Dean was confused. He remembered blood, and flying through the air,--and boy, that impact with the wall hadn't helped his head any--and then Sam went all Dead Zone on him and then they ran...so how was he suddenly back in the house in Lawrence, shotgun in hand? He spun to look behind him, expecting to see Sam pinned to the wall, but there was no one there.
"Sam?" he said, taking a few cautious steps out of the kitchen and toward the stairs. He thought he saw a shadow cross the wall at the top of the stairs, so he called out again, "Sammy? Is that you?" But there was no answer. Dean shuddered. He really, really didn't want to go up those stairs, but something was telling him he had to. "Suck it up, buttercup," he berated himself, and started climbing, bracing his left hand underneath the shotgun that was trembling in his right. When he was halfway up the stairs he heard a thump and a faint gasp of pain.
"Sammy!" His own nervousness temporarily forgotten, Dean took the rest of the stairs at a run and headed directly into the old nursery, scanning the room frantically for any sign of his brother. He finally forced his eyes to the ceiling, and let out a sigh of relief when he saw it was empty. Dean turned to leave, and found himself face to face with a stern looking John Winchester.
"Dad?" Relief warred with something else--was it fear? But why should he be afraid of his own father?
"Dean." John's face remained expressionless, and fear won the battle of Dean's emotions.
"What's wrong?" Feelings of helplessness and panic added themselves to Dean's confused mental state. The shotgun trembled again, even though he was clutching it tightly with both hands.
John Winchester shook his head, dark eyes unreadable. "You know, son, I've only ever asked you for one thing, right? To take care of your brother--to look out for him when I couldn't."
Dean nodded, his sense of trepidation growing. "Sure, dad. You know I wouldn't let anything happen to Sammy."
Dean found himself on the floor before the words left his mouth, the shotgun knocked from his hands and sliding across the room. He clutched his jaw and stared up at his father through the stars that danced in front of his eyes.
"Liar." John reached down and grabbed Dean by the sides of his leather jacket, hoisting him to his feet and pulling him close. Dean was too stunned to resist.
"You were no help to me, so I struck out on my own, figuring you'd get the picture. But no. You were too thick to even figure that out, so you dragged Sam back in on some dumbass quest to find me. And what's happened since? He lost his girlfriend, his future, any chance at happiness...he's almost died how many times now? And he's plagued with nightmares and visions. Tell me, son, how I'm supposed to see that as you looking out for your brother?"
Dean shook his head. "Dad, no, that's not what..."
His father sneered. "You always resented him, didn't you? Smarter, ambitious, able to think about something besides cars and guns and getting laid--and not only able to think about a normal life, but to go have one! Oh, I'm sure it killed you. All you've ever had is the hunt, and you're not even very good at that." John let go of his son, and Dean staggered back, shock and misery apparent in his expression.
"Dad, please," a whisper.
His father held up a hand, disgust on his features. "Don't beg. It's pathetic. Look at what you've done. Face it like a man, for once in your worthless life!" John stepped closer, grasping Dean's aching jaw in one strong hand and forcing it upward, so that Dean's face was pointed at the ceiling. Dean closed his eyes, but John only tightened his grip, eliciting a painful gasp from Dean. "Face it!" his father yelled again.
Dean opened his eyes. Sam was on the ceiling, a bloody gash across his midsection. Then the fire started.
Sarah was back in under three minutes, bearing a tray laden with two huge mugs of coffee and a box of Krispy Kreme doughnuts. To Sam's surprise, his stomach growled at the aroma and Sarah smiled.
"Sugar and caffeine--just what the doctor ordered. And the doghnuts are hot--I made my husband go get 'em about 20 minutes before you arrived. Hot Krispy Kremes have saved more than one life around these parts. Now eat and drink up while I check out what we have here."
Sam shot a guilty glance at his brother, which Sarah caught, and she scowled at him. "Don't be a goober, Sam. You need your strength to help him and you're pretty run down. This stuff should at least help you fake your way through. Now eat."
Sam obeyed, but couldn't help observing, "Did you just call me a goober?"
"Yes, because there are children in this house, and I try to watch my language. But don't worry--if you still haven't eaten after they leave for school, I'll call you something a little more accurate."
"You're married with kids and you're bringing strangers into the house at the wee hours? Your husband's okay with this?"
Sarah just looked at Sam and sighed. "Yes, yes and yes. Long story short, just call me the soccer mom psychic. It is possible to help people, raise children and manage a household. You don't need my life story, Sam. It's pretty freaking dull, aside from the occasional bout of supernatural hoo-ha." She turned her attention to the items Sam had laid out. "Less talking, more eating. We have work to do."
Sam bit into a doughnut, savoring the soft, sugary texture.
"Do you remember when your brother first started exhibiting symptoms--like loss of appetite, headaches, difficulty sleeping?" asked Sarah, reaching instinctively for the shotgun and silver handgun Sam had placed on the edge of the bed along with the other items they'd used recently. She winced when she touched the shotgun, and brought a hand to her chest. Sam flushed, guilt making it difficult to swallow. Sarah turned to look at him, but her gaze was neutral.
"What happened in Illinois, Sam?"
Dean was on the floor, his chest on fire. "Sam, we've got to burn Ellicott's bones and this will all be over," he said. Was this a memory, or was it happening again?
Sam repeated all the hurtful things that Dean had tried to push away after Illinois, his words echoing those of his father in Kansas: pathetic, desperate, loser. Dean squeezed his eyes shut--Kansas hadn't been real. If Sam was here, then he hadn't been on the ceiling in Kansas. It wasn't real. Was this real? He opened his eyes again, handed Sam the pistol, saying, "Real bullets will work a helluva lot better than rock salt."
The trigger clicked four times, but Dean wasn't able to muster the strength to overpower his brother--his limbs felt heavy and numb.
"You son of a bitch," said Sam, kneeling down and getting in his brother's face. His eyes were hard and cold. "You're going to pay for that." He brought the pistol back and struck Dean hard across the face, stunning him. Then Sam reached for the shotgun he had discarded earlier, pushing the muzzle underneath Dean's chin.
"I'm thinking that the force of this blast will tear your pretty throat right out, regardless of what it's loaded with," said Sam.
"Sammy..." Dean began, but despair stopped his words. Maybe he deserved to die, after getting Sammy killed--wait, that wasn't right. Something wasn't right, but Dean was in too much pain to figure out what it was. In his mind's eye he saw brief flashes of antebellum homes and a river of blood, but Dean couldn't concentrate on what they meant.
Then Sam pulled the trigger and everything went black.