either build or go away entirely. You know how things go."

"Yeah," Sam agreed, rubbing a hand over his face. In the morning—he glanced down at his watch—or later this morning, he'd see if he could access the town census records—births, deaths, see where and if the name Prisal popped up. From that, he'd at least be able to figure out if the Prisals were one or two.

He dropped his hand and noticed Charlie was watching him warily. "You should maybe try to sleep a little," Charlie tried.

Sam shook his head, pushing himself to his feet. He needed to go back in and check on Dean, check the laptop he'd set by Dean's bed, check for a wireless connection so he could see if Missouri had sent the information she said she would. "There's no way I could sleep right now," he admitted.

"I know," said Charlie. And he looked for a moment like he wanted to add something more before a flurry of activity down the hall stole their attention.

The waiting room in the clinic wasn't much of a waiting room. More like a collection of plastic chairs lining one part of the wide linoleum hallway and the slightly more open space in front of the admitting desk.

Charlie seemed content enough, switching chairs every few minutes, alternating his attention between the magazine in his lap and the nearly muted television in the corner. And then Sam had come back out from his brother's room and started talking with Charlie near the cluster of chairs closest to the receptionist desk. Even then, Charlie shifted from foot to foot, shuffling around Sam's lanky form—restless like he always was.

Must be from all the caffeine, Blake thought.

Charlie was sipping at what had to be his third cup of coffee since he and Blake had arrived. Might have even been his fourth, since he could have grabbed another in the short time Blake was outside talking to Sam.

Blake wondered what Charlie and Sam were talking about—was too far away to overhear and didn't want to be perceived as nosy if he got up and walked across the room to join them.

He tried to not let it bother him that Sam was talking to Charlie instead of him.

Kim was more motionless than Charlie, but edgy, and alert to any abrupt sound around them. Twice, she'd let her head droop back against the wall, eyelids dipping then popping open to refocus on the flickering TV program—some public service channel. Something about whales, Blake deduced.

But he hadn't really been paying attention. He was feeling a little impatient. He wanted to know exactly what was going on—thought it ridiculous that Charlie's brother hadn't been able to give them anything definitive on the condition of Sam's brother.

Blake had asked Kim twice since he'd arrived and she'd confirmed, both times, that from everything she'd overheard Jack say—Dean's heart was fine.

She'd said it patiently, but Blake had caught the looks she'd given during her answer—similar to the expression Charlie had worn during their drive—similar to the looks Donna and Sara, and even Garrett, had given him before he'd left the cabin. Sympathetic but blaming—as if any of this was his fault—as if he should actually be feeling guilty for something.

He hadn't made the guy spar.

And it bothered him that they—that his friends—all seemed to be on Dean's side. Just because the guy had passed out, it didn't mean Blake was wrong about him.

Couldn't anyone else see that?

He realized, of course, now was not the time to push. He knew he had to be sensitive about stuff like this. It was hard for people to see what might be really going on when they were in the middle of an intense situation. Which brought his thoughts full circle—if nothing was wrong with Dean's heart, why were they still here? And why couldn't the doctors around here tell them something more?

He tossed a magazine down on the chair next to him absently, and tried to temper his frustration. As he did, something loud beeped in the distance, followed by a voice crackling shortly over an intercom.

Blake let his eyes drift to the wide doors, toward the sound's origin. Something must be happening with a patient, he figured.

Sam and Charlie both tensed at the sound. Blake stood up from his chair, ready to join them, when the flurry of activity behind the large doors where the patients were increased.

Lander was a small town with not many emergency patients. It was easy to guess Sam would figure the activity might be surrounding his brother. Predictably, Sam headed for the wide doors, Charlie on his heels. The nurse slid out from behind her desk to block them.

Blake took this as his cue to take over. He moved quickly, sliding in between Charlie and Sam. Maybe he could finally get them some answers. "What's going on?" he asked the nurse, making each word precise. He had a tone that could get things done—a tone that got people to listen when he needed them to.

"I'm not sure," the nurse barked back. "But let the staff do their job. If you go down there right now you'll just be getting in the way."

"Is it my brother?" Sam asked.

"I don't know," she answered, no give in her voice, meeting Sam head on in a staring contest. When it was clear she wasn't about to let Sam pass her, he paced back in frustration, almost tripping over his own feet as he did so, catching himself with a hand to the nurse's desk.

For a moment, he looked like he might punch the wall.

Blake exchanged a wary glance with Charlie.

"Sam?" Kim came over to join them, her soft voice hitched with just the right amount of concern. Charlie dropped his arm around her and shook his head, silently letting her know they didn't know any more than she did, and that Sam shouldn't be questioned just then.

They waited several tense minutes before the oversized doors swung open again and Jack appeared. Blake folded his arms. Maybe now they'd get some actual answers.

"He's fine," Jack preempted, looking directly at Sam, meeting with Sam's blatantly disbelieving eyes. He sighed. "It was his breathing," he admitted carefully. And Blake wondered why doctors always had to be so vague about things. "It stopped long enough to set off the alarm but by the time we got there he'd started again. He had a few irregular breaths and his O2 levels dipped, but he's back to normal now."

"What does that mean?" Sam stepped forward. "I mean—that's bad, isn't it?"

"It's concerning," Jack answered, "but in this case… I think it means he's waking up." He smiled a little, but Blake saw the caution in it.

"He's awake?" Sam breathed—the question as brittle as fall leaves.

"Not yet." Jack's eyes shuttered. "But he seems to be coming out of it. Do you want to go back in?"

Sam flashed the well duh look Blake expected and surged forward, stopping briefly at the door to look back at the three of them. "Thanks," he muttered, "for waiting with me."

"Go see your brother, idiot," Charlie answered before Blake could say anything.

And Sam was gone.

Outside Lander, Wyoming, 1996

Since the not-breathing incident, having Sam or Dad leave him was less of a concern.

John held him propped against his chest, a careful hand over his heart, monitoring the breathing Dean could now control. A euphoric sensation—even if the air he drew felt weighted and made his chest feel tight.

He played with it at first, just to make sure it was really his—that it had really come back under his command. Drawing air in slowly, then quickly, holding his breath and then letting it out in a rush. But he could tell, after a while, that the irregularity of it set both his brother and father on edge, so he tried to stop messing with it—tried to make each breath smooth and even—even though he wondered, for a moment, if he might be able to breathe in Morse code… and wondered whether or not his dad would get it if he did.

Probably not.

The semantics would take too much concentration anyway.

It didn't stop him from trying to focus on other things—trying to wiggle his toes, shift his legs, turn his head side to side or—what he hoped to do most—open his freakin' eyes.

Or talk.

Talking would be good. Having Dad or Sam hear him, and know he was awake.

Each effort was met, he thought—hoped—with miniscule success and the same igniting, burning sensation that had hit his fingers when he'd first moved them.

After each time, there was small lull before he could make himself—remind himself—to breathe again. And each time, he could tell, the gap of air intake made Sam and Dad a little more anxious. And it exhausted him, bit a bit, more and more. By the time he realized he could actually make his eyelids flicker, he felt like he'd run a hundred miles and still wasn't done with the race.

He didn't realize he was leaking tears with each strain until he felt his father's hand brushing the wetness into his temples—smoothing the inadvertent wrinkling around his eyes. John shook him a little each time, asking different variations of, "Dean? Son? Are you with us? Come on, kiddo, open your eyes."

When he was finally able to open them—and hold them open long enough to register form and shape—he was struck with visions and sensations in Technicolor vertigo and muddy slowness.

The first nearly clear image he could make out was Sam's slightly blurred face—creased eyebrows, broody watery eyes, and hopeful half-smile.

"That's it, Dean. Come on. Stay with us."

Lander, Wyoming, 2006

Waking for Dean was déjà vu—Technicolor vertigo and muddy slowness—a weird lacking sense of place and time.

He felt oddly conscious of his breathing.

Sam's face loomed over him tightly. It was out of focus, but Dean caught it in clear flashes of creased eyebrows, broody watery eyes, and hopeful half-smile—blinked twice and still wasn't sure if the images were memory or reality.

He squinted and tried to push out the fog in his brain that was making the Sam before him a weird mixture of twelve and twenty-two. He blinked again then closed his eyes because the dual image was making him dizzy and giving him a headache.

"Come on, Dean. Stay with me."

The voice was commanding. Dean pushed his eyes open once more—swallowed and felt his head spin, the voice carrying with it an unusual echo.

Stay with me. Stay with us. That's it Dean. Come on.

"Dad?" he whispered. His voice felt rough—like gravel. But his vision was clearing—enough to see the Sammy in front of him crystallize more into the twenty-two year old version rather than the twelve. Clear enough for Dean to see the way Sam's expression tightened around his whispered word.

"It's me, Dean." Sam moved closer, a hand reaching out to grip Dean's shoulder, pushing back—pushing on—a sensation Dean wasn't sure was present or remembered. When Sam rocked back slightly, Dean's hand snapped up to clutch his wrist before he even realized he was doing it—holding Sam's hand locked on his shoulder.

Sam's eyes widened momentarily before he shuffled forward, head turning to glance at someone behind him, but not trying to extract himself from Dean's grip. "Dean?"

Dean blinked again, felt maybe like his ears needed to pop, because even though he saw his name come out of Sam's mouth, he still couldn't tell who the speaker was. It still sounded like Dad. It sounded exactly like Dad. "Dad?" he tried again, tried to make his voice come out stronger, but it didn't—it fizzled out low, brittle, and whispery thin.

"No, Dean. It's me. It's Sam." His brother's voice was tight like his face—and, like his face, was crumpling at the edges.

Dean unconsciously flexed his hand on Sam's wrist. "Sammy?"

"Yes."

The word was clear and strong and all of a sudden Dean felt a touch more lucid.

Before him, Sammy was almost completely in focus. The clarity letting Dean see what he hadn't right off. His brother looked completely worn—ragged and shaggy—wearing a dark blue, unfamiliar jacket, grey weaving through his normally healthy skin tone. His eyes looked darker than normal and the dark bruise across one cheek stood out starkly against the rough pallor—appearing bold and painful.

It was the focus on Sam's bruise—the strain to remember how it got there—that brought Dean the rest of the way out of his haze. The memories in his brain began to realign, sorting past from present. He tried not to let the gaps bother him—tried not to let it bother him when he couldn't quite place where he was or how he got there.

If his powers of deduction had any viability, he could assume he was in a hospital—he just didn't know why.

He refocused on Sam, recognized the shaky worry on his face as the expression he'd worn in the hospital during Dean's heart-thing, and Dean wondered if he'd had the relapse Sam had been so afraid of.

"You with me now?" Sam questioned, watching him closely.

His body didn't feel—Dean wasn't sure what his body felt—but he was suddenly conscious of how tightly he was gripping his brother's wrist, of how abruptly clear his memories of ten years ago had become, and how he didn't yet feel ready to give Sam his hand back.

Cautiously, he gentled his grip, but didn't let go. "Dude, you look like hell," he ground out, stones in his throat.

The expression Sam graced him with was both shattered and exasperated, but he laughed, lightly, like he wasn't sure he really wanted to or should. Whatever had happened to Dean, he'd scared his brother, badly—made him worry. Dean really hoped Sam wasn't about to cry. He was on the verge, Dean could tell—frayed and frazzled—and hadn't Dean begged the universe just a few nights ago to give his brother a break?

"I look better than you," Sam retorted then glanced behind him again.

Dean realized they weren't alone—and was lucid enough now to know whoever was in the room with them wasn't Dad. He ignored that for now—tried to ignore the fact that Dad had been the first thing on his lips, and how, for one aching minute, he'd actually expected him to be there. "What happened?" he mumbled instead.

"What do you remember?" Sam returned.

Dean thought about that. What did he remember? Where did the gaps start and stop?

He remembered Lander. He remembered disappearing people and a two-for-one ghost special in the canyon. Sam, Stanford friends of Sam's he wasn't sure he liked, a cabin too big to even be called a house. Blake and all his stupid—stupid—questions. Sparring. Going upstairs for a four-minute shower and… nothing.

"Dean?"

"I went to shower?" he answered hesitantly—warily hoping no one had found him passed out naked.

"You'd finished by the time I got up there, but you were… out cold on… on the floor—wouldn't wake up."

Dean processed that, checking the very, very hazy memories he had of feeling dizzy… of not wanting to crack his head on the shower wall… of stepping out of the bathroom… of pulling on his jeans.

Sam looked away from him, then back. "Jack's gotta ask you some questions—check you out," he explained, his voice gentle enough to make Dean want to smack him, make him stop treating him like he was... delicate.

But when Sam gave his shoulder a squeeze and started to pull his hand away, Dean couldn't deny the flash of panic that rushed through him, or the bruising, reflexive tightening on Sam's wrist. "Don't," he grit out, unable to make himself stop or let go, even after watching Sam's eyes turn wide and startled. The irony of this need coming so close on the heels of internally scoffing Sam's tone were not lost on him, but he couldn't help it.

"Dean—"

"Just stay," he whispered, feeling shaky and a little confused—unable to stop the next word from following. "Please."

Sam's careful grip returned, tightening, thumb pressing almost uncomfortably over his clavicle, other hand settling cautiously on the bed near Dean's hip. Sam leaned over him, eyes confused and worried, darting between Dean and Jack, who'd come up on Dean's other side.

"Dean, are you still with me?" Sam questioned—as though a begging Dean could only ever be half-conscious. Or maybe Sam thought Dean still thought he was Dad.

Dean ignored him, shut his eyes tightly, tried to let go of the fear and couldn't. He averted his gaze from Sam's when his eyes reopened—further ignored the intensity in his little brother's face—to look directly at Jack.

"So, what's the story, Doc? How soon can I get out of here?"

tbc