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CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Dean sucked in a breath and lifted his head suddenly as his body jerked to life. He expected to be in some sort of pain, but there was only a dull throbbing present in his back. Aside from that, he felt somewhat refreshed. Until he remembered what had happened to Janelle before he'd passed out.

"Janie?" he said, and then cleared his throat to say it louder. "Janelle?" He sat up, paused a moment, and climbed to his feet. The Impala was in the same place he'd parked her, and Janelle was now lying in the middle of the intersection. He ran to her as fast as his legs would permit and fell hard to his knees beside her inanimate body.

"Janelle?" he whispered this time. He brushed his fingers through her hair, eyes widening when he noticed that her hair was no longer soft and white, but a frail gray. Her body was shivering, her breath came in short gasps, and the palms of her hands were bleeding from small wounds that went through and through.

"Son of a bitch," Dean breathed, recognizing the meaning behind her bleeding hands immediately. Stigmata. "Son of a bitch," he repeated, completely shell-shocked. After everything that had happened, stigmata was the very last thing he'd expected to happen to someone like Janelle, who'd stated with much conviction that she wasn't religious and she hated God.

"Sam?" Janelle whimpered between gasps.

"No, it's Dean. I'm here," Dean said, ungluing his eyes from her bleeding hands to look at her face. Her eyes fluttered open and they weren't their natural green, nor were they Matthew's clear white; they seemed dirty and milky with no pupils and no irises. They were blank and empty and unseeing.

Janelle reached a trembling, bleeding hand into the air as she blindly searched for Dean's face. He understood and gently took her hand into his, guiding it to his cheek, and her lips cracked a smile.

"I can't see you," she cried, blinking and speaking and moving languidly as if everything was playing slow motion.

"But you can feel me," Dean reminded.

Janelle nodded. "Where's Sam?"

Dean tilted his head. "He's not here right now. But he's … he's on his way. Okay?" She nodded again. "Come on, sweetie, you gotta get out of the road." He wrapped an arm around her waist and took hold of her wrist as he pulled her to her feet where her knees unexpectedly gave out. Dean held fast and practically dragged her to the passenger side where the door had been left open by Matthew.

"Is Sam okay?" Janelle asked, lying her head against the seat.

Dean nodded as he searched through the trunk for gauze and two other items he hadn't even seen in a while, but were a gift from Sam some years ago. "Sam is fine," Dean confirmed, descending to his knees and taking her left hand into his. He cleaned the wound with alcohol; though he wasn't sure he needed it, and dressed it in clean gauze. He started with the right hand.

"It wasn't supposed to be you," Janelle whispered.

Dean glanced up at her. "What do you mean?"

"Not you," she repeated.

Dean shrugged, finishing dressing her right hand. He pulled out the items from the trunk, smiled at the memory and the size compared to Janelle's hand, and then he slipped the black fingerless gloves gently onto her hands. He pulled the Velcro strips tightly across her wrists to keep them on, which would in turn help keep the gauze on and undamaged.

Next he lifted her legs into the car and made sure she was out of the way before closing the door. He tossed the first aid kit back into the trunk and searched through his bag for the only white tank top he owned. He discarded the black tee-shirt he wore, threw the tank top on, and slammed the trunk closed. The heat was unbearable and it would only get worse as they neared New Mexico.

"Sam?" Janelle asked, still quiet and almost unnoticed.

Dean looked at her. "No, Janie, it's still me." Her eyes were disturbing as they stared in his general direction. "Sam's okay, remember? He's on his way."

Janelle moved forward, lying down with her head on his thigh. Her body still shook, causing her teeth to chatter. "Dean."

"Yeah, Janie?" He curled his hand around her head to cup her cheek.

"Will you tell him?"

"Tell who what?"

"Tell Sam. Tell Sam that I love him." Dean's eyebrows furrowed and he glanced down at her confusedly. "Will you t-tell him for me?"

Dean gulped. "I'll tell him."

Continuing on toward their final destination, Dean drove more carefully and more closely – but still above – the speed limit. He cradled Janelle's delicate head in his hand, holding it against his thigh whenever a bump or pothole came into view. He wondered if she was thinking and if she was, what were her thoughts? He could've asked her, he supposed, but the silence was nice. However, he knew he was only terrified of Janelle mentioning Sam and her so-called "love" for him.

Dean had so many questions concerning Sam and Janelle. Had they spent time together that he didn't know about? Had the two of them met previously? Or was Janelle simply delusional and mistaking Sam for someone else?

---

"He's on his way?" Sam asked, buckling his belt and then pulling on a tee-shirt.

"He's on his way," Mercy confirmed, nodding. "He wasn't too thrilled about flying, but when I told him what was going on, he booked the first flight to Albuquerque."

"And he's good, right? He can get the job done?"

Mercy chuckled. "You'll never know how good he is until you see John Constantine in action. But yes, he is that good."

Sam ran both hands through his hair and sighed heavily. The migraine accompanying his latest vision was still working on his brain and the lights were harsh on his eyes. He'd considered calling and telling Dean the information he'd acquired from it, but he decided against it. For Dean's sake.

"Are you sure you don't want to call Dean?" Mercy questioned.

"No," Sam quickly replied. "If he knew, he wouldn't go to New Mexico. I know Dean."

Mercy nodded. "Will you ever tell him?"

Sam gulped and shrugged. "I don't know. Are you ready?"

"I'm ready if you are."

Sam nodded. "Let's go."

Mercy took his hands into hers and held them tightly. "Remember … it's very disorienting during and after, so don't rush yourself when we get there, you understand? You're definitely stronger now, but the effects could still work you over."

"Just get me to New Mexico before Dean, Mercy," Sam said.

"Close your eyes."

Seconds later, Sam's hospital room was empty.

---

"Janie, you wanna hear some music?" Dean asked, leaning down as far as he could without crushing Janelle's head against his stomach to grab for his box of cassettes. Janelle didn't answer, but Dean stuffed a tape into the player, anyway. 'Baby, I'm Gonna Leave You' filtered through the speakers as Dean turned the volume down.

"You're not leaving," Janelle mumbled nearly incoherently, still shaking and still bleeding from her hands.

"No, Janelle, it's just a song. I'm not leaving, okay, sweetheart? I'm not goin' anywhere." He idly carded his fingers through her hair as he watched the dashed yellow lines on the road, occasionally glancing at the speed limit signs that passed every now and then.

"I'm sorry about all of this, Dean," Janelle said.

Dean knew it was probably best to keep her talking in case she lost consciousness and consequently never woke up. "What do you have to be sorry for?" he questioned.

"It's all my fault," Janelle confessed. "It came after me, but it hurt you and Sam. I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry, Janelle. Me and Sam do this for people everyday, okay? And we are not sorry we met you."

"I'm not sorry I met you, either."

---

"Sir!"

No response.

"Sir, please open the door!"

The tiny bathroom door slammed open and the flight attendant jumped back from the man in the cheap suit.

"Sir, you are not allowed to smoke on this flight," the woman said.

John Constantine shrugged irritably and shook his head. "I wasn't smoking."

"Sir," the flight attendant pressed. "You may not go to the bathroom alone for the remainder of the flight and the police will be waiting for you when we land."

Constantine stared her down until she stepped aside so he could return to his seat. The passengers scowled in his direction, and Constantine let a smirk grace his lips as he fell back into his seat. If only these people knew what he was flying to New Mexico to do, they'd be begging him to smoke, he thought.

---

Nearly two hours later, Dean passed the sign informing him he was driving into Albuquerque, New Mexico. He felt like the weight of the world had been lifted off his shoulders. He felt like channeling Jack Dawson from Titanic and screaming, "I'm the king of the world!" Then he became ashamed for ever having watched that movie on cable only days after Sam had left for college.

"We're here, Janie," he said, gently squeezing her shoulder. She'd since rolled onto her other side, still hugging her hands to her chest. She didn't respond in any way, and Dean figured she was sleeping because she was still breathing normally and moving periodically presumably to find a more comforting position.

"Janelle, wake up," Dean declared, squeezing more forcefully and shaking her this time. She stirred, but only a little, and kept her same position.

"I'm so tired," she exhaled, pressing her face into his thigh just above his knee.

"I know, but we're right there. Just a few more minutes."

"I wanna sleep."

"No," Dean enounced. "I want you to sit up and stay awake." When she didn't obey, he placed his hand under her neck and began to lift her. "Come on, Janelle. Get up." Unenthusiastically, Janelle raised her body into a sitting position without the use of her hands. "Good. There ya go," Dean praised.

"I'm scared," Janelle confided, lying her head back against the seat and turning it to face Dean, though she couldn't see him. "What if it doesn't work?"

"It will," Dean managed.

"But you're not sure," Janelle nodded. "That's okay, you don't have to be."

"But I am," Dean argued. "It will work, Janelle." He glanced at her. "We've come too far for it not to."