Chapter 5
Sam slept maybe two or three hours, tossing restlessly from one dark dream to another, each one leaving him cold and shaking. Or else he lay awake, listening for the sound of Dean breathing, and starting up in panic when he thought he couldn't. Finally, he just rolled out of bed, before the grey light of dawn even paled the sky, and powered up the laptop.
It wasn't enough to protect Dean; he had to do something. He had to bring his brother back from wherever it was the spirit had taken him. Shit. Sam ran fingers through already mussed hair and stared at the screen in front of him. He'd wasted too much time last night, going through musty old journals and documents, looking for a sign of their ghost. Ginny's crew could do that. As far as researching ways to reunite a lost soul, a trapped soul, with its corporeal body, well, he was probably on his own…
The nature of the soul, he thought. Astral projection? Out of body experiences? Soul travel? He could just hear Dean scoffing cheerfully at the New Age nonsense of it all… But where to begin? He remembered college courses, seemingly taken a hundred years ago, philosophy and classics, and decided for the hell of it to start with Aristotle's De Anima, and the Greeks. He then made his way through other ancient peoples and their beliefs; scanned the religions and philosophies of East and West; and read until his eyes blurred and he had to come up to breathe.
The house was still quiet, thankfully, and he made his way silently down to the kitchen. He brewed a pot of coffee, scrounged a couple of donuts left from yesterday, and thus armed with caffeine and sugar (two of the basic food groups, according to Dean), he trudged upstairs again. As he sat down, grimacing at the bitter taste of the coffee, he saw with surprise that it was light outside.
He stared at his printed notes in despair, thought of the literally hundreds and thousands of links from website to website, and his shoulders sagged. There was just too much. He needed help. Sam sighed and stretched, glanced over at Dean yet again; then with utter disregard for time zones, got out his cell and Dad's journal and started making some calls.
From those of John's friends he did manage to reach, he got a slew of different and sometimes downright contradictory answers and solutions. With every call, he grew more and more frustrated.
When he finally thought of calling Missouri – and smacking himself in the forehead for not doing it sooner – he was running on little more than coffee fumes, and his head throbbed horribly. When the psychic answered, he could barely get a word out, but her sweet, calming voice was like a balm.
"Missouri, it's Sam," he said.
"Why, honey," she chuckled, "as if I didn't know. It's that brother of yours, isn't it? What kind of trouble has he gotten into now? Tell me, Sam, and we'll find a way to get him out of it."
After a couple of false starts, the story came pouring out. He knew he wasn't telling it well, he kept backtracking and explaining and forgetting, but she seemed to understand what it was he wasn't saying. Either that, or she simply picked it all up out of his head, and just let him talk for the sake of talking and getting it out.
"So what can I do?" he asked, winding down, exhausted. "He's still out, and if – when – he does wake up, who's he gonna be? Dean or Alex? How do I get my brother back, Missouri?"
"Sam, he came back before, and he did find his way out of those memories she spun around him. You know he's strong and stubborn. But it sounds like this little Miss might be hanging onto him a bit tighter this time, and the longer he stays with her, the harder it will be to get him free. He's fighting, Sam, you know that. Dean wouldn't give up. I know I gave him a hard time when we last met, but he's a good boy. I know he's got a strong spirit – and Sam, he wouldn't leave you."
"I know," Sam said, slumping deeper into the chair, "but he was hurt, he's been so tired, and now he just keeps getting weaker… I think… I think she's killing him, Missouri, with whatever it is she's doing to him." He had to stop, to take a breath. "You know what? He actually asked me for help. Dean never does that. He hates admitting that he needs help, he hates it."
"He needs you, Sam, to help him find his way back. You can do it. You can already see farther than most folk, you know that. Well, you just need to see a little farther this time, is all. Look into the dark, Sam, and you call that brother of yours. You call his name, you watch for him, and when you see him, you grab him tight and hang on, boy, you hear me? Blood calls to blood, Sam, blood and breath and bone, and Dean just needs you to guide him home again."
"But how do I do that?" he cried. "What if he's not there? How do I find him? The visions come to me, in nightmares; I can't control what I see, Missouri, I can't force them to show me Dean. Please, I don't understand!"
"You do, Sam. Just look inside yourself. You'll know what to do." Then as if sensing his complete confusion, she relented. "Something of Dean's, honey, something he always has on him, or carries, something that's a part of him – use that, focus on that. Start there, Sam. The rest will fall into place."
He breathed out a sigh. "Okay, Missouri. It's just…this is Dean's life we're talking about here, not some yoga meditation exercise. If I can't do this…"
"You can, Sam. Trust yourself. Now, go get that smart aleck brother of yours out of that woman's clutches. Fool boy, in trouble with a woman. As if I couldn't have guessed."
Sam had to laugh at that, though it came close to turning into a squeaky sob at the end. "All right. I'll be sure to tell him you said that."
"You do that, hon. You call me later, when things are settled down."
"Okay. Thanks, Missouri."
He hung up, tossed the phone on his bed, and turned his brooding gaze to Dean's motionless form. Thanks for getting all cryptic on me there, Missouri. Nothing like a little bit of obscure psychic shorthand to really clear things up… Look into the dark, call his name and hang on. Well, damn. Yeah, young Skywalker, use the Force already, all right? He chewed on a fingernail, sighed again, and tried to shove his doubts to the back of his mind. I'm coming, Dean, so you just better be there.
It was just after nine o'clock, and he could finally hear movement elsewhere in the house. He supposed that everybody must've decided to sleep in after last night's exhausting mixture of chaos, confusion, and discovery. Deciding that the idea of a hot shower was becoming more appealing with every passing moment, he took time to get cleaned up and change clothes.
Mere minutes later, he felt somewhat better, but still achingly tired. He was also becoming uneasy, as though possessed with a sense of urgency that he had to get Dean back now, or it would be too late, and his brother would be lost forever. A sudden searing image flashed behind his eyes. Dean in a hospital bed, thin and pale, surrounded by monitors and machines. Feeding tube and respirator. His body lay there, but Dean was gone. It was an empty shell, just wasting away. Sam gasped, swayed, and had to grab a chair to remain on his feet. No. That was not going to happen, not to Dean.
The knock on the door nearly had him jumping out of his skin. "Come in," he called, shakily, wiping the cold sweat from his forehead.
"Sam?" Ginny peered around the door. She went on, whispering, "Thought I heard you up. How's Dean this morning?" Her sharp gaze took in his leaning stance, his hand still braced on the chair. "How are you?"
"I'm all right. Just tired." He looked at Dean. "The same." He gestured for her to come in, and she did, softly closing the door behind her. She studied Dean for a moment, stepping nearer to the salt circle, and she let out a sigh. "Oh, sweetie, where are you?" Reluctantly, it seemed, she turned back to Sam. "Sam, if he doesn't wake up soon… I hate to say it, but I think we'll have to get him to the hospital – I'm worried about him becoming dehydrated if this goes on. Dean's strong, I know, but, Sam…"
"No," Sam shook his head. That awful vision was still in his mind. "No, it won't come to that. I won't let it. I've been talking to some of our dad's friends, and I think I've got it figured out. You just said it, Ginny – Dean's not there. I have to go find him. And I've got to do it soon."
She waved a hand at the protective circle. "More of…that?"
"Uh, yeah, I guess." He squirmed, not wanting to offend her by not talking about it, but also feeling that if he explained it out loud, it just might sound too damn crazy. How could he possibly tell her about Missouri and his weirdly new gift – or curse – of psychic visions? Nope, not going there. Shrugging, he merely said, "I have to try something, Ginny."
"And you'd like me to leave so you can get working on it. Okay, Sam." She nodded. "I hear you. Not that I'll be able to offer much in the way of arcane and esoteric assistance, but if you need help, with anything…"
"Thanks. You'll be the first to know."
"Bring him back, Sam."
He just nodded.
As soon as she left, he began to move without really thinking, simply acting, gathering what he thought he might need. He thought of rituals, of Latin and Greek prayers, incantations, blessings performed on relics and religious icons, and wondered if he was making it all too hard. What kind of preparations could he make? Missouri had made it sound so damn easy… Use something that belonged to Dean, she said (the necklace he'd worn all these years, with the amulet, of course), and then blood… That gave him an uneasy moment, and he paused in his rummaging through their bag of supplies. Did she mean that literally? Or just in the case of he and Dean being brothers? Blood calls to blood… Blood signaled sacrifice to him, it felt tainted of dark magic, and places he did not care to venture. But it was also very powerful…
Hands full, he took a step closer to the circle he had put around Dean the night before, and used his foot to scuff away part of the salt. Breaking the circle was almost like popping a bubble, and he shivered briefly at the rush of displaced air. Two more steps took him to Dean's bedside. He knew Dean hadn't moved at all since last night; he hadn't turned his head, not even his fingers had shifted restlessly beneath the covers. Asleep, or even unconscious, he would've changed position or curled up – something.
Eyes on his brother's slack, pale face, he sat down on the edge of the bed, dropped the stuff he was holding, and for the first time in twelve hours or so he was able to put a hand on Dean. He reached out to check his brother's pulse. Slow, faint. And his breathing was distressingly shallow. Sam shivered again, and got to work.
It actually was rather simple, he reflected, if this was really what Missouri meant. Straightforward. Pure. No trappings, just blood, and a single object upon which to focus… Well, nothing like winging it. He put a white candle on the table next to the bed and lit it. He'd fished out a small knife from the duffel bag, but knowing Dean, he might not need it. Slipping a hand gently under the pillow Dean's head rested upon, a smile flitted quickly across his face as he brought out the knife Dean had placed there with his usual paranoia (or precaution, as Dean would say). Since it was Dean's favorite and he always had it on or near him, Sam figured it would be the best one to use for what he had in mind. He tugged down the blanket, freeing Dean's hands. He debated, briefly, which hand to use, and settled on the right one.
Dean's hand was limp and cold in his as he held it palm upward.
Sam took a deep breath, and the knife in his own hand trembled. Could he really do this? He heard Missouri's voice in his head. "He needs you, Sam, to help him find his way back." He swallowed, and after a heartbeat's hesitation, he brought the knife slicing across Dean's palm in a shallow cut. Blood welled. Dean neither flinched nor stirred. Sam quickly shifted the knife and made a cut in his own right palm. Dropping the knife on the bed, he brought their hands together; the blood mingled.
He leaned over his brother, lifted the necklace slightly away from Dean's chest, and slid the amulet between their bloodied hands. The edges of it ground into the cut he'd made, and he winced as he pressed it harder into Dean's hand. Then he thought he'd double his chances and smeared blood across the ring Dean wore on the third finger of his right hand. He pictured the amulet in his mind – the way it swung from Dean's neck, always lying against whatever t-shirt he wore, the color and texture and every detail he could remember. Sam gripped Dean's hand between both of his, all too aware of the blood pulsing beneath the callused skin, and he set his unblinking gaze on the candle flame. He tried to slow his breathing to match Dean's.
Sam's eyes drifted shut. Their joined hands came to rest on Dean's chest, over his heart. Maybe it was because he was so damn tired, but he fell easily into a half-waking sort of awareness, as though on the verge of sleep but not quite there. Gradually, he had the sensation of floating, bobbing on waves in a rolling ocean. It was quiet and peaceful. Sam thought he opened his eyes, but all was darkness around him in that vast abyss, and without further thought he shouted out a resounding cry for his brother, calling his name, seeking his spirit.
xxxxx
Dean's hands tightened on Bridget's and he rocked back on his heels. "Too late?" he repeated, his mouth dry. "Does that mean…I'm already dead?"
She was still weeping silently. Her long hair hid her face as she bent over their clasped hands. "You're here," she said, "but not there. I don't know, I don't know. I can't find you. I'm sorry, I'm sorry…" Tear-stricken eyes lifted and met his. "I hurt you, and I kept you here. Forgive me, please…"
"Bridget, my heart –" Where had that come from? "Stop crying, okay? It's all right. Come on, there's my girl." I should definitely be more freaked out than this. I could be dead, and all I'm doing is holding a crying girl's hands. Who also happens to be dead. Not what I thought I'd be doing when I got up this morning. Or whatever day it is. Was.
Disengaging her hands from his, she wiped at her eyes, and he had trouble making sense of the look she gave him.
"You sound like Alex," she whispered.
That brought him up short. Another random bit of memory, he supposed, slipping through the cracks in his mind and coming out his mouth. "Uh, sorry," he said, awkward. He stood up, and pulled her with him. "Bridget, maybe it is too late, but, please, can you try? Will you open the door for me?"
"You'll be lost," she said, shivering. "There will be nowhere for you to go." When she reached up to brush her fingers down his face, tracing his cheekbone and jaw, instead of flinching he found himself turning into the touch. "Stay here, stay with me."
"I can't," he murmured, as she leaned into his chest. His arms automatically went around her. "I have to try, don't you see? My brother's back there, doing his best to help me. He's all I've got." Besides a wandering, missing father, that is. "I can't just…leave him." Oh, Sammy.
"Then you'll be gone, just like Alex. I'll be alone again. Forever and ever."
"Bridget." He took a deep breath, thinking he must be insane (and hearing Sam's incredulous, pissed-off voice in his head, expressing the same sentiment), "if I am dead, I'll find you. I'll come back, I promise. And if I'm not dead, I'll come back anyway, somehow, and help you. I'll help you find Alex, all right? But I can't do anything here, while I'm…like this."
She was very quiet. Then, as though not daring to believe, "You'd come back? After what I've done to you?"
"Call me crazy, but, yeah, I'd come back." He looked down, only the top of her head visible as her face was buried in his shirt. "I don't blame you, Bridget," he said, his voice soft, "really, not anymore. I can understand why you did it. Sometimes…sometimes I get pretty lonely myself. But I have to get back to my brother; don't you see? And I can help you, I promise, but you have to help me leave here, first." He paused, hesitating, wondering how to ask. "Bridget, if I get out of here, when I get out of here, there's something I'll need to know, if you want to leave this place, too." Lowering his voice to a near whisper, he asked, "Do you…remember what happened? After Alex left? You waited and waited, but he never came home…"
She didn't answer right away. The muffled sobs tore at his heart, and her slight body shook against his.
"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm sorry, please, it's all right, you don't have to talk about it. Bridget, I'm sorry…"
She shook her head, the sobs gradually quieting. Continuing to just hold her, stroking her hair, he waited. Finally, she started to speak, and he had to strain to hear her.
"I…got a letter, one day," she said softly, her face slightly turned away from him now. "It was in the spring, that's all I remember. He was gone, and I didn't care anymore, about anything. I might have gone a little bit mad." A small choked laugh escaped her. "You see? You were right about that… It's all so confusing after that, Dean. Everyone left, except for me, and some of the slaves. Maybe one of the overseers. I never really knew. It didn't matter. Then soldiers came, with fire and death, and it turned into Hell on earth, and I prayed to die. But I didn't. Not then. I just waited for Alex…" She fell silent, and clung to him.
"I'm sorry," he said again. "I shouldn't have asked you that. Forgive me."
"No," she murmured. "There is nothing to forgive. It's all gone, and this is all I have. If you leave here, you'll be lost, too." Her arms tightened around his waist. "Out there. It's nothing but the cold and the dark, and…" She shivered against him. "There are evil things waiting. Horrible things. That's why I stay here. I can't leave…"
He gripped her shoulders and gently pried her away from him so he could look into her eyes. "Bridget, I've seen lots of evil, lots of horrible things. I'm not afraid of them." Dean swallowed, wondering if he was lying as he went on. "I'm not even that afraid of death. It's been close for a long time."
"I know," she whispered. "You're more afraid of losing your brother – you'd give your own life if it meant saving his. You're afraid for him, of what would happen to him, when you're gone." She smiled sadly at his obvious and sudden discomfiture. "You forget I've seen your dreams. Death walks in them, and you always defy him. You are very brave, Dean Winchester. Far braver than I." She took a deep sighing breath. "I will help you, even though I am afraid for you. I can open the door of this house, but after that, you will have to find your own way. I have no power beyond these walls."
"But I got back before," he protested. Vague memories of that fall through the darkness teased at the edges of his mind. "How did I do that?"
"You were alive."
Oh. Right. Well, shit. That could be a problem…
"How long have I been here, then?" he asked, frustration making him cross. "If I am…dead, has it been hours? Days? Weeks?" Ugh. "Am I a buried corpse?"
"I don't know! Time means nothing here. It's different than…out there."
"Well, shit!" he growled, out loud. And then added a sheepish, "Sorry," at Bridget's look of severe disapproval. "But I think I need to hurry, is all. It just feels… I don't know." He gave a helpless shrug. "It feels like if I don't go now, I never will and it'll be too late. Sam's up to something, I know it."
Bridget studied his face for such a long moment that he became embarrassingly self- conscious.
"What?" he asked. "Have I turned green or something?"
"No." She smiled, sadly and sweetly, and he felt his heart turn over. "Come," she said. "Let's go open the door so you can find your brother."
Dean dropped a kiss on the top of her head. "Thank you," he breathed.
Taking her hand in his, he led the way out of the kitchen into the hallway and down to the front door, noticing that the light began to gradually dim as they walked. He stood in front of the door, grimacing as he remembered the crushing pain from the heavy chair that had pinned him there (in that other Thornton house, the real one), and the cold mist that had been Bridget, curling around him.
She let go of his hand, then, and without even her touching it, the door slowly opened. It swung inward, silently, and beyond it was the terrifying abyss and the howling wind. She stepped back, quickly, and Dean could see the slight tremor that went through her.
"Don't go," she whispered, her fear for him clear. "Please."
Dean could feel the wind tugging hungrily at him as he stood on the threshold. He turned back, for one last look, and saw the terror in her eyes. "Don't be afraid," he said. "I'll come back, to the other house, and you wait for me there, all right? I promise, Bridget. You hear me? I won't leave you alone."
He wasn't even sure if she heard him. But as she raised her hand to bid him farewell, he felt a sudden pain prick his heart. Was that sad and lovely face the last Captain Alexander Thornton had seen of her before he marched off to war, never to come home again? And here I go, one hundred and forty something years later, leaving her just as Alex had, promising to return to her… I will. I will come back. He met her eyes, blue as a Kansas summer sky, and nodded, then turned to face the dark again, hands braced on the doorframe. A snatch of conversation with Sam surfaced in his mind, from those moments before they entered Roy LeGrange's tent in that field in Nebraska, and he gave himself a wry, almost mocking smile.
Faith. Yeah, taking a leap of faith here, huh, Sammy? Well, maybe you've got enough for the both of us. Faith in you and me, that's about it, bro, so I sure hope you're workin' some mojo out there, Sam. Sure hope you're still hanging onto me, somehow, 'cause ready or not, here I come.
Dean made that leap with a shout, flinging himself into the dark, and it was Sam's name on his lips as he fell.
xxxxx
Sam searched. With all of his senses, with his heart. There was not much to see in this darkness, but his inner vision, his mind's eye, he supposed, knew that something was out there… Movement, currents, flickers of light and shifting energies, and somewhere, Dean. He had to be here.
On one level, he could still feel Dean's hand, tightly trapped between his own, sticky with the blood that bound them together; on another, he called his brother's name in the dark, instinctively casting his vision far and wide as he sought for a sign of Dean's familiar presence, of what made him Dean.
But as he searched and called, he realized with a sudden horror that he no longer felt the reassuring beat of Dean's heart beneath his hands. His brother's chest failed to rise again, the lungs failed to take another breath.
"Dean!" he shouted, in his mind or aloud, he didn't know. "Dean, come on, don't you dare, don't you do this!"
Now what, Missouri? You didn't mention this possible little scenario. So what the hell do I do, huh? Stop the soul search mumbo jumbo and give him CPR? Body, soul, which is it? Goddammit, Dean, don't do this to me!
"Dean!" he howled into the abyss. And again. "Dean!" Sam shouted until he ran out of breath – and miraculously, at last, a faint flicker answered him. The amulet he held crushed between their hands warmed and tingled against his palm. "Come on, come on," he screamed. "Don't give up! I'm here, Dean!"
Still no heartbeat. No breath. But…
Sam!
xxxxx
Dean fell, and he remembered. The shrieking wind that tossed him effortlessly like a twig in a raging torrent of water, the freezing cold of the dark, and the feeling that something waited for him just out of reach… But he had found his way back before, not even knowing who he was, or how he got there. He'd just done it. He could damn well do it again.
But what if he was dead… He'd have nowhere to go.
Hell with that.
There was no sense of up or down. Nothing but the darkness, rushing past. A quick slash of burning pain across one shoulder had him twisting away with a startled shout. Evil things in the darkness, Bridget had said… The next slash raked his hip and sent him careening off in some other non-direction. He had a sudden and vivid image of a cat playing with a mouse, batting it from side to side. Still he fell. Forever.
And then thought he heard something, an echoing cry from far away.
He felt another bright pain, this time in his right hand, and then it became not so much pain as warmth, warmth that blossomed and grew. It made him realize how cold he'd been. For some reason, he put his hand up and clenched his fist tightly around the amulet that hung from his neck. The resulting shock made him gasp, and he could've sworn he felt another hand gripping his, a voice screaming his name, and he yelled –
"Sam!"
At least he thought he yelled. The darkness swallowed the sound, but he could feel the pulsing warmth beneath his hand getting stronger.
"Dean!"
He'd never heard anything so sweet in his life.
"Sammy, get me outta here!"
"You hang on, you hear me? Don't you dare let go, or I will kick your ass to Kansas and back again. Come on, come on! I'm right here, Dean!"
He focused on Sam's voice, his little brother's frantic voice, and the glowing thread of warmth between them drew him like a moth to a flame, like an arrow straight and true to its target.
His body felt on fire. He wondered crazily if he looked like a meteor, streaking toward the earth. Then with a cry he crashed, back into himself, and he was nothing but pain – pain in his ribs and chest, pain from bruises, real pain. He drew in a great, gasping breath and tried to open his eyes.
"Dean?"
Sam's voice, coming from above him, was shaking and as scared as Dean had ever heard it. Dean managed to blink his eyes open, and his brother's face swam into view. Sam, leaning close, looked just as scared as he sounded.
Dizzy, disoriented, for a moment he didn't know whether to laugh or cry, not sure if he had the strength for either. He settled on a relieved sigh, and the tiniest of wistful smiles tugged at the corner of his mouth.
I made it, Bridget. I'm home.
Licking dry lips, he tried out his voice. "Sammy?" It was barely a croak, though enough to bring a tired but very genuine smile to Sam's pale face.
"Dean." Sam swallowed, opened his mouth, but nothing more emerged. To Dean it looked as though his brother couldn't decide whether to simply pass out, or give Dean a hug. Finally, after another couple of swallows, Sam pulled himself together enough to say, hoarsely, "Oh, man, Dean, you really know how to scare the shit outta me." Sam's gaze flicked over him before returning to his face. "You know who I am this time," he added, almost as a question.
"Uh huh. Even know who I am." Dean glanced around, taking note of the objects still bound to the bedposts, of Sam slumped on the bed next to him, of the fact that Sam continued to maintain a death grip on Dean's hand. Which was warm and sticky, and, now that he noticed it, was starting to hurt… "How long?" he asked, his breath hitching in a cough. Crap. He ached all over.
Sam sighed, weariness and relief written in every line of his body. "Since last night. After…after I finished the binding spell. Well, and then after you woke up and thought you were that Alex guy." He looked away, as though unable to meet Dean's eyes. "Around twelve hours."
"That all? Feels like…longer." Bridget hadn't been kidding, then, about time being different between there (wherever "there" was, somewhere in the Twilight Zone) and here. He coughed again, then winced as his ribs screamed in protest. "Knew you'd figure something out, Sammy. Ohhh…" Every muscle in his back and legs suddenly seemed to spasm at the same time.
"Dean?" Sam's voice rose again, and Dean could hear the panic underlying that single utterance.
"S'all right, Sammy," he slurred, faintly. "Just…stiff. Think I might've been dead for a while, huh?" He gave a weak laugh and felt his eyes sliding shut. "A stiff, get it?"
"Very funny," Sam returned, not laughing. "Do you…remember what happened last night?"
Dean thought about how to answer that, and then felt one of Sam's hands very carefully loosen from his own, from where it lay atop his chest. He got his eyes open again, through sheer force of will, and saw that Sam's hand was covered in blood.
"Sammy, you're hurt," he said, conveniently ignoring the question Sam had just asked.
"Just a cut. You've got one, too." Sam gently got their hands separated. "Sorry," he murmured, wincing right along with Dean, as Dean's hand jerked slightly in Sam's grasp.
Dean saw that the sharp pain in his own palm was due to a cut that matched the one Sam bore, and that his now bloodied amulet had lain crushed between them. He raised an eyebrow. "That's some mojo, Sammy…" Dean thought bleakly of falling through that darkness forever, or trapped in limbo, lost, and he said, quietly to his brother, "Thanks."
"You're welcome." Sam's grip tightened briefly on Dean's fingers. "Wasn't sure it would work," he admitted then, inspecting the wound he'd made in Dean's hand and not looking at Dean. "You…stopped breathing." Dean could feel the tremors in Sam's hand. "Thought I was too late."
"Thought I was, too," Dean said. "The late, great Dean Winchester." He gave Sam a lopsided smirk, hoping it would piss Sam off enough to make him get over being scared.
"Oh, that is so not funny." Sam glared. "Smartass."
"Jerk." Oh, it was good to be back. He struggled briefly to shift himself upright, and found he couldn't quite make it. "Sammy, help me up, huh? Been layin' here long enough."
"Are you sure –"
"I gotta pee, I need a shower, and I am not staying in this bed one minute longer," Dean asserted, trying to sound firm even as he fought to keep from yawning. How the hell could he be tired? He'd been unconscious or dead or something for twelve hours, or however long he'd spent with Bridget…
Sam, obviously skeptical of Dean's ability to stay awake, much less get himself on his feet, just shook his head and pulled Dean up with one strong, careful heave. Dean swung his legs off the bed and tried to stand.
"Hey," he said, looking down. "Salt." Dean gestured with a hand at the sacred objects he had already noticed bound to the bed. "Good idea."
"You're here, but not there. I can't find you." Huh, so maybe Bridget couldn't "see" me because of the protection of Sammy's circle? So I wasn't dead? Well, not much…
"Yeah, I figured it couldn't hurt," Sam was saying, looking at it as well, then leaning over to blow out the candle that flickered on the bedside table. "Are you positive this is a good idea?" he went on. Sam still had a hand on Dean's forearm, which was all that was keeping Dean upright at the moment.
"No problem," Dean assured him. Gritting his teeth and swaying to his feet, a wash of dizziness nearly sent him toppling to the floor. Sam cursed, and shifted his arm to curve around Dean's waist.
"Oh, yeah, I can see you're ready to get up," he snarked.
"Quit bitching and help me," Dean grumbled back, trying to stop his stomach from turning inside out. "Or quit bitching and don't help. But I am getting up. Just because I was kinda not breathing for a few minutes doesn't mean I'm a complete wreck…"
Sam's arm only tightened a bit more as he helped Dean across the few feet to the bathroom. "Oh, not breathing, no heartbeat, basically unconscious for twelve hours after you wake up thinking you're a dead guy, yeah, I guess you're just fine." The words came out in a snarl, the anger belied by the care with which he got Dean into the bathroom and sitting down on the closed seat of the toilet. "Not to mention that you've still got a couple of cracked ribs and a mass of bruises all over your body. I miss anything?"
"Uh –"
"Shut up." Sam had by now grabbed the med kit. After washing off his own hands and taking care of the oozing cut on the one, he turned to Dean without another word.
"I'm all right, Sammy," he protested, for the sake of protesting. "It's hardly anything, you know that."
Sam just shook his head and reached for Dean's bloodied hand, and Dean figured at this point surrender was easier, so he just sighed and let Sam set about cleaning the wound.
And he had to admit, to himself, he felt…well, numb. Thin. Hollowed out. Worn to the bone. Like he might blow away in a strong wind. Was there anything left of him? How much of his strength had Bridget stolen away in her attempt to keep him with her? How had she said it? "…so easy to follow, to take your strength, your bright, living soul." And the reaper? What had the reaper done to him? That night in Nebraska, when Dean had almost given in, when Death had put his mark on him… He shivered slightly, and Sam gave him a sharp look, pausing in his ministrations.
"Don't bother with a bandage, I'm gonna take a shower," he reminded Sam, attempting a distraction.
Sam just shot him another look and dabbed antiseptic over his hand, as if daring Dean to complain.
After Sam finally finished with his doctoring and could no longer find a reason to hover, Dean managed to kick him out of the bathroom so he could take a shower in peace. With a bit of distaste, he stripped out of the wrinkled clothes he'd been wearing, been sleeping in, and checked his shoulder and hip. The invisible claws that had swiped him in the dark, during the long fall, had left no outward wound, not even a scratch. But then, the bruises he had here, the cracked ribs, he hadn't felt there, either…
Leaning wearily against the shower wall, he stood under the hot water, letting it ease his aching muscles. Sam had saved his ass, again, dragging him out of the darkness, just like he'd dragged Dean out his nightmares… But what else had happened here last night? He realized he hadn't even asked Sam what he'd missed after Bridget had pulled him back into her long ago memories.
Nor had Sam pushed with the questions. He was acting…what, guilty? Dean frowned. What the hell was that all about? Dean was back, whatever Sam had come up with had obviously done the trick, so what was his little brother fretting over? Yeah, okay, the not breathing thing, maybe, but that was hardly Sam's fault.
He made sure to rinse both amulet and ring clean. Since the heat and the steam was beginning to make him just a bit dizzy, he turned off the water and sagged against the wall for a moment until his head cleared. Wrapping a towel around his waist, and then slapping a bandage across his still slightly bleeding palm, he thought he heard a knock on the bedroom door. When it came again, he called to Sam. No answer. So he opened the door enough to stick his head out of the bathroom, only to see Sam sprawled untidily across his bed, fast asleep.
To keep the knocker from waking up his brother, Dean made it to the door, still dripping, and opened it. Ginny was just raising her hand to knock again. She stared at him in stunned silence, and then to his complete consternation, she burst into tears.
"Ginny?"
It seemed to be his day for crying women.
"Oh my God, it worked," she gasped out. "I thought I heard Sam shouting – he did something, it worked. Oh, Dean." She wiped at her eyes. "It is you? You…and not Alex Thornton?"
"It's me, Ginny, really…"
She just shook her head, reached up to take his face between her hands and pulled him close enough to place a kiss on his forehead. Mystified by this unusual display, he let her.
When she drew back, but not letting go, she sniffed and gave him a glare – which would have been more effective if she wasn't still blinking tears away. "You scared the hell out of us, young man. Don't be doing that again."
"Or you'll have me on the kitchen clean-up crew?" He felt a slow, warm smile spread across his face.
"For a year. At least." Slipping her hands away, she gave him a quick once-over, and Dean suddenly felt the distinct lack of clothing in his present situation. "Sam wasn't kidding about the bruises, was he, sweetie," she said softly, cataloging them with a sympathetic frown. He narrowed his eyes at that and resisted the temptation to cross his arms over his chest. What the hell had Sam been telling her? But she ignored his disgruntlement, and with a last light brush of her fingers across one cheek, she stepped back from him, and suddenly grinned. "But other than the bruises, you look awfully nice in a towel, Dean."
He growled and tried not to run for cover. But when he had to put out a hand to steady himself on the doorframe, her grin vanished, and she was back to her usual in-charge den mother mode.
"Should you even be up?" She was already pushing him back into the room. "What the hell, Dean, you've been out of it since last night. You still look like a few miles of bad road. How do you feel? Are you all right?" Spotting Sam, she added, "Is Sam all right?"
"I'm okay," he said, lying, he told himself, only a little. "And I think Sammy just wore himself out, doing…whatever it was he did."
Plopping down on the other bed (and carefully arranging his towel), Dean scrubbed a hand through damp hair, and watched as Ginny turned her attention to Sam, covering him up with a loose blanket.
"Poor Sam. He was up all night, I think – he's been practically out of his mind with worry about you, you know," she said, patting Sam's shoulder.
"Yeah, Sam always worries too much," Dean said absently, watching Sam sleep. He looks about ten years old.
Though Ginny wore that bright expression of curiosity he had come to recognize, she did not raise any questions about the events of last night. Instead, she said briskly, "You need to eat something, Dean, and drink plenty of fluids. How about some breakfast? I can bring something up, if you don't want to come downstairs yet."
Dean was still focused on Sam. "I'll be down in a little while." He tilted his chin at Sam. "I'm gonna sit with Sam for a while, make sure he's okay."
She nodded knowingly, and then grinned at him again, with those laugh lines deepening at the corners of her eyes. "But maybe you should put on a shirt if you're dining at the table."
He snorted and rolled his eyes. "I'll be down. In a shirt. Even pants."
"Oh, not on my account."
"Ginny!" A glower of mock outrage did not dampen her grin.
"What? I'm not dead. I enjoy looking." At the doorway, she did exactly that, giving Dean an appreciative leer similar to the one he had bestowed upon her the other night when she had helped him into bed. "Just because you're young enough to be one of my grad students…"
"That's it, I'm getting dressed. See you later, Ginny." He could still hear her snickering as he got up and firmly shut the door behind her. As soon as the door closed, he sagged against it, his strength gone – and no longer needing to pretend it was still there.
By the time he had finished getting dressed (avoiding t-shirt, boots and socks, going with button-down and barefoot), he noted without surprise that his jeans hung a little looser, a little lower on his hips, and that he was short of breath and sweating. He had to sit down while he waited for his heart rate to slow, and he wiped a shaky hand over his face.
"You really do look terrible, you know."
Dean flung his head up and saw Sam watching him from the bed with half-open eyes and blatant concern.
"Shit, Sammy, don't do that," Dean grumped. "Thought you were asleep."
Rolling over and sitting up, Sam shook his head. "Can't sleep with you blundering around. Anyway, don't change the subject."
"I'm all right." The words fell automatically from his mouth, like they always did, no matter what was bruised, broken, or what was cut and bleeding. Body or soul.
"No, I don't think so." Sam was studying him, that haunted look back in his eyes, and Dean could see the flash of fear that he tried and failed to hide. Sam's hands twisted in the bedclothes, and his glanced drifted away from Dean to gaze blindly out the window.
The denial was on the tip of his tongue. But Sam wasn't an idiot, and at the moment, Dean didn't think Sam would believe a word that came out of his mouth. His usual act of careless nonchalance wouldn't work. Unfortunately, his other option, getting up and walking out, felt far beyond him as well. And Sam was pale; his eyes were dark with exhaustion, his body tense, and Dean had already hurt Sam enough by getting hurt himself far too much lately. So Dean, with far more patience than normal, kept his mouth shut and waited for Sam to spill whatever it was that was bothering him.
"Dean," Sam finally blurted in a rush, "I'm sorry, I screwed up the binding spell. It's my fault you got trapped. I did something wrong, I must've, and then I fired rock salt into her, and…and I just got you hurt again."
So that was it.
Shaking his head, Dean said, "Sam, no. You didn't screw up. The spell worked just the way it was supposed to. Besides, you got me out again. You and your psychic boy superpowers. Couldn't have done it without ya, bro."
"But it's my fault you were there in the first place!" Sam cried. "And then when you woke up, and thought you were this Alex Thornton guy – well, shit, Dean…"
"Listen to me," Dean said, leaning forward, and speaking carefully, intently. "You did not screw up. Hear me? What happened was because of…her. She was already in my head, Sam, and when the binding spell grabbed her, it dragged me right along with it. You had no way of knowing that. Hell, I didn't know it, either, until later. So stop beating yourself up, okay? Jesus, Sam," he sighed, falling back into the chair again, "get over it already, will ya? I'm here, everything's all right, and Alex Thornton ain't comin' back into my head ever again, okay?"
"How do you know that?" Sam challenged him, anguished eyes finally turning back to Dean's. "What the hell happened to you, Dean? What's going on?" He shuddered, and wrapped his arms around his upraised knees. "You quit breathing. You said you were in some cold place. You asked me not to leave you there, just like you did in that nightmare last night… And then somewhere out in the dark. Where were you?"
Dean sorted through the questions, wondering which one to answer first, if any of them, and settled instead on asking, "What nightmare?"
"Don't do that!" Sam said, tossing his hands up in obvious frustration. "What happened? Who is this spirit? Why did you wake up thinking you were Alex Thornton? What's her connection with him?"
"Oh, Sammy." Dean sighed tiredly and kneaded his forehead with one hand. "It's kind of…complicated." He held up his hand to forestall another bout of questions. "Just…give me a minute here, okay? It was…hard." Looking up, he caught Sam's stare, but his brother gave him a nod. Shit. Where to start, how much to say, how to keep Sam from getting any more pissed off at him, or scared for him… Stick with the facts, Dean. He kept his eyes on his loosely clasped hands, his thumb brushing idly across the silver ring on his finger. "Alex Thornton was her husband," he began. "He was killed in the Civil War –"
"1864," Sam put in. "We…found him. Um, sorry," he added, as Dean flicked a glance at him. "Keep going."
"But before he left, he told her he'd come back. He promised. Well, he never did, of course, and she's still waiting. That's why she's here." Dean shrugged. "That's her story."
"That's it?" Sam was giving him an incredulous stare. "Not good enough, Dean. I mean, come on, who the hell is she? This bitch has been screwing with your memory, hurting you, making you think you're some dead guy…" Sam's face took on an expression Dean couldn't read at all. "We found Alex Thornton. We found a photo of him, in an old album. It's…pretty damn weird, Dean. You look…just like him."
Dean felt a jolt at that. It was one thing to hear Bridget say he resembled her husband, but to have visual proof, that was just…yeah, damn weird.
"But we found no mention anywhere, in all that junk we dragged out of the house, of him ever having been married," Sam went on.
"He was her husband, trust me, okay?" Elbows on knees, he dropped his head in his hands, weary and drained, aware of an ache starting up behind his eyes. "Sammy… Jesus, Sammy, it's just… Dammit."
"Dean? You all right?" Sam scrambled suddenly off the bed and was kneeling beside his chair, a cautious hand on Dean's leg.
"Yeah," Dean sighed. His head came up. "Yeah, Sammy. Her name is…was Bridget O'Connor. They got married in 1860, and his parents didn't approve." He could hear Bridget, sad and distant as she told her tale. "I'm guessing…maybe they didn't want any evidence of their fair-haired boy getting involved with the wrong kind of woman. He went off to war, he died – okay, you said 1864? She died – I don't know how, or when, and she's waiting for him. She's…lost, Sam. Lost and alone and afraid." He had to take a deep breath and steady his voice. "When she saw us…me, in the house, she took me for him, just for a moment."
"And because she liked what she saw when you showed up, she just decided to…what? Hijack your consciousness? Make you into Alex because you look like him?" Sam's hand on Dean's knee tightened into a fist. "She wanted you to be him, didn't she?"
"She did, but not anymore. She let me go, Sam. She knew she was hurting me, and she let me go."
"Huh," Sam snorted in disbelief, at last letting go of Dean to get up and sit in the other chair. "Where were you?" he asked again. "Not here, that's for sure."
"Hell, Sam, I don't know. It was her house, but, dude, we're talking Twilight Zone here, another reality, dimension, whatever. Her memories. I don't know," he repeated, flapping a hand in the air. "She can't leave it, she's afraid to, she's afraid of the dark outside. She was afraid when I left…"
"I'm sorry for that, but honestly, at this point I don't care about her!" Sam cried. "I care about you! What's to stop her from snatching you back again? We've got to find her body and find it fast – you know that. Maybe she let you go this time, or you got away, but crap, Dean," his voice rose, "you up and freakin' died on me." Then he added, in quiet horror more to himself than Dean, "Again."
"I'm sorry, Sam," he whispered. "I didn't… I tried…"
"Dean, I'm hardly blaming you," Sam said, still quiet.
Dean worked hard to dredge up a smile. "But you got me out, Sam. I jumped, that's all I did, but you found me." He looked down at his bandaged hand, and clenched it into an aching fist. "How did you figure that one out, anyway?"
"Um," Sam fidgeted slightly. "I called Missouri. She gave me the idea."
"Well, how 'bout that," Dean said, raising an eyebrow, trying to shift the mood. "She even helped after finding out it was me you had to rescue? Thought she hated me."
"She doesn't hate you," Sam said.
"Right."
Sam broke the silence before it could stretch out any further. "Sooooooo…" he drawled, "how did you manage to get her to let you go? Used that ol' Dean Winchester charm on her, huh? Smiled? Asked for her phone number?"
"Yeah." Dean smiled, wearily, sadly. "Something like that, I guess."
"Well, whatever, glad it worked."
"Yeah," Dean said again, his head lolling to one side.
"Dean?"
Dean blinked, opened his heavy eyes, and tried to focus his vision. Sam was leaning over him again, peering into his face.
"Sammy, what? Quit worryin,' okay?"
"Maybe," came the tight response. "When I believe you're really all right. You're overdue for some painkillers, and you need to eat. Here." Sam was holding a glass of water – where had that come from? – to his lips, and he had put two white pills in Dean's hand. "Come on, drink 'em down. Are you warm enough? Do you want to borrow a sweatshirt? You're not wearing any socks –"
"I'm all right, Sam. Cut it out."
"Well, I seem to recall you making sure I got dressed okay."
"Yeah, when you were five."
"Okay, it's my turn then."
"Smartass," Dean sighed.
"Uh huh, takes one to know one, and all that. All right, I'll go get us some breakfast."
Dean grimaced at the pills; but he did hurt, dammit, so he swallowed them down with some of the water. Then he shook his head at Sam. "I'm coming with you. Gotta get out of this room. I'll be fine in a minute." He sighed. "Let's go find the Scooby Gang, huh? I s'pose we gotta fill 'em in on things. And Ginny's expecting me downstairs –"
"Wait, you talked to Ginny?"
"She came in while you were crashed for your ten-minute beauty sleep." Finishing off the water, he added, "She likes me in a towel."
Sam just rolled his eyes. "All right, Playgirl Pin-up of the Month, let's go eat."
xxxxx
In what had become an all far too familiar routine, Sam stuck close to Dean's side as they headed downstairs, no matter how much Dean may have grumbled. Not that he really meant it, and Sam just ignored him anyway. Dean was not especially looking forward to meeting the others face to face this morning, not after last night's drama. If Ginny's reaction was anything to go by, he might have to endure about a year's worth of chick flick moments, all crammed into a mere few minutes.
At Dean's prodding, Sam had quickly filled him in on what had happened at the Thornton house after Dean collapsed. His brother had glossed over what Dean was sure the worst of it – for Sam, at any rate – and simply told him they had had enough time to get what they came for. Dean remembered waking up as Alex, afterwards, seeing the look of loss and pain that had crossed his brother's face when Dean hadn't known him; and then the terror of Bridget furiously ripping him away again, away from Sam…
" …and then Ian and I lugged you upstairs, and I put the circle around you. We kept looking for…her, but didn't find anything. It's like she never even existed, Dean."
"That was probably the idea," Dean said, thinking back to what Bridget had told him, about Alex's parents even forbidding their daughter to talk to her. Maybe they even had something to do with her death. Maybe he should dig up Papa Thornton while he was at it, take care of his bones…
The reception that greeted them in the dining room was almost as bad as Dean had steeled himself for, but at least no one tried to hug him – possibly because Ginny had spilled how truly spectacular his bruises were. But there were tears and smiles from the two girls, and even Ian's eyes glinted suspiciously bright as he gave Dean a nod from across the table.
He wasn't sure how food would settle in his stomach, but he managed some toast and orange juice, mostly because both Sam and Ginny were watching and trying not to.
When it looked like everyone was done eating, Ginny suggested moving to the living room.
"I know Sam probably told you what we found, but we'd like to show you and see what you think, if you can add anything."
No one was talking about Alex Thornton yet, or his brief appearance last night in the form of Dean. And he was more than grateful for that. They had all seen him vulnerable, seen him weakened by what Bridget had done to him, and he felt horribly self-conscious in front of them, his carefully constructed defenses stripped bare. The whole incident was all too raw yet, like a wound that had yet to scab over and heal.
Some unspoken consent among the others left Dean with the couch, and he tried not to sink too gratefully into the deep cushions. Sam sat at the opposite end, his feet on the low table, not crowding him but close enough as though he thought Dean might tip over at any given second.
Dean told them pretty much what he'd told Sam, giving them the bare bones of the story. He tried to keep his distance, to remain emotionally detached as he spoke, but all he could see was Bridget's face. The fear in her eyes as he had flung himself out the door of her house.
"And that's why she's still here," he said, knowing he sounded tired but couldn't help it. "Has been, really, just waiting for him to come back, but she wasn't haunting the place until – well, something disturbed her."
"So," Ginny said thoughtfully, "she just…told you all this? Ah, I mean, you know, talking with ghosts is possible?"
Dean looked askance at her. "Yeah, it is. But the first person to make Jennifer Love Hewitt jokes –" his glance slid to Sam – "will, I promise you, die a slow and painful death."
Ginny raised her hands as the others laughed, easing some of the tension that had fallen in the room since Dean had begun talking. "Not me, Dean. No jokes, cross my heart." She nodded at Lissa. "You found the first piece of evidence, Lissa, why don't you show Dean his twin."
Lissa silently reached into a folder and leaned across to hand Dean the old sepia photo they had found. Everyone seemed to be holding their breath as he took it in his hand and gazed down at the strangely familiar features, features that belonged to a man dead these many decades, dead and buried. Even though he was expecting it, even though Bridget had mistaken him at first for her husband and told him of the resemblance, it was still a shock to look at Alex Thornton in his officer's uniform of Confederate gray and see himself.
That old saying about someone having just walked over his grave came to mind, and he knew he hadn't been able to repress a shiver.
"Pretty weird, huh?" Lissa said, softly.
"Uh, yeah," Dean answered, still staring. He could hear Bridget's longing voice in his head. He could remember the feelings and memories she had for Alex, of Alex, when she had tried to make him be Alex. She loved you so much, he thought, looking at the man in the picture, and he had to blink away the sting of sudden tears at the corners of his eyes. Lucky bastard.
"No wonder she fancied you," said Ian.
"So," Dean said, clearing his throat. "You really think this guy looks like me, huh?"
"Oh, please," said Angie.
"Yeah, well, maybe in bad light." He squinted. "If you're squinting. Still think he's not as handsome."
Ginny let out a snort. "Doesn't matter what you think, sweetie. You're certainly close enough to the real deal for the little lady next door."
He turned the photo over, and got his second shock when he read the date. "June 22, 1861," he murmured. "Their wedding anniversary."
"What did you say?" Sam was leaning over. "Dean?"
Dean closed his eyes, sighing, and the photo slipped from his hand to flutter to the floor.
"Dean? What's wrong?" Sam's voice was tight.
"The date," he said, louder, feeling a rush of sadness. "It was their wedding anniversary."
The silence in the room was eloquent.
"Oh, God," Angie said at last, softly. "He must've sent it to her, when they couldn't be together…"
With a faint sniffle, Lissa said, "That's just too sad. Poor girl."
"Um, let's not lose sight of what we have to do here, okay?" Sam had picked up the photo and was staring at it. "We still have to find her," he said. "We have to burn her bones, or she'll be stuck here and haunting the damn house forever."
Only Dean heard the unspoken, And hurting my brother.
After that, Dean sort of lost track of the conversation, because he found himself sliding sideways on the couch, and it was easier to fall into darkness than to keep his eyes open any longer. But the dark wasn't cold, not with Sam there.
xxxxx
It was early afternoon when he woke, from a thankfully dreamless sleep. Someone had covered him with a blanket, and he had wound up sort of curled on the couch with his feet practically in Sam's lap. Not surprisingly, Sam had fallen asleep as well, and was also under a blanket. He looked pretty damn uncomfortable, sitting up with his head at an awkward angle. Dean almost wanted to nudge him awake with a well-placed foot, but Sam had been up practically all night; he still looked grey and pinched with exhaustion. Dean drew his foot back.
Besides, this was a perfect opportunity to go back to the Thornton house and try to find Bridget. He knew just how well that plan would go over with Sam…
Okay, just a quick trip upstairs to get his boots on, maybe a jacket because he was suddenly cold, and then over to the house. How hard could that be?
He made it all the way to their room, and back, panting only slightly from the effort, and was nearly out the door when Sam said from somewhere behind him, "Where do you think you're going?"
Dean turned slowly. Sam stood there in the hallway, still rubbing sleep and floppy bangs out of his eyes, and he did not appear pleased.
"Um, outside," Dean said.
"How far?"
Dean sighed. Busted. "Across the street." He waited for Sam's reaction, and Sam did not disappoint.
"Back to that house?" Sam stared. "Are you crazy? Or are you Alex Thornton? What the hell, Dean, what's going on?"
"Sammy…"
"Don't 'Sammy' me, you jackass. Tell me what you think you can do going back in there. Besides get hurt again."
"I promised, Sam." Dean let out a slow breath. "I promised her I'd come back, to see if…well, to see if I could help her. She's scared, that's all. She's alone."
"I don't care, Dean!" Sam shouted, moving closer until he was nearly in Dean's face. "We are going to find her, burn her bones into dust, and that will be the end of it. She won't be lonely after that."
"Sammy," Dean tried again, "we don't have a freakin' clue where she's…buried." Why did it hurt so much to say that? "She came close to telling me, but she's scared." He remembered every word she said, and what she hadn't said, and he thought he could read between the lines here. "Come on, let's at least go outside so the whole damn house doesn't hear us yelling at each other. Okay?"
Sam grumbled, but followed as Dean led the way out to the lawn chairs in the backyard and sat down.
"All right, I assume you've got some sort of half-assed plan. Convince me." Sam settled in and waited.
"We need to find her, right? Well, so far, we got jack." Dean knew his instincts were right; but he had to prove it to Sam, so he picked his words carefully. "No records of her in the family history, you guys couldn't find anything. I think…something happened to her and the family covered it up. Or maybe just ignored it. Anyway, with Alex dead, why should they bother to worry about some poor Irish shopgirl" – he could hear Bridget's lilting accent as he said that – "without any other family? She didn't matter to them."
"You sound like you feel…sorry for her," Sam said. "After what she did to you…"
Dean shrugged wearily. "Remember when I said it was complicated? And hard? Sammy, I know it sounds crazy, I know that, but…we have to help her. I need to talk to her, and that means I need to go in the house. I think she wants to…leave, but she doesn't know how."
"Because she's scared," Sam repeated back to him.
"Yeah. I think whatever happened to her, didn't happen in the house. She feels safest there. I got a hunch she's somewhere on the grounds. Or hell," he tossed his hands in the air and shrugged again, "maybe I don't know what I'm talking about. But it just feels like that, Sam. Please, you gotta trust me, here."
"I trust you," Sam said slowly, "but I wonder how much of you is believing this, or if it's still leftover Alex in your head. You almost sound like you're in love with this woman, Dean."
Dean was perhaps a little too quiet just a moment too long.
"You are, aren't you?"
"No, no, of course not," he murmured. He raised his eyes to Sam. "It doesn't matter, anyway. We have to find her. So I'm going to go back in the house. Come or not, I don't care."
"Oh, I'm coming with you, don't you worry. But I'm coming prepared."
Ten minutes later, Dean stood on the sidewalk in front of the Thornton house and tried one more time to reason with Sam, who just shook his head.
"You're not going into that house without me, Dean," Sam insisted.
"And you're not coming in with that," Dean countered, pointing at the shotgun loaded with rock salt. "She's not gonna hurt me, Sammy, you don't need the firepower."
"Yeah, right. All I've ever seen her do is hurt you. Indulge me."
"I mean it, Sam, stay here, or leave the shotgun."
"No."
Dean wanted to grind his teeth in frustration and throw something. Sam wanted to do nothing but protect him, Dean knew that, but he didn't need protecting, not from Bridget. But they were wasting time out here arguing, and Sam could rise to the occasion when he had to and be just as stubborn as Dean.
The staring match ended abruptly when Dean's knees buckled. Sam quickly grabbed his arm to keep him from falling to the ground and hauled him upright. Dean had to fist both hands in Sam's jacket long enough to get his knees locked and even then he felt unsteady, his breath rasping loud as he struggled to maintain his balance.
"That's it," Sam said flatly. "You can't even stand up on your own. I'd prefer you to stay out of the damn place, but if you insist on going in there like the idiot you are, I'm going with you, and I'm taking a loaded shotgun. End of story."
"Fine," Dean snapped, or tried to. It came out sounding more like a petulant, exhausted whine, only further intensified when he let go of Sam to turn his back and climb the stairs. Too bad he couldn't stomp, but that was a little hard when it was all he could do to haul himself up using the railing.
"Idiot," he heard Sam mutter. He wondered briefly if Sam meant him, for going in, or Sam for following.
The door was still unlocked from last night's foray, and Dean stepped inside with an odd sense of coming home. He shook his head, as though trying to dislodge a stray memory. Sam noticed his pause, however, and gave him a questioning lift of one eyebrow.
"You okay?" he asked, very quietly.
"Fine."
Dean walked into the front sitting room, his gaze first falling on the salt circle and chalked symbols still on the floor. Then as he stood there longer, it was as though he could see the room with two sets of eyes, looking at two different layers of reality. He took a step to avoid a table that wasn't there, and saw the loveseat instead of the longer couch. Blinking, he thought he saw Bridget sitting there, faint and misty, a smile on her face. But maybe he was just remembering…
"Dean?"
Sam again, with a hand on Dean's arm, steadying him.
"It's all right, Sam, just kinda…weird, you know?" Dean tried squinting. "Like I got double vision or something." Or else he just needed lots more sleep.
Sam had drawn out the EMF detector from his pocket, and held it out. "Nothing," he said, turning slowly. Then, "Maybe…" A little flicker of red.
"Bridget?" Dean called, not too loudly. "Bridget, are you here? I came back, like I promised." He made a slow circuit of the room, watching, listening. "Come on, Bridget, talk to me. Sam and I want to help you."
"Dean?" Sam said, also in a low voice, "I'm getting some stronger readings here."
Dean swung back to look for the ghostly loveseat. No sign of her. "Bridget?" He tipped his head to one side, straining his senses. "Come on, sweetheart…"
He very carefully avoided looking at Sam right at that moment. But he could feel Sam's eyes boring into the back of his head.
She was here; he could feel it. A slight drop in temperature, the scent of roses… Then he turned, and saw her. She was standing behind Sam, and when Sam saw where Dean's gaze was focused, he turned as well and backed up closer to Dean. Here, in this house, she was not the warm, flesh and blood woman who had wrapped him in her arms. Here she was a shadow, but this time at least, she had a form, not just the white mist they had seen that first night.
She stood and looked at him with a hopeful, yearning expression, but when she saw Sam, that look turned to one of hesitation and almost fear; and Dean saw that Sam had carefully made sure that the shotgun was ready to bear.
"Bridget," Dean said, and her blue eyes flickered over to him. Then that sweet smile blossomed on her face, and she drifted closer, her attention clearly focused on him. He wasn't even sure if she would be able to talk to him here, but he knew he'd been right to come back. "Bridget, can you hear me? Can you talk to me?"
Her mouth moved, but he heard no sound. He saw his own name on her lips, and she held out a hand to him. She spoke again, but it was like the wind sighing in the trees, a whisper, and she frowned in annoyance and frustration. Then, with such a look of intense concentration on her face that reminded him of Sam in a library he had to smile, she crossed her arms in front of her, and spoke his name one more time.
"Dean," she breathed, and he heard it, his name floating from her lips, and he grinned at her in delight. She grinned back, and though she tried to say something else, it was too much effort for her here. The grin slipped a little, and she cocked her head at him, a clear invitation to come closer.
"Dean," Sam warned, "don't let her touch you." The EMF detector was back in his pocket, and he cradled the shotgun in both hands.
"She's not gonna hurt me, Sam." Dean moved toward her, and he put out his right hand to meet hers. He felt a brief chill as his hand passed through hers, but he saw a sudden vivid image in his mind of her, standing in this room as it once was. She was trying to show him something… "Bridget, what was that? Show me again," he urged.
She nodded her understanding, and this time reached forward with both hands as though to grasp his. The longer contact gave him more of the vision, and he reeled under the emotions buried beneath it. Fear, anger, hopelessness… He couldn't take it all in.
"Dean, get away from her," Sam said fiercely. "Now."
"Sam, she's just trying to show me…what happened, I think… Ohhh," he held his head as the images coursed through his mind. He fell to his knees, and she floated down next to him, and wrapped her ethereal arms around him. She was cold, like before, when she'd been nothing but mist and had pinned him against the door. But she wasn't hurting him this time. The memories continued to pour through him until he thought he was drowning. It was the same as when she had wanted him to be Alex…
"Dean. Please. Move away."
Dean looked up in dazed confusion, unable to move a muscle.
"Get away from my brother." Sam was pointing the shotgun at her. His face was cold and implacable, his eyes dark. "You've hurt him enough."
Bridget was shaking her head, hands out in front of her, protesting in silence. But instead of moving away from Dean, she tried to get behind him as he crouched on the floor. The visions abruptly cut off and he swayed, putting a hand on the floor to steady himself.
"Stop now, I'm warning you." The shotgun followed her progress. Dean saw Sam's finger tightening on the trigger.
"Sam, no!" Dean shouted, his mind clearing enough to see the danger. He lunged clumsily to his feet, aiming for Sam, trying to push the shotgun up and out of the way, but his failing strength betrayed him. All he managed to do was deflect it slightly, and his usual lithe agility was hardly in evidence – he wound up tripping gracelessly and getting in the way instead. He saw the horrified expression on Sam's face when his brother realized it was too late. Sam had already pulled the trigger.
The resulting noise was near deafening in the small room.
For the second time in just a few short weeks, Sam had shot his brother at near point-blank range with a rock salt-loaded shotgun.
TBC…
