Chapter 26

Outside Lander, Wyoming, 1996

Dean woke—groggily—to John's prodding twice during the night. Both times still feeling rampantly heavy with panic and need-to-sleep.

But still, he woke. And knew it—paranoia receding subtly—even if both awakenings were hazy-brief and barely remembered.

His dad spoke to him—both times.

Or Dean believed he had, because John's voice stayed in his dreams after, slipping through them in alternating tones of worried sharpness and concerned comfort. The first time it was the latter, whispering something like, "It's okay, son. You woke up. See? Now go back to sleep,"—softly insistent and just loud enough to penetrate the shocky remainder of fading fear and pain.

The second time, Dad's voice lingered longer, forcing Dean awake long enough to repeat his name and claw for foggy facts about where he was and what he remembered—proof that Dean's fear of not waking up had made John worry about it too. Proof that, though Dean did not have a head injury, John was dealing with the aftermath of this as best he could.

After that, the sleep was deeper—mind unconsciously more confident in the probability of waking up. Once might have been incidental. Twice was a pattern. It was deep enough that the third waking came too soon. Dean's body and mind both complained against it, resulting in an off kilter perception of place and time, buried under the cotton feel of his stinging senses, as he struggled to figure out what'd sparked his consciousness.

He didn't hear his father's voice.

Not at first.

Which made the back of his neck tingle and caused a wary burn in his gut.

It was still harder than he would have thought just to make his eyes follow his command to open. Not difficult enough to bring the return of panic, but enough to let him know his reflexes weren't just going to come bouncing back. He blinked slowly at the ceiling—grey morning light filtering over the shadows through half-drawn curtains.

The room was still—felt still.

The door creaked and Dean rolled his heavy head left, burn in his gut easing when he saw his dad. As their eyes caught, John sighed on the edge of a weary scowl and rubbed a hand over his chin. "Sammy, I told you to let him sleep."

Dean blinked again, shifting his eyes around until he found his brother standing at the end of the bed, hand hovering guiltily over Dean's foot. In the last few days, Dean had become so accustomed to identifying his life by sound and touch he felt surprised not to have noticed Sam sooner, even knowing how quiet his brother could be when he set his mind to it.

With a briefly defiant glance at their father, Sammy pulled his lips tightly together and frowned—the corners of his mouth drawn down almost comically, making his chin dimple as he lowered his eyes to his shirt front, toying at the hem with his hands. He looked so… little boy. Dean wanted to call him on it, to tease him—to laugh. He didn't though, something else in the way Sammy stood stopping him—something vulnerable, something scared. His brother wasn't trying to be comical and Dean was sure, if he poked at him just then, Sam might start crying, or yelling, or worse.

John sighed once more. Closing the door, he set a coffee on the table—one (which meant Dean wasn't getting any)—and stepped forward to lay a large hand on Sam's shoulder. It was subtle, but Dean saw the small smile that cracked John's stern expression. Sammy didn't—head still lowered. Dean figured his dad was seeing the same little boy in Sammy that Dean was—the little boy neither one of them saw very much these days.

As Dean watched, John's grip gentled, ghosting up to settle at the back of Sam's neck.

"I just wanted to make sure," Sam mumbled. "And you said we could check him again."

Watching Sam's face, the burn in Dean's stomach intensified. He grunted, tried to shift, and groaned—immediately halted by the stiffness seizing his body.

John's face hardened. "Take it easy, Dean," he ordered—sharpness more genuine than when he'd reproved Sam.

Dean bit his lip, and acquiesced with a nod.

John turned back to Sammy. "I said we'd check up on him after breakfast, that he needed sleep to get better. And you still owe me four sets before we eat."

"Daaad."

"Not negotiable."

Sammy groaned—overdramatic in his protest. But at the same time, his eyes shot to Dean, holding his gaze with something not overdramatic—something serious and evaluating and lingeringly afraid. Afraid in a way Dean wasn't sure he'd seen before, and wasn't comfortable with.

"Come on." Dad's hand found Sam's shoulder again. "Get goin', you need to get out of this room and get some air. Dean will still be here when you're done."

Dean mustered what he hoped was a reassuring nod.

Sammy frowned but made for the door with a longsuffering sigh.

Dad followed him, pulling the curtain open all the way. "Stay where I can see you," he ordered.

"Yessir."

Lander, Wyoming, 2006

Driving the Impala was one thing. Sam had done it before—a few rare occasions before leaving for school (none of which had ever been at Dean's suggestion), and an almost uncountable amount since he'd been back.

Driving the Impala with someone else's brother in the passenger seat was something else entirely. It felt wrong—in an elemental way, creating a pang in Sam's gut that felt like tearing.

It was a stupid feeling—more evidence that he hadn't shaken off his nightmare, more evidence of how much this job had gotten to both him and his brother, more evidence of how far down the job before had taken them. The lingering tidal wave of Dean and his heart and Nebraska. The earthquake had been bad enough—waiting for the tsunami to recede was worse.

Why did these things come at them like this—one on top of another, on top of another?

Sam growled, low in his throat, then tried to turn it into a cough when Jack's clinical eyes looked over, veiling concern and re-enforcing the wrongness of Jack not being Dean.

Sam focused back on the road, flipping his brights on briefly to read the tiny sign labeling the cross-street then took the turn, thinking that, even though Jack couldn't help not being Dean, and Dean staying behind was what had to happen, and even though this feeling was stupid, it didn't stop him from paying attention to it—didn't stop it from feeling real. Real and… cold. A seeping cold Sam wanted to blame on the weather—melting into his joints, turning his knuckles white against the soft black steering wheel. The farther he and Jack traveled from the Lodge—from Dean—the more it increased. Dark, cloudy, and unsettling—like the day.

The ironic part was that he couldn't seem to blame it on his supposed ESP.

The ironic part was that he wanted to.

For the first time since discovering some of his nightmares were real, Sam wanted it to be real. At least then he'd have something. But it wasn't supposed ESP.

He knew it.

Somehow, he knew it.

And that was stupid too.

Dean paced.

Unsteady but deliberate. Footprints tracing a thin line from one wall to the other—thicker where he paused to stand in front of the information plastered on the north side. Jaw clenched in concentration, fingers reaching up to trace a path on the map or to ghost over notes and articles—as though touch would make the information clearer to him.

He called Sam on his cell phone.

Twice.

The first time to ensure reception in town wasn't as non-existent as it'd been out at Jack and Charlie's. The second time just to—just to make sure the first time hadn't been a fluke.

"You're not, like, worried about me, are you?" Sam asked the second time, humor and teasing cloaking affection and worry.

The question included too many emotions and too much truth for Dean to deal with all at once.

He growled and hung up.

Which was probably what Sam had meant him to do—manipulative bastard.

Dean's fingers itched to redial the connection almost as soon he cut it off.

Charlie's subdued voice stopped him. "They okay?"

Dean had almost forgotten Charlie was in the room. He looked at him then—guessed from the tight movements and hooded expression that the kid was barely holding himself back from crashing after everything he'd learned that night, which Dean wanted to ignore but suddenly couldn't, because this was someone's little brother and Sam's friend and—"You're not going to freak out on me, are ya?" he asked gruffly, unaware of how tightly his hand was squeezing the cell phone as he did, aware that his own freak out was barely in check.

Charlie closed his eyes, fingered the stitches disappearing into his hairline, and hooked a hand behind his neck. "I'm still waiting for Rod Serling to show up and kick off the theme for The Twilight Zone, if that's what you mean."

Dean felt one corner of his mouth twitch. "Classic TV geek. Sam's friend. I should've figured," he shot, but it was a lie. Sam's classic TV obsession had never included The Twilight Zone, and by the look on his face, Charlie knew it.

It was weird, interacting with someone besides their father who knew things about Sam. Actual real things. More damning proof that not all of Sam's Stanford persona had been pretend. Proof that tiny parts of real-Sam had leaked out even without Dean or Dad there to remind him who he really was—leaked out even though Sam had clearly tried so hard not to let them.

Charlie's eyes drifted to the wall, minutely trembling as he rubbed his neck again.

Dean heard him swallow.

"He—Sam—and I watched a Twilight Zone marathon one night after midterms. On one of those… classic TV channels. All night. Like, twelve episodes in a row." His eyes flashed, going narrow then wide. "He said… Sam told me the show reminded him of his brother." He trailed off, blinked his gaze back to the floor and sat down, head in his hands. "It was like, the only time he even mentioned you…"

Now Dean swallowed—tried to ignore the sting. Tried to ignore the invasive thoughts of Sam not wanting him there, of Sam not needing him there and, despite Sam's protests, thoughts that Sam might have really been better off back there in… that life. That maybe he'd been safer. That maybe, if Dean hadn't dragged him away, Sam's elusive imaginary-life bubble might have remained intact.

Which was stupid. The thing—the demon—would've come for Jessica anyway…

Maybe.

"Of course, I thought he meant you just like… liked the show or something," Charlie finished.

Dean swallowed again, the lump clogging his throat abruptly thick. He turned away to palm his sternum, pressing down over his heart with the ridge of his thumb, trying to force out the rising tide of emotions that didn't want to leave.

Growling, giving in, he lifted the phone and dialed once more. "Sam, barrier the grave before you start digging," he barked and bit down on the rest of it, hanging up before Sam could protest or agree, hanging up before he could say something stupid like—whatever that ghost did to me, I can feel it when you're away. And what if something happens to you? What if I'm not there to stop it?

The cemetery, hidden in the hills at the edge of town, felt… dark.

Darker than Sam expected, even with a storm covered sky.

It was deserted, as Sam expected it to be.

Quiet.

The sound of the bordering river all that greeted them when they got out of the car.

Quiet in a way that felt… abrupt. Stirring the hairs on his arms. More particularly after listening to Dean issue his strident order over the phone before hanging up on him again—barrier the grave.

It was an extra-cautious measure they didn't usually take. But as Sam opened the trunk to re-examine their salt supply, he thought they probably had enough to do it. And figured tonight, for Dean, he'd take the extra step in deference to his brother having stayed behind. Silently, he handed Jack the canisters before shouldering Dean's army green duffle with the rest of their supplies. Gripping a shovel in one hand, and a wide-beamed flashlight in the other, he led Jack into the graveyard.

The cemetery was expansive—Earl was supposed to be buried in the northwest quadrant—nearest the river. "I think it's this way," he said, just to be saying something. "Look for a town marker—I don't think there will be a headstone."

"Okay," Jack agreed, clicking on the extra light Sam had handed him.

Sam's cell phone felt heavy in his pocket as he walked and he half-expected it to ring again. To be Dean, again. Which was fine, as long as it meant Dean was still staying put.

It was weird feeling this protective of his brother—wearying. Encompassing.

It made his teeth itch.

Made him wonder, had he really ever seen his brother as so… always there?

Because it's not like he hadn't seen Dean hurt before. Wasn't like he hadn't been scared for him before.

What made this so different?

Too many close calls?

Because Dean had now been too sick for too long?

Because Dad wasn't here and Sam felt more responsible? Or—

Abruptly, Sam thought of the fight he'd had with Dean after their Dad had called them—the fight that had temporarily separated them. Where Sam had met Meg and told her everything about his family that drove him crazy, all the things that made him feel completely justified in leaving—justified in going his own way, in getting on a bus to California—before uneasy thoughts of Dean and animated killer scarecrows had suddenly started to invade.

He wondered if his pre-Stanford self might have gotten on that bus to California anyway, whether Dean had answered his phone or not.

His post-Stanford self knew better. His post-Stanford self wasn't willing to take the risk.

Pastor Jim had once told him that a sign of youth was thinking you were immune to something just because it hadn't happened to you yet. At the time he'd said it, Sam thought Pastor Jim was just reinforcing his cautionary mandate to check the swimming hole for debris after a storm—before any of them jumped in and accidentally stepped on board with a rusty nail. Now, he was pretty sure Jim had been talking about his whole life.

Pre-Stanford Sam had kept expecting his Dad to wake up one day and realize his view of the world was wrong. That Sam was right—about everything. Sam never expected to be the one with the shoe on the other foot. He'd actually thought he could leave and be normal, that he could pretend he didn't know the things he knew—as if leaving their messed up life and pretending to be like everyone in the world who didn't know would make him immune to loss.

And then Jess—a painful enough event all on its own, but one that sharpened every thought of his mother he'd never let himself dwell on before.

Then came not being able to find Dad.

And Dean's electrocution.

Sam was grown up now. He had no delusions that he was immune to anything. Which made the terror—the possibility—of losing Dean so much more than it ever had been. Fresh and hot and keenly there.

Was this how Dean had felt, at age four, after losing Mom?

How had he been able to stand it? Having had something so constantly there, someone who wasn't supposed to ever leave suddenly just be gone? It made sense now, the way Dean stuck to Dad and Sam like loss was all he could think about. It'd been there right in front of him, but Sam had never really seen it—distracted by being so frustrated with all the things he didn't understand about his brother.

Dad had seen it—he must have. Maybe he ignored it most of the time, but when they'd come to Lander that first time, he'd known who the ghost would go for.

Sam's dream came back to him—Dad asking, did you lose him?

Scary how automatic his answer had been. How real it had felt. Dean wasn't supposed to be losable.

Sam bit his lip—nearly laughing aloud at the naive thought.

Despite the effort, a mirthless sound escaped him—bitter, or crazy sounding, in the silence of the graveyard.

"You okay?"

Jack's voice startled him. Not the question—the voice, as deep as Dean's but tonally different. Yet the words were so perfectly timed—so precisely when he would have expected Dean to ask the same question.

He swallowed twice, before he shrugged his answer. "Just worried… 'bout my brother." Jack didn't say anything, and for whatever reason, Sam felt compelled to continue. He cleared his throat. "He doesn't really do—waiting—very well."

Jack nodded, saying nothing, but the hint of expression on his face gave Sam the impression that the good doctor had drawn those conclusions about Dean all on his own. And Sam didn't have to add the more concerning worry—that Dean might somehow pass out again during their separation, that he'd get back to the motel and find him, again—down for the count.

Flashing his light across the headstones, he checked the river's location and readjusted their course, glancing back at Jack, who also looked worried, despite his classically schooled features. "So, I guess Charlie didn't take it too well?" Sam ventured.

Jack moved even with him, swinging his own light over the markers around them. Even in the dark, Sam could see Jack's lips twitch into a smile that caught Sam off guard. "I knew he'd be mad at me for not telling him about Elly sooner. He's just like that—takes things personally, like I didn't tell him because I didn't trust him or something."

"But you do?"

Jack shook his head, but it wasn't a negation. He gave another half grin—an expression that reminded Sam painfully of Dean. Healthy Dean.

"It was never about trust," said Jack.

Charlie drew his legs up—resting elbows on bent knees as he fingered the stitches disappearing into his hairline and watched Dean Winchester pace—like a tiger in a cage.

Like a very large tiger in a very tiny cage.

Charlie touched his stitches again. His head hurt—behind his eyes, at the top of his neck. Which was comforting, really. Because maybe it meant he had a really serious head injury and was therefore having one of those insanely realistic dreams. A hallucinogenic dream. Maybe he'd wake up on the floor back at the cabin where the vase had smashed into him. Someone—Donna or Garrett—would tell him there really had been an earthquake despite negating seismographic readings. Someone would tell him objects hadn't been flying off the shelf at random, that Sara hadn't been screaming like a lunatic about someone having moved too far away from her.

And someone would tell him that Jack and Sam—formerly the two most levelheaded people on the planet—weren't really off digging up a grave somewhere to… light it on fire… or whatever.

Maybe he really was in The Twilight Zone.

The thought made him look over at Dean, who was whispering something to himself, running his fingers over the map with the colored pins, a low slope to his shoulders.

Charlie blinked, and thought—if this was just a dream, or The Twilight Zone—what harm was there in indulging it a tad? Besides, there were things he wanted to know. Large pacing tiger or not, Sam's brother was the designated tour guide to this land he'd stepped into.

"So these ghosts…" he trailed off, stuck by the insanity.

"What?" Dean questioned, but didn't look at him.

Charlie cleared his throat, and tried again. "These ghosts," he started, "how… I mean… why…" He was lost, fumbling. Jack had given him a breakdown, and he'd gathered a bit more from watching the conversation afterward but—

Dean still didn't look at him, but he grunted and started speaking, filling in the spaces of Charlie's question, like he was used to it. "Ghosts are usually spirits that can't move on. Like when you have an argument with someone and just can't let it go, you keep rehashing it and telling it to anyone who will listen. Only, in this case, all three of them couldn't let go—of life, of each other. Whatever happened between them kind of stuck them together."

"So they're… stuck in an eternal argument that started over fifty years ago? And since they haven't been able to resolve it yet… the people they latch onto are the people they think will listen to their side?"

"Maybe." Dean paced away from the map to pick up the pad of paper on the chest between the beds.

"Okay, and they're like… mixed up. How does that work exactly… and why don't they do the same thing to the people they mess with… some disappearing… and… I mean, if they're stuck together… don't they all have to go after the same thing?" Charlie swallowed. "I can't believe I'm having this conversation."

"Not exactly," Dean explained absently, relating his three-ghosts-in-the-same-car analogy while rubbing at his forehead with the pad he'd picked up—like he had a headache of his own.

"So you're saying Addison Wright is dead because the ghosts all agreed on the direction of their car? Or because the right one was in the driver's seat? What'd they do, pull over and take a vote? Flip a coin? 'I get to drive this time, you drove last time?'"

"Something like that," Dean allowed.

Of course, thought Charlie. Maybe he wasn't in an episode of The Twilight Zone. Maybe it was an episode of Amazing Stories—he'd always liked the one about the Mummy. He almost said the quip aloud but stopped himself, abruptly afraid Dean Winchester would tell him those were supposedly real too.

Charlie fell back into silence—watching, and if Dean was aware of it, he didn't seem to mind.

Watching him made Charlie remember again The Twilight Zone reruns—he and Sam wrecked from midterms. The sharpness of stress and lack of sleep had hit their peak of influence around episode seven, when Charlie had noticed Sam wearing a deep line between his eyebrows as he stared at the television—an ache in his eyes Charlie had known existed but had rarely seen evidence of.

It wasn't until episode ten that Sam's hollow voice said the show reminded him of his brother. "I worry about him sometimes—just… if he's okay."

"Do you ever talk to him?" Charlie had asked. Cautious. Because Sam didn't talk about this stuff beyond the odd casual reference.

Sam had merely shrugged his answer. But Charlie had known then, whatever the story was with Sam and his family, it wasn't about Sam not loving them.

Dean walked back to the wall, holding the pad, furrowing his brow at the map like it held the answers of the universe.

Still watching, Charlie cleared his throat—a little louder than necessary.

This time, Dean did look at him, the expression on his face so rawly intense it felt like sharp gravel scraping against bare knees—danger and worry against a graying pallor.

And Charlie thought—if he were Dean's brother, he would probably worry about him too.

Sam sunk his shovel into the dirt, trying to keep his full mind on the simple task of digging a grave. Water droplets kept sliding down his knuckles, dripping from the rainwater collecting in his hair. The on-again off-again drizzle was starting up again. Sam paused in his shoveling to walk a circle around the barrier of salt, checking for spots where it might have clumped or dissolved.

Jack paused in his shoveling also, looking muddy and soaked around the edges. Eyes wary for trouble Sam might sense.

Shaking his head, Sam jumped back in the hole.

"What about the rest of it?" he asked two shovelfuls later, wanting to address at least one of the things weighing on his mind but not sure how to form the whole question—not sure if Jack would get what he was really asking—and feeling sort of surprised how much the answer mattered to him.

"What?"

"Charlie. How did he take all the… ghost stuff?"

To Sam's surprise Jack tipped his head back and laughed. When he spoke, he seemed to know exactly what Sam was fishing for. "Don't worry, he'll come around."

Sam took a breath with a tiny edge of relief—realizing belatedly that he'd stopped shoveling while waiting for the answer. At least it didn't sound like Jack was saying Charlie never wanted to speak to him again. Sam wasn't sure if it was just the friendship he was worried about. Maybe it was selfish but it was the symbolism of it too—the tie to Jess, the tie to the simple world he'd once lived in.

Behind him, shoveling steadily, Jack laughed again. "And, if he doesn't come around, he'll at least find a way to have us both committed—visit us every week until they declare us sane again."

This time, Sam laughed too—just enough to ease a fraction of the tightness in his chest. And it worked, for the most part… cutting a chip off his worry and easing the cold knotting in his stomach.

He shook himself to get moving again, resuming quickly, sinking his shovel deeper and deeper into the soggy dirt, vision narrowed to his task.

He noticed when the drizzle left them again.

He didn't notice the fog that started to take its place—crawling its way off the river—creeping in over one low row of headstones, then another, in slow white puffs.

And he didn't notice the old man with the craggily bitter smile walking slowly with it.

Dean kept coming back to three things. The map. Addison Wright. And Charlie's sarcastic question about casserole ghosts stopping to take votes on their next cohesive action. And beneath those things—the worrisome way Elly'd looked at Sam—the worrisome and cryptic way she'd spoken.

They needed the location of the third body. They could just end it all if they had the location of the third body. Dean had a hunch, but hunch was all it was. They could try to confirm it using the same method their dad had used to find Prisal One—but neither time, nor the needed supplies were on their side. They couldn't waste time shooting in the dark.

They needed to know why Addison Wright hadn't come back. She'd argued with a loved one—same as the others. What made her different? Had her feelings been stronger, more desperate? When his friends had hiked faster than him, leaving him behind in the fog, Trace Collins had supposedly feared they weren't coming back for him. Though she'd never said it, Elly'd been afraid Jack would return to finish his residency in Boston rather than stay with her. But Addison—she'd already left her husband. Damage already done. Was that important? Did it matter?

All three had been afraid—

Dean started, staring at the map—at the spot where Addison's husband said she'd disappeared. At the spot where Sam had hunched and groaned in pain even though it'd been daylight and there'd been no visible ghost. "Sam's been having dreams about me," he said, not realizing it'd been out loud until Charlie looked over at him with confusion.

"Sam's been having dreams—nightmares—about me," he said louder. "We thought… he thought they were connected to his visions but—"

"Connected to his what?"

"—but they're not." Dean was talking to himself now. Three ghosts. One already weakened—another about to be. Even if Dean didn't know how these ghosts were deciding on the direction of their car, he knew for certain—once Earl's body was salted and burned—the ghost that wanted Sam would be in the driver's seat.

Spinning abruptly, he grabbed the shotgun he'd laid out next to the TV, then started toward the nightstand with the extra ammunition, blood rushing in his ears, angry at the way he had to reach out to the bed to catch his balance when something in his chest clenched—unaware of Charlie's wide eyes or the way he'd scrambled to his feet.

"Son of a bitch," Dean growled, all the rest of the words he wanted to say trapped behind dizziness, but valiantly bulldozing a trench through his mind.

Outside Lander, Wyoming, 1996

Biting his lip, Dean flattened his hands against the mattress, dug his heels into it too, making a valiant attempt to shift himself up against the headboard. The effort cost him more than he thought it would—white lightness buzzing in his head in the aftermath of the few inches he'd gained.

"Dean," John reprimanded, but moved closer to help Dean sit higher. "You shouldn't be up yet."

Drawing air through his nose, Dean hoped he didn't look as pale as he felt, but didn't otherwise respond to his father's gruff worry. He let his eyes flick past him, out the window to where he could see Sammy doing sit-ups on a wide flat platform in the middle of the playground. "Is he okay?" he asked. The look Sammy'd had on his face earlier still bothered him.

There was silence, then a sigh before his dad answered. "He's been having nightmares—bad one last night. He tried to wake you up but you weren't having it—took about five minutes for me to get you awake enough for Sammy to calm down. You remember me waking you up?"

Dean nodded, but felt how his eyes got wide, and couldn't hide his hesitation when he answered, "twice?"

Dad nodded, shadowed relief on his face telling Dean he'd given the right answer. "That ghost messed with you good. But it's gone. It'll just take a few days for you to feel back to normal."

Dean started to nod, but his gaze flicked to Sammy again—now doing pushups on the same platform.

He was startled when John reached out to rub his head. John paused, looking almost embarrassingly aware of the display of affection now that Dean was awake, but it didn't stop him from doing it. His own eyes flicked out the window. "He was scared for you," John explained. "You kind of… rocked his foundation there, kiddo. When you start to look a little less pale, he'll get over it."

Dean swallowed, trying to consciously force out the tight burning in his chest, and, using weakness as the excuse, leaned into his father's gesture, grateful for the rub of the calloused thumb across his forehead, wishing he could tell his dad about cracked foundations and Mom and fears—and how damn grateful he'd been for the stupid singing.

tbc

Thank you Geminigrl11 and Faith.