Chapter 3
A/N: Apologies for the pokey-ness. I'm writing as fast as I can, honest…
Thanks to everyone for all the lovely reviews! I confess to emitting undignified, maniacal squeals of delight every time a story review alert would pop up in my email. If I didn't respond to you individually, please don't think that I'm not reading and appreciating every single one. When I hit a snag, I go back and look at them again, to spur me on. LOL!
Thanks again to Moe, for allowing me to confuse her; and thanks to AJ, for my very own Killer Plot Bunny with Big Pointy Teeth.
xxxxx
Chapter 3
Sleep, deep and dreamless, held him fast. Awareness came slowly. A faint, elusive scent of roses, sweet and heady, tugged at his memory, only to fade when he woke more fully. And he felt someone watching him. Because his body was doing an excellent impression of having been run over by a truck, he took his time to turn carefully on his less damaged side. He just caught Sam's gaze before his brother shifted quickly away to look out the window instead.
"Hey," Dean said, blinking owlishly.
"Hey, yourself," Sam said, looking guardedly back at him again from where he sat in one of the big, stuffed chairs, laptop resting on his folded legs. "How…um, how do you feel? Everything okay?"
Dean mulled that over for a long moment. There was a reason why Sam was scared, why the longer it took for Dean to answer the sicker Sam looked…
"Yeah, Sammy," he finally said, surprising them both. "I actually remember you, me, and what I had for supper last night." Since Sam still had that wary, ill-hidden expression of fear or hope or something on his face as though not utterly convinced of Dean's sincerity, Dean added, "And I remember what happened yesterday at the hospital, and the night before that, when that bitch of a ghost nailed my precious ass to that damn door. Really. Happy now?"
Actually, Dean was pretty happy about it himself.
Sam sighed, tension visibly bleeding from his shoulders. "Ecstatic, believe me. I was getting tired of having to tell you everything over and over since it kept leaking out of your ears."
"Thanks, dude, very funny. Mock the mental patient." He eased himself up and into a sitting position against the headboard, with only a bit of groaning that he couldn't quite hold back. Sam had started to get up to help, but Dean waved him off with a grimace. God, he was getting sick of this. Maybe it was time he stopped throwing himself in front of furniture for a few days; the college boy might just have a point there.
"But, still…" Sam began cautiously, eyeing him and apparently not liking what he saw. "Do you actually remember the hospital?" he demanded. "Or do you just remember me telling you about it? What about Ginny, do you remember her? Come on, Dean, I need some more proof here. Don't bullshit me about this." Sam's eyes were wide and pleading, wanting everything to be all right, wanting Dean to be all right.
"I'm fine, Sam," he said, even as a thin sheen of sweat broke out on his face from the effort of sitting up. "Honest. Would I lie to my little brother?"
"Absolutely."
Well, yeah, of course he would, if it meant keeping Sam safe, alive, and around to tease for another fifty or sixty years. What else was a big brother supposed to do?
But he took in the lines of fatigue and strain on Sam's face, the way his shoulders had crept up around his ears again, the tapping of his fingers on the edge of the laptop, and Dean figured he'd better play nice.
He closed his eyes briefly and ran a hand over his stubbled, sweating face. "Gee, Sammy, I'm wounded by your lack of faith. But if that's the way you want it…" He started ticking names off on his fingers. "Um, okay, Ginny got me into bed last night, clever woman, can't say I blame her. Lissa the Goth Chick, well, hey, I'd be happy to marry her for her cooking if nothing else. Then there's James Bond Junior, aka Ian, and Angie, who really needs to eat more of Lissa's cooking, and of course, then we come to Jason, the Non-Believer in our little group, and Sammy, I sure hope you didn't scare that poor son of a bitch to death." He looked up at Sam, gave him a crooked smile and added, "How's that? Do I pass?"
Up until that point, he hadn't even been sure Sam was breathing.
"Oh, yeah," Sam said, blinking rapidly, giving him a wide, goofy grin. Breathing deeply.
"See?" He grinned back, his various aches and pains receding at the sight of a giddy Sam. "Everything's cool," he went on, feeling a little giddy as well. "Now, can we get on with this? We've got some bones to find, Sammy. Let's get to work."
xxxxx
They made their way downstairs, with Sam hovering and trying not to, and Dean trying to hang onto his temper. His good mood hadn't lasted long. He knew he wasn't mad at Sam, not really, but the fact that Sam had to help him get dressed again and now get him down the stairs just completely pissed him off. But four steps later his mind wandered back to the drive to Nebraska, and Sam sick with worry, always there to steady him when the fatigue caught up, to haul his sorry ass in and out of the car. He thought of waking up, twice, now, from the dark and the cold, with only Sam's arms there to hold him, to be Dean's only anchor in a reality that had suddenly fallen away beneath his feet. So when Sam, behind and slightly to one side of him, put a careful hand on his shoulder when he faltered for a moment, Dean didn't shake his little brother off with an annoyed growl, as he normally would have
He felt Sam's quick twitch of astonishment. But Sam just tightened his grip a little, and if Dean was pale, trembling, and sweating by the time they reached the bottom, Sam didn't mention it. Sam let go but kept close as they found the rest of their merry band – except for Jason, unsurprisingly – assembled as usual in the dining room, with breakfast in progress amidst numerous piles of paper and notes, and a precariously balanced laptop threatened by orange juice and pancake syrup.
A chorus of "good morning" greetings met them, Ian waving a fork because his mouth was full, and Dean had the feeling everyone was doing their best not to stare too much at him. He thought he saw Sam give Ginny a quick glance and a slight nod, but he might have been imagining things. When Sam pulled out a chair for him, he scowled, but sat down carefully, one arm pressed tight against his ribs and trying not to be too obvious about it.
"How do you feel this morning, sweetie?" Ginny at once passed him some toast. "Better than you look, I hope."
"Oh, jeez, Ginny, thanks," Dean said, as he began to slather a piece of toast with strawberry jam. "Last night you want to get me in bed, and now you're implying I look like road kill or something."
Munching, he ignored Sam's smirk. He didn't even have to look at him to know it was there. Smartass.
"If the shoe fits, honey." She winked at him. "Coffee?"
He sighed, leaning an elbow on the table to help prop his head. "Oh, yes, please. Lots."
Ian said, in wistful reminiscing, "I broke a rib once playing football – that's soccer to you Yanks – at school. Hurt like blazes. Then there was the dislocated shoulder, and the mild concussion, and a couple of broken fingers. Oh, those were the days."
"Miss those grand sweat-filled locker room times with the jocks, do you?" Angie asked.
Dean traded a wry grin with Sam. Somehow he didn't think they'd be sharing war wound stories involving demons and wendigos anytime soon.
"Here you go, Dean. Sam." Lissa handed him a cup of coffee, and as he smiled his thanks she passed another cup to his brother.
"Not on your life," Ian was answering Angie. "Those lads were crazy." He turned back to Dean. "Sorry to hear about the ribs. I seem to remember that it hurt to do just about anything. Like breathing, for example."
"It's not so bad," he said, cradling the warm cup in his hands. "Really."
"Well, Ginny's right," Ian said cheerfully. "You look bloody awful."
"Oh, shut up," he grumbled in mock anger, as though Ian were Sam. And that brought him up short. Before he allowed himself to pursue that odd line of thought any further, he drank off half the coffee and asked, "So, what have you college geniuses come up with? Anything new?" He looked around the paper-laden table. "What?" he added, when no one spoke up. "You guys have been working on this, right?"
"We've been a little…pre-occupied, sweetie," Ginny said, patting one of his hands. "But we did take a bit of time to work on some research because Sam said you'd be too stubborn to stop now."
"Excuses, excuses," he muttered, embarrassed by the attention. Again.
Sam just grinned at him.
"All right, children," Ginny said briskly, getting back to business. "Let's show Dean and Sam how brilliant we all are. Angie, why don't you start?"
"Okay, let's see…" She moved some dishes to one side to clear space for her notes, riffling through them for a moment and pulling out a couple of pages. "Well, I got into some more local history records, and the Thorntons do show up quite a bit as they have been a rather prominent family in the area, ever since the early 1800s. I know you've read over all the stuff we'd already found, so I tried to get deeper and look for the...weird angle, I guess." She shrugged, smiling wryly. "Death records have taken on a whole new meaning in the last week, I'll say that. Anyway, beyond what we had, honestly, I just don't think there's anything here. Nothing jumped out at me as being...off, but here's what I've got." Looking over at Dean she added, "Sorry, that sounds sort of wishy-washy, doesn't it?"
"Don't worry about it," he said. "Let's hear what you found out. Sometimes the smallest details are the important ones."
She glanced down at the notepad in front of her, twirling a pencil. "Well, we stuck with Thornton family members, like you suggested. I found several women, mostly in the nineteenth century, who died in childbirth. Quite a few children died young, under the age of ten, but the records don't always say of what. Many of the men, immediate family and near relatives, cousins, uncles, whatever, were killed in the Civil War, but I suppose that doesn't work, because they died far from home…"
Dean listened with half an ear as Angie went on with her recitation of the facts she'd gleaned, slouched a bit in his chair, and let his mind wander. Into a brief pause, with the only sound that of rustling paper, he interjected, idly, "It's a woman."
When dead quiet fell, he straightened and met five pairs of staring eyes. "What?" he said, baffled and suddenly self-conscious. "Sam, what?" He looked at his brother.
Sam's head tipped to one side, and he said, carefully, "How do you know that, Dean? It didn't even have a shape when we saw it -- it was just a vague apparition."
It could have been just the two of them in the room as they shared a look. Sam wasn't grinning now, and Dean could hear the sudden tension in his voice. And hear just what he wasn't saying out loud. What the fuck, Dean?
Dean could only shrug a helpless shoulder in answer to that, not sure himself, and tried to ignore the chill that crept down his spine. "Just a feeling, Sammy, that's all. Really."
The sound of a clearing throat reminded him that they were not alone. Dean shifted his attention to Ginny, who was giving him the same kind of once-over he'd just received from Sam. He had a sneaking suspicion that they were somehow ganging up on him behind his back.
"What?" he said again, not caring how ticked off he sounded.
She folded her hands in front of her on the table and shook her head. "Nothing. I was just thinking that if you believe our spirit is female, we should concentrate our efforts on the women in the family. You've shown pretty good instincts so far. I'm willing to trust them."
"Uh, thanks," he said, shoving his uncomfortable gut feelings aside. Then he added, dryly, "Apart from my good instincts to get in the way of flying furniture, that is."
"Oh, you couldn't help it, sweetie. That's just the way your brain is hard-wired."
Not sure whether he'd been insulted or complimented, Dean settled on giving her a raised eyebrow look of deadpan innocence. She rolled her eyes back at him, not fooled for a minute. Oh, yeah, she and Sam had definitely been talking…
"So what do you think?" Lissa asked, breaking up the moment. "From what Angie found, it doesn't sound like there's a woman in the family who even has a reason to come back and haunt the house. I mean, don't ghosts usually come back because they're mad? Because they died a horrible, violent death and they want revenge or something? This family, it's all so…so damn normal!"
"Other than the fact that a ghost is haunting the quaint ancestral home," Ian said. "Completely normal."
"Well, yeah…"
"It might not be a reason we understand," Sam said. "An emotion, a motive, whatever, that's powerful enough to keep them here, connected with their former life – it could be guilt as well as anger, love as much as hate." He shrugged. "We just don't know enough yet."
Dean took a deep mental breath. Sam was so not going to like this. "We're gonna have to go back in the house, Sam."
He caught another quick glance between Sam and Ginny. Dammit, what have those two been talking about? I am really gonna have to sit Sam down and find out.
Then Sam turned to him, and his brother's face was more resigned than angry, his mouth a thin line. "I thought you might say that," Sam said. "I just don't know how you think we can. This thing, it, she, whatever, has attacked people twice now, and why should the next time be any different if we go in again?"
"We'll figure something out, dude," he said, giving Sam's words from the night before back to him. And he was more than a little relieved that he remembered them. "We always do."
Dean thought Sam really wanted to launch into a long argument, possibly repeating his list of uncomplimentary epithets relating to Dean's recent behavior, but he kept his mouth shut, giving Dean a glare that promised him more would be said in private.
The others were looking at him with expressions that varied on the theme of "Are you crazy?" Then they all started talking at once – until Ginny whistled loudly through her teeth.
As the noise subsided, she asked, calmly, "Why do you need to go back inside, Dean? Is it really worth the risk?"
"You guys have done a good job," he said, nodding at Angie, "chasing down this stuff, but I don't think we're gonna find what we're looking for in the public records or newspapers. I think we need to get our hands on some Thornton family papers. Old bibles, journals, notebooks, whatever. Sam and I figured it was probably some dark family secret, and we're not likely to run across that in public documents." Focusing on Ginny again, he said, "When Emma died, and the museum took over, did they remove anything like that? Or find anything and leave it? What about Emma's lawyers? Maybe we should be looking for safety deposit boxes or something."
"Hm," Ginny said, thoughtful, nodding in agreement. "You could be on the right track there, sweetie. The house is intact, the museum hasn't removed anything, and I believe aside from money bequests, Emma just left some jewelry to her friends. If there were any kind of personal family records, they'd still be in the house. The safety deposit box angle, well, not much we can do about that, I gather, without some sort of court order. Maybe the museum director can talk to Emma's lawyer."
"Hey, Dean," said Angie, tossing her pencil down on her notepad in mock self-disgust, "maybe you should be the one working on an advanced history degree."
"Nah." He smiled, surprised. "Sammy's the scholar in the family."
"Don't sell yourself short."
"Uh, thanks," he said, awkwardly. What was it about these people that they managed to put him off balance and on the verge of embarrassment? He was too old to blush…He cleared his throat, rubbing at his eyes, finally taking notice of a headache. Turning to the architecture student, he began, "Ian, this might sound weird –"
"Nothing can sound weird at this point, mate."
Grins all around at that, Dean saw, and even Sam cracked a smile.
"Okay, how about this, then…In all those house plans you had, have you noticed anything funky about the dimensions in any rooms? Could something have been built and then say, bricked over, or covered up?"
"What, like a secret passage or a hidden room?" Ian asked, intrigued.
"Uh huh. Sam and I were talking it over…um, whatever day that was, sorry." He put a hand to his temple and started kneading. He didn't see it, but he felt it – that look from Sam.
"Day before yesterday," Sam said quietly. "We thought that since most likely it was a family member, and the spirit was concentrated in the house, that maybe they not only died there but it's possible they were buried there as well."
Sounds of disgust rose from around the table.
"A hidden corpse? That's awful," said Lissa. "Poor thing. No wonder she's angry. I'd come back and haunt my family, too."
"Just an idea," said Sam. "I did say 'maybe' and 'possible.' Ian, what do you think? Anything in your notes to indicate something like that?"
Ian leaned back in his chair to study the ceiling. "I'll have to go over everything again, now that I know what I'm looking for. But, yeah, could be. Old cellar, plenty of space to carve out a room and wall it up again. Crawlspaces, too, I guess. Hm. Lots of creepy possibilities."
"Thank you, Edgar Allan Poe," Angie said.
Then Dean was resting his head in his hands because the room had begun to spin, and Sam's voice floated over from very far away even though he felt his brother's hand on his shoulder.
"Dean? You all right?"
He opened his eyes enough to see Sam crouched beside his chair, peering up at him under those flopping bangs, and all he could whisper was, "Sammy, you need a haircut."
"Not like yours, I don't," Sam said, trying for a lightness that didn't reach his eyes. "I think you need to go back to bed, Dean."
He was dimly aware of Ginny, quietly herding the others out of the room, and for that he was grateful; he'd have to take her out for a ride in the Impala or something, go to a drive-in movie…
"Dean?" Sam's hand hadn't left his shoulder yet.
"Yeah, Sammy, give me a minute." He took a deep breath, fighting off a wave of dizziness. "I'm okay."
"No, you're not. You just went white as a sheet, and," Sam's other hand went to Dean's forehead, "you're all cold and clammy. Jesus, Dean," he said, exasperated. "There should be a twelve-step program for people like you. 'Hello, my name is Dean, I'm an idiot, and I'm in pain,' but that would be too easy, wouldn't it?"
"I just need more coffee," he wheedled. "C'mon, Sam, all I've done is sleep, don't wanna sleep anymore…" I don't want to dream anymore. I don't want to wake up and not know where I am. "Sam," he said, sounding desperate to his own ears. "I'm all right, and I'm not tired, dammit."
"Quit whining." Sam stood and pulled Dean up with him.
"Not whining." Yeah, okay, that sounded like whining. "And I'm not going back to bed. Oh…" He swayed for a moment as his head tried to make sense of this new position. "If I hurl, it's gonna be on you," he said faintly, closing his eyes.
"Okay, okay, I've got you, just take it slow…"
xxxxx
Sam actually got his brother back into bed with only a minimum of fuss – for Dean, that is – most of the protest revolving around the prospect of taking more pain pills. But he used his ace-in-the-hole argument that if Dean couldn't move more easily, there was no way Sam would go into the Thornton house with him. ("If I can't rely on you to watch my back, Dean…" And though he felt terrible using Dean's deeply ingrained protective streak against him, especially after seeing Dean go even paler than he thought possible, it worked.)
"You are such a mean, sneaky bastard, Sam Winchester," he murmured to himself as he shut the door quietly behind him, leaving Dean to drift off. ("I don't need a damn babysitter, Sam! Park it somewhere else!") With their father's journal and the laptop under one arm, he decided to go work in the kitchen. If they were really set on going back into the house, they would need some sort of protection spell, or maybe a binding charm…anything to keep the spirit away or under wraps while they searched the place.
And since he didn't think there was any way to talk Dean out of going in, he'd just have to make sure to keep his brother as safe as he could. He sighed. Like that was working so well…But short of loading an unconscious Dean into the backseat of the Impala and driving away, leaving Charleston behind in their rearview mirror, he figured there was little chance of Dean not finishing the job. He was very much his father's son in that regard.
Stupid, stubborn idiot.
Sam had only gone a few steps when he heard a hesitant voice saying his name. Turning around in the hallway, he saw a disheveled and uneasy Jason McNeil standing there. The other man looked ready to bolt at the slightest harsh word, and Sam found himself rooted to the floor in shame and regret.
"Jason," he said.
"Sam, um, I just wanted to say, um…" He trailed off, fidgeting, crossed his arms over his chest, and blurted in a rush, "I'm really sorry about your brother. I never meant to get anybody hurt, I mean, he saved my ass, you're right, but all I could think about was going in the house and proving you guys wrong. I wanted you to be wrong…"
"Jason," Sam said, interrupting the rambling apology, "it's all right." He took in the student's grubby appearance – he looked like he'd slept in his clothes, if he'd even slept; he was unshaven and his eyes were dark and bruised. "I'm sorry, too. I didn't mean to come after you like that in the hospital, really. I was just…worried about Dean, and I took it out on you. Sorry."
"No, no, I understand…" He uncrossed his arms, shoved his hands in his pockets, and had trouble looking at Sam. "You see, I…kind of overheard you talking to Ginny last night. I didn't mean to, I was only on my way to get some supper, I thought everybody was done, and I didn't know you were there right away…So when I heard you say how badly…Dean had been hurt, before, I guess I understood why you got mad at me, for putting your brother back in the hospital again." He finally looked up to meet Sam's eyes, taking a deep breath and asking hesitantly, "How's Dean doing? He looked...pretty awful." Another deep breath and a shake of his head. "God, that should've been me. I can't believe he did that," he added wonderingly.
"Oh, that's just Dean," Sam said, trying to smile. "He usually just sticks to saving animals and small children – I guess he made an exception in your case. But," Sam swallowed, and went on, making himself believe it, "he's tough. He'll be okay."
Jason gave him a half-hearted smile. "Tell Dean 'thanks,' for me, okay? And 'sorry,' while you're at it."
"Why not tell him yourself when he wakes up?"
Shaking his head, Jason said, "Can't. I'm leaving. This is more than I signed on for, Sam, and it's my fault your brother got hurt. Besides, all this shit…" He made a helpless gesture with his hands. "It's totally screwing up my whole concept of reality, you know? And I don't think I can handle that. The world's scary enough, and I don't need to know more than what I've already seen…This supernatural crap just isn't for me. I've been trained as a scientist, Sam. I deal with facts, dates, numbers, and hard evidence. Well…" He shrugged tiredly. "I'm off to tell Ginny, and then I'm headed back to the safe confines and ivory towers of academia."
"Jason, I hope I didn't –"
"No, no, it wasn't you," he cut in. "I don't blame you at all for wanting to kick my ass the other night. You probably still do. No, I meant what I said. Ghosts, monsters in the closet, bogeymen – I'll leave 'em to you."
Sam just nodded, and put out his hand. "Good luck. And no hard feelings?"
"None at all. Thanks, Sam. You guys take care of yourselves, all right?"
"Sure, Jason. Thanks. Bye." He turned and watched Jason disappear down the stairs, grateful for getting the chance to apologize to the other man, but also feeling a sense of guilty relief that he was leaving.
xxxxx
Having settled down in the kitchen and gotten to work, Sam lost himself in the research and lost track of time. When he finally surfaced because his stomach was rumbling, and noticed that it was three hours later, he cursed silently, dropped what he was doing, and made a beeline up the stairs for their room.
He quietly opened the door and eased himself inside so as not to wake Dean. However…
No Dean. Just an empty bed and rumpled blankets.
The bathroom door was wide open, and no Dean in there, either.
Oh, shit. He wouldn't. Not the Thornton house. He wouldn't have gone back inside without me… Would he? Is that why he wanted me gone? Shit.
Sam cursed again, out loud this time, panic rising, and he clattered back down the stairs. He searched quickly through the first floor, and came across Ginny in the front living room, working intently on her laptop.
"Ginny," he said, panting slightly, leaning through the doorway, "have you –"
"Dean's in the backyard, hon," she answered, without even looking up.
"Uh, yeah," he said, his frantic heart rate steadying somewhat at her words. "Thanks."
"Take an afghan with you, Sam. He looked a little chilled when he came by." Now she did look up, smiling. "We'll take care of him whether he wants us to or not, okay?"
Sam grinned. "It helps when he's outnumbered." He almost went for the pink and cream flowered afghan, if only to enjoy the look of horror that would cross Dean's face, but common sense won out and he grabbed the plain blue one off the couch instead. "Thanks, Ginny," he said over his shoulder on his way out.
She tossed him a wave as she went back to work.
He found his brother, asleep, in one of the lawn chairs where they had shared turkey sandwiches and a few barbed words two days earlier. Though the day was mild and sunny, Sam could see that Ginny was right; Dean definitely looked cold. He had put Sam's borrowed green hoodie on over the two shirts he was already wearing, and the pallor of his drawn features was even more evident out here in the bright sunshine. Despite all the sleep he was supposedly getting, he still looked far from rested.
Sam spread the blanket over Dean's legs and drew it up carefully around his torso. Sitting down in the other lawn chair, he looked at his brother lying there, and despite his residual panic, he had to smile. Oh, for a camera. His ass-kicking, demon-hunting, often dangerously scary brother was sleeping in a lawn chair, partially wrapped in a blanket; and, curled up quite comfortably on his chest, was a black cat. One delicate paw stretched out and rested just under Dean's chin. As if aware of Sam's scrutiny, the cat slowly opened an emerald green eye and stared unblinkingly at him for a long moment. Disinterested, or considering Sam to be harmless, it went back to its nap.
When Dean stirred slightly, and got one green eye open just enough to see him, Sam found the resemblance to the cat rather eerily disconcerting. Possibly Dean decided as well that Sam was harmless, or merely uninteresting, because the eye shut again.
"Didn't know you liked cats," Sam said.
"Can't stand 'em," Dean mumbled, one hand absently stroking the black fur.
Sam could hear the rumble of its purr starting up, and he grinned again. "Where'd it come from?"
"Don't know. Damn thing just showed up and fell asleep on me." Dean's fingers were now rubbing the blissed-out cat gently behind the ears. "Isn't there some rule about not moving when there's a cat sleeping on you?"
"You just made that up."
"No, really, they're dangerous if you move."
"You're thinking of wasps, bees, whatever."
"No, I'm sure it's cats…"
"This is a ridiculous conversation." Sam leaned forward and reached out with one long arm to give Dean a poke, saying, "Let's get back to what it is you think you're doing out here?"
"I fell asleep, Sam."
"I left you asleep, Dean. Why'd you come out here?"
Dean sighed and opened both eyes. "I was tired of that room, Sammy. Just needed some air. I'm okay, so quit worrying."
"Don't tell me not to worry. If I want to worry," his voice rising, "I'll damn well worry, all right? And you're not okay."
Pointedly ignoring Sam's rant, Dean said, "Ginny ratted on me, didn't she?"
"She's worried, too. I told her she was wasting her time."
"I bet she listens about as well as you do, huh?" Dean's other hand, the one not occupied with the cat, plucked at the blanket covering his legs. "Playing nursemaid again, Sammy?"
"Ginny said you looked cold," Sam said, defensively, crossing his arms. But he noticed that Dean hadn't pushed the blanket aside yet.
"Oh, yeah, she's got me makin' you lunch, and you bringin' me blankets. Sneaky, I'll give her that. However, I can appreciate that quality in a woman…"
Sam was eyeing the cat. "That animal is going to start drooling any second. And I bet it has fleas."
"She does not!" said Dean, suddenly indignant.
"She?"
"Well, yeah, what girl wouldn't throw herself on me? Chicks, cats, whatever."
"This is getting weirder by the minute," Sam said. "Have you been taking some medication that I'm not aware of?"
"Uh, there was this tea Lissa brought me. Some herbal stuff, tasted like twigs. Had one swallow and dumped the rest. You don't think she spiked it, do ya?" He raised an innocent, yet hopeful, eyebrow. "The chicken noodle soup was good, though," he added.
"Tea? Soup? Blankets? Dude, are you pampered, or what?"
Dean shrugged. "Chicks, Sammy. What can I say? They can't help it."
"Yeah, you just keep telling yourself that, Dean."
Sam had to hide the grin that was threatening to split his face. Superiority of numbers. That seemed to be the key. Sam decided that he liked the idea of allies. Come to think of it, he had seen Lissa in the kitchen, but had been too wrapped up in his notes to pay much attention to what she'd been doing. Huh. Tea and soup. He'd have to do something really nice for Ginny and the others…
"So," Dean said, his hand stilling in the cat's fur. "What'd you come up with, college boy? Find anything in Dad's journal? Binding spell? Ritual protection? Something we can use on this bitch to get us in and out of there without getting our asses kicked?"
Right, Sam thought wearily. Back to work. Can't forget the hunting, can we?
Sam ran a hand through his hair. "Well, yeah, I think so," he said reluctantly. He'd really been hoping to tell Dean there wasn't a damn thing they could do, not like that would've stopped his brother, but it might've been worth a shot…"I think we have to go with a binding spell. We need to trap it long enough so we have time to search the house."
"I'm hearing a 'but' somewhere in there, Sammy."
Sam grimaced. "This is where it gets problematic. We need to do the binding while the spirit is physically present, and that means we'll have to do it fast. So we'll probably be dodging furniture while we're reading the spell."
"You read, I'll distract and dodge. No problem."
The cat abruptly leaped off of Dean's chest, eliciting a grunt and a curse from Dean, and they watched it take off across the yard to disappear under some bushes. Dean rubbed at his bruised chest, his mouth twisted in pain.
Sam studied him critically. "Yeah, I can see that you're up for distracting and dodging. Maybe in a week or two. There's no hurry on this, those guys are staying out of the house, and as long as nobody's in there, nobody's getting hurt."
"I don't know, Sam," Dean said slowly, his gaze going glassy and unfocused. "Something about this…I don't know. Just feels like time's running out."
Sam leaned forward, one hand reaching out to grasp Dean's arm. "What do you mean?" he asked, urgently, a sudden fear churning in his stomach. Damn. Those twisty snakes found their way back. He swallowed. "Running out of time, how? For what…or who?" ("A couple of weeks, at most maybe a month…") He gave Dean a slight shake. "Dean?"
"Huh?" Dean blinked, and Sam watched as his eyes regained awareness. "Shit, Sammy, I don't know." Sam saw a shudder course through him. "You're the one who's supposed to get the freaky vibes."
"Maybe you're just a late bloomer. Or I'm rubbing off on you," Sam said, trying to get his stomach back where it belonged as he let go of Dean's arm.
"Or maybe it's just those damn pills you conned me into taking," Dean grumbled, sounding more like himself. "So, what about this spell?"
Seeing Dean trying to repress yet another shiver, Sam stood up and said, "All right, let's take this inside. Besides, no one brought me soup for lunch, and I'm getting hungry."
"Yeah, growing boy like you," Dean said, teeth practically chattering. He reached down to pull the blanket away, grunted and brought the action up short. "Sammy," he said quietly, as though he were ashamed, "give me a hand, huh?"
"Sure," Sam said, just as quiet. "Come on." He tossed the blanket on the other chair and with a careful arm around his brother's waist, slowly levered him upright and onto his feet. Letting go only when he was sure Dean had his balance, he gathered up the discarded blanket and stuck close as they walked back into the house.
"Hey," he said. "I forgot to tell you. Jason's leaving."
"Aw, Sam, you did scare the hell out of the poor guy," Dean snickered.
Sam gave the back of Dean's head a flick with his finger and ignored the outraged yelp. "Nope, not me. It was our friendly spirit. Seems it, she, whatever, doesn't fit into his view of reality so he's going back to the university. He also said to tell you he was sorry, and thanks for saving his ass."
"Huh. How about that. The Hardy Boys triumph over the Non-Believer. Now we just have to take care of the dead bitch."
"Yeah, that's all," Sam said, holding the back door open. "Piece of cake, we can do it in our sleep, blah, blah, uh huh."
"Haven't met a ghost yet we can't take, Sammy. This dead chick is gonna be toast. She's fucked with me enough, and I'm lookin' forward to seein' her go up in flames."
"Yeah," Sam said, briefly closing his eyes to yet again see Dean crushed and motionless against the door of the Thornton house. "I am too."
Inside, Dean hung out in the kitchen while Sam dug around for some lunch. He almost felt guilty for their current living situation. Free room and board, and thanks to Ginny, no hospital bills…But how often did they catch a break like this? Okay, yeah, not much of a break, with Dean hurting, but it would've been a hell of a lot worse on their own. Just having Ginny and the students around made him feel better; he liked them, and he could tell that Dean did, too. It was rare to see his brother this open with other people, and it was a side Sam wished Dean could show more often.
They spent the rest of the afternoon kicking around the house, making a shopping list of what they'd need for the spell or just general replenishment of supplies, like bullets and…other more unusual ammunition. At one point they were in the living room, laughing hysterically, as they happened to catch part of the original Night of the Living Dead while flipping around on the television. Drawn by the sound, Angie wandered in to join them on the couch.
"Oh, this is so gross," she moaned from behind a pillow, several minutes later.
"Yeah, and it's only a movie," Dean intoned. Then grinned and said, "Ouch!" when Angie smacked him lightly with the pillow. "You should see the real thing," he added. "Even worse."
"No thanks," she said firmly, eyes shut. "I'll stick with dry history tomes and libraries and occasional scary forays into the computer lab."
"Well, you'll never get to join on as the plucky sidekick with an attitude like that."
"You've got Sam," she said, "you don't need me. Can't I just be the girl who does the research and makes photocopies and irons your capes back at the secret hide-out?"
"You hear that, Sam?" Dean grinned again. "You're my sidekick."
Sam rolled his eyes. "Yeah, thanks, Obi-Wan."
Eyes open again, Angie caught a particularly gruesome scene and said, "Okay, that's it, this is just too disgusting. I'm outta here. I'll leave you superheroes to discuss and compare zombie-slaying methods on your own."
"Bye," Dean called over his shoulder as she tossed the pillow at him on her way out.
"Later," she yelled back.
They finished the movie, still laughing and mouthing all the dialogue.
"Oh, dude," Dean gasped, doubled over on the couch, "laughing really hurts."
"Yeah, I bet." Sam smiled. But it sure sounds good to hear you do it.
Then Sam spent the next couple of hours slouched back on the couch watching The Mummy re-make with the sound turned low, and keeping an eye on his brother, who had fallen asleep beside him. Covered up with a pink and cream flowered afghan.
xxxxx
It was during supper that night when Ginny broke the news about Jason's leaving. Since Dean and Sam already knew, Dean just watched the reaction of the others. After a moment of only slightly stunned silence, the three students simultaneously pointed fingers at Sam, everyone started laughing, and he protested in useless denial.
As the laughter died down, Ginny just shrugged and said, "He simply decided the situation here was untenable, and he was going back to resume his studies at school. It's too bad, but sometimes you do lose people during the course of a dig, or a research project, so let's wish him the best of luck."
"Not surprised he left," said Lissa. "Surprised it took him two days to do it, though."
"I think…he just needed the time to work some things out in his own mind," Ginny said. "He felt terrible about what happened the other night. It shook him rather badly."
"He saw something he wasn't prepared for," Sam said quietly, "and it didn't…fit."
"Fit what?" asked Ian. "His take on reality? Well, I don't know about the rest of you, but it didn't exactly fit mine, either, but isn't that why we're here? To learn, to keep an open mind – oh, I don't know. You know what I mean."
"Yes, very articulate there, Ian," Angie said. "But I know what you mean."
As they finished off the pizza and beer, with Dean grumbling because Sam wouldn't let him have any of the latter along with his pain meds, conversation naturally turned back to the problem of the Thornton ghost.
Dean noticed somewhat uneasily that everyone was calling the ghost "her" now. Like they believed him.
"So how are you guys going to get inside tomorrow? And more importantly, get out again?" Lissa gestured at them with her nearly empty beer bottle. "I hope you have a good plan cooked up."
"Yeah, fill us in," said Ian. "All the details."
"Uh…" Dean looked at Sam. Now what? Spill the secrets of the family business? To outsiders? Dad would kill us. But shit, they're in the middle of it already…
Sam gave him that "You're the older one, you decide" look, hesitated, and then nodded.
"Well," Dean began, reluctant. "Sam found something we think is going to take her out of action long enough for us to search the place."
"What about what Sam did the other night? Jason said he just threw salt over her," Ian commented.
"Yeah, well." Sam made a face. "That's only temporary. The rock salt just…slows them down, gets rid of them for a while."
"How do you get rid of them permanently, then?" Angie had scrounged out a pencil and her notebook.
Dean traded a helpless look with Sam. But he took a deep breath and answered. "With spirits, you have to salt and burn the bones. Since we don't have the body, and we don't even know who she is or where she's buried, we obviously can't do that yet. That's why we can only do it this way. We just need to…trap her, I guess, you'd say, for as long as we can so we can find out more about her. Then we find her bones and do the rest."
They were staring at him, mouths open, and he wondered what he'd said. He flicked a glance at Sam. Sam wasn't any help; he just shrugged.
"You guys…uh, you really know your stuff," Lissa said, finally. She shook her head. "I mean, I know Ginny called you because she said she knew someone who could…take care of this, but I guess I never really thought…about how to do it."
"That's how you do it," Dean said, shrugging as well, and wondering how many times since the first one, all those years ago, he had done exactly that to put a restless spirit back where they belonged.
"Okay," said Ginny, "but what about tomorrow? If you aren't tossing salt on her, what are you boys planning to do? I have a feeling I'm not going to like it."
"Sam, you figured it out, you tell 'em."
"Right. Um, I don't suppose you're at all familiar with the concept of the circle as a means of protection? Yeah? Okay, what we're going to do is sort of…reverse that. Instead of us being inside a circle, or conjuring something within it, we're going to make a salt circle and bind her into it."
"That sounds too easy, and I can't really believe I said that, but," Ginny frowned, "what's the catch?"
Sam sighed. "Well, she has to be actually in the room with us, and she needs to be...compelled to enter into the circle."
"So in the meantime, she could be throwing furniture at you?" Ginny was clearly not happy. "That's insane. She could do to you what she did before, and you could get hurt again, both of you. No, I won't allow you to do this."
"Ginny," Dean said, "we can do it. You know that something has to be done, and we know what we're doing. Trust us."
"Well, wait a little longer, then," she said. "Let's do more research. We'll work the safety deposit box angle, talk to Emma's lawyers. For heaven's sake, sweetie, you just got out of the hospital yesterday, and you're still more than a little rocky. You don't need to rush into this, Dean."
"That's the problem," he said, quietly, unease prickling down his spine as he leaned forward over the table to meet her troubled gaze. "I don't think we do have time. Something's going on, I can't explain it, but trust me. We need to do this, and do it fast."
She just sat and studied him for a long, uncomfortable moment, and he tried not to squirm. He wondered if she had somehow picked up on his unspoken thought that it was his time that was running out. Sam had. He had seen his brother's reaction out of the corner of his eye; saw the way Sam's body stiffened and how he nearly stopped breathing.
"All right, Dean," Ginny said at last. "Since you're determined to do this, and I can't order you not to, I'll ask you boys to be careful. But you promise me, if anything starts to go wrong, you get out of there. Or so help me, I'll have you on kitchen clean-up duty for the next month."
"Yes, ma'am," Dean said.
xxxxx
It was just after ten when they finally went upstairs, Dean looking ragged around the edges, and when Sam shut the door of their room behind them, Dean pretty much refused to talk to him. Well, he talked, but not about what Sam wanted to talk about. He simply asked Sam if he wanted the bathroom first, and when Sam shook his head, he disappeared inside to brush his teeth and strip off his clothes.
He crawled into bed, pulled the covers up, and sighing, said, "Sammy, don't ask, 'cause I don't have the answers. Just a feeling, okay? So let's get it over with tomorrow, and everything'll be all right."
"Dean –"
"Go to sleep, Sam. It'll be okay." With that, he shut his eyes, and as Sam waited, his breathing slowed and evened, and Sam turned out the light.
He lay awake for far too long in the darkness, staring at the ceiling, and he saw nothing but images of Dean, giving himself up to the reaper to save Layla. "I should've let it kill me. I was supposed to die anyway." Jesus, Dean. Running out of time. What the hell does that mean? Self-sacrifice, and a mountain of guilt. You bastard, I'm not going to let you die. I won't.
Sam woke to a quiet moan. While his brain tried to catch up with his body, the moan came again, a little louder, and he quickly sat up, searching in the dark for his brother. Like the afternoon before, Dean was tossing and turning restlessly, caught in a dream. His head thrashed on the pillow, and he held his hands up in front of him as though fending something off. Sam swore, clumsily pulled free of his blankets and half fell as he moved to sit down on the edge of Dean's bed. There was just enough light from the street coming in through the half-open blinds to see the tight lines of pain on Dean's face and the rapid rise and fall of his chest.
"Dean, wake up." He caught a flailing hand before it could hit him in the face, and he leaned over to try to hold Dean down without hurting him. His head next to his brother's, he said, "Dean, it's Sam. Wake up. Everything's okay. Come on, wake up…"
Harsh panting breaths and another unintelligible moan were his only response. A few mumbled words followed suddenly by Sam's name clearly spoken in a terror-filled voice, and Dean lunged up off the bed, breaking Sam's hold. Sam caught him around the shoulders, and though Dean's eyes were open, they stared at nothing Sam could see, and he wasn't even sure his brother was awake.
"Sam, don't," Dean pleaded hoarsely. "Cold…Don't leave me here, Sam…" Then he looked right at Sam, right into his eyes, and Sam felt the hair rise on the back of his neck at the emptiness and despair he saw in those greenish-hazel depths.
"Dean?" Sam breathed. "Where are you?"
Then Dean's eyes closed and he soundlessly slumped forward against Sam. Shaken, Sam just held him. It was Nebraska all over again; it was the hospital…shit, that had been just yesterday. It was that strange ache in his throat of the tables having turned. It was Sam protecting Dean, driving away the fear in the dark, comforting against the nightmares…Dean had always done that for him, even more than their father. For as long as Sam could remember, Dean had made Sam feel safe, from everything. He had made it seem so easy, and all Sam felt was lost.
When the tremors running through his brother's body finally stopped, Sam eased Dean down again and pulled up the blankets. Though Dean had claimed to be cold, his t-shirt was now soaked with sweat, and strands of hair clung damply to his forehead. But he didn't seem feverish when Sam pressed a hand to his skin. God, maybe he should just dump Dean in the Impala and get them both the hell out of here…Not that the nightmares wouldn't find them both, wherever they went. He breathed a quiet exhausted sigh and felt his own eyelids drooping. So he reached out and grabbed a blanket from off his bed. Not sure if it was more for Dean's sake or his own, Sam settled down right where he was, with one hand resting on his brother, to let him know that Sam was there. And Sam would know that Dean was breathing, that his heart was beating, that he was all right.
xxxxx
Dean slept late the next morning, and still felt tired, waking with dark dreams at the edge of his memory. So what else is new, he thought with bitter humor, as he hauled his battered body out of bed. With only a mild amount of groaning and cursing, he actually managed to get himself in and out of the shower, shaved, and was just buttoning his shirt when Sam poked his head in the door.
Sam looked awful, Dean decided, sitting back down on the bed.
"Did you sleep at all?" Dean asked. Though he was sure he hadn't woken up fully during the night, some part of him, on some level, had known Sam was there, keeping watch over him. And that just wasn't how it was supposed to work. Sam shouldn't be watching over him. But that's all his little brother had been doing, since…the whole dying thing a month ago. Almost dying. God, it had been so much harder on Sam than on him…
"Enough," came Sam's brief answer as he came in and dropped into one of the reading chairs by the windows. "You?"
"Yeah, Sammy, I'm good."
"No, you're not, Dean," Sam said, his voice harsh. "You're waking up from nightmares with chunks of your memory missing, you're sleeping a lot and you still look like absolute shit, and you're scaring the hell out me."
"Sammy –"
"Everybody's kinda freakin' out downstairs. I'm kinda freakin' out here, Dean, and supposedly we're the ones who know what we're doing." He turned to stare at Dean with haunted eyes. "We do know what we're doing, right? Is there any reason why we just shouldn't get in the car and drive away right now? What aren't you telling me, Dean? What's going on with you?"
"Sammy, we have to do this, you know that." Dean broke off and couldn't meet Sam's gaze any more. He wasn't sure he could explain, even if he wanted to. And that feeling he had that he needed to see this through, one way or another, would not go away. But he had to keep it together for Sam, and he had to hold on for however long it took. But, damn, he was so tired – tired of hurting, tired of the nightmares that were stealing his strength and grinding him down…He shrugged. "We've got things covered as well as we can, but you know how shit can happen, how fast the plan can fall apart. But Sam, we're good at this. We'll get it done."
"You're avoiding the issue, as usual. Dammit, Dean…" Sam scrubbed a hand over his eyes, and through his hair, messing it up and suddenly looking like an exhausted ten-year-old. "I don't want to see you hurt anymore." His breath caught in his throat. "I'm so tired of seeing you get hurt."
Dean had to swallow a couple of times before he could say anything. "I don't know what's goin' on, Sam," he said in all honesty. "Not really. I just know we have to do this. Trust me, okay?"
He got a long steady stare. Dean could practically feel those eyes picking out every bruise on his torso beneath his shirt, and he tried to casually move his arm away from where it was pressed against his side.
"Jesus, Dean," Sam grimaced, not fooled at all. "You're hardly in any shape to be doing anything, much less this." Sighing, he said, "I trust you. But –" He leveled a finger at Dean. "You do anything at all remotely stupid, and I promise you, you will regret it."
xxxxx
Sam took the shopping list. Dean grudgingly dug the keys to the Impala out of his jeans pocket, and with dire warnings about keeping his precious baby safe, sent Sam on his way. Both Lissa and Angie, wound up, nervous, and wanting to help, volunteered to go with him.
"Dude," Sam said on his way out the door. "Stay out of trouble. Get some rest."
"Yeah, yeah, all right," he grumped, watching them get in his car and take off. He wandered into the kitchen, found some orange juice and cereal for breakfast, and went to see what Ginny was up to.
She had several piles of paper spread out over the dining room table, and was chewing on the end of a pen as she read.
Dean sat down, and she looked up to smile at him.
"Hey, sweetie. What's up?"
"Not much. Sam went shopping. I'm bored." Then he shrugged. "Mostly I just want to get this over with," he admitted. "I've never been really good at the waiting part of the job."
"I can see that. Well, what can I do to distract you? Want to help me look through this stuff?" She gestured at her notes. "Kind of dry, but it might at least put you to sleep. You could really use some more rest, sweetie, I mean it."
"You sound like Sam. I swear you guys are gangin' up on me," he muttered. "Sometimes Sam is too damn smart for his own good."
She laughed. "Ah, you have uncovered our secret plot. Sam's just worried, Dean, and I can't say I blame him. You boys looked exhausted when you got here, and it hasn't gotten any better." Suddenly serious, she added, "And I can't tell you how sorry I am how all this has turned out. I never would've called you had I known…"
"No, it's not your fault. You did the right thing, calling us. We'll take care of her, don't worry. No one else is gonna get hurt. And then you can go on with your research, and make the museum people happy, and everything's fine. Okay?"
"Okay," she said, patting his hand. "Now if you don't want to read my endlessly fascinating notes, go take a nap or talk to Ian, bake cookies, go for a walk, something. But stay out of trouble."
Oh, yeah, Sam all over again.
"Yeah, okay, Professor." He got up, just avoiding the swat she aimed at him. "I'll be good."
So he wound up throwing in some laundry, and while that was tumbling through the dryer, he went back to their room and got out the weapons bag. He sat on the bed, set the guns out neatly, and went about methodically breaking them down and cleaning them all. It was familiar and soothing, something he could do drunk and blindfolded in the dark.
When a knock came at the closed door sometime later, he answered absently, and he looked up to see Sam, a bag in each hand, followed by Angie and Lissa. The two women stopped short at the sight of all the guns spread out on the bed, and at him, holding one casually in his hand.
He put it down with the others, and said, "So, how do you like my car?"
"It's way cool," said Angie. "My little brothers would be so jealous."
"Damn right they would," he agreed. "Sam. Get everything?"
"Uh huh." He set the bags down and started to rummage in one. "Angie, it was your idea, where'd you put 'em?"
"This one, I think." She searched through the other bag, and pulled out a package, then handed it to Dean. "Here. We thought you could use these."
His eyebrows went up as he opened the plastic bag. Heat packs.
Crap, they're all in on it.
At a momentary loss for words, touched by such concern from people he'd barely gotten to know, Dean looked up at her and said, awkwardly, "Um, thanks. That'll feel good."
Sam grinned at his discomfiture. Dean glared back, but couldn't say what he really wanted to with Lissa and Angie in the room.
"Well, I guess we'll leave you to finish up." Lissa gestured at the weaponry. "Let us know if there's anything else we can do, okay?"
"Sure," Sam said, still grinning. "Thanks." He partially closed the door behind them as they left, and turned back to Dean.
"Oh, cut it out," Dean grumbled.
"Sorry."
"No you're not. Smartass."
"We've got you outnumbered, Dean. You haven't got a chance, so just accept it."
"Very funny." But he couldn't help the smile that sneaked its way out. "So," he said, not daring to look at Sam, knowing that smirky grin was still there, "anything else we need to go over?"
Sam sighed, hilarity fading. "No, I think we've got it covered. As well as can be expected."
"All right then, we're good to go for tonight."
xxxxx
"Ladies first," Dean gestured.
"How about invalids first?" Sam shot back, even as he shouldered the bag of gear and walked up the steps.
"Ouch, Sammy," Dean said, right behind him. On the porch, he took time to give Ginny a nod from where she waited across the lawn.
She waved back, and then pointed at her wrist, the meaning clear.
Ian, Angie, and Lissa were on hand as well, standing by like a trio of back-up singers, anxious and trying not to show it.
"You ready?" he asked Sam.
"Hell, no, but that won't make any difference." Sam unlocked the door and pushed it open. "Let's get this over with."
The outcome of their previous visit was still in evidence, of course, as well as when Ginny and her group had had their breakfast disrupted. Broken glass crunched under their feet, the furniture lay tumbled about in all the wrong places, and an upended plant had left dirt scattered all over the Persian rug.
Dean pointed to the large chair overturned near the door. "Is that the one?" he asked Sam.
Sam swung around. "Oh, yeah, that's it. Why? Are you going to burn it?"
"Along with her bones, yeah, the thought did cross my mind," he admitted. "Okay, Sammy, you get started, and I'll keep an eye out for the crazy bitch."
Sam dropped the bag and said, "Give me a hand moving this rug first."
As Sam shoved the rest of the furniture off the rug, Dean started rolling it up. He bit his lip against the painful twinge it gave his ribs. Sammy would just look at him with that superior "I told you so" expression of his, and Dean just wasn't in the mood for a snarky younger brother at the moment.
Working quickly, they cleared enough space on the hardwood floor, and as Sam got out the necessary items to construct the circle, Dean paced the room with a loaded shotgun and the EMF detector.
It was close to sunset, and they had pulled the curtains, so the room grew dimmer by the minute. Dean kept throwing glances at Sam, checking on his progress, all the while keeping another eye on his makeshift detector. Last time, they had managed to walk nearly through the entire downstairs before the ghost took notice of them. He wondered if it was because they had been quiet; she had only appeared and started throwing stuff after Jason had shown up, banging doors and clumping around…He snorted. How sensitive of her. Only shows up when the neighbors get noisy. Hm. There's a thought. Maybe if Sam and I are sneaky enough, she won't even know we're here.
Wary, alert, he prowled around the salt circle Sam had just finished constructing. It was three feet in diameter, the salt a narrow trail broken in one spot, to be closed up when they'd gotten her inside. Sam was now on his knees outside, placing white candles in four places, corresponding to the cardinal compass points. Glancing now and again at a page in their father's battered journal, he began drawing symbols on the floor in chalk, working his way around the circle and careful not to smudge the lines or disturb the salt.
Sam looked up, frustration evident in his features. "This spell is really supposed to use something that belonged to the person, you know. It might be a little harder to get her to enter the circle without that."
"But we don't know who the hell she is. Yeah, Sammy, I know," Dean replied, keeping his voice low. "We'll give it our best shot, right? We talked this over already. Look, she might not even – " He cocked his head, frowning. "Do you smell that?"
"What?" Sam stood up, slowly, brushing chalk dust off his hands, and came to stand beside Dean. "No, nothing."
"I could swear…roses?" He shivered. Something about roses…"Is it colder?"
"I don't feel anything, Dean," Sam whispered back.
Dean spun around as…something…brushed lightly against him. "Sam! Hurry up! She's here!" He flicked a glance to the detector. Red. Showing it to Sam before slipping it into his pocket, he brought up the shotgun, scanning the room, but there was nothing to see.
Sam blanched, dropped to the floor, reaching for the journal and a flashlight. He scrambled over to the first candle, the one in the eastern quadrant, used a lighter from his pocket, and quickly began speaking the ancient Latin incantation.
Dean's hair stirred, but there was no wind. Another gentle caress, this one trailing down his cheek, and, before he could jerk his head away in disgust, along his jaw and mouth. Shit. What the hell is she doing? Goose flesh rising, he backed away, looking for the supplies. Salt. Would that distract her or just piss her off? He only needed to keep her attention focused on him so Sam could finish the spell. But fuck it all; he couldn't even see her. He could sure as hell feel her, though. He grimaced and shuddered as what felt like icy fingers – or something – slid delicately across the back of his neck and around his throat. Great. Crazy bitch has the hots for me. Well, I guess it's better than flying chairs and getting smashed into the wall…Maybe.
"Sam!" he hissed, looking over his shoulder. Sam just nodded, and kept reading; he was at the second candle now. Dean could feel a definite energy building in the air, a tension, like a summer storm, in those breathless seconds between the bolt of lightning and the crack of thunder.
His foot hit the bag. Sam had pitched the shaker can right on top, and he swiftly grabbed it, pried the lid off, and carefully maneuvered around Sam, keeping his brother behind him.
"Come on, sweetheart," he muttered. "If you're gonna try anything, I'm ready for you, just give me one more kinky little grope so I know where you are…"
He could see out of the corner of his eye that Sam had lit the third candle. But as his brother started the next part of the incantation, he felt a sickening jolt in his gut. He doubled over, dropping both saltshaker and shotgun; at the same time, he heard a thin wail rise out of the air near him. A wave of cold washed over him, and he turned his head to see a figure forming out of mist. He'd been right all along; it was a woman. Well, that's good, he thought, a bit of hysteria creeping into his head – he'd hate to think a male spirit had just had its dead, cold hands all over him.
"Sam!" he gasped faintly.
Sam looked up, the Latin still flowing. His eyes widened at the sight of the materializing ghost. But he didn't stop, only slowed, and threw Dean an agonized glance before bending over the journal again. Dean knew if he quit reading now, they were screwed. Nothing worse than the backlash of building power, and the spirit would be twice as pissed.
But shit, why did he hurt so much? He was on his knees now, gasping for breath, his heart pounding crazily in his chest, and all he could do was watch helplessly as Sam finished the ritual. The air grew even colder, and the thin wail rose to a shriek. The figure was right in front of him, and he couldn't do a damn thing. She was nearly corporeal now, and she was fighting the spell.
The sudden pain was like a knife behind his eyes. He cried out, and pitched forward, his head striking the floor. Oh shit, it's the spell. It's dragging me along with it. I'm getting trapped, the same as her. How the fuck did that happen? I'm not dead…Right? Fire ran through his veins. His limbs jerked briefly in uncontrollable spasms. He remembered a basement, and lying in water, with the electricity pouring through him.
"Sam," he managed to choke out, not even sure Sam heard. "Stop." Hunched over, arms wrapped around his ribs, forehead pressed to the floor, he was aware of little except the all-consuming agony. Then he heard Sam, Latin forgotten, instead screaming Dean's name. He thought he heard a shotgun blast, too, but the agony that was ripping out his soul overrode all else, and he was pretty sure he was screaming right along with Sam.
Then he fell into darkness…
…And woke in a bright, sun-filled room that struck him as both familiar and strange at the same time. As he staggered to his feet, pain gone, a beautiful woman with raven hair and eyes as blue as a Kansas summer sky stood before him. He knew her. He'd seen her…in a dream.
She reached up to cup his face between her hands, to gaze at him with wonder. "Oh, my dearest," she whispered, "I knew you would come. I've been waiting, so long I have, and now you've come back to me." The blue eyes brimmed with tears. Then she drew his head down to bring his mouth to hers, and her slender arms moved to twine lovingly around his neck.
This isn't real. She's not real.
But this was not an apparition of mist. She was warm, solid flesh as she leaned into him, and her lips were soft.
With a distant, fleeting thought that this was not exactly turning out as planned, Dean Winchester forgot everything as held her close in the circle of his arms, breathed in roses, and kissed those soft, welcoming lips hungrily with his own.
TBC…
