Chapter 6

Time slowed. Or maybe even stopped.

He saw Sam's wide eyes, horrified, the look of shock and despair on his face overwhelming all else. His brother let out a howl that might have been Dean's name, a long, drawn-out cry, almost inhuman.

A wave of cold seared through him, making him gasp. A fading voice that only he could hear whispered his name. A brief touch caressed his cheek. Dean fell, forever, again, body clenched in agonized anticipation of the pain that he knew would soon follow – familiar, burning pain, a scattershot of fire across his chest to punch the breath from his lungs. He was flying, falling and falling, hearing the echo of the shot and Sam's scream, and –

Time resumed.

He hit the floor, hard, slid and tumbled, and immediately curled up on one side, moaning, cradling his ribs. Okay, that pain definitely feels familiar…

"Dean!"

Through slitted eyes, he watched as Sam stumbled to his knees, ungainly, awkward, and saw him pitch the shotgun aside with a sickened grimace, saw it land forgotten under a chair, before his brother started to crawl those long few feet over to Dean's side. Dean's eyes slammed shut again as he concentrated on breathing.

The chaotic fragments of memories that Bridget had loosed upon him had ripped through his mind like so many tossed and discarded photographs, like shards of broken glass, edges sharp and raw. As they faded in their burning intensity, he struggled to lock them away in some dark corner of his mind until he was ready to deal with them. And he knew it would have to be all too soon. But it was all he could do to hang on to the here and now, like a man scrabbling at a rock wall with his fingertips… The effort left him sweating, with a dull, throbbing ache behind his eyes. He thought surely his soul must have been bleeding… But he could feel the reality of the pain in his ribs; he could hear Sam. He clung to both like a lifeline.

Sam. Voice high and tight and scared. Guilty, all over again. Not your fault, Sam. Not before, not this time either.

"…oh shit oh shit oh shit. Dean, oh Jesus, Dean, I didn't mean to, please be all right…"

Shaking, careful hands on Dean's shoulder then, beneath his head, turning him over and lifting him slightly, holding him. Trembling fingers slipped under Dean's jacket, skated across his shirt, hesitantly checking for damage.

"Let me see, let me see," Sam kept repeating, breathless, trying to ease Dean's arms away from around his ribs.

"Sam," he coughed. God, was that his voice? "Sammy, stop." He sucked in a breath, wheezing. "It's all right, I'm…okay." He blinked up at Sam, who stared down at him with dark haunted eyes in a bloodless face.

"Dean?" Sam said faintly, his hand stilling on Dean's chest. "Shut up. You're not okay." He licked his lips. "I just…shot you. At point-blank range." Dean could feel the shudder, and heard the silent, Again.

"Dude, your aim sucks." Dean coughed again, wincing at the spiking agony that resulted in his oft damaged and oh so tender ribs. But no stinging fire in his chest, not this time. "You…missed by a freakin' mile. Thought Dad…taught you better than that."

"How could I miss? Dean, you were right in front of me!"

"Sammy, look." Dean managed, finally, to move one arm away. "I'm not hurt." His breathing began to ease. "No blood, okay? Are you even…paying attention here?" Dean tried to shift, to get out of his undignified position of nearly lying in Sam's lap.

Sam just tightened his hold. But at least he was actually looking at Dean, eyes swiftly scanning for wounds, for torn and bloodied flesh.

"I…missed?" Disbelief, slowly ebbing, replaced by a long relieved sigh. He turned his head to swipe a hand across his eyes. "I missed."

At least the expression of outright horror was gone. Normally, Dean would have gotten a kick out of the complete bewilderment and the What the fuck, Dean? look on his little brother's face, but Sam was still too shaken up to take advantage of – that could wait for later.

Dean grunted and tried one more time to sit up. "Come on, let me up already. I'm okay. So, hey, Sammy," grunt, "do you mind?"

Yet another detailed and disbelieving study of Dean's intact shirt ensued before Sam grudgingly agreed that no, Dean was not sporting wounds caused by a hail of rock salt; and that, yes, he could sit up now. At least some color was finally returning to Sam's face. As he levered Dean up off his legs, Dean helped, somewhat, with one hand braced on the floor, and the other on Sam's shoulder. He leaned, just for a moment, and Sam leaned, just for a moment, and Dean wasn't quite sure who was propping up whom.

"So," Sam said quietly, wrung out. "What the fuck, Dean? Why aren't you full of holes? Not that I'm complaining," he added.

"I ain't either, Sammy, trust me."

"But…I didn't miss, Dean," he repeated, doggedly, and Dean could see from his tightened expression that Sam was pulling the trigger again, his mind replaying the scene. Over and over. Sam shook his head. "I mean, I missed, but…you were right in front of me."

"Uh, well." Dean craned his head around, knowing the answer even as he posed the question. "Bridget's gone, isn't she?"

"Huh?" Sam gave him an Are you insane? (or maybe it was a Who cares?) look, and said, "You're worried about her?"

Dean used Sam's shoulder again, this time to shove himself somewhat precariously to his feet. The room tilted, just a bit. Dean closed his eyes and fought for balance. "Sam, she did…something." A wave of cold, burning through him. "I think…she pushed me out of the way."

"Oh, come on…" The disbelief was back, along with a flare of anger.

Dean heard Sam get to his feet, to come and stand beside him, felt his brother's shoulder bump against him. He opened his eyes, steady once more.

"No, really, think about it." Dean surveyed the pale green wall – and the narrowly missed rather nice oil landscape – that had taken the brunt of the shotgun blast, and tried to hide the shudder from Sam. "I fell right into the shot, Sam, just as you pulled the trigger. I should be a messy heap on the floor. How else can you explain it? She pushed me, and got in the way instead. She's gone."

"Too bad it's not permanent," Sam muttered sourly. "And yeah, she did something all right. She thoroughly messed with your head again."

Ignoring that last comment, Dean continued to eye the wall with somewhat morbid fascination. "You better stop putting holes in Ginny's house, or she's gonna start charging us for damages." Then he suddenly found his vision darkening at the edges, and he must have started to tip because he felt Sam take hold of his elbow.

"Come on," Sam said quietly. "We're leaving."

He began tugging Dean toward the door, and Dean stumbled slightly, put a hand to his pounding head, and wearily decided to let Sam be in charge this once. He needed his strength to simply put one foot in front of the other.

"Shotgun?" he asked suddenly, as he continued to focus on remaining upright.

"I'll come back for it," Sam said, short and sharp.

"'kay," Dean agreed. Sure, why not… Left foot, right foot, um, left foot. See? I can do this…

"Dean? Steps."

"Uh huh." Dimly taking note of Sam's left hand moving from his elbow to around his waist and hooking in his belt, Dean added, "I can do steps, Sam. Really." He tried to sound reasonable about it, and not pissed off.

"Sure you can, Dean," Sam agreed, sounding far too reasonable. "Come on, just three more… There you go."

"She wasn't…trying to hurt me," he said, his voice faint, his head falling sideways just enough to see Sam's face. "I remember who I am. She was just trying to show me what happened… I'm all right, Sam."

"No, you're not, but let's talk about it later," was all Sam said, now bearing more of Dean's weight as they made their way down the front sidewalk toward the gate.

He had to shut his eyes and swallow against the rising nausea. "Okay," he panted. "Later's good." His own silent admission as to how much he hurt was to get a firm grip on the sleeve of Sam's jacket.

A few steps later, his eyes flew open again at the sound and unmistakable fury of one Dr. Virginia Lewis, storming their way. Dean clearly heard his name more than once as she strode, full steam ahead, ponytail bobbing, up the sidewalk – or maybe warpath – to meet them. Sam stopped, wary and waiting. Dean hung a little in his grasp and tried to regain his footing at the abrupt halt. He traded an alarmed look with Sam, winced, and braced himself for the onslaught. Suddenly his headache and churning stomach faded to mere inconveniences compared with the wrath of near-Biblical proportions currently bearing down upon them.

"Dean Winchester!" she shouted as she drew closer. "I knew you were a pigheaded, stubborn young fool, but I thought you'd at least have the God-given good sense not to go back in that damn house! What do we have to do, tie you to the damn bed?"

I am so not touching that line, she will kill me; I am keeping my mouth shut, I promise…

She stopped in front of them, hands on hips, and stared at him with white-knuckled fury and what he could readily identify as ill-concealed anxiety and fear. "Wipe that smirk off your face, young man. I am not amused by this little stunt, do you hear me?" Turning her attention to Sam, thus allowing Dean to sag for a second and attempt to wipe off a smirk he was pretty sure he wasn't even making in the first place, she went on with a poke to Sam's chest. "And you, Samuel Winchester! You're even worse!"

Dean found it a definite struggle to keep the smirk away at that. A warning jab in the ribs from Sam's hand, the one wound in his belt, only made it harder.

"Ginny –" was as far as a chastened Sam got.

"No! I understand that Dean might not exactly be clear-headed after everything that happened last night, but you should know better!" She threw her hands in the air, as though amazed by their sheer stupidity. "What the hell were you boys thinking?"

"Ginny," Dean started, not sure how to avert her ire, but somehow oddly touched by it. "I'm sorry, we didn't mean to…scare you."

She searched his face, and Sam's, and some of the anger – and fear – faded a bit. With a deep sigh, she cocked her head at them. "You boys…" Her voice grew quiet. "You scared the hell out of me. When Lissa said she'd seen you leave the house, I thought you were safe and sound in the backyard. Silly me." The voice started to scale up again. "Imagine my surprise when I don't find you there, and then I hear what sounds like a car backfiring, but of course it's really another goddamn gunshot, so naturally I know it has to be you two!"

Dean lifted one shoulder in a shrug. "It was my idea –"

"Of course it was, you idiot," she snapped. "What about the gunshot?"

Dean felt Sam flinch.

"An accident," he said quickly. "It's all right. We're all right. Really." He crossed the fingers of one hand behind his back and tried for earnest and reassuring – even though Sam was better at the big puppy eyes and begging for forgiveness act.

Ginny appeared to contemplate that for a moment, not taking her eyes off his, then reached up to pat him on the cheek. "And that look of wide-eyed beguiling innocence won't work on me, sweetie. I know you too well. Besides, you look like shit, Dean."

Sam bit back a laugh. Dean elbowed him in the side.

"I'm all right!" he protested.

"Yeah," came the dry rejoinder. "That's why you boys are staggering down this sidewalk like a pair of drunks."

"Are not!"

"Oh, give it up. Let's go home." Positioning herself on Dean's other side, she refrained from putting an arm around him; she just stuck close as they started walking again, slowly. "Okay, and this is no doubt a stupid question, but what in God's name possessed you – okay, sorry," she grimaced, "bad choice of word there. What made you think it was a good idea to go back inside that place? For crying out loud, haven't you had enough?"

Dean was back to an acute awareness of his pounding headache. He squinted at her, eyes narrowed against the pain and the suddenly over-bright sunlight. "How about I answer that later?" he asked, echoing Sam. He faltered, Sam's grip adjusted accordingly, and Ginny took his other arm.

"Sure, sweetie," she said. "Later is fine."

xxxxx

As Sam half-carried his brother back to the house with Ginny, he couldn't help but notice, not for the first time in the last day or two, that Dean felt…lighter. He'd grown thin, that had been evident over the past month, but suddenly, he just seemed to be not so much muscle and mass but bone and air. As though Dean could simply drift away, away from Sam, with barely a ripple, and he would be gone…

And Sam had very nearly hurt him. Again. Trying to protect him.

Sam felt his finger pull the trigger, the split second of frozen horror when he realized –too late – that Dean had fallen in the line of fire; he saw Dean hit the floor, to lie in a heap, and Sam had stared, shaking, numb with what he had just done.

Only he hadn't, apparently. Thanks to her. He supposed he should be grateful. But she'd hurt Dean so much already that he found it hard to feel much of anything but anger toward her.

His arm tightened, just a little, from where it rested around Dean's waist (but being careful, always careful of the bruises, the cracked ribs, a delicate balance), and looked down at his brother's drooping head. He couldn't see much of Dean's face, just an angle of jaw and cheekbone, a crescent of eyelashes. Dean's feet were moving, but Sam was pretty sure his brother wasn't fully conscious. Moving because he knew he had to, despite the pain. That was Dean, all right.

A pensive Ginny walked on Dean's other side, her arm through his. "Good grief, you two," she murmured. "I think you've put about ten years on me in the last few days. Good thing I never had kids. I'd be a terrible parent."

Sam grinned, in spite of himself. "You'd make a great mom, Ginny."

She snorted. "No thanks. I'll stick with grad students. At least they're already grown up. Mostly."

Sam just laughed, then saved the rest of his breath for carrying his brother up the front steps and into their house.

Once inside, they moved automatically for the living room, and encountered none of the students. ("Girls went grocery shopping," Ginny informed him. "Ian's at the library.") Sam gently lowered Dean to lie sideways on the couch, half on, half off, his feet dangling. Dean's eyes stayed shut, his head lolled, and Sam figured he was probably pretty well out. But not shot full of rock salt, not bleeding. Even with his eyes open, Sam could see Dean in that damn asylum, bloodied, hurt, lying on the floor, and Sam standing over him with a gun, ready and willing to fire, mocking and hateful… With a deep breath, he tried to quell the tremor in his hands, and forced himself to banish the image from his mind. He sank down onto the other end of the couch, and glanced at his brother. No wounds, no blood. Not this time.

But he still wasn't all right.

Ginny had actually gone and shut the door into the hallway, despite having the house to themselves. As she turned around, she had her hands on her hips again, a pointed stare directed at Sam.

Sam cringed. Yeah, way to go, Dean, he thought. It was your half-assed plan, but look who's unconscious and unable to answer questions. You so owe me.

"All right, Sam, please tell me what you boys thought you could accomplish by going back into Hell House over there?" She came over and sat down in a chair by the couch, still pinning Sam with a glare.

"Dean had this crazy idea…" he started.

"Wasn't crazy," came a hoarse voice. "Worked, didn't it?" Dean's dazed green eyes blinked up at them.

Sam felt a knot unwind slightly from somewhere.

"If this is how your plans turn out when they work, sweetie, I'd hate to see how you look when they don't." Ginny's words may have been dryly sarcastic, but neither the tone nor the look she bestowed upon Dean was; she leaned forward and tapped him lightly on the head. "Quit scaring me, brat."

"Sure you don't have kids?" Dean said faintly. He started to push himself up on an elbow, but quickly lost whatever color remained in his face, and eased down to the cushions again. "Shit," he muttered, closing his eyes.

"Let that be a lesson to you, then. And no, my thankfully departed ex-husband and I never had kids. Anyway, weren't you too far gone to hear that conversation?"

"Not quite. So… Ex, huh?" Dean's grin was more of a grimace, but it got the point across. "What'd you do to him?"

Ginny rolled her eyes at Sam. Sam grinned back.

"He suffered a delayed midlife crisis, and started sleeping with one – or possibly more – of his twenty-something-year-old grad students."

"Ouch," Sam winced. "Sorry."

"He musta been nuts," Dean mumbled.

"Why, thank you, sweetie," she said, smiling, patting his hair. "But I really should've known better. After all, I was one of his twenty-something-year-old grad students when he started sleeping with me."

"Ouch," said Sam, again, unable to hold back another sympathetic groan – and a grin.

"Yeah, no kidding." She waved an airy hand. "The old bastard and I still run into each other once in a while, small world and all that, but I dumped him flat and everybody knows it."

Dean snorted, and got his eyes open again and almost focused. "Good for you. You know, Sam and I could take care of him, if you like. Feed him to zombies, or conjure up a nice little succubus…"

"Ah, thanks for the offer, sweetie, but don't try to change the subject here."

"What…subject?" Dean tried sitting up again, and since Sam knew his stubborn idiot of a brother wouldn't stay down, he just sighed to himself and leaned over to help. "Thanks," Dean said, startled, as Sam tugged him upright and Dean got his feet fully on the floor.

"You're welcome. Don't throw up and make me regret it."

"Dude, I will not throw up."

"Yeah, sure. At least keep it away from me –"

A clearing throat had them both whipping their heads around. Ginny stared at them with a raised eyebrow.

"Gee, sorry, Professor." Dean gave her a smirk.

"Oh, Lord," Ginny said, eyes upward. "Give me strength." She pointed a finger at Dean. "Behave. Explain. Now."

Dean bit his lip and actually squirmed, and shot an appealing glance at Sam. Who just shook his head, refusing to be drawn.

"Yeah, okay." He visibly pulled himself together, sat up straighter, and after some consideration, spoke in a flat, suddenly weary tone. "We need to find her…remains, of course, you know that. That's the only thing keeping her here, other than her own fear. She can't…won't go by herself. She told me enough to make me think she's…buried somewhere on the Thornton grounds. But she didn't tell me exactly. She wants to leave, she knows Alex isn't coming back now, but she's afraid. So when she let me go…" His voice trailed off, and he went so still that Sam thought maybe he'd passed out sitting up.

"It's all right, Dean," Ginny said, softly, her hand reaching out to cup the side of his face. "Take your time, or don't tell me at all. It's okay. I trust you boys, I really do, but you had me just a tad nervous…"

Sam watched in silent amazement as Dean let himself lean into her touch, his eyes closing. He'd never seen Dean let his guard down so quickly, so easily, and it shocked him at how young his brother suddenly appeared. He looked away, not sure if it was for Dean's sake or his own.

He heard Dean draw in a shaky breath.

"She was so afraid," Dean went on, quieter, regaining control, "that I told her I'd come back if I made it out. Well, thanks to Sammy, there, I did. I figured I could reach her somehow, if I went back to the house. She showed up, and she did that memory thing –"

"And that's what you went back in for?" Ginny interrupted, aghast. "Deliberately? So she could scramble your brains again? Dean, my God…"

"Hey, it's all right." Sam could practically hear the shrug as Dean went on. "It's not the same as when she dumped Alex into my head – I'm still me. This time, she was trying to show me what happened to her…after he died."

When Sam looked again, Ginny's hand was gone, and Dean was lying exhaustedly against the back of the couch.

"I just wanted to help her. Whatever happened to her, she doesn't deserve that…weird limbo place she's stuck in. So, if I can figure out how to poke through all the stuff she…" he grimaced, made a gesture with one hand "downloaded into my head, we can find her and give her some peace. It's the only way to free her from the trap she's made for herself, and it's the only way to keep her from haunting your house."

"Sam? What do you think? Is that crazy?"

Sam made a face and tried not to snarl. "Doesn't matter what I think. He's gonna do it anyway. But," he added reluctantly, after a pause, "right now, we don't have anything else to go on. We can't find any records of her anywhere. If what Dean says is true, if he's got her memories stuck in his head, well, crap, what else have we got?"

"Wow, Sam, thanks for the vote of confidence."

"It's not like this woman has given me a lot of good reasons to trust her, Dean," Sam shot back.

"Let's stop arguing over it, all right?" Dean asked tiredly. "The memories are there. I just gotta dig out the right ones."

"Oh, God, Dean," Ginny said, appalled realization flooding her face. "Are you going to have to experience that poor woman's death?"

"Don't know. Never done this before." He gave her a crooked smile, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Might not have to go that far with it. See what happens, okay?"

It was Ginny's turn to throw a brief helpless look at Sam. "So how does this work? I mean it, Dean, you look awful. Are you in any condition to attempt something like this, whatever 'this' is?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. Better to do it now, anyway, than waiting. Just…give me a few minutes."

His eyes closed again, and despite his usual and automatic assertion that he was "fine," Sam could see the telltale frown and the tight lines of pain around his mouth. He was also pale, except for dark smudges under his eyes, and perhaps a flush on his cheeks of what could be the beginning of a fever.

And that made him angry all over again. Angry at Dean for being so damn willing to hurt himself, to sacrifice himself, ever since Nebraska; angry at the spirit who hurt him, who tried to take him away, screwing with his head, still hurting him, and now, evidently, having gotten her claws into his brother so deep that Dean was willing to risk even more to save her – and seeing as how she was long dead and buried, that really pissed Sam off.

"Okay, sweetie, whatever you need to do," Ginny was saying. She patted Dean's hand, and shook her head at Sam, frowning herself. Sam nodded in silent agreement that, yes, his brother was crazy.

xxxxx

Dean could pick up on Sam's nervousness, irritation, and anger even with his eyes shut, maybe especially with his eyes shut, but he did his best to ignore it. He really did feel terrible; his head felt like someone had stuck an ice pick in his eye socket and left it there, and while his ribs ached from Bridget's timely shove and the resulting fall, at least he didn't think he'd gained any new bruises.

And he didn't have any rock salt wounds oozing on his chest. Once was more than enough of that particular scenario, thank you very much.

He leaned back and supposed he might as well get this the hell over with. Taking a deep mental breath, as though about to dive into water, Dean brought the images forth. The churning, whirling chaos erupted, with occasional recognizable glimpses of Bridget, of Alex, of the Thornton house in its original setting, and a host of unknown faces. He had to swallow to keep the bile from rising in his throat, and sweat began to bead along his hairline. It hadn't been this bad before, had it? With Bridget? Or had she done something to ease the pain… A dim recollection of her hand soothing over his forehead came to him. Of course at the time, she'd also probably been making sure he didn't remember being Dean Winchester… But as he just kept breathing, slow and steady, gradually the sickness abated, and the memories seemed to settle down instead of flipping through his head like a slide show at warp speed.

He'd been working so hard at blocking Bridget's memories all this time, and now, with them let loose it was almost a relief. But he must've been quiet for too long, for he felt a light touch on his hand, and a tentative voice saying his name. Ginny. Another hand wrapped around his other wrist. Sam.

"Hey, Dean," Sam said, very quietly, "you all right in there?"

Not quite daring to open his eyes just yet, or even nodding, he managed to make enough of a noise that seemed to satisfy Sam. But he noticed Sam didn't let go…

Shit, like I want an audience for this. Bad enough with Sam, but Ginny, too… Keep it together, Dean.

Now, how the hell to do this…

Sammy, the Psychic Wonder Boy, would no doubt be a whole lot smarter at figuring it out.

His initial thought was to plunge right in, and, in true Dean Winchester style, kick some figurative ass, and see what happened. But his hunter's instincts held him back. He waited, he considered what to focus on, where to start, and slowly, slowly, he sank lightly into the layers of memories, found a trail and tracked it with the same single-minded determination and skill he would've used on a hunt.

It was spring. She'd gotten a letter…

He plunged headlong into a deep well of grief and anguish. Disbelief. So much pain, and, for a time, despair and madness. Giving up. She didn't care. Nothing mattered. Alex was gone.

Somehow, still peripherally aware of Sam's firm grasp on his wrist, anchoring him, he turned his hand so he could get an equally tight hold on Sam. His other hand curled into a fist.

Soldiers came to the empty house, wearing neither blue nor gray.

Fire and death and terror. She hid, along with the others. But not safe, even then.

Hunger and pain. Sorrow, always, never-ending.

Days, weeks, months... Time blurred.

The world was ashes. Nothing remained in it for her. Still she waited, and still he did not come.

She wandered, lost and alone, and waited. She didn't care anymore what happened to her, if he was gone.

She waited. She would wait forever…

Light faded. No warmth, no feeling. He spiraled into darkness, falling, falling…

"Dean?" Faint, from far, far away. "Dean, open your eyes, come on."

The familiar voice tugged at his memory.

But the violent turmoil of emotions was nearly too much to bear. Dean didn't know where he ended and Bridget began, so closely was he enmeshed in her memories, in her pain. The voice persisted, though, and he fought his way toward it, grasping at it like a lifeline. The darkness shifted, receded, the light grew brighter.

Hearing a low keening moan, he realized the sound came from his own throat. His eyes flew open wide as he gasped for breath and pitched forward almost off the couch. He was aware of shaking all over, of the sweat trickling down the side of his face, and he thought for sure he was gonna puke on Sam. Sam, who caught him before he could land on his head, Sam's voice in his ear.

"Easy, easy, take it easy, okay?" Sam hadn't let go of Dean's wrist, and Dean's clenched fingers had probably left bruises on Sam. But Sam hung on, holding him up, and Sam's other hand pressed lightly on the nape of his neck. "Head between your knees."

"No," he said, faintly, struggling to stay upright. Sam sighed but helped prop him up anyway, taking some of Dean's weight against his shoulder. He shut his eyes tight against the room's sudden tilt. "Oh, crap."

A hand on his forehead, then – but it wasn't Bridget, not this timesmoothing back his hair, cool against his heated skin.

Bridget. Dead. Long, long ago.

He bit his lower lip against the sob, against Bridget's grief for Alex, of his own for Bridget.

"Dean? Dean, honey, why don't you lie down, all right? You feel a little warm; I think you've got a bit of a temperature. Sam is going to get you some water, so you just lie down now, sweetie."

"'kay," he breathed. But… Don't go. Dean's cramped fingers refused to unwind from Sam's wrist. He belatedly realized he must have said the words out loud when he heard Sam again.

"Dean, it's all right. I'm not going anywhere, I promise." Sam's weight shifted the cushions, though, as Dean felt him stand up. "Dean, you hear? I'm not leaving. But I think Ginny's right. Lie down, okay? Here, I'll help you. Come on…"

Vaguely taking note that Sam was lifting his legs (one-handed) onto the couch, and that Ginny was coaxing him to lie flat, he surrendered to the fatigue and let them do what they wanted. Eventually, he edged his eyes open a crack to check on how badly the room might be tipping, and cautiously opened them all the way when it looked safe.

Sam sat on the couch at his hip, still hanging onto Dean – or Dean was still hanging onto Sam, depending on how you looked at it – and Ginny was gone.

"Hey, Dean," Sam said, meeting his gaze, all big-eyed worry and little brother fear.

He could hardly think past the pain in his skull, in his heart. The grief was still too fresh. The memories mercifully drifted to the back of his mind; he let them go, but all he could see was a young woman weeping. Dying, all alone.

"Dean?" The fear upped a notch, and the grip Sam had on him, unbelievably, got just a little tighter. "Say something."

"Sam…" He forced himself to push away the pain, to lock away the grief. To take away that expression on Sam's face. He looked at their hands, and tried for smartass. "We dating now, or is this…the secret handshake?"

"Secret handshake. I wouldn't date you," Sam said, his comeback and smile both a little weak.

"Well, no accounting for taste." Dean winced as he finally peeled his fingers away from Sam's wrist, and Sam let go of his. "No blood this time, at least," he added, as they both tried shaking some circulation back.

"You gonna answer me? Are you all right?"

"I'm…okay, Sammy."

"Uh huh." Highly skeptical. "Did it work? Do you know where she is?"

He was saved from an immediate reply when Ginny returned with a tall glass of water and a big white bottle. She came over and peered down at him in relief.

"Think you added another five years there, Dean," she said as she sat down.

"You don't look it," he said, attempting a grin.

"Oh, you flatterer," she said, trying as well.

"I'm okay," he said. "Really."

"Like I'd believe that on a stack of Bibles." She leaned forward with the glass to hand it to him. "Here." She opened the bottle and shook out some pills. "Ibuprofen. Sit up and take these."

"You just got me flat on my back," he complained. "Make up your mind."

"No sass. Take your pills."

"Don't think they'll stay down," he admitted in all honesty, eyeing them in his hand.

"Try, okay?"

"Okay," he sighed.

"Then you're going to sleep."

"Oh, I am, am I?" he asked, chasing the pills with the water, half sitting up with Sam's help. "I can't tell you how damn sick I am of this couch," he added, grumbling, handing back the glass and shifting to lie down again.

"Too bad. Sam will stay right here and keep an eye on you."

"Yes, Ginny." They said it in unison and shared a smirk.

Ginny wore a rather meditative expression that conveyed the notion she was considering slapping the both of them upside the head. But Dean might have been imagining that.

Instead, she just pointed a severe finger at them. "You listen to me, both of you. I really hope that you got what you needed, Dean, because I mean it – you are not going back in that house. You hear me, young man? This is the last time." In a gentler tone, she went on. "Do you want to talk now, or later? This…didn't look easy for you, Dean. Maybe you should get some rest first, okay?"

"No, it's all right. Rather get it over with, you know?" Dropping his gaze to his hands, he tried to gather together and put into words the disjointed fragments of someone else's nightmare. His voice sounded distant and detached, even to himself, but it was the only way he could tell this. "Alex died in the spring," he began. "Sam said…it was 1864. She got a letter. She…didn't believe it, at first, and she went…a little bit crazy, for a while, mad with grief. By then, she was practically alone at the house, and the family didn't really care what happened to her, one way or the other." He kneaded his forehead with one hand, wishing the drugs would kick in. "I think the rest of the family had up and left for somewhere they thought would be safer, rather than stay on the plantation." Giving Ginny a brief questioning look, he asked, "Charleston was blockaded? Attacked? Lots of fighting around here, right?"

Ginny nodded. "Yes, the city was under siege by Union forces practically since the beginning of the war. It didn't fall until early in 1865."

"Yeah, okay. That makes sense. She doesn't really remember all that, sort of one big blur. Aside from a handful of slaves at the house, some field hands, maybe a couple of white overseers, the place was empty, and I think some of them even ran off, escaped or something…" Sam was almost bouncing with impatience, but Ginny just looked fascinated. He supposed for someone like her, Bridget's story was living history. Dean pulled his – Bridget's – scattered thoughts together and went on. "Soldiers came. Deserters, probably. No specific uniforms. They looted and stole, wound up killing one of the slaves, an old man named Jacob. He had tried to stop them from…hurting…her." He couldn't bring himself to say the ugly word, to express the absolute terror she had felt at their violence, their hands on her.

"God," murmured Ginny. "They didn't…"

"No, they…stopped, they didn't touch her again. But she was wishing they'd killed her. After a few days of eating all the food, they stole what they could, burned some crops, and left without hurting anyone else. That was…sometime in the fall. I think. Anyway, she…kept waiting, as long as she could, still believing he would come back. There was never a body, you see, the family never buried him. But after a while, she…just gave up. Starvation, exposure – hell, a broken heart, I don't know. I think it was less than a year after Alex. Her physical body…died, out there, but her spirit stayed in the house. Trapped." His throat grew tight. "That's all I got."

"Oh, Lord," said Ginny, softly. "That poor, poor girl."

"So," Sam asked uneasily, "did you just go through all of that for nothing? What about where she's buried?"

"I don't know, Sam," Dean said again, lifting his eyes to meet Sam's. "I don't know."

xxxxx

For as long as he could remember, Sam had found comfort in the sound of Dean's voice in the dark. Since Sam was as young as four or five, it was Dean telling him stories in the dark, in one grim and dingy motel room after another – or slightly less dark, reading him comic books under the covers with the aid of a flashlight – or just talking, whispering, cracking stupid jokes and taking away the fear from too many nightmares and keeping Sam safe when their father had left them alone again to go after the monster of the week.

As they got older, as Sam joined Dean and their father on hunts, it was always Dean's voice in the dark that Sam listened for, quiet and sure, explaining the plan, calming him, steadying him. And now, again, after Jessica's death and through all the pain and horror that followed, it was Dean's voice pulling him out of his nightmares and visions, grounding him in reality.

But he was finding very little comfort now, listening to his brother's voice, deep and rough with exhaustion, and too weak to be Dean, who used to read him Where the Wild Things Are…

Dean had indeed fallen asleep for a while in the living room, and Sam with him, as it turned out. When Sam woke again, he found Dean still sleeping, but tossing restlessly on the couch, frowning and mumbling. When his brother did wake up, the fever seemed to have climbed, leaving him weak and slightly disoriented. So Sam got him upstairs to their room, made a quick kitchen raid for something to eat (which Dean showed absolutely no interest in), and wound up putting his exhausted brother back to bed.

Dean was currently propped up against the headboard of his bed, and Sam could just make out the silhouette of his face in the thin, pale light that shone in from the street. It was sometime past midnight, and Sam had woken from his own uneasy sleep when he heard Dean stirring. He'd gotten up, checked on his brother, and found him awake, clear-headed, and suddenly wanting to talk.

Dean. Wanting to talk. Sam went cold inside.

"Think I got that short straw again, Sam. Or maybe it's the same one."

Sitting on his own bed, arms wrapped around his upraised knees, Sam stared at his brother, wondering if this was a new twist on an old nightmare, because this couldn't be happening.

"What are you saying, Dean?" he asked, afraid that he already knew the answer.

"Sammy," Dean sighed, slowly. "You said it yourself a while back, whenever the hell that was, so you know exactly what I'm sayin' here. I can't stay awake for more than a few hours at a stretch, and I'm still always too damn tired when I am awake." He shifted awkwardly, shoving away the blankets. Sam could see the sheen of sweat on his face even in the wan light. "Sam… I'm not getting any better. If we can't find Bridget, I got a feeling I'm gonna be joining her in her exclusive Twilight Zone accommodations real soon."

("Just feels like time's running out." "I should've let it kill me. I was supposed to die anyway…")

"No." Sam shook his head and fear twisted his gut as he recalled with a dreadful clarity those words Dean had spoken only days – an eternity – ago. He remembered his own conversation with Missouri, when he'd blurted out that he thought Bridget was killing Dean. But… "No, that's crazy," he insisted. "You said she let you go, she's not trying to keep you with her anymore. You said she wouldn't hurt you."

"It's…more than that." The words were spoken with obvious reluctance.

"What?" Sam demanded. Honestly, it was like pulling teeth. "What haven't you been telling me? Dammit, Dean…" Despair closed up his throat.

"When Bridget first saw me…she said she could see…" Dean actually gave a faint, wry laugh. "How did she so poetically put it? Oh, yeah. Something about 'already marked from Death's touch.' I mean, dude, you could hear the capital 'D' when she said it."

"But, you were healed," Sam whispered. Then he remembered. Layla. "Oh, shit. You mean from later…"

"Uh huh. I guess ol' man reaper left me a little reminder of our night together. And since Bridget's…the way she is, she could see it." He paused, his breath hitching slightly. "That sort of…opened the door, I guess, for her to…get inside my head…to take what she could…to make me weak. Since then, there's been some kind of freaky connection, and it's still going on. She's dead, after all, and I think all this time she's been…dragging me right along with her, over to – well, her side of things. Like what happened with the salt circle…and after."

"She's killing you." The words came out flat and hard. Sam felt sick, angry, and he suddenly needed to be closer. He uncurled his legs and got up. Dean obligingly moved to make room for Sam on the edge of Dean's bed. "Shit," Sam said softly, fist clenched in the blankets. "Shit, shit, shit. That bitch."

"It's okay, Sammy. It's not even her fault, really, it just sort of happened. I don't think she even knew it would."

"Like hell it's not her fault!" Sam stared at his brother. "You sound like one of those victims of Stockholm Syndrome or something."

"Yeah? And does that have anything at all to do with blonde Swedish stewardesses?" The smirk was faint, but it was there, and that made Sam angrier.

"No, you idiot, it's a psychological syndrome that develops when kidnap victims identify and empathize with their captors. How can you defend her? After all she's done to you? Jesus, Dean, what the hell is wrong with you?"

"Aside from the obvious, you mean?"

"Shut up!" Sam yelled. "Just shut up and stop joking about this! You are not going to die, do you hear me? We'll find her, and we'll burn her. No dead girlfriend, no freaky Vulcan mind meld, and you'll get better."

"Sammy, I don't wanna die, either, but clicking your heels together and wishing isn't gonna do it."

"I'm gonna die, and you can't stop it." How many times would Sam hear those eight words in his nightmares? See Dean pale, bruised, and dying in that damn hospital bed, trying to keep up his façade of smartass carelessness just to protect Sam? Shit, shit, shit.

Dean's head rolled against the pillows, his growing weakness ever more obvious. "Clock's ticking, Sam. Couldn't get anything more out of those memories she left me. I tried. Even dreamed 'em all again. I saw – I felt her die, Sam. But it ended there. Maybe she couldn't go any further –"

"Or maybe I shot her full of rock salt before she could finish passing along all the memories she wanted to," Sam said hollowly.

"No, Sam, no. Not your fault." Dean shook his head. "I think she just couldn't do it. She was still too afraid to face what happened. I don't know where she is, I can only guess somewhere in the gardens…"

"And just why have you waited until now to tell me about this? What's that all about, Dean? Or were you planning on avoiding the issue altogether?"

Dean shrugged. "Wasn't really all that sure until now. Had a feeling, is all. Like an itch between the shoulder blades, you know? When something's hunting you. It's there, but you can't see what it is."

"Goddammit, Dean!" Sam yelled. "You should've told me. We're in this together, aren't we? Don't you trust me?"

"Of course I trust you," he said, his shock at the question plain to see. "You've got my back, like I've got yours, always."

"Then trust me to figure this out. Don't you give up, you got that?" Sam said fiercely. "Since when do you ever give up? You aren't going anywhere. You hang on."

"Or you'll kick my ass to Kansas and back?" Dean smiled faintly.

"If that what it takes!"

"Sammy…"

And Sam heard so many layers of sadness, exasperated affection, and love in those two syllables that he very nearly began to weep.

Dean just looked at him, smiling and sad, and it was so open, so unlike Dean, that Sam could hardly meet his eyes.

"I had a whole extra month, Sam, that's worth something. You bought me that. The reaper…if there's a mark on me, something that makes spirits sit up and take notice and then wanna suck my brains out, hey, if it hadn't been Bridget latching onto me, it coulda been anything. Coulda been something a hell of a lot nastier. Maybe those poltergeists in Omaha even got a piece of me, who knows?"

"Shut up, just shut up." Sam would have hauled off and hit him if Dean wasn't already in such bad shape. Beat some sense into him.

"Sammy," he said softly after a long moment. "Remember some of those stories Pastor Jim used to tell us when we stayed with him?" He waited for Sam to nod, to look at him again. "There was one…it was about this guy, this merchant, who was in the market in Baghdad one day, and he turned around and was surprised to see Death looking back at him. Death looked pretty surprised, too. So the merchant, he's so scared, he gets on a horse and rides as fast as he can to this other town, Samara –" he grinned at the name – "thinking he'd be safe there. But he's not, 'cause he sees Death again, who says, 'I was surprised to see you in Baghdad yesterday. I knew we had an appointment in Samara today.'"

"No," Sam whispered, eyes burning. "No."

"Maybe I've just gotten to Samara, Sammy. That doctor gave me a month, at most. I've had that, and a little more. I should be dead. Maybe I am, and it's just taken me this long to realize it."

Sam leaned forward to seize Dean by the shoulders and stare into that pale, too calm face. "How can you say that? How can you give up? Don't you dare give up on me…" He couldn't help it, then. He leaned in and buried his face against Dean's shoulder the way he had when he was just a kid, and scared (of yet another new school and new bullies, of bad dreams and empty closets, of John's frequent absences), and Dean would make the fears go away and everything would be all right again with a hug, a bowl of Lucky Charms, and always just the right words. Scaring away the monsters wasn't quite that easy anymore, but when to his surprise Dean's arms came up around him, hugging him back with more strength than Sam would have expected, and one hand started rubbing Sam's shoulder, Sam felt ten years old right then. Safe, and knowing that Dean would make it all right.

"It'll be okay, Sammy," he whispered roughly.

"No, it won't," Sam said into Dean's shirt, the ten-year-old sadly gone. "Stop saying that like you're giving up. I am not letting you die."

Dean's hand stopped and settled on Sam's shoulder. "Sammy, there's one thing you gotta promise me, okay? I mean it."

Sam nodded, not lifting his head. "Anything."

"This is the last, and I mean last chick scene ever. No more for the rest of my life."

Now Sam did raise his head and looked at his brother in grim shock. "You stupid bastard. Will you knock it off? Jesus Christ, Dean…"

When Dean started laughing, weakly, but still laughing, Sam thumped him in the chest, forgetting the bruises, and didn't feel all that sorry when Dean let out a yelp.

"You jerk," Sam said, sitting up and drawing away. "You pain in the ass jerk."

"Aw, c'mon, Sam…" He was still laughing and wincing, rubbing gingerly at his chest. Gradually he quieted down, and he met Sam's angry eyes. "Sammy… I'm not giving up. Just facing reality here."

"You're giving up," Sam said, still furious. "You're giving up out of guilt. Roy picked you out of that whole crowd to heal. That was hardly your fault. Layla was not your fault. You've been walking on the edge ever since Nebraska, Dean, taking too many risks, getting hurt too many times. You think I hadn't figured that out? Getting yourself killed won't save Layla." He leaned in again, his voice and eyes intent on his brother. "You can't save everyone, Dean."

"I am not trying to get myself killed!" he protested. "And I know we…can't always be there to save everyone. I'm not trying to, Sam."

But Sam could tell that he'd hit a nerve – that his words had struck close to the bone. Good. Let the gloves come off. He was tired of dancing on eggshells with Dean over this.

"Yes, you are. You always try. And when you can't, you blame yourself. Well, guess what, Dean! You're only human! And you know what else?" Sam reached over to circle Dean's wrist with his long, strong fingers, his brother's skin hot and dry against his hand. "Listen to me. You can't save Bridget. Your dying will not save her any more than it would save Layla. Bridget's already dead, and she has been for a long time. We have to find her remains, and…deal with them, and that is all we can do for her."

Dean looked away. "She's just so…lonely, Sam," he said, quiet. "Sad and all alone. If this is how it's gonna be, if I don't…get out of this, I…hell, there's worse things after you're dead, than spending an eternity in the Twilight Zone with a beautiful woman. Just staying with her, in her house, so she's not so afraid and alone anymore, how bad could that be?" Another laugh, but soft and bitter, directed at himself. "Crazy, huh? Almost kinda sorta falling for a dead chick. Not that I'm in love with her, really, I'm not. But I mean, hell, you said it, Sam, how do I know how much is me and my feelings, or Alex's? I don't know anymore…" His head rolled back again to meet Sam's eyes, and even in that dim light, Sam could see such an expression of sadness and despair on his brother's face that it made his heart ache. Dean, suddenly and shockingly vulnerable. And either he couldn't hide it, or he wasn't bothering to try.

"We'll find her in time," Sam said firmly, trying to keep his voice steady, still holding onto Dean. "We will. We're gonna save your ass, so you just hang on, all right?" He let go of Dean's arm and pulled the covers up. "Go to sleep. We'll all work on it tomorrow, okay? Get Ginny and the gang out there, digging holes."

"Yeah, okay, Sammy. Whatever." Dean gave him something of a smile, but no argument – and didn't that just shake Sam up. As Sam waited, Dean simply lay down, curled up and turned away on his side. Within minutes, Sam could tell he was asleep, and only then did he get up to go back to his own bed.

"I'm gonna die, and you can't stop it."

Like hell.

Sam rolled over, pillowed his head on his arms, watching Dean sleep, and stared long into the darkness.

TBC…