ENTITY (Chapter Five)

"You're kidding me," Sam snorted as he stood at the window of Missouri's home. The dull headache that he had woken with flared up, making him wince. "What the hell can he do?"

"Don't be judging a book by its cover, boy. Now sit, drink that tea and—"

"Shut your cake-hole, Sam" Dean completed dryly as he entered the room. The elder hunter moved to the window and whistled softly. "Damn, somebody call the guys from Queer Eye for the Straight Guy. This dude is in serious need of make-over." He stepped away from the window. "What the hell is that? Have you seen that?"

"Oh yeah, man. Impressive, huh?"

"And he's going to go fishing around in that freaky head of yours?"

"Seems so."

"If you start dressing like that, I'll disown your ass."

"You are so full of shit."

Dean shrugged, raising one eyebrow. "Yeah, whatever. So, who is this dude anyway?"

"Marcus Jennings, psychic extraordinaire. I don't know man. I'm not seeing it myself."

"Maybe the shoe-laces channel the spirits, or maybe it's a shoe phone. Yeah," he said, obviously impressed with his wit, "that's it. Shoe phone to the other side."

Sam rolled his eyes. "You've lost it."

"Ah, so at last you admit that I had it."

"Ugh," Sam grunted in disgust as he collapsed back into the sofa chair. He reached for the cup of herbal tea and took a long swallow of the slightly bitter liquid. It was the same blend that Missouri had given him the previous night, and true to her word it had calmed his stomach. Probably saved him from hurling his guts out after…. He closed his eyes and pushed the memory from his mind. Pink tie, blue shoes, hell, the guy could have horns coming out of his head, it did not matter as long as he could fix this. He opened his eyes and found Dean watching him, his brother's hazel-green eyes full of concern. "Don't look at me like that."

"Like what?"

"You know what?"

"No, what?"

"Can't you go and look after Tara, or something. Make sure she doesn't freak out again."

"Babysit?" Dean sounded genuinely horrified.

"That's a great idea," Missouri said as she entered the room.

"No, seriously it's not."

"There are games in the spare room, dolls and a tea set."

"I'm not playing tea," Dean squeaked. He looked at Sam. "C'mon dude, help me out here." He quickly saw that he would gain no support from his brother and his shoulder's stooped. "You owe me," he said, his finger pointing at Sam. "You owe me big time."

Sam smiled and Dean hesitated at the door. Sam saw all the love and fear in his brother's eyes that the older man worked so hard to keep hidden. Sam's throat suddenly constricted.

"I'll be just down the hall, Sammy," Dean said, his voice deep and soft.

"It's Sam," Sam whispered. He listened as the two retreated toward the back of the house, then he was alone with the small-suited man. Marcus stepped into the room, considered the seating arrangements and then chose a comfortable chair opposite Sam. He lay the cane on the floor and set the book down beside him. He kept a hold of the bowler hat.

"Can you read minds?" Sam asked.

"No."

"Good."

"Thinking bad things about me?"

"You're not quite what I expected."

"Neither are you."

"What… what do you mean?"

"Exactly what I said."

Sam shifted uncomfortably and glanced at the door. He could no longer hear his brother's voice. He looked back at the man and smiled slightly as Marcus' expression softened. "I… do you know my father?"

"John Winchester. Yes, but not personally. In the same way that I know of you and your brother."

"How? What do you know about us?"

"Not a lot, Sam. I know that you both were raised by your father to be hunters. I can see now that you're not comfortable with the path that was chosen for you and that it's causing you pain."

"Path? What do you mean?"

Marcus toyed with the bowler hat, his fingers shaping the brim. "You have a gift."

"It's not a gift."

"Okay, what would you prefer to call it?"

Nightmare. Torture. The hand of death. Sam pressed his lips together and shook his head, his vision blurring. He inhaled sharply and rubbed at his face. "Visions," he said. "You can call them visions."

"That works. So, these visions, they've become random and painful?"

"That's an understatement."

Marcus nodded, his expression sincerely sympathetic. "I can help you with them, teach you to control their duration and intensity. They don't need to be so painful, although there will always be a measure of discomfort, it should not be like what you've experienced. I do warn you though, this won't be easy to learn and it will require consistent effort and practice."

"Can I stop it ever happening? Can I turn it off?"

Marcus hesitated, his tongue playing across his lower lip as he considered the question. "No."

"No," Sam shook his head. "What do you mean, no? What does that mean?"

"I cannot explain."

"No. That's not good enough!" Sam shoved out of the chair, almost upsetting the small table with the herbal tea. He stood and used his full height to tower over the seated man. He did not mean to appear threatening, but as he stood there, looking down, he realized that is exactly how he must appear. Ashamed, he twisted on his heel and stalked to the window. The headache had returned and though it was still comparatively mild, Sam lacked the resources to fully cope with it. "I don't understand," he finally offered as the silence extended into minutes. "I don't know what is happening to me."

"Sam, there is no simple answer. Why you have the powers that you do is not something that I can explain for you. I wish I could, I really do. However, I do believe that it will become clear to you, in time. That's all I can offer, I'm sorry."

"Why do you have your… powers?"

Marcus huffed softly. "To be honest, I don't know for sure, but I have a theory. That is to help people. People like yourself. Beyond that, who knows. If there's a bigger plan and I'm a part of it, I've yet to be given a copy of the blueprints."

"Do you know why Missouri can read minds?"

"She believes it is so that she can help others. She needs to know nothing more than that."

"How can you be satisfied with that?"

"Searching for illusive answers does not always make the road an easier one. Sometimes you just have to accept and work with what you've got."

"No, there has to be more than just blind acceptance. There has to be some way to find out."

"Why?"

"So that I can understand."

"And then what?" Marcus queried. "I don't mean to be antagonistic, but you need to focus your energy on managing the visions and on having control over any links that external entities seek to establish with you. At present you are so focused on over-thinking this that you have no left over energy to protect yourself. And anger, you have to get your anger under control. I know enough about you to recognize that your anger is warranted, but it's dangerous, Sam. Simmering rage is attractive to evil forces. They feed off it."

Sam flinched as the pain in his head escalated. He squinted, groaning softly as he kneaded at his forehead. He willed the pain away, but the more he focused on it, the worse it became.

He jerked and started back as he felt something touch his arm. He found Marcus beside him, and the older man placed his hands on Sam's biceps, holding him gently. "Breathe," the psychic coaxed. "Slow and deep. Close your eyes and focus on your breath. Imagine a vapor, cool and gentle, life giving. Draw it in and hold it, allow it to infuse your body, soaking up the pain, the tension. Then slowly release it."

Sam struggled to follow the instructions. His knees weakened and he probably would have fallen except for Marcus' grip on his upper arms. Still, the older man continued his melodic drawl, coaxing him to listen, to follow the instructions. Slowly, Sam did and he found his body relaxing, the pain drawing away.

"How you feel?"

Sam opened his eyes, his lips parted as he slowly exhaled. He blinked and considered the question for a moment, taking the time to catalogue the sensations through his body. "Okay," he finally admitted, frowning in confusion. "How… what did you do?"

"Nothing," Marcus said as he released his grip from Sam's arms. "You did it yourself."

"What's he teaching you?"

Sam reclined on the bed, one side of his face cast in shadows. He stared at the ceiling and took a moment to answer Dean's question. "Meditation. Deep breathing. Visualization."

Dean's eyes widened and he snorted. "You going all new-age on me, dude?"

"Something like that."

"And it's working," Dean pressed. He held his breath and watched his brother's face carefully, observant of the lines of fatigue that deepened Sam's brow. It had been three days since Marcus had first set foot on Missouri's doorstep, garbed in attire that made Dean's eyes water. Since then, Dean had seen very little of his brother and tonight was the first chance he had had to quiz the younger man. "Sam?" he pressed.

"I don't know. Marcus thinks it is. He wants to try entering my mind tomorrow, see if I can block him."

"He can do that?" Dean asked, his voice slightly higher than he had liked. He cleared his throat, ignoring Sam's quizzical look. "He can get inside your head, like Tara can?"

"No, he says it will be more like probing, trying to read my thoughts, that kind of thing. He works with the Feds sometimes, on missing persons' cases and homicides and he uses his power for that. He also gets visions though, and he knows how to manage them. But he can't project."

"He's a medium?" Dean clarified, waiting for Sam to nod his assent. Then the second part of what Sam had said hit him. "If he can't project, how can he be sure that he's teaching you what you need to know? There's no way of testing it."

"Tara," Sam said simply.

Dean understood and his breath caught. "Oh."

Sam closed his eyes and exhaled heavily. "He is convinced I'll be ready, but… I don't know man. I'm not sure I'll ever be ready for that."

Dean watched his brother for a moment, unsure of what to say then he pushed away from the bed and walked to the window. It was dark out and heavy clouds hid the night sky. He stood silently, his body tense. Silence fell between them, the air thick with uncertainty and fear.

"How's Tara?" Sam finally asked, his voice sleepy.

"She's going stir crazy, as am I. Missouri doesn't want her to leave the house and as I'm her babysitter, I don't get no sunshine either."

"Sorry,"

"Yeah, well, life's a bitch. I'll live. She's staying calm though, but I guess you know that. She keeps asking for you, asking how you are. But she's not stressing out, it's like she can sense that you're still close by and she accepts that she can't always see you." Dean sighed, the exhalation laced with anxiousness. "Has Marcus said anything more about her? Aside from him confirming that she's psychic."

"No, he wants to make sure I can handle the connection before he tries to coax anything out of her."

"So he does think it's just the fear that's linking you two. That it's that emotion that causes the pain?"

"In theory, yeah, but the intensity and duration throws him a bit. Trust me to take freaky to a whole new level."

Dean ignored the remark because Sam sounded weary rather than self-pitying or hateful. "So this stuff he's teaching you, it will work, won't it? He's confident about that part?"

"Yeah, he is." Sam said as he glanced at Dean. He exhaled softly then his eyes closed.

Dean recognized the uncertainty that Sam tried to hide. Even if Marcus was certain, it was clear that Sam held grave doubts. Dean turned away from the window and crossed the room. He settled himself into the single seat sofa, wincing as the antique creaked as it took his weight.

"You staying?" Sam asked.

"Yeah, that a problem?"

Sam took a moment, his eyes still closed. "Whatever rocks your boat, man." He rolled onto his side, one arm flopping over the bed, the fingers loosely curled.

Dean grinned, itching to throw back a bitching retort, but his brother was asleep. A non-drug induced sleep. The first in three nights, but it did not necessarily signal progress. Though Marcus Jennings had expressed faith in Sam's ability to fight should something come knocking on his subconscious mind, it was entirely untested. It had seemed foolishly dangerous to Dean and he had argued against leaving Sam's subconscious unprotected in sleep, pushing instead to have his brother drugged and safe.

He had lost the argument after Missouri had made it clear to him that continued use of the medication would harm Sam. Dean had already seen a hint of that when he had woken his brother that morning. Sam has roused, only to stare dumbly, his eyes completely devoid of any form of recognition. It had passed after several minutes but it had scared Dean. He had told Missouri and she had nodded, her eyes knowing. She had told him that Sam could not take any more of the drug, his body and mind needed a chance to reset, to heal. Dean had naively asked what the consequences would be if they continued with the sedation and Missouri had answered simply: brain damage. That sealed it for Dean, and he had asked no more questions.

It was Day Five after shoe-phone guy's arrival that the psychic said Sam was ready to have Tara remember that night, and two nights that Sam had slept without the protection of the drugs. Nothing had come to pass, except for a stiff neck and aching back for Dean from the damned sofa chair.

"Sam, if you're not ready, we can wait another day," Dean whispered, glancing over his shoulder at Missouri and Marcus as they prepared for quizzing Tara. "I mean it man, if you're not ready."

"I'm ready."

"That's not what you told me last night and the night before that."

"Dean, I know you're worried about me, but don't. You don't have to."

"You're shaking," Dean observed as he placed his hand on the younger man's shoulder. "This is bullshit, Sam. What is another day going to hurt?"

"No. No more waiting, Dean. I want it over with. If I'm not ready now–"

You never will be. Dean silently completed when Sam returned to Missouri and Marcus. "We ready?"

Sam's fear of going ahead with this was all the more reason for him to delay it. From what Dean had learned about all the yoga, tofu-eating crap that Marcus had been spouting, having Sam feeling anxious or afraid when Tara initiated contact could jeopardize his chances of successfully blocking her. The consequences of that would lead to only one place, and it was not pretty. Maybe Sam had forgotten the intensity of the pain, but Dean had not forgotten seeing his brother go through it.

"Missouri," Dean started, then froze as Sam pinned him with a cold stare. Dean's eyes widened before he steeled himself to meet the visual challenge. Sam cocked his head, his eyes hard and lips firmly pressed together, he brought one hand to his hip and raised his chin just a fraction. The body language was obvious and Dean knew his brother had recovered enough to fight him, if he so desired. Dean doubted whether Sam would go so far as to initiate a physical sparring match in front of Missouri and Marcus, but he was not about to risk it. Kicking his brother's ass – or getting his own ass kicked – was not the solution here. If Sam needed to do this now rather than waiting, then fine, he could do it. If it all went sour, Dean would pick up the pieces and once his brother was back together, he would take extreme delight in demonstrating the truth of I told you so in a myriad of exceptionally infuriating ways.

Dean raised his hands and broke eye contact, effectively signaling his defeat. He licked his lips and coughed lightly before turning on a killer smile for Missouri. "Sorry, nothing. Keep going, just ignore me. I've got nothing important to add. You just do your thing. I'll be over here blending into the wallpaper. Consider me invisible. I'm invisible. See." He gestured dramatically and ignored the murderous look Sam directed at him.

"Dean, are you feeling alright?"

"Me, I'm practically glowing. Incandescent actually. Damn near lighting up the room." He could see Sam glowering at him, and he pointedly returned the glare. Sam huffed his frustration as he turned his back on Dean to talk to Marcus. Missouri eyed Dean critically and the elder hunter flashed a winning smile. She frowned, shook her head in what he presumed was exasperation, then left the room.

Dean scrubbed a hand over his face and swore softly. He retreated to the couch then reached down and plucked lint from the throw rug. Marcus and Sam were still engaged in conversation, and remained so for several minutes. Dean waited, glancing at the clock as the seconds ticked by. Sam eventually looked up at him. "You can go with Missouri now."

Dean licked his lips. "Yeah, I'm just gonna wait until you're, you know. So Marcus doesn't have to leave you to tell us that we can start." He shuffled, suddenly feeling awkward. They had agreed that he would join Missouri, and Marcus would settle Sam in and then call them when it was alright to start. But Dean needed proof for himself before he could willingly participate in something that could end up torturing his brother. But he was not able to fess up to that particular weakness. Far too chick-flick. "I, uh, thought it would be less disruptive if I stayed until, you know. You were… relaxed."

Sam smiled, a knowing glint sparkling in his eyes. "Okay."

Dean looked away, his face flushing. "It just makes better sense, that's all. I'm not worried about your scrawny ass, if that's what you think."

"Uh huh."

"Oh, just get on with it," Dean huffed as he sat back on the couch. He deliberately stared out the window until Sam had settled, cross-legged on the floor. Marcus mirrored his posture, their knees almost touching. The older man rested his hands on Sam's knees, then began talking in a low, almost monotonic tone. Dean watched carefully, holding his breath as Sam frowned, his lips pursed as a look of pain crossed his face. It passed quickly, then the younger hunter relaxed.

It took only a little over five minutes for Sam's expression to become serene and Dean finally comprehended what his brother and Marcus had been mastering for the past five days. He had not seen his brother so calm, so at peace. A little guided imagery, five days of practice, and Sam looked like a yogi master. Dean would kick his ass if he started eating tofu though.

"He's ready."

"Already?" Dean whispered. "You sure?"

"Yes."

"What did you find out?" Sam pressed, though his head pounded and his stomach felt as though he had been gut punched, repeatedly. He hugged his stomach, knowing he looked like crap, but determined to get some answers from Dean before he collapsed and slept for a week.

"You sure you're okay? Tara remembered, but she was distraught, sobbing, the whole nine yards. You handled that? I mean, you're not bleeding, your head's okay?" Dean studied him intently and Sam reluctantly allowed the visually invasive probing.

"Dean, for the tenth time, I'm fine. Just tired. C'mon, spit it out already. What did you find out?"

Dean worried at his brow before he pushed his long fingers through his hair. "Her memories are pretty scant, Sam. It wasn't exactly helpful."

"Okay, but she must have remembered something."

"She saw some kind of black vapor, or smoke."

"It's a demon?"

"That's what I thought, but this thing manipulated the knives while in vapor form. Demons are usually lazy and will possess a person to get them to do their handy work. This thing did it itself. And it was fast. Damned fast. One minute her parents were there, next minute they were gory candy floss being tossed around the house. Beth was knocked out and Tara ran and hid."

"Who's Beth?"

"Some woman her parents knew and had invited over for lunch. She had just shaken hands and said hello when candy floss time started."

"And Beth got away?"

"Presume so. There didn't seem to be enough body parts for three people."

"So we can track her down and find out what she saw."

"Yeah, can't be too many Beth's in Perryton."

Sam frowned and leaned back against the wall, bracing himself from sliding to the floor in a senseless heap. He really was not up to this, but he was not going to pass out until he knew what they were facing. "So it was fast like a Wendigo, but without form or substance. A Daeva?" Sam said suddenly, the prospect making his skin crawl.

"I thought of that as well, but it was the middle of the day – there were no shadows, nothing to sustain those bastards. Plus, Daeva's come equipped, this thing borrowed cutlery from the house."

"We have to find Beth. Find out how she escaped. Uh, oh." Sam began a slow slide down the wall. Dean grabbed him and braced him. Sam let his head fall onto his brother's shoulder. "Sorry," he breathed.

"You gonna hurl?"

Sam managed a throaty chuckle.

"Well, are you?"

"No."

"You better not, Sam. I'm warning you."

Sam laughed and kept his eyes closed as Dean hugged an arm around his waist and guided him to the stairs. "Can you make it upstairs?"

"Yeah, just go slow."

Dean moved extraordinarily slowly, gently guiding Sam up the steps and making sure that each foot was firmly planted before moving forward. Sam kept his eyes closed and his head down, his breathing labored by the time they had reached the upstairs hallway. "Hang on," he gasped, "just need a minute."

"Your head?"

"Dizzy. Give me a sec. Tell me what else she said."

"Not much more, except she kept saying it was her fault."

"Her fault?"

"Yeah, as though she caused it. As though something she did resulted in her parent's being murdered."

"Something she did, or does she think she actually murdered them?"

"She actually thinks she did it, but we've ruled out the telekinesis option. Haven't we?"

"Yes, definitely," Sam said, "she's not like Max." His brow knitted as he worked things through in his mind. "She really thinks it was her fault. It's not just survivor's guilt?"

"Yeah, she's really cut up about it." Dean frowned and studied Sam's face. "What are you thinking?"

"Nothing."

"You've got that look, Sam."

"The I'm smarter than you and you know it look?"

"No, the I've figured something out and I'm not sharing it, look."

Sam smiled, but evaded his brother's searching gaze. "I'm tired. Can we finish this little chat in the morning?"

"Okay, but I know you're holding out on me, Sam. You've got that sneaky look."

"I don't do sneaky, Dean. That's you. You know how shady you look in the leather jacket. No wonder little old ladies trust me."

"Don't change the subject."

"Dean, unless you plan to carry me, can we move now?"

Dean muttered and griped, but assisted Sam down the hallway. By the time they reached the bedroom, Sam's claim for sleep was genuine. He collapsed on the bed and lacked the strength to move a muscle. But before he ceded to sleep, Sam set his internal clock to wake before dawn. He had a theory, and he had to test it before Dean could either stop him, or accompany him.

Sam walked quietly through the darkened house. He moved gracefully, silently with a determined purpose and stealth that defied the chill of apprehension that snaked through him. On the floor above, Dean and Missouri slept, unaware of Sam's intent and the potential danger. On the lower floor lay Tara.

He reached her room and hesitated, doubtful anxiety making his hands shake. But, he was a practiced hunter, and several deep breaths erased the unsteadiness. The door squealed just a little as Sam entered Tara's room. He moved to her bed. Steady and purposeful, he reached out. He flinched as unease engulfed him, prickled his skin and stammered his heart-rate. Breathing hard, Sam held firm and moved closer. The sensation shifted, became static-like, almost electric: a hot, sharp tingle that bristled his palm. Fear burned, distinctly out of proportion to the mild discomfort through his hand. Jaw clenched, he stretched, held his breath, then closed the distance. His fingers lightly touched Tara's shoulder.

The air rippled as his fingertips made contact. Molecules pulled and drew taut and the room darkened, the moonlight blocked. Behind him, stagnant air charged with an electric pulse and Sam whirled and ducked. Force hit him high on the left side of his chest. The impact threw him against the wall and held him there. Sharp, iced pain gouged through his shoulder and he soundlessly screamed. Then it was over. Sam slid down the wall, numbly hitting the floor as the pressure dropped and moonlight once again bathed the room.

The speed and strength of it left Sam stunned. Several long moments passed before he could gather his scrambled senses together. Then he scrabbled with his hands, grunted and lurched to the door. In the hallway, he slouched against the wall and panted as black dots danced before his eyes. He had been right. His theory had been right. But, it was faster than he had imagined and stronger. Though, as he had predicted, it had left him alive.

He checked Tara, confirming that the child slept on, blissfully unaware of the maelstrom that Sam had just unleashed from her. He then returned upstairs. Though he had survived, he felt the effects of the attack. His muscles quivered, and by the time he reached the bedroom he was nauseated and deeply chilled. He assumed it was shock, though his shoulder burned and a sharp ache blossomed out from the point of impact. The entity had struck him hard and he imagined he would have one hell of a bruise before the day was out.

He staggered to the bed, accidentally nudging Dean's leg as he moved past. The older man cursed as he came awake, his hands automatically reaching for the shotgun that was not there. Sam sat down heavily. His vision swam, and his shoulder... He grimaced and blinked back tears. There was something wrong with it. More than simple bruising. He looked down. Could see a protruding object. Bile licked the back of his throat as recognition dawned. Scissors, he had a pair of black handled sewing scissors embedded in his chest."Shit," he breathed as a wave of dizziness washed over him. How had he not noticed that?

"Sam, you sleep-walking?"

"Dean, the thing is in Tara and it has been all this time."

"Did you have another nightmare?"

Sam's fingers played at the air around the scissors. He could not bring himself to touch it. "Beth's a psychic, Dean. Tara's parents must have somehow found out about it and hired her to exorcise it. That's one sure way to piss off a spirit – try to evict it from its home."

"Dude, have you been pilfering Missouri's liquor?"

Sam huffed, almost choking as his fingers touched the scissors. Dean must have recognized the sound as being pain induced, because he fluidly moved to the light switch and flicked it on. Sam squinted, his wide open pupils shocked by the dramatic change in light. He was, however, able to see the horrified expression on his brother's face as Dean took in Sam's predicament.

"What the hell?"

"I think I pissed it off," Sam admitted weakly. He managed a thin smile. "Why would Missouri leave scissors in the kid's room?"

"It's her sewing room," Dean said.

"Oh, then that'd explain it."

Dean moved out into the hallway. "Where is it?"

"Where's what?"

"Whatever put those scissors in your chest, Sherlock."

"There's nothing here, Dean. Calm down."

"You have a pair of scissors sticking out of your chest, Sam. Don't tell me to calm down. What the hell happened?"

Sam smiled weakly. "I had a theory and I tried it out."

"Are you a freakin' masochist?"

"I didn't do this to myself."

"Then who the hell did?"

"Tara, sort of." Sam tilted his chin down, grimacing as the muscles in his neck pulled on the wound. "There's something in her, Dean. Some kind of spirit or entity that is sharing her lifeforce. That's what I've been sensing all this time. When you said last night that she blamed herself, I got to thinking."

"Dammit Sam, if you have a theory you share it," Dean ground out. He prowled to the window and looked down into the street.

"There's nothing out there, Dean," Sam pressed, wishing his brother would quit moving, it was making him nauseous. "It's back inside her now, and it'll stay there as long as it doesn't feel threatened."

"You telling me that the kid is Carrie?"

"Not exactly. Well, maybe, kind of. She's not dangerous though… not unless the thing in her is provoked."

"And you provoked it?"

"I touched her and that pissed it off." Sam shrugged, immediately regretting the action as pain flared through his shoulder.

Dean moved to him and knelt down. "She did this with telekinesis?"

"No. There's an entity inside of her. She doesn't even know it's there."

"The EMF meter didn't pick it up."

"Yeah, I know, I don't get that"

"What if it's like MPD?"

"Multiple Personality Disorder. How?"

"You tell me, college-boy. Don't all you geeks do Psych 101?" Dean braced one hand against Sam's shoulder, leaning him back a little so he could see the injury clearly. "They don't seem to have gone in far. But Emergency is going to be a bitch this time of night."

"No hospital."

"They've got to come out, Sam."

"You do it. They're not in far, it's hardly serious… just kinda painful."

"The ER can give you pain relief. You're looking a little green."

"It's just a bit of a shock. Take them out, bandage me up and I'll be fine."

"You sure about this?"

"Yeah, we've got work to do."

Dean considered him then quickly stood. "I'll be back. Don't move."

Sam had no intentions of going anywhere, but he did need a distraction. He reached one-handed for the laptop. He had it powered up and connected to the internet by the time Dean returned.

"Thought I told you to sit still," Dean said gruffly as he eyed Sam's one handed and shaky efforts to surf the 'net.

"I felt an electrical charge, like a low voltage when I reached out to touch her. MPD wouldn't explain that. Although it's possible for one part of a split personality to have psychic ability and the other to know nothing of it, the force I felt went way beyond mind control." Sam turned back to the laptop, wincing as the movement tugged at the wound. "There's definitely an entity in her, and somehow her parents figured it out. I wonder if Beth went online, sought help from a message board or something, before trying to exorcise it."

Dean opened up the first aid kid and sorted through, carefully selecting bandages, antibiotic cream, tape, saline solution and a number of other things that Sam did not want to know about. He kept his eyes on the laptop.

"She's asleep," Dean said as he worked.

"You checked on her?"

"You've just told me that she has a homicidal entity in her, so yeah, of course I checked on her."

"She's not dangerous."

"How about I don't take your word for it, Edward Scissorhands."

"Hilarious, Dean."

"Yeah, well, I have to do something to lighten the mood cos you sure as hell have crapped all over it." Dean knelt before him, wincing as he took in the wound. "Last chance for the hospital."

"Just do it."

Dean cut away Sam's t-shirt, the muscles in his jaw tensing as he worked. Things were going smoothly enough until Dean removed the scissors. They came out with a vicious pulling motion that did not match the shallowness of penetration. Sam's vision darkened and he realized that they had been wrong to try for home surgery. Hadn't Dad hammered that into them… penetrating wounds should never be fucked with. His thoughts tore away as pain scoured through his chest, firing nerve endings and pain receptors in a synchronized and brutal demonstration of raw agony.

He barely had time to register the assault before Dean cursed, shoved him hard on to his back against the bed and straddled him. Dean pressed down on the wound and the further insult of pain tore a ragged scream from Sam's lips. Sweat broke out across his body and he fought to push his brother away.

"Dammit, Sam. Keep still!"

Sam's muscles burned with exertion as he increased his attempts to escape the unbelievable pain, but as long minutes passed and Dean kept the pressure on the wound, Sam's breathing grew shallower. Coldness leached away the burn. Soon, he could no longer feel his hands, or his feet for the numbness that closed around the chill. His struggles lessened then ceased. His eyes slipped closed as he sank.

"Sam! Sammy, stay with me!"

Sam jerked, his eyes springing open. He gulped, crying out as senses sharply came back online and pain seared through his shoulder. He struggled against it.

"God, Sammy, don't move!"

The terrified desperation in Dean's voice finally registered, and Sam stilled as best he could, though the pain made him restless. He panted hard, then groaned and shifted. A firm hand halted his movement. "God. Dean, please."

"I know Sammy. I know. Just a bit longer, I promise."

Sam turned his head away, his wide eyes fixed on the far wall and a painting of two deer standing in a forest. His right hand fisted in the sheet and he restlessly tugged. He sought to regulate his breathing, to find a calm that would enable him to tolerate the pain. He came close, until he felt a different, sharper sting, and the pull of something threading through his broken flesh. His calm fled.

"No!" He wrenched his brother's wrist away from his chest. Thick red blood coated Dean's fingers, the needle and surgical thread similarly gored. His mouth went dry, his vision spiraling as Dean growled, shoved Sam's hand away and pinned the wrist beneath his knee.

Sam looked up at his brother, his wide fear-filled eyes taking in the pain in Dean's. His lips pursed to argue, but he could not form words. The needle dipped down and in. He felt the sharp sting and an awful pulling that threatened to bring him completely undone. He weakly twisted. The needle dipped again and Sam turned his head away. He drew in a shallow breath and held it, trying not to scream as the slow torture continued, methodically wearing him down.

By the time it stopped, Sam's consciousness had ebbed to the point where he no longer had any ability to fight, or even move. He lay compliant as the bed dipped and weight shifted. A shadow momentarily blocked the overhead light – a moment later he heard the rattle of plastic, the rustle of paper then the metal slide of a zipper unfastening. He shivered, his vision shifting, weaving and turning. His right hand cramped and he loosened his grip on the crumpled, blood stained sheet. The deer pair shifted, their fawn coats mottled in the painted afternoon sunlight. He blinked, and the painting slid back into focus.

"Sam, you still with me?"

He squinted at the blurred shape that leaned over him. He ran his tongue over his lips but could bring no moisture. Another long, raking shiver tore through him, dredging pain that played knock-down dominoes with his already depleted reserves. Something moaned, a pitiful drawn out sound like a mortally wounded creature. He distantly realized it had come from him.

Something touched his brow, pushed his hair back and rested there. It was comforting, warm and tender, and he let his eyes slip closed. He drifted, tugged upwards by pressure against his shoulder that briefly warred with the heavy, numbing ache that anchored him to darkness.

He felt a sharp sting, then a deep bubbling resonating pain. Startled, he opened his eyes, bringing a hand up to collide with something soft. He squinted, blinking at the foggy blur that prohibited comprehension. The shadow returned and something moved in close. He inhaled the familiar scent of too much aftershave combined with the bitter stench of fear. He knew that scent so very well. He fumbled, his fingers blindly numb as he reached out, searching. He hiccupped, his breath caught somewhere between a sob and unexpressed need. Something caught his fingers then curled around his hand – a warm touch – familiar comfort.

"Easy Sammy, I've got you. It's over, you're okay. Close your eyes." The tender touch started a gentle rhythmic stroking motion along the back of his hand, to the knuckles of his fingers then back up toward his wrist. Sam drifted, then darkness pulled him down.

When Sam finally lost consciousness, Dean backed away his hands shaking. His gaze slid to the fresh gauze he had taped to his brother's shoulder, and his mind's eye relived the past thirty minutes in hideous technicolor. Assaulted by the memories, Dean panted heavily, the left over adrenalin burning the blood through his veins. He reached the door, slouched against it then grabbed with his hands to stop the vertigo that threatened to send him to his knees.

He moved into the hallway and wove his way to Missouri's room. Blood left a long smear on the cream wall when he flicked on the light.

"Missouri," he said. His knees weakened and he clutched at the doorframe. The psychic stirred in her sleep, but did not wake.

"Missouri," Dean said again, but he could not get his mouth to work, his voice came out rasped, low… breathy and ineffectual. Panic stirred through him. He had to get back to Sam. He had to check him. "Missouri," he tried again, louder this time, but still painfully weak. His vision blurred and he struggled to see if Missouri had roused.

"Dean? Oh my gosh, honey. You're hurt."

"No. Sam. Bedroom."

For an old woman with bad knees, Missouri moved surprisingly fast. "What happened? Is he okay? Oh God, he's not…."

"No. He's okay. He's okay." Dean drew in a shaky breath and slouched against the wall. "I need… I need you to watch him. I can't… it… he's… please."

"Dean, sweetie, you're in shock. Sit down, put your head between your knees. I'll check Sam. Stay here. Don't move."

Dean slid to the floor as his vision blackened. Missouri hurried down the hall and disappeared into Sam's room. Several seconds later, Dean pushed himself up and followed, driven by a fear… a need to be with his brother.

Events happened in random, chaotic flashes then. Somehow he was back in that room, looking down at his brother. Missouri gasped. Dean grunted in denial, then he had his cell phone and was dialing 911. He must have said the right things, given the right address, because the operator reassured him that it would all be okay. But some stranger with a reassuring line and false comfort did not change the reality of Dean's situation. Instead, it froze him to the core. He stared almost sightlessly at his wounded sibling. At the blood soaked square of gauze in Missouri's right hand. The one she had just pulled from Sam's chest – the very same one that had been pure white only minutes before.

Blood spilled freely down Sam's side. Unhampered by cotton gauze and entirely unfazed by the neat row of stitches that Dean had sewn into Sam's flesh. The life-sustaining fluid squeezed between the tiny knots and tracked in thick rivulets. Dean flinched as Missouri applied pressure, but Sam remained deeply unconscious and Dean knew that shock and blood loss had driven his brother to a place where pain could no longer reach him.

"I can't stop the bleeding," Missouri said. She sounded shaky and unsure. Dean managed to move – to take over. He was not sure how, but he next found himself straddling his brother as he applied pressure to the wound. It made no difference, only squeezed the blood into a myriad of different paths. Beneath him, Sam's lips grew paler. His skin colder. His pulse slower. And Dean's already painfully fragmented consciousness fragmented just that little bit more.

End Chapter Five