AN: It's unofficially summer here in Michigan. How do I know? I have a tan line from my flip flops! Wherever and whenever you're reading this, may you have plenty of sunshine in your life! :-)

Ooh, author is feeling sappy. Wonder what that means for the story? This chapter may be late, but at least it's long!

By the way, did anyone "recognize" Irv from season 9, episode 2 Devil May Care?

* * *

Trust none of what you hear

And less of what you see

This is what will be

This is what will be

Bruce Springsteen in Magic

* * *

Dean really had never intended to sleep for so long, but he had to admit he felt a whole lot better afterwards. And Sam was still sleeping when Dean woke up. Despite his time unconscious, the kid obviously needed the rest. But actually, his rest was no longer peaceful.

Sam lay mostly still, but his brow was furrowed and his fists were clenched. Regretfully, Dean called his name. "Sam? Sammy? Wake up, man." He was about to take his life in his hands and grab Sam's shoulder when Sam's eyes flew open and he bolted to a half-seated position.

"Whoa, whoa!" Dean was able to catch Sam as he collapsed down and ease him down instead. It was clear how rotten that had felt by the look on his face. Dean left his hand on Sam's shoulder until his breathing slowed.

"Good dreams?" Dean asked ironically.

"Just dreams." Sam rubbed his eyes tiredly.

"No...?" Dean hesitated. Creepy nightmare attacks, he filled in silently.

"Like I said, just dreams. An unholy trifecta of snakes and mice and beetles."

Dean barely avoided shuddering. Sam's recitation of how the oneiroi had attacked him before he lost consciousness was horrible even to hear. He was pretty sure he'd have lost his mind if trapped and subjected to the same things, not even thinking about being buried alive.

Knowing blatant sympathy would probably freak Sam out, Dean just said, "Unholy trifecta? Who even talks like that? Of course, what should I expect from the kid who wore out a copy of the dictionary?"

"I wouldn't have needed to if you and Dad would've just told me what words meant. But no, Dad said I could only ask one question every ten minutes." Sam's tone was petulant, but a smile teased at the edges of his mouth.

Dean would never, ever tell Sam how much he'd missed that smile during the Stanford years. "You and your questions! Maybe you wouldn't've had so many if you weren't reading Moby Dick and Silas Marner when you were twelve."

Sam's smile broke through. "How do you remember that crap?"

"Well, I'm the one who procured most of your books, and if I got ones you considered too little kiddish, you got bored and were a total pain in my ass." Dean visually assessed Sam as they talked. Despite the sleep, he still looked tired. Of course, he'd looked tired for months. But he seemed more comfortable in terms of pain than before.

"Uh-huh. You think I don't know that you read most of those books, too?" Sam was giving Dean the same visual assessment he was getting, something that made him look uncomfortably like Dad. And actually, Dean had been pretty sure Sam hadn't known he had read a lot of those books too. He had a reputation to uphold. Rotten, too-smart little brother.

"I don't know what you're talking about. So, how you doing?"

Sam considered the question. "Not bad, actually. Maybe they'll let me walk." He glanced at the bathroom hopefully. "How about you? Hey, take your crutches."

"I'm not going anywhere, dumbass." Dean reached across Sam to push the call light. "We'll see what the doc says about you walking."

To Dean's surprise, the doctor gave his permission for Sam to walk to the bathroom -- with a walker, an orderly, and a promise to lean a lot of his weight on his arms. "As long as you stay in bed the rest of the day and all night," the medico added. "And take pain medication so you get a real good night's sleep."

Dean saw Sam's hesitation, weighing his options. He had a feeling that the biggest problem lay in the meds -- and not being able to stop the dreams. He stared at Sam, willing him to understand that he wasn't leaving. He'd walked away from Sam once on this case, and he had no intention of doing it again. He saw the second Sam got it.

Sam nodded to the doctor. "Yeah, okay. So, is Dean actually admitted? What's up with him?"

Dean sighed loudly, pretending aggravation. He'd have been annoyed if he'd thought that this was just about Sam trying to upset the natural order of things and look after Dean. But this was also about the oneiroi's tortures and not being alone.

"I'd like it if he stayed the night, actually," the doctor admitted ruefully, like he expected Dean to refuse.

Dean pretended to think about it. This gave him the perfect out to stay with Sam without either of them admitting how much they needed it. "I guess so," he said finally. "Just stick another bed in here and I'll make sure Sammy behaves."

The quickly banked relief in Sam's eyes was an absolution, and because of it, Dean hardly even mocked him for using a walker.

Eventually, Sam was back in bed having taken some oral pain meds ("it's not that bad" the liar had told the doc) and the brothers were alone again, and talk naturally turned to their plan.

"Do you really think that's going to work?" Dean asked. He didn't doubt his brother's brain, but it felt like they were taking a big chance with no idea if it would even work.

"I really do." Sam sounded confident, and his tired eyes lit with the excitement of a new idea, of making a plan. He didn't look all that much different than he had at four when Dean's careful reading lessons had suddenly clicked and he discovered that he could sound out words. Or at twelve when he'd found an old newspaper article that let him figure out whose angry spirit was terrorizing a homeless encampment. Dean wondered if Sam had found that much joy in discovery at Stanford and ruthlessly pushed the thought away. Dean wasn't the one who'd stolen that dream from Sam, and there was no point in wallowing right now.

Sam continued, "While nobody knows exactly why oneiroi form, we do know that they need an anchor on the physical plane. And over time, their very existence becomes dependent on that anchor or avatar. They even take on its characteristics."

Dean rolled his eyes so he didn't smile indulgently and ruin his image even further. They'd talked about all this already, but Sam was too deep into geeking out to realize it.

"All the lore says weakening that physical anchor will weaken the oneiroi. Then you impale it with iron and can banish it with an incantation and an offering to Nyx."

One word caught Dean's attention. "Banish? I thought Bobby said that would destroy it for good."

Sam's face wrinkled in thought. "The Latin word used is dispello, which can either mean to disintegrate or to drive away. But there's no record of any of them coming back after this was done."

"But even if Bobby can pull it off, it doesn't really destroy the magnet stuff."

"No." Sam spoke slowly, putting his thoughts into words. "But it changes a fundamental property of it. It will...kind of make it into something else. And that should damage or destroy the oneiroi's link to it. That's how elements work on the supernatural, the same way pure silver kills werewolves and sterling silver only pisses them off."

Dean found himself nodding. It sounded good. Of course, no battle plan survives contact with the enemy, so they needed to consider all possible outcomes. "Then it really comes down to logistics. Betcha good money even Bobby's having a hard time figuring out the how of it."

"You'd lose that bet," said Bobby, walking in with a heavy-looking duffel slung over his shoulder and closing the door behind him. "It just so happens that I found a place with enough oomph and Irv's hooking us up with the equipment I'll need as we speak."

"You've been busy," said Dean in admiration. It was a big ask, but he should never have doubted Bobby's resourcefulness. Bobby, like Dad, had a unique ability to simply get shit done.

"Yeah, well, this thing's a nasty bastard and it's gotta be pissed that Sam and the girl both got away. I wanna get this done ASAP." From the grim look on Bobby's face, Dean was sure that the man was feeling guilty that he'd never been able to kill the thing in the past. As much as he detested being on the sidelines while someone else finished the Hunt, especially when the monster had tortured his little brother, Dean knew Bobby needed this.

Sam was nodding. "You're right, Bobby. It's...hurt and pissed, and just waiting for another chance at us."

Dean stared at Sam, seeing Bobby do the same. Sam shifted uncomfortably under their scrutiny. "It was in my head," he said defensively. "And now when I dream, it's like it's there, hovering and waiting for another shot. It can't get me here, but...it wants me to know that it's coming for us. It wants me, us, scared."

Sam sounded more pissed than afraid. Atta boy. "Then let's get to work," said Bobby decisively. "I told Stella we have bureau business and we're not to be disturbed for as long as possible. She said," he grinned, "not to tire out those two adorable boys who took such a sweet nap earlier."

Dean groaned and Sam rolled his eyes.

"So, we need to stay off the magnetite line until this is done."

"We're staying right here tonight," Dean informed Bobby. "Sounds like Grace is too, so it can't get to her either."

"Good." Bobby nodded again and pulled out a book that appeared to be about the same age as dirt. "Research time, then. We need to find the exact offering we need for Nyx, and it should be in one of these books."

"Put me in, coach," said Sam enthusiastically, pushing the button to raise the head of the bed. Dean's reaction was more muted. Research. Oh, joy.

"Not you, Dean. You an' I are gonna talk strategy. Irv's a great guy to have at my back, but plannin' ain't really his forte."

Thank pitchforks and pointy ears, no research. "You got it, Bobby."

Over the next hours, Sam fell asleep twice over his books and still managed to find the offering for Nyx.

"The offering must include one item to represent each of her favorite children. A bowl of water for Chaos, something made of pure silver for Prophecy or Fate, salt for Sleep, blood for Geras or Old Age, and something no longer living for Death.

Simple, for once. The incantation was simple, too. Great goddess Nyx, accept my offering and grant me leave to banish your errant child. Language didn't even matter, though the resident nerds decided that Latin was the best choice because there was inherent power in it or some such weirdness.

Irv also proved himself a valuable ally by showing up with real, non-hospital food before he and Bobby left to complete their preparations.

Despite all of the activity, Dean was bored and frustrated long before it was late enough for Bobby and Irv to be committing their well-meaning felony.

Only playing poker was (barely) keeping Dean from going completely insane. Typically, if they were conscious, Winchesters didn't stay in the hospital, and the enforced inactivity was grating. If Sam weren't being such a brat about him using his crutches, he'd be pacing.

Dean blinked at his dwindling pile of cottonballs, their currency, further evidence of just how distracted he was. Sam was dozing between every hand, and he was still soundly beating Dean.

Finally, Dean decided that he was being selfish making Sam stay awake to help distract him from his worry and agitation.

"Okay, Sam. Just take the Tramadol and go to sleep," he directed, gathering cards and chips...er, cottonballs.

"Nah, I'm good," said Sam predictably and totally speciously. "I wanna hear what happens with Bobby and Irv."

"That could take hours," said Dean reasonably instead of calling Sam a big, fat liar and yelling at him to take care of himself. "You promised that doc you'd take your meds and get some sleep."

"I wouldn't even have to stay here if our motel didn't lie on the titaniferous magnetite vein." He rubbed his eyes irritably. Dean bit back a smile at Sam simultaneously looking like a cranky five-year-old and sounding like a college professor.

"Well it does so you do." Dean had some sympathy for Sam's frustration, but not enough to let him out of his agreement. "Take advantage of it and do some healing, okay? I'll wake you up when Bobby calls or shows up."

"No, man. I'll take the meds, but I'm not going to sleep."

Dean didn't laugh because there was no better way to get Sam to dig in his heels than to tell him he couldn't do something. But there was no way he'd be able to stay awake once he got pain relief.

"Fine," Dean said, making work of packing the cards away so Sam wouldn't catch his expression. He knew Sam wasn't looking forward to what waited for him in his dreams -- even more than usual. The thought made the last of Dean's amusement fade away.

Sam was looking at him suspiciously but swallowed the pills. "Another hand?"

"Nah." Dean crutched his way to the door of the room and leaned out. When he caught the nurse's eye, he tapped his watch to let her know Sam had just taken the meds. She nodded but didn't come down, as Dean had asked politely for as few interruptions as possible. For being a hospital, this place wasn't half bad. It was even quiet, their hallway nearly empty.

Dean flipped off the overhead light before heading for his bed instead of the chair where he'd been spending his time. "I'm gonna chill for a while. I have a headache."

Now Sam was really suspicious, but it wouldn't matter. He'd be quiet for Dean's sake, and it would all be over soon. Dean got settled and began to hum, knowing the quiet reminder of his presence would usher Sam to sleep all the faster.

"Know what you're doin'," mumbled Sam, sounding half asleep already.

Dean grinned and didn't answer, transitioning from The Unforgiven to King Nothing. Sam muttered something undoubtably uncomplimentary. It wasn't five minutes later that his breathing evened out.

Too bad Dean was too wired to sleep. But at least he was finally doing something to take care of Sam.

Dean lay still and just listened to Sam breathe for a while, and tried not to think about what Bobby would be doing soon or picture (in freaking technicolor) all of the things that could go wrong.

Then Sam's breath hitched and Dean was trying not to picture Sam stuck under that tree again. And alone. And being overrun by mice and snakes and...a little desperately, Dean grabbed a book Bobby had left behind. He didn't want to read Living Dreams: Manifestations, Avatars, and Illusions. But he really needed a distraction, any distraction. Sam wasn't sleeping deeply enough for Dean to move around on the damn crutches or turn on the TV, or even rest a hand on Sam's ankle, which sometimes kept the nightmares at bay. And as seriously as Sam needed some damn rest, Dean was unwilling to wake him at this point.

So ancient, boring book it was.

...are wily and clever enough to pursue prey that has escaped their clutches, though not particularly patient hunters... God, this was boring. ...cannot appear in the physical world without a connection to the earthly plane, although they may continue some form of existence in the aether... Did these ancient guys get paid by the word or what? ...most efficacious weapon is troubled dreams, eventually forcing the victim into a fugue state from which they never emerge, remaining in the clutches of the tormented dreamscape until the heart ceases to beat... Yeah, no shit, Sherlock. ...if the target of the oneiroi is reached in time, and is separated from the physical link of the creature, the troubled dreams can be warded off by a simple application of rosemary.

Wait, what? Could it be that simple to get Sam some good sleep? Maybe it would help with all the nightmares. Dean had tried dreamcatchers -- the real deal, not kitschy souvenirs -- cleansing rituals, lavender sachets and more in failed attempts to help Sam with his nightmares. Rosemary was easy. At this point, he'd have basted the kid in barbecue sauce if he thought it would help. And even if it only helped with oneiroi-fueled nightmares, it was totally worth it.

As for the rosemary itself, they had a whole tub of the stuff in the trunk. It was in a buttload of potions and wards, totally legal, easy to find, and cheaper than dirt. Dean set the book aside and flexed his knee, scowling at the weight of the walking boot. He considered his next step.

Sam made a small, choked sound, and Dean was decided. Sam was fairly deeply under now, so he shuffled over to Sam's bed. He leaned over his sleeping brother and laid a hand flat on his chest. He pretended not to be affected when Sam sighed and calmed. "I'll be right back, Sammy," he said softly. He patted Sam once and eased his way out as quietly the crutches allowed.

Dean stopped at the nurse's desk and gave a practiced smile. "Leslie, do you know where my car ended up?"

She directed Dean to the back lot, looking a little worried. He gave an even brighter smile. "I just need to grab my brother's teddy bear. I'll be right back, I swear."

Leslie giggled and melted like butter on the stove. "It's a lot shorter if you go down the back stairs just outside your room." She handed him his keys and an empty binder. "Stick this in the door so you don't get stuck outside. That's what we do for smoke breaks."

Dean gave her a salute, maneuvered the binder so he could hold it and use the crutches, and headed back the way he'd come. He couldn't wait to get off these things, but tonight he'd be good. Because he wanted to, not because his ankle hurt.

But he was really glad to only have to descend one floor.

Dean managed to get the door propped open and saw his baby immediately in the nearly empty lot. It was surprisingly chilly, so he hustled as fast as his hobbled leg allowed.

Suddenly, the hair on the back of his neck prickled. With sickening certainty, he tried to picture the serpentine path of the magnetite. It didn't go under the hospital itself, but did it go under this lot?

Dean didn't have so much as a pocket knife on him, so he flung himself toward the Impala and her cache.

The pavement softened beneath him and hardened again around the bases of the crutches and the sole of his good foot. Unable to stop his momentum, he pitched forward and all his weight landed on the injured right leg. It collapsed beneath him as he gave an involuntary cry. He still might have caught himself on his hands, except at the last second, his left foot broke free of the thin crust of pavement, making his fall abruptly faster.

The side of Dean's head struck the rear driver's panel of the Impala and Dean collapsed onto the parking lot. A drop of blood slid slowly down Dean's temple as a sibilant, malicious laugh trembled softly in the night.

* * *

AN: The Unforgiven and King Nothing are both Metallica songs.

supernaturalsammy67: I love that you took the time to explain that! I had a general idea, but now I have a much better understanding. And since I'm such a word nerd, learning colloquialisms is so interesting. I'm glad you didn't find the chapter boring. I didn't want to just skip the brother time, and there was quite of bit of explanation, you know? Thank you for your lovely compliments! They mean the world to me!

Timelady66: Ooh, I love analysis like this! The bases of their self worth...I agree with you. If only they had more self worth, right?

Long Live BRUCAS: They're never safe with me...even in the hospital! hehe

writingtrainingwheels: Is it weird to say I missed you? :-) Man, I just love what you said about Bobby forcing the boys together. About fifteen plot bunnies just emerged from that thought and started hopping around! I loved the Bobby and Barb dynamic, though I was thinking about setting the next Barb story post Bobby. :-( But I might just have to change that...hmm...more ideas. I can't wait to read your story! And thanks for all your kind words.

Jenjoremy: Don't sweat it...I'm insecure about everything I write! Sad but true. I also have a thing about Dean knowing when Sam's about to wake up, which means that you obviously have excellent taste. :-) Sorry that you have to wait to find out what Bobby's up to. And, uh, remember you gave me permission for Dean whump.

muffinroo: Lines in the carpet are so satisfying! I currently have a bag of peanut M n M's in the fridge. If it ever hit 117 here, I'm pretty sure I'd melt. I looked up the highest temp ever recorded in the state of Michigan, and it's 112. I do love Dunkin' Coffee, but I'm equal opportunity: Tim Horton's, Starbucks, or my favorite, Biggby Coffee, (which might just be in the midwest). Anyway, thanks for your encouragement and the many smiles your comments give me.

stedan: Thank you! I think that Sam would have called Dean if Dean hadn't been there when Jess died. It makes me very happy that you liked the Sam / Bobby convo. Do I remember right that you're a big Bobby fan?

Janice: Oh, thank you! That means a lot to me. I know that I owe you an email...I hope to do that tomorrow. The answer to your question? With a lot of help and more than a few hiccups. :-)

Kathy: Aw, I'm just so happy you like Barb. I'm very attached to her. I've had an idea for her next story in my head for a long time. But then brilliant readers come up with these fabulous plot bunnies or ask me to expand on something and there I go off a different direction. I do have a feeling this cliffie is going to drive you crazy, and for that I apologize.

Lena: You owe me nothing! I hope you know that. I only mention being curious about your thoughts because I love to hear them. I'm the one who's a very bad friend and has had an email to you halfway written for weeks. So, how about some gratuitous Dean whump as an apology? With schmoop and flashbacks and brotherly bonding on the side? Oh, and I'll send my muse to give yours a strawberry daiquiri! *grin* (I am not above bribery.) Oh, and I am so happy you liked the glimpses of the future...how did I know you'd catch them all? :-)