ENTITY (Chapter Thirteen)
From Chapter Twelve:
"What if it's not over, Missouri?"
"Sam exorcised it. I saw it myself."
"I know, but where did it come from?" He glanced at her, his eyes hooded, worried. "Sam can't go through that again. Any of it."
"He won't have to." But her gaze slid to Sam's bed, to the heavily bandaged hand, the cut on his cheek, the traction that locked his broken femur and knee in place and the sedation that limited movement to give his fractured pelvis a chance to heal. Until he woke they would not really know what had happened to him in those minutes before he had managed to complete the ritual, but she had hazarded a guess. It was not pretty. Neither was the unease that threaded through her. The knowledge that until they had located the source – the entity's origin, it was not going to be over for them. Especially not for Sam – the entity's most prized and eagerly sought after host.
Chapter Thirteen
"Road rage," Dean said simply. He looked past the two officers who were presently taking his statement to the gurney that was being pushed into his room. His pulse sped up and he pushed against the bed, lifting himself higher so he could see his brother. Sam lay unconscious or asleep. He sagged back, throwing a thin smile at the female officer as she swung back to look at him.
"Your brother," she said and her expression was sympathetic, sorrowful even.
Dean nodded, not trusting himself to speak. His attention roamed back to Sam. They had not yet transferred him from the gurney to the bed, working instead on hooking up leads and monitors. Soft beeping flooded the room as Sam's heart-rate monitor powered up. Then one of the nurses flipped it to silent and Dean momentarily lamented the auditory loss.
"Are you sure that you can't give us any more information?" the male officer prompted, young, probably a rookie. His pen was poised over his spiral bound notepad, his expression eager.
"It happened so quickly. Sorry."
"But your car was undamaged," the officer pressed.
"Yeah."
"You know this isn't enough to go on. No description. No damage to your car. Are you sure you didn't see the men's faces?"
"No."
"Mr Packenfrack, are you sure there isn't something else. Something small. We could get an identikit expert in."
Dean's eyes darted back. He still could not get used to that name. What on earth had Missouri been thinking. He forced a thin smile. "No. We were both knocked unconscious, hit from behind. Look, I appreciate your concern, but we're alive. Sam and I. I don't care for more than that."
"But these men could do this to someone else."
"I'm sorry. I can't help."
"Can he? We can return when he wakes."
Dean swallowed. The orderlies were about to move Sam to the bed. It disturbed him to see his brother so damned still, and so heavily bandaged. He should be used to it, he had seen Sam in the ICU for the past two days, but he wasn't. He never would be.
"Mr Packenfrack."
"You can try, but I doubt he'll remember much more than I."
The woman nudged her partner. "We'll leave you to rest. If we find anything, we will let you know."
He glanced at the officers as they looked across at Sam. Then they were gone. He knew they would not return. He had given them enough to eliminate suspicion, but not enough to enable them to work the case. Just another random attack in a big town. He almost felt guilty for racking up Lawrence's crime statistics, then the orderlies moved Sam to the bed and Dean's attention focussed.
Several hours later, Dean was seated beside Sam's bed. A lunch tray of food had been delivered, one for him and one for Sam, but the younger man had yet to regain consciousness and Dean made no start on his own. Eating alone sucked. Especially when it was really bad hospital food. He rested his hand on Sam's shoulder, over the wound that he had gained at Missouri's home after the entity had first tried to claim him. The memories twisted through Dean, and his gaze roamed over Sam's still body, the multitude of bandages, tubes and monitors that tarnished it. Bruised fingers licked across the younger boy's shoulder. Dean drew the sheet down, exposing his brother's bare chest. His breath caught. Technicolor shadows bled down Sam's side, across his stomach and splayed across his hips. Dean drew the sheet back up, then leaned forward, closing his eyes. Tears did not sting them, instead he felt a different, darker and crushing pain. That of guilt and responsibility. He had let Sam down. He had failed.
"No," someone said from behind him and Dean started, grimacing as he jarred his injured arm. He whipped around, his eyes widening as he took in Missouri. She held a large bouquet of flowers but it was the fierce determination on her face that threw him. She plonked the flowers on Dean's bed and moved to him. Her voice was heavy and stern. "You stop that, right now young man. I won't have it, any of it. That boy is alive because of you. This is not your fault. You are not to blame. You have never been to blame."
Dean struggled to understand what she was saying, then it hit him. She had read him. Read his thoughts. His feelings. His private world… the only thing he now had left that had not been bloodied and broken. He saw her expression shift, falter, as she recognised that he understood what she had done. Then the guilt fled and determined resolve darkened her eyes.
"You are reading me?" he forced out, his voice hoarse. "But you said you can turn your gift on and off at will."
"Yes."
"And you've deliberately turned it on. On me."
"I need to be sure you're not thinking stupid thoughts. Like just now."
"You don't have any right—"
"Honey, I know you Winchesters, how you brood. I won't allow it. I won't allow you to hurt yourself that way."
"I have a right to privacy, Missouri. I trusted you to respect that."
"I'm sensing your moods, the aura of your feelings, not your actual thoughts. I only know if you are sad, upset… or feeling guilty. Like just now."
"I don't care. You don't have any right." He moved away from the bed, away from Sam and away from her. He hugged his good arm around himself, cradling the sling that protected the fracture. His shoulder ached and he fought his wildly conflicted emotions. He felt violated. Betrayed.
"Dean, no. It's not like that."
"Are you going to do that to him too." He gestured to Sam. "Read his mind, probe into his thoughts, psycho-analyse him when he can't defend himself."
"You boys have both survived a horrible ordeal. I will not allow either of you to suffer any more and that means keeping an eye on your mental health."
"My mental health is fine." He said, but his voice quavered. The pain through his arm and shoulder notched up and his head throbbed. He glanced at the door and breathed hard. His thoughts scurried wildly, panicked, agitation making it hard to think straight. Movement on the bed snapped his attention back. Sam was waking. Great, perfect timing, bro.
He clutched his throbbing limb close and returned to the bed. He ignored Missouri, and reached for Sam's hand, gently clasping it as his brother moaned, his lips parting.
"Sammy," Dean said, he fought to keep his voice even. "Hey, little brother. Welcome back."
Sam's eyes opened and he stared up, his gaze dulled and empty. He blinked and shifted, wandering. Dean stilled, held his breath. He gently stroked his thumb across Sam's knuckles, pulling his brother's roaming attention to him. "Sammy," he said again, "look at me."
Sam did, and gradually recognition burned, as did memories. He felt the younger man tense, felt his fear and he worked to quickly reassure.
"It's over, Sam. You did it. You exorcised the bitch. You're in hospital and you're going to be fine."
Tears budded as Sam wordlessly stared. Dean glanced at Missouri as she moved in closer. Sam's attention shifted and the tears spilled over as he recognised the psychic.
"Tara is fine, Sam," Missouri soothed. She touched Sam's brow, smoothed the lines on his forehead. Dean tensed, watching her, wondering if she had just read Sam like she had read him. Sam's attention shifted back to him and Missouri retreated, leaving them alone. She did not leave the room though and it prickled through Dean, irritated him.
Sam's lips moved as he tried to speak, but five days of fluids only through an IV left him with no means of verbal communication. Dean offered him some ice chips, as Missouri had done for him several days earlier, and Sam sucked on them. He managed a croak then, and predictably he asked about Dean first.
"I'm fine," Dean reassured, but Sam did not look quite convinced. The bandages, the arm in a sling probably did not do a great deal to reassure. So he offered an explanation. "It's nothing, Sam. Just a broken arm and bit of a knock to the head. Thick skull, you know that. I'll be busting out of here in a day or so."
Sam smiled thinly. He raked his gaze over Dean, then seemed to settle back, reasonably comfortable with what he saw. Dean waited for the next question, it did not take long to come.
"What's wrong with me?"
What isn't, little brother. He managed a warm smile, though it did not ease the chill through him. "You're a bit busted up, junior."
Sam's eyebrows knitted together. "It cut me." He grimaced and Dean knew he was remembering. "My hand, Dean." He struggled to sit up, to lift his hand. He cried out then, squeezing his eyes shut in pain. His entire body stiffened.
Dean hit the nurses call button. "Easy, buddy, breathe. Try to relax. Ride through it."
"God… it hurts."
"I know, Sammy, I know." He grasped Sam's uninjured hand and gently squeezed. Sam's fingers tightened around his. A nurse appeared then, and Sam's doctor, Doctor Archibald was right behind her, dressed in pastel garb that clashed terribly with his beet red hair. The thinning strands were combed back harshly, accentuating the receding hairline and big forehead. Big brain, Dean thought each time he saw the man, and his assumption had always seemed to have proven right. Like Marcus Jennings, Sam's doctor lacked dress sense, but he had earned Dean's trust for the courageous attempts he had made to save Sam's life. But right now all Dean wanted was to remove the awful grimace from his little brother's face and his tone lacked the due respect he ought to pay to the man.
"He needs pain relief," Dean bit out. Missouri moved around the bed and touched his arm. Dean shrugged her off. "Now. Give him something now."
The doctor ignored him. "Sam, I'm Doctor Archibald, I need you to tell me on a scale of one to ten—"
"Eight," Sam rasped. He clenched his jaw, breathing hard, his nostrils flared. "Maybe a seven."
"It's easing off?"
"Hmm, a little."
"I can give you a little more, it will take the edge off it but it will make you drowsy. I'd prefer if you could manage it. Can you?"
"Doctor," Dean started and Missouri nudged him.
Sam's eyes flicked to him, then back to the doctor. "I can manage. How long have I been here?"
"Five days."
"Five days," Sam breathed. "What's wrong with me?" Dean's fingers tightened reflexively and Sam glanced at him. The doctor's smooth, deep voice forced the younger man's attention back.
Dean numbly listened as the doctor recounted all of Sam's injuries, the ones he had undergone surgery for, the internal haemorrhaging, microsurgery for the lacerations to his face and hand, the fractured pelvis, broken ribs, knee, femur, punctured lung and numerous abrasions. Doctor Archibald kept it as jargon free as possible, but he was precise and informative. And the extensive list was horribly overwhelming.
By the end of it, Sam was quiet, morosely withdrawn. He no longer met Dean's gaze, or Missouri's, and when again asked about the pain, he requested a sedative. Dean knew he was escaping, unable to deal with all he had just learned.
"It will be okay, we'll get through this," Dean whispered, his words hollow. He sounded like a fake.
Sam stared down, tears budded in his eyes and his gaze fixed on his bandaged left hand. His mouth pulled down hard and Dean saw despair and fear etched deep in his little brother's face. Of all Sam's injuries, the doctor made it clear that his hand would be the one that would result in permanent disability. Even his broken femur and fragmented knee had been repairable. But his hand, the muscles and tendons torn through, the nerves severed, was not. Numbness, loss of dexterity and possible rigidity – claw hand, the doctor had warned. His tone had been sensitive, recognising the impact it was having on his patient, but it did not erase the cruelness of the prognosis. Up until that point, Sam had coped,but the news of permanent disability had broken him.
The medication was administered and once Sam was asleep, the doctor drew Dean and Missouri from the room. They stood in the hallway, Dean leaning against the wall, his legs unstable. He listened to the doctor talk about the importance of lifting Sam's spirits, half his battle would be psychological. Dean nodded in the places where it seemed appropriate, but his thoughts unwillingly drew forward. If Sam could not hold a weapon, could not react quickly in a hunt, he would be a liability. It was almost bittersweet, if Sam could no longer hunt then he could have the life he desired. But Dean knew it didn't work that way. Jessica's death, Max Miller and Tara's little buddy had demonstrated that. Sam was a magnet for supernatural evil. He had to be able to defend himself. Stay safe. Any permanent impairment was a potential death sentence.
"I'll arrange for a psychologist to talk to him," Doctor Archibald said. His pager beeped, he looked down at it, bid a brief farewell and walked away.
Dean's attention skittered and shifted. His head throbbed and his stomach twisted. He suddenly needed to sit down, but he could not move.
"Dean, will I get someone for you?"
He found Missouri watching him intently and he knew she was reading him. He no longer cared. In fact, he partially welcomed it. Being alone in his head right now was terrifying.
"We will get him through this."
He closed his eyes, his heart pounding fast. He heard Missouri call for someone, then he was sliding down the wall, his mind blackening.
He came to on the bed, Missouri at one side, a nurse at the other. His head spun and he felt cold, chilled.
"Is he okay, is it his head?"
"We'll need to run some tests."
Dean closed his eyes, inwardly sighing. More freakin' tests. He wanted to tell them to not bother, but he knew it would be pointless and he lacked the strength to offer up a convincing argument. Several hours later, after being prodded, poked and forced to endure several scans, he was cleared and his brief blackout attributed to exhaustion. He was, however, back on an IV drip, apparently not able to be relied upon to eat enough of the crappy hospital food to keep him sustained.
Missouri sat next on a chair next to his bed, her hands folded in her lap and posture tense. "You gave me a quite a scare, Dean," she said, but her tone held no rebuke, just sorrowful concern.
He felt he should apologise, but he did not now what to say. He looked past her to Sam and an ache so dark and deep skewered through him. "I can't lose him," he said softly. She remained quiet, waiting for him to continue. He did. "You can read me, Missouri. But once this is over, once he's well, you have to stop."
Bland carrots, broccoli and some other vegetable that had no color, taste or texture sat beside an equally unappealing, rectangular shape that professed to be some kind of meat. Sam could not fathom what it had been in a past life though. He pushed his plate away and observed his brother's equally unimpressive attempts to consume the hospital's latest rather sad offering. Dean sat in a chair beside Sam's bed, recently disconnected from the IV that had caused him to grouse and complain all morning. It had amused Sam, allowed him a distraction from his dark thoughts. They still skittered in sometimes though, and Sam found himself powerless against their pull.
He fingered the bandages on his left hand. He clearly remembered what the entity had done to him, to his hand. The pain of it had no words, but the images stuck and slithered around in his mind. He knew the doctor was right. There was little hope. But Sam was not a quitter. And the more he thought about it, the more he realised that while he still had a hand, still had all his fingers, he would make them work. All of them. There was no other acceptable alternative.
"Why do they give patients with arm injuries food that needs a freakin' knife and fork?" Dean whined.
"You call this food?" Sam asked softly, his throat still raw from the breathing tube he had endured in the ICU. He arched an eyebrow as his brother looked up at him, then across at his plate.
"You need to eat. Do you need me to cut it up for you?"
"How?"
"I don't know. I'd figure something out."
"I don't even know what it is, man." He prodded at the meat, noting that Dean had the same thing. "What do you think, four legs or two?"
"I'm thinking four, but beyond that, who knows."
"Is Missouri coming in today?"
"Yeah, and she's bringing soup, apple crumble and some health shake for you."
"It'll be for both of us, Dean."
"No, I don't think so."
"Yes, I do think so."
"We'll see."
Sam moved the food around again, then snagged a carrot and moved it to his mouth. He chewed lazily, wearily, even that small act tiring him. Since regaining consciousness the previous day, he had woken three times, two times overnight and then this morning. Each time he stayed awake longer and the pain was less. Whether he was developing a tolerance to his broken body, or they were upping his pain relief, he was not sure.
He finished chewing and considered his brother. Dean had his head down, studiously working on decapitating the limp broccoli floret. With only one functioning arm, it was difficult work. Why Dean didn't just pick the whole thing up and eat it, was lost on Sam. And why Dean even bothered, was also slightly bemusing. The petite female doctor, old enough to be their mother, obviously had the older boy scared. He had been taken off the IV on the stipulation that he eat everything that was put before him. Sam knew he had missed a lot over the five days, but he did not ask what had happened. The haunted look in his brother's eyes told him that he would prefer to not know.
"When are they busting you out of here?" he asked after Dean had consumed one half of his now mashed broccoli.
"Tomorrow."
"If you behave?"
Dean glanced at him, then shrugged. "Now that Missouri is slipping us food, I don't think there'll be a problem."
"You'll be staying with her. Not in a motel."
"Yeah."
"Good."
"You worried about me?" Dean asked cheekily.
"Yes," Sam answered honestly and Dean's smile faded. He ducked his head and continued the vegetable torture.
Sam had not asked about his brother's black knitted skull cap. He did not need to. Dean had admitted to having sustained a head injury, the rest did not take a lot of figuring out. They had operated on him, obviously shaving at least part of his head. It disturbed Sam on a level that he could not reconcile. He fought the memories of his brother being thrown against the wall, his bloodied face, the unsteadiness. Before being thrown from that second storey window, Dean had already been injured, concussed. The two storey drop could have killed him.
Sam pushed the thoughts away, but his appetite was officially non-existent. He laid the fork at the edge of the plate and rested his hand on his stomach. "I exorcised it, right? I mean, that's what you and Missouri told me."
"Yes, you did."
"That's good. Because it would really suck if I hadn't."
"Yeah."
"I remember most of it." He wondered why he needed to say this. Why he needed to remember it. "I remember thinking you were dead. It was like there was a voice in my head taunting me, and it all seemed so pointless, you know."
Dean looked decidedly uncomfortable. He nodded sharply, then looked toward the window. "Yeah," he said throatily.
"I'm sorry."
Dean's attention snapped back. "For what?"
"Letting you get hurt."
"Huh?"
"I tried to stop it, I tried to grab at it."
Dean paled, his gaze flicked to Sam's bandaged left hand. "Ah shit, Sammy. Is that how…."
Sam swallowed hard, his throat suddenly tight. "It sensed the blood. I never thought it could do that. I mean, we thought the infiltration was through a wound that it made. But… but it sensed that I was bleeding and it tried..."
"Sam, you don't need to do this. It's not important."
"It had evolved, Dean. It was like it was pissed off. It could have held me down from the beginning, overpowered me and cut me. But it didn't, instead, after it had tried to get in through my hand, it threw me."
"Against the wall?" Dean asked, his voice had taken on a thready, reedy note.
"But it didn't need to, Dean. That's what I don't get, man. It was like it was…."
"Playing with you," Dean completed softly.
Sam suddenly felt sick. He nodded, his gaze locked with his brother's. "What the hell was it? And what would it have become if we had not stopped it?"
"I don't know."
"We have to find out what it was. Where it came from."
"Yeah, I know."
Sam leaned back, exhausted. Pain drilled through his leg and up through his hip. He sucked in a breath and exhaled slowly, using breath to leach away the worst of the pain. He watched as Dean stood, collected his plate and carried it to the cabinet near the door. He returned, then sat back down. "We'll figure it out, Sam. We'll fix it."
Sam nodded, his voice soft. "How's Tara?"
"She's fine."
"Did she see… does she remember any of what happened?"
"Missouri says she doesn't."
Sam nodded, the pillow scratchy against his ear. His eyelids drooped and he jerked them open. Dean stood and leaned over. Sam felt his brother's calloused hand push through his hair, the touch tender. There was something so chick-flick about the action that Sam was tempted to tease his brother about it. But he knew that would scare Dean off. And, as much as he longed to regain his independence, his strength, he needed the contact more.
"All I do is sleep," he slurred as the soothing motion against his forehead lulled him.
"Well you were always the lazy one."
"Studious, not lazy."
"Same difference."
Sam huffed, he let a moment pass as he drifted. "Thanks," he finally muttered, his mind dulling as he slipped further under.
"For what?"
"Being here. For being… you."
"I want Boris," Tara whined. She flicked her legs, swinging them off the edge of the sofa as she sighed dramatically, her small fingers twisted in the hem of her floral dress. "That isn't Boris." She gestured to the doll Missouri had given her and her pout became fuller.
"Tara, I'm sorry, but Boris has gone away. Now, hurry and go to bed. The Martin's are coming early to pick you up. It will be a big exciting adventure for you so you don't want to be tired."
"I don't want to go."
"But you said you liked Mr and Mrs Martin."
The small girl shrugged then scanned the room, her keen eyes taking in her surroundings as though seeing them anew. "Why do I have to stay with them?"
"So you can get to know them and they can get to know you. It's only a few days, and if you don't like them then you can come back here for a while."
"Why can't I stay here with you and Dean?'
"I've told you, sweetie. Dean and Sam will be leaving once they're well enough to travel and I am too old and crusty to look after a little thing like you."
"Where's Sam?"
"In the hospital honey. I've told you that."
"I want to go see him."
"You can't right now, but soon. You will see him soon."
"I need to ask him about Boris."
Missouri frowned, then took a breath and forced her frustration aside. Since having the entity exorcised from her, the child had persistently begged for the stuffed toy. The only connection to the life she used to have, Missouri realised, and she worked hard to keep her responses calm. "Sam doesn't know where Boris is," Missouri said. She reached down and tucked a wayward curl behind the child's ear. "Now go to bed."
"But, I want to see Dean. Where is he? He's late. He never comes back this late."
"He's not far away," she said, but she was not sure of that. Anxiousness twisted through her as she looked up at the clock on the wall. It had gone ten in the evening. Since Dean's release from hospital two days previous, he had set up base at her home, and he had established a daily routine. All day with Sam. Back home by eight-thirty. He was now one and a half hours late.
"Do the Martin's have a dog?"
"Yes, I think so."
"Is it a spotty dog? I like spotty dogs."
"I don't know, it might be. You'll see tomorrow." She crossed to the phone and dialled Dean's number. It rang out. Tension hunched her shoulders as she returned the phone to its cradle. She moved to the window. The street was dark. Her attention jerked to twin headlight beams and the throaty, drone of the Chevy Impala. She released her breath. "Tara, go to bed."
"But."
"Now."
"Yes maam." The child retreated, her head hanging low. Missouri felt a twinge of concern, but the sound of a car door slamming brought her focus back to Dean. She met him at the porch and any will she had held to berate him died as she saw his face. He looked tired, worn, his arm still in a sling and his eyes bright with moisture. Her knees weakened and she clutched at the doorframe. Her heart thudded hard in her chest. She could not bring herself to read him, but she knew it involved Sam. The boy had been doing so well… had something gone wrong?
He bowed his head and she looked down, tracked his gaze to the soft toy he held in his uninjured hand. Boris, Tara's stuffed animal, the fabric dirtied and stained. She struggled for a minute, then she realised where he had been. She caught her breath, relieved that her worst fears were unfounded, but concerned nonetheless. "Oh, honey, you should have said something. I would have gone with you."
"Can you wash it?"
She ignored the question, instead gently probing him, reading him. When satisfied that exhaustion and sadness were the only emotions that wearied him, she responded. "I can try."
"Tara really loves this thing."
"You had noticed?"
"Hard not to," he said with a wry smile.
"But you didn't go back to that warehouse just for the toy?"
He straightened his shoulders and sniffed. "No, I went to find clues. I figured that exorcising the entity might have left some indication as to where it had come from."
"Did it?"
"No."
"Are you alright?"
He nodded, not quite meeting her eyes. She watched him a moment longer, trying to judge whether she needed to push this.
"It's okay, Missouri. It shook me up a bit, is all." He fingered the toy, the blood stained head and body. "Do you think you can get it clean?"
"I'm not sure, but the girl is pining for it so I'll try."
Dean swallowed hard, his focus on the crusted blackened stains that had leached into the fabric. "Thanks," he said, coughing lightly to clear his throat, "for everything."
"You don't need to thank me, sweetie. You know that."
He glanced at her, his eyes moist, then managed a small smile. "Can you take this now?"
"Yes, of course."
She took the toy from him, tucked it behind her so he would no longer see the blood stains. "How's Sam?"
"He's doing good." He glanced up at the night sky and massaged the back of his neck.
"You sore?"
"Nah, it's nothing."
Missouri nodded, not believing him for a moment. She waited as he climbed the steps, then touched his shoulder and slipped her hand down the back of his neck. He flinched and tried to draw away. She rebuked him with a cluck of her tongue and he reluctantly stilled. She felt the rigid tension in his neck, across his broad shoulders. She withdrew. "Is he still in good spirits?"
"Yeah, pretty good considering."
"And his hand?"
Dean's expression soured. He took a moment to respond. "He's convinced that he will regain full function."
"That's good."
"He's in denial."
"We talked about this, Dean. Sometimes will alone can achieve what might otherwise seem impossible. Don't take that from him, especially not now."
"No, I won't. But wouldn't it be better for him to have at least an edge of reality."
"Sam doesn't have the emotional capacity at the moment to manage shades of grey. You saw how he reacted when the doctor first told him about it. He could not handle it, and this is his way of coping. Don't take it from him. It would be catastrophic."
"He's going to find out eventually."
She swallowed hard, her mouth suddenly dry. "Maybe, but for now he needs this. Trust me. This is the best way." She led him inside, into the living room. "Did Doctor Archibald give any indication of when he might be being released?"
"Mid next week."
"That soon. It will only have been two weeks."
"It's all the milk I made him drink when we were kids. He's got good bones," Dean quipped, then added. "Anyway, he's already going stir crazy. Doctor Archibald thinks he'll do better in a home environment, as long as he follows instructions and doesn't try to weight bear too early."
"So I'd best be getting busy then, if he'll be here in five days." At his bemused look, she added, "I'm converting this room into a bedroom for you and Sam. It's close to the downstairs amenities, and it's the largest room down here."
"But—"
"He can't be alone, Dean."
"No, I don't want him to, but isn't that going to be disruptive. I mean, you have people over and all."
"Let me worry about whether it's disruptive."
"But we'll have to get the beds down the stairs."
"Yes, I had considered that."
"I'd need some help," he finally said, his brow knitted in concentration, "but I think we could make it work."
"Really. You think?" she whacked him lightly. "Boys, they think they're invincible. I have a few friends lined up, Dean. You go and stay with Sam and work out with the physiotherapist and his doctor about what he will need and then you come right back here and you tell me. If I catch you lifting anything heavier than your brother's overnight bag, I will break your other arm." She smiled as he grumbled. "Sit, I've got something for you."
"I'm beat, can't it wait?"
"No."
He sighed, trudged over to the sofa and sat down. His hand again drew to his neck and he gently stretched, closing his eyes, his features drawn into a tight wince. She left the room, collected a bitter smelling balm from the back room, diverted by the utility room and tucked Boris onto a high shelf beside the clothes dryer, out of an eight year old's reach. She returned to the living room and found Dean waiting. His eyes narrowed as he saw her carrying a small jar. "What's that?"
"Shush, strip off that jacket and shirt."
"You're not putting anything gloopy on me."
"Yes I am."
"Nuh uh."
"Dean." She lifted one hand to her hip and tipped her head forward. He wilted, awkwardly removed his clothing to favour his injured arm and sank heavily into the chair. She checked the bruises along his side, on his arm and shoulder.
"The doctor checked them when I was released."
"I know that honey, but I'm checking them again now."
She ignored the deliberate roll of his eyes and completed her examination, choosing to apply the balm to the unmarred skin at the back of his neck and across his shoulders. She started with gentle smooth strokes, then worked deeper into the muscle and through each of the knots. Only once he was relaxed, did she apply some to the heavy bruising along his bicep, to just above his elbow where the bandaging ended. He tensed, but she was deliberately gentle and soon he again relaxed. When she finally finished up, he was drooping slightly, his eyelids heavy. And he smelled something awful. She tucked a finger under his chin and prompted him to lift his head. "I can't carry you to your room, you're going to have to walk."
"I stink."
"Yes you do. But you will sleep like a baby."
"A skunk baby."
She chuckled. "Most likely."
"Don't tell Sam, he'll torment me for weeks," he said sleepily.
"Oh, don't you worry, I have plenty of things planned for that boy. Smelling like a skunk will be the least of his concerns," she said it lightly, without thought.
"Good. Make him smell really bad. Make him suffer," Dean murmured, his words teasing and devoid of any intent.
Missouri stiffened, the smile dying on her lips. "Go to bed, Dean. I'll see you in the morning." She turned away, capped the small jar and returned to the back room. Her gaze lingered on a rectangular brown package tucked at the back of the shelf. The small box belonged there, its power to heal unmatched by the potions and balms that surrounded it. It was a blessing, a unique gift. Hard to locate and nearly impossible to obtain. But her hand shook as she placed the soothing balm before it, deliberately blocking it from view. For now she could ignore it, but soon she would have to let Sam decide.
End Chapter Thirteen