Chapter 2
"Dean!" Sam shouted his brother's name. "Dean!"
In an instant the whole damn gig had all gone to hell. He heard Dean cry out as the chair hit him dead on and pinned him tightly against the door. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Jason, now on the floor, scrambling away from the mist that slowly and insidiously wreathed its way around a trapped and helpless Dean.
Jason screamed something about getting them the hell out.
Fuck that. Not while this thing has my brother.
"Dean, I can't get a clear shot!"
Dean's cry of pain, abruptly silenced, had Sam moving fast. Unable to get a shot off, he threw the useless weapon aside and dashed over to Dean's bag to pull out the ever-present shaker can of salt. Wrenching the lid off, he closed in and simply flung the salt in a wide arc over the apparition. The coiling, shifting mass of mist quickly succumbed and fell apart in shreds. Then it vanished, the lights flickered a time or three before going out completely, and for the moment, he knew they were once again alone.
Not that he was about to take any chances.
Sam yelled at the stunned Jason to grab their gear, and, with a silently muttered oath, reached Dean's side. With the spirit – and its power – gone, he was able to free Dean from the chair's crushing weight. For a horrible heart-stopping moment, Sam thought Dean wasn't breathing. His face was utterly bloodless, and he wasn't moving at all. But when Sam grabbed his brother's sagging body, he was relieved beyond measure to hear a rasping breath as Dean fell forward into his arms.
"Get the door, Jason!" he snapped, when it looked like the other man was coming to help him. He didn't want Jason even touching Dean. "Hurry up!"
Unconscious, Dean was loose-limbed and heavy, but fear lent Sam strength. Quickly maneuvering his arms around his brother, he lifted him as much as he could and hauled him out through the now open door and down the wide front steps.
Ginny stood there, shocked and horrified at the sudden turn of events, but completely in control. Sam heard her barking the address into her cell phone even as she moved forward to help Sam.
But with Dean's weight bearing them both to the ground at this point, Sam simply sank down with him, reluctant to let go. He could only shake his head exhaustedly at her, unable to answer any of her questions. The surge of adrenaline gradually subsided, he could feel the sweat soaking his hair, and he started to tremble as he sat there with Dean resting against his chest. Sam clutched him close, sitting on the dewy grass in front of the house, and when he put a hand to Dean's face, starkly bone-white in the dim streetlight, his skin felt far too cool.
"Dean, wake up, come on. You're seriously scaring me here, dude," Sam said into his brother's ear. "Come on, show's over. Time to wake up."
Crap, crap, crap. You were supposed to keep him from doing anything stupid. Yeah, stupid, as in saving a jackass from getting his head bashed by a solid oak chair.
Ginny crouched next to them. "Ambulance is on its way, Sam." She took off the sweater she was wearing and draped it over Dean. "Are you all right?"
Sam got his breathing back under control. "I'm not hurt," he said. "Dean's the one who took a hit for that idiot Jason." His head turned and he spotted the group of students, including Jason, standing off to one side, looking scared and slightly in shock, but keeping a wary distance. "Make sure he stays away from me for a while," he added, his anger rising.
"Okay, Sam."
The flashing lights and siren cut off any reply he would've made. He had to give Dean up to the paramedics as they loaded him on a gurney, all the while talking in medical shorthand, but thankfully, they let him ride in the ambulance. Mostly because he refused to take "No" for an answer. All the while, Dean lay pale and still, barely breathing, and stubbornly unresponsive to Sam's continued pleas to wake up.
The night continued in a horribly familiar and surreal fashion. The ER staff whisked Dean away, leaving Sam standing there, slightly dazed, holding Ginny's green sweater. He blinked and for a moment he forgot where he was, which city, which hospital, and Dean was dying…
He found a chair, off in a corner, and wearily sat down to wait, thinking that he just couldn't take it any damn more.
Dean hurt. Again. He was so tired of seeing Dean hurt. One more excellent reason to swear off hunting. If only he could convince Dean to go along with that…
Right.
He dropped his head into his hands, but all he could see behind his closed eyelids was Dean, crushed against the door of the old house – but not on the ceiling, not on fire – and trapped in swirling fog. How many times was that particular image going to play out in his nightmares?
"Sam?" Ginny dropped into the chair next to him. She rubbed his shoulders, and said, "How are you, hon? Any word yet?"
"What…what are you doing here?" he asked, bewildered.
"We came to be with you," she said simply, and she tipped her head to one side, gesturing, and he saw the others, but no Jason, standing in a cluster much like they had back at the house. "They're all worried, Sam, so we came together. Any word from the doctors?"
"No, nothing. They just took him away –" Sam swallowed with a suddenly dry throat. "Ginny," he said urgently, turning to her, "we can't tell them what happened. You understand? We can't. They'll think we're crazy. We'll have to make something up."
"It's all right, Sam," she said. "I'll take care of it. We'll just say that Dean was hurt moving some furniture in an old house and he took a tumble. It'll be fine. Don't worry. Dean will be all right."
And Sam stood by and watched in amazement as she pulled it off. She spoke with complete authority and assurance to the admissions nurse, explaining who she was and making up a story that was close enough to the truth that even Sam believed her. He then found himself gritting his teeth and preparing to dig out some fake credit card or phony health insurance with an equally phony name, but Ginny thankfully spared him that supreme embarrassment by claiming Dean as a student and so covered by the university.
Then he handed Ginny her sweater and went back to his corner chair to wait. Ginny put her sweater on, told him she was going in search of coffee, and the three grad students drifted over. Lissa and Angie, both red-eyed from crying, took seats on the other angle of the little corner, and Ian leaned up against the wall. They didn't say anything, but he was strangely grateful for their presence. Then Ginny came back with coffee all around, and took the chair next to him, calm and reassuring.
Sam sighed and grimaced at the coffee, knowing that it would be terrible, but he choked down a few swallows anyway. He sat, and waited, his coffee grew cold, and he found that his thoughts had turned to Jason McNeil. Maybe that Spidey-sense, as Dean liked to call it, was tingling after all, because Sam suddenly looked up just in time to see Jason further down the hall, but quickly turning and walking away as soon as he saw Sam notice him.
A cold rage burned through Sam, and before he knew it, he'd gotten up to go after the other man. He caught up to him with a few strides of his long legs, and slammed him up against the corridor wall, heedless of the immediate attention of the curiously watching staff – who were no doubt two seconds away from calling security.
Ignoring the blustered, feeble attempts at an apology, Sam twisted his fists firmly in Jason's jacket and used his considerable advantage of height to stare down in undisguised fury. He kept his voice low and bent just close enough to get in the nervous man's sweating face.
"Listen to me, shit-for-brains, you nearly got my brother killed. He saved your worthless ass from that homicidal bitch, and thanks to you, he's in a hospital for the third time in a month. If he wakes up with anything worse than a stubbed toe, you are toast. You got that? I will personally toss you back into that house and lock the door, and let that thing do to you what it wants. But for now, just stay the hell away from me."
Part of his mind thought for sure that he was channeling Dean, and dude, didn't that feel good?
He uncurled his fists and dropped Jason, barely resisting the urge to fling him face-first down the corridor. Dimly aware of the other students on their feet and standing in stunned silence with Ginny, he turned away from them all to get himself and his raw emotions under control.
And now here he sat again, more than an hour later, or two, he didn't know, and still no word from the doctor. Jason had, thankfully, disappeared. More coffee, and Sam sat and waited, and sat and paced, and waited some more, God knew how long, and his eyes were bleary but all he could see was Dean, pinned like a bug against that door and trapped in ghostly mist.
"What's taking so long?" he muttered. "Maybe I should go ask –" He started to stand but Ginny put a hand on his arm.
"Just a little longer, okay, Sam? Give them time. They'll let us know as soon as they can, honey."
"I know, I know, but…" He sighed again, and it was all he could do to keep himself from screaming.
Don't do this to me, Dean. I can't take it anymore. You had better be all right, or I will so kick your ass. Right after I kick Jason's. Never mind, forget Jason. If you're not all right, I'll torch that house and gladly watch it burn to the ground if that's what it takes to get rid of that thing…
"Sam, I'm so sorry I got you boys into this." Ginny's soft voice broke into his murderous thoughts. "I wish I'd never called you. I can't believe that the situation got so…out of control."
He turned his head to meet her eyes, and he gave her a weak smile. "Oh, it's not your fault. Please don't think that." Then he added, reluctantly, but knowing it to be true, "It's not even Jason's, really. Dean just has this…" He smiled again, sad and rueful this time. "Habit, I guess you could say, of mindlessly leaping into harm's way if it means saving someone else. He can't seem to help it." Especially lately, especially since Nebraska.
"He sounds like quite the hero. I suspected as much."
"Yeah?" He played along.
"Oh, definitely. Put him in a fedora and he'd give Indiana Jones a run for his money."
Sam laughed, but it turned halfway through into a sort of sob, and he had to shut his eyes very tightly before the tears fell. He felt Ginny's hand briefly grip his own.
"Doctor's coming, Sam," she said quietly, giving his hand a squeeze before releasing it.
Oh shit oh shit oh shit. Please let him be all right, please please please. Dean, you have got to be all right…
He stood on suddenly shaky legs and the mantra continued to run through his head as he turned toward the ER doctor who had worked on Dean. Ginny stood slightly behind him, and the others were on their feet as well, looking anxious, but Sam could hardly spare them a glance.
"Sam Winchester?"
"I'm Sam Winchester." He licked dry lips. Please be all right. Please. "How's my brother doing? Can I see him?"
"Mr. Winchester, I'm Doctor Goyal." He drew Sam somewhat away from the others and spoke quietly. "We're moving your brother to a room right now, and we're going to keep him here overnight. As soon as he's settled, you can see him for a moment."
"What…what's wrong with him? Why does he have to stay?" He thought that surely those were snakes writhing in his stomach right now, and he was afraid he just might throw up. "Doc, what's wrong with Dean?"
The doctor pursed his lips, and stared down at the chart in his hands. "Mr. Winchester – "
"Sam, please."
"Okay, Sam. Your brother has some severely bruised ribs – bruises on top of bruises, I should say. Looks like the older ones are from a week or so ago?" At Sam's nod, he went on. "He's incredibly lucky – nothing broken, but he cracked two ribs this time around. Some new bruising on his chest, not quite as severe, and we've started treatment with some icepacks. We were initially concerned about internal bleeding, but again, he's lucky, nothing there to worry about. He's got a bit of a bump on the back of his head, though no sign of concussion." Another pause and a glance at the clipboard had Sam feeling those snakes again, stronger than ever. "However… Sam, your brother is still unconscious and unresponsive. Quite deeply unconscious, actually, but the injuries he sustained this evening aren't severe enough to account for it. We'll monitor him closely tonight, and we'll be running more tests if he doesn't wake up soon."
"Is it a coma?" Sam swallowed the lump in his throat. Or maybe it was those gut-churning snakes, squirming higher.
"No, but at this point I can't say anymore. I'm sorry. But can you tell me if your brother has suffered a recent trauma? Other than the obvious bruising, I should say."
Now Sam fought against an almost hysterical urge to laugh. Recent trauma? Try the last twenty-two years, Doc. Or do you just mean the whole electrocution, massive heart attack, one month to live thing? Of course, after that, there was the healed by a reaper thing, coupled with overwhelming survivor's guilt and a mind bent on self-sacrifice, but other than that, hell no, Doc, he's just freakin' fine. And then there's the fact that a malevolent ghost attacked him earlier tonight, but I can't exactly tell you the truth about that, either…
"Uh, no, not really," he managed to say, working on his best wide-eyed innocent look. "Just some insomnia, I guess, and his appetite hasn't been the greatest since his ribs got banged up. Kinda tired, you know."
The young ER doctor was nodding. "Yes, it's very possible that he is simply taking the opportunity, so to say, to catch up. I noticed signs of fatigue and stress, and that, together with these most recent injuries, could be the cause of his non-responsive behavior."
"But you'll let me see him tonight, right?"
"Of course. The nurse will let you know when he's settled in. We'll take good care of your brother, Sam."
"Yeah, thanks."
The doctor nodded politely to him, and turned away to deal with his next crisis.
Sam blew out a breath, and sagged against the wall. He rubbed his eyes; the exhaustion of the last month, the worry, the fear, everything, suddenly hitting him like a tidal wave. He was numb, and so damn tired of hospitals…
"Sam, honey, what is it?"
He dragged his eyes open to see Ginny, close by, and the others, hovering just out of reach. They all looked shaken and tired. Sam somehow straightened up, but remained leaning on the wall for support and tried to focus.
"Um, well, Dean's okay, mostly, but…he isn't awake. They don't know why." He heard the tremor in his voice and tried to pretend it was anger. "That damn dead thing in the house hurt him somehow, it did something to him, and he's still unconscious."
"Oh, Sam." Ginny took one his hands between hers and gripped it tight. "What can we do? Is there someone I should call, someone I can get here for you?"
Been there, done that. "Hey, Dad, it's Sam… It's Dean. He's sick, and, uh, the doctors say there's nothing they can do…"
Yeah, like that phone message had worked the last time. That had really brought John Winchester straight to their door. Dean dying wasn't enough, why would the man bother to show up this time? It was just the two of them. Brother looking out for brother. Again.
"No," he said, distantly, eyes blurring. "There's no one, just us."
He thought Ginny looked faintly troubled by that, but she only said, "All right, Sam. We'll wait here for you until they've let you seen Dean."
"Oh, no, Ginny, no, you don't have to wait, really," he protested. Futilely, as it turned out. She just smiled at him, sat down, and everyone else did too. "Um, thanks, you guys," he added, awkward, meeting their eyes, getting a nod from Ian and watery smiles from the girls.
Well, maybe this time it wasn't quite just the two of them.
Then a nurse was there, taking him to see Dean. As he poked his head cautiously around the door of his brother's room, Sam nearly reeled with a sickening sense of déjà vu. His hands shook, his mouth went dry, and his heart hammered in his chest.
Dean. Lying far too still. Pale and bruised.
Not again. Please, not again.
And Sam thought, briefly, with a sudden flare of vicious anger, that it should be Jason McNeil lying there instead, not his brother. Not Dean, who just had to be the hero.
Sam squeezed his eyes shut for a moment as he wearily sank in the chair next to the bed. This was a different city, a different hospital. Dean hadn't just suffered electrocution and a massive heart attack. He wasn't dying…
"Dean," he said softly, carefully watching his brother's features. "Hey, bro, you in there? What did that thing do to you, huh? Come on, don't tell me some wussy little ghost can take down Dean Winchester…"
He reached in between the bars of the bed, threading his hand around the various wires and tubes to gently grasp Dean's hand, the one without an IV in it, thinking that if Dean were awake, this mushy stuff would really embarrass the hell out of him. Well, what Dean didn't know about the mushy stuff wouldn't hurt him.
Dean's hand was cold. Sam gripped tighter, trying to warm the chill fingers with his own. He rested his other hand briefly on Dean's forehead, shocked at how cool he still felt. Just like outside the house, when he'd held him on the ground.
"Hey, Dean," he whispered, leaning close. "I can't stay long, they're gonna kick me out soon. So you'd better wake up, okay? I mean it. You gotta snap out of this, dude, or they're gonna be doing brain scans and all sorts of horrible stuff to you. Now I know you're in there, I know you can hear me, so just wake up already. Come on. You can do it. Please…"
Not a flicker under a closed eyelid, not a twitch of the fingers that Sam held so tightly. Dean was as pale and cool as marble. Sam thought bleakly of tomb effigies, of stone angels, and shuddered.
"What the hell were you thinking, anyway, huh?" He rubbed his free hand across his eyes. "When are you gonna learn you're not Superman? If you weren't already beat up and looking terrible, I'd kick your sorry ass." He sighed. "Piece of cake, we'll just do this job for Ginny and then we're done. Yeah, right. You big dope."
He almost expected Dean's green eyes to snap open at that point and give him shit right back, but no such luck. And though the monitors clearly showed a steady heartbeat, Sam reached out and put his hand on Dean's chest anyway, just to feel the thump for himself.
Sam simply sat then, Dean's hand wrapped in his, until the nurse returned and gently told him he had to leave. Reluctantly letting go, he tucked his brother's hand, slightly warmer now, under the covers and pulled the blankets up higher before standing.
"I gotta go. But I'll be back in the morning. Don't give the nurses a hard time, okay?"
He gave a final lingering look from the doorway, considered briefly begging to stay the night in Dean's room, but knew from unfortunate experience that it wouldn't work.
God, he was so tired of hospitals. So tired of seeing Dean hurt.
He wiped his eyes and went to find Ginny.
xxxxx
Dean was in a cold, dark place, and were he a man prone to panic, he would have been screaming. He did allow himself one breathless moment of sheer terror, when at first he thought he'd been buried alive, but he just as quickly realized that that wasn't quite right either. Not that the alternatives held much comfort…
He could neither move nor see anything at all. He didn't even know if his eyes were open or closed as he strained to glimpse something, anything, in the darkness. Maybe he didn't have eyes. Or toes or fingers, since he couldn't seem to move them anyway.
Okay, maybe just a little bit of panic here…
He thought he was frowning, in his head, at any rate, as he fought to remember what could have put him here. Cold, so cold. Oh fuck. The reaper. Grasping his head, driving him to his knees in the mud-churned field behind the faith healer's tent, stealing his life away… But no, Nebraska was weeks ago, right? He'd been in a house. Something had slammed him into a wall, and then, and then… Clinging, cold mist. Tendrils of white fog had entwined around his throat and chest, squeezing tight. He'd been choking, unable to breathe, to make a sound, and –
Sam! Where's Sammy?
Had that fucking thing gotten his little brother? Sam would've saved him, if he'd been able. Something must've happened to Sam. He had to find him…
He fought, gritting his teeth (he thought), and struggled against the weight of the dark that crushed him. After an eternity he thought he could hear a quiet murmur of voices, very faint as though he were trying to listen to a conversation in another room. Another eternity later the darkness began to lessen; he could see – see! – light glimmering off in some indeterminate direction, and he reached for it like a swimmer underwater reaching for the sun. The murmuring voice sounded familiar, and it got louder, a little clearer, and he felt a tingling warmth that started in his fingertips and crept its way slowly up his arm. Then he burst through the veil and took a deep gasping breath, and everything went black for just a moment as the pain hit.
"Shit!" he hissed between clenched teeth as he jackknifed almost upright. "Son of a bitch!"
Hands shifted, moved to his shoulders to grip him tight, and a weight settled next to him. He opened his eyes, mere slits, but open, still clenching his jaw against the agony that shook his entire body. But oh, it felt good. To feel something, even pain, and know that he was alive. He heard quiet beeping, the telltale noise of monitors and machines, and thought, Hospital. Goddammit, not again.
"It's all right, you're all right now," the voice was saying, over and over. "Take it easy. Dean, it's all right…"
"Sammy…" he whispered, going limp with relief.
One of the hands on his shoulders, familiar hands with long fingers, moved to curve around his back, pulling him close, and Dean leaned into his brother's chest, his head against Sam's heart, pushing away the pain the simple movement aroused. He let Sam hang onto him, not fighting the gesture, needing the physical contact as much as his brother. But too soon, feeling suddenly self-conscious, he forced himself to ease away; he immediately missed the warmth of his brother's arms as Sam helped him to lie back against the pillows. Sam didn't go far, but remained sitting on the edge of the bed with his arm braced on the other side of Dean's body.
Sam leaned over him, red-eyed, mashed bedhead hair and all, and said, "It's about time you woke up." Equal parts worry and relief were palpable in his voice and on his face, and Dean figured things must've been pretty damn bad on Sam's end as well.
Dean quickly scanned him for bruises, wounds, and bandages, but beyond looking grey with exhaustion, he seemed okay, and most of Dean's terror faded away at the sight of a living, breathing, Sam. But…
"Sammy, are you all right?" he croaked. Sam started tugging on blankets and rearranging twisted IV lines. "What the hell happened?"
"Take it easy," Sam said, still fussing. "Lie still."
Since Dean lacked the strength to barely lift his head, he grudgingly decided that Sam probably had the right idea. Not that he liked it, of course. Sam, satisfied at last, sat back, and just stared at him.
"You're all right?" Dean asked again.
"I'm fine," Sam sighed, shoulders slumping. "You're the one who's been out cold for over ten hours."
"Huh?" He shifted slightly in the bed, winced, and realized he must've cracked a rib or two. Oh, great. "What the hell?"
"What do you remember about last night?"
He had to think about that, trying to recapture the fleeting memories of just moments ago. "Uh, we went in the house, and…I got thrown across the room?"
"You did the throwing. Aside from the furniture, that is. You pushed Jason out of the way of a very nice leather-covered reading chair." Sam swallowed, hard, and looked away. "I really wish you'd stop doing things like that."
Oh, yeah. It was starting to come back to him. No wonder Sam was pissed.
"Sammy. Sam, look at me." He tried to sound stern and commanding, but knew it wasn't working. "Come on, Sam," he cajoled. Sam turned back, eyes suspiciously bright. "Honest, Sam, I meant what I said before. I'm not trying to get hurt – " Maybe. Mostly. I think. "But Jason wasn't moving, he was scared shitless, and I couldn't let him get hurt if I could stop it."
"I know," Sam said miserably, swiping at his eyes. "That's what I told Ginny. You can't help it. Absolutely Pavlovian. You're still a stupid, stubborn idiot, though."
"Yeah," he sighed, his breath hitching slightly, and feeling every damn bruise in places he didn't think he even had bruises. Of course, he hadn't seen the new batch yet. "I think you're right, actually. When can I get out of here?"
"You just woke up, jackass. You got more bruises, cracked ribs –"
"Tell me something I don't know," he grumbled.
"And you were unconscious – for ten hours, Dean! – after that thing wrapped itself around you last night. The doctor was going to start running some serious tests this morning if you weren't waking up. Probably still will, just to see if you've got a brain in there, which I am really having my doubts about, Dean, so just shut up and lie still and don't even think about getting out of here."
Yep, Sammy sure is pissed.
"Come on, Sam, I just need some Tylenol, a couple of icepacks for the bruises, and I'll be fine." He tried to quell the tremors that ran through him at Sam's mention of the ghost. It hadn't been the reaper, this wasn't Nebraska, and you're not dying. Not today. He shivered, and his body wanted to curl up. Sam noticed, of course.
"Dean –"
Cutting Sam off, Dean said, "You saved my ass in there, didn't you, Sammy? That thing had me all wrapped up like dinner in a spider's web, but you got me out."
Sam shrugged. "Threw some salt on it. Got rid of it long enough to haul us both out of there."
The conversation was suddenly beginning to tire him. "Thanks, dude," he said, trying to keep his eyes from sliding shut. "Knew you could do it." He felt another shiver course down his spine.
Sam stood up, ready to bolt. "I'm getting a nurse, the doctor, somebody. I should've told them right away you were awake. Take it easy. I'll be right back."
"I'm just cold, Sam. Please, get me out of here, okay?" Dean knew he was whining, but he didn't care. He had to get that look of constant haunting worry out of Sam's eyes, and he couldn't do it if he was stuck in a hospital bed. "What are you gonna tell 'em, huh? That I was out of it 'cause I got zapped by a pissed-off angry spirit? Rules, dude. Don't say anything that'll get us put in a white padded room. I'm all right now. You know how much I hate hospitals, come on…"
Though it took a good long while, in the end Dean won. He grumbled through the poking and prodding; he put up – barely – with the tests that continued to come back negative; he bitched about the awful hospital food that an overly perky little candy striper served him at lunch (because Sam refused to go get him a burger and fries); but he really hated the fact that when the puzzled doctors finally threw up their hands and admitted that he could indeed check out, Sam had to help him get dressed.
He saw the grimace on Sam's face when his brother caught his first sight of Dean's battered torso. Dean had pulled on his underwear and jeans, shrugged out of the ridiculous hospital gown and Sam had visibly flinched, bitten his lip, and just breathed a quiet, "Crap, Dean." After helping him pull on his t-shirt, Sam wound up tying Dean's bootlaces for him. And with that final humiliation, he was able to leave armed with a prescription for some pain pills and a lecture about taking care of his cracked ribs.
Sam got him into the passenger seat of the Impala, and he sat hunched over in pain, pale, sweating, and Sam veered between ill-hidden anxiety and forced lightness. The return to the house felt like the drive to Nebraska all over again, only shorter.
But then he'd been dying. He bit back a moan. Not that this felt like much of an improvement.
Back at the rented house, they followed the voices and found everyone in the kitchen – research in progress, it appeared – and obviously surprised to see him with Sam. With smiles and relieved, cheerful greetings they gathered round. Ginny was instantly there, studying him with a frown before giving him a careful hug, her arms warm around him.
"Oh, Dean, whatever are you doing out of the hospital? I'm sorry to say it, honey, but you look terrible."
Rather surprised himself by all the attention, slightly embarrassed, he nevertheless managed a clumsy one-armed hug in return before she stepped away. "I'm fine, Ginny, really."
"Sam said you'd say that." She rolled her eyes, her expression remarkably similar to Sam's.
"Good to see you up," Ian said, smiling. "The girls were rather distraught last night."
Lissa punched Ian on the arm. "Oh, like you weren't, you stuffy Brit." She stood on tiptoes to give Dean a kiss on the cheek. "We're very glad to see you. You had us all worried."
As Lissa moved back, Angie said, "If you were my brother, I'd smack you for scaring me. But I think you've had enough smacking. So just don't do that again, okay? Let Jason take his own thumps next time."
Dean cleared his throat and hoped he wasn't blushing. If Sam laughed, his little brother was so dead… The smartass, witty comeback he wanted to say died on his lips as he saw how suddenly serious they all looked. And tired. Hadn't anyone slept last night? Because of him? He licked his lips and tried again. "Sorry. Didn't mean for you all to be worried," he said, awkwardly. "It happens, once in a while. I'm okay, really." Then he glanced around, just realizing something. "Where is Jason? Is he all right?"
Everyone looked at everyone else, except Sam. But no one said anything.
"Sammy?" Dean asked, suspicious. "What did you do?"
"Um…well, I got a little, um, upset, I guess you could say." Sam ducked his head, and his shaggy bangs hid his eyes.
"Sammy. Spill. You didn't beat the poor guy up, did you?"
"Um," Sam started again, still avoiding Dean's gaze.
Ginny rescued him. "Sam just let Jason know how very unhappy he was with Jason's behavior last night."
"And now Jason's hiding in his room," Lissa added.
"Because he's afraid of your brother," Ian finished.
Dean winced. "Aw, Sam. Since when did you start acting like me?" Then the room started to waver, and maybe he did, too, and he tossed Sam a quick look of mute, desperate appeal. He hated for Sam to see him like this, but better Sam than a room full of people he'd met less than forty-eight hours ago.
Sam thankfully got the message and put a steadying hand under his elbow, and then Ginny was on his other side, ushering them out the door.
"I think it's time we let Dean rest for a bit," she said over her shoulder. In a lower voice she added, "Dean, honey, let's get you into bed."
Never a man to pass up a straight line, Dean gave her a friendly leer as she slid a gentle arm around his waist. "Now those are words I love to hear coming from a woman's mouth."
Sam groaned, very quietly, and braced him with an arm around his shoulders. "Just ignore him," he said to Ginny, over the top of Dean's head.
Ginny's mouth turned up in a smile. "I hate to break it to you, sweetie," she said dryly, "but with the shape you're in, it'd hardly be worthwhile."
Though Dean found that he was leaning more of his weight onto Sam and every step jarred a twinge somewhere, he grinned as they made their way slowly up the stairs. "Ginny, darlin', I'm always worthwhile."
She hooted with laughter, as he'd known she would, and Sam just groaned again. But at least he made it up the stairs and onto his bed before he passed out.
xxxxx
It was dark, and he was cold, just like before. He knew he had to get out of here, but his limbs were leaden and refused to move any faster than a slow plod. His breath rasped hard and loud in his chest, and the tremors from the cold continued to grow worse.
Cold as the grave… He knew the reaper was out there, stalking him. He could feel its dead hands on his face already, leaching the warmth and strength of his life away to give to someone else… To Layla. But if it would save Layla, would that be such a bad way to die? She deserved to live. More than he did. Just like her mother had said. But he couldn't leave Sam, could he? Who'd look after Sam? It was his job, always had been and always would be, no matter how old they got. He almost laughed at that.
Yeah, like you're gonna get any older at the rate you're going.
He heard something, told himself to pay attention, and strained his senses in the darkness. A light footstep. Behind him. Oh shit oh shit oh shit, you are so dead. Run. But he couldn't move at all now. The terror he'd held at bay rose up to choke him, and he fell to his knees, the single sobbing breath that escaped the only sound in the darkness. He was so cold. And so very tired. Let it be quick, he thought despairingly. Let it be over, because I don't have the courage to face you again. Come on, then, you skinny bastard…
When the hand under his chin lifted his head, he was too weary to resist. It would be over soon, and for that he was grateful. Sorry, Sam, I can't fight anymore, not even for you. Sorry. I'm sorry… But the hand on his face wasn't the bone-chilling, leathery grip of the reaper. It was soft, and small, and suddenly he could smell…roses.
He opened his eyes and looked up to see a pale, ethereal woman, dark-haired and beautiful, standing before him. His confusion grew as she stroked her hand across his forehead, and she looked at him with such longing and loss that it nearly made him weep.
Who are you? What do you want?
But then she dropped her hand and simply stepped away, to vanish into the dark, and he cried out as he was grabbed suddenly from behind. He fought and twisted away, finding that he wasn't ready to give up after all. As he struggled, a sharp, knifing pain in his side had him gasping.
The grip he fought against loosened slightly, but didn't let go, and he heard a voice beside his ear. Come to think of it, it had been there for a while.
"Dean?" It sounded pleading, desperate. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to hurt you. Come on, Dean, wake up. Please."
Dean stopped his struggles, breathing hard, his body going limp. But he didn't fall because someone held him, and it wasn't the reaper or the strange, beautiful woman. Opening his eyes he stared up and around into a very worried face.
"Sam?" he whispered. There was enough daylight yet in the room to see that he was tangled in blankets, with Sam sitting behind him on the bed. He could feel Sam's arms shaking from where they were wrapped around him, holding him tight.
"Sam." He breathed his brother's name again, like a talisman. Sam had called him, had dragged him out of the dark. Wouldn't he always come back, if Sam called? "Sammy," he said, suddenly noticing, "you're squishing me." Dean squirmed a little, just enough to loosen the hold, not enough to break it. He had a hazy memory of waking up in another bed with Sam's arms around him – what the hell? It was getting to be pretty damn embarrassing… Not that he felt like moving at the moment. The terror from the nightmare (it had been a nightmare, right?) slowly ebbed, but he found himself shivering again, and there was a cold blankness in his mind.
"Are you all right?" Sam said, equally cautious in adjusting his hold.
"I…" He frowned.
"Dean? You were dreaming."
"Uh, I guess." Dean kept on frowning as he quickly took in their surroundings. This was not the tacky motel room they'd been staying in. "Sammy…where are we?" Dean closed his eyes, seeing only shadows on shadows, feeling cold hands on his face; he was so confused and disoriented. Why was he lying here in Sam's arms? Why did he hurt so much?
He heard Sam's sharp intake of breath, and after a long moment, his brother said slowly and too calmly, "Dean, we're in a house in Charleston. In South Carolina. With a professor named Ginny Lewis, and her students. Don't you remember?"
"Not Nebraska?" He could feel Sam's heartbeat against his back. Hear the carefully controlled panic in his brother's voice.
"No, we left Nebraska about a month ago."
He twisted around so he could see Sam better. "Sam?" His brother's face was drawn tight with fear – for Dean. "The reaper…gone, right?" He swallowed, remembering a muddy field.
"It's gone," Sam said, more firmly. "It killed Sue Ann after the binding spell was broken, and it disappeared. Remember?" He let go with one hand long enough to tug the blankets higher around Dean.
What the fuck was wrong with him? Nebraska, they'd left Nebraska a goddamn month ago?
"Yeah," Dean agreed, slowly, "yeah, I guess." He searched his memory, finding despair and hope, pain and joy. "Then we left. Layla…" Sorrow pierced his heart. "We left her there, and I could've saved her, Sam. The reaper was taking my life for hers, and she deserved to live." Dean could hear himself rambling, but he was unable to stop the exhausted torrent of words. "Her mother asked me why I deserved to live more than her. I don't. I should've let it kill me. I was supposed to die anyway…"
"What do you mean, the reaper was taking your life?" Sam went utterly still.
"The reaper had me, Sam," he said wearily. "I was dying, I could feel it. And…I knew Layla would live if I died." Sam's cheek came to rest on top of his head. Funny how neither one of them seemed to want to move. Dean didn't think he could, even if he did want to. He hurt everywhere. He wondered how that had happened.
"Why didn't you tell me this before?" Sam mumbled into his hair.
"Didn't want you to worry," he admitted. "Got enough to worry about."
"You idiot."
"Yeah, well, like that's news," Dean sighed. "Sammy… What are we doing in Charleston? And what the hell happened to me that I don't remember the last damn month?"
"Long version or short?"
"Short, please. And simple. Don't think I'm up to the hard stuff yet."
Sam filled him in with a few succinct sentences.
"Oh." A ghost. Well, that made sense. "It messed with my head, you think, huh? And the bruises are from the chair?"
"Yep."
"How many times have you had to tell me this?"
"Twice now," Sam admitted. "You were a little confused at first when you came to in the hospital. But then you remembered everything."
"Well, shit, Sammy, that sucks." Taking a deep breath and gritting his teeth against the pain he knew would follow, Dean pulled away from a reluctant Sam and got his legs over the side of the bed to sit up on his own. His head spun for a moment and he thought he might just pass out again. He frowned. Again? Something…Sam and a woman helping him up the stairs, he fell on the bed… "Sam, did I break a rib?"
"Cracked two," Sam replied, standing up, making the bed creak. "Are you hungry? I think you need to eat something, and then take some pain pills. And then go back to sleep." He reached over and turned on the bedside lamp in the darkening room.
Dean squinted a bit in the sudden light. "Don't want to go back to sleep. I've slept enough." He shuddered, and couldn't quite meet Sam's gaze. "What if…" He bit his lower lip. "What if I keep forgetting? Whatever that thing did to me, I am screwed up but good, Sammy." God, he hated this. Physical injuries he could deal with, he knew how to ignore them, downplay them, and hide them from Sam; but what could he do about the fact that his memory seemed to be whacked and his mind was full of holes? He couldn't pretend that there was nothing wrong, not this time.
"We'll figure it out," Sam said, looking down at him. "We always do. Or else we'll just torch the whole freakin' house and get rid of the damn thing that way." He stuffed his hands in his jeans pockets and turned away. "I was ready to do it last night," he added, quietly.
"Ginny wouldn't have liked that," Dean said absently, scrubbing a hand through his hair.
Sam spun back and grabbed his shoulders. "You remember Ginny?"
He looked up into Sam's hopeful face. "Uh, not really," he said, cursing himself for causing the hope to just as quickly disappear from his brother's eyes. "Just had a weird feeling…"
"Well," Sam sighed. "Maybe that means your memories are still somewhere in that thick skull of yours, and they'll all come back in time. Anyway, I'm gonna go get us something to eat. Stay out of trouble while I'm gone, okay?"
"Thought I'd take a shower, if that's okay with you, Nurse Nightingale."
"Yeah, you could use one," Sam said, immediately backing up as Dean reached for a pillow to throw. "Be right back." And he was out the door before Dean could retaliate.
Dean dropped his head into his hands. How did this gig get to be so fucked up? Was he cursed, or something? Did the Fates have it in for Dean Winchester? Bad karma, something he'd done in a former life? He sighed. Nah, shit just happens. Drew the short straw. Again. Better me than Sammy… And, of course, from what Sam said – and didn't say – when filling in the blanks of recent events, it's not like Dean wasn't helping the Fates along by flinging himself headfirst into trouble.
Oh, he was so gonna turn this spook into toast. A big ol' bonfire, nice and hot for burning bones, that would take care of it. And stop it from messing with his head. He just had to stay angry long enough to keep the nightmares and the darkness and the terror at bay.
Suck it up, boy. John Winchester's voice echoed in his head. Forget the pain, forget the fear, and get the damn job done.
Dean got slowly to his feet, wincing, and went to take a shower.
xxxxx
Sam sagged wearily against the closed door of their room and waited until he heard water running in the shower. How had things gone south so fast? Dean hurt, again, and how did Sam tend to a wound he couldn't see? He just had to believe that Dean would be all right… "Crap," he muttered, pushing away from the door and heading downstairs to the kitchen.
Everyone had already eaten and scattered for the evening; he could hear the sounds of conversation and a television show coming from the big living room out front. In no mood to answer questions about Dean's current state of health, he was relieved to have the kitchen to himself.
He quickly found some leftovers in the refrigerator and set about warming them up. Having hardly eaten all day, his stomach was starting to rumble; he'd been far too keyed up to even think about food, but now that he could smell the stew reheating, he realized he was famished. He had fallen asleep halfway through the afternoon, staying with Dean, only to be woken by the choked cries of his brother's nightmare. His eyes still burned, and he felt gritty and wrung out, but he'd sit up all night again if he had to, if Dean was in trouble. God, how much more could they take? Dean, battered and bruised, paler than ever, struggling to hold his fear in check for Sam's sake, still protecting his little brother…
"Damnit," he said, sitting down at the table.
He didn't hear her until she said his name, and he looked up from his bleak thoughts to see Ginny.
Taking a seat across from him, she said, "Thought it might be you in here."
"Yeah, just came down for some supper. Dean just woke up."
She hesitated, then said carefully, "How's Dean doing, honey?"
Sam stared at the tabletop. "He's awake," he repeated. "Well, I woke him up. Out of a nightmare." How much to tell her? He didn't want her to worry, but he figured she had a right to know. Dean would probably kill him if he found out. "Ginny, he's…having trouble remembering things." He spread his hands in a helpless gesture. "When he woke up in the hospital this morning, he didn't remember what had happened, not right away. And just now," Sam gulped, "he thought we were still in Nebraska, from a month ago."
"Oh, Sam, I'm so sorry." She reached out and took his hand, just as she had at the hospital. "What did the doctors say? Is there anything they can do?"
"They couldn't find anything." He shrugged. "He woke up, he knew his name, he was fine, as far as they were concerned. Like Dean said, what could we tell them, that he'd been nearly murdered by a angry spirit?"
"Well," Ginny said firmly, "you boys are not going back into that house. We'll find some other way to deal with our…problem. I won't have you risking yourselves again. We'll have the place torn down, if that's what it takes, museum be damned."
Sam mustered up a tired smile, wishing Dean could hear that. "Thanks. But maybe it won't come to that. And Dean won't give up, he'll still want to go after this thing."
"Sam, no, you can't be serious. Not after what happened to him."
He got up to stir the stew, and to put his back to Ginny so she couldn't see his face. "Dean's got a stubborn streak a mile wide," he said. "Especially if he's pissed off about something. And believe me, this thing has him pissed off. I've tried…" He sighed and rubbed a hand over his eyes. "I've tried to keep him safe the last few weeks, and I'm not doing a very good job. He's the one who's always done the protecting, you see, ever since I can remember." With a slightly bitter laugh, he added, "He's doing it even now, even when he's hurt."
"Why is it different?" Ginny asked quietly. "What happened in the last few weeks that now you need to look after him?"
Sam stopped stirring, spoon poised. He could feel his shoulders slumping, utter weariness taking hold of him, and before he knew it, he had turned around again to meet her concerned gaze. The need to talk, to pour out his anguish and worry was almost overwhelming.
Ginny just waited, not pushing, and he finally rejoined her at the table. He spent another minute or two playing with the salt and pepper shakers before looking up.
"Dean was…hurt, badly, not long ago," he began, his voice low. God, it still hurt to say that, to think about it. "The doctor at the hospital in – Jesus, I don't even remember the name of the place – gave him two weeks, maybe a month at the most." Hearing Ginny's sharp gasp, he took a breath and hurried on, leaving out the more…otherworldly elements of the story. "Well, he's all right now. I mean, he's not really – he's not dying, but he's been…reckless ever since, taking too many chances. There was this…girl he met, who was sick, dying, and he keeps thinking he should have saved her. He feels guilty for being the one to live." Tonight, that sudden and horrible revelation – "We left her there, and I could've saved her, Sam. The reaper was taking my life for hers, and she deserved to live." Sam shuddered. How close had it been? If he hadn't found the altar and Sue Ann in time, and destroyed the amulet, would Dean have simply let himself be taken?
"And now, God –" He swallowed, his throat dry. "I finally saw those bruises, the ones he's been hiding, and now more on top of those… Ginny, I can't even believe he's been able to move. Well, yeah, I can, what am I saying? This is Dean we're talking about here, Mr. Invincible. Stupid, stupid bastard. If he weren't already in such bad shape, I'd slap him upside the head for being such a jackass…"
His voice gave out at that point, and Ginny reached over with one hand to pat him on the arm in what was already a familiar gesture.
"It sounds like you boys have had more than your share of hurt lately. I don't understand completely what it is you do, but I can tell that it's dangerous. And Dean, well, he's just a hero, isn't he? He wants to do what's right, and he's willing to pay the price. Even though I only met you two, I can see that about him."
"Yeah, that's Dean, all right," Sam said hoarsely. "He's a pain in the ass, but he does have his moments."
Ginny laughed softly. "He does indeed." She hesitated, cocked her head at Sam, and said, "This memory problem, Sam… If the doctors couldn't find a physical reason, could it be psychological? From what you've told me, and I admit, I'm making leaps here, it sounds like Dean might be, oh, I don't know, deliberately repressing those memories somehow. After what he's been through, maybe it's sort of a delayed reaction to the events that are causing him such pain."
Sam sat up. "What, like post-traumatic stress syndrome, you mean?"
"Yeah, something like that. Maybe that knock he took from our resident ghost was just enough to trigger it. The mind is a strange place. I'm obviously no expert, but from what I've read…" She shrugged and spread her hands. "Don't give up. You said he remembered in the hospital, it just took him a little while. Get some food into him. Let him have a good night's sleep, and who knows? Tomorrow morning he could be back to his pain-in-the-ass self."
"The memories aren't the only thing worrying me," Sam admitted wearily. "It's the guilt, and this willingness to get hurt. Like he's punishing himself. I don't know what to do – Dean's not the kind of guy to talk, you know? I've tried. But he just shuts me out."
"Maybe he just needs time, Sam. People work through the hard patches in different ways."
He nodded, and then rolled his eyes at himself. With a snort, he could only shake his head. "God, I can't even believe I'm telling you all this. I'm completely babbling here. Dean would probably kill me for spilling all this. Sorry. It's not like you need to hear all about the problems of the Winchester brothers. But you're a good listener," he added. "Thanks."
"My pleasure, Sam. Now, I think you'd better check that stew before it explodes on you." She stood up and moved to the doorway, pausing only to say, "Go take care of your brother, Sam."
He had already jumped to his feet and turned back to the stove, but he managed to call out his thanks to her before she completely disappeared. The leftovers were indeed simmering nicely, and Sam filled two bowls, found everything else he needed by rummaging through cupboards and drawers, and loaded it all on a tray
Sam made his way as quickly as he could back upstairs. Nudging the door open with his foot, he was relieved to see Dean out of the shower and sitting on the bed, looking more alert and even with some color in his face. His hair was damp; he was sort of dressed, having pulled on a pair of baggy grey sweats, and, of course, a shirt to hide the bruises.
"I found dinner," Sam announced, setting the tray on the nightstand between the beds. "Eat." He handed Dean a bowl and a spoon, snagged the other one for himself, and took up a mirroring position on the opposite bed.
Dean poked at it. "Well, it's not a burger, but I guess it'll be all right." He dug in and starting eating, slow and careful, as though not sure how it would go down.
Sam tried not to watch too closely. He'd have to work on that eyes-in-the-back-of-his-head trick, he supposed, if he wanted to keep track of his brother without Dean knowing about it.
After making sure Dean finished every bite, he used all of his persuasive talents – and not above playing the guileless little brother card – to get Dean to take the prescribed pain medication and go back to bed.
"Not tired, Sammy," Dean insisted, smothering a yawn, and then glaring when Sam just raised an eyebrow. "Jesus Christ, Sam, I slept all day!"
"You need it. Just take the damn pills, and lie down, and be quiet."
"Bossy, bossy, bossy," Dean muttered. "All right. But I am not going to sleep."
"Sure, Dean," Sam nodded, and tried to squash the knot of worry in his gut when Dean gave in so easily.
Dean growled. At least, that's what it sounded like to Sam. But he took the pills, and flopped down on the bed again. "If I can't remember my own damn name when I wake up," he said, "it's all your damn fault."
Sam cracked a smile, sort of, and said, jokingly, "Just don't forget mine."
His eyes drifting shut, Dean said, "Not a chance, geek boy."
With the pills already kicking in, he was asleep within minutes.
"Goodnight, Dean," Sam whispered, as he drew a blanket over his brother.
TBC…
