Six

A strong pair of hands was on his shoulders, helping him to a seated position, and a male voice was talking to him in reassuring words he could not understand in his confusion. Sam, his vision all hazy blurs of swirling colors and twinkling black spots, reached out to grab the figure in front of him. "Dean?" he whispered, voice cracking. "Please." A sharp pain flashed across his cheek when he moved his mouth and split a coated wound open. "Dean."

"I'm sorry, son, I'm not Dean. Can you see me at all?"

Sam licked his lips and tasted his own blood dried to a salty crust on them before he answered. Slowly, the world stopped spinning and came back into focus as the colored shapes grew edges. In front of him, an officer crouched on his haunches, both of his hands holding Sam upright. The man wore a navy blue uniform that seemed to meld with his dark skin, and when Sam made eye contact, the man smiled reassuringly. "I'm here to help you," the man continued in his deep voice. "It's going to be okay."

"Where's Dean? Where is he?"

"There wasn't anybody else here when we arrived. Can you stand up? Let's get you off the floor."

Faintly, Sam nodded and tried to push himself up. His knees wobbled, and he pitched forward, causing both the officer and a woman dressed in a different uniform to help him to the bed, where he sat down on the still crumpled sheets. He looked around the room to see a handful of officers taking notes and questioning the motel owner. The owner appeared paler than the first night Dean had awoken him, and he kept raising his wavering hand to his lips in agitation. There was blood splattered on the floor and the bed sheets were torn from Dean's bed, and even though the weapons were out of sight under the beds, Sam knew it wouldn't be long before those, too, were discovered. Next to him, the officer who he had mistakenly thought was Dean, kept a firm hand on his shoulder that felt comforting in its constant presence, and on Sam's other side, the female paramedic was talking in a rush of medical procedures Sam suddenly didn't understand.

"Can you give me your name?" the male officer asked.

Sam shook his head slowly, feeling sick with the motion. His stomach lurched unnaturally, and he reached for the mattress to steady himself in a grasp hard enough to feel the coiled bedsprings. "Sam. My name's Sam."

"Sam, my name's Robert, okay? You can call me that. I just need to ask you what happened last night, if you're up to it. Do you need to lie down or go to a hospital right now?"

"No, no, I'm…fine."

"Sam, the lady next to you is Michelle. She's just going to be taking your blood pressure and temperature and other things like that while we talk. She's not going to hurt you. If anything does hurt, let her know. If there's something you want to tell either one of us, let us know. We're just here to help you, okay?"

"Okay," Sam replied, but his voice sounded weak and hollow. Even though he was looking at the ground between his feet, all he could see was Dean writhing with a reptilian fist squeezing his neck tighter. The acidic taste of bile rolled over his tongue, and he forced himself not to vomit with the fresh wave of nausea.

Michelle gave a close-lipped smile when he glanced over at her. "Remember, if anything hurts, let me know right away." She pulled a blood pressure cuff out of her black bag and the sound of its Velcro ripping roared like the monsters of the night.

"You called me 'Dean' when you woke up," Robert said. "Who's Dean?"

"He's my brother."

"Older or younger brother?"

"Older. By four years." Sam stopped himself before he could add, And he saved me from a fire when he was only a child at four, and I couldn't save him now when I'm a perfectly capable adult of twenty-two years.

"Was Dean staying with you?"

"Yeah. That's his bed over there."

"How long have you guys been here?"

Sam winced as a sharp burst of pain shot through his head. He felt Michelle rubbing his back sympathetically, and the warmth her hands felt surreal in their comfort. This must have been how his mother patted his back when he was an infant on her shoulder. "Um, two, maybe three days? I think? We just needed a place to stay for a bit."

"What brought the both of you to this city?"

"We were passing through on our way to California," Sam lied, knowing that if the officers asked about their destination in California, he was familiar enough with the area to lie his way through their questions. "We've got friends over there we were going to see, and we needed some time off, though. The car, it was, it was having problems so we stopped for a bit."

"Do you know where Dean is now?"

"No, he's…gone," Sam whispered. He hated himself for losing consciousness, not knowing if they had taken Dean alive or had killed him in a bloody mess. Every time he closed his eyes, white lights flashed behind his lids, and he was convinced that his stomach was preparing to climb out of his throat and turn his body inside out.

"Sam, what happened last night?"

"Dean and I…we…went out to the bar here, played some pool, and then came back late."

"Did you or Dean have anything alcoholic to drink?" Robert asked, lifting his eyes from the notepad he scribbled on. His thumb formed a wrinkled patch of perspiration on the paper when he moved it slightly.

"I had maybe, three quarters of a glass of beer. Dean had about three or four, maybe. But, neither of us was drunk at all."

"So, what happened after you came back to the motel?"

"Well, it was late. After midnight, I think, but these two…guys, they broke into our room and attacked us."

"Do you know who these men were?"

"No…I don't know. Dean won money at the bar last night in a game of pool, maybe they were after him for that," Sam lied. He just needed to get the officers out of the room as soon as possible and find Dean on his own. If he started spouting stories of giant lizards and the loads of artillery under their beds, he was either going to prison or the psychiatric ward instead of a comfortable doctor's check-up for his wounds.

"Did they take Dean?"

"Yeah, I was trying to fight them off, and one of them hit me. I, uh, I was knocked unconscious. The last I saw was them dragging Dean out the door."

"The pictures on the wall? Were those here when you came to the room?"

"Um, no…I think…they're, um, gang symbols? I've never seen them before."

"Did these men have guns, Sam? The owner here reports hearing gunshots."

"Yeah, I think so. I just…everything's so fuzzy," Sam lied again. "And it was dark out."

"Did they shoot you or your brother?"

"They didn't shoot me, they might have shot Dean though. He screamed like they did." It would be the only way to explain why Dean's blood was splattered on his sheets without going into detail about how the lizard's nails had cut open his skin. Sam tried not to think about the real reasons Dean had cried out so badly, and if those nails had torn more than marks on his neck.

Robert nodded and scribbled something onto his yellow pad crisscrossed by his fine handwriting. "The people in the room next to you said they heard screams like that."

Michelle rested her hand on Sam's shoulder and said, "I think you might have suffered a concussion if you're this confused, Sam. I want you to come down to the hospital for some testing, but I can't force you to do so."

"Can I gather my things from the room?" Sam asked, glancing from Michelle to Robert. "These are the only things I have with me right now, and I need them…my clothes and stuff. I know it's a crime scene, but I—"

Robert hesitated before answering, like he was going to advise Sam not to touch anything as per his police protocol, but he nodded slowly. "Yeah, grab your things. I probably shouldn't let you, 'cause this is a crime scene, but if there's anything we want to look at, I'm going to ask you to let us have the full authority to do so."

Sam nodded. "Right."

Robert rose to his feet, followed by Michelle, who patted Sam on the shoulder with a smile. "Do you need a ride to the hospital?" she asked. "I don't want you driving in your condition."

Sam shook his head, thick locks of hair tumbling into his bleary eyes. "No thanks, I've got to make some phone calls first and get my things."

"Sam," Robert began, "would you happen to have a picture of Dean that we could show to people around town to see if they have any information on what happened to your brother?"

"Are you going to find him?"

"We're going to do all that we can, yes." And before Sam could speak, Robert continued, "And I know you're worried about your brother, but I need you to stay here at the motel. The owner's already offered to get you a different room so we can examine this one."

Sam pulled out his wallet and found a crumpled photo of Dean that he thought he had thrown away years ago. "It's old," Sam explained, "but he still looks like that…just…older." He tried not to think about the possibility that Dean might not have been in one piece, possibly disemboweled for the lizards' meal of human flesh. Suddenly, Sam didn't know which idea was more sickening, finding Dean dead or never finding him at all.

"Do you know the date on this photo?"

Sam shrugged, feeling an abrupt flame of agony shoot through his muscles with the new movement. "Four, five years ago? Dean never liked to have his picture taken, so it's pretty much the only one I have."

"Do you mind if we keep it and make some copies? I'll get it back to you as soon as I can," Robert said.

"Yeah, go ahead, that's fine. Just, find him, please, that's all."

"I'll do my best, I promise." When he saw that Sam still hadn't moved from his sitting position, Robert looked down at the younger man. "You okay?"

"I just…Can I have a minute by myself?"

"Sure. I'll get them all out of here." In hushed commands, Robert led the other officers and gawkers out of the room and closed the door so that Sam was alone once again.

Quickly, Sam gathered his clothing and Dean's into their bags, shoving the guns and weapons around the bulky fabrics. Although it would take too much time to erase the symbols and sweep the rock salt from the carpeting, he grabbed what he could and what he would need. He tried to ignore the stinging sears of pain that burst through his muscles with each motion and remained concentrated on everything that stood before him. Instead of exiting through the front door where all the worried officials would be watching him leave with hands full of monstrous duffel bags, he slipped through the side window and hurried out to the Impala, thankful that Dean hadn't slept with the keys in his pocket that night. Sam threw their belongings into the Impala, crawled back through the window and then walked out the front door of the motel room casually.

Robert continued with only a few more questions, and the medical staff urged him to go to the hospital as soon as possible. Sam, however, assured them that he would be fine and would just stay at the motel while they searched for Dean. It took several times of him promising not to leave the room before they finally drove off into the distance.

Sam walked back to the Impala and hunched over the trunk, banging his clenched fists until they were as sore as the rest of his body. He had failed Dean, had failed his older brother who, if the situations had been reversed, would have already saved him from danger. Fuming, Sam kicked the wheels of the car, and then slumped to the graveled ground, fingers tearing at his hair and mouth opening in a scream to the sky. After his nausea passed, and he was able to stand without shaking again, he circled the car with his mind buzzing in furious thought. On his third time around the car, the late morning sun glinted off the vehicle's headlight and caught him directly in the eye. He whipped his head away from the light instinctively to raise his eyes to the desert.

In the distance, he saw rooted streaks in the sand as if something heavy had been dragged across it. Something heavy like an unconscious person. The trail was far enough away from the motel that the police would not immediately see it, so Sam, disregarding his own health, grabbed a glittering pistol and biting knife from the car's trunk and began to head towards the lines.

By the time he reached the beginning of the trail, he had already been walking for long enough to make him even dizzier than he already had been. So, he knelt down to examine the streaks further and saw that the streaks were about the same size as his heels. Immediately, he thought it very possible that the lines were made by an unconscious person being pulled backwards with their feet scraping the sand. Lifting his head, Sam gazed into the distance, trying to discern where the trail ceased, but even as he pinched his eyes against the searing sunlight, he saw no end.

The part of his mind that belonged to dusty college halls of rational thinking and overpriced textbooks of discipline told him to return to the car, gather his weapons, perhaps even find help, because he was in no condition to continue. Going out there on by himself could result in his demise.

But the other part of his mind, the one that his father created and Dean shaped, the one of stealing from the devil and breaking into Hell, swatted away his formal thinking and offered him a hand to pull him to his feet.

Normally, he would have told himself that "it was now or never," but this time, things were different. There was now, but not never.

Only now.

His legs were numb, shaking with exhaustion, and his saliva burned against his parched throat with every hitched swallowed when he saw the dark shape on the ground. Even though he could scarcely breathe and his shirt was soaked with perspiration, a rush of panic and excitement soared through his sinking body, and he quickened his pace as much as possible.

By the time he realized the shape was a human body on the ground, Sam was already in a run, sprinting over the sand in long, hurdling strides and ignoring every throbbing pain in his own body. He threw himself to his knees, skidding in the sand and hands grabbling at the clothes of the person to turn the body over to face him.

A scream, born of horror's essence rose to an acidic bite in the back of his throat when the damaged face was revealed to be his brother.

Dean's shirt was slashed to shreds that were crisp in dried blood, and the area of his chest that had been wounded the previous night was exposed to the blistering sun. Yet, those minuscule scars were gone, as that same area of Dean's flesh was flayed over his ribs where twisted mats of skin were pinched in sticky blood. Massive puncture wounds were clotted with black dried blood in a half-circle similar to a large bite mark of an upper jaw. On various places on his arms and sides, his skin was covered in numerous deep abrasions as if the flesh had been torn from his body. Dean's hands and arms were splattered in blood, and across one side of his face, a crimson handprint, thin and fierce, slapped his cheek to brand him.

"Dean? No, no, no, Dean, Dean, I'm here, okay?" Sam babbled. His words poured out in a mad rush of foreign syllables on his dry tongue. Frantically, he pressed his fluttering hands to Dean's neck to search for a pulse. He leaned his cheek next to Dean's mouth, while his fingers danced for what seemed like hours on blood-caked skin to search for the main artery. Underneath his quaking fingertips, a light, whispering pulse, and against his sore cheek, a thin hiss of air, both proved that Dean Winchester, though surrounded by his own dried blood on the sand beneath them, was still alive.

Yet.

"Okay, Dean, I'm right here. It's going to be okay, all right? It's going to be okay." Sam himself, physically, was in no position to carry his brother, but he could not let Dean die out in the desert. He looped one arm under the crook of Dean's knees, and the other beneath Dean's arms. When he stood, lifting Dean and pulling him against his chest, Dean gave a breathy sigh and underneath blackened lids, his eyes shuddered.

Sam looked to the sky as if to pray for the strength for both of them to survive. He pressed his forehead against Dean's, whispering apologies and pleading hopes.

And he began his long walk back.