Disclaimer/Spoilers: See Chapter 1

A/N: Some of these scenes are turning out a bit longer than I expected so I think (no promises) we still have about three more chapters. My goal is to still finish this by the end of November.

Hope y'all enjoy, don't forget to review, reading y'all's thoughts, comments, predictions, and other musings are truly the highlight of my day.

The Last Line

This is the next line here

This is the next line again

Watch as it disappears

I know the last line

The last line is slowly closing in

Every time his brother's hand went to his chest and he made that horrible, wounded sound, Sam pressed a little harder on the gas pedal. Apart from a couple of short gas station breaks, he'd been driving for almost twenty-two hours straight. There wasn't much road left to cover, and he had passed exhausted at the last state line, was starting to feel each and every one of those twenty-two hours in his stiff, sore muscles. More than once, Sam had considered stopping; just for a few hours, just long enough to put a charge back in his batteries. But each time the opportunity came around he'd glance over at Dean, curled against the passenger door, each breath sawing past his too-pale lips in jagged, miserable pants, trembling fingers bouncing between digging into the fabric of his jeans and pressing against his chest so hard, Sam was beginning to worry he'd leave bruises.

It turned out that seeing his brother in such horrible pain was more than enough to give him the energy necessary to press on. He knew they were working on borrowed time, and that time was rapidly slipping through their fingers.

Sam tore his eyes away and laid his boot down against the gas pedal, silently throwing a prayer to anyone listening that they didn't run afoul of any cops looking to hand out speeding tickets like Halloween candy, because that was the last thing they needed at the moment.

As they crossed the South Dakota state line, Sam couldn't help but let out a sigh of relief. Bobby's house was just under an hour away, and they were going to make it. Just as the thought crossed his mind Dean sucked in a breath so harsh, it hurt Sam.

"Dean?" He felt his chest hitch along with his brother's as he watched Dean curl up so tightly that his forehead was almost lying against his knees.

One hand went to his chest and the other shot out, grappling at the dashboard. Tension spread through Dean's arms and his fingers curled into claws, nails leaving a line of crescent moon-shaped marks across the soft leather of the dashboard. A strangled cry bubbled up from his chest, forced its way through his clenched teeth.

Sam clutched at the steering wheel and warred with himself, knowing there was nothing he could do to ease his brother's pain, but unable to share this small, cramped space and simply watch him suffer through it. He chewed his bottom lip for a moment then cleared his throat. "So, uhh, the Sohalia? Its heart was in its stomach," he started hesitantly, hoping that if he couldn't physically lessen any of his brother's pain then maybe he could at least distract him from it.

He glanced over, couldn't yet tell if he had Dean's attention. "Well, not actually it's stomach," he continued, in a slightly louder voice. "More like its lower abdomen." Sam cringed at the weak, rambling attempt. As the silence stretched on, he began to worry that his brother couldn't hear him, or worse – was ignoring him all together. Then he was rewarded with a halting, broken reply.

"Said . . . tha' 'fore."

Dean was still folded over, his breath coming out in sharp, uneven, gasps that snuggled the border of hyperventilation, but Sam's heart swelled with encouragement at his brother's feeble attempt to play along. It wasn't much, but he'd take it.

"How'd . . . you . . .?"

"I didn't, not really." His heart thumped heavily against his chest as Dean tucked his head further down, a low, wounded growl rolling out from deep within his gut. "It, uh . . . well, they're part snake. right?" He raised his voice even louder, hoping to give his brother a vocal tether to cling to, instead of focusing on the feeling of his partnered souls trying to rip themselves apart. "Snakes, their, uh . . . their hearts, they can move around 'cause they don't have a diaphragm. So I thought, you know, maybe the Sohalia . . ."

"S'pretty . . . weak," Dean muttered, snorting painfully.

Sam let out a thin chuckle. "Yeah, well, it was either that or stabbing it at random, till I found the heart."

"Has . . . merits."

A tiny smile pulled at the very corner of Sam's mouth for just an instant before it sunk into a tight frown. "How you doing?" Even as the words were tripping off of the end of his tongue, he knew he was asking a stupid question, but he didn't have anything else to offer.

"Jus' pe-peach—" the word was broken off but an unabated cry of pain as Dean curled his hand into a fist and slammed it down against the dashboard. "Fuck!"

Fear twisted Sam's already knotted gut. "Jus-just try to breath, man. It'll be—" Be what? Okay? Over soon? He wasn't sure which to say. One was a lie, and the other too close to the truth.

It seemed like a lifetime passed before Dean shoved upright from the dashboard, unfolding himself to lean back against the seat once more. He kept his left hand firmly pressed against his sternum, almost like his palm had become a part of his chest.

"Almost there, dude. Just hang in a little longer." Sam once more pressed his foot against the accelerator, pushing the car as hard as he could. She growled, but complied. A few minutes later, the headlights bounced of the sign at the entrance to Bobby's scrap yard, and Sam couldn't help but feel giddy with relief. Bobby would know what to do. He always knew what to do.

He came an abrupt halt in the drive, sent a quick, silent apology to his brother's car as the tires of the Impala skidded across the loose gravel. He didn't waste any time in shoving his door open, pausing only long enough to grab the book from where it sat between them on the seat before crossing over to the passenger side to the soundtrack of the ticking, cooling engine.

Dean had already begun the slow process of unfolding himself, Sam reached out to help, only to be brushed away with a growl and a curt, "Got it."

Sam lifted his hands in surrender, but hovered close by as Dean slowly made it across the yard under his own steam. The front door swung open just as they reached the top porch step.

Bobby narrowed his eyes, studying them both for a moment. "'Bout time you got here. Stop for an ice cream social 'long the way?"

"Yeah." Dean leaned heavily against the railing, like it was the only thing keeping him on his feet. Sam had a feeling that was truer than any of them would care to admit. "Goo' to see . . . you, too." His voice was tight, strained, and his words were beginning to slur.

Bobby shifted his gaze over toward Sam, and he could see the concern and fear there, hidden under a veneer of nonchalance. Bobby knew they were cutting this one close, and he was just as worried as Sam that they may not have enough time left.

"Well, whatcha doin' just standing around? Waitin' on a red carpet invitation?" Bobby stepped back from the door, allowing them room to enter. "You both look like crap, by the way."

"Well, you know how . . . those, uuh . . . those ice cream . . . socials go." Dean tightened his hand around the railing then used it as leverage to shove off, stumbling forward a few steps until his hand collided with the door frame. He sagged there, gripping the edge of the door like a lifeline.

"Dean!" Sam stepped forward the same time as Bobby, and they each grabbed an arm in an effort to keep the man on his feet. As his fingers wrapped around his brother's bicep, he was startled at the impossible heat rolling off him. He pressed the palm of his free hand against the side of Dean's face. "Dude, you're burning up!"

"M'fine." Dean pulled his head away and gripped the door frame, trying to pull his weight back over his own two feet. "Jus' give me . . . minute." It seemed his brain and body had two different ideas about what should happen next, because no sooner did the last word tumble pass his lips than his knees decided to throw in the towel.

"Whoa!" Sam hastily adjusted his grip, drawing Dean's arm over his shoulder and hefting him up a bit to support his weight as Bobby took the other side, and together they all but carried Dean over to the couch.

"Fine, my ass," Bobby muttered as they deposited the suddenly and disturbingly pliant man onto the worn leather sofa.

Dean didn't respond, just curled forward, bracing his elbows against his knees and cradling his head in his hands.

Bobby regarded him for a moment before turning to Sam. "You got that book the Trickster told you about?"

Sam nodded. "Yeah." He reached into his coat and pulled out the old leather-covered book, handing it over to the older hunter without hesitation. "Hey, Bobby? You have a thermometer or something round here?"

Bobby nodded, jerking his thumb over his shoulder toward the kitchen. "Top drawer," the older man muttered distractedly as he disappeared into the next room with the book.

"Thanks." Sam covered the distance to the drawer in two short strides. He opened it, shoving aside random odds and ends until he found the item, then returned swiftly to his brother's side. "Dean." He tapped the thermometer against one of Dean's hands.

Dean lifted his head like it weighed a hundred pounds, and squinted at the small object. He scrunched his nose and pulled back away from it. "Sam . . ."

"No, Dean." His breath shook as his concern jumped in leaps and bounds to levels he hadn't even thought possible. He didn't need the thermometer to tell him his brother's temperature was frighteningly high he could feel the heat roll off him without even touching him. "You're really hot."

"Always . . . said."

Sam glared at his brother. "That's not funny."

"'s fine."

"Fine?" Sam's eyebrows arched up toward the ceiling. "Dean, you are dangerously hot – how is that fine?"

Dean winced, pressing his hands against the couch cushions in an attempt to shove himself into a more comfortable position. "S'been going for a while now."

Sam's eyes widened, then narrowed dangerously. "A while? You've had that fever for a while and you didn't say anything?"

His brother wouldn't look at him. "Didn't seem that important and besides, there's nothing you can do. Side effect, I guess."

He chewed on his bottom lip, then asked, "How long?"

Dean hitched a shoulder. "I dunno, Sam. Three, maybe four?"

"Hours?"

"Days."

"Days? Three or four days?" Sam pushed his hands through his hair, feeling suddenly scared and pissed and not sure which should take precedence. "Dean, why didn't you . . . a fever like this could kill you, man – you know that, right?"

Dean dragged his fingers across his forehead and blew out a breath. "Don't get your panties in a wad. Wasn't this high the whole time. Only really kicked up after the, uh . . . " He rolled his hand in the air, searching out the correct word. "The thing in the library."

"That's why you were sweating in the motel." Sam shook his head, wanting more than anything to hit his brother, to scream at him for being so cavalier with his life. He did neither, simply shoved the thermometer back into his brother's personal space in a wordless request that he use it, so he could know exactly how bad this was.

Dean glared at him, then sighed heavily, jerking the small item from Sam and shoving it under his tongue with a there, you happy sort of glare.

Sam folded his arms over his chest, watching Dean shoot him alternating dirty and guilty looks while they waited.

A loud, anxious chirp cut through the air, declaring not only that the thermometer had Dean's temperature pegged, but also that it wasn't good. Sam grabbed the item before Dean got a chance and looked down at the readout. His heart jumped into his throat. "Christ."

"That good, huh?" Dean lifted his chin, trying to get his own look without giving away just how worried he was about the result.

Sam chewed on his bottom lip, shifting his eyes down to his slumped brother. "Dean, your temperature is 105.8." Saying it aloud was even worse than seeing it. He needed to do something, now. They had to cool Dean down before his brain literally boiled inside his own skull. "Dean—"

"Boys!" Bobby interrupted, walking back into the room with short, heavy steps. Deep lines etched his brow as he held up the book. "We got a problem."

Sam felt his heart plummet down into his stomach. He should have known nothing would be so easy. "That's . . . that's the right book? Right?" It had to be the correct book; they didn't have time to go out and search down another. Dean didn't have time.

Bobby shook his head. "Can't say. I can't read any of it."

"You—what?" Sam glanced to Dean then back to Bobby. Sam had never once considered for even a moment that Bobby wouldn't be able to read, or at least translate the book. "I thought you could translate Enochian."

"I can. But this—" Bobby walked over to them, handing the book to Dean when he waggled his fingers for it. "—it's a different version of Enochian, one I ain't ever seen. I recognize a few things but most of it. . ." He shook his head.

"That's 'cause . . . it's the original version." Dean's voice cut through, tight with pain but firm, confident in the information.

Sam whipped his head around to find Dean thumbing through the book, looking intently down at each page like he knew exactly what it said. "Can . . . Can you . . .?" Sam trailed off, not quite sure what to think at the moment.

"Read it?" Dean looked up, nodded. "Yeah, as fluently as the . . . ones tha' created it."

Sam's jaw dropped. "How? Only a fraction of the language has ever been recorded, how do you . . . how do you even know it's the original?"

Dean looked at both of them in turn. "'s a long story."

Bobby's eyebrows jumped up, disappearing under the tattered brim of his hat. "Yeah, well, we get this soul thing of yours fixed and there will be plenty of time for long stories."

Sam bit his tongue, pushing back his overwhelming curiosity of how his older brother managed to learn an entire language that was dead and buried and turned to dust eons ago. Another question to add to the ever growing list. He gestured to the beaten book in Dean's hands. "You think you can find the spell we need in that?"

Dean nodded, then licked his lips. "Yeah. Just—" He squeezed his eyes shut, his right hand jumping to his chest. After a moment he let out a shaky breath and wrapped his fingers around the book. "Just give me a minute."

"May not have too many of them left," Bobby noted solemnly. When Sam shot him a sharp look, he glanced away, grabbed a pad and pencil off of a nearby stack of books and dropped them at Dean's elbow.