A/N - Remember like 7 chapters ago when I said we were halfway done? I lied. Expositionville ahead, and the setup for the actual ending of the story.
Sam woke with a start, bolting upright. His head hurt and he swore he could smell the lingering aroma of smoke. After a moment's confusion, he realized that he was lying on the floor of Sarah's downstairs guest bedroom, right beside the bed. Someone, probably Sarah, had put a pillow under his head and covered him with a blanket. Late afternoon sunlight filtered through the window blinds, and Sam figured that he had been out for a while. He quickly looked over at the figure on the bed, his brother's name forming on his lips.
Dean looked pinker, and Sam could see his chest rising and falling steadily. Sam sighed in relief and rested his head against the side of the bed, feeling a week's worth of worry and fear draining away.
Sarah quietly entered the room, switching on the bedside lamp when she saw that Sam was awake.
Sam straightened. "How is he?" he asked.
"Still weak, but recovering. I don't read any traces of that thing in his aura, so I'm fairly confident he repelled the attack. Mind filling me in on what happened after I got kicked out?"
Sam nodded and told Sarah about being tossed out of Dean's mind and his attempt to get back to his brother. Sarah's eyebrows lifted and she looked impressed.
"You do have some powerful abilities, Sam," she said. "But it explains why you've been out for so long--you forced yourself through some pretty heavy mental defenses to get back to Dean. Your brother's no slouch at keeping people out of his head."
Sam gave her a half-smile. Sarah could probably guess that was true in more ways than one.
The psychic looked over at Dean. "Normally, I'd let him rest, but I think we should try to at least get some liquids down him--he needs to rebuild his strength." She glanced back at Sam, rubbing her forearm absently. "You want to wake him up? I don't want to startle him." Sarah headed out of the room, adding, "I'll be back with some soup and sandwiches in a jiffy."
After Sarah left, Sam pushed himself up and sat on the edge of the bed.
"Dean," he said softly, shaking his brother's shoulder, "wake up, man." He repeated the words and the gesture three times before he was rewarded with a response--Dean's hand came up and slapped Sam's away from his body, though his eyes remained closed.
"Knock it off," Dean murmured. "Tryin' to get my beauty rest."
Sam snorted and shook him a little harder, secretly pleased and relieved at his getting such a normal reaction from his brother.
"Aw c'mon, Sammy!" Whining, Dean finally gave in and opened his eyes, blinking a few times in an attempt to focus. His eyes fixed on Sam, and he cleared his throat. After a moment, he spoke. "That sucked," he said.
"Yeah." Sam suddenly didn't have any idea what else to say--memories of the morning's events were coming back to him. A desire to reassure his brother fought with the knowledge that Dean would be resistant and embarrassed and wouldn't want to mention it.
Dean saw the impending chick flick moment coming, and held up a hand. "No. Absolutely not."
"Dean..."
"Sam, I am on my back in a strange bed in my underwear and you're perching on the bed looking like a kicked puppy. If you start talking about feelings, I will be forced to stab you."
"You promised me an Oprah," Sam pointed out.
"I lied."
"Dean, seriously." Sam caught the almost desperate look in his big brother's eyes and realized that once again, his timing was horrible. He dropped his head in acquiescence. "Fine. Not now." Sam lifted his eyes to Dean's. "But once you're mobile and dressed, there will be a conversation." Sam ignored Dean's eye roll and stood, picking up the pillow and blanket he'd left on the floor and starting to put them away.
"Speaking of, where are my clothes?" asked Dean.
"Sarah washed the ones you arrived in. The other stuff's still in the car."
"She washed my leather jacket? You can't wash leather!"
"Uh, about the jacket..."
"What about my jacket, Sam?"
Sam was spared having to reply by Sarah's entrance. She looked surprised at Dean's level of alertness and paused, studying him.
The scrutiny made Dean uncomfortable, and then suspicious.
"What?" he asked sharply. "Do I have horns growing out of my head or something?"
"Well, not unless your hair always looks that bad," Sarah shot back, smiling as Dean's hands flew to his head. "No," she continued, "I'm just surprised at how quickly you're bouncing back."
Dean grinned. "I must be living right."
"Mmhmm," Sarah sat a tray bearing two bowls of soup, assorted sandwiches, and a couple of cokes down on the dresser. "You boys eat, and I'll come check on you again in an hour or so. It's supper and homework time for the kids, so I'm needed elsewhere. If you need anything, just holler for Keith--my husband."
After she left, Sam helped Dean get propped up in the bed and handed him some soup. Despite his brother's bravado, Dean was still sluggish and weak. The boys were too hungry to talk; they ate in silence. Finally Dean tilted his soup bowl back and finished off the last of it.
"That was awesome," he said, handing the empty bowl to Sam. "I suppose I should ask you how we got here, and where here is, exactly."
Sam quickly filled Dean in on the events of the past 24 hours. When Sam finished, Dean looked thoughtful.
"So did I kill it?" he asked.
"What?"
"When I shot that--thing that looked like Dad, did I kill it? It was on the floor, bleeding..." Dean trailed off when he noticed Sarah standing in the doorway. She came the rest of the way into the room, closing the door behind her.
"Sorry for eavesdropping, fellas, but Dean, I don't think you killed it," said the psychic.
"How do you know?" challenged Sam.
"You definitely got it out of your head, but it wasn't corporeal at the time you 'killed' it," Sarah told Dean.
"It punched me in the damn jaw!" said Dean, "That felt pretty freaking corporeal to me!"
"It punched you because you believed it could, not because it was really there..." Sarah sighed. "Look, this thing is strong enough to send you leading text messages, to lure you into danger, to mimic voices on phones, to pick you up and slam you into walls, and to continue a psychic attack without being in physical proximity to you. It's not going to die because you imagined you killed it."
Sam looked at Dean, worried.
Dean's jaw clenched. "So how do I kill it?"
Sarah shrugged. "My best guess is to draw it out, make it corporeal, then kill it."
"How do we find it?" asked Sam.
Sarah held up Dean's cellphone. "I don't think that'll be a problem," she said, showing them the display, which containedan anonymous text messagewith a new set of coordinates.