Reprisals chpt 4

Sammy's deep voice slid into his ears, pushed hard by the urgency behind the call, "Dean!"

Just a sec Sammy… I'll be right there…he thought slowly and really tried to communicate the idea to his baby brother, but then the world went away.

Sam looked around as he pressed his fingers to Dean's throat and felt the strong pulse there, "Thank God," he huffed as a heavy University style dictionary launched off the floor and at his head.

He clasped his hands around the enormous tome, jerked with everything he had and cast it aside, apparently out of the grip of the malicious spirit. So far it hadn't 'shown' itself with any kind of corporeal visage but its temper and cruelty were unmistakable. That it hovered around mocking with laughter, occasionally wafting whatever it could at them was really starting to grate on Sam's nerves. He also realized that Carol Guinardi had been right, this thing's existence was bent on nothing but torment.

He opened the journal again and began to read once more. It was obvious it didn't like the idea of someone trying to exorcise it since when he'd first started reading was when it grabbed Dean and flung him like a rag doll at the painfully solid door jamb before throwing him at Sam like a bale of hay, hoping to take him down that way.

Sam read, his grip on Latin growing stronger with every exorcism they tried and though he was almost certain the attack was slowing he still couldn't be quite sure, it could be a trick.

His eyes scanned the bedroom looking for some sign, anything to indicate where this thing was going to attack from as he heard Dean's voice in the back of his head, …the pissed off spirit of a psycho killer… only then the inmates had been trying to warn them about Dr. Ellicott and his freaky fringe therapy, this time they were up against the spirit itself. What killed him was that they still didn't know who this spirit had been or why it had latched onto Carol, was she just some innocent circumstantial victim... Why Carol Guinardi? There were no indications so far that she was into any dark aspects of Witchcraft, nothing to indicate that she was anything other than an arbitrary victim. What they had discovered was that this thing had been tormenting her since she was thirteen years old.

The deeper they'd dug into her alias's the longer they realized this had gone on and the angrier Dean had gotten. He wasn't the type to stand by and watch someone be hurt and he couldn't understand why no one else had really tried to help her.

They were able to dig up her juvenile medical records, back when she was still Karen Adams from Oklahoma, and with each new finding Dean had grown more incensed. There weren't many bones in her body that hadn't been broken or fractured at some time including most of her vertebrae and despite her insistence that there was something outside herself that was responsible for hurting her, no one had believed or gone very far into investigating the possibility. They'd sent her to counseling, they'd had the Church come in and evaluate the situation to see if an exorcism was warranted but apparently their criteria hadn't been met and nothing had been done there. When she was in High School she'd been committed against her will by her parents because they thought she was a cutter. Three years after the torment started she's stopped talking about it, stopped trying to convince anyone of anything. She was left alone long enough for them to think she was 'cured' and as soon as she was released from the institute she disappeared, though it was obvious that with just a little hard work she could have been found. What angered both Sam and Dean the most, was that it was also obvious no one had cared enough to try and find her, and she'd been left alone to deal with this for the last seventeen years.

"Come on Dean wake up!" Sam muttered between Latin phrases and slapped his face a few times, it was no use, Dean Winchester was out cold.

Sam gasped and coughed, he felt like he'd just swallowed a bug, a really big bug and all around him the debris began to rise and swirl, slowly at first then with increasing speed. He kept reading despite the tornado of potentially hazardous projectiles, pencils, papers, books, a jump rope with weighted grips that seemed to charge directly at him. Ducking out of the way of an errant pencil he blocked with his hand and barked in pain as the shaft of wood and graphite embedded itself into him, not nice and clean through but as if its intention was to cause as much pain as possible. It careened into his palm lengthwise beneath the skin, the point angling deep toward his wrist. His brows furrowed as he looked at his hand and clearly saw the outline of the writing instrument beneath his skin, the perversely cheerful pink of the eraser tip being the only part of it that remained above the skin. That's not good…he shook his head stunned and caught sight of something flying at his head. Once more, in a purely defensive move, he threw his arm up, the same one with the pencil embedded in it, and felt the heavy leather of the jump rope wrap around his wrist an un-living constrictor as it twined up and over his elbow, squeezing until the squeezing became a burning and tearing sensation even through the sleeves of his jackets. The other end came up behind him and with the force of a whiplash stunned him hard, sending him face down into the floor with a grunt. Once he was down it slithered around his neck and winding around itself, tight enough to keep him malleable but not to kill him just yet. Apparently the spirit had found his weakness.

He grabbed at the leather rope with his right hand and felt the indescribably odd sensation of the pencil snapping in half beneath his skin. Desperate for a breath, his voice was already hoarse and gritty in his ears as his other hand tried to reach Dean, Damnit! Why the neck? What's with the whole choking thing! Dean… I'm sorry but I need your help again! Please wake up! he thought and felt something almost flicker in the back of his mind. His eyes grew wide for a moment as he lost his balance yet again and felt himself dragged out of the spare room. He closed his eyes and reached out to his big brother, to try and find his consciousness much like Laura had done when he'd been trapped inside his own mind, the only difference was that he couldn't make physical contact with Dean. The furious spirit had him helpless as he was dragged through the hallway now and toward the kitchen. With one hand still deep in the twinning of the jump rope, trying to ensure he had enough air, and the other grasping at walls, corners, anything that could be of some use to stop his progress, or perhaps cut through the binding Sam began to think that they just might be dealing with something beyond their expertise. Dean! Please wake up! I need you! Please be okay… come back to me Dean! I need your help! he called with all of his will evenly divided between gasping for air and trying to rouse his unconscious brother.

In the spare room Dean rolled his head, he could've sworn he heard Sammy calling his name.

"…amm?" he grunted feeling the worst hangover of his life. The whole world was spinning and he was sure he was going to barf. He felt something flutter against his face and brushed it away feeling the telltale sting of a paper cut as he did so. He cracked his eyes open and leaned his head up taking a moment to try and explain to himself what he wasn't sure he was seeing. It appeared there was a small tornado of 'life-stuff' whirling madly in the room and his brother was nowhere to be found.

Where'd ya go bro? he wondered. "Sam!" he called more loudly this time and rolled onto his side, his head pulsing and throbbing as his eyes fell on something brown and leather and familiar, hey that's dad's journal… Sam? Where's Sammy? Why'd he leave it? his thoughts were muddled but he quickly realized Sam wouldn't leave Dad's journal without a damned good reason. Probably that he was in some kind of trouble.

"Sammy!" he grunted pushing himself to all fours and grasping the journal, tucking it into his inside jacket pocket as his eyes fell on two tracks leading from the room out into the hall. The tracks of someone being dragged, "Sammy…" he hissed lurching to his feet then promptly tripping over them and running head first into the wall on the far side of the hall. His vision doubled and his knees buckled as he clutched the wall. He sat on his knees for barely a second before pushing himself back up to his feet, using the wall to keep him balanced. He didn't realize as he stumbled down the hall that he was finger painting with his own blood.

I was supposed to remember something… something to do…something with this…ooh! it's in my pocket I think…he thought leaning breathless against the wall in the kitchen, his eyes fixed on the knife handles that porcupined the drywall. Por cu pine pie, por cu pine pie, por cu pine pie…vanilla soup… a double scoop please… he heard in the back of his head and chuckled at the odd lyrics…Where do I know that song from? It sure ain't Mecal…Mecat…Mela…oh screw it…Hettfield's…them… he slid his hand into the right inside pocket where he found a small paper bag.

Oh yeah… he nodded and felt the world tilt under his feet again. Note to self... don't move head… where the hell is Sammy? he wondered dumping the contents of the bag onto the floor. There was a brass bowl with clay in the bottom, a white candle and a smudge stick of sage. Blinking hard, trying to keep his eyes focused he lit the candle then stuck it into the clay succeeding in burning himself thanks to his distorted perception. He picked up the bag and began to mumble the words written in Sam's clear precise hand as he lit the smudge stick, making sure it was burning all the way through before blowing the flame out, wincing from the pain that thundered in his head and sticking it into the clay beside the burning candle.

A hot blast of energy pulsed through the kitchen setting things vibrating and fluttering for a moment before utter silence descended and he leaned against the wall, holding back the urge to throw up with everything he had.

Dean couldn't have said how long he sat there trying to regroup but a faint gurgle and gasp to his right sent his nerves singing as adrenaline plunged through his system as if someone had injected it into his bloodstream. Sam!

"Sam!... Sammy?" he called heedless of the pressure that threatened to pop the top of his head off.

On his feet once more, no matter how unsteadily, he crashed along the wall and lurched through the garage door where his throat closed and his world began to spiderweb. "No…" he choked feeling his eyes throw tears onto his face, "Oh God Sammy!" he called looking up at the track on the ceiling where his little brother dangled motionless, hanging by his neck.

--

Is forever over yet? Dean wondered as the world around him began to take on normal shapes and returned to being identifiable images. Oh yippee another CAT scan… ain't my head dead yet? he smiled but was present of mind enough to keep still. The table lurched beneath him and his stomach followed suit, "Puke… gonna puke…" he muttered trying to roll onto his side as hot bile filled the back of his throat.

"Easy there tiger…hold on…." a kind voice urged as the tech slid a garbage can to the side of the table then supported him at the back while using his hip to make sure Dean didn't roll himself right onto the floor. He felt his hand grip the tech's forearm as the spew he'd been holding for what seemed a lifetime finally shut itself of him and left him shaking and wringing wet and weaker than a kitten. After several waves Dean finally let himself roll onto his back and sighed as a cool cloth was placed onto his forehead and another behind his neck.

"Guh…" he grunted and cracked his eyes open. Despite his anguish he couldn't help but return the kindly smile that greeted him. "Mmm, Michael Duncan Clark… or is it Clark Duncan? … you look like him…"

"Too bad my name's Steve… you better enough to get onto the gurney so we can take you back to your room?" he asked.

Dean nodded breathing deep a split second before his eyes popped open and he struggled fantastically to sit up, "Sam! Where's Sammy?" he barked as odd moments flickered and flashed behind his eyes.

"That the boy you came in with?" Steve asked.

"Yeah…is he? Where is he?" Dean asked.

"I think he's being casted… care to tell me how a pencil got shoved up his hand and into his wrist?" Steve asked sliding Dean onto the gurney as if he was no more substantial than a child.

"I don't know… he was hanging… I found him in the garage…we were attacked…" Dean choked on the image of Sam dangling immobile. He saw his hands shaking feebly as he yanked a knife out of the kitchen wall then balanced on a step stool to cut him down. He also remembered stepping down from the stool and toppling over with Sam over his shoulder, then things were dark again, he didn't know for how long but when light came back to him Sam was breathing, shallowly but breathing.

--

"Eight staples huh?" Sam whispered. It didn't hurt so much to whisper.

Dean nodded, "And yet another concussion… one of these days I'm gonna wake up and find a divorce decree from my brain… aw screw it I'm too tired to make a joke…"

"The 'upstairs one'," Sam smiled softly, finishing the statement in what he figured was typical Dean fashion.

Dean nodded and pressed his lips together tight as his eyes fell on the deep dark horizontal bruises across and around Sam's neck. There were three lines of them. "I'm sorry Sam…" he whispered and blinked while his eyes filled up again.

"For what… neither of us realized just how powerful that thing is…none of this is either of our fault…" Sam tried to assure him hastily, he didn't like to see tears in Dean's eyes it frightened him.

Dean sniffed and sucked his fears back, "Yeah… sorry… just… tired."

In the chair beside his brothers' bed Sam nodded, rose and actually tucked the blankets around Dean. "Get some sleep… I'm not going anywhere," he assured then held up his own jonnie as evidence. He might as well stay the night, they wanted him to anyway to make sure he didn't have a stroke or 'throw a clot' as one of the nurses had explained to him. And he wasn't about to leave Dean when he was feeling so vulnerable.

At least he's not on his death bed this time… thank God! Sam thought remembering how for days it seemed his heart did nothing but hammer in his chest, until Roy LeGrange had actually completed the task of healing Dean. Sam knew Dean was angry at him for that incident, he knew Dean didn't think his life was worth having traded it for anyone else but deep down where no one could see, Sam didn't care. He would have traded anyone's life to have Dean healthy again. His own, their dad's, Layla's, anyone's. He knew Dean would never understand how he could feel that way so he kept it down as deep as he could and reminded himself that it was okay to let his big brother know he was loved and needed, once in a while.

"We need to find out who this thing was Sammy… we need to find out where he's buried… then do the salt 'n burn…" Dean muttered sleepily. Part of him knew that this malevolence had once been a person. Perhaps just a broken one at one time, but through the years of being dead it had crossed into evil. Dean wanted it done. What Dean didn't know was that Sam was on exactly the same wavelength. He too believed that this entity had once been a person, and while Dean rested, he was planning on going back and talking to Miss Guinardi. Somehow the answers lay with her. Of that much, he was certain.

Sam sat in the chair, the pain in his back barely noticeable so long as he didn't move much, and dozed contentedly as Dean drifted to sleep, lightly at first then much deeper. Deep enough so that Sam felt comfortable leaving the room and going to visit Carol.

Did you ever think you should salt and burn Aaron Beyers? a tiny voice in the back of his dreams asked,but he didn't want to hear that question right now. This isn't about me… this is about Carol Guinardi… his eyes popped open and he sat bolt upright in the bed looking hastily around the room.

"Sam?" he called softly, the gray of twilight making everything look grainy and surreal.

Moving carefully Dean swung his legs over the edge of the bed and stood up. His first few steps were shaky and slightly off balance but once he was in his own clothes and shed of the jonnie he started to feel better.

He moved down the hall, Sam's bag of clothes swinging dizzyingly against his gait, and kept his eyes fixed on the elevator that would take him to Carols' floor. He tried to step up his pace as one of the doors opened, but stopped in his tracks surprised when Sam emerged, did a double take upon seeing him and cocked his head to the side.

"Dean? What is it? What's up?" he asked.

"Get dressed, we got places to go and people to see," Dean instructed handing the bag to Sam.

"Now? Tonight?" Sam asked as they returned to the room so he could change.

"Yeah… look she's from Okalahoma right? Initially anyway, all the information is at the motel, we gotta talk to her parents."

Please, and as always… Thanks.