Worth Living For 5/16

by Swanseajill

Part Five

"So, I reckon Norma's not so far off base," Dean commented as they stood on the sidewalk outside Charlie's Bar. "The Weasel's full of crap."

"Yeah, the serial-killer theory really sucks."

"Which leaves us with a restless spirit. Let's go take a quick look now, while it's dark."

Sam looked at his brother. The light of the lamp shining brightly over the doorway highlighted Dean's pale, drawn features. The pain lines around his eyes and lack of appetite at dinner were both a concern. It was unheard of for Dean not to clear his plate, but he'd only picked at his meal and Sam, who'd been starving, had finished off the meatloaf and half of Dean's fries in a bizarre reversal of usual roles.

Still, it was an unfortunate fact that Dean was used to working through pain. It would be some while before those bruises healed, and although Sam knew that Dean really needed to rest right now, he was equally confident that rest was the last thing on his brother's mind.

He thought it was worth a try anyway. "Dean, maybe we should just go check into a motel. It's been a long day, and there's no rush to scope out the cottage."

Dean rolled his eyes. "Roughly translated, that means that you think I look like crap and you want to tuck me in bed before I keel over. No way, little brother. We're checking out that shack tonight."

Sam debated standing his ground, but the stubborn set to Dean's jaw persuaded him to let this one go. He raised his hands in acquiescence, earning a smirk of triumph from Dean. He scowled back and followed Dean to the Impala.

They drove east out of town, following directions Sam had looked up on the Internet, and took a right onto Anderson Avenue just after the memorial park. The road ended in a parking area backed by a thick stand of trees and they left the car there, rather than conspicuously parking outside the cottage. They loaded a couple of guns with rock salt, just in case, and then headed back down the street.

Rose Cottage was the last house on the street, set well away from the road, screened from its neighbors on one side by a stand of mature evergreens. At first sight, the house was an unremarkable, square, whitewashed building with a veranda at the front. Ordinary was the word that came to mind. Sam was strangely disappointed – a house that had a reputation as a killer should at least have some distinguishing features.

They picked their way along a path overgrown with weeds and bramble and past a new "For Sale" sign standing in a prominent position. On closer view, the whitewash was yellowed with age, and the whole place looked in need of repair, although it seemed that someone had made a start – several window frames had been painted and a couple of flower beds cleared and weeded. A long-handled rake stood abandoned against the wall, its prongs still caked with soil.

"Bill Turner's work, I guess," Dean whispered as they passed.

Sam kept watch while Dean picked the lock and let them into the house. They found themselves in a hallway, with a staircase ahead and doors leading off to the left and right. The place smelled slightly musty, unsurprising for a house that had been vacant for three years. Sam pushed the front door firmly closed behind them and drew the drapes around the windows before they pulled out their flashlights.

"Careful where you point the flashlight," Dean said quietly. "I think we're screened from the nearest house, but no point in asking for trouble."

Sam nodded agreement as Dean cautiously pushed open the nearest door on the right. It opened with a squeak into a spacious room, bare of all furniture except a stepladder leaning against one wall.

Sam hung back and watched as Dean did a careful sweep of the room with the EMF meter. Sam didn't feel anything amiss with the room, and the EMF confirmed this by remaining silent. Dean looked over his shoulder and shrugged.

Moving quietly, Sam followed his brother through an open archway into another room. This room was a sharp contrast to the first. Chunky shapes shrouded in dustcovers dotted the space, which would be bright and airy in daylight, since the furthest wall was barely a wall at all, the whole length composed of French windows. Well, not the whole length. One window had been boarded up. Sam surmised that the Realtor must have died in this room.

Dean began to walk slowly through the space, sweeping the meter around in a wide arc. Sam paused near the doorway to examine some framed photographs hanging on the wall. There were six photos in a series of three frames, all showing a father with two boys. In the first, the eldest boy would have been about three, the youngest a baby. In the last photo, they would have been around twenty and seventeen. Presumably Martin, Brad and Jamie Warrington. No sign of a mother. Sam realized that Weadle hadn't mentioned a mother, so presumably she must have died – or left her family.

He felt a rush of emotion as he looked at the photos. They looked like an ordinary, happy family. Some of the shots had been taken in the cottage grounds, one on a beach and another in the mountains. While Sam had some family photos taken before his mother's death, there were no more recent ones of himself with Dad and Dean. Taking shots for the family album hadn't been high on Dad's priority list when they were growing up. He did have a couple of pictures of himself with his brother, taken in a photo booth at a local fair when he was nine. But that was about it.

There had to be something wrong with a family that had so few photos.

He felt a wave of sadness as he looked at the Warringtons. How had Jamie felt when he lost his brother? Sam had some idea, having been through the anguish of almost losing Dean twice. And how had Martin lived through losing both sons? It led him to wonder how his own father would react in the same situation.

He was so lost in thought that it took a moment to register that the air around him had become colder. Then he felt a touch, nothing more than a kiss of breeze, and he knew that there was something in the room with them. A second later the EMF meter emitted a high-pitched shriek followed immediately by a startled cry from Dean.

Sam spun around, raising his gun. Dean was on his knees, his own gun on the floor beside him, right hand held to his head. Swirling beside him was a cloud of what looked like the kind of wispy mist seen on an early morning. A tendril had snaked out from it, winding around Dean's head.

Sam didn't hesitate. He took aim and fired into the heart of the cloud. The gun's report was deafening, blocking out the still-whining EMF. Instantly the tendril snapped back into the cloud, which immediately evaporated. Dean uttered a small cry and collapsed to the ground.

"Dean!" Sam ran to his brother, who had curled up, hands clasped around his head, eyes screwed shut and face contorted in a grimace of pain. Oh, God. "Dean!" He skidded down onto his knees, half-lifting his brother into his arms, heart racing with fear.

"You're okay. It's gone. You're okay." He was rambling, but his words seemed to help, for a few moments later Dean groaned and half-opened his eyes.

"Dean?"

Dean lowered his arms, one fist curling tightly around Sam's forearm as he took a few deep breaths. "I'm okay."

"Sure you are," Sam said dryly, trying not to wince as his brother groaned again and tightened his grip. "Can you stand? We need to get out of here before that 'thing' comes back for another piece of you."

Dean nodded, but when Sam helped him to his feet he swayed and would have fallen if Sam hadn't been ready, reaching out to steady him.

"Okay, I've got you." Sam kept an arm firmly around his shaky brother's shoulders as he steered them out of the cottage and down the path.

By the time they reached the car Dean was sweating as if he'd run a marathon. Swallowing his concern, Sam helped his brother into the passenger seat, and Dean leaned back against black leather and closed his eyes.

Sam drove as fast as he dared to a motel they'd passed on the way into town. It looked a cut above their usual choice of accommodation, but budget wasn't his primary concern right now. He left Dean in the car while he checked them in, making sure they were allocated a ground-floor room.

Dean shrugged off his support while cautiously getting out of the car, but Sam hovered close as he staggered into the room and dropped down onto the nearest bed, rolling onto his side and closing his eyes. Sam sank down next to him, feeling totally drained.

"Dean?"

"I'm all right."

The reply was predictable but an obvious lie. Dean's eyes were tightly shut and the words, little more than a murmur.

Sam went to the bathroom, filled a glass with water and fished out some painkillers. He came back and perched on the bed again. A few moments later, Dean opened his eyes.

"So," Sam said, holding his brother's gaze, "just so I'm clear, on a scale of one to ten, just what level of all right would that be?"

Dean's mouth twitched. "A nine-point-five?"

"Try again."

Dean sighed. "Around a four."

"Headache?"

"Feels like someone cracked my head open and stomped on my brain." He started to sit up, then flopped back against the pillow and closed his eyes again. "Dizzy," he murmured.

Sam waited patiently until the dizzy spell passed and Dean opened his eyes again, then handed his brother the pills and the glass. "Here."

Dean swallowed the pills without protest. "Thanks. What the hell happened?"

"You don't remember?"

Dean frowned. "I remember the EMF going off, then… I saw something – like a cloud of mist – and something touched me. Then a loud bang, and next thing I knew, I was on the floor. What hit me?"

"Well, it wasn't a serial killer, that's for sure. Nothing hit you, exactly. Whatever it was, it was noncorporeal. Something in that 'mist' – it was reaching out for you, wrapping itself around you. I shot it full of rock salt and it pulled back. Then you collapsed."

"Yeah, good shot, bro." Dean sighed heavily. "This is getting old, you know? I mean, this is the third time in a row a spirit's tried to have its way with me. Do I have a target on my head, or something?"

Sam thought back to the previous two occasions, both a couple of months ago. Both times, Dean had deliberately put himself in harm's way to protect his brother. But there was nothing to gain by pointing that out. Instead, he said lightly, "Probably all female spirits, sensing the Winchester charm."

Dean mustered a weak grin. "Yeah, that must be it."

"So, I guess this throws the coincidence theory out of the window."

"Yeah. Definitely a spirit. Question is, whose?"

"Brad Warrington?" Sam suggested. "He was the first to die in the house."

"So far as we know. But his death was an accident – supposedly. Why would his spirit be killing people?"

"And why those particular people? They can't be the only ones who've set foot in that house over the past three years."

Dean leaned further back against the pillow and shut his eyes. "Maybe we should play twenty questions later, huh? My brain hurts."

Sam took the opportunity to more closely study his brother. His complexion was even more pallid than before, face a mask of exhaustion. He looked kind of — fragile. Which was worrying as hell, because fragile wasn't a word you'd normally associate with Dean Winchester.

"Dude," Dean murmured.

"What?"

"Stop looking at me like that."

"Like what?"

"You know what. You've got that screwed up, worried look on your face. I'm telling you, you'll get stuck like that one day. I'm fine."

"You're not fine, Dean," Sam retorted in exasperation. "You were hurt before and now this damned spirit… you're not fine."

"Sammy, just… quit worrying, okay?"

"Okay. Fine. I'll try to quit worrying if you try to get some sleep. There'll be time to figure this out in the morning."

Dean nodded, closed his eyes and burrowed a little deeper into the pillow.

Sam gnawed on his lip as he watched Dean surrender to sleep. With luck, Dean would wake the next morning with nothing more to show for the encounter with the spirit than a headache.

But nothing was ever that simple with his brother.