Part 21

Lander, Wyoming, 2006

Dean's bed had been lowered and then shifted toward the window and the wall, various curtains drawn to create a cubicle and the illusion of privacy. Whether this was an attempt to grant Dean a view or to simply help him feel less exposed, Sam wasn't sure. He suspected the latter—suspected Jack's impassive face wasn't belying an inability to read his patients.

Dean seemed to relax—marginally—in the more defensive position. He appeared more aware, more awake—finally lost the desperate look he'd carried since opening his eyes, and eventually eased the crushing grip on Sam's wrist.

Sam was grateful for the drop in the bed's height—low enough now that when he pushed down the guardrail to sit next to Dean's knee, he was actually sitting rather than leaning, both his feet staying easily planted on the ground. It was comfortable. It allowed him a better angle to gauge Dean's face. Allowed him to ask questions without looming.

All of which seemed good until he realized sitting was a mistake.

He felt instantly heavy, like lead weights had been attached to all his limbs, his fingers, his toes, and knew it would take a miracle—and possibly a shot of external adrenaline—to create even the remote possibility of getting to his feet again.

He was tapped.

He'd used up the last of his reserve energy during the arguments with his recently awake brother.

And the arguments hadn't even been that strenuous—Jack doing most of the work, making most of the points Sam wanted to make, without the references to ghosts and reapers Sam would have thrown in. All Sam had really had to do was add a few well-placed, worry-filled glares—glares that had sent Dean's eyes skittering away in acquiescence, glares meant to show Dean the full force of what all this had done to him. What this had done to both of them.

Dean was still Dean and therefore still stubborn, but Sam felt he'd won on the important points, anyway.

The trip to Riverton had been predictably refused, along with the suggested additional heart testing that would have gone with it. Sam hadn't pushed, but, with lowered eyebrows, had silently reserved the right to force it later if he deemed it necessary. He—not Dean.

"In that case, we'd like to continue to monitor you for a while before we release you," Jack had added—Dean starting to shake his head before the sentence was even complete.

Sam had set his jaw, fortressed his eyes. Hell if you think you're going to just walk out of here and pretend nothing's wrong and nothing happened after the hell—repeated hell—you've put me through, he'd glared. And realized later that the fingers from the hand he'd kept on Dean's shoulder had unintentionally tightened into a fist—griping both cloth and skin, leaving tiny marks he would see on Dean later. Later, when Dean slipped carefully from clinic gown to clean t-shirt with Sam's shaky help. Marks that would faintly echo the fingerprints Dean's own tense hand had left circling his wrist.

Sam pushed the argument out of his mind, shifting on the bed until his hip bumped Dean's knee, reminding himself that Dean was awake and they were both better than they'd been an hour ago.

He reached a hand up, rubbed his thumb and forefinger over his eyes, then spread his hand wider to reach his temples, pushing at the headache that had never quite gone away, aware on some level, Dean was watching him—tracking his movements with the disconcerting intensity he'd been tracking them with ever since waking.

"You did the whole no-sleeping-thing again… didn't you?" Dean's voice sounded raw, heavy, like it was whenever he was awakened before he'd had enough sleep. Sam hoped the raw sound didn't mean there was another coma pending… or whatever the hell this had been.

Just the same, one corner of Sam's mouth twitched upward, feeling both the concern and the levity in Dean's question. He wanted to lean into both—let Dean somehow convince him all was well, even though he knew it wasn't.

He stopped rubbing at his headache, dropped his hand to his lap, and started to swing one of his feet back and forth faintly—not hearing the way it bump-bumped against the base of the bed until Dean's eyes flitted down and sideways with the noise.

Sam stopped, shrugged. "Yeah, well, you were sleeping enough for the both of us," he tried, but there was no levity left in him. He was oddly grateful when Dean didn't laugh, was grateful Dean didn't try to pretend this away, but warily conscious of the lowered look Dean gave him.

The conversation they were heading into wouldn't be easy. Dean was uncomfortable already. Dean would have turned his back to have this conversation if he could have.

Sam shifted his leg up in order to face his brother more directly. "Are you sure you feel okay?"

He waited—thought for a moment Dean wouldn't answer—would balk at the gentle insistence in his tone.

Dean didn't though—didn't balk. He blinked once, shifted higher against the pillows at his back before giving a small jerk of a nod, the flash of guilt brief but bright in his eyes. Movements careful—like he could tell what he'd put his brother through and was working on how to navigate Sam's nerves.

The expression made Sam feel weird because it made Dean look—breakable. Sam had never seen Dean as breakable before—not really—not until he'd been electrocuted. Dean had been hurt before, and it had always scared Sam—but never before had he been the sole person responsible for getting him better.

With no dad to take control—to fix things the way dads were supposed to—Sam was being forced to look at his surest foundation, and, this closely, was seeing all the cracks he'd never known were there, or had somehow found a way to always ignore. Cracks that made Dean vulnerable—the same vulnerable Sam had historically labeled as unreasonable. Cracks that made Dean exposed. And the scary left in his stomach from this new position of responsibility was different from any kind he'd ever known.

I can't do this alone, he remembered Dean saying, when he'd come to get him from Stanford.

Sam's answer had been so automatic he hadn't had to think about it: Yes you can.

Yeah, well, I don't want to.

Sam wasn't sure if he'd been lying to himself or if he'd really seen Dean that way—capable, needing no one and nothing.

He swallowed, hard. "No shortness of breath…" he continued. "No numb tingling in your fingers and toes?" He hoped that by using Dean's own words, the tone of the too-recent, too-honest conversation they'd had yesterday morning would be brought back in a way that would make Dean open with him—make Dean not try to protect him from all the stupid things he always tried to protect him from.

He hoped Dean realized, this time, holding back anything could just make things worse.

"No. I don't think…" Dean paused, opening and closing his hands, and Sam could feel Dean's feet behind him jerk and twitch. "I don't think it was my heart."

"Jack thought he heard a murmur."

"Thought," Dean reiterated.

Sam brushed his hand against a thread on his knee. "The ghost then?"

Dean looked at him, something in his eyes Sam didn't quite recognize, but it made his heart thump faster and his stomach tingle—made him want to chew his fingernails.

Dean looked away, shrugged.

Sam kept his fingernail out of his mouth with effort, thinking, maybe the look wasn't unfamiliar. Maybe he was just seeing more of what leaked out when Dean could no longer hold back what he'd bricked in. Maybe he was seeing more of the Dean he'd been getting to know ever since they'd hit the road together. The Dean that confessed to that kid Lucas that after their mom died he… hadn't felt like talking either.

"Okay, then," Sam continued softly. "Do you remember anything?"

Dean's eyes narrowed. "What?"

"That's what you asked me… the other night after I… woke up. You wanted to know if I remembered anything." Sam watched Dean's face in the beat of silence that followed. "And it's what you asked Elly when we interviewed her yesterday." Was that only yesterday?

Dean's gaze darted down then up in quick succession, chin tucked low so that his gaze loomed under his eyebrows—a pose Sam usually read as back off or some variation of the same. But the something else in Dean's eyes tempered the look—cautionary—like he knew he had to answer but didn't want to. Whatever it was, the expression told Sam with certainty he wasn't going to like where this conversation went.

He rocked back—the movement making him feel bleary and lightheaded. He caught Dean's leg with his hand when he reached out to steady himself. "It's the same ghost, isn't it? Somehow, Dad didn't really kill it or—"

"I don't remember anything."

"Dean—"

"I don't, Sam." Dean shifted forward, taking his own weight, leaning away from the bed's support and the pillows behind him, reaching a hand up to rub at the back of his neck. "It's not… it's not the same thing as before… not exactly. I can tell."

Sam sighed, and felt himself moving toward belligerence. "How can you tell? Dean, you passed out… just like you did before. Maybe not for as long but… if it's not your heart… it has to be the ghost. Doesn't it?"

"I'm not saying this isn't connected… but it's just… it could be the ghosts are related somehow… maybe that whole casserole thing makes them… I don't know… feels like they probably are, but whatever this was… it was just… different."

"How is it different? How do you know? You just said you didn't remember anything."

Dean rubbed at the back of his neck again, pulled in cautious air and looked at Sam, pointedly. "I don't… this time."

Sam stilled, keeping their gazes locked. "This time," he repeated. "But you remember something from when you were out before… ten years ago. That's why you asked me, and Elly… What exactly do you remember?" He'd thought about this, about what it was Dean could have been asking. Voices? Dreams? Ghosts could induce dreams sometimes.

And if it was a latcher… had somehow been trying to connect or latch to Dean… make Dean experience something it had experienced… then…

"Dean, what do you remember?"

His brother released a heavy breath, turning his face to the window. "Everything. I mean… a few things are hazy but—"

"Everything." That made no sense. "What do you mean… everything?"

"I mean… everything." Dean shrugged. "I wasn't… I wasn't really out. In 1996. I was awake."

Sam waited, silently—waited for Dean to make sense, waited for Dean to say he was kidding or to explain the joke—but his brother's gaze didn't waver and his eyes didn't change.

It was that—the absolute seriousness in Dean's eyes—that finally made him repeat back to himself what Dean had just said and lower his own voice even more when he finally responded. "Dean, you were out. You didn't open your eyes, you didn't twitch. Dad put an IV in you. He checked your pain responses. You didn't respond at all, man. You didn't even make a sound. You were out." He said it gently, thinking maybe Dean wasn't as with him as he'd thought. Thinking maybe Dean was still just… mixed up a little.

"Look, I know, okay. I know all that. I was…" Dean sighed, reached a hand up to knuckle his eyebrow before looking back at Sam with his lowered gaze. "I couldn't do anything or say anything… but, I was awake. I was conscious. I could… I could hear you and Dad and everything… I just couldn't… it was like I was trapped. I couldn't…" he broke off, raking his hand through his hair, "but I was still awake."

Watching him, Sam felt something vague, like panic, crawl into him. Awake? There was no way. Even when Dean had finally come to, he'd been so… groggy. "You never said anything." His voice was flat.

"I know."

Dean had no reason to lie—wouldn't lie, not about something like this—but Sam suddenly needed proof. How could Dean have been awake and Sam have not known it? "Back then, when Dad thought I was sleeping, he would sit with you and—"

"Sing," Dean finished.

Sam felt his body still then shiver. "What was the song?"

Dean shifted as he answered, "Little Bird." His face colored as he continued, "It was, ah… Mom's song. She loved musicals. She used to… she used to sing show tunes to us all the time before we went to bed. 'Little Bird' was her favorite."

"It's from a musical?"

Dean nodded. "Man of La Mancha."

If he hadn't been so damn tired Sam might have reacted differently. As it was his eyes burned hot immediately and he dropped his head. "Spanish Inquisition. Cervantes. The story of Don Quixote," he mumbled.

Was it supposed to be ironic that his mom's favorite musical was about a man fighting a battle no one else believed in—about a man fighting things no one else could see? A mad man or a wise man depending on who you asked. His followers either noble or stupid.

Was it supposed to be ironic that—

"Sam?" Dean's voice was low with concern and Sam realized some of the building moisture behind his eyes had slipped out. His face burned with the effort of trying to keep the rest of the emotion in—effort weakened by exhaustion and stress.

"Sorry, it's just that… Man of La Mancha was playing at a community theater near Stanford. Jess wanted me to go see it with her. She had tickets. We were supposed to go... like the week after she died."

"Listen, Sam—"

"No, I'm sorry." Sam blinked heavily, rubbed one hand gruffly at his eyes. "I don't mean to be… just…" Sam wasn't going to go there just now—didn't want to go there. He was just tired, that was all, and he wasn't going to give Dean any reason to turn this discussion around on him—make it about Sam instead. He cleared his throat. "Why didn't you ever say anything about being awake? To Dad… or me. Why?" He didn't mean it to come out sounding so angry, but it did, and it bothered him that his emotions suddenly seemed all over the place.

"I… it didn't matter. The ghost was dead. I was fine. There was no reason…"

"Well, there is now." Sam felt his jaw muscles jump painfully as they tightened, felt the slightly irrational pull on his emotions as he waved a hand to stop Dean's justifications. "I want to know. I want to know everything."

By the time Jack came back in to check on Dean a few hours later, Sam was slumped onto his side, sleeping hard, head mashed into Dean's pillow. His legs were hanging off the bed from the knee down, feet brushing the floor but bent awkwardly at his ankles—back pressed into Dean's side, making the reading Dean was trying to do both comfortable and awkward.

Awkward, because Dean wanted to raise the head of his bed a little more, and awkward because he had to shift his arm carefully—whenever he reached out to the propped up laptop to type in a new search or open a new web page—to avoid elbowing Sam's head.

But Sam sleeping was a relief. Sam close to him was reassuring. Tempering the fierce fear of having him gone, having him leave. And honestly, the only thing keeping Dean from getting out of the bed and searching for his clothes was the greater desire to not disturb Sam's rest.

Just the same, he felt frustrated. Dean had always hated inaction, and sitting on a bed in a clinic when he wasn't really hurt felt like the worst kind. At worst, he was just a little tired… and maybe still a little mixed up in ways he couldn't find words for. Memories of ten years ago, once vague and consciously repressed, were suddenly clearer than any memory he held—sharp and cutting in every sense.

He'd had to remind himself a few times that he wasn't in a rented one-room cabin up the canyon, had to remind himself a few more times that Dad wasn't with them, that the pain he'd never quite forgotten from that time wasn't recent. Even though he felt now like he had then—after waking—felt himself having to push back the panic anytime Sam's touch rocked away from him.

He knew the way he'd tracked Sam's movements after waking up, even after he'd let go of Sam's wrist, freaked his brother out, but he still couldn't help doing it. Sam, who'd looked liked death warmed over, tired and angry, scattered, yet focused and intense when they'd spoken after Jack left them alone.

Dean had given him part of it, and figured he'd have to eventually give him the rest—but later, when Sam lost the hazy halo of twelve-year-old Dean kept seeing. When Sam stopped looking like he might drop or cry, at any moment.

It'd taken work, but his little brother had relented—not easily, or happily—his eyes had remained stubborn, showing blatant disbelief at Dean's claims of feeling fine. Ultimately, though, Sam's weariness had won out.

"I wondered how long it would take him to fall asleep," Jack commented in soft tones, not whispering, but respectful of Sam's sleep.

Dean looked to where Jack had swung one of the curtains back. He pushed the food tray, with the laptop perched on top of it, out of his face, glanced down at Sam, and graced Jack with a not-really-embarrassed shrug. After all, Jack had a little brother—maybe this behavior wasn't all that odd to him.

Dean tried to shift himself more upright, to better face the doctor, without dislodging Sam, but when Sam's head shifted back against his shoulder and a disgruntled sound followed, he gave up, and glanced back at Jack with another shrug. "He used to climb in bed with me all the time when he was a kid. I thought I'd broken him of the habit years ago." The quip was easy, but came out flat because of the half-lie mixed into it. Climbing into bed with his brother was something Dean had started, after the fire. Sam was just the one who'd kept it going.

To his credit, Jack didn't seem bothered by Sam's pose. Smiled a little, even. Looked almost longing in a way that made Dean think his perceptions on people of wealth weren't all that off. He'd always associated it with distance, formality, politeness, and clean—the kind of clean that was overly done.

But maybe Jack and Charlie hadn't grown up in the woefully sterile environment he imagined.

Jack's expression wasn't distant or overly formal when he sat—cautiously quiet—in the chair near Sam's knees. "Charlie did that a few times when he was little. His room used to be right next to mine. But, when he was four, we moved back to Martha's Vineyard, where his room was in a different wing from mine. He came looking for me one night—got lost. The next morning I found him sleeping under the piano in our mom's music library. I don't think he tried finding me after that."

Dean tried to imagine a house that large, felt a pang from the impersonally cold image it reflected. It felt wrong once he built the picture into his head because it both matched and didn't match what he'd seen of Jack and Charlie so far. And his mind immediately conjured an image of little-Sam in the same situation, seeking him out after a nightmare, wandering long, foreign hallways, scared and unable to find him.

He wondered what that type of life might have been like.

A life with that much space.

Dean had his own room for his first four years of life. Sam for his first six months. And almost never since. From the moment of the fire onward, they'd shared quarters that were tighter than tight. It sucked sometimes—tiny, leaky, two-room apartments, smoke-folded motel rooms, the studio apartment the three of them lived out of for four months in Virginia. But it was what it was, and at least they'd been together.

"Charlie wanted me to let Sam know he and the others went back to the house but they'll be back later," Jack continued, changing the subject without waiting for Dean to comment. "And he gave me this. Sam asked him to bring it in from the car." He held up a bundle of clothes—Dean's sweatshirt, a t-shirt, and the jeans Dean remembered putting on before blacking out. No shoes that he could see, but he couldn't have everything. "So you have something to put on when we release you."

"Right," Dean answered. "Any idea when that will be?"

"Depends on how you're doing."

"Okay. How am I doing?" He wanted to get out. And he wanted Jack to tell him something he'd be able to use to convince Sam of it when he woke up.

Jack stood, pulled a stethoscope from his pocket. "That's what I'm here to check," he answered, lifting an eyebrow as though asking permission.

Dean felt himself tense, but nodded.

Jack moved closer, swinging the food cart with the computer farther out of his way before easing the instrument to Dean's chest. Dean managed to move himself forward this time without waking Sam so the doctor could repeat the procedure at his back.

Whether Jack was listening to lungs or heart, Dean wasn't sure, but he tried not to fidget in the ensuing silence. Tried to evaluate the beats of his heart and the intake of his air for himself. He didn't feel anything wrong, but it bothered him—when Jack finally sat back in the chair at Sam's knees—that he couldn't read his face.

"So?" he questioned, feeling uncomfortably scrutinized.

The doctor sighed, peering down at a clipboard he'd pulled off the end of Dean's bed. "Feel dizzy? Any trouble breathing?"

Dean shook his head.

"Have you been eating regularly, getting enough sleep?"

Dean nodded, then added honestly, "Little low on sleep, maybe."

Jack sighed again, marginally dropping his façade. "Your brother told me about your heart condition."

"I don't have a heart condition."

Jack nodded again. "Dr. Norris and I both concluded that last night… to the best of our ability, anyway. But you did have one, according to Sam. You experienced a physical trauma—electrocution—according to your brother, and someone diagnosed you with one. And, the thing is, we can't find another reason for you to have… blacked out like you did."

"It was a mistake," Dean said. "They were wrong."

Jack blinked, and something in his face told Dean he wasn't convinced. "Maybe. You do… seem to be okay. And I can't make you stay here, or make you see a specialist, but I think you should consider it, for your brother's sake, if nothing else. People don't often pass out for no reason."

"Like I said, I haven't been getting enough sleep lately," Dean returned again, lamely. "And you said before… my blood pressure was low—"

"Which can be another indication of heart trauma."

Dean schooled his features, matched Jack's impassive expression. "I appreciate what you've done for me, doc. I'll consider your advice."

The corner of Jack's mouth twitched. "Guess that's all I can ask. And, I guess you'll be getting back to work when you get out of here then? Your investigation?"

Dean nodded, thinking, if the good doctor had done any checking up on them… they were screwed.

"Well, take a cue from your brother. Try to get some rest while you can. If your blood pressure remains normal, we'll probably release you this afternoon."

Dean released the breath he'd been holding.

Jack stood, caught the end of the food cart, ready to swing it back in front of Dean, then stopped cold, staring at the screen instead, impassivity gone from his expression, paleness in its place.

Dean tried to remember what page he'd had open... remembered he'd been acting on his hope of digging up pictures he and Sam could compare and contrast with their memories of the spirits they'd seen. Following a hunch, he'd pulled up Lander's obituaries for the week of the first disappearance. But none of the deaths he'd read about had been odd or unique in any way. No red flags. Not for him anyway. "Something wrong, doc?"

Jack leaned down to look at the screen more closely. "I saw this man."

Dean held his breath for a moment, then spoke, quickly and softly, "What man?" He reached over Sam to drag the computer closer, seeing for himself the picture Jack was staring at. "Where? In the canyon? With Elly?"

Jack looked worried—stunned—and a little unsteady.

"Jack, did you see this man in the canyon when Elly disappeared?"

The doctor finally looked at him. "I couldn't have…"

"But you did. Right?"

"I was… imagining things. I thought… the fog… it made it look like… and… this picture… I couldn't have seen him… he was already dead."

Dean swallowed. Educated types tended to respond worse than others to the truth is out there speech. "But Elly saw him too. Right, Jack? She said you two were in the canyon, you argued, the fog rolled in, and you both saw a man. This man. I'm betting if you took this picture over to her, she'd tell us this was the guy she saw."

"It's impossible… he was… he was walking through things. The fog was playing ticks on us. No one was even really there… or it was someone else."

"It wasn't someone else, Jack, and you know it." Sam stirred against him and Dean instinctively lowered his voice. "Other hikers in the canyon… they saw him too."

Jack was shaking his head.

Sam grunted and rolled his head. He was waking up.

"They did, Jack. They saw him. You saw him. Elly saw him. And I need you to tell me everything you remember, because if you don't, other people are going to see him too. And they may not be as lucky as you and your girlfriend."

Jack turned away, made a sound not unlike laughter.

Sam stilled again, but Dean knew, this time, his brother was awake, listening.

"Jack, Elly said… she told me she thought it spoke to you."

"It?"

"Him."

Jack turned back toward him, watching for something in his face, must have found whatever it was he was looking for because his expression started to change as he sank bonelessly back into the chair. "Other people saw him?" he asked, wary hope lacing the wry question.

"Yes."

"He's real."

"Yes."

"But he's dead. And was dead when I…"

Dean didn't say anything.

"And you believe this?"

"You're the one who saw him. You tell me."

"I can't… I can't tell you… I mean, sometimes, when I even just… I think I might be going crazy." The words had that laughing edge to it, and Dean figured where he used sarcasm to deal, Jack used laughter—humor—which wasn't unlike Charlie, from what he'd learned so far.

"I know. I know you feel that way. Elly feels that way too. But you're not. Neither one of you. And I don't know how else to tell you but… it was real."

Jack's head gave an imperceptible shake. "It's impossible."

"Really? Then, what are the odds of two well adjusted, well educated people—who I'm suspecting don't have a history of mental illness in their families—going crazy at the same place, same time, and in the same way?"

The doctor opened his mouth, closed it, lacing the fingers of one hand through the short hair above his temple. It was a long minute before he answered, but when he did there was something closer to calm in his eyes. "Pretty low," he said. "Without some sort of chemical or other external inducement… pretty impossibly low."

Dean opened his mouth, but the slam of something falling on linoleum and a rising commotion elsewhere in the clinic stopped whatever it was he was about to say.

Jack frowned, rising from the chair, moving quickly to check it out, swinging back another curtain and opening the door from the exam area into the hallway. When he did, Dean could hear what he thought was Charlie's voice amongst a background of broken chatter.

Sam dropped pretense, sitting up straight. His hair was shaggier than normal, and his posture showed the heaviness of his sleep, but his eyes were alert. "What's up?" he asked, gaze shifting out toward the hallway, cacophony of voices dulled with the shutting door.

"Don't know yet," Dean answered, moving to get off the bed.

"Stay here," Sam forestalled, hand to his chest. "I'll check it out."

It didn't exactly hurt, but Dean felt it when Sam moved away.

He didn't dwell on it, focused instead on Sam's order. Screw that, he thought, but didn't say it. Sam was already halfway out the room.

tbc