Dean had managed to get Sam into the motel room without anyone noticing. Now he was in the all too familiar waiting game to see what shape Sam would be in when he woke up. If he woke up, he thought grimly. Dean shook his head. "No. Sam will be fine." Somehow saying the words out loud gave him some comfort, and he got up to check on his brother again.
They'd been back for nearly two hours, and Sam hadn't shown any signs of coming around. His breathing was steady, his pulse strong. Dean took some solace in that. He removed the washcloth from Sam's forehead and went into the bathroom. After splashing some cool water on his face, being mindful of the fresh bandage, he let the washcloth soak.
Dean lowered the toilet seat lid and sat down, allowing himself to give in to the weariness for a moment. God, he was tired. Tired of losing Sam, of him getting hurt. Hell, of the both of them getting hurt. But mostly he was tired of worrying. Would Sam ever truly get over the loss of Jessica; would he ever forgive himself? What do these newfound visions hold for him? Will he be able to handle the stress and the pain? Dean's biggest concern was about himself. How can he possibly keep his little brother safe from all of these things? He had no idea how to save him from the emotional dangers, and lately the physical ones seemed to get the better of him as well.
Dean got up and retrieved the washcloth, his anger draining like the water in the sink. He was too tired to even keep up his fury. Dean placed the washcloth back on Sam's head, and resumed his position in the chair next to his bed. Though he made a vow to keep watch until Sam regained consciousness, he fell victim to his own fatigue and was soon fast asleep.
Dean's empty stomach awoke first, sending out an irate rumbling that pulled him from his deep slumber. Absentmindedly rubbing his middle, he shifted into a slightly more comfortable position and forced his eyes open. Seeing the empty bed before him, his eyes continued to widen until they practically popped out of his skull. "Sam?" he yelled.
"Be right out!" came the muffled reply from the bathroom. Dean shook his head in disbelief. The kid was unbelievable! He was all set to go barging in when the door opened, and a still pale but otherwise unharmed Sam came out of the bathroom.
"Hey, how are you feeling?" Sam asked as he dried his hair with a towel.
"Are you freakin' kidding me? You go all Exorcist on me, knock me out, steal my car, get attacked again, and all you can say is, 'Hey, how are you feeling?'" Dean's hoarse voice cracked on the last word, which only furthered his aggravation.
"You look like hell." Sam said simply as he pointed to his own cheek.
Dean's hand went up to the bruise on his cheekbone. "First of all, I never look like hell. Second of all, let's not forget where this little beauty mark came from."
Sam had the good grace to look embarrassed as he cast his eyes downward. "Yeah, um, sorry about that."
Dean sighed. "Are you ok?"
Sam's eyes flitted upwards for a brief moment. "Yeah, I'm good."
"What exactly happened to you last night? We're not going to have a repeat of the events from the Roosevelt Asylum, are we?" he asked guardedly.
Sam squirmed a little as he nervously twisted the damp towel. The guilt he had felt upon waking and taking in his brother's battered appearance was almost as great as on that fateful day in Rockford. In a strange way, he almost wished he had some lingering effects from the previous night. But when Sam had opened his eyes he'd felt good. No, better than good. He not only felt completely refreshed and rested, but he finally had the answers they were seeking.
"Dean, I'm fine, ok? Whatever hold she had on me, it's gone now. She just needed to get me back to the mansion. She needed to connect with me."
"Connect with you." Dean repeated sardonically.
Sam sat down on the bed, struggling to find the right words when he himself wasn't even sure what had happened. "When she grabbed me last night, it felt like I was having a vision. The pain was so intense. Only I think it was her. Monica. Somehow she was showing me images from her life…and death."
Dean shifted in his seat, trying not to let his uneasiness show. Sam's visions still creeped him out a little, but he tried his best not to show it. He nodded for Sam to continue.
Sam got up and began walking around the room. "It was sort of like with Max; I was seeing things through her eyes. I even saw you and Dad when you came here last year."
Dean's heart began to pound in his chest as he struggled to keep his face level. It always seemed to come back to that. They had screwed up.
"You didn't screw up, Dean." Dean scowled. He hated that his little brother could read him so well. "You did vanquish her. It was something else. Someone brought her back." Sam stopped pacing as Dean stood up, his hands out.
"Whoa, whoa. What do you mean?" Dean asked.
"Except she messed up." Sam said excitedly as if he hadn't even heard Dean's question. "Something else came back, too."
Dean's frustration was evident as he tried to follow along. "Who messed up? You're not making any sense."
Sam blew out a long breath. Forcing himself to speak slower, he mentally backed up. "When you and Dad burnt Monica's bones, she was set free. The house was clear. But someone brought her back...cast a spell, I think. Except something went wrong, and something evil tagged along."
Dean's relief was palpable. He wasn't responsible after all. He hadn't failed, but more importantly, neither had his father. Now, if he could just figure out what the hell Sam was talking about.
"Who cast a spell? Some kind of witch?"
"No, no, it was…" Breaking off, he sat in the seat Dean had vacated. "I don't know who it was. The visions, the memories, I guess, were fuzzy. Hazy, like looking through a glass of water. But it felt like Monica knew her, somehow." Sam had felt his own sense of familiarity within himself when he saw the blonde girl, but didn't know why.
"What about the thing that came back with her? What is it, some kind of hitchhiking monster?" A random image of a snarling hairy creature showing a little leg on the side of a road flew into his mind, and a laugh burst out of him before he could stop it. Getting his laughter under control, he uttered a not quite sincere apology, and motioned for Sam to continue.
"It felt like a demon." Sam said, ignoring his brother. "I think somehow Monica's keeping it at bay; it's a prisoner as long as she's there. But the longer they inhabit the same space the weaker she gets. It was the demon that attacked me at the mansion, not Monica."
"But it was her in the guest house that night." Dean pointed out. The pieces of the puzzle began to come together as he connected the events of the last few days. "She wasn't trying to hurt you, she was trying to warn you. She must have sensed that you had that whole psychic thing going on."
Sam nodded his agreement. "She knew she couldn't contain it for much longer. She was calling out for help."
"Did she give any hints about how to get rid of it?
"No. It was just images; feelings."
Dean stood up, eager to get moving. "Ok, so I'm thinking exorcism. After we grab some breakfast, of course."
Sam wasn't so sure. "I don't know, Dean. We've never dealt with something like this before. What if we just make things worse?"
"How much worse could they get, Sam? We've got a boomerang ghost with a demon for a sidekick."
Sam slammed his fist onto his thigh in frustration. "We need to talk to the girl. The one who brought her back. If we can figure out which spell she used, it might tell us how to send it back. I just can't make out who it is."
Both brothers sat in silence as they wracked their brains for the key to unlocking the final mystery. Dean went slightly pale as he slowly faced Sam. "This girl, what did she look like?"
"I told you-"
"Yeah, yeah, I know, you couldn't really see her." Dean interrupted. "What exactly did you see?"
Sam closed his eyes as he tried to recall the images. "It was a young girl. I couldn't see her face, but she had long blonde hair. It was as if Monica knew her, but didn't really know her." His words weren't making sense, even to himself. He knew what he had seen, had felt, he just couldn't properly articulate it. "I don't know."
Dean just sat there, staring off into space. The words "long blonde hair" echoed over and over in his mind. How could he have been so stupid! It all made sense. Sam's voice brought him out of his stupor. Swallowing, he forced the words out. "It was Ashley. Ashley Morgan."
